The Deep

by Peter Benchley

The station wagon was barely moving when Sanders landed on its hood, so he was not hurt by the concussion. But his momentum prevented him from stopping; he rolled off the hood and struck his face on the pavement. He tasted blood.

  Sanders scrambled to his feet and yelled, “Help!”

  The station wagon was full of cricketers, all dressed in white. The driver, a young black, stuck his head out the window and screamed, “You crazy, man!”

  Sanders pointed to the Morris. “They’re kidnaping us!”

  “What?”

  The tall man, now standing next to Gail, called, “Don’t pay him no mind, man. He’s smokin’ bad shit.”

  “No!” Sanders said. “Help us! They’re—”

  “Crazy bastard!” the driver yelled. “You gon’ get killed one day.” Then he said to the tall man, “You tourin’ some crazy bastards, Ronald.” He ducked his head inside the window and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  Sanders reached for the station wagon as it lumbered by him, but his hand slipped off the steel. The road was empty in both directions. He debated running, but he did not want to leave Gail.

  The tall man, Ronald, snapped a switchblade knife open and held it at his waist, pointing at Sanders. “Move!” he said. “Or I cut your ass.” He took Sanders’ arm and roughly pushed him toward the Morris.

  Sanders said, “At least let her go.”

  “Her, too.” Ronald opened the front door of the car and shoved Sanders inside.

  “What do I do with this?” Gail said, holding the handle bars of her motorbike.

  “Drop it.”

  She released the handle bars, and the motorbike clattered to the pavement. She climbed into the back seat of the car.

  Ronald pushed both motorbikes into the underbrush, got in the back seat next to Gail, shut the door, and, cradling the knife in his lap, said, “Okay.”

  The driver pulled out onto the road.

  C H A P T E R

  V

  They traveled in silence. The windows were shut, and the air in the car quickly grew acrid with breath and sweat. As they passed a sign for the botanical gardens in Paget, Sanders rolled his window down. He felt the point of the knife press at the base of his neck and heard Ronald say, “Up.” He closed the window.

  They approached a traffic circle, where signs pointed to the right for Hamilton, straight ahead for Warwick and Southampton. A policeman stood in the center of the circle, directing the early-evening traffic. Sanders wondered if, as the driver slowed for the circle, he would have time to open the door, roll out, and yell for help. Then he saw the driver wave at the policeman, and the policeman smiled and waved back.

  It was growing dark, and as they drove along South Road, never exceeding the 20 mph speed limit, Sanders could barely decipher signs for Elbow Beach, the Orange Grove Club, Coral Beach, and the Princess Beach Club. High on a hill he saw the huge Southampton Princess Hotel and then the Gibb’s Hill lighthouse. They had traveled almost the whole length of the island.

  The stuffy silence increased Sanders’ nervousness. “How much farther?” he asked.

  “Shut up,” said Ronald.

  They crossed Somerset Bridge, and another fact from his Geographic past occurred to Sanders. He half-turned toward Gail and said, “That’s the smallest drawbridge in the world. It only opens wide enough to let a sailboat’s mast pass through.”

  Gait did not answer. Sanders’ escape attempt had shaken her, and she did not want to encourage another confrontation.

  Ronald motioned with his knife for Sanders to face front.

  “For whatever that’s worth,” Sanders said, turning back.

  The car went left off the main road, onto a dirt track, following a sign that said “Public Wharf.” They entered a clearing—a crowded square, filled with fish-and-vegetable stalls and ramshackle shops. At the far end of the square was a rickety dock to which half a dozen weathered, patched boats were moored. There were no other cars in the square, and children scampered so carelessly in front of the Morris that the driver bad to creep along in first gear. He parked in front of what seemed to be a grocery store. Canned goods and fruit were piled high in the window. A penciled placard advertised bait and pork rind. Faded letters on the gray limestone said, “Teddy’s Market.”

