Delusion

by Peter Abrahams

“He gave it to me last night. He’s in such a good mood—this engineering report or whatever put him over the moon. You hear about it?”

  “Yes.”

  Vicki opened her tiny purse, took out some mints, offered one to Nell. “It’s such a great story,” she said. “So, you know, American.”

  “The report?”

  “Nah. Duke and Kirk, the whole ball of wax. Two brothers starting from zilch, mortgaged up to their eyeballs for that first big deal. And now all this.” She waved her hand. Outside the round window lay nothing but empty blue.

  Vicki sat quietly for a few moments, sucking on her mint, looking thoughtful. Nell closed her eyes, started worrying about Norah right away. After a while, Vicki spoke, Nell missing whatever she’d said. She opened her eyes.

  “Sorry?”

  “I was just wondering if you were around. Like back then, when they started. DK Industries.”

  “I was still in grad school.”

  “The art thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Art is cool,” Vicki said.

  “You should come to the museum when we reopen.”

  “Count on it,” Vicki said.

  Nell gazed out the window. Far below, the ocean looked like solid blue steel, a false image—at least for her—hard and uninviting.

  “They worked so hard,” Vicki said, offering more mints. “He’d make a great governor.”

  “Who?”

  “Kirk. Mayors sometimes go on to be governors.”

  “Kirk wants to be governor?”

  Vicki glanced at the cockpit. “Maybe it’s supposed to be a secret.”

  “Safe with me.”

  Vicki thought that was very funny, exploded with laughter. Up front, both men turned to look. Vicki gave them a little wave, pinkie raised high. “I’m so excited,” she said. Both men tapped their earphones, meaning they couldn’t hear. Vicki said it louder.

  Bahamian air: Nell’s favorite smell on earth. She lay under a palm tree on the beach at Little Parrot Cay, tiny waves sliding up the sand and sliding back down with a sound like a sigh; out on the reef bigger waves made sounds more like shushing. Duke and Vicki had disappeared into the master bedroom a minute or two after arrival; Clay was in the kayak, on an exercise paddle to the nearest cay, Big Parrot, and back, about three miles; Nell was alone, almost at peace. An electric-blue dragonfly darted by. An idea came, out of nowhere but somehow obvious at the same time: Why not meet with Alvin DuPree?

  She began to plan her part in a conversation with Alvin DuPree. A plane appeared in the sky: the daily flight from Nassau to North Eleuthera. It droned slowly by, disappeared from her field of vision. How to begin? With an apology? What words could ever—

  Something scraped on the sand. Nell sat up, fastening the top of her bathing suit, saw the kayak on the beach, Clay climbing out. He pulled the kayak across seaweed marking the high-tide line and came over, a drop of sweat rolling down his chest.

  “How was it?” she said.

  “Great.” He gazed down at her. “You look nice.”

  “You, too.”

  He sat down beside her. “Anything going on in the house?”

  “Probably.”

  Clay laughed. Then he grew quiet. He put his hand on her leg; her mouth went dry, as though whatever was going on in the house had spread. A look of desire that had passed between them many times was exchanged once more.

  “Not here,” Nell said.

  But here turned out to be good, much better than good. Something exotic and tropical was going on, and the knowledge that it was going on up in the house at the same time heightened everything, as though at an orgy; and this was the closest someone like Nell would ever come to attending one. How long it lasted, up and up, she didn’t know, but somewhere in there she caught a strange expression in his eyes, one she’d never seen before. It only rammed her up even higher, lust feeding on mixed-up emotions good and bad, love and doubt. Was she becoming perverse? She cried out, very loud, and didn’t care. Somewhere down the beach a bird answered.

  “Oh my God,” said Clay, sliding out from under her. “That was incredible.”

  Nell rose, caked here and there with fine white sand. She walked into the water, spread her arms and legs, sank to the bottom, hard and ripply. An orange starfish lay inches from her face. She flipped the starfish over and a crab scuttled out of its dead insides.

  A buzzing started up in the ocean. Nell rose, saw a boat coming around the point at the end of the beach.

  “Water taxi,” Clay said, trunks back on. He brought her bathing suit. “Glad we’re here, baby?”

