What Lurks Beneath (14 page)

A
shley couldn't believe he was actually flirting with her. Telling her she had gorgeous eyes. His wife and kids were right behind him.

Standing behind the marble-topped check-in counter, she touched the small gold cross she wore around her neck. She politely flashed her biggest smile back at the balding, Russian-American tourist.

“I mean zis in a good way. You are very beautiful,” the man continued. He was a big man, with large sweat marks staining an expensive pink shirt. He leaned forward on the counter. She could smell alcohol on his breath.

She forced herself to keep smiling. “Oh, thank you, love.”

“
Love.
I like how you say zis. I wish my wife would call me that.” He shook his head, regarding her like some sort of exotic animal.

The big man stood at the front of a long line of tourists that snaked into the enormous lobby, natural light filtering down between sculpted marble columns from windows near the vaulted, seventy-foot ceiling. Oceanus was the finest resort in the Bahamas. Ashley looked down at her computer monitor. She tapped at her keyboard, not inputting anything as it processed an earlier request, but eager to break the awkward moment.

Her green eyes, which nearly matched the turquoise polo shirt she and other resort staff wore above black slacks, drew a lot of comments. Ashley also had coffee-and-cream-colored skin, and her black hair was naturally wavy. Rumor had it that her great-great-grandfather, a charming, handsome white man, had frequently bedded his slaves. Whether or not that was true, Ashley was fairly sure that her promiscuous mammy on her mom's side had been involved with a Caucasian, because her own mother was even lighter-skinned than she was.

She knew she had a unique look, but most compliments she drew were less blunt. Comparisons to American actresses or singers, usually. And usually not made by a man whose wife was within earshot.

Working the front desk at a tropical resort invited the stares of a lot of wealthy, foreign men. Usually Americans. The white tourists in particular seemed to be drawn to her more than the other women working at the resort—even the ones more attractive than Ashley. She hated to think it was true, but wondered if it was because she looked less black. The one and only time she had stated as much out loud, though, when she was new to her front desk job at the hotel, she had been pulled aside and told in no uncertain terms that if it happened again she would be fired.

She'd heeded the warning. This was a good job, with wonderful benefits, and there were plenty of other young Bahamians happy to take her place. The resort had employed her for a year. She had been working at hotels for six years, since before she turned nineteen, and this was the best job she'd ever had.

She risked looking back at the Russian-American, who was now leering at another woman in line. She'd just been told by her manager, Rick, to treat this guest well. Mr. Melnikov apparently had a lot of money, and was staying in an expensive suite. Planned to drop a lot at the casino. She figured him for Russian mafia. The man's college-age son, a kid with curly brown hair and stud earrings, was still leering at her. Just like his dad.

“I need to grab your keys. I'll be right back,” she said. She turned away from the counter, relieved. At a row of polished mahogany cabinets on the back wall, she bent down to look for a box of hotel keycard blanks and felt a light slap on her rear end. She glanced over her shoulder, and saw that it was just her best friend, Georgina.

“Better not bend over, baby girl. Dat one likely to have a heart attack,” Georgina whispered. Her plump figure filled out her own resort-issued slacks.

“Maybe I should shake it for him, then.”

“Oh, my, my, Ash. You a wicked thing. Poor man just wanna get some lovin'. Probably hasn't wet his little doggy in a month.”

“Not in his wife, anyway. He's more your type, Gussy G.”

“All men are my type, Ash.” Georgina ran both hands over her hips. “So much woman here to go around, and so little time.”

The women giggled, and Ashley covered her mouth with her hand. She glanced at Rick to make sure he wasn't looking. He didn't have a sense of humor.

Georgina frowned at her. “Really, Ash. You need a piece a leg. Time to forget about Mr. New Jersey.”

“I already forgot about him.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But you hasn't moved on. Wouldn't kill ya to give in for once.”

She hadn't thought about Shawn in a week. She was finally over him, after almost a year. The college boy from Newark had seemed so sweet, and she'd finally broken her own rule about getting involved with a guest. At least he'd e-mailed her several times after he left, before dropping out of her life. In the end, just a player like all the others, whose charm was only intended to get her pants off.

Her work made it easier to forget about Shawn. Six days a week didn't leave much time to think about a man, especially since she usually volunteered on her one day off. She didn't need a man anyway.

 

 

Moving through the resort, Eric identified a distant water park by the eight-story waterslide that rose above it, and marveled at the abundant sea life in small saltwater pools that lined the cobbled pathways. In them were stingrays, turtles, reef sharks.

The sculptor on the beach, Clive, had proven very evasive. Eric wondered if maybe they had bought something he would have opened up, but neither had brought cash on the run. Or maybe the guy was just superstitious—didn't want to upset the island spirits or something.

Val had left to jog home, but Eric wanted to check out the aquariums. He had drip-dried after an ocean dip, then been allowed onto the property by a guard at the edge of the resort's beach after mentioning Ashley's name. It seemed to carry some weight, and made everyone smile. She wasn't kidding when she said she knew everyone.

He continued down a long, winding path, past planted palm trees and lush greenery onto the impeccably groomed resort grounds. The place smelled of funnel cakes and other fried foods, and was already alive with activity—mainly children dashing about near the pools, their parents trying to catch them to apply sunscreen before they jumped in.

He paused and looked over a discarded resort map he'd found. Even compared to the world-class Point Lobos Aquarium, the exhibits at Oceanus seemed pretty impressive. The resort apparently offered a total of six named tanks, plus dozens of other smaller aquariums. Each named tank had a theme: Shark Alley, The Reef, Pirate's Cove. Oceanus also boasted a massive, enclosed saltwater lagoon, just off the ocean, where visitors could pay extra to swim with a pair of captive dolphins.

