Some People Die Quick

by JC Simmons

  The whites moved slowly upward, looking for whatever was causing all the commotion. The larger of the two females took the bigger of the baits in her mouth, the jaw unhinging as she attacked the meat. The line parted immediately.

  The most awesome thing to me about the white shark is that they never get in a hurry. Other sharks feed in an agitated state, the white moves slowly and methodically.

  I ran out of air. Signaling George for help, I was horrified when he just looked at me, a blank expression on the round, youthful face. Poking him with the camera brought him around, and he gave me his mouthpiece. We buddy breathed until George could undo my regulator from the empty tank and reattach it to the spare. Thank God for the extra tank, for if we were forced to ascend through the frenzied sharks we would have been torn to pieces.

  George was getting close to running out of air, also. We would have to share the spare tank. If we breathed slow, holding our breath for as long as possible, we could stretch out the reserve air for about forty minutes. After that the situation would become deadly.

  Long ago I had ceased to be afraid of dying. Now it was only a feeling of indifference. In my life there had been too much of the wrong kind of death. It was not like killing in war when it is done in defense of country, but senseless murder done for spite, money, anger, or sometimes for love. Every corpse I've seen has been ugly. I had no illusions about my own death. It would only be another death, and probably not a good one. In my line of work, not many are.

  All at once, the sharks, which had been feeding on the baits at the stern of Picaroon, seemed to stop in mid-turn. En masse they all headed for the twenty-foot Mako runabout. Something was being poured into the water. I thought someone was pouring out a barrel of chum. But why?

  Then something happened that made my blood turn to ice water. Someone jumped from the Mako into the middle of whatever had been poured overboard. George's mouth dropped open, bubbles leaked from around his mouthpiece. The sharks up near the small boat seemed, for a moment, as surprised as we were. Then the first shark struck. A big tiger bit whoever was in the water in the left side, shaking them violently from side to side. The shark then floated slowly downward, away from the person, swallowing in rapid gulps. George screamed.

  The frenzy started in earnest. Blood was thick in the water. Sharks struck again and again at the body, wrenching pounds of flesh with each bite. One of the big whites took the head and right shoulder in its unhinged jaw, the lips curled back in a hideous grin. Slowly, mechanically, the white swallowed three times; the head and shoulder were gone. Bits of debris floated about in the bloody water. An arm came drifting slowly down through the frenzy. We watched, mesmerized, as it descended like a falling leaf. Then I saw the tattoo and the missing finger. Before it could hit bottom, a six-foot blacktip darted by and swallowed it whole. Sabado had seen his last day, and not much of it, either. He died well before noon.

  George was being sick through his mouthpiece. Waves of nausea swept over me, but I managed to suppress them. Then, as if nature knew enough was enough, she called off the frenzy. It stopped like it started, suddenly, and without warning. The whole thing with Sabado took less than sixty seconds.

  Now George ran out of air. We would have to buddy breathe, swapping the one mouthpiece back and forth between breaths. Many sharks were still milling around. Any sudden movement could start another frenzy. We had to stay where we were for as long as we could. My mind was racing, thoughts jumbled, and I fought hard not to hyperventilate. It could prove to be fatal.

  Picking up the air gauge, George held it up for me to see. It showed only a hundred pounds. We did not have any choice but to start to the surface or drown. Motioning upward to George, he nodded affirmative, and we started the longest ascent of my life. Only one or two sharks circled around to investigate us. George gently moved them away with the bang stick.

  Breaking the surface at the stern of Picaroon, my eyes darted quickly around, looking at faces staring down at us.

  "Get out of the water," Guy yelled.

  Handing up my air tank, I helped George climb the boarding ladder, then took off my flippers and climbed aboard. Vickey was huddled in the corner of the cockpit. She looked like a little doll, effete and sad.

  The plan had worked like we expected except for Sabado getting killed. That was my fault. I should have thought it through more carefully.

  Guy said that he'd already radioed the Coast Guard and that they would have a vessel alongside within an hour.