  All at once Nell wanted to get right home, but she said yes.

  The water taxi—an old wooden Abaco boat with a broad stern that took passengers landing at the North Eleuthera strip to the nearby cays—headed for the dock. The boatman wore a red ski hat; the face of the only passenger, standing in the bow, seemed to be covered with something, maybe a handkerchief. Then Nell saw it was just his unbuttoned tropical shirt flapping up in the breeze.

  “Funny,” Clay said. “Duke didn’t mention it.”

  “Didn’t mention what?”

  “That Kirk was coming.”

  Nell looked again: yes, Kirk, with his distinctive swept-back blond hair, swept back more by the breeze. She hadn’t recognized him.

  Kirk came ashore. He seemed excited about something. “Sorry to bust in,” he said, and hurried up to the house. Clay and Nell followed, found the brothers already talking on the terrace. Now Duke seemed excited, too.

  Nell took a shower. No hot water in the house, but what ran from the well out back was always warm enough. And there, under that warm flow, all soapy, relaxed for the first time in many days, she was struck by a fresh idea, coming out of nowhere.

  “Clay?” she said, stepping out of the shower, wrapping her hair in a towel. He was shaving at the sink, back to her but foamy face visible in the mirror. “What do you know about hypnotism?”

  “Not much.”

  “Think it works?”

  “Didn’t work for Bobby.”

  “Bobby Rice?” Nell started feeling less relaxed.

  Clay nodded. “He gave it a try, to quit smoking.”

  That should have stopped the ebbing away of the relaxed feeling, but for some reason it did not. “I was thinking more along the lines of recovering memories.”

  “Yeah?” In the mirror his eyes shifted, found her.

  “Haven’t you ever used it—hypnotism, I mean—to help a witness remember?”

  “Almost never admissible in court,” Clay said.

  “But what about just to sharpen the memory, even if the result can’t be used directly?”

  Clay tilted his head back, ran the razor under his chin. “What are you saying?”

  The brothers’ voices drifted up from the terrace; Duke said something about percentages that made Kirk laugh. Nell reached for her bra, hanging on a towel rack. “Do you think it’s true that all our experience stays in the mind somewhere?” she said.

  “No idea.”

  “Because if it does, then maybe I could really see his face.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Clay said.

  “The killer,” Nell said. “His bandanna slipped—I’m sure of that—meaning I got a good look at his face. I must have. Don’t you see? If that’s imprinted somewhere in my—”

  Clay made a little grunt of pain, set down the razor and turned to her, a cut under his chin. “Enough,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Clay’s voice rose. Blood seeped into the shaving foam, sending a pink trickle down his neck. “We’ve been through this and through this. It’s over, finished, done.”

  “You’re closing the case?”

  “God damn it,” he said. “Do you really think that’s what I meant?”

  “But are you?”

  He took a deep breath, spoke more softly. “We don’t close unsolved murder cases, if that’s what this is, but there’s no
way—”

  “If that’s what this is?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Meaning you still think DuPree is guilty, that the tape is a fake?” He didn’t answer, just gazed at her, foam reddening under his chin. She pressed on. “How would that have been done? Is there any evidence to back it up? Have you had the tape analyzed?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  He turned back to the mirror, saw the blood. “Christ. Why didn’t you tell me I was bleeding?” He patted his chin with a towel.

  “And?”

  Clay put his hands on the edge of the sink, as though holding himself up. “According to the serial number on the cassette, it’s from a surveillance system that went out of business soon after the killing.”

  “So that’s that,” Nell said. “The tape is authentic.”

  Clay didn’t answer, just stood there slumped, blood still seeping from his cut.

  “What am I missing?” Nell said.

  “I’ve tried to tell you but I can’t get through. If it’s true that DuPree is innocent—”

  “If?”

  He talked over her. “—then you—we—are probably going to have to live with never knowing. Cold cases are hard enough, but with no forensics, no DNA, the only way they get solved is if someone who knows comes forward. And if that hasn’t happened in all this time, what are the chances now?”

  “That’s why it has to be me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m the witness,” Nell said. “The only one.”

