The Ocean Dark

by Christopher Golden

  She trembled as she walked, terrified that Ted might have hung around. If he saw her, it would all be over. He would know she hadn’t gotten on the train.

  The train.

  Oh my God.

  Her face felt tight and she wondered if the heat from the explosion had been enough to burn her. Police and transit workers had been first down the stairs onto the platform after the blast had knocked her off her feet, but ordinary citizens had come down after them, wanting to help. If she’d been a man, the cops might have looked at her more closely, but when a stylishly coiffed black man in an expensive suit and a dreadlocked white guy who’d been playing guitar in the station near the ticket booth helped her up the stairs, nobody paid any attention. They were focused on the crisis.

  When EMTs and firefighters started coming down into the station and the transit workers forced people to move back, it was a simple thing for her to slip away.

  The dreadlocked guitarist had carried her suitcase up for her. It banged against her leg now as she walked hurriedly north. A giddy amazement ran through her like an electric charge.

  Wherever Ted was, he didn’t know where she was.

  For the moment, she was free. Now she had to stay that way.

  When she reached Times Square, she realized that she had done it. Left Ted behind. She tried not to let her elation show. People were talking about some kind of bombing downtown, maybe a terrorist attack, and it felt like a somber time. She didn’t want anyone to think she was laughing about the train.

  As she walked, the sky above Manhattan had started to clear. It all seemed too perfect, like she was in a movie and at any moment the music would begin to swell. It felt like a dream, but the blue breaks in the gray sky were real. The sidewalk under her feet was real. The weight of the suitcase in her hand.

  But the weight of dread that had sat on her shoulders for years had vanished.

  Sirens wailed as emergency vehicles sped southward. A city bus idled in the crux of the intersection of Broadway and 7th Avenue, waiting while the fire trucks and police cars flew by. The blat of the fire trucks horns hurt her ears, just as it always had when she’d sat and watched the Christmas parade pass by as a little girl.

  Between waves of emergency response, she crossed the street. The Millennium Broadway Hotel sat on the corner of 44th Street, a monolith of glass and steel and marble, and it was a thing of beauty. The doorman and a cab driver were talking grimly about what might be happening, wondering aloud if this was some follow-up to 9/11. They didn’t even look up as she walked by, and she opened the door for herself, went straight to the elevator and rode up to the seventh floor. Afraid to write anything down, she’d committed the room number to memory and for days had feared she would forget when the time came.

  But she didn’t forget. 719.

  She knocked so softly she couldn’t imagine anyone inside would hear it.

  He answered in seconds, and when he opened the door she had a moment of disappointment. George had lied to her. The photograph he’d e-mailed must have been at least five years out of date. The man in room 719 had thinning hair and weighed a good twenty pounds more than the one in the photo.

  But then he smiled, his eyes alight with such elation that she forgave him instantly. As lies went, it was a small one, and perhaps as much a lie to himself as to her.

  “Is it really you?” he asked, for he’d never seen a photo of her. Everything he knew about her she had told him in the long, rambling conversations they had online when Ted had let her go to the library.

  “It really is.”

  George laughed and stepped out into the hall, crushing her into an embrace. She stiffened, unused to be touched by anyone but Ted. Unused to being touched out of love.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, stepping back, eyes full of horror at his own presumption and the idea that he might have upset her.

  “No,” she said quickly, shaking her head, reaching for him. “Please.”

  She stepped into the room, dropping her suitcase by the door, and pulled his arms around her, weeping with years of pent-up sorrow, newborn relief, and astonishment that anyone would want to hold her.

  George reached out and swung the door closed without letting go of her. Then he just held her, speaking comfort to her in low, gentle tones. Three quarters of an hour passed and they had barely moved.

  At last, he asked her a question that required an answer.

  “Who are you going to be, now? You get to choose. A new place. A new name. Everything. Have you decided on a name?”

  She took a deep breath, smiling against his chest, and nodded.

  “Victoria,” she said, stepping back and beaming up at him. “Tori.”

  George’s eyes lit up. “Hello, Tori.”

  “Hi, George.” She stood on her toes and kissed the big man’s cheek. “You saved me.”

  He actually blushed and looked shyly away. “You saved you. You were brave enough to make the jump.”

  They’d talked about this many times. Tori squeezed his hands in hers. “Only because you gave me the faith that you’d be here to catch me.”

  For hours, they talked, but they never left the room. Tori knew it was irrational, but she feared that Ted would find her, out on the street. Less irrational was the thought that she might see someone she knew, someone who knew him. And then he would know.

  They ordered room service, and afterward Tori wanted to take a shower. It had been so long since she had felt clean.

  When she came out in the fluffy white cotton hotel bathrobe, George was perched on the end of one of the two beds, watching CNN. His mouth hung slightly agape and she wondered how long he had been sitting like that, staring.

  “Did you see—“ he started to say.

  Then something clicked in his mind. Maybe earlier he hadn’t taken note of the scrape on her elbow or the ruddiness of her cheeks or the dirt on her clothes. Now he saw them. George had a heart as big as the world, full of love and faith in the basic decency of people, which sprang from his own basic decency and his need to believe that others were like him. But he was also an intelligent man. Only his joy at seeing her had blinded him.

