The Ocean Dark: A Novel

by Jack Rogan

  He thought of the captain, of the guns they’d brought to the island.

  Of the radio.

  Did he hear the soft crackle of static, even down here? He thought he did.

  Mustering what little strength remained to him, he forced himself to stand. Waves of pain tore through him and he grunted, too weak even to cry out, and he pressed his hands more tightly to the seeping wound in his gut. Fresh beads of sweat popped out on his forehead and back and began to trickle down his skin. Blackness swam around the edges of his vision and he fell against the door, began to slide to the floor, unconsciousness claiming him yet again.

  But Braulio fought it. Breathing through his teeth, lips peeled back, he forced his eyes to open. He adjusted one hand to clamp tightly on his wound and with the other he scrabbled at the lock and the handle, fingers slick with his own blood.

  The radio.

  The door had buckled in the middle, dented by the pounding of the devils. It stuck in its frame, but Braulio kept the image of his granddaughter firmly in his mind—that smile with the missing tooth in front. He pulled, heard a pop, and as the door opened something tore deep inside him and a fresh gush of blood squirted through the fingers he held clamped over his abdomen.

  He wouldn’t allow himself to think of it. If the devils were still on the boat, would they smell it? Surely they would hear him. It didn’t matter. If he couldn’t radio for help, he would die.

  But his instincts had been correct. As he slid himself along the wall and into the main cabin, nothing moved. The sun shone through the windows and he caught glimpses of blue sky. Sorrow engulfed him as he thought about Angelique. He needed to see her, to touch her face, to smell her hair. Braulio knew he had sinned in his life, and knew there would be hell to pay someday. Then Angelique had come into his life and, for an instant, he had changed his mind. How bad could his crimes have been if heaven could bring such a light into his life?

  But no; now his payment had come.

  He staggered up the steps into the wheelhouse. His vision blurred and he held tightly to the handrail. If he fell unconscious here and did not wake before nightfall … He had to use the radio and then get back to the head, lock himself in again.

  Then it would be up to God who found him first—men, or devils.

  In the wheelhouse he paused, listening. Where was the hiss of static? The radio had gone silent. Steadying himself, blinking to focus, he stared at the radio, thinking it had died.

  Then a voice, clear and crisp, came from the radio.

  “Mickey, this is Donald. Come in, Mickey.”

  –3– –

  Tori watched as Gabe’s face clouded over, and it seemed like he went somewhere inside himself for a second. And whatever he found there, it wasn’t pleasant.

  “Captain?”

  He forced a smile. “You got a lot of thoughts rolling around in that head.”

  Tori shrugged. “What you see is what you get. I’m out on the edge of the world, surviving, just like you. I tried ‘normal.’ Tried the housewife thing. It almost killed me.”

  For almost a minute they stood together at the railing, enjoying the breeze and the peaceful ocean. This conversation had been a long time coming and Tori had imagined it becoming much uglier, so she felt a measure of relief.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For talking it out with me. For trusting me.”

  Gabe grunted again, then stood and started patting the pockets of his loose cotton pants and the patterned, cream-colored shirt he wore untucked. He located his cigarettes and a lighter, and fired up a fresh one.

  After he’d taken the first real drag and made sure the butt had ignited, he glanced at her.

  “You know my little brother’s still going to be a prick, right? He hates anyone second-guessing him. He’s pissed at the boss, and you’re getting the spill-off from that.”

  Tori turned up her hands. “I can’t control what Miguel thinks. He’ll get over it, or he won’t.”

  Gabe nodded, took a drag off his cigarette. As he exhaled, he seemed about to say something more, but they were interrupted by a shout and running feet.

  They looked up to see red-haired Tom Dwyer rushing up to the railing on the stairwell landing above them. The Irish kid, maybe twenty-one or two, was one of the five new members of the crew, but he’d adapted fast, worked his way into Miguel’s good graces, and landed himself the gig as third mate, working the bridge with the Rio brothers.

