Dateline: Atlantis

by LYNN VOEDISCH

  Gabriel is peering at her with curiosity. She realizes he’s also sneaking a look down the gap between buttons of her gauzy shirt. She brings a hand up to pull the parting closed then drops it, deciding to let him look. She isn’t large-chested, just average, and she sometimes, against her logical mind, is thrilled and confused to find a man looking at her that way. A familiar sensation of need ripples through her abdomen. She looks up at Gabriel and smiles, but he looks away with a sudden snap of the head.

  “Gabriel, I think this woman, the language expert, can help us piece the puzzle together.”

  “That would be easy enough,” he says, signaling to the waiter for the check. “I know of her. Shoshanna Knox. Everyone connected with finding the lost world knows her work.”

  A waiter ambles over and Gabriel pulls several bills from his pocket. He waves the waiter away, saying “queda te con en cambio.”

  Keep the change. How did he know the waiter spoke Spanish? She is now burning to know what he is keeping from her, but he is a master of concealment. He must have been here before, scoping out the area before I arrived. They stand, ready to leave, and he says gesturing off into the distance, “They are after Shoshanna, too.”

  Hewitt, of course. And they’re after me.

  He puts one arm around her shoulders and draws her close, in a mysteriously intimate embrace. He whispers in her ear, the movement of air tickling her skin. “They hate us because we would rewrite history if we are correct. And they are willing to kill to keep their timeline intact.”

  “But, Gabriel,” she says, delighting in his closeness, in his delicious scent. “People don’t kill over theories.”

  Gabriel laughs and holds her out at arm’s length, his eyes boring into hers. “Those who follow the cause of the True Believers do. Think of the things religious people have done in the name of a loving God.”

  “But these aren’t religious people—they’re Ph.D.s with an attitude.” Suddenly, she’s not feeling so light-hearted. She remembers her dinner with Donny and the conclusions they reached. Religion came up in that discussion, too. “Unless…”

  “Unless they are getting help, Amaryllis, from people so blinded by their beliefs that they would kill to cover up an Atlantis.”

  A light breeze makes her quake as she remembers that rough Americans, not English academics, were the first people to lay hands on Garret.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: FORBIDDEN TERRITORY

  The new hotel in Freeport City is a necessary irritation, because the appearance of Hewitt made remaining in Andros impossible. There are so few people there that an odd pairing of a white woman and a Hispanic man, such as Amaryllis and Gabriel, is sure to be recognized. Nassau is too far away from the Bimini/Berry Islands, so they head north to the island of Grand Bahama and its main town, Freeport City.

  They must find a new boat and Scuba rental shop, which is an added annoyance, because everything had been so easy in Andros. Here, the best boat crews are lazy, and the rental shop keeps bizarre hours, often closing at mid-day, making afternoon dives impossible.

  Everyone in the Bahamas works at a slow pace, and Amaryllis is waiting for the pot to boil every time she makes a request or asks a question. It’s paradise, yes, but not for someone trying to get an important project done. The drip, drip, drip of movement can drive a caffeinated city person insane.

  By hook or crook they find a boat, but time is working against them. The sands can shift and literally create a new seabed—a phenomenon that can happen at any time in the Bahamas—and they return with worried minds to the spot where they found the pyramid.

  On the way out to the site, Amaryllis is in high spirits, believing that her Pulitzer Prize-worthy story is within grasp again. After their third dive, however, she realizes the seascape has become unrecognizable. Huge swells have heaped sand upon the pyramid structures, so they resemble nothing more than haunting hulks of rock with no more secrets to reveal. It would take heavy machinery to remove that much sand. The monumental structures are hopelessly camouflaged, the pillars are missing, the seabed and its block pavement are completely covered by silt and debris.

  She’s disappointed and depressed, for there are so few opportunities to snap the right pictures, especially with Hewitt on her trail. She wonders if the story ever will run. Will she simply run out of time, crowded out by these strange academics who can’t seem to get the concept of alternative archeological theories?

