Dead Bait 2

by Steve Alten

  She heads for the door, then turns. “Are you carrying?”

  “A piece? Hell no. I’m on parole.”

  “Raise your hands.”

  He complies, allowing her to frisk him. “I never liked guns, Dot. You know that.”

  “Prison can change a man. Even you.” Satisfied, she heads outside.

  Brian returns the viper fish to the wall, mindful of its teeth. You’re right, Dot. Prison changes everyone…

  The door bangs open, announcing Wade’s presence.

  The biker is a big man, six foot-four and a solid two-hundred-and eighty pounds. His hair is long and brownish-gray, tucked beneath a red bandanna. The handlebar mustache melds into a crop of whiskers. Tattoos adorn his exposed flesh, earrings dangle from both ears. “Okay, dipshit, you got two minutes.”

  Brian hobbles closer, the limp courtesy of a shank during his third month at Eglan Air Force Base Federal Prison. Reaching into his breast pocket, he removes the coin, then flips it to the bigger man.

  Wade examines it. “What is this? Gold?”

  “Not just gold, it’s a Spanish Doubloon. The heads-side is a picture of King Charles III. Dates back to the late 1700s.”

  The biker re-examines the coin, but does not give it back. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Found it in an underwater cave and there’s plenty more. I located a huge treasure chest loaded with doubloons, but the damn thing’s buried in four feet of limestone.”

  “A treasure chest?” Dot’s eyes widen. “How much do you think is down there?”

  “Like I said, more than you can spend. I’d guess a few million bucks, give or take.”

  Wade eyeballs him suspiciously. “So why do you need us?”

  “Obviously, because I can’t do it alone. It takes two to three people or one of you, to dig into the limestone and drag the chest out.”

  “Why should we trust you?”

  “The question is, why should I trust you?” Brian holds out his hand.

  Wade pauses, then returns the coin.

  “Before I went to prison, I worked as caretaker in the museum at the Ponce de Leon Mineral Springs Spa in Sarasota. It was a long commute, but the owners loved me.”

  “Go on,” the biker says.

  Brian limps over to a heavy display case and removes a rolled-up geological survey map from a hidden drawer. He unravels it, spreading it out across the glass counter top.

  “This map details the area. As you can see, the mineral springs is a sinkhole that descends in the shape of an hourglass. Visitors are allowed to wade along the perimeter of the lake, but are forbidden beyond the ropes. The ropes cordon off the rim of the sinkhole, which drops two hundred thirty feet straight down. The sinkhole probably leads to an ocean-access aquifer, but there’s a huge cone of debris that blocks the way at the center of the hourglass, making the extreme depths inaccessible. About forty-five feet down is a series of caves. Ten thousand years ago, at the end of the last Ice Age, the sea level was much lower. Early man lived in these caves, leaving behind huge fossil deposits, which were excavated on a limited basis throughout the 1970s. All excavations were eventually called off after an NBC broadcast turned it into one giant Geraldo Rivera fiasco—”

  “Enough history,” Dot interrupts, “tell us about the gold.”

  “Pirates used to raid ships all along the Gulf of Mexico. Crews must’ve buried their ill-gotten booty in these caves. Easy for the archaeologists to miss it. Only reason I found it was because I was using a very high-tech metal detector.”

  “Thought you said there was no more excavations?” Wade asks.

  “I told you, the Spa owners love me, they let me dive the caves on weekends. I’m the only one who knows about it… ’cept for you two.”

  Dot claps her hands. “We split everything three ways.”

  Brian shakes his head. “I get half. You two lovebirds can split your half anyway you’d like.”

  The biker strolls around the store, pausing every few seconds to fondle a fossilized shark tooth, messing up each row he touches. “When do we do this?”

  “Tonight. The Spa closes at five. We’ll come through the woods sometime after midnight. I’ve got a rowboat stashed in the foliage and my van’s loaded with scuba gear and digging equipment. By sunrise, we’ll be rich.”

  The biker approaches Brian. Places a heavy paw on his shoulder. “We’ll go. But if you’re lyin’, I’ll skin your bones and make you one of your exhibits.”

