The Sound of Many Waters

by Sean Bloomfield

  Zane tried to act and appear as normal as possible while he searched for a phone, and when a police cruiser zoomed by on the road, he stood up straight and pretended to look into a furniture shop window. The Spanish coins in his pockets—two shrink-wrapped stacks—were so heavy that he had to hold up his shorts by sticking one of his fingers into a belt loop. Having been worried that the cops might be looking for a man with a duffel bag, he had emptied the bag and left it under the bridge with Mama Ethel.

  He came to a man nailing a plywood plank to the window of a barber shop. At first, Zane guessed that the business was another victim of the ailing economy, but when the man came down from his stepstool, Zane saw the words spray-painted on the wood: Juan, Juan, go away! Don’t come again no other day!

  “Who’s Juan?” asked Zane.

  The man looked surprised. “You been living under a bridge or something? It’s a cat two already, sprang up yesterday from that depression out there.”

  “Really? Is it coming this way?”

  “Why else would I be boarding up? Supposed to hit just north of here, couple days from now.”

  …………………………

  Now at the gas station payphone, Zane was met with a long silence after dialing his father’s number, followed by the recording of a nasally operator: “We’re sorry. Your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

  “What am I doing wrong?” said Zane, as if the recording might answer him. A pit bull popped its head out of a sidecar attached to a Harley Davidson motorcycle parked nearby. The dog watched him with skeptical eyes.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” said Zane. A long drip of drool oozed out of the dog’s mouth and splattered on the motorcycle’s license plate. When Zane noticed that the license plate read Brevard County, he understood the problem with the phone—he was in a different area code. Calling anyone in South Florida was long-distance. When he hung up, the phone did not even return the quarters. What an archaic piece of junk; he might as well have been trying to use a telegraph.

  Frustrated, he followed an old, bespectacled woman through the door of the gas station. The tantalizing smell of coffee and donuts enveloped him and he wished he would have spent the 50 cents on a snack instead of feeding it to a stupid payphone. The woman glanced back at him. He knew he probably smelled as bad as he looked. He walked up to the clerk behind the counter, a spiky-haired brute of a man adorned with piercings and elaborate tattoos. Zane flashed the best smile he could muster.

  “May I use your phone?” he asked, his tone higher and more feminine than he had intended.

  “Payphone’s outside,” said the clerk, his voice as deep as a trench. Zane noticed the Harley Davidson eagle tattoo on the man’s arm and remembered the motorcycle parked outside the gas station.

  “I see you’re a Harley guy,” said Zane.

  “Sure, I’m into Hogs. You ride?”

  “Do I ride?” Zane had never even sat on a moped, let alone a motorcycle. “Every day, bro. Bike’s in the shop, though.” Zane cringed when he realized he had accidentally rhymed.

  “What kinda bike?” said the clerk.

  “What kind?”

  “Hold up, let me guess. Fat Boy?”

  “Hey, who you callin’ fat boy?” Zane laughed and the clerk did, too. “Yes, my man, that’s my ride. I love Fat Boys.”

  The woman, now perusing the magazines, looked up at him.

  “I’m Shady,” said the clerk.

  Was the man describing himself or making an introduction? But then Zane saw his nametag: Lucas Shademan. Now, it was Zane’s turn. He tried to think of a good biker nickname for himself, one that would not divulge his real name, but something that was at least vaguely personal. Fisher. Fisherman. Fishizzle.

  “I’m Fishy,” he blurted. He immediately regretted it. Shady, however, smiled.

  “Well alright, Fishy,” said Shady. “Hey, you and I should hoon it up some time. Go find us some hardbellies out at Lone Cabbage. Pound a few Natties, ya know?”

  Oh, Zane knew—not one of Shady’s slang words. He did his best to look like he understood, but in reality Shady spoke a language altogether foreign.

  “Listen, my friend,” said Zane. “I really need to use your phone. Payphone’s not working for me.”

  Shady shook his head. “No can do, brother. Wish I could, but I’d get fired.” He pointed up at a closed-circuit security camera. Funhouse renditions of the two of them stretched across its bulging eye. “Bossman might be watchin.”