  Two young black men were lounging by the doorway. One was casually flipping a hunting knife into the dirt. The other leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded, watching the green car; his shirt was open to the waist, displaying a fresh red scar that ran from his right clavicle to below his left pectoral muscle—macho graffiti. There was something familiar about the man; Sanders tried to place him, but couldn’t.

  “You come quiet,” said Ronald. “No smart stuff, or they fillet you.” He jerked his head toward the men at the door, then got out of the car and held the back door open for Gail.

  Sanders opened the front door and stepped out onto the dirt. A breeze was blowing across Ely’s Harbour, and it felt cool as it dried the sweat on his face.

  “Inside,” Ronald said. He followed them through the door, saying to the man with the scar, “What’s doin’?”

  “Waitin’ on you, man.”

  It was the inflection on the word “man” that made Sanders realize who the bearer of the scar was: Slake, the waiter from Orange Grove. Reflexively, Sanders turned to look at him, but he was pushed forward into the store.

  Stepping into the darkness of the store, David could see nothing. There seemed to be rows of merchandise on both sides of an aisle. Gradually, as his pupils adjusted, he saw a faint light shining under a door at the rear of the store. “Where?”

  Ronald brushed past him. “You follow me.” When he reached the door, he rapped once, then twice.

  A voice inside said, “Come.”

  Ronald opened the door and motioned Gail and David through. He followed them, shut the door, and leaned against it.

  On the far side of the room was a desk, and behind it sat a young man—in his late twenties or very early thirties, Sanders guessed. The sweat on his forehead caught the light and made his black skin shine. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a starched white shirt. There was no jewelry on his hands, but around his neck was a thin gold chain that held an inch-long gold feather. Two burly men—older than the ones outside the store—flanked him in formal symmetry, arms folded, beside the desk. The room was cluttered with cartons and boxes and file cabinets, and smelled of fish and dirt and sweat and overripe fruit. Two bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling.

  The man behind the desk stood up. “Mr. and Mrs. Sanders,” he said, smiling. “I am glad you agreed to come.”

  Sanders recognized the man’s accent; he had heard it in Guadalupe; the accent of one whose native language is Caribbean French and who has learned English in a church school.

  “We weren’t exactly invited,” Sanders said.

  “No. But I’m glad you chose not to resist. I am Henri Cloche.” He paused, expecting the Sanderses to recognize the name. When they did not react, he went on. “The name means nothing? So much the better.” He looked at Gail. “Forgive me, madam. You would like a chair?”

  “No.” Gail looked directly at Cloche, hoping he would not see she was afraid. “Why are we here?”

  “Of course,” said Cloche. He held out his hand. “The ampule.”

  Sanders said, “We don’t have it.”

  Cloche looked back and forth, from David to Gail, smiling, holding out his hand. He snapped his fingers.

  Sanders felt strong hands grip his arms and pin his elbows back. One of the men beside the desk stepped over to him, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and tore it. open, stripping the buttons away. The hands behind him pulled the shirt off his back.

  The other man made a move toward Gail, but Cloche stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Take your clothes off,” he said. “Both of you. Now.”

  Gail forced herself to keep looking at Cloche. Slowly, she unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it to the floor. One of Cloche’s men picked
it up and examined it, feeling along the seams, bending the built-in collar stays. She unhooked her short, wrap-around skirt. The man held out his hand for it, but she dropped it on the floor at his feet. Still looking at Cloche, her eyes locked on his, she undid her bra and dropped it. The man caught it before it hit the floor, and he picked through the cups, checking the thin padding.

  Sanders undressed less meticulously, shedding his clothes and letting the hands behind him take them from him. It was not until he was naked that he noticed Gail staring at Cloche. Her thumbs were hitched in her bikini underpants. He tried not to look at her, but the palpable excitement of the gawking men was contagious, and he sensed heat rushing into his groin. He closed his eyes, fighting the absurd tumescence.

  Cloche had not taken his eyes off Gail’s face.

  “Nothing,” said the man behind Sanders.