  ***

  The Springs International Spa, located halfway between Ft. Myers and Sarasota, Florida, is the second largest warm water spring in the western hemisphere. Over nine million gallons of naturally-heated water pump up from this mammoth sinkhole every day, the mineral content exceeding that of more renown spas in Baden-Baden, Germany and Vichy, France.

  Privately owned, the Springs is now the centerpiece of a European-style family resort. Hundreds of tourists visit the Spa each day, taking therapeutic walks around the roped off perimeter of the lake, enjoying a massage, visiting the café and museum, or just sunning themselves along the sloping grass-covered banks.

  The park opens at nine AM and closes at five. The last maintenance worker leaves by eight o’clock.

  ***

  Brian parks the van along the edge of a thick wood. A dark blanket of Australian pines stretches high overhead, the trees blotting out the stars. Crickets chirp. The forest rustles.

  The three treasure hunters exit the vehicle, then methodically unload the diving equipment. Buoyancy control vests and weight belts will be worn, tanks of compressed air, fins, and masks must be carried. The biker adds a heavy satchel of digging tools and a metal detector to his load. Brian slings an underwater backpack of lights over his shoulder, then leads his companions through the woods.

  Guided by compass and flashlight, it takes the trio thirty-five minutes to reach the edge of the private lake.

  The grounds are deserted, the night air heavy with sulfur.

  Leaving their gear, they return to the woods for the rowboat, which Brian had left hidden beneath a fallen tree. Twenty minutes and fifty pounds of gear later, the three find themselves rowing the boat toward the center of the deserted lake.

  They approach the middle of the springs, the scent of sulfur rising at them in waves, the bubbling heated water beckoning. After a few minutes Brian stops rowing, the boat now positioned above the ledge of the one hundred seventy foot in diameter sinkhole, its surface percolating with mineral flow.

  “This will do. I’ll go down first and secure the anchor inside the cave,” he says, rubbing saliva inside his mask. “The pirate’s chest is located at the rear of one of the caves, buried a good four feet down. Wade, you and Dot will dig first while I hold the lights. We’ll switch every five minutes to preserve air. Once we access the lid, you’ll pry it open with the crowbar and we’ll empty the doubloons into satchels. The whole thing shouldn’t take us more than half an hour.”

  Brian dons his swim fins and climbs overboard, careful to minimize his splash. Securing his face mask, he flicks on his underwater light, then instructs Wade to hand him the rowboat’s anchor and metal detector.

  Brian takes a last look at the stars, then places the regulator into his mouth and releases air from his buoyancy vest, allowing the anchor’s weight to drag him below.

  Wade waits until Brian’s light disappears into the murky depths before strapping the four inch dive knife around his right ankle. “Once we get the gold, I want you to surface. I’ll take care of your ex.”

  Thirty feet below, Brian falls feet-first into the sinkhole’s depths, feeling the rush of hot mineralized water soothe his aching muscles. He stays close to the limestone wall, adjusting the air in his buoyancy-vest to slow his descent, his heart pounding in his chest.

  Can you hear me? Can you feel my pulse reverberating in the water? Be patient, my friend. Be patient…

  At forty-three feet his underwater light reveals a ledge that rings the hourglass-shaped sin
khole and the first of its shadowed recesses. It takes Brian several minutes to get his bearings. Following the ledge counterclockwise, he descends another twenty-two feet, then aims his light into a rocky orifice.

  The narrow cave entrance cuts into the limestone like a shark’s mouth. Brian secures the anchor inside, then swims into the hole, mindful of the stalactites, careful not to disturb too much silt. The familiar feeling of claustrophobia returns. He wonders if Dot will be able to handle the nerve-wracking sensation.

  Twenty feet in, Brian’s metal detector lights begins blinking rapidly, indicating the location of the buried object he seeks. Using the edge of the metal detector, he traces a rough two-foot square in the sand.

  The cheese is in place… now to summon the mice.