  “You were there when it happened. Oh my God—“

  He started to say her old name, the one she’d left behind in Penn Station, then corrected himself.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded quickly. “Don’t I look all right?”

  “If you’d gotten on the train—“

  “I’d be dead. If I believed in God, I’d say maybe you weren’t the only one looking out for me today.”

  Her voice shook as she said this last, and her hands trembled as well. But she bit her lip and she smiled to show him it was only nerves. And then she told him every detail of her day. Afterward, he held her again for a while, the two of them sitting on the bed together, and Tori waited for George to kiss her or slide his hands up over her breasts. Not that she wanted this, but she expected it. The choices she’d made had put her in the role of damsel-in-distress, but she knew that Prince Charming existed only in the pages of fairy tales.

  Yet George only held her. She knew he wanted her—he’d made that plain in the conversations they’d had online—but he didn’t try anything.

  “If you’re just joining us, at least seventy-three people are dead and dozens more injured in a train explosion beneath Manhattan today,” the CNN anchorwoman was saying. “Authorities so far refuse to speculate publicly on whether the train was the result of a terrorist bombing, but other theories have also been put forward, with some suggesting a massive gas leak might be responsible. Meanwhile, rescue and recovery efforts are still underway. Many passengers were treated for minor injuries and have already been released, but other victims of this tragedy remain hospitalized, some in critical condition.

  “We’re now hearing from several different sources that many of those who died in today’s explosion were so badly burned that identifying their remains may be impossible, creating a
nightmare for their families that is only just beginning.”

  The red-headed newscaster kept going, the tragedy in an endless loop of information and grim footage of rescue vehicles and people weeping. But Tori could only stare past George as laughter built softly in her chest and then came out in a giddy, hysterical babble. It lasted only a few seconds and then she realized how manic she must seem, and how morbid. People were dead, burned beyond recognition, and she was laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling back and looking up at him. “I’m not…it’s just…”

  George looked at her, face tinged with horror. Then realization crept over his features.

  “You’re dead. I mean, as far as Ted knows…”

  Tori took a shuddery, emotional breath and nodded. “He would’ve come after me once he figured out I wasn’t on the train. But now he’ll never know. No one will.”

  ~14~

  Out on the dark water, the night took on an indigo hue and the moon lit every roll of the waves. Warm as it had been that day, the breeze that came off the water made Josh shiver. He let it happen once, then braced himself against the chill, not wanting to reveal any weakness in front of Miguel and Rogan. Thoughts of Tori flooded his mind—the intensity in her eyes while they’d made love on the floor of her cabin, the way her body arched and shuddered at his touch, and the disappointment written on her face when he had told the captain about his time in prison.

  You’re an asshole, he thought to himself. Though he’d implied otherwise, Tori had told him that she had been trying to break a lifelong habit of getting involved with bad men. They were in the galley together for hours every day and their conversations were practically steam of consciousness. The woman had secrets, but even in the things she didn’t say, he had understood that she was looking for some kind of redemption in her life.

  He should have stayed away instead of complicating things for her further. But with all that time together, he had found himself wanting her more every day, loving her laugh and her sometimes sharp tongue, and even the sadness that often crept into her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. It had felt like a circuit connected them, carrying an electrical current back and forth between them.

  When he’d made that omelet and mixed the juice and brought them to her quarters, he had told himself that he just wanted a taste-tester, that Tori could tell him if the concoctions were any good. But Josh had never needed a taste-tester before. He knew whether what he’d cooked was or was not a success. He’d lied to himself, just to have an excuse to go to her, and he’d let her see him the way she wanted to see him, so that nothing would stop them from closing the circuit, from breaking the tension.

  Now his mind felt fogged with images from the time they’d spent in her quarters and guilt weighed heavily on him as well, because he knew that he was not what Tori wanted, and far from what she needed.

  Josh was drunk with her, distracted, and he knew he had to shake her off, get his act together. Something fucked-up was going on, and distraction could be dangerous.

  Miguel had rounded up a handful of the Antoinette’s crew and had them lower a lifeboat into the water. The thing wasn’t much bigger than the twelve foot Boston Whaler in which Josh’s father had often taken him fishing, but its engine had a hell of a growl. It was Lifeguard Orange, boxy and utilitarian, but it charged across the water as if the waves bowed down before it.

  Josh had taken note of the guys Miguel had called on to put them in the water, and there hadn’t been any surprises. Tupper, Jimenez, Anton, and the hardcase engineer, Hank Boggs. But he’d spotted Sal Pucillo watching from the accommodations block catwalk, two levels up, and wondered what the hell the guy was looking at. And when Pucillo realized he’d been spotted, he had pulled back into the shadows, like he didn’t want to be caught. Pucillo was a skulker--the kind of guy who whispered when other people’s backs were turned and stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong. It was mostly harmless, unless the Rio brothers started thinking maybe Pucillo was paying too much attention to their operation. Then it could be bad news indeed for Pucillo.