  The word broke the trance, and Cloche’s eyes dropped down Gail’s body. He looked away. “Put your clothes on,” he said.

  Gail bent over to gather her clothes.

  “I could conduct a proper examination of you both,” Cloche said testily, “but never mind. I assume Romer Treece has the ampule. One alone is of no importance.”

  “Then why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff?” Sanders said as he pulled on his trousers.

  “Do you know Bermuda, Mr, Sanders?”

  “Some.”

  “Then you will recall, perhaps, the ex-governor—the late governor, I should say—the one who was so fond of great Danes.”

  Sanders remembered. On a warm night in 1973, Sir Richard Sharples, the British governor of Bermuda, had gone for a late-night stroll with his pet Dane. Man and dog were found slaughtered in the gardens of Government House. “What does that have to do with us?” he said.

  “He was a meddler. He refused to do business. I don’t like it when someone I approach refuses to do business.”

  “Business?”

  “I wanted to see the ampule solely to confirm my suspicions about it. The fact that you don’t have it, that you have entrusted it to Romer Treece for safekeeping—I assume that is what you have done—confirms those suspicions quite adequately. How many more ampules are there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How many did you find?”

  Sanders looked at Gail, but her impassive expression did not change. “Two.”

  “Do you know what they contain?”

  “Not for sure, no.”

  “But you know the legend. Or, rather, the story, since the legend seems to be coming true.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Sanders, I am determined to acquire every ampule down there. Every last one of them.”

  “Why?”

  “They are valuable. We need them.”

  “For what?”

  “Never mind. It’s no concern of yours.”

  Gail said, “Who are you going to sell them to? Kids?”

  Cloche smiled. “How nice to see your interest finally piqued. But that, too, is no concern of yours. In fact, the less you know, the better for you.”

  “Then why bother us? You don’t need us,” Sanders said.

  “You dive. And you know exactly where they are.”

  “No. We know where two of them were. There’s no saying that there are any more. Besides, there are divers who know this area a hell of a lot better than we do.”

  “Perhaps. But it is testimony to British foresight that very few of those divers are black. Just as they have successfully kept the blacks from the professions, so they have kept most of them from becoming first-rate divers. I could import someone, but any qualified diver who came through customs—any black diver, that is—would come under immediate suspicion. You are here, you are tourists, you are white. You are above suspicion.”

  Gail said, “We’re not pushers.”

  “Pushers?” Cloche was unfamiliar with the word. “Ah, vendeurs de mort. Nor am I. I am first a politician, and politics is the business of using means to achieve ends. I am also a businessman, and I am aware that in dealing with people unacquainted or unsympathetic with one’s political ends, one must appeal to different desires. Therefore, I am prepared to deal with you.” He paused and looked at Sanders. “You will discover how many ampules there are. If there are only a few—if the legend is, indeed, a legend—you will tell me and no one else. Your reward will be continued good health and a carefree Bermuda holiday. If, on the other hand, there is a multitude of ampules, you will recover them. We will, of course, provide you with whatever assistance you need.” Cloche turned toward Gail. “Once the ampules are in our hands, you will leave Bermuda. You will go to New York and you will call a telephone number I will have given you. You will leave instructions as to where in the world, six months from that date, you would like to collect one million dollars in the currency of your choice.”

  Gail drew a quick, startled breath.

  Cloche smiled, then looked at Sanders, who gazed back at him without expression.

  “No,” said Sanders.

  “Don’t be hasty, Mr. Sanders. I see by your lip that you have a tendency to be hasty.”

  Sanders ran his tongue over his lower lip. A tender lump had risen, and the saliva made it sting.

  “Think about it,” Cloche said. “Think about freedom, about the freedom you can buy . . . with a million dollars.” He gestured to Ronald. “Where are their mobilettes?”

  Ronald made a throwing motion. “The brush.”

