Fathom (11 page)

“I don’t know if you need it or not. Probably not. I bet not. But I . . . I’d like to help. I’dliketo really sail it, not just sit here and—”

Bernice leaned forward; her hand extended, reaching for the boy like she meant to help him up and guide him out.

But José was faster. On top of the table there was a letter opener
shaped like a sword, insistently adhering to the theme. He took the opener and used it on the boy’s throat before he could object or negotiate any further.

The boy toppled to the floor and started to shed a thick puddle of blood that rolled and stretched with the motion of the boat.

“Why’d you do that?” Bernice asked. “I was starting to like him.”

“You’ve answered your own question, darling. We aren’t here to make friends. And besides, there’s no trusting the young—especially not when they like to bargain. If he’d had the good sense to beg, I might have heard him out. But this is no place for discussion, and the open sea is no place for parley.”

“Is that where we’re going? The open sea?”

“No,” he said. For a moment he was almost annoyed with her, but it passed quickly. He reminded himself that she was a child of the city, and that water was a mystery to her. “We’ll stick near to the coast unless the authorities compel us to do otherwise. My old island isn’t far. But first, we should check the other decks, and make sure we are unaccompanied.”

“You check ’em,” she said, her back turned away from him. She’d found a box on a counter and she was distracted. She flipped the lid open, and it chimed that eerie tune he’d heard on the decks above. She shut the lid and it stopped.

As far as José could tell, there was nothing inside it.

“Can’t you—?”

“I thought you weren’t going to order me around.”

“I’m not,” he insisted. “But if you’d prefer to put your little play box away and trade it for something much more valuable, then you should cooperate with me.”

The words were hard for him. They were strange when he lined them up and put them before her, because he was not accustomed to
asking. He was the captain, and he shouldn’t have to ask for anything. He ought to tell her what to do, and she ought to do it.

But Arahab had warned him, and he was cautious.

It was easy to believe that this was a new breed of woman, different from the kind he’d known and commanded half a dozen lifetimes before. It was easy to believe that something fundamental had shifted; but José knew better. Women don’t change. Men don’t change. Only the trappings of their interactions look different.

Until he could learn the boundaries and specifics of those trappings, he made a point of being gentle and conciliatory. He thought it would be better to study the rules and commit them to heart before making demands and giving orders. She was only a woman, after all, and he was a man and her captain. The authority was his to wield or leash.

Besides.

He found her crassness and stubbornness charming, or so he told himself. In the back of his mind, he could imagine her in the fuller, dirtier clothes she would’ve worn in another time. He closed his eyes and he saw her on the deck of a ship less cheerfully decorated, in a distant century. He was seized by the impulse to find her a costume, even something ridiculous, even something inappropriate and incorrect. His mind could fill in the blanks and erase the imperfections.

When he opened his eyes again, she was still toying with the music box.

He hated the little song it burbled. He reached for it, intending to take it away from her and smash it; but he changed his mind and left her there to play.

After all, she was only a child.

José wandered back through the narrow wood corridors that shone with polish like no pirate’s craft had ever seen. He passed a corpse or two but he didn’t pause, since he’d already admired her handiwork. Every day he came to know her better, and every day
she reminded him that she was only a girl—and she was maddening, infuriating and spoiled.

To give credit where credit was due, at least she did not expect José to do the spoiling. She was willing to take the things she wanted without his assistance, and maybe that was why he gave her such a long rope: not to make a noose, but to tether himself to her swiftly shifting form. She wanted it all, but was willing to take it for herself. He could respect that.

It was difficult, though. She was sitting on a very fine line. On one side, he wanted to hate her. He wanted to tear her apart with his bare hands. On the other side, he wanted to worship her.

He sloshed back and forth between his desire and disdain, clinging to her beauty as if it would anchor him somewhere sound.

Up the stairs, and past the one that was slick and staining dark, José watched the corners and the shadows in case they were not yet alone.

It was an idle sort of reconnaissance. No one was left, and the other partiers in their other boats had made enough noise to hide the assault.

José wondered who brought the boat to anchor in the first place. No one he had seen looked sturdy enough to work a ship. Not the lady in the beaded dress, and not the faux piratical fellows in their preposterous garb—none of them looked capable of hoisting a sail or steering a rudder.

He decided that it didn’t matter.

He stepped onto the deck and stared at the stars again, and he knew exactly where he was. The world had changed, but it had not changed so much that the sky would mislead him. There was the moon, half-full and casting pale slivers of wobbly light across the Gulf. There was the great bear, and the crow. Over there, the twins. A few degrees this way, and that way, and he knew where to find his old island.

He was being watched. It occurred to him gradually, and without alarm.

He nodded his head down at the water to greet the figure there.

She rose up, all night-black skin and long hair, up to where her waist would be if she were the woman she appeared.

Where is that coming from?
she asked.

“What do you mean?”

The music. Don’t you hear it?

He did hear it, one stray note at a time wafting up from inside the ship like smoke. “It’s a music box. Bernice found it, and she seems to like it. I suppose she’ll keep it.”

Arahab’s eyes glinted sharply.
Is that all?

“As far as I know. Might it be otherwise?”

It might be. I know the song, and I do not care for it.

“Then
you
take it away from her. She won’t have it from me.” When she didn’t respond, the silence between the deck and the water was uncomfortable, so he broke it. “It’s only a tune, you know. A harmless thing, if unpleasant on the ears.”

Is that what you think?