  Moving out of the cave, Brian rises slowly through the sinkhole, allowing the bubbling current of buoyant mineral flow to carry him topside. He surfaces next to the aluminum rowboat, grabbing onto the side of the vessel for support, spitting out his regulator. “It’s all there, exactly as I left it. Visibility’s a bit rough the first twenty-feet down, then it clears. Once we’re inside the cave, try not to use your fins or we’ll have silt everywhere. Hand me the tool bags.”

  Wade complies, then jumps in feet-first, followed by Dot. The two surface, oohing and ahhing.

  “Shh! Someone might hear you!”

  “The water feels so good,” Dot squeals. “Wade, we have got to come back here after this is all over.”

  “Anything you say, babe. Maybe we’ll buy this dump.”

  Dump? Brian grinds his teeth. “Okay you two, we gotta dig it up before you can spend it.” He replaces his regulator and descends, using the anchor’s rope to lead him below.

  Dot and Wade surface dive, following him into the eerie depths.

  The hot current presses Brian’s mask to his face, the rising curtain of minerals tickling his flesh. His pulse pounds in his throat, matching the pressure building in his ears. Fear and adrenaline course through his body.

  The fossil collector has waited five long years for this moment.

  Five long years…

  Sixty months. The words echo in his brain just as they had the day the judge spat them.

  Two-hundred and sixty weeks, confined in a four by eight prison cell.

  Eighteen-hundred and twenty-six days…

  Brian shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. He knows the biker has no intention of allowing him to leave the cave alive, physically he is no match for the bigger man. Part of him had wondered if Dot still cared, but he knows now the love is gone—assuming it ever really existed in the first place.

  She used you, just as she’s using him. Heartless bitch.

  Brian refocuses his thoughts, his eyes searching the depths from which the mineral water flows. Can you taste our scent polluting your habitat? I bet you can…

  He reaches the cave entrance and slips inside, then moves quickly to the squared-off mark along the cavern floor. Gently, he situates himself in a kneeling position over the buried metal object and waits for his guests.

  His mind drifts back to the first time he had dove the caves.

  Twenty-two years ago… fresh out of college, job offers waiting. There were two digs that wanted his service. He would have killed for either job, but then he had seen that damn cave drawing and everything had changed.

  Seventeen years of research… fueled by one chance encounter that had led to a dozen more. How he had yearned to go public with his information… the discovery of a new prehistoric species—the apex predator of a food chain anchored by the presence of chemosynthetic bacteria. The local Indians had taught him how their ancestors had lured the big ones to the surface—and Brian had learned his lessons well.

  A light flickers from the cave entrance. Brian’s heart skips a beat. There are all sorts of treasures, Dot. Freedom is a treasure. So is revenge…

  Wade drags Dot inside the narrow slit, pulling her forcefully by the arm. Brian’s ex-wife twists within the biker’s grip. Underwater spelunking can unnerve even the most experienced diver, and Dot is just a novice. Surrounded on all sides, the sensation of claustrophobia overwhelms her and she panics, kicking at the big biker, forcing him to release his grip.

  Dot darts back towards the entrance, churning up clouds of silt in her wake.

  Brian shines his light through the debris as Wade emerges… alone.

  Damn her! This complicates things…

  Brian shines his light on the square in the sand, offering an enthusiastic ‘thumbs-up’.

  Wade nods. Takes the pickaxe from the smaller man and begins hacking at the limestone.

  Brian’s chest pounds like a timpani drum as his right hand steadies the flashlight… his left casually reaching between his legs… his fingers digging in the sand… searching until they feel the crusted rusty edge of the ancient anchor chain—leading to the brand new open steel shackle he has attached two nights earlier.

  His eyes focus on the tattooed flesh of the biker’s left ankle.

  Now!

  Concealed behind a cloud of silt, Brian pulls the shackle free of the sand and snaps the open hinge around Wade’s ankle, registering the gratifying click as the mechanism locks in place.

  For a moment the two men lock eyes and then the fossil collector kicks for the exit.

  Cat quick, the big biker wheels around and grabs Brian by his foot, dragging him backwards through the water, driving his knee into the base of the smaller man’s back. Pinning him down, Wade’s free hand reaches for his unshackled ankle and the dive knife.

