The Ocean Dark

by Christopher Golden

  “Where is everyone?” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips.

  Josh gritted his teeth. At least Miguel hadn’t hit the man again. If he tried, Josh might have to step in, and that would only get ugly. A fight was not what they needed right now and when Rogan came back up from searching the hold, there would be no doubt whose side he would be on. The Irishman took orders, and he’d already shown how comfortable he was with a gun in his hand.

  “Open your eyes!” Miguel shouted, and he reached out and pressed down on the man’s hands, putting new pressure on the hole in his abdomen.

  Josh started forward, but the fisherman’s eyes snapped open and he drew in a wet, shuddery breath.

  “Where did they all go?” Miguel demanded.

  The man’s eyes did not seem to focus, instead drifting around the darkness of the cabin. Sorrow and fear filled his features, and Josh wondered if they were his reaction to waking to find himself still alive, still suffering.

  “Waiting for you,” the man began, a few syllables spilling out in one breath. “We find…el cementerio.”

  The fisherman’s eyelids fluttered closed again. Miguel sat back on his haunches, looking confused. The H&K hung from a strap across his back, but he seemed to have forgotten it entirely.

  “He’s not making any sense.”

  Josh threw up his hands. “No shit. Maybe because his whole body’s shutting down?”

  Miguel shifted forward. “What cemetery? Where is everyone?”

  The fisherman began to cough and choke, and then a line of thick, dark blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Josh thought that would be it, that he wouldn’t speak anymore, but the man opened his eyes and let his head loll to one side, still gazing at nothing.

  “We never come to the island…before. No one knows.”

  Josh took a step nearer, crouched down and tried to get the man to meet his gaze. Miguel didn’t even seem to notice his approach.

  “What island?” Josh asked.

  Miguel ignored him. “Your captain told us about the island. He knew where it was, but it’s not on our map, so he must have been there—“

  “No. He never been. He found a map, very old. He say…maybe it’s a pirate map. He loves pirates.”

  Josh tried to process that. It sounded absurd, but he supposed it wasn’t as ridiculous as it seemed. Pirates had roamed these waters for years, in massive numbers.

  He looked at Miguel. “This island you’re talking about, you couldn’t find it on your charts?”

  Miguel nodded, mulling it over. “There are so many little dots on the water, you’d be surprised what’s not on charts, especially out here. We’re way off the usual shipping lanes, not on the way to anywhere.”

  “So a secret place—“

  The fisherman started coughing again, flecks of red spittle flying from his mouth. The effort caused a fresh flow of blood to seep from his wound, up between his fingers.

  “Shit,” Miguel snapped, leaning in toward the man. “Tell me about the cemetery. Is it on the island?”

  The man wheezed, a wet burbling coming from his throat. “Ships.”

  Josh frowned, trying to puzzle it out, but it seemed to just piss Miguel off. He raised his hand, looked like he was about to slap the fisherman again, and Josh started toward him.

  Which was when Rogan came tromping back down the steps into the cabin. One look at his face ought to have been enough to tell the tale, but Miguel still asked.

  “What did you find?”

  “Fuck all,” the Irishman said, looking like he might throw up. “Got three guns, carried ‘em up on deck. All of ‘em loaded, so either they weren’t part of the cargo or these guys were borrowing them. But no crates. No cargo. No guns. No explosives.”

  Miguel let loose with a string of Spanish expletives, turned, and slapped the fisherman with the back of his hand, knuckles cracking loudly against the man’s cheekbone. He struck before Josh could have stopped him, and it was enough to snap the man’s eyes wide again.

  “Where are they, God damn you!”

  “Miguel…” Josh began, reaching for him.

  “Back the fuck off!” Miguel roared, slapping his hand away. “Rogan, if the cook gets one step closer, shoot him.”

  Rogan blinked like he wasn’t sure if Miguel was serious. Josh thought maybe he was, so he took a step back, pistol heavy in his hand. Familiar. Cold.

  “The devils came…” the fisherman whispered.

  Miguel pushed his face in close. “Where are my guns?”

