Grave Descend

by Michael Crichton

  “Isn’t that interesting.”

  “He also says that no safe was removed from the ship. No article of any kind.”

  “And you believe him,” McGregor said.

  “We are reserving judgment.”

  “Is that the kind of thing they teach you to say in the Kingston academy?”

  “They teach us only caution,” Burnham said. “Caution and patience.”

  McGregor got up. “Well, good luck,” he said. “With the patient approach.”

  Burnham watched him. “Don’t leave Ocho,” he said, “without informing us. And don’t leave Jamaica.”

  “I wasn’t planning it.”

  “I’m sure not,” Burnham said evenly. As McGregor left, he said, “One last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “You might find the sculpture, Mr. McGregor.”

  “Would that help?”

  “It would,” Burnham nodded. “Because otherwise we might conclude that you had stolen it.”

  He let McGregor think that over as he walked outside. As soon as he got out, he heard a growl. A deep, threatening, but familiar sound.

  He looked over and saw Fido.

  Behind Fido, holding him on a thin leash, was Elaine. She had traded her metallic dress for one composed of plastic circles wired together.

  “Walking the ocelot?” McGregor asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He walked along with her, down the road. He could find a taxi in town, a few hundred yards away. As they walked, Elaine said, “Wasn’t that the police building you came out of?”

  “It was.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Answering a few friendly questions.”

  “What about?” she asked.

  He was going to tell her when everything around him turned a cold and painful shade of black, and he sank to the ground.

  10

  HE WAS RELAXED AND PEACEFUL. Nothing bothered him. He was dimly aware of squealing tires and a grinding engine on a mountain road. Then he was aware of a fresh, cool smell from the mountains. And then they were pinching his arm again.

  The next thing he noticed was a buzzing sound, like a saw cutting wood. He felt a new kind of motion, and heard splashing. He smelled gasoline and exhaust.

  It must be a boat.

  There was another pinch of his arm, and a coolness of alcohol. He was about to be concerned, to open his eyes and see what was around him.

  But he relaxed again.

  A gentle motion, a crunching and a lapping sound—a rhythmic clicking, and a rhythmic grunting. He was sure, without opening his eyes, that he was in a rowboat. And it was evil-smelling: a damp, rotting, fetid odor was in the air.

  He relaxed.

  The next thing he knew was a hardness along his back and legs. He was uncomfortable, and rolled over. His cheek touched rough wood. The fetid smell was still there, even stronger now.

  He shifted on the hard wood, tried to get comfortable, and slept again.

  He was very, very tired.

  11

  HE AWOKE TO BLACKNESS, with a strange chattering sound which he shortly recognized to be his own teeth. He was cold and shivering; he sat up, rubbing his arms, feeling the night chill.

  He looked around.

  He was sitting on a crude wooden bed in a small shack. The damp, rotted odor was very powerful as he looked across the room at a single, sputtering candle which flickered as he watched, and died.

  Through a window which had once been covered with glass but was now broken and gaping, cold air rushed in. He heard chattering birds outside, and the rustle of wind in trees.

  And that smell.

  He rubbed his head, which ached exorbitantly, and touched his elbow. It was sore; the sleeve was pulled back; peering closely in the darkness, he saw three red pricks.

  Needlemarks.

  His head throbbed as he stood and walked unsteadily to the window. He looked out on a dense jungle, thickly overgrown, and a muddy clearing around the shack.

  He sniffed the air, and saw steam rising into the cold from the mud. And then, abruptly, he knew where he was: the Pit.

  The Pit was the native term for a vast swampy marsh in southwestern Jamaica. It was twenty miles across, a wilderness region, known primarily for its value as a hunting ground. Native boatmen brought the tourists up here from Kingston to spend a night hunting the favorite attraction, the crocodile.

  McGregor went to the door, which was damp and decaying. He pulled it open and stepped outside.

  The Jamaican crocodile was a peculiar and local variety. It seldom grew very long—no more than four or five feet—but what it lacked in size, it made up for in viciousness. Even a small one would attack a man, and many limping natives could testify to the sharpness of the teeth.

  The Pit. He sighed.

  There were stories of pirate treasure buried here; Morgan supposedly cached gold in the swamp, carrying it by long boat up from Port Royal, the ancient site of modern Kingston. There were stories of millions of dollars in bullion hidden in these swamps. There were also stories of ghosts, men lost and doomed to wander here forever.

  McGregor did not believe in ghosts, but he knew it was easy to become lost here. And at night, without any more than a sliver of moon, it would be especially easy. And with the crocodiles …

  He leaned against the shack.

  He would have to wait for morning. There was no chance of moving tonight. He was undoubtedly deep in the swamp; he dimly remembered being moved by car, then motorboat, then dinghy.

  He would be foolish to leave before daylight.

  He went back inside and sat down, still shivering. He felt like hell. His head ached, he was cold, he was hungry. He looked around the room for food; there was a crumpled-up paper bag in one corner. He opened it slowly, curiously.

  And found a compass. Bright, shiny, new.

  A compass.