  Zane looked around, then reached into his pocket, pinched a gold doubloon off the top of the stack, and slapped it on the counter. The woman peeked over the magazine rack so he cupped his hand over the coin. “Would this make it worth it?” he said in a hushed voice.

  Shady leaned forward and gawked at the coin. “Is that—?”

  “Solid. I don’t know how much it’s worth, but it’s probably more than you make here in a year. So, can I use the phone?”

  Shady slid the coin into his pocket. He leaned over the counter to look out the window, and then he grabbed the phone handset from behind the register and handed it to Zane. “Be quick,” he said.

  Zane began to dial his father again but stopped. What if the police were tracing his father’s calls? Was it worth the risk? He suddenly remembered his last conversation with Skip. Starting over, he dialed his own cellular number and entered his passcode—4321—to reach his voicemail.

  His father’s voice burst out with frantic urgency. “Zane! Why won’t you pick up? I know you’re on the ocean right now. Listen, it’s about your client. He’s not really out there to go fishing.”

  “No kidding,” Zane muttered.

  Shady tapped on his skull-shaped watch.

  “I’m so sorry, buddy,” said Skip’s message. “I gotta come clean. Remember that coin you found when we went diving? I never told you, but I saved those GPS numbers that day, and I went back there without you after that. Took me an underwater metal detector. Turns out there were more of ‘em down there. Brought up a dozen or so over the years and sold ‘em all, for damn good money, too. But eventually I wasn’t finding no more. Figured I’d got ‘em all. Word got out on the dock—you know how it is—and not too long ago I was having a drink at the Lager-Head when this guy comes up, says his name is Miguel and he’s been looking for the wreck of the Señora Dolores for years.”

  Shady tapped on his watch again. Zane gave him a pleading look. “Please, just one sec.”

  Shady crossed his arms.

  “So this dude tells me,” continued Skip, “that he heard I found some of the coins he’s been looking for, and that he’s got a salvage boat, dredge equipment, the whole deal. Said we’d split whatever he found if I just showed him the spot. So, I took him there. He anchored up, dug for a few days, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t find the mother lode. Zane, I’m talkin’ hundreds of millions of dollars worth.”

  “Time’s up,” said Shady.

  Zane slapped another coin on the counter. Shady stuffed it into his pocket. “Thirty seconds. I mean it.”

  “Two problems,” said Skip. “Number one, Uncle Sam wants a piece of the pie. It’s illegal to salvage treasure without a permit, and one day these two IRS agents started asking around the dock about what he was up to. Second problem is that Miguel was such a greedy pig he wanted to cut me out of the deal. I told him I’d spill the beans to the IRS guys if he did. Well, he knew I’d be waitin at the dock when his boat finally came in with the loot. So, what did that bastard do? He hired himself a floatplane to transport the treasure at sea so his boat would come in empty. He chartered you—knowing you’re my son—just so I wouldn’t talk. But Zane, I found something out about him tha—”

  The line went dead. Zane looked up. Shady had his finger on the base of the phone. “Sorry, Fishy, but the law’s comin for his mornin coffee. He’s friends with the boss, so...”

  Zane spun around and looked out the window. The same roundish police officer who tried to shoot him on the
bridge humped out of his police cruiser and waddled toward the door. His face had the ruddiness of an Irish alcoholic. Reflective aviator sunglasses veiled his eyes. Zane buried his face in the candy aisle as the officer entered. Starburst. Milky Way. Payday.

  “Mornin, Shady,” said The Law. “Stayin outa trouble?”

  “You’d know if I wasn’t,” said Shady.

  “You guys gonna board up for the storm?”

  “Ain’t everyone? Bossman says I gotta close early today and go buy some plywood. Hey, we got some fresh glazed with sprinkles up there for ya. Any speed traps I should know about before I leave?”

  The Law poured coffee into two paper cups. “You know I don’t eat donuts, Shady. I refuse to be a cliché. You probably don’t know what that means. Anyway, speed traps? Not today. Nope, got me some company from the federal government riding along.”