  Pinned chest-first along the sandy limestone floor, Brian struggles like mad to free himself from the biker’s weight. He screams into his regulator as a burning pain sears the flesh behind his shoulder. A cloud of white silt blinds him, his blood swirling in the debris.

  Wade stabs again. Misses.

  Desperate, Brian twists around to face the biker, clawing at his face, flooding the biker’s mask and blinding him, forcing him to let go.

  Brian crawls and swims out of the biker’s reach, then turns, watching Wade as he attempts to clear his flooded mask. One down. Gotta find Dot!

  Groping in the darkness, he makes his way back to the cave entrance. Gripping the anchor’s rope, he kicks for the surface.

  Looking up, he sees Dot’s silhouette. His ex-wife is still in the water, relaxing in the mineral flow as she holds onto the side of the anchored rowboat.

  Brian surfaces next to her, spitting out his regulator. “Dot, we found it, it’s all there! We need your help!”

  “Forget it. I’m not going back inside that hole. The two of you can handle it.”

  “You have to come! Wade… he’s trapped! His ankle, it sort of wedged between the hole and the treasure chest and I can’t free him. Dot, we need your help!”

  She looks at him, suspicious. “Since when were you so worried about Wade?”

  Blood in the water… got to move! “You’re right. Fuck him. Fuck that bastard. Let him drown. More treasure for us, right?” He replaces his regulator and descends ten feet, waiting to see if she’ll join him.

  Too frightened to follow, his ex-wife remains on the surface.

  Time’s running out, do something! Remember who set you up. She’s just as guilty as he was. Do it now—finish it!

  With a sudden burst of speed he resurfaces behind her, his left hand yanking back on her mouth, exposing her throat to the serrated edges of his blade and five years of pent-up anger.

  Blood gushes from the mortal wound as Dot falls back against him, her strength draining as she thrashes against his chest.

  Brian holds on, waiting until the last gasp of life fades into silence. Then he releases the air from her buoyancy-vest and drags her below.

  Still too buoyant… Wait! The anchor line!

  Wrapping one arm around his ex-wife’s gushing corpse, he quickly cuts the anchor line and ties the loose end around Dot’s waist. He leaves her there, suspended in death, the slit in her throat
opening and closing like a second mouth as it releases blood into the upwelling stream of hot water.

  Brian follows the line down to the cave. Balancing on his fins, he jerks the anchor away from the limestone and tosses it over the cavern ledge.

  The anchor plunges into the darkness below.

  Shadows dance along the near wall. He spins around confronted by Wade, the knife poised, the severed shackle dangling by his leg. The big man reaches for Brain, then pauses his eyes widening as Dot’s carcass plunges feet-first past the cave entrance before disappearing from view.

  Pushing Brian aside, Wade goes after her, his powerful legs pumping and kicking.

  Brian’s first impulse is to flee. He stifles it, then calmly removes the underwater flare from his pouch. He pops off the end, the burst of pink light nearly blinding.

  Feeding time, my friend. Come and get it…

  Releasing the flare, he watches it flip and spin, neutrally buoyant in the rising current, its iridescent beacon illuminating the geological funnel of limestone, its flame appearing like a bioluminescent lure to the prehistoric species dwelling one hundred fifty feet below.

  ***

  Thirty feet below the cave and almost ninety feet from the surface, Wade manages to snag a fistful of Dot’s dark hair. Kicking hard, he slows their descent, then pulls her into his arms—

  Dead…

  He releases her, his building rage suddenly stifled by the sight of the creature rising from out of the darkness!

  The silvery viperous head is as large as a Volkswagen Beetle, its bulbous opaque eyes, glowing pink from the flare’s flame, as wide as dinner plates. Curved, needle-sharp fangs—each as long as a toddler, riddle a mouth that seems to unhinge as it opens engulfing Dot’s remains in one gruesome bite!

  The iridescent dark silver-blue demon shakes its skull, the lashing movements slicing its meal to fleshy ribbons while revealing its tapered forty-three foot long body to the terrified biker. Covered in hexagonal pigmented photophores, the predator’s hide blinks on and off like lights on a Christmas tree its sensory-laced scales detecting the presence of another.