  Clay spoke, so softly she almost didn’t hear.

  “What did you say?” she said, wanting to be sure.

  “I said maybe you should see someone.”

  Rock bottom. Nell walked out of the room.

  She went onto the dock. Vicki lay on a towel, wearing a thong, gleaming with sunblock, reading a magazine.

  “Hey,” she said, rolling over. “I tried the beach, but those little bugs came.”

  Nell sat down, dangled her feet. A needlefish swam by, just under the surface. She watched it, a beautiful creature that seemed at ease, and felt a little more at ease herself. “The water’s the same color as your ring,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Emerald.”

  “Oh, right,” Vicki said. “Funny how the ocean, you know, changes.” She came over and sat beside Nell, dangling her feet, too. They were short and square, the nails painted purple. The tide was high now, waves no longer breaking over the reef; just beyond it, a gull swooped down, splashed into the sea, came up with something silvery wriggling in its beak.

  “Feel like lobster for dinner?” Nell said.

  “My absolute fave,” Vicki said. “Did you bring some?”

  Nell turned and smiled. She was starting to like Vicki. “I was thinking we’d take the Zodiac out to the reef and jook a few.”

  “Jook?”

  “That’s how you say spear in these parts.”

  “Spear? You want to go spear actual lobsters?”

  “There’s a ledge on the far side of the reef they like. I’ll do the diving. You handle the boat.”

  “Me?” Vicki glanced around, a little wildly, saw Kirk walking on the beach, a beer in his hand. “Kirk! Kirk!” She waved, her pinkie pointed high.

  Kirk drove the Zodiac. Nell sat in the bow. They took masks, fins and snorkels, plus Hawaiian slings, spring steel spears and a big pail for the lobsters.

  “Take it just past the cut,” Nell said, “on the north side.”

  “Aye aye,” said Kirk. He wore sunglasses and a bathing suit, a big guy, bigger than his brother, but way past being in shape. He opened the throttle and the Zodiac roared across the water, curved through the narrow gap in the reef—Nell could see staghorn coral on both sides, a few feet below the surface. Kirk killed the engine and the Zodiac rose on its bow wave and stopped, then slid back in the swell.

  “Here?” he said.

  “Here.” She tossed the anchor over the side, the water so clear she could follow it all the way to the bottom. It settled on the sand. The current started taking them south. Down below, the flukes of the anchor dug in and the line tightened. They rocked gently on the water.

  “Didn’t mean to be all mysterious, swoopin’ in like this,” Kirk said. “Business.”

  “No problem.”

  “Keep a secret?”

  Nell nodded, dipping her mask in the water.

  “We, meaning DK—my share’s in trust for as long as I’m in politics—maybe got ourselves a buyer.”

  “Someone wants to buy the company?”

  “Keeping current management in place, plus a capital infusion. Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “This extra capital means we—Duke—will be needin’ some new people. Executive-type people. Think Clay’d be interested?”

  “He’d have to retire from the force?”

  “Oh, yeah—this would be full-time, but the compensation package would be real good.”

  Nell almost said: No way he’s ready to leave the force. But was that right? She no longer knew. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Clay’s probably doing it as we speak,” Kirk said. “This is just another one of my feeble attempts to see the future before it happens.”

  Nell laughed, surprised. She didn’t know Kirk well, had never heard him say anything like that. Kirk laughed, too, and then his face went serious.

  “How’re you doin’ with all this?” he said. “Must be tough.”

  “I’m okay,” Nell said.

  He shook his head in an admiring way. “I believe it,” he said. “But if there’s ever anything I can do, just say the word.”

  “Know any hypnotists?” The question just popped out.

  “Matter of fact, I do,” Kirk said. “Guy cured tendonitis in my elbow in two sessions, got me back on the golf course. But I don’t think he performs.”

  “Performs?”

  “At parties. That what you want him for, set the guests to crawling around, barking like dogs and stuff?”

  Nell laughed again. “I’m looking for help with my memory.”

  “For remembering all the paintings?”

  “No,” Nell said. “It’s more about the case.”

  “The case?” Kirk said. “Where does a hypnotist come in?”

  “You know I was the eyewitness.”

