A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK
ISBN: 978-1-61868-639-8
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-638-1
MAN FROM ATLANTIS
© 2016 by Patrick Duffy
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Christian Bentulan
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Permuted Press, LLC
275 Madison Avenue, 14th Floor
New York, NY 10016
permutedpress.com
Silence.
Darkness thickens
As the inside races out.
Complete blackness.
Absence of black
But why the silence?
No voice to these thoughts that
Fall into the dark.
The beginning.
Of time.
Perhaps
Another beginning.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
AMediterranean-style house stood alone on a small indentation
off the California coast, protected by the ocean to the west and acres of wild countryside to the north, south, and east. On this day, the light and heat of the midday sun had passed, blue sky shimmered with the remaining warmth, and soft rhythmic waves sounded from the beach. In the pool on this property lay a body, face down and motionless. Every so often, a sand fly would hover above the dark strands of drying hair on the exposed head before buzzing off into the gentle breeze. Other than that, the ripples in the water had long since flattened out, and the surface was glassy smooth.
A lone seagull had been circling above the house by the ocean for almost thirty minutes, its orbit getting ever lower. The only movement now was that of a number of papers and folders, once stacked neatly by the lounge chair, which were now being lifted gently by the breeze to move along the deck. Some lodged against the legs of chairs while others limply soaked in the water at the pool’s edge. A few were lifted and turned as if being read by some invisible person. Soon the large white gull was dipping with each tightening circle, despite the rustling papers, to just above the water and the true object of its attention, the plate of food on the table by the pool. When at last the genetic alarm system in the big bird shut off and feelings of potential danger were erased, he cupped his wings, dropped his webbed feet from under his belly, gracefully halted in the air, and dropped the foot or so to the edge of the glass-topped table. For a moment, he stood adjusting his wings repeatedly until the starched rustle of feathers grew quiet and were tightly wrapped to his body. Now satisfied, the smooth head turned, the intense eyes made their last surveillance scan, and the bird stepped to the plate. By this time, the breeze had started to push the body slowly toward the far side of the pool. The bird ignored the movement and darted its beak to the closest piece of food and, with a toss of its head, the crust of bread disappeared down its throat. Another quick look around, and the bright yellow beak, with its orange tip, took aim and procured another found treasure. Then, in a split second, its systems activated and, with a squawk, the big wings were beating furiously. The dry clapping of feathers lifted the large bird quickly off the table and, with a steep banking turn, the gull—in an instant—was thirty feet above the deck and turning out to the protective sea for safety.
The movement that caused this complete retreat had been a flash of light from the moving handle of the French door that led to the pool area. Being turned from the inside, the polished brass surface had bounced the sun’s ray directly into the eye of the large bird. The sloping roof protected the southern exposure of the glass doors from the direct rays of the sun. At this time of the summer day, the porch edge cast a slanting shadow along the entire face of the house. Its angle sloped just above the curved brass handle of the French-style door before reaching the legs of the teakwood bench along the wall.
In its momentary spotlight, the elegant s-shaped door handle completed its turn and stood poised in its downward position. It seemed almost to be pointing to the pair of pale-green suede high heels and slender legs that rose into the skirt hem, hidden under the blue-black shadow just inside the door. The lower panes of beveled glass caught the dancing light and its reflection as the door slowly pushed open. Through it, past the shadows and out into the sunshine, stepped the woman.
She was in her mid-forties and moved with a calm determination. Definitely not dressed for relaxing by the pool, she undid the two buttons of the light green suit jacket she was wearing and opened it. A matching silk purse hung from her shoulder and swung a little towards her back as she stood squarely on her green high heels, legs a little apart, with her hands on her hips. The powder-blue blouse was tucked carefully into the waistband of her skirt, revealing a well-kept figure. Her strength and fitness were obvious in the formation of her calves and thighs and in the strong slope of her shoulders, visible above the deep neckline of the blouse. Her skin had the supple gold color of one who spends a good amount of time outdoors, but the softness indicated intelligent care. The makeup was carefully done. Almost not discernible—except for the soft shade of blue above the eyes and the careful lining and coloring of her lips, the bottom one of which she slowly drew into her teeth as she gazed carefully around. She looked at the body for a moment and then without emotion, ignoring him, she stepped to the chair and table by the pool, set the green bag by the plate, and methodically started to go through the remaining files and folders. Not able to find what she was looking for, she walked the short distance to the steps that led into the pool.