  Someone was looking after him. The intention, clearly, was for him to wait until morning, then use the compass to find his way out of the swamp. That was what he was expected to do. It was what any sensible person would do. He began to think about it. And he decided to stop being sensible.

  The first mile was hard. He kept stumbling over low branches and exposed roots; his feet were numb and cold, heavy with mud; the wind was chilly and whistling. Once he fell into the mud and dropped the compass. He spent ten minutes in terror feeling among the vines and roots for it, but finally came up with it, the glass surface smeared with mud and slime.

  He wiped it off on his shirt and went on.

  He had chosen a southeast direction, on the assumption that from most places within the swamp, traveling southeast was the fastest way out. Also the safest: going north, one came to the high mountains; going west, the ocean.

  He estimated his travel by time. On even ground, a man could walk three to five miles an hour. In the swamp, he gave himself a mile an hour. It had been midnight when he started; dawn would occur at six, and after that he would make better time. But in any event, he would be out several hours earlier than expected.

  And that was important. Because if he had not lost a day, and it was still Wednesday, Wednesday night, then on Thursday Wayne, Monica Grant, and probably several other people would be leaving the island.

  He wanted to be around for that. He had, he thought grimly, a few questions.

  Two more hours passed, and he began to lose all sense of time and direction. Time was no more than the movement of hands on his watch; direction, the swing of the compass needle. They were meaningless abstractions in a world of mud and screeching birds and a stink and chill dampness.

  He pushed on. He was tired and sore and cold, but he pushed on. He came to narrow streams and waded across them, pausing first to listen for the crocodiles; at night they made a peculiar rhythmic thrashing noise as they moved through the water.

  At the first few streams he crossed, he was careful. Later, he became careless, hardly pausing before he waded in. Th
e activity and life of the jungle seemed to be entirely overhead; the trees were alive with birds, chattering monkeys, and, he was sure, slithering snakes. But the ground seemed bare and muddy, a wasteland with a canopy of life.

  At three o’clock, at the darkest of the night, he was halfway across a waist-deep stream when he realized his mistake. On the far shore he saw the foliage move, heard a sliding, scraping sound, and then a heavy splash.

  It was followed by three more in rapid succession.

  McGregor started stupidly, then turned and ran. The muddy river bottom sucked at his feet, impeding him; looking back, he saw the surface of the river swirl and eddy.

  He ran.

  It seemed forever to the near side, and then, just as he was stepping out, he felt strong jaws close over his left ankle. Pain shot up his leg.

  He pulled his leg onto the bank, stumbling, falling to his knees. The jaws held, but the animal was surprisingly light. Looking back he saw a tiny croc, no more than a foot and a half, its body scaly and glistening.

  He got up and dragged himself forward, back into the jungle. He reached behind and grabbed the animal by its tail, but his fingers slipped off; he grabbed again; the animal struggled with surprising power, but did not release his ankle. He held on, and after a moment the croc let go, twisting back to reach for the offending hand.

  At that instant, McGregor flung it away; it went sailing end over end in the air, and slapped onto the water.

  He heard a grunting sound. Back on the shore, another croc was waddling up on the bank, huge jaws wide. In the dim light he could barely discern the shape; it was enormous.

  McGregor ran. His ankle was painful and bleeding. He heard the crocodile crash through the underbrush toward him. He ran blindly, dropping the compass, with the sound following him; he knew that a crocodile could move with astonishing speed, if encouraged.

  And this one was undoubtedly encouraged.

  He ran in a cold sweat, hearing the sound behind him.

  And then he heard another sound, in the distance, to his right.

  It was the honking of an automobile horn.

  12

  HE FELT LIKE A DAMNED fool when he climbed the tree and looked out. He had expected a road—had been hoping for a road.

  Instead, he saw a whole village.

  Morstown. He knew it well, a tiny cluster of native huts deep in the jungle. It was the starting point for the croc-hunting tourists.

  Morstown.

  He waited to catch his breath. Then he slowly climbed down, and walked the few hundred yards to the town.

  The first man he saw stared at him in horror, then fled. So did the second. He walked into the electric-lighted square; there was a small bar where the men of the town were sitting and drinking.

  They all stared, mouths open, as McGregor walked in. He felt his hip, found his wallet was still there. Looking down at himself, he realized the reason for their astonishment: his clothes were torn and caked with mud.

  He produced his wallet, removed a dollar bill, soggy with swamp river water, but still recognizable.

  “Whiskey,” he said.

  “Rum,” said the bartender, handing him a plain unmarked bottle.

  McGregor took a long swallow. It was heavy, home-brewed, incredibly powerful. Heat streaked down to his stomach and tears came to his eyes.

  The natives in the bar continued to stare at him.

  McGregor took out two ten-dollar bills, squeezed the water out between his fingers, and set them on the counter.

  “Who’s taking me to Ocho Rios?”

  Nobody moved. The natives stared, unblinking.

  He took out another twenty.

  “Who’s taking me to Ocho Rios?”

  This time, he had plenty of offers.

  The driver of his car apparently spoke English, but McGregor could not understand him. The driver talked a good deal, and McGregor grunted and nodded in the intervals, wherever seemed appropriate; the swamp dialect, lilting and rapid-fire, was impenetrable.