  “Captain!” the kid said, practically hanging over the railing above them.

  “What’s up, Mr. Dwyer?”

  “Mr. Rio needs you on the bridge. He said to tell you ‘Ortega’s house is coming down.’”

  “Fuck!” the captain snarled, running to the stairs.

  He didn’t even toss his cigarette, just let it fall from his hand to the deck, where the wind spun it around and danced it overboard.

  Tori looked up at Dwyer. “What the hell is that about?”

  The redhead studied her a second, then shook his head. “Sorry. You’ll have to ask them.”

  As Gabe passed him, Dwyer fell into the captain’s wake, the two of them clanging up the metal stairs toward the bridge at the top, leaving Tori to wonder. She was curious, and even a bit alarmed, but not frightened. Whatever it was, the Rio brothers would take care of it. They were capable men. Rough men. Some might even say bad men, but Tori would have argued the difference.

  You always knew where you stood with men like the Rios. If things got too rough, you could always walk away. With truly bad men, there was never any walking away. Not without pain. Not without blood. Bad men didn’t let go as long as you were alive.

  That was Tori’s secret, and her strength.

  As far as anyone from her old life knew, she’d been dead for years.

  –4– –

  THREE YEARS AGO …

  She didn’t go by Tori, then. That wasn’t her name. But it didn’t really matter what her mother named her, because her husband mostly just called her bitch. As in, “What are you lookin’ at, bitch?” “Get me a beer, bitch.” And “What the fuck you do around here all day, bitch?”

  There were other pet names. Sweet nothings. Sometimes Ted called her whore just to change it up. Sometimes worse. It rarely bothered her, him not using her name. Even when she’d been a little girl and her father had actually called her by the name she’d been given at birth, it had always come out sounding like bitch. The tone was key. The disdain. The dismissal.

  On a rainy Sunday morning the week before Halloween, she sat in the backseat of a taxi as it slid through the streets of Manhattan. Just why there were so few cars on the street, she couldn’t have said. People didn’t go to church anymore, did they? Most offices were closed, and the number of trucks rolling through the labyrinth of the city fell almost to nothing. A lot of people were out walking. No, strolling.

  The word peaceful came to mind, and she almost laughed. What did it even mean?

  Ted shifted on the seat next to her and she glanced at him, then quickly away, dropping her eyes in deference. She didn’t need more than a glimpse to see that he could change his mind at any moment. The usual mix of poisons swirled behind his eyes. Anger, suspicion, paranoia … and cocaine. Most people had pancakes or bacon and eggs on Sunday morning. Ted enjoyed the breakfast of champions—fried Spam sandwiches, his childhood favorite, and half a dozen lines of high-grade blow—after which he’d demand she go down on him. When she was done, he’d hit her, slap her, sometimes kick her—either in fury because he hadn’t been able to get off, or in disgust at what a slut she was if he had.

  And so she drank. Once she tried to get medication for depression—she’d seen one of those ads on TV—but it had gone badly when Ted found out. Said all she needed was a better attitude, maybe to take a little more pride in their Upper East Side apartment, in her appearance, in her goddamn husband.

  She hadn’t had a drink this morning. Strangely enough, her hand
s were not shaking. In the back of the taxi, she glanced down at them and found herself astonished to see how still they were. Her hands felt detached, as if they belonged to someone else.

  “Here you go, folks. Penn Station,” the cabbie said.

  He pulled up at the curb and flicked off the meter. When he announced the total, Ted shot her a look: See what you’re costing me, bitch? She didn’t speak, didn’t challenge, only waited for him to pay and get out of the cab, and then she followed. On the sidewalk, she stood one step behind him while the driver took her suitcase from the trunk and set it by Ted’s feet.

  “Thank you, sir,” the bearded, dark-skinned man said in an accent she didn’t recognize.

  Ted ignored him and picked up the suitcase. As the taxi driver climbed back behind the wheel and started to pull away, Ted looked at her.