  She emerges from the sea, disengages her gear and plucks off her hood, and shakes her head at Gabriel. Her fellow diver, a teenager named Raymond, says nothing and merely dumps his air tanks on the deck and collapses into a squat, holding his head in his hands.

  “We’re through here,” she says. “That storm yesterday stirred up the seabed.”

  Gabriel gazes west, lost in deep thought.

  “There’s Bimini,” he says, referring to the site where some adventurers reported seeing the so-called Atlantean road. Amaryllis remembers how Sean spoke of it at dinner in Chicago.

  “As much as I’d love to see the Bimini Road, it would be nothing more than a trap,” she says, shaking out her globs of long, wet hair. “Hewitt would think of it as the first place to look for us.”

  She thinks a bit more and then addresses the captain, a pot-bellied man wearing nothing more than frayed denim shorts, flip flops, and a dingy captain’s cap. He doesn’t look like much of an information source, but at least he lives in the area. She figures he must know something.

  “Johnny, sir,” she says, embarrassed that she never bothered to find out the captain’s last name. “Where else are there strange ruins in the sea?”

  He laughs, big teeth showing a gap in the side, a place where he often lodges cigarettes. The teeth on either side of the gap are yellowed.

  “The tourists from the big resorts don’t really look for those things. Not even in Bimini. But there’s something up your way that is peculiar,” he gestures to Amaryllis. “Near Florida is a tower.”

  She and Gabriel press closer to him, waiting for more. Silence. Gabriel figures out the game and hands the man a few bills.

  “Yes, mmm-hmmmm,” the captain says, counting the U.S. bills, which are far preferable to the local currency. “It’s up out of Bahamian waters. Sometimes, you can find it, other times, the instruments go crazy. Bermuda Triangle effect, maybe.” He laughs a deep baritone as he pockets the money. Raymond, who is now standing in nothing but swim trunks, also laughs as if he’s heard a knee-slapper.

  “Oh, that place is a danger for sure,” the diver says. “Planes go down there, mon. Lotsa bad shit,” He drags the last word out as he pops a joint in his mouth and lights it. Amaryllis brushes away the sweet, pungent fumes. She’s got to stay levelheaded.

  “Is it in international waters?” she asks, hoping the boat can take them there.

  “No, my lady,” Johnny says, looking to the north with beady eyes. “It’s your area—U.S. But not even open to average folks. It’s a military base. “

  “Down here? I never heard of that,” she says, feeling suspicion prickling at the back of her mind. “How close can you get us?”

  “Depends,” Johnny says, shrugs his shoulders and makes preparations for Freeport.

  “Sounds expensive,” Gabriel growls.

  The diver nods his head, but it’s hard to tell whether he is simply appreciating the reggae music from his boom box or answering Gabriel’s question. They return to port without another word.

  #

  Freeport City’s only bar—at least the only bar where tourists are welcome—is heaving with people this Friday night. Dancers have filled the hall and now spill into the street. Amaryllis, normally not a drinker, is in need of some sort of release, and she finds herself gliding in toward the heavy reggae/ska beat. Gabriel follows. He wedges himself between her and the bar and orders two beers. They salute each other with a clink of glass and take swigs of their cold bottles. Gabriel motions her into a corner.

  The music is so loud they
can hear nothing more than the ringing in their ears, and the corner is no refuge. The Mexican shrugs and downs his beer in three long gulps. Amaryllis sips more lady-like, squeezing the lime into the lager. She’s thinking of the tower and what it might contain. Was that the place where my parents died? Could clues last for twenty-five years under the sea? Then her thoughts turn to money. She’s not sure at all that Wright is going to funnel endless supplies of cash into this story. She ponders whether to shell out a couple hundred of her own meager dollars to the disreputable Captain Johnny—all for the privilege of getting herself ensnared with the U.S. military.

  She sighs and downs the rest of her beer, feeling no liberation from her worries, and now, she’s hotter than she was before she breezed into the bar. She’s sweating so much that her shirt clings to her torso. I’ve traveled from one extreme to another. Donny’s probably freezing his ass off right now.