  At several points along the journey, the car coughed, shook, and threatened to quit, but by seven in the morning they pulled up in front of the immaculate front entrance to the Plantation Inn. A busboy was hosing down the front tiles as McGregor, the dried, caked mud flaking off him, paid the cab and went into the lobby.

  The desk clerk was speechless. McGregor asked for his key and the man passed it to him without a word.

  He took the elevator to his room and unlocked the door; he kicked off his shoes and was suddenly aware of pain in his left ankle, which was swollen and purple beneath the torn sock.

  He picked up the telephone. “Desk,” a voice answered.

  “Send up a doctor, please,” McGregor said.

  “Sir?”

  “I’ve been bitten.”

  “Yes, sir. What seems to be the problem?”

  “I’ve been bitten. On the leg.”

  There was a long incredulous pause. “Bitten by what, sir?”

  “By a crocodile, goddammit.”

  “Sir, there are no crocodiles at Plantation Inn. Perhaps it was a dog—”

  “Send the doctor,” McGregor said, and hung up.

  He went into the bathroom to wash the mud off. Halfway there, he paused, and returned to the telephone.

  “Desk.”

  “Room service, please.”

  After a moment, a female voice said, “Room service, good morning.”

  “Good morning,” McGregor said, staring out the window at the early morning sun, breaking above the clouds along the horizon, above the sea. “Send up some breakfast to room four-two-oh. A dozen eggs, scrambled hard, a ham steak, orange juice, toast and coffee. And four rum Collinses.”

  “I am sorry,” the female voice said, “the bar is not open until—”

  “Open it,” McGregor said. “This is a medical emergency.”

  The girl said she would try, and McGregor went back to the bathroom, clicked on the light, and paused.

  The bathroom was a mess.

  There were bits and pieces all over the floor.

  He picked one up, and turned it over in his hand. It was a piece of heavy metal, curved chrome, polished on the outer surface. Looking at the other pieces, he had little doubt what he was looking at

  The sculpture.

  “Now that’s interesting,” he said.

  There was a knock on the door; that would be room service, or the doctor. He opened it.

  “Good morning,” Inspector Burnham said cheerfully. “May I come in?”

  McGregor stared at him.

  “No,” he said.

  “Any particular reason?” Burnham asked. “By the way, you’re covered with mud.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’d be interested to know why.”

  “Probably you would,” McGregor said.

  “May I come in?” Burnham said again.

  “No,” McGregor said. “Not unless you have a warrant”

  “Warrant” Burnham repeated, and smiled. “We don’t do things that way.”

  He slipped past McGregor and entered the room. McGregor felt very tired. His foot was aching again. He watched dully as Burnham looked around the room.

  “Very pleasant,” Burnham said. “What’s it costing you?”

  “Nothing. Wayne is paying.”

  “Ah yes. Wayne. The elusive Mr. Wayne.”

  Burnham walked to the balcony, looked out on the tennis courts and came back. He stared at the mud on the carpet, then walked up to McGregor and peeled a fleck of mud away from his cheek. He examined it closely, peering at it in the palm of his hand. Then he crumbled it, and sniffed it.

  “Most interesting,” he said. “This is a variety of clay which comes from the southwestern region of the island. It is particularly rich in alum.”

  “Elementary, my dear Burnham.”

  “You have a growth of beard, your clothes are in, uh, disarray, and you appear tired. Further, you walk with a limp.”

 
“Give me a chance,” McGregor said, “and I’ll tap some cigar ash for you to analyze.”

  “Ha ha,” Burnham said, not smiling. “You have retained your distinctive sense of humor, I see. What were you doing in the Pit?”

  “I passed a pleasant evening there, with friends.”

  “The driver who brought you went straight from here to the police. That is why I am here now. It seems you made quite an impression on the man—they are not accustomed to seeing muddy specters emerge from the swamp in the middle of the night.”

  “I’m not very used to it, myself.”

  “I expect not,” Burnham said. “And your limp?”

  McGregor pulled up his trouser leg to show the ankle.

  “Quite nasty,” Burnham said, bending over to look closely. “But it was only a baby that got you.”

  “It was large enough, thank you anyway.”

  “Peculiar. The babies are usually shy.”

  “This baby had company.”

  “Ah.” Burnham straightened “You’ll want to see a doctor about that, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Burnham started toward the bathroom. “First, you’d better wash up. Best thing you can do to prevent infection.”

  McGregor said, “After a while. We ought to talk, first.”

  Burnham paused, and came tack. McGregor gave a small sigh of relief.

  “Talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what is there to talk about?” Burnham said. He went back to the bathroom, spent a moment there, and returned. “It seems,” he said, “that you are right. We must talk.”

  In his hand was a small piece of the polished sculpture. “Of course,” he said, “you will deny any knowledge of this.”

  “Of course.”

  “You were away when it happened.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And someone set it up, so it would look like you had the sculpture all along.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And the intention of that someone was to put you in hot water with the police.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Which is, in fact, the case.”

  “Without question.”