by Michael West
As she studied the interior, trying to imagine what it must have been like in life, Carol was reminded a shrine just outside Tokyo — monks clad in saffron robes, sitting at the feet of a large, golden statue in silent meditation and prayer. She was not Buddhist, but she still felt a sense of reverence as she entered and looked up into the peaceful face of the Buddha. Now, as she swam deeper into this vast sunken tabernacle, she had the same feeling.
Extensive pictographs had been etched into the surrounding stone. They displayed their arcane messages, taunting Carol, remaining just beyond her understanding. She was learning quickly, however. Words and phrases now jumped at her from the rock. In time, she would comprehend the glyphs’ full meaning, and with any luck, would answer the questions she’d been asking her entire life: who were the Atlanteans? And even more important: what happened to them?
Her light found the gargantuan statue at the center of the flooded chamber and she stood in awe of its intricate detail. It was a larger version of a sculpted chimera she’d found in the sediment days before — a man, dressed in a toga, with the head of a toothy fish. It stared at the temple floor, arms beckoning to her, and, from its sides and shoulders, large tentacles stretched outward in striking poses. Some of these stone tendrils had not survived the centuries intact. They lay like decapitated serpents at Carol’s feet.
Unhooking the digital camera from her dive belt, she snapped photos of hieroglyphics etched in the base of the form. Perhaps after she learned the language, they would offer some insight into Atlantean mythology. In the center of the rocky foundation, a large, raised circle of stone contained a familiar design. It was a three-pointed fork stabbing upward, the center prong longer than the ones on either side. A trident. Neptune’s spear.
Neptune?
Her gaze rose to the fierce face of the statue. Surely this creature was not meant to be Neptune, the bearded old man of familiar sculpture and art. Or perhaps this representation was the god’s root, his image altered by the other societies who had adopted him. She snapped off a few more shots of the ancient writings; the flash illuminated them like drowned lightning.
Carol froze.
She lowered the camera and aimed her light at a section of the hieroglyphs, confirming what she’d seen on the camera screen. Carved into this rock was the glyph for “flesh.”
•••
The smell from the cabin was the reek of rotting flesh.
Earl Preston looked inside and saw that the gimbaled table was covered in streaks and splashes of blood, dried to the reddish-brown color of rust. The petty officer reached into his hip pocket and produced a handkerchief, which he placed over his mouth and nose in an attempt to filter out the stench of death that hung in the humid compartment. Part of him said that he should get the fuck out of there and have Peck radio the base, but the part of him that was bound by duty urged him to continue onward.
The creaking of the hull did nothing to alleviate his sense of dread. He drew his service pistol from its holster and proceeded toward the bow. The bed looked as though it had seen the business end of a weed whacker. Its sheets were stained in gore and sliced into ribbons, mattress stuffing peeking through the rips. Earl moved past a tiny bathroom, where a single rusty handprint blemished the wooden floor, and continued into the forward compartment. There, he found two bunks, both empty and untouched by the violence of the after cabin. For all the blood that desecrated the interior, there was no sign of the Hoffs, alive or dead.
He turned around, moved back quickly in the direction of the hatch and the fresh air beyond, and saw the drawing on the wall. It was a crude scribble done in blood, but he knew instantly it was a pitchfork. Was this some kind of occult slaying? A Satanic ritual performed at sea? He stopped, coughed from the stench that seeped through the handkerchief, and looked at the drawing more closely. It was not a pitchfork, not really. The prongs of a pitchfork were all the same length. This one had a long center point with shorter ones on either side. To Earl, it looked more like a three-pointed spear, the one carried by ancient sea gods.
He climbed back on deck, coughing uncontrollably.
“Are you all right?” Peck called.
“Get the base on the horn. Tell them we need someone to tow this back.”
“What is it? Are they dead?”
He didn’t know how to answer the question. “Tell them this is a crime scene and they need to get their asses over here A.S.A.F.P.”