  The man laughed, coughing again. Miguel flinched away as blood spattered his face. He tried to wipe it off but only succeeded in smearing it in streaks.

  “Ruiz take them…to the island.” A fresh rivulet of blood came from the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his jaw.

  Miguel shook his head. “Why would he do that?”

  The man shuddered, not listening, lost in his own pain. “Los diablos—”

  “I know, I know,” Miguel said, rising. “The devils. So you said. What you didn’t say is who the fuck they are, or what you’re talking about!”

  While Miguel ranted, Josh stared at the fisherman. The man couldn’t have been very old, but thin as he was, drawn and pale and rigid, he looked ancient. As Miguel railed at him, the man shuddered and began to gasp silently, unable to draw air. His neck arched a few times, as though perhaps he could breathe if only he reached just a bit further. His body trembled. A thin line of blood ran from his right nostril.

  And he died.

  Rogan saw it happen, too. “Boss?”

  Miguel turned, eyes frantic, obviously trying to figure out how he was going to deal with such a colossal fuckup. Josh thought he would scream, but instead, Miguel deflated, lowering his head. After a moment, he took a deep breath, ran his hands through his hair, and sighed. He looked up at Josh, then at Rogan.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  His eyes were haunted, and Josh felt a chill go through him that had nothing to do with the breeze off the sea. When he had signed on as the Antoinette’s cook, he had thought himself prepared for anything. But tonight, it felt like they had sailed off the edge of the world.

  Rogan shrugged. “Pirates.”

  Miguel arched an eyebrow. “Come on.”

  “Why not?” the Irishman asked. “You hear things all the time about ships getting hit, people killed and robbed. Some cruise ship’s crew fought ‘em off with guns a few years back.”

  “They’d have to be pretty desperate pirates to hit a fishing boat.”

  “So they knew what they were looking for. The wrong people found out about Ruiz’s cargo and they came and took it, killed everyone, dumped ‘em overboard.”

  From the look in his eyes it was obvious Miguel wanted this to be the truth. Josh turned it all over in his head, trying to see it from different angles, but no matter how he approached it, none of those theories made sense to him.

  “You guys are unbelievable,” he said.

  Miguel narrowed his eyes, staring at him through the slits. “Something you want to say?”

  There was open contempt in the man’s voice, but beneath that, Josh sensed something else. Blame. Suspicion. Miguel had an edge to him, arrogant and self-righteous, but this went beyond attitude, and Josh didn’t like it at all. Still, he couldn’t just keep quiet.

  “You heard the guy, saw the marks on his skin, never mind the damn porthole and the damage to the boat, and you’re seriously going to go back to your brother with that story?”

  Miguel cocked his head, a kind of horrid amusement in his eyes, and then he swept the H&K around, not quite aiming it at Josh.

  “You got a better explanation, cook?”

  Rogan looked back and forth between them, brows knitted. He didn’t move, waiting to see what would happen next.

  “All I know is, it wasn’t just a rip-off. This guy might’ve been nuts, but I’m betting he didn’t start out that way. Throw in blood loss, fine, he was raving, but so
mething scared him so badly he’s talking about devils. And someone murdered the rest of the crew—“

  “You don’t know that,” Rogan said.

  Josh frowned, staring at him. “What?”

  Rogan shrugged, looking at Josh like he was stupid. “Like you said, the fellah was raving. But some of that didn’t sound crazy. He said Ruiz went to the island. Could be there’s some of them still alive.”

  “Fine,” Josh replied. “I’m just saying that whatever happened on this boat, it wasn’t about stealing guns.”

  Miguel turned his back on them, walked over and looked out at the darkness through the gore-encrusted broken porthole. The Mariposa swayed gently on the water, cradled in the arms of the ocean, but Josh didn’t feel soothed. He’d been in even more remote places in his life, but had never felt further from home. Thoughts of ghost ships lingered in his mind, of vanishing crews and drifting mysteries.