  The thought of Donny brings her to a full stop. She holds the bottle in front of her face to cool her forehead. She looks through the wavy glass and sees Gabriel in profile. He’s gazing eagle-like over the crowd. She ponders what she really wants: this strange Maya’s quest for lost ancestors, a successful career for herself, finding the secret of her parents’ murder, or a comfortable and handsome man like Donny? For the first time in years, she finds herself pulled off the career track, wrenched away from the course she’s always chosen in journalism. She’s always wanted to be the best, and Wright supported that dream by backing her with raises and promotions. Now, she surrenders to the obligation to delve into the family tragedy and solve the questions that linger. What would Fiona tell me to do? She misses her friend with a longing that squeezes her near the breastbone. Fiona always reads me like a psychic. It’s time to give her a call.

  While she’s still daydreaming into the glass bottle, Gabriel grabs her by the shoulder with a pincer-like grip.

  “Put it down,” he says under his breath, almost in a purr. Amaryllis thinks he’s merely being seductive until she looks into his face, then past his gaze into the crowd. She plops the bottle on the bar.

  “That Hewitt is here, and he has company,” he whispers in her ear, as he swings her into his arms and they begin to dance. She begins to follow the reggae steps, which seem to differ from couple to couple. Gabriel’s are fluid and intricate, but she has little difficulty following the way he shifts his feet with each syncopated beat. Trying to look like a regular at the bar, she mimics Gabriel’s every move. As they swirl, she spots the pursuers.

  Hewitt, tall and bearded, stands on a platform at street level and hovers over most of the heads, like a chaperone at a school dance. He’s one of the only men not dancing and by his side is a small, dark-complected Hispanic man. Whereas Hewitt is tidy and benign in appearance, even wearing a button-down shirt in this torrid heat, the small man is in tatters, like a feral beast. He has a strange, tic-like smile, the kind that bullies wear when tormenting small animals. Her nerves splay, vibrating throughout her extremities. Danger scorches the air and it’s not radiating from Hewitt. The squat, squint-eyed man is emanating a spell of pure malevolence.

  “Gabriel,” she whispers. “We’ve got to get out.”

  “Impossible. They’ll spot us immediately.”

  A stocky white man taps her on the shoulder and asks to cut in. Gabriel nods, and she dances off, keeping her face averted. After a dozen tourists have whisked her around the dance floor, she begs off and finds Gabriel at the end of the bar. She scans the crowd. Hewitt and his friend have moved onto the street.

  “Is there a back door?”

  Gabriel doesn’t answer but grabs her again and pulls her into a savage version of the tango. The music changes again, and it’s a merengue. Oh good. I know the merengue. I learned it in L.A. She moves seamlessly with Gabriel, who is careful not to spin her or pull her too far away. She’s always close to his chest and she moans at the contact of her breasts to his muscled mid-section. Her shirt is pure gauze and her bra is thin, so her nipples are erect as he presses her body to his. She tries not to swoon under the sensations, tries to will her breasts not to give her away. She doesn’t look into his face, but knows he can’t escape the heat of her body.

  They spin together, and he grabs her around the waist. They shake their hips in time to the music, and she acknowledges the unmistakable sensation of urgency course through her belly, making her organs quiver. He pulls her to his breastbone and spins her by her shoulders. She makes a full revolution and stops, just as the music ends, eye to eye with him. For one second, she is sure Gabriel will pull her into a deep kiss. Instead, he looks over her shoulder into the crowd.

  “They are gone. Let’s get out.” His voice sounds remote, but he leads her by the hand, out the back door of the bar, down the street to the hotel. Hewitt and his ugly accomplice have disappeared, and Amaryllis and Gabriel whisk through the lobby. It also is empty. They go up to the door to Gabriel’s room. For one second, they stand, sweating, staring at each other with one un-spoken question between them. Then Gabriel unlocks the door, reaches over and picks her up, and carries her, like a bride over the threshold, to his bed.