Several sheets of soggy paper clung to the first step, and she easily dropped into an almost sitting position at water’s edge. Resting on her heels, with an effortless limber move, she reached down to the water and retrieved the scattered pages. The skirt now rode up to mid thigh and stretched tightly to her as she remained there with her elbows on her knees and let the drops fall from the pages back into the pool. With only a brief occasional glance to the man in the water, she quickly scanned the limp papers while constantly replacing the one strand of dark-blonde hair that always escaped from the small ponytail tied at the nape of her neck. Holding several pages away from her body, the muscles in her thighs tightened, and she rose easily and turned again to the table. She calmly sat on the edge of the chair and now stared at the man floating face down. Her eyes revealed nothing. No concern for a dead fellow human being. No indication that she should rescue and revive him. The look just lingered a moment, moved slowly from the top of the man’s head, across his back, and down to his feet—she seemed, if anything, merely intrigued by the stillness of the body. The tan and muscled back was now dry and his strong arms were submerged and hung down and away from his torso.
Turning her head away, she reached for the clear glass pitcher. The ice rang a fragile melody on the crystal as she held it in both hands a moment. Leaving a perfect print of her right palm, s
he grabbed a slender tumbler and poured it full of ice and water. Putting the glass to her lips, she left it there briefly, letting the tiny floating bergs rest against her skin before she took a long slow drink. Running her tongue along her lower lip, she stood and looked at the man. Never taking her eyes off his long back, she dipped her fingers in the glass and grabbed a handful of ice. Holding the pieces in her hand, she seemed to enjoy the cold as the cubes started to melt. The water filled her palm and began to run through her fingers and drip to the deck. Each teardrop of water fell to form dark circles on the rough cement only to immediately soften and disappear in the afternoon heat.
For a moment, she was still, and then her fingers closed around the cubes and she suddenly threw them at the body in the water. Two hit the man—one just above his shoulder blades and another bounced off his yellow trunks. The third frozen missile overshot and plopped with a small water plume just past his dark hair.
“Mark! Mark! Wake up!”
As the noise and ice reached the man, the impossible happened. The large body rolled to one side, dropping the left shoulder under the water’s surface, as the head lifted. His lids were already open, revealing brilliant green eyes. The wet face tilted ever so slightly and he smiled kindly at the woman who was now drying her hands on a napkin.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said.
Without the slightest show of effort, he knifed over and, with one fluid undulation, propelled himself to the steps of the pool. He stepped out of the water and walked to the woman with the same easy motion. He was in his late forties, 195 pounds, very fit, and someone who constantly swam and worked out.
How long has it been? she thought as he approached. Seventeen years? No, longer! And here I am, still getting that elevator feeling in my stomach. Get a hold of yourself, Elizabeth.
She did get a hold of herself, but it took a moment. She was transfixed by his eyes and realized she was holding her breath. It was the slight tilt of Mark’s head, which she had come to recognize as his habit when something was starting to puzzle him and he was about to “think inside it” as he said, that put her feet back on planet earth. She gasped, turned a little too quickly, and sat in one of the chairs by the table.
“Mark…I’m sorry to wake you, but I can’t find your final results on the deep-sea probe salinity test we ran last month. I have to report something to the board in a little over an hour, and I thought that would keep them happy until we can let them in on the Torelli project.”
“It’s still in my files on the computer, Elizabeth.” He took the two steps needed to circle around and stand in front of her. “I have not printed it out just yet, but I can tell you that the probe’s outer casing was ionized by an electrical leak from the equipment inside. Niacin amide particles crystallized on the intake valves and that caused the higher than expected readouts. I could have told you the salt-chemical ratio does not significantly change in that part of the sea even at the six mile depth of the trench.”
She realized the silliness of her next question even as the words left her lips. But it was one of the many times where her mouth moved a split second faster than her memory, and her words were followed almost immediately by Mark’s small smile and reply.
“Because I have been there.”
The smile and his body so close to her completely derailed her train of thought. Reaching just past his leg, she grabbed the large white terrycloth robe that was lying across the back of the next chaise. When she stood with it, Mark took it from her hand and draped it over his shoulders. Even as she tried to convince herself it was the kind and proper thing to do, she knew that once he put it on, the conversation between them would be much easier for her to focus on.
Why, she thought. Why do these feelings come and go in waves like this?
Weeks could go by and sometimes months, where she and Mark would work together, and all there would be was the work—late hours, sleeping on cots at the institute if it got late, hours in the pools, testing tanks or the ocean, and still it was only the work. Mark was a close friend, a unique and brilliant coworker, a comrade. But it was the work!
Once she had brought the subject of Mark up to her father using the familiar, “I have this friend” approach, which she was sure he immediately saw through. He had taken a great amount of time explaining the wonderful relationship he had with her mother.