  “I know where our cargo is,” Miguel said. “That’s all that matters to me, and it’s all that will matter to Gabe.” He turned to face them. “Rogan, gather up the guns you found and load them onto the transport. Josh, go down into the hold and knock some holes in the hull.

  “Sink the bitch.”

  ~19~

  Tori stood on the metal walkway outside Josh’s room. The accommodations block creaked along with the rest of the ship. The metal underfoot no longer held any of the heat from the day, and this far out at sea, this late at night, the Caribbean breeze had lost much of its warmth. At least, she told herself that was why she shivered, standing there with the Captain’s key in her hand.

  She pressed her eyes shut tightly, trying to force away images of Josh gazing up at her, memories of his hands on her, and the sick feeling twisting now in the soft, tender place inside her that he had reached. She had trusted him, and it looked like she might be about to pay dearly for that.

  Gabe had said she was looking for anything that shouldn’t be there. But he’d given examples, too, and they’d made his suspicions clear. Her stomach hurt. She was all twisted up inside, but that was good. With her guts fisted with anxiety, she wouldn’t throw up.

  If you used me, asshole…she thought, but stopped herself right there.

  All men lied. She’d come to that conclusion a long time ago. But the kind of men she’d always been with were expected to lie. Only a fool would presume anything else, and though she had been a fool once upon a time, she’d thought herself cured of that condition. Good men, though...they were dangerous. They were the kind of men a woman could put her hope in, and their lies cut so much deeper because of it.

  Shit.

  With a sigh she put the key into the lock, turned the handle, and let herself in. The door swung inward, nudged by the wind, and she drew the key out and slipped it into her pocket. For a long moment she stood on the threshold.

  The ship rolled so gently on the sea that, rather than rocking, it seemed to breathe, as though it were a living thing. The metal sighed, and then she heard a creak, and footsteps.

  Sal Pucillo came around the corner of the tower, tipping a beer can back to get the last dregs. As he lowered the can, he caught sight of her and a smile played at the corners of his lips. He glanced through the open door into the darkness of Josh’s room, and pointed a finger at her.

  “I knew it,” he said, listing to one side. Sal was not entirely sober.

  “Knew what?”

  He gave a dramatic roll of his eyes. “You and Josh. Knew you had something going on. You two played it pretty cool, but I’m not stupid.” He tapped a finger beneath his left eye. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other. Anyone paying attention coulda figured it out.”

  Tori spread her hands, smiling. “You caught me.”

  Sal frowned, craning his neck to look into the room again. “Doesn’t look like he’s around, though.”

  For a moment, she wracked her brain for some explanation, then she realized there was no point. Pucillo was a nosy bastard, but Gabe was the captain, and Viscaya the owners, and Pucillo didn’t have any business sticking his nose into the job that the Captain had sent her to do.

  Tori showed him the key the captain had given her. “He’s working up tomorrow’s menu, and I’m planning to surprise him.”

  She put a finger to her lips and shushed him. Pucillo arched his eyebrow even higher, a suggestive grin on his face, and imitated the shushing. Then he mimed locking his lips and throwing the key away.

  “Not a word. I’m off to bed anyhow.”

  He put the empty beer can on the metal walk and crushed it under his boot, instantly forgetting about it. Tori hesitated. If the man was that drunk, wandering the metal walkways that terraced the sides of the accommodation block was seriously dangerous. Pucillo could go right over the railing and crash down onto the deck below.

  “Sal…” she started.

  Pucillo paused and looked at her.

  “Be careful, okay? Watch your step. And good night.”

  He wagged his eyebrows with a lighthearted laugh, an entirely different man than he was when sober. “You too, Tori. Josh is a lucky guy.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pucillo walked on, chuckling to himself. Tori backed into the room and clicked the door shut, locked it, then hit the light switch. Turning around, she scanned the room. Josh kept it neat enough—military neat—but that fit with what she knew of him. He liked the galley spotless and completely organized, and his cabin reflected the same sensibility, with a pair of boots and two pairs of sneakers arranged together under his rack, but otherwise everything was put away. An iPod sat in its dock on the small table near the bed.