  "George can look after Vickey. Let's go below and talk."

  Guy, Anna, and I went down the companionway ladder.

  I wanted to hear the story, not because I was concerned about Sabado's death, he had made his own choices. What worried me was the culpability Anna and I had, and what Vickey's involvement had been in the whole scenario.

  Anna began: "After the feeding frenzy started and most of the large chunks of meat were gone, Sabado took a can of what he thought was repellent into the Mako, saying he wanted to pour some in the water and see what happened. Instead, he poured it all over his body and emptied the rest into the sea. Looking at Vickey, he yelled that he would be the one who proved the repellent worked. He would make them rich. Vickey screamed No! However there was nothing that could have prevented him from jumping into the water. It was horrible and it's all my fault."

  "This is not your fault. If anyone is to blame, it's me. I should have thought it through more carefully. Sabado made his decisions. We're not responsible for them."

  "Nobody is to blame," Guy said. "I wouldn't tell the Coast Guard about this 'plan' you were carrying out. Let them think it was a test of the chemical repellent. That's not a lie, it was a test of sorts. You don't have to go into the chemistry."

  Anna looked at me with a question in her eyes.

  "It's best, Anna."

  She nodded and we went topside.

  Walking over to Vickey, I asked if she were okay.

  She looked up at me with the sad eyes of defeat. "I don’t know. I swear I didn't know Bob would do anything like this. Oh, Jay, he just cannot be involved in the rest of it, he just can't be."

  Putting my arm around her, I said, "It's alright, Vickey. We'll talk about it when we get back to the mainland. Can I get you anything?"

  She shook her head. "No, I'll be fine." She had an expression of both serenity and suffering in the calm of her face, an expression like a smile of pain, though she was not smiling.

  A horn sounded. It was the Coast Guard. The big cutter slowed and lay off a couple of hundred yards. They lowered a tender with three sailors and came alongside Picaroon.

  The Lieutenant spent an hour going over our story. When he was satisfied, he and the two seamen returned to their ship. We watched them board the cutter and get underway. We were instructed to weight anchor and follow them to the Gulfport harbor where formal statements would be taken. The investigation would be continued with local authorities being notified.

  Poor George sat in the cockpit with his head in his hands. His eyes had the burned out expression of a man too much troubled by the things he had seen.

  "Mr. Jay, is Vickey involved in this?" His eyes were pleading for me to tell him she wasn't.

  "I honestly do not know. We'll find out more when we get to Gulfport. You did well on the dive. I could not have made it without you."

  "Thanks," he said softly. His face seemed to have shrunk inward, leaving his nose and eyes protruding like small glass floats used on fishing nets.

  Guy got Picaroon underway. It was going to be a long two-hour run to Gulfport. There would be a police detective waiting who was not going to be happy to see my smiling face.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The seas were still calm. Picaroon's movement through the swells was soothing as Guy followed the Coast Guard cutter that had slowed its speed to match ours. The temperature had warmed and the wind felt good blowing across the bow of the sailboat.

  We were silent, each deep into our own thou
ghts. Anna had gone below. George sat in the same spot, head still in his hands. I moved up to the front of the boat, straddled the bowsprit, and watched the sea part as Picaroon plowed through the aqua blue water. Just below the surface green, billow-shaped jellyfish floated, innocent looking. Their sting has been known to kill.

  Entering the harbor, I made ready the docking lines. Several Coast Guard seamen were standing by and helped make Picaroon fast to the pier next to where the cutter docked. A young officer escorted us to the Commandant's office where we were informed that formal statements would be taken as soon as a representative from the local authorities arrived.

  The more one wishes for something not to happen, the more assured one is that it will. I hoped for any policeman from Gulfport except Detective Anderson, my nemesis from Susan Weems' murder. However he walked through the door ten minutes later, stoop-shouldered, wrinkled clothes, and the ever-present frown etched across the aged face.

  Quickly scanning the room, he spotted me. His eyes burned like lasers, and he regarded me with that standard cop expression for a criminal, hostile in its vacancy, like the stare of a shark.