Peck gave him a strange look, then grabbed the microphone as Earl looked out at the open water, his mind drowning in questions.
FOUR
Larry awoke to find the curtains drawn. Peggy stood beside him, rummaging through dresser drawers; a long, tie-dyed beach towel wrapped around her body like a psychedelic toga, and her reddish-brown hair cascading over her bare shoulders in dripping spirals. Larry looked at her face. Free from the artificial colors of makeup, it seemed to glow.
“Morning, beautiful.” He rubbed the sandman’s dust from his eyes.
Peggy stopped searching long enough to flash him a smile. “You okay, Rembrandt?”
He gave a frustrated snort, wishing she would stop asking him how he felt all the time, then said what she wanted to hear, “I’d say I’m just fine with a dash of dandy.”
“Well, here’s a little bit of sugar to go with that.” She kissed him, her lips and tongue tasting of mint.
“Mmmm. Well, I’m excited.” Larry’s hand moved beneath her towel, teasing her. “How ’bout you?”
She giggled and slapped at his forearm. “Get dressed before we end up spending the whole day in bed.”
“I’m comfortable with that.”
“I thought you wanted to make with the painting?”
“I do.” His lips curled into a sly grin. “Maybe I should do a nude?”
Her eyes skirted his. “Come on, Larry.”
He’d repeatedly asked to do a portrait of her, but she always declined. Seeing photographs others had taken of her through the years was bad enough, she’d told him, but everyone has their picture taken at one time or another. To be drawn implied that your form was worthy of admiration, like Venus or Helen of Troy, and, in Peggy’s opinion, hers was not.
Larry wondered how such an attractive woman could have so little appreciation for her own form.
He tossed the covers off his body and rose reluctantly from bed. The hardwood floor on the way to the bathroom was cold, but the steamy spray of the shower promised warmth. As he was about to step into the tub, Larry’s eye fell to the vial of prescription pills on the counter. The sight brought it all back again; that translucent red bottle still clutched in her dead fingers, the bedcovers tangled around her legs, the silence that swallowed her name and offered no reply.
The bottle on the counter mocked him. Paxil. An SSRI anti-depressant. Happy pills. There to help him “manage” the fallout from what the emptied bottle of pills had done to her.
Her choice, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. I didn’t shove the fucking pills down her throat.
The voice on his answering machine when he’d come home that night had been hard, cold. Natalie’s voice, the way it was when she was in that lost, desperate place from which he’d tried so many times to save her. So many times before he’d finally, to save himself, given it up.
Before he knew what he was doing, Larry swept up the medicine bottle, dumped its contents into the toilet, then flung it into the wastebasket. The shower was too hot but he lifted his face to it anyway. The sound of the spray filled his ears. Even so, he still heard the voice.
You asshole, it accused. You never cared for me. You never cared for anyone but yourself. You fake asshole!
The hot spray hurt his face. He held his head under it, clenching his teeth.
You were never there for me.
He held his breath against the pain, pain in his face, in his chest.
When you get this I’ll be dead.
He covered his face with his hands and sank down on his
knees with the scalding water beating down on him.
You murderer!
“Hey! You go back to sleep in there?” Peggy pounded on the bathroom door.
Larry scrambled up, horrified that she might discover him this way. “No, sorry...I’m almost out.”
Hastily, almost savagely, he washed himself, then turned off the water.
This has got to stop.
Remembering his Paxil, he flushed the toilet to make sure Peggy wouldn’t see them floating there. When he went back into the room, she was dressed in a T-shirt and blue jean shorts, rummaging once again through her things.
“Have you seen my camera?” she asked him. “I’ve looked everywhere.”
“Nope, haven’t seen it.”
“Larry, are you sure? I really wanted to take it with me today. You sure you didn’t move it somewhere, or see where I stashed it?”
“How in the hell can you expect me to know what you did with it?” he roared at her.
Peggy stared back at him; the hurt in her eyes froze him with shame.