  Cloche said to Sanders, “They will be returned in the morning. A final word: Make no mistake about it—should you still be inclined to be . . . hasty . . . and go to the authorities, you will find that, officially, I do not exist. And should you try to get out of this by leaving Bermuda, you will also discover that, in reality, I exist everywhere.” His back stiffened. “There will be no haven.” He turned to Ronald. “Take them home.”

  There was no conversation in the car during the thirty-minute ride to the Orange Grove Club. Ronald and the driver sat in front, David and Gail in back. As they pulled onto the main road, Sanders rolled down his window. When Ronald did not object, Gail rolled hers down, too.

  The only sounds on the deserted road, other than the wind and the engine noise, were the calling of tree frogs and the chirruping of cicadas. The driver stopped the car at the entrance to Orange Grove. He did not offer to drive them to their cottage; they did not ask. They walked silently up the driveway, stopping where the footpath to their cottage turned off to the right.

  “You hungry?” said Sanders.

  “Hardly.”

  “We can order a sandwich from the room. I could sure use a drink.”

  Inside the cottage, Sanders tossed the key on the dresser and walked toward the bathroom, where there was a refrigerator. “Scotch?” he said.

  “Fine.”

  He went into the bathroom, opened the refrigerator, pried some cubes loose from an old-fashioned ice tray, and dropped them into the two bathroom glasses. He heard Gail pick up the telephone, and he called, “I’ll have a turkey on white with lettuce and mayonnaise.”

  Gail did not answer.

  As he poured whiskey into the glasses, he heard Gail say into the phone, “Get me the police, please.” There was a pause. “Yes, that’s right. No, there’s nothing wrong.” She sounded annoyed. “Just get the police.”

  Sanders set the scotch bottle on the sink and hurried into the bedroom. “What are you doing?” he said.

  “What’s it sound like?” She spoke into the phone. “What’s my room number have to do with anything? I assume this is a local call.”

  “Hang up,” Sanders said. “Let’s talk about it.”

  “What’s to talk about? We were kidnaped, for God’s sake! Threatened.”

  “Hang up!” Sanders ordered. “Or I’ll hang up for you.” He held his index finger above the phone cradle.

  Gail looked at him.

  “I’m not kidding. Hang up!”

  Gail hesitated for a moment, then said into the ph
one, “That’s all right, operator. I’ll try again later.” She hung up. “Okay. So talk.”

  “Calm down,” Sanders said. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  She brushed the hand aside. “I won’t calm down! Don’t you realize what we were asked to do?”

  “Sure!” Sanders said as he went back into the bathroom to get the glasses. He handed one to her. “But calling the cops is no answer. What are they going to do?”

  “Arrest him.”

  “For what? How are we going to prove anything? You heard what he said: He doesn’t exist. At least not officially. Didn’t you see that cop wave at the driver? He’s probably got the whole damn police force in his pocket”

  ‘Then let’s call the government. He sure as hell doesn’t have the British Government in his pocket.”

  “And tell them what?”

  “We were kidnaped. That’s—”

  “For an hour. By a phantom. We’d have a hell of a time making a case out of that.”

  “Assault then. You can’t go around sticking knives at people and tearing off their clothes. And what about what he wants us to do? Sell him narcotics”

  “Not exactly. More like find them for him.”

  Gail looked at him for a long moment without speaking. Then she shuddered. “You think he’d really follow us?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to find out if he could. Maybe Treece’ll have an idea.”

  “And maybe you’ll end up dead.”

  “C’mon, let’s not . . .”

  Gail sneezed. As she folded her handkerchief, she noticed a smear of blood. “I’ve still got a bloody nose,” she said.

  “What do you mean, ‘still’?”

  “There was blood in my mask when I came up today.”

  They left Orange Grove after breakfast the next morning. Sometime during the night, as promised, their motorbikes had been returned and parked in front of their cottage. When she saw the motorbikes, Gail shivered involuntarily.

  “What’s the matter?” Sanders said.

  “They were here.”

  “Who was?”

  “Those men. While we slept”

  “Sure they were. How else would they get the bikes back to us?”