  “Well?”

  He waited. Terror lanced through her. She had known the moment would be coming, and here it was. He would change his mind now, refuse to let her go. With the wave of a hand he would summon another cab and force her into the back with nothing more than the silent promise of what would happen if she defied him. Back to the apartment with the gleaming wood floors and the twelve-foot ceilings and the sixty-thousand-dollar kitchen where she cooked elaborate meals only to escape.

  “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “I just … did you want to get a coffee or something?”

  Her soft smile felt carved into her face. At some point she’d forgotten to breathe, remembering only when she’d had to speak. Now her heart beat so hard it hurt her chest.

  Ted scowled, the message obvious. Why would he want to have coffee with her? Bitch was leaving him to fend for himself for three days, get his own meals, endure his own company, muster his own orgasms.

  “Don’t want to miss your train,” he said, his tone just a half-note away from schoolyard mocking. Then he sniffed and wiped at his nostril, as though imaginary crumbs of coke hung there, irritating him.

  She started walking and he fell into step behind her, close enough that she could feel his shadow on her like it was her leash. They descended into Penn Station, underneath Madison Square Garden, and passed by the flower vendors and the restaurants and shops that reminded her of some dingy airport.

  People jammed the waiting area. It was Sunday morning, and everyone who’d come up for the weekend was heading back to DC or Philly or wherever. Mothers with strollers, twentysomethings kissing their boyfriends good-bye, business suits. She saw an actor she recognized from a cable TV show. He played a cop, but not the star. Nobody else seemed to recognize him, or they were too polite to bother him. New Yorkers tended to mind their own business. How else to explain why no one had ever asked her about the bruises she so often hid under makeup or sunglasses?

  Ted pulled her along in his wake to the departures board. Her train to Philadelphia left in less than thirty minutes. They waited in silence, her skin prickling with his presence, her heart in her throat, her voice silent. She wished she could just vanish, but the best she could manage was to say nothing, to keep still, afraid that any word or motion might be enough to trigger him.

  The train was late. The suitcase sat by her feet. At the scheduled departure time, Ted gave a low huff.

  “Fuck.” He turned to look at her. “Your mother better really be dying this time. It’s the last fucking time you go down there.”

  The words cut deep. She let him see how much they hurt because she had learned that was what he wanted. If she’d smiled, tried to brush it off, soothe him, he would know something was off.

  “Honey, she’s my mother. And it’s only the second time.”

  Ted reached out gently, like other husbands might caress their wives. Instead he pinched her forearm fiercely between thumb and forefinger, digging in. With a sharp gasp, she fought tears, but she said nothing. If she drew attention, she’d pay for it.

  “It’s the last time,” he said.

  “Okay. I know. The last time.”

  And it was. The first time had been a test, to see if he’d let her go, and to see if she’d have the courage.

  They called her train. Fighting the elation that fluttered in her chest, she picked up her suitcase.

  “Hey,” he said, that tone in his voice. Sweetness. The c’mon baby voice. “Say good-bye.”

  This time, the smile felt real. It made her stomach turn, but she kissed him. Ted stood in close, his chest against hers, taking his time with the kiss.

  “Who loves you?” he asked.

  “You do.”

  “And who loves me?”

  “I do.”

  If there’d been fewer people around, if others weren’t already pushing past them, he’d probably have grabbed her ass in one hand and ground himself against her to make sure she felt him. Instead he stepped back, reached out and cupped the side of her face, stroked her cheek roughly with a thumb.

  “Three days. Don’t make me come after you.” He smiled like it was a joke.

  She smiled, too.

  Then she got in line, wanting to scream at the shuffling passengers in front of her to hurry, to get out of her way. Forcing herself to breathe in tiny sips, her heartbeat thrumming through her body, she managed to keep from shoving anyone.