“It’s what I must assume. An empty box on an empty boat. I promised her that we could trade it for a bigger box, full of proper treasure. I thought she was greedy enough to put it aside, but sometimes I don’t understand the way she thinks, not at all.”

I know that tune,
she said again.
I know who wrote the words that accompany it
.

“Does it upset you? I can force the issue if you like. I’ll take it away from her if you cannot bear to hear it.”

Then the woman in the water said,
It means something.

José smiled, confused. “What does it mean?” he asked, but then she was gone.

He watched the water, knowing she wouldn’t return but
wondering where she’d gone. Finally he walked to the anchor and turned the crank to lift it.

The chain withdrew with a rhythmic series of soft clanks, and the noise was loud against the distant hum of a city in the midst of a carnival. The
Gasparilla
shook and rocked. The anchor came aboard and the boat began to drift.

José reached for the ropes that would move the sails.

The Exposition of Evidence

T
he two men with clipboards entered the derelict courtyard. The no trespassing sign did not apply to business as official as theirs. And as far as Sam could see, the sign was so regularly ignored that it may as well have been an invitation. “Why do they even bother to leave that up?” he asked. “No one pays any attention to it.”

Sam kicked one leg, trying to shake away the burrs and bugs that had collected in the folded cuff of his pants.

Dave shrugged his big loose shoulders. “It’s private property. Or maybe it isn’t. I’m not sure.”

“It’s going to be soon, if Langan buys it.” Sam’s glasses were
retreating down his nose on a slide of sweat. He used his middle finger to jam them back up his face. They slid down again almost immediately. “It’s a nice house,” he observed, removing his hat and using it to fan himself.

“Nice and expensive.”

The house was an architectural mix of art deco and Spanish colonial, stuccoed from lawn to roof in a pleasing shade of light coral. Black iron accents barred the windows and guarded the balcony that once overlooked the Gulf, though since the house’s abandonment, the view had become blocked by tangles of weeds and vines. The grass-covered dune that marked the end of the property and the beginning of the beach had grown up high and thick.

Sam could hear the ocean, but he couldn’t see it. “How long has it been empty?” he asked the off-duty fireman who accompanied him.

“Three or four years. Nobody’s ever lived in it. The woman who owned it moved up to Tallahassee.”

“After the murder.”

“That’s right,” Dave agreed. “After the murder.”

“You think it’ll make the place less likely to sell? I’m surprised it’s got any takers as it is.”

Dave waved his arm in a swipe that indicated the house, the yard, and the fountains. “Why? It’s prime property, isn’t it?”

“Times are hard. Black Tuesday brought a lot of people low.”

“Not everybody. Not this guy.”

“Langan.”

“Whatever he’s named.” Dave wasn’t dressed like a fireman. Nothing was burning except for the afternoon temperatures, and this was only a bureaucratic visit.

Sam replaced his damp-rimmed hat and checked his clipboard. He brushed away a brightly colored bug and squinted
down at the text. “So the original owner—not the murdered one, I mean, or maybe him, I don’t know—but whoever built the place paid up for the fire insurance. Do I understand that correctly?”

“Not this far along, no. They only paid up through the year; but the new guy—”

“Langan,” Sam said.

“Yeah. He’ll want to pay to have it covered, if he really buys the place.”

And Dave and Sam were each pocketing fifty bucks extra for looking around. Langan had asked for someone reliable, someone who knew a little about construction or insurance. He’d asked for a report on the structure’s condition, since he lived out of state and might not be able to see the property for himself before purchasing it. Sam thought it must be nice to be that kind of rich: so rich that you can buy big things without looking at them first.

The house was practically new, even if the property looked like it’d been left to run wild for a hundred years.

Florida did that to man-made places. It devoured them with jungle in a matter of weeks if no one made a stand and hacked the greenery back.

Sam made a note on the clipboard’s last sheet of paper. “We’ll need to mention the grounds,” he said. “Langan is moving here from . . . where?”

“I don’t know. Out of state.”

“I thought the chief said he was coming in from New England.”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm.” Sam folded the clipboard under his arm. “Then he might not know how fast the grounds go downhill here, when no one looks after them.”

“He’ll find out.”

“But we shouldn’t surprise him with it. The house looks great, but the rest of it is a mess.”

Sam dodged a wall of swaying palmettos and glanced down at the shadows underneath it, praying that they were empty of snakes. He ducked his head sharply to avoid a low-hanging curl of moss.

A feral cat scooted across Sam’s path and shot around the side of the building. The creature was fat from slow lizards and friendly island fishermen, and Sam wondered if the house’s new owner would tolerate a resident feline. The cat settled down beside a rosebush and began to preen.

“Get out of here.” Dave picked up a broken roof tile and chucked it in the cat’s general direction. “Stupid cat. Better not get too comfortable.”

The animal hoisted its tail and hopped down off the wall. It disappeared through the arch and wandered back into the main yard. “Don’t do that. He’ll keep the mice down.”

Dave didn’t argue, and he didn’t throw any more tiles. But the cat didn’t reappear. “Look at this damn place. This courtyard is going to need a team of gardeners to bring it back into shape.”

“You said it yourself: Langan can afford it.”

The winding sidewalks were choked with grass; and in the courtyard’s back corner, the latticework of a small vineyard collapsed upon itself beside the blue, gold, and crimson mosaics that decorated the benches. In the center of all the confusion stood a circular stone fountain adorned with sea-blue tiles that were clotted with grass and thorns. Rainwater had pooled in the fountain’s bottom, breeding mosquitoes and scum.