  Tori hesitated. She was torn between the fear that she’d find something that would take them both to ugly places, and the fear that she’d find nothing and Josh would learn that she had violated his trust, instead of the other way around.

  Then she remembered the look in Gabe Rio’s eyes—regret and anger in equal measure—and she knew she had to search.

  “Sorry, Josh,” she whispered to the room, to whatever of himself he had invested inside those walls.

  His neatness made searching easy. Suspicion told her it came from a military or police background, but he’d said he had spent time in prison, and the Spartan arrangement of his things could easily be explained by time behind bars or even spent at sea. In the small closet, his jackets and shirts were hung. In the bureau, she found underwear and socks and t-shirts and several pairs of pants, along with an envelope with his passport and a sheaf of cash inside.

  On a shelf above the bed were maybe a dozen books, westerns and mysteries, dog-eared paperbacks that looked as if they’d been read many times. No porn. No drugs. No gun. No badge. He had some cookbooks that he kept down in the galley, and she found two battered hardcovers under the bed.

  And deeper, behind the boots and sneakers, a backpack.

  “Damn it,” she whispered.

  On her knees, she reached underneath the rack and dragged the backpack out. It had been zipped up tightly and she blew out a breath before running the zipper open. When she looked inside, she frowned, trying to decipher what exactly she was looking at. A brightly colored towel. A plastic bag full of sunscreen and sunburn ointment, just in case the sunscreen didn’t do the job. Two pair of sunglasses. A ratty sweatshirt. A pair of flip-flops.

  Rocking backward, Tori laughed and shook her head. She very much wanted to kiss Josh at the moment. He’d put together a quick shore leave kit, everything he’d need to go to the beach if they happened to get a day in port somewhere. The fact that he apparently burned easily only endeared him to her more.

  Whatever Gabe had thought she would find, this wasn’t it. Tori picked up the backpack, zipped it, ready to slide it back under the bed. But when she dropped it to the floor, it made a heavy thunk. She frowned at the sound, running the bag’s inventory through her head, trying to figure out what could have made it.

  Tori let herself deny the obvious for a few seconds longer, and then ice trickle
d down her back, bringing a numb sort of dread that she wished wasn’t so familiar.

  Josh was a liar after all, and his lies were about to put her in a bad spot. She could feel it, even as she unzipped the backpack again and dumped its contents onto the floor. There were a couple of paperback books in there that she hadn’t seen, stashed under the sweatshirt, but the last thing to tumble out was in a black nylon bag. It could’ve been a flashlight or an electric razor, but seemed too big to be either.

  Tori loosened the string around the mouth of the bag, reached inside, and drew out a bulky, black, plastic thing that looked like a combination walkie-talkie and telephone receiver. She’d seen enough movies to know what a satellite phone looked like.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  This time, she didn’t whisper.

  Whoever Josh really worked for, it sure as hell wasn’t Viscaya Shipping. The ice inside her started to melt, replaced by a streak of fear that made her skin flush. Jesus, she couldn’t go to prison. How much did Josh know? Was his name even Josh? Had the whole thing with her—the flirtation, the sex—been an act, or had he just fucked her because he could, knowing all along that when the voyage was over she would be in prison and he’d be moving on to another case?

  Tori had been totally falling for him and now she wanted to scream, but there was nowhere to hide on board the Antoinette. Nowhere she wouldn’t be found.

  Her heart raced. Breathing through her nose, trying to fight the nausea rising in her, she stuffed his things back into the backpack and jammed it under the bed. Her hands fluttered as she stood, looking for something to do, as if fixing her hair or tucking in her shirt might somehow make her feel better.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought. This isn’t how my story goes.

  ~20~

  Alena Boudreau loved the silence under water, the only sound around her the steady rhythm of her own pulse inside her head. She could think down here in the gloomy depths, and so she took her time exiting the Donika Cave, swimming languorously, her gear weightless in the water. The antidote to gravity, her own buoyancy tried to force her up, and reluctantly she began to rise, swimming toward the surface, thinking about the extraordinary things she had seen in that cave.