  "Who's in charge here?" he growled in a deep voice caused by cheap whiskey and unfiltered cigarettes.

  "Lieutenant Williams," the young officer spoke up. "I did the on site investigation. The commandant has my report. He's waiting for you to arrive."

  "Take me to him, son," he said, scanning the room again, this time settling on Guy Robbins. Following the Lieutenant into the Commandant's office, he mumbled something about a peeper and his mouthpiece.

  Because of Vickey's relationship with Sabado, she was called first. Forty-five minutes later she emerged, red-faced and crying.

  Anna went to her and asked what had happened.

  "That city detective is so ugly and mean. He had a lot of horrible things to say about Bob. He didn't believe a word I said. I hate that man."

  The Lieutenant came out and called for George Lenoir, casting a sympathetic eye toward Vickey.

  The detective was going to be a problem, I thought. He was a man who appeared to have been angry for a long time. Long enough to become comfortable with it like an old overcoat. He could never feel any other way. It's a dangerous and unproductive mindset. The man should retire, but Guy says he's a good cop.

  The interrogation dragged on. George was in even longer than Vickey. When they called Anna, she shrugged and went forcefully into the room.

  "Well?" I asked George.

  "I answered their questions. What else could I do? The idiot jumped into the middle of a shark feeding frenzy."

  Vickey gasped, put her hands to her mouth.

  "Oh, Vickey, I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt you. You never said anything about dating this guy. Nobody in their right mind would jump into a feeding frenzy."

  "What else did they ask?" Guy said. "Did they want to know about the repellent?"

  "Yeah, the Commandant was real interested in it. The detective, he didn't seem to care about why Sabado died. All he wanted to know was what connection Mr. Jay had with it." He looked at me with concern. "He seems to think the whole thing is somehow your fault."

  "That old s.o.b. I'm tired of him…"

  "Jay," Guy said sternly, "You've got to keep it under control when you go in there. Remember last time, don't play into his hand."

  An hour later, Anna emerged. "Be careful what you say, Jay. That policeman has it in for you."

  "I've dealt with him before. He investigated Susan's death."

  "That's how he knew so much about her." She shook her head. "Still, watch yourself."

  The Lieutenant came out. "We'll take Mr. Robbins and Mr. Leicester together. Please come with me, gentleman."

  The Commandant stood and shook hands with us. The man loomed like a lean long-leaf pine. He must have been six-three. His thin face was ageless and stately. There were wrinkles of humor in the corners of his eyes, and they had an arresting intelligence, but his lips were thin, and drawn over his jaw in two rigid lines that looked never to have been bent by a smile.

  Detective Anderson remained seated and ignored our presence. A military stenographer sat behind a little odd machine in the corner of the room. The tall mast of a sailing vessel stood outlined against the blue sky, sharp and straight, like a raised sword.

  "Gentlemen," the Commandant said. "You know why we're here. This is an investigation into the death of Mr. Robert Sabado. Your statement will be recorded. You can sign it later. Detective Anderson suggested you both be questioned together as it might expedite matters."

  "Must be getting close to happy hour," I said sarcastically.

  Detective Anderson leapt from his chair, papers spilling from his lap. The stenographer jumped.

  "Leicester, you're in deep enough as it is. You better watch your mouth or I'll lock you up so fast it'll make your head swim."

  Guy quickly intervened. "That's enough. Let's proceed."

  We spent the next hour going over the events of Sabado's demise. It was controlled chaos. Every time I said something, Detective Anderson would launch into one of his picayune diatribes, only to be quieted by the Commandant, who was becoming angrier at each outburst.

  Finally, after one heated exchange, the Commandant stood up and, in a controlled voice, said, "This interview is over. You people seem to think life is nothing more than a system of atavistic contracts, inane ceremonies, and preordained rhetoric which people use in society in order not to kill each other. And you use it in this investigation to beleaguer some sad point. Well, life is not that way, gentlemen, not in this room. The hearing is over. Mr. Robbins and Mr. Leicester, you may leave. Detective Anderson, you remain. I've some things to say to you."