  Zane glanced out the window. A uniformed man with a bald head sat in the passenger seat of the police car. He looked vaguely familiar. Where had he seen that face before? It hit him just as The Law said, “The tax man. IRS agent. Scary, right? And boy is he hot for revenge. He was out on that boat. His partner’s the one who got killed.”

  “I heard about that,” said Shady.

  The Law tossed two one-dollar bills on the counter. Holding a coffee in each hand, he backed up to the door and pushed it open with his rear end. He paused, however, to finish talking. “Turns out this punk kid didn’t drown under the bridge like we thought. Nope, last night, Air Force lost two soldiers out there by one of the old pads. Little sicko cut their throats, stole their Jeep and a handgun. We just found the vehicle parked down by the river.

  I tell ya, if I catch that guy…” The Law shook his head and pushed himself through the door. “Gotta run.”

  Zane’s body felt weak. Not only were the cops looking for him again, but Miguel lurked nearby as well. He had to get out of town, but he couldn’t flee without warning Mama Ethel about the hurricane. She had no way of knowing otherwise.

  “You okay, Fishy?” said Shady.

  Sweat effused on Zane’s forehead. “Yeah.”

  Somewhere, glass broke. A clear, greenish liquid spread across the floor, splashing onto Zane’s bare feet. Pickles? He looked up to find the old woman standing over a pile of dropped groceries. Her lower jaw trembled as she stared at a Florida Today newspaper on a rack. There, glaring back at her from the front page—his eyes ice blue against the inflammation that encompassed them—was the mug shot of Zane from his final night with Lucia. The woman looked at Zane, then at the police cruiser now pulling out of the parking lot.

  “Please don’t,” said Zane.

  “Criminal,” hissed the woman, and she bolted out the door, hobbling after the car. Zane looked at Shady. “Please help me.”

  Shady glanced at the newspaper with disbelief. “It’s you? Did you really do what they’re sayin?”

  “Do I look like I could kill someone with a knife?”

  Shady paused. “I guess not. But I can’t help you.”

  “You can take me on your bike. Take me to Gainesville.”

  “Gainesville? You’re nuts, man. Get outta my store.”

  Zane took out the stack of Spanish coins. “I’ll give you all of these. You’ll be set for life.”

  Shady stared at the coins with a look of temptation and unease. “Dang. I don’t know, man…”

  Zane slammed his fist on the counter with such force that it startled Shady and knocked a chewing gum display to the ground. “Listen to me,” Zane said with commanding passion. “Do you want to be a gas station clerk for the rest of your life, or do you want to be the badass you were born to be? You call yourself a biker, right?”

  Shady nodded.

  “Then come on. Let’s ride.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The stench inside the dead deer’s face was appalling, but when Dominic watched a massive buck prance out of the forest on the other side of the brook and regard him like an old friend, his mind became fixated on the hunt. Holding its antlered head high as if it thought of itself as royalty, the buck strutted toward him through tall grass. Dominic’s body tensed and his breathing accelerated, but with the nostrils of his deer costume sewn shut to keep its face from tearing apart, each breath ricocheted back at him as hot, gamey vapor.

  He gazed to his side through the eyehole. Even though he knew it was Itori hiding within the other hollowed-out deer carcass beside him, it appeared so lifelike and natural that he had to look for the human eye peeking through to be sure. Itori held steady as the buck extended its neck over the brook to sniff him. Dominic had never been so close to a wild deer before—so close that he could hear its breathing and smell its pungent odor and see the black-legged ticks that groped through its fur.

  The buck swiveled its neck upward and sniffed the air, then lowered its head to the brook and drank. Its cheeks bulged with each sip and Dominic could hear the water gushing down its throat like a torrent, but then, mid-gulp, the buck froze. Dominic became worried when he saw what the deer saw on the water’s surface—it was his reflection as seen from beneath his deer disguise.

  “Now,” whispered Itori, and at once the native lifted his bow from the grass and drew its leather string and—thwack!—sent an arrow into the buck’s fleecy neck. At the same time, Dominic lifted a spear and, lunging forward, rammed it into the buck’s left haunch and pulled it out. The buck rose on its hind legs and whipped its head, trying to shake Itori’s arrow.