“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to —”
“I know you...I understand you’re...” She scooped up her purse, her hurt turning to frustrated anger. “Tell you what. I’ll just meet you downstairs in the lobby when you’re ready.”
She stormed into the hall, slamming the door.
“Damn,” Larry muttered. Asshole.
He got dressed, but hesitated before going down to meet Peggy. He didn’t want to blow this. He had to pull himself together. He opened the French doors to clear his mind for a moment, the wind toying with his loose-fitting shirt and damp hair as he moved onto the balcony.
Below, the shore was nearly void of activity. A square of neon tape, marked “POLICE LINE — DO NOT CROSS,” divided a stretch of sand from the rest of the beach. A few scattered groups of onlookers had gathered, but the tape held them back as if it were a wall of stone. A single police cruiser sat on the street. In the light of day, its blue and red strobes looked dim and insignificant. Out on the water, a police boat slowly moved across the waves. Larry watched as several thick cables descended from its stern, disappearing into the depths.
They’re dragging the bottom for her. I wonder how long it will take them to find her.
He wished he had one of those pills to take.
FIVE
The Chief of Police smoked a cigarette, listened to the local oldies station, and wished he was somewhere else. His black-and-white police cruiser had been parked on the shoulder of this dusty side road for nearly an hour. A few yards ahead, a wooden shack stood on a foundation of stilts erected in the tidal waters. To Canon, it looked as if it were ready to collapse into the abiding sea, but some curse kept it standing.
He glanced at his watch; it was just past eleven. “Shit.”
As he stared at the shack, Canon felt sweat bead up on his belly, moistening his uniform. If there was one thing in this world John Canon hated, it was heat. He wondered why he didn’t just go on down there and get it over with.
You’re afraid of the bastard, that’s why.
Damn straight. It was the smart way to be. Sure, there were islanders who didn’t believe Karl Tellstrom was dangerous, but those idiots would probably let the Reverend Jim Jones tend bar.
Canon looked once more at the worn shanty, sighed, then opened the car door. He hadn’t observed anyone coming or going from the shack all morning. With any luck at all, Tellstrom was asleep or, better still, wasn’t even home. The ocean’s cool breeze blew across Canon’s damp skin and he fanned himself for a moment with his large-rimmed hat.
I sit here any longer, I’ll get heat stroke for sure.
He slammed the car door and plodded toward the shack; loose gravel crunched beneath his feet like layers of eggshell.
So much for sneakin’ up.
A few feet ahead, a rabbit ran across the road without stopping. Canon pondered the sight for a moment, then continued his march. “It’s a black cat that’s bad luck,” he muttered to himself. “Scared rabbits don’t count for shit.”
The shack drew nearer with each step. Its boards were faded and full of holes, as if a thousand species of insect had feasted upon it over the years. Spider web formed a lace curtain across its porch, and its support stilts were all but hidden beneath a lumpy crust of barnacles.
The road was deserted in both directions. Visitors normally stuck to the town proper and rarely ventured to this side of the island. Occasionally you’d find a group of hikers or a lone sightseeing vehicle, but for the most part, this shore went unseen by tourists.
Canon closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and thumbed the strap off his revolver. He’d never drawn his weapon on another living soul, and he didn’t intend to make history today, but...
He stepped slowly onto the wooden deck; his heart skipped a beat when the boards creaked. Rusted hinges hung from the doorframe; a torn blanket dangled in place of the missing door.
“Karl?” Canon pushed the drape aside and peered into the dimness. The stench of rot and excrement made his lips curl in disgust. He pressed the back of his left hand to his mouth and nose and coughed. “You here, Karl?”