  “The only one?” Kirk said. “I’m a little hazy on the details.”

  “The only one,” Nell said. “And the thing is, Kirk, I know I got a good look at the killer. I just can’t call it up. So I was thinking that maybe a hypnotist…”

  “How good a look?” said Kirk.

  Nell described the scene on the Parish Street Pier.

  “The bandanna slipped?” Kirk said.

  “Just for a second, and only partially. But if it’s true that the mind remembers everything somewhere, then—”

  “Gotcha,” Kirk said. “I can set you up.”

  Nell saw her grateful self reflected in Kirk’s sunglasses. “Thanks,” she said.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Kirk. “We all ready?”

  “Yup.” Nell spat in her mask, swished it in the sea, put it on, slipped into her fins.

  Kirk handed her a sling and spear. “What’s the depth?”

  “About forty-five feet right at the bottom,” Nell said, sticking the snorkel mouthpiece between her teeth.

  “Oh, boy,” said Kirk. He sighed, reached for his own mask. Nell flashed him the okay sign and rolled backward into the sea.

  She swam along the outside edge of the reef until she spotted a familiar coral head, a huge brain coral topped by a purple sea fan, then took three deep breaths, jackknifed into a smooth duck dive and kicked her way down, strong easy kicks, upper body still. Normally she noticed all kinds of things on the reef, but with a spear in her hand it was all a blur, her eyes on the lookout for just one sight, in this case the dark
orange, knobby antennae of the spiny lobster.

  Nell reached bottom. The anchor lay dug into the sand, just a few feet from the base of the reef, the line angling toward the surface. She glanced up, saw Kirk on his way, legs spread too wide, arms not at his sides, back bent, chest and gut sticking out: a perfect how-not-to demonstration. He came to a stop about ten feet above her, paddled his hands around for a moment, pale eyes bulging behind his mask, then shook his head and started back up.

  Nell turned to the reef. A sharp ledge jutted out two or three feet from the bottom, with a dark crevice underneath, the kind of place lobsters liked to spend the daylight hours. Nell gave one little kick, careful not to stir up the bottom, and stuck her head in. For a moment or two, she could see nothing. Then her eyes adjusted to the dimness, and yes, deep in the crevice: two antennae, dark orange and knobby, already raised at a wary angle; huge, thick, maybe the biggest she’d ever seen. Nell already had the spear set in the wooden shaft and nocked. She held the shaft out front, drew back on the thick rubber tubing with her right hand as far as she could, then sighted and released.

  The spear shot forward, pierced the carapace of the lobster with a cracking sound, very clear in the enclosed space. After that, a lot of commotion: stirred-up sand, clanging steel, the near end of the spear waving around; not a kill shot, but good enough as long as the barb had stuck. Nell swam in deeper, got one hand on the end of the spear and pulled. Nothing; meaning that the lobster had gotten into a hole somewhere. She felt a little pressure deep in her throat, first sign of the carbon dioxide buildup that would trigger the need to breathe. The lobster wasn’t going anywhere; she could swim up for air, come back down. But first, one more yank on the spear, this time harder. Nell yanked on the spear.

  She heard another metallic clang, this one seeming to come from the core of the reef itself. Then came a dull, watery crash, and with it an enormous weight fell on the backs of her legs, pinning her to the bottom, and everything went dark. The roof had fallen in.

  Nell squirmed around, her heart pounding so loud it might have been a separate object nearby, outside her body. Her legs were stuck. She reached for a handhold, grabbed something rocky and sharp, tried again, this time digging her fingers into the sand. Nell twisted, pulled, tried with all her might to get loose, and then, with a tearing of skin she registered as pain but did not feel, her right leg slid out from under the rubble. Now she had more range, could double back on herself, use her hands to push aside all the debris. She heaved at the chunks of coral, massive and heavy, pressure building and building in her lungs. Her left leg came free. She rolled over, exploded off the bottom and into the light, kicking and kicking, not long, controlled kicks, but frantic, up toward the shining surface; and so slow with both fins gone. Then she could no longer hold in the air and it burst from her lungs; she saw nothing but flashes, black and gold.