  “Again!” said Itori. Dominic reared back with the spear and slung off the deer costume as he did. Time seemed to decelerate. He looked into the frantic eyes of the buck and could envision its thought: My brother has become man. Nature has come undone. All is lost. All is lost.

  The confusion in the deer’s eyes brought forth a gust of memories; in a blur, Dominic saw the faces of all the people he had ever slain, their eyes rife with fear. Let them tremble before you. How many had he killed? For the first time in his life, he wished he knew the number. Seek gold, glory, and God—and only in that order. His superior’s foul ranting echoed in his head. It was a voice he had not heard since his first day in the New World, when his ship sojourned in San Agustín to take on supplies and orders. You are to be a subjugator of barbarous peoples, Dominic, and never their equal.

  “Now!” yelled Itori. The buck came down on its front hooves and Dominic rammed the spear into its chest, using all of his weight to thrust it in. Dark blood pooled around the spear shaft and the buck collapsed around it like a piece of skewered meat and Dominic pushed and pushed and let out a terrible, animalistic scream that only relented when the spear burst out of the deer’s back. He found himself leaning against warm fur. A legion of ticks—as if somehow sensing the death of their host—clambered onto Dominic like rats abandoning a sinking ship. He shoved the buck off and brushed the ticks away before they could burrow into his skin.

  Dominic felt a hand on his back. He spun around and almost struck Itori, who stood looking at him with fear and concern, obviously troubled by Dominic’s excessive aggression. “Brother?” said Itori, as if to ask if he were alright.

  “I told you,” snarled Dominic. “I am not your brother.”

  Dominic looked down at the crumpled buck, its face halfway submerged in the brook. A steady stream of redness flowed downstream out of its nose and waved in the current like a water snake. The rest of the deer’s body was sopping with blood and three of its legs were bent beneath it in a disturbing and unnatural position; the other leg jutted into the air. What had he done? He felt sick and bolted into the woods.

  When has it ever occurred, mused his superior, that exploits more remarkable have been achieved over such vast distances and cultures?

  Dominic kneeled beside a poplar tree, in a leafy alcove on the bank of the same small brook, completely shrouded from the world. In the water crayfish and minnows faced the current, snaring miniscule bits of flesh that flowed toward them from the kill. They were plucking life out of de
ath, he perceived, entombing the deer within their pea-sized gullets one particle at a time, never questioning the innate desire to prolong their brief but crucial stints in the world, eyes as cold as undertakers’ while they gorged.

  Whose deeds compare to Spain’s? Not even the ancient Romans or Greeks.

  He shuddered when he saw his own reflection in the water. Was it even him anymore? His face and hair glistened with deer blood. His shirtless body looked no more civilized than a native’s. He splashed his head and scrubbed feverishly. The minnows went silly with the deluge of tasty sustenance that rained down from him. They swarmed in a tight ball around the largest chunk, tails lashing.

  I have seen the wilderness. I know what to say. Conquest is simple, if you use my advice.

  Dominic heard the chk chk chk of Itori butchering the buck with a whalebone adze and soon the brook ran red. All he could see of the minnows now were raindrop-like dimples on the surface. First, kill their chief to prove your power, said his superior, and if that does not pacify them, kill some women and children, too. Dominic dipped his hands in the rosy water and brought them so close to his face that he had to cross his eyes to focus. Red droplets plummeted back to the brook. And their blood—let it run through your fingers.

  Somewhere, something moved. He jerked up to look, still not sure if it was something he heard, glimpsed, or sensed in another way. He scanned his surroundings but saw only palm fronds and oak foliage. Still, it was clear to him that some living, intelligent being drew near. Dominic could feel eyes on him. His body went cold.

  “Itori?” he said.

  He heard a stick break deep in the dimness. Had the scent of deer flesh lured in some predator? Was the panther of his vision stalking him? A dry leaf crunched. He squinted into the forest and poised to flee. “Hello?”