Light streamed through the shack’s Swiss cheese roof, revealing the potbellied stove that stood in the middle of the room. Tattered throw rugs attempted to conceal the decaying floor with little success. In the corner, a mildewed mattress bled stuffing across the floor, exposing skeletal springs. Half-eaten fish were strewn about, rotting in the heat and crawling with flies. And, on the far wall, someone had painted a trident, the emblem of the Old Ones. Canon’s suspicions were confirmed. Anybody that would make this rancid hut their home was not playing with a full deck.
He felt something sticky on the inside of the doorframe and quickly pulled his hand away. The pads of his fingertips were red, a crimson syrup flowing sluggishly down his digits into the palm of his hand.
Canon swallowed. He stepped cautiously inside Tellstrom’s den and turned around, knowing what he would find, yet still unprepared for the sight that greeted him. It was the wall of an abattoir; rust-colored handprints and streaks of arterial spray darkened the wood around the door in all directions.
His gaze drifted from the evidence of past slaughter to the drawing of the trident on opposite wall. He thought it had been sketched with paint. Now knew better. It was drawn in blood.
“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”
Pandora’s box was open.
Under his breath, John Canon muttered an old prayer, a prayer he hadn’t said in years. He unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt to call it in.
SIX
When she saw the “Gifts From The Sea” sign careening in the wind like a square pendulum, Peggy went inside and Larry followed.
Shopping usually helped to lighten her mood, but every store in town seemed to be a Xerox clone of its predecessor. What she wanted was something unique to Colonial Bay, something that couldn’t be found around the corner from her apartment back home.
“Help you?”
Peggy turned to see an older woman dressed in a dark blouse and a long black skirt. The corners of her mouth were turned up in a smile, and her silver hair was tied into a bun that rested on the back of her head like a cap.
“Just looking, thanks,” Larry said, walking past Peggy to a display of driftwood sculptures. She thought of telling him that this woman had been talking to her and not him, but she didn’t want to re-start their argument. She hated to fight in public.
“Well, be my guest,” the shopkeeper urged. “If you need anything, let me know.”
Peggy moved to a bin of brightly colored shells and saw a large, polished conch. She put it to her ear, hearing the sounds that, as a child, she believed came from a little world within the shell, a world that sang just for her. She smiled, thinking how silly the notion now seemed, then put the shell carefully back onto the pile.
I wonder what used to live in these, she thought as she rubbed the rippled surface, an
d I wonder if they know the going rate for their vacant homes is a buck fifty.
“Hey, Peggy, take a look at this.” Larry held up a statue for her inspection, a driftwood figure sitting on a rock.
At first glance, Peggy thought it was a mermaid, but then she got a closer look. While the sculpted torso was clearly that of an attractive female, its head and tail were those of a fish. She ran her hand along the figurine’s spine, felt the smoothness of the wood. It was a hideous thing, and yet she could see it was beautifully rendered. “Nice.”
“Isn’t it great?” Larry had recently celebrated his thirtieth birthday, but his voice was that of a ten-year-old in Toys-R-Us. “It’s a siren or something.”
What does he see in that thing? Peggy wondered. Better yet, what does he see in me?
She’d seen pictures of Natalie. Heroin chic or no heroin chic, the woman could’ve been a model. And even if he wouldn’t admit it, Larry still had feelings for her. Why else would he have erupted with such anger and frustration at her death?
The memory of Larry smashing his hand through the mirror gave Peggy a chill.
She continued to study the carving, monstrous face stuck onto a nymph’s comely form, looking as if two statues had been broken and spliced together by mistake. Could a vacation really fix what was wrong with him? With them?
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said absently.
“No, really. You hate it, don’t you? If you don’t want me to buy it —”
“How much is it?”
“I don’t know.” He looked around and caught a glimpse of the older woman as she walked by. “Excuse me, Miss...”
“DeParle,” the older woman told him. ”What can I help you with?”
“We were wondering how much this was.”
DeParle stepped over to them, looking down at the carving Larry held in his hands. She grabbed hold of the glasses that hung around her neck. “Ayuh. That one’ll cost you ten dollars. The larger ones’ll run ya twenty-five.”