“The passion that pulled us almost violently together,” he had said, “after a while faded into some deep recess. It caused a bit of a panic when we thought it was over. We had seen couples we knew part, saying they had grown apart. And we were desperate not to be in their number.”
Elizabeth could still remember the almost raunchy smile that came over her dad’s lips when he sat back in the green leather chair in his dim study and thought for a moment before continuing.
“Then one afternoon I was reading some student papers on the patio and Roberta was in the garden weeding. The late afternoon sunlight was a deep yellow. You know the kind that makes all the colors deeper and richer.” Elizabeth recalled him being completely caught up in the memory.
He went on. “I heard the hoe tink as it struck a rock and I looked up. She was there in a patch of dancing sunlight that bounced through the branches of that big acacia tree by the wall. I swear it almost took my breath away—her hair undone and her arms and neck glistening with perspiration and her body moving so beautifully under her long skirt and top. I just stared. After a moment, she stopped. She was completely motionless. It was as though somewhere from very deep my passion was calling to her because she slowly turned to me and smiled. ‘Yes,’ was all she said.
“I know children don’t want to know certain things about their parent’s love life so I will just tell you this. From that moment, I never worried when the affairs of love went into retreat and only the friendship was active. It was a wonderful comfort to know that either one was only occupying the now for awhile, and the other was waiting for its turn.” He then shifted his focus back to his daughter who had curled her arms around her knees where she sat on the little green footstool. Peeping over the top of his reading glasses, he smiled warmly at his only child. “Tell this… friend of yours that sometimes the waiting is almost as enjoyable as the actual thing itself. Oh! And sometime I sure would like to meet this friend of yours.”
From then on, she understood the waves of change that her feelings cycled through, but that didn’t make them easy to mask in order for her to get on with the work.
She looked at Mark and came out of her reverie. The sun highlighted every muscle and contour. The poreless wet skin seemed to almost melt as the water glided off. Mark then pulled the robe around himself and tied a single knot in the sash. At least now she could lock her gaze on his face and not step into the pleasing trap of watching his body.
Elizabeth was constantly amazed that she could regress (at least she told herself it was regression) to that young oceanographer of over seventeen years ago and feel the same feelings she had when they first met.
Why, all of a sudden, do I see him so differently? But then it really wasn’t so different. This rotation of friendship and desire had cycled in waves, starting from the very first time she had seen Mark in the emergency room all those years ago.
The call Doug Berkley had received when they were at the party caused them to race to the hospital. At first, when Elizabeth stepped into the emergency room and stood to the side, she could not see the young man. Doug and the ER doctor were looking down at the X-rays, and the staff was trying to revive him. As the ER conversation progressed, curiosity drew her in.
“Man seems to have forgotten how to breathe.”
One step.
“We took some pictures and his lungs seem to be completely desiccated.”
Another step.
“Even though we’ve had him on pure O from the moment he got here, I’d say from the color of his skin, he is severely oxygen
starved.”
From that moment, she was at the side of the gurney. She looked down at that face. Even with the almost blue-black color that was darkening his skin, she was taken aback by how handsome he was. After she told them she was navy and Doug introduced her as Doctor Elizabeth Merrill, she was allowed to assist with the examination. The dry raspy labor of his breathing was evident even from under the oxygen mask that covered his nose and mouth. Touching the gray smooth skin on his chest, she was shocked by how cold it was. The familiar texture also told her that the trunk of his body had no hair follicles. She had to race to keep ahead of the rolling input of information she was getting.
Then the ER doctor opened one of the young man’s lids and shined his penlight on the eye for her to see. That was when—as she thought of it often over the years—it happened. There was something about that eye. Not the something they all saw, which were the brilliant yellow-green lines that glowingly radiated out from the pitch black iris. It was something else she saw. It was the life of this person. Without knowing one piece of his history (or one thing that could ground her feelings for him to her life), she knew his soul. In that brief moment, she remembered herself thinking, I know you. I don’t know of you, but I know who you are. And if I can I will help you live. Because I want you to know me too.
It was then that she did what she almost never did. She completely took over a situation where she was not in charge. Thankfully, with Doug’s support, she briefly bronched the man’s lungs and, seeing what she intuitively knew was there, she disconnected him from the IVs and forced the entire ER team to get her, Doug, and the patient into the waiting ambulance. With the sheer force of her determination, the driver reacted as if it was normal to be told to drive a dying man back to the beach. The pain she felt with every tortured breath the young man took was almost unbearable.
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