  It wouldn’t be the captain, Josh thought. But Miguel—he stared at the back of the younger Rio brother’s head as the lifeboat skipped over the waves—Miguel would be dangerous. He’d fuck Pucillo up big time.

  Rogan steered the lifeboat while Miguel stood in the stern, staring straight out at the darkness. Aside from the moonlight, the only illumination out on the water came from the Antoinette. The container ship loomed behind them now, a dark, hulking metal beast. Gabe Rio would be watching from the wheelhouse, grim and expectant, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.

  Josh wondered the same thing. Whatever their plan for tonight’s rendezvous might have been, this wasn’t it.

  The silhouette of the fishing boat grew larger as they approached. Next to the Antoinette, the sixty-footer might as well have been a dinghy, but it was no pleasure craft. Whatever fishermen caught off a boat that size, they had plenty of room to store it.

  The lifeboat was maybe twenty yards out from the fishing boat when Miguel pulled up a seat cushion and opened a compartment beneath it. Reaching in, he withdrew a shotgun, its black barrel gleaming, and called to Rogan, who turned to accept it with a nod, keeping one hand on the wheel. Next from the magic box was a Heckler & Koch submachine gun, smooth and stylish and looking more like a Star Wars toy than a killing weapon. Miguel kept that for himself, checking the magazine and then reinserting it before setting the H&K beside him.

  He turned to look at Josh and said something in what sounded like Portuguese, loud enough to be heard over the wind. Josh shook his head. He spoke four languages, but Portuguese wasn’t one of them.

  Miguel gave him an angry look, then reached back into the hidden cache and pulled out a handgun. He held it out for Josh.

  “SIG-Sauer. Nice,” Josh said as he took the gun. “Santa put one of these in my stocking a few years ago.”

  “Then you know how to use it,” Miguel replied, eyes slitted and dark.

  He checked the safety and slid the gun into his rear waistband. “I know which end goes boom, if that’s what you mean.”

  Miguel didn’t laugh, and that troubled Josh. Not that he thought himself especially funny, but the line hadn’t gotten so much as a polite chuckle. Something had unsettled Miguel, and Josh thought the dark, silent, drifting fishing boat was only a part of it.

  ~15~

  Papi. Wake up, Papi. I want to play.

  Braulio hears the tiny voice, the precious giggle, and his eyes flutter open. Angelique is there before him, hands on her hips. She arches an eyebrow, far too grown up for a girl of six. So smart, his granddaughter. The future holds great things for her, he knows.

  Car engines rumble outside. Tires screech and he listens for the whump of collision, the crunch of metal.

  Papi, come on. Get up!

  All right, angel. All right, darling.

  Angelique takes his hand and half drags him out of bed. Braulio expects the usual aches, the pop of old bones, but as he stands he feels nothing at all. His knees don’t hurt and he doesn’t feel the gravity of age that usually pulls on him. A good night’s rest, maybe, but it must have been the greatest night’s rest he’d ever had.

  He smiles, and Angelique smiles back.

  On the beach. She’s up to her knees in the surf, hands still demandingly on hips, urging him to come into the water with him.

  Papi, come on. You need exercise. You’re getting a big belly.

  He laughs at this. The girl spends too much time around adults and listens very well. Too well. And she knows that he will indulge her.

  All right, my angel. I’m coming. Just give me a second.

  The sand shifts beneath his feet as he steps into the water. Tiny waves burble around his ankles. Another step, and another, and soon he is up to his knees as well. He doesn’t like the soft bottom, the way the sand under the water gives way, causing him to stumble a bit, to shift his weight.

&nbs
p; He glances up and sees that Angelique has kept pace with him, so that now she is up to her waist in the water.

  Braulio frowns. There is no one else in the ocean. He glances around. No one else on the beach. The only sounds come from a distant buoy, a clank of metal, the dinging of a bell. But something is wrong. They are alone, but not alone.

  Not alone at all.

  Beyond Angelique, something moves underwater.

  She grins. Dark shapes dart beneath the waves, long and sinuous. Braulio knows they are not sharks.

  No! She’s not for you, devils. I’m the one!

  Braulio rushes toward her in the water, arms out, reaching for his granddaughter. Angelique laughs as if he is playing a game. She doesn’t try to run or swim away, but still he cannot reach her, still she seems further and further away, and those dark shapes are sliding around her in the water.

  He screams her name--his angel, his blessing.

  The soft ocean bottom gives way beneath his feet and he slides under. He cannot breathe. Cannot see. Underwater. With them.

  Braulio opened his eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His body was contorted uncomfortably, his hands pressed to his open wound—glued there by tacky, drying blood. He felt broken. Understanding dawned slowly, but when his fading mind cleared for a moment and he realized where he was, he managed a slight smile. Angelique was far from here. She was safe.

  Numbness, nothingness, embraced him again, and he began to drift.

  There came a thump somewhere on the boat’s hull, stoking the spark of terror within him. Wood creaked with the weight of movement up on the deck. The devils had returned after all.

  “Angelique,” he whispered.

  But that was all. Even fear could not keep the nothingness at bay. The old fisherman surrendered, drifting once more, hoping he would dream of Angelique, and that she would hold his hand in the dark, as he had so often held hers.

  ~16~