  A heavyset Hispanic woman checked her ticket, let her pass. A sign on the wall said TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. A warm flush ran up the back of her neck, maybe the heat of Ted’s eyes upon her, maybe just exultation. She probably should have turned to wave, just to make sure he didn’t suspect. If he did, he might buy a ticket, try to come after her before the train pulled away. That would ruin everything. But she couldn’t turn.

  He’d still be watching, though. She knew that much. Right now he’d be watching her go, the anger and resentment already building up inside of him. When she got back, he’d make her regret having gone, just like he had the first time. When she got back …

  Halfway down the stairs into the underground platform area, she finally let the smile bloom. It terrified her, that smile. Too soon, she knew. Her whole body trembled and where she’d been warm before, she now felt a terrible chill. God, she needed a drink. Screwdriver—vodka and orange juice—an old-fashioned drink, totally uncool, but God, they tasted good. And if you got the mix right, they were deadly.

  She needed to drink.

  But she wouldn’t. Not until she reached her destination. Maybe, if she had the strength—and she was beginning to think she might—not even then.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she whispered. “Don’t be stupid, bitch.”

  She winced, sickened by the word, by the knowledge that he’d trained her so well, taught her who she was and what she was good for. Hating Ted and herself and unsure which of them she hated more.

  The train idled, engines rumbling, wanting to go, a racehorse ready for the starter’s pistol. She turned right, stepped on board, and moved herself in among the other passengers, looking for a seat. Passing one by. A perfectly good seat, plenty of space. And then another.

  She kept her eyes front, knowing he couldn’t see her but terrified that he could, that somehow he’d realized and come down after her and even now walked along the outside of the train peering in windows, watching her. Her stomach roiled and bile rose up in the back of her throat. Her eyes burned and she bit her lip to keep from crying. A part of her mind—the part that kept silent while he beat her, the part who’d gotten halfway to believing she deserved it—screamed at her to stop, to get off, to run upstairs and confess and apologize and take her punishment and never do it again, because what he would do when he found her would be so much worse.

  It got so bad she had to stop and take a breath.

  “Are you all right?” a woman asked—dark hair, kind eyes, well-dressed. A stranger, really wanting to know.

  She could only nod and move on.

  Into the next car, picking up momentum now. The train hissed and she knew she had t
o hurry. Suitcase in her hand knocking into people, muttering apologies, not waiting to see if they were accepted. Bells dinged inside the train and it would be soon.

  Into the next car, far, far out of sight of the stairs.

  Turn right again, out the door, onto the platform, into the shadows.

  Heart so loud, pulsing, she could feel it in her face and hands and she closed her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek, still clutching the heavy suitcase. A conductor looked at her oddly from the window.

  “If you’re coming, honey, you better get on. Doors are closing,” he called, over the growl of the train.

  She took a deep breath. And shook her head.

  The conductor shrugged and turned his attention back to the passengers on board. Electronic voices crackled inside the train, then the doors closed, and there could be no turning back now. The voice deep inside screamed that she had done it now, that Ted would never let her forget it.

  She licked her lips, throat parched, wishing for orange juice and vodka, and watched the train judder, hitch, then pull out of the station. Would Ted still be upstairs? Would he be trying to peer down the steps, get a glimpse of her departure, or would he already be back on the street, headed downtown, into the swirl of drugs and hookers and brutality that was his life’s work?

  The train vanished into the tunnel car by car until only the rear lights were visible.

  She would wait, fifteen minutes at least. Maybe thirty, just to be sure Ted would be gone. What if he went for coffee without her, now that he thought she had left? Better make it an hour.

  Resigned to waiting, she set down her suitcase. Her hands still shook, but she took a breath and her heartbeat began, at last, to slow.

  The force of the explosion blew her off her feet.

  –5– –

  Captain Rio double-timed it up the metal steps to the wheelhouse. The bridge, people called it. If you were in the Navy or watched too much Star Trek, that was fine. But Gabe and Miguel had been raised by a fisherman, so it would always be the wheelhouse to them.