  For once in her well-controlled life, Amaryllis allows herself to be led, to be overruled, to be taken. He removes her clothing, bit by gauzy bit and then strips himself of his sodden garments. Like a Maya prince of old, he stands proud before her, leaning over and trapping her with his body. He bends down and kisses every inch of her flesh, as if he had been starving and she is the feast he’s been dreaming of. When he penetrates her guard and then her body, she realizes a wall has been shattered inside of her. Together, they shudder for several long minutes until sleep washes over their lust.

  #

  The cell phone rings, incredibly, waking Amaryllis in the middle of the night. She stuffed the device into her purse, sure that it didn’t work in the Bahamas, but hoping against hope that it might come alive. In Freeport, she recharged it. Now, it’s working. They must be near a cell tower, she reasons in her sleepy, foggy brain. She paws through the odds and ends in the purse and picks up the call just before it goes to voice mail.

  “What?” she says, biting the word, trying to keep her voice down.

  “Amy?”

  “Wright! I mean, Mr. Wright. How did you get me? This thing wasn’t working a couple days ago.”

  “Dammit, Amy. What are you up to? The FBI is looking for you.”

  She gulps and, now horrified at her nakedness, grabs the guest robe from Gabriel’s closet. It’s crazy, but she can’t talk to her boss in the nude. She tucks the phone under her chin as she slips an arm into one sleeve, then the other. It’s a laborious process, but Gabriel is lost in sleep and cannot help.

  “Let me…can I call you back?”

  “No, you cannot! I was lucky to get you now. What’s so damn important?”

  “Well, for one thing it’s 4 a.m. here, and I was dead asleep.” She ties the terrycloth belt and scoops up her purse. Still holding the cell phone under her chin, she slips out the door, sneaks down the hall, puts her own key into her room lock, slips inside and settles on her own bed. She’s like a kid caught cheating on a test. Though Wright is thousands of miles away, she can’t shake the sensation that he’s walked in on the tryst between Gabriel and herself. Along the way, Wright has been sputtering about how she’s an important witness to a crime, and how dare she leave the country without telling anyone?

  “Well, no one asked.”

  “They screen everyone.”

  “Obviously, I wasn’t on the list of people to hassle. I’m only in the Bahamas, not Lebanon.”

  “The Bahamas? Are you mad?”

  “No, Mr. Wright. I’ve got pictures. Photos that are going to make the story work.”

  Silence. Amaryllis starts to panic, thinking someone found her hard disk and that Wright’s about to tell her that the story is gone.

  “Oh, well,” his voice has changed and has that unctuous quality that drives her nuts. “You’re on the story agai
n. That’s good. Excellent. The FBI has made headway and they think they have located Garret’s photos.”

  “I’ll send mine to you. The druggist has a digital photo service. Of course, I’ve got to find someone with an Internet connection…”

  “It can wait. The story will have to be amended.”

  “I can do that in Florida.”

  “Is that where you are going? I thought you were coming back to L.A.”

  “Unfinished business. I’m not quite done down here. But I’ll get to the American border to please the feds.”

  “Call me when you get there.” The connection breaks. She sits in the dark wondering if she wants to return to Florida, venture to the tower in No Man’s Land, or sail off with Gabriel to Mexico and become a Maya princess, never to return.

  She falls asleep on her own bed without even pulling back the covers.

  #

  “You’ve got to come with me to Miami.”

  Gabriel is slurping down coffee in the hotel diner and paying more attention to his beverage than to Amaryllis. He’s been edgy since he awoke and refuses to meet her eyes. In the end, he stops and looks up at her with sleepy lids.

  “I don’t have a green card.”

  “Can’t you get a travel visa?”

  “It takes weeks.” He slams the cup down and motions the waiter over to pour more. There’s more than a green card keeping him from Florida.

  “First, the FBI needs to talk to me,“ she says. “So, I’ve got to return there.”