Besides the aquariums, the sprawling resort, which looked like it might cover half a square mile and dominated most of the small cay, included five swimming pools, two casinos, a shopping center, twelve restaurants, nightclubs, and a water park for children. An ambitious endeavor, indeed, with some merit in that the aquariums educated the visiting public. But Eric wondered about the environmental consequences of constructing the resort on this previously pristine cay.

He turned left, toward a ramp that ran underground to one of the larger tanks. He paused and took a deep breath. If it was too confined, he would simply turn back.

Out of the sunlight and surrounded by stone walls, it was much cooler at the bottom of the ramp. He headed farther into a curving tunnel. Just as he was beginning to become very uncomfortable with the shrinking space, he came across a clear acrylic wall that separated him from a massive saltwater tank on the other side. He stopped, stunned. The tank rose some three stories above him. Inside were sharks, huge rays, suitcase-sized grouper. A gaggle of tourists, led by a young woman in a resort uniform, came around a bend in the tunnel, and he listened in when she stopped near him and turned to address the group.

“As you can see, the aquariums at Oceanus are engineering marvels,” she said, her voice echoing in the man-made tunnel. “They are among the largest in the world, because we have utilized a natural underwater cavern in the limestone to build the tanks
below
sea level. The tank you see here is up to nine meters deep and holds six million gallons of water. The huge volume is possible because it can flow in passively, from the ocean, but we aid the turnover of water with pumps and large pipes that expel spent seawater offshore, near the reef edge.

“This is what we call an ‘open system,' and the water quality remains as good as that of the ocean. Although this tank links directly to the reef, screens and filters prevent all but the smallest sea life from entering or leaving.”

“How did you build it?” an older man on the tour asked.

“The acrylic viewing panels were put in place by cranes and dive teams, and then the water on this side was pumped out before the tunnels were built.”

“Could those glass walls ever break?” asked another tourist.

“No.” She laughed. “And it's not actually glass.” She rapped on the clear tank. “This is six inches thick, and made of a shatterproof material. Apparently even bullets wouldn't break it. Mr. Barbas, the owner, is truly a visionary.”

As Eric half-listened to the rest of the woman's description, he turned away from the tank and looked across the tunnel, up a towering stone wall opposite the tank. He could see the edge of a railing a few stories above, and some tables up there, in what looked like a fancy restaurant. He suddenly realized how far he was below ground level.

 

 

As he hurried out of the underground aquarium, Eric passed a sign that indicated he was headed toward the lobby and one of the casinos. He headed up a winding ramp.

At the top, he found himself in an enormous, echoing room, frigid from overuse of the air-conditioning. The hotel lobby. Two rows of ornate marble columns rose to lofty heights, capped by a curved, fresco-adorned ceiling lined with circular windows on all four sides. Most of the people walking past were dressed up: button-down shirts, slacks, fancy dresses, their loafers and high heels clicking on the marble floor. There was money here. He looked down at his damp T-shirt, red swim trunks, and running shoes and suddenly felt self-conscious.

On a long, dark table against the wall was a copy of the daily paper out of Nassau. The resort must have arranged to receive copies each morning. He walked over and picked it up, staring in shock at the headline on the front page:

Below the headline was a photo of an old man—apparently the owner, who had been lucky enough to be elsewhere when the vessel vanished—taken some time in the past beside the expensive-looking boat. The caption indicated that the boat's captain claimed to have seen “tentacles over the side” in a final transmission picked up by a Bahamian cargo vessel.

He scanned the article. Apparently, a search had thus far yielded no evidence of the boat's whereabouts. Normally, he would laugh at such a story. But now . . .

He thought about the missing divers. The teenager who had disappeared in the blue hole. Val's blurry image—

“Eric?”

He stopped, and turned. Saw Ashley waving at him from the other side of the lobby, near the check-in counters. He smiled and waved back, feeling his face flush, and tucked the paper under his arm as he reluctantly started toward her.

She met him under the middle of the domed lobby. She wore a turquoise short-sleeve shirt and tight black slacks that flattered her athletic figure. She was even taller than he remembered, eye-to-eye with him in the heels she wore.

“What are you doing here?” she said. “Did you come to see me?”

“No. I mean, yeah, sort of. Val and I were running this morning. I thought I might check out the resort while I was here.”

She looked over his shoulder. “Where is she?”

“She headed back already.” He nodded past her shoulder. “Were you helping those people?”

“It's okay. I was just about to go to one of the private suites, at the top of a tower. I need to do a final inspection before a VIP arrives. Want to join me?”

“I don't want to get in the way. I know you're working. . . .”

“Nonsense. You Americans worry too much.” She smiled.

“All right. If you're sure it's okay.”

She asked what he thought about Oceanus as they crossed the lobby and entered a hallway. It suddenly hit him.
The top of a tower. The top. No stairs.
They turned into a dead end flanked by a bank of...

Elevators.

“. . . and the resort has been great for the economy. Since Barbas opened the doors, he has employed almost . . . Eric, are you okay?”

He removed his glasses and rubbed the lenses with his shirt. “I'm fine. Look, I really should be going.”

“This won't take long. There. One has just arrived.”

The light over one elevator came on, and she tugged gently at his arm, leading him toward the opening doors. He swallowed as he put his glasses back on.

A family entered the car ahead of them, buying him a moment. He pictured himself inside, the doors shutting. There would be at least six people inside. What if something happened? If he had a panic attack? He stopped at the doors.

“Eric?”

“I really need to go, Ashley,” he said.

She regarded him with a puzzled expression. “Are you sure?”

A young father was holding the elevator doors open, looking at them.

“Yes. I'm sorry. Thanks for the offer.”

She looked disappointed. “No problem. Will I see you again soon?”