  Outside the Commandant's office Guy looked at me with a less than pleasant face. "Sometimes, Jay, you're too hardheaded, not only for your own good, but for everybody else's. Will you never learn?"

  "Is that all, counselor?"

  "Yes, that is all." He didn't want to, but he broke into a grin. By the time we were back aboard Picaroon, he was laughing at how angry Detective Anderson got during some of the exchanges.

  "You better never, ever get into serious trouble inside the city limits of Gulfport, Mississippi."

  "Well, if it happens, I know a good lawyer."

  * * *

  The five of us boarded Picaroon. The first thing we noticed was that the boat had been thoroughly searched. I did not mind, the Coast Guard has a hard fight against drugs coming through the gulf. The underwater video camera had not been bothered and we had not mentioned the taping of the frenzy, though none of it showed Sabado's death.

  The sun was low in the hazy sky as we motored away from the Coast Guard pier. As it sank below the horizon, it blared red, turning the calm Mississippi Sound into blood. I was at the helm and once free of the channel markers, took a heading for Cat Island. The sky began to darken. Blackness came so fast you were unable to see the change until each change was past. A thin fingernail of a moon seemed to gather the last vestiges of light into itself. The distant ship channel markers flickered red and green in unconcerted patterns as if being manipulated by a madman.

  Due to the hour and, because he was as tired as the rest of us, Guy decided to spend the night on Cat Island. He radioed his wife, Mildred, and explained the situation.

  We moored Picaroon just outside the shallow channel leading up to the dock, setting two anchors in the Bahamian style. Deciding to unload the gear in the morning, we secured the boat and all five of us crowded into the Mako. Stumbling up the winding path to the house, we looked like a defeated football team returning to the locker room. The day had taken its toll.

  Anna showed Guy to one of the bedrooms. We were all too tired to think about eating. Vickey wanted to talk about what had happened. Sabado's death and the cloak of suspicion was hovering over her like some dark angel, but Anna suggested we all get some sleep and talk about it in the morning. We all agreed and went to our respective rooms.

 
Vickey bit her lower lip and turned to leave, her shoulders sagging a little. There was something about her--not persuasiveness, but a quality I couldn't put a name to--that made it difficult to judge her.

  Guy came into my room with me. He closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. "What do you think about Vickey?"

  "You witnessed the thing. You tell me."

  "Honest to God, Jay, she didn't have a thing to do with Sabado jumping into that feeding frenzy. She was as surprised and horrified as the rest of us."

  "Maybe their little scheme went wrong?"

  "I wouldn't bet on it. I saw her face when it happened."

  "Well, out of four suspects, two are dead. Vickey, you're convinced, isn't involved. George Lenoir was with me underwater when it happened. So that leaves us zip."

  Guy stood, stretched. "I'm going to bunk out. You think we might need to keep an eye on Anna, just in case?"

  "I don't think anyone would try something with a house full of people, do you?"

  "Okay, I'll see you in the morning."

  Too tired to sleep, I lay on the bunk listening to the night sounds drifting in through the tiny screened-in window. Crabs scurrying toward the surf made clicking noises, an owl hooted in the distance, a fish splashed in the backwater, either prey or feeder. Waves gently lapped at the beach. Drifting off to sleep, I thought that an intelligent, ruthless person using Sabado as an ignorant pawn could have planned everything that happened today. But who?

  * * *

  Anna was dead, an eight-inch kitchen knife buried to the hilt in her chest. She had been murdered while I lay asleep across the hall. Another dream, another cold sweat. Slipping on my pants, I padded barefoot to Anna's room. She lay on her side, facing the wall. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest told me she was okay.

  Satisfied the dream was just that, I started back to my room and saw movement at the end of the hall leading into the den. Hugging the wall, I eased up and looked. No one was there. Checking the individual rooms, I found George and Vickey's doors locked. Guy was snoring gently. Maybe it was all my imagination.