The Deep Six

by Striker, Randy

  He grinned. “Not that I’m complaining! Jason’s helped them all a lot, and we all think the world of him. Every one of those kids out there is being trained to go into administrative work for the C.C.A. It’s good work, too.”

  “And what about you?”

  “So far I’m just a student of history. I love it. I haven’t felt the call to join the fellowship yet, but . . .” He winked again. “If heaven is anything like this place, I just might.”

  Jason was tending an impressive pile of lobster tails by the fire. He seemed happy to see me. He wore cutoff jeans and a copper-colored crew-neck T-shirt that went well with his beard and hair. Wayne started to leave, and I remembered something. “Hey, Wayne! That book you wanted me to bring is in the cabin of my boat. Help yourself.”

  He grinned. “Thanks, Dusky. And don’t forget, you promised to tell me about the SEALs later.”

  We watched him trot out toward the water, muscles in sharp relief with every stride.

  “There goes one of the most impressive young people I’ve ever met, Dusky. Terrific personality, a truly brilliant student, and one of the finest wrestlers ever to come out of Iowa—and that’s saying something.” He reached down with a long fork and turned one row of lobster cooking on a grate over the coals.

  “You seem somehow disappointed, the way you said that.”

  His bright-blue eyes caught mine, and he nodded. “Is it that obvious? Yeah, I guess it is. I keep forgetting—we have too much in common to fool each other.”

  “So what’s the problem with Wayne?”

  “Well, there are a couple of little things. He has a terrible temper, for one thing. He doesn’t seem to enjoy fighting, but if someone gets him mad—look out.”

  “Sounds like you might be describing a younger version of Jason Boone.”

  He poked at the lobster with a reflective smile. “I’m afraid you’re right. Maybe that’s why I like him so much—he reminds me of the way I was. But I feel I could do so much with him, Dusky, if he would just . . .”

  “See the light?”

  He shook his head. “This is just between you and me, but if Wayne would just open his heart and let the Lord come into it, the religious organization I founded—the C.C.A.—would be his one day. And it’s already grown tremendously. We have a pretty widely televised fund-raising ministry and an international radio ministry. And with Wayne at the controls, I would know that it would keep getting bigger and better.”

  “I would have thought you’d be saving that roll for your own children, Jase.”

  The sudden stoicism which took his face carried more visual impact than the pain it certainly covered. “It was a nasty, useless war we fought, Dusky. I came back with Purple Hearts and absolutely no chance of having kids.”

  “I’m sorry, Jase.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry, Dusky. You were there.” The sudden wry smile surprised me, snubbing a very uncomfortable moment. “Let us two old soldiers call those youngsters to supper, then sit around and tell stories. Not the bloody kind. Just stories.” He slapped me on the back. “But watch out you don’t get trampled in the rush.”

  I was charmed by this guy: big and brutal-looking, but intelligent, and he had style. The religious ones usually make me uncomfortable. I keep worrying they’re going to try to “save” me. And, frankly, I just don’t want to be saved. It’s my childish independent streak, I guess. I don’t want to belong to any group—even if it is God’s. But I don’t try to fool myself. If the Bible is right—and a lot of very smart people like Jason Boone believe it is—they’re not just going to give me a forgiving smile and a kindly reprieve when I reach the Pearly Gates. They’re going to send my ass to Hell. I’ve sent too many human beings there myself to get off scot-free. But Jason didn’t make me feel uncomfortable. I had a feeling that if he did try to save me, it wouldn’t be an embarrassing session of one-sided preaching. It would at least be intelligent conversation.

  It was a fine evening—and Jason was right about his group. When they came to eat it was all business. There was plenty of lobster, whole baked grouper, raw oysters from the bar in the lagoon, and plenty of melted butter and hot sauce. No beer, but what the hell. It was dark by the time we were all done, and we sat in the busy night sounds of the sea and the island and the crackle of the fire. It was time for talk; relaxed conversation, with everyone included. I told them about fishing, and what it was like to be a guide. They laughed at the right places. The faces of the dozen or so kids hung suspended above the fire, their blue or green eyes soft with contentment. I noticed that they had paired off. Some of the guys had their arms around their girls. At least Jason allowed that—I had noticed a look of reproach when Wayne accepted the little tin of Copenhagen I had offered. He seemed to be a stern but kindly master. When he ordered the pots and dishes cleaned up, they all moved with the speed and efficiency of Marines readying for a firefight.

  Or Green Berets.

  There was a military orderliness about them all; an orderliness tempered, it seemed, by the love of some common cause.

  If this was religion, it didn’t seem bad.

  Wayne was the only guy not sitting with a girl. I noticed the redhead who had made the spectacular catch earlier eyeing him. He didn’t seem to pay much attention. I moved around to the other side of the fire and sat by him. By that time, Jason had brought out a guitar and handed it to a tall blond girl with extremely long hair and a lithe body. She played something soft—some Christian folksong I had never heard before. It had an easy refrain, and some of the others around the fire joined in: Come with Him.

  He has chosen us

  To win our peace

  The chosen must. . . .

  It was a haunting melody, pretty in the softness of the night.

  “Looks like you have an admirer over there, Wayne.”

  He looked up from the fire. “Oh, yeah.” He blushed a little. “That’s Jennifer. Nice kid.”

  “That’s all. Nice?”

  He eyed me askance. “Hey, MacMorgan, don’t you turn matchmaker on me now. One around here is enough.”

  “I have competition?”

  “Jason can’t believe I’ve been around her two weeks and haven’t stolen her off to my tent yet.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Jason.”

  “That’s the good thing about him, really. He’s real strict in some ways, and not so strict in others—if you know what I mean.”

  I looked across the fire at the redhead, Jennifer. She was one handsome article indeed. “I can’t believe you even need a push.”

  “I guess that’s one of my biggest character flaws. Someone pushes, I immediately push back. She’s a great person, don’t get me wrong. National AAU swimming champion, graduated cum laude and all that.” He gave me another of those winks. “ ’Course, if I get any hornier, I might just take Jason’s advice. But if I do it’ll be because I want to.”

  “I think one of you has already made the decision.”

  “I know, she stares at me all the time. Hey, let’s go for a walk before I finally make any momentous decisions.”

  We walked down along the water. I waded out, got a couple of beers, and we sat in the moonlight talking. Good man, Wayne Peters. He told me about growing up in a little town called North Scott, Iowa. Farm boy. Mother died when he was fourteen. His great recreations when the work was done were books and sports. Wayne had that unaffected honesty you find in very few people. I broke a rule. He asked me about the SEALs and Vietnam. And I told him. Occasionally I meet some rare person who can handle the truth without oohing and aahing. Sometimes I meet someone who deserves to know.

  He said nothing when I had finished.

  “I’m not the only one on this island who knows about Nam, Wayne.”

  “Jason.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about it?”

  “Yeah. I guess I was the only one in the whole group who he told. I felt like I feel now—sort of honored.”

  “He thinks very
highly of you.”

  “I know. And it bothers me. I’m going to disappoint him, Dusky. I just can’t join the flock. You know? I just can’t. I’m not a . . . believer. I don’t mind leading the prayers, and handling all the responsibility he gives me. But I just can’t make myself believe. And because of that, I’m still an outsider. Twice a week they have their C.C.A. prayer meetings. I could attend if I asked to, but I haven’t asked. That used to leave me with just Abbey to talk to. Now it leaves me by myself—which I like a lot better.”

  “Other than that, you get along okay, don’t you?”

  “Sure. Jason has sort of made me his right-hand man. I admire the guy, I really do. He’s had some awful things happen to him, but he’s always landed on his feet. In a way, I worry about him. Because he’s religious, people may think they can shove him around. I don’t know if you realize it, Dusky, but there are some real jerks hunting for treasure around here. There used to be this funny-looking old guy in a small boat who’d follow us around. I’d work for days getting an underwater grid set up on a wreck we’d found, and this old guy would dive on it later and screw it up.”

  “I knew that old guy, Wayne. He disappeared out here. I think he was murdered.”

  “What? Look, I’m sorry, Dusky. I didn’t know. He just left one day and never came back.”

  “It’s okay. Who are some of the other jerks?”

  “Well, the biggest one is a guy who’s hunting an area a few miles west and south of here. He’s a great big guy, and nasty as hell. Threatened to shoot Jason and me one day.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Lost my temper, naturally—another big character flaw of mine. Told him I’d come back and stick that gun in his ear.”

  I laughed and told him why I would have a new scar thanks to Buster Ronstadz.

  “Geez, I wish I had been there with you.”

  “Me too, Wayne. Me too.”

  “I’m telling you, Dusky, there are some strange things going on around here at night. I don’t trust any of those people.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I don’t sleep too well. Never have. So when I can’t sleep I usually jump in one of the skiffs and go offshore. I stick out a bait and just drift and think and look at the stars. There’s a salvage barge out there operated by a bunch of Cuban-Americans. And they’re always moving around at night. I watch their lights. One night they sent over a boat to one of the magnetometer pegs we had worked earlier that day. They sent down divers. Underwater lights and everything. I told Jason, and he said not to worry about it. That Buster guy is always sending spies over to our sites to nose around. Jason spent a couple of nights out there, keeping a watch, but nothing ever came of it. To tell you the truth, I’ve taken my skiff out to their boats at night just to listen—to sort of get even, you know. I just run way uptide and drift back down on them. They never even know I’m there.”

  “Sounds dangerous. Or foolish.”

  “Stupid is what it was. There was just something in me that made me do it. I wanted to hear what they’d found out about us. But I never did hear anything worth a damn.”

  “I think you would have made a good SEAL, Wayne.”

  “You know something, Dusky? That means a lot to me.”

  I awoke in darkness. Someone had come aboard, onto Sniper. I felt her list ever so slightly. I threw back my covers and reached under the pillow to find the pleasant chill of my Randall attack-survival knife. Outside, through the glass port, the fire still smoldered on the beach. The tents were ghostly chunks of darkness in the pale moonlight. Sniper listed again, then rolled on the gentle groundswell.

  I stood behind the door and waited.

  Someone walked across the aft deck, coming closer. When the silhouette was full frame in the little window, I jerked the door open, grabbed a wrist, then swung the uninvited visitor down to the floor, my knife at his neck.

  “Hey! Hold it!”

  The voice wasn’t a he. It was a she. I flipped on a light.

  It was the redhead, Jennifer.

  “Some welcome! I just came to ask . . .” She stopped and I saw an interesting smile cross her face. And then I realized—I was naked. I turned my back and pulled on shorts.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, woman? That’s a good way to get killed.”

  She had her hand on her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Geez, you’re something!”

  “Just tell me what you’re doing out here so I can get back to sleep.”

  It sobered her. “It’s Wayne, Dusky. He’s not in his tent. I thought he might be out here.”

  “Well, he’s not. He probably couldn’t sleep and went out fishing or something.” She was making me nervous. She wore the same flower-colored nylon swimsuit. She had gotten wet coming out to the boat. It was see-through in the cabin light: round globes of breasts and the fibrous outline of pubic hair.

  “Can I ask you something, Dusky?”

  “What!”

  “Wayne trusts you. I saw the way you two were talking tonight. Does he . . . dislike me for some reason?”

  “He likes you fine. Now go to bed.”

  “Do you . . . do you like me, Dusky?”

  “You’re aces with me, Jennifer. Now go to bed and shut the door behind you.”

  I switched off the light. I heard the door shut. But she hadn’t gone. She was still for a moment, then slid into bed with me. She was naked. I started to speak, and she covered my lips with hers. She tasted of salt and smelled of tanning lotion.

  “I’m going to give you until the count of three to get out of here.”

  Her small hand found me beneath the covers, and she held me gently. I pulled the hand away.

  “One!”

  “What is it with you two! Am I that unattractive!”

  “Two!”

  “You don’t understand the way it is!” Her anger quickly turned to tears. She lay there crying silently. I stroked her soft hair.

  “Jennifer, you know you’re not unattractive. And believe me, I do understand how it is. But not me, not now. I promise I won’t tell another soul, not even Wayne, if you go now.”

  She touched my lips softly with hers and was gone.

  14

  Someone was screaming. Terrified scream. It slid into my sleep and my dream embraced it. Back in the jungle. Back in the heat and the darkness and the stench of death. Too many piles; too many stacks of ruined arms and faces and legs and I could never, ever put them all back together again . . .

  I sat bolt upright, eyes blinking in the fresh light of morning.

  The scream was no dream. Someone outside, on the beach. A woman’s scream.

  I ran from the cabin. The blond kids scurried from their tents, running.

  Over here! Someone . . . please!

  I jumped over the side and half ran, half swam to shore. High tide.

  It was Jennifer. The group gathered around her, on the sand. She stood in water up to her calfs, her hand to her mouth. They were looking at something washed ashore by the weak surf. It was a body, facedown. Big form fluttering in the wash and draw of sea, blond hair fluttering like seaweed.

  Damn! Not Wayne . . .

  I busted through the little group of horrified kids. Jennifer leaned against me as if about to faint. “Dusky, it’s not . . .” I studied the body closely from where we stood. Too much fat on the sides. Too much bloated belly.

  “No,” I said. “No, it’s not Wayne.”

  “Oh, thank you, Jesus . . .”

  I told the kids to move back. With my foot, I turned the body over. A small blue crab skittered sideways across the battered face. I recognized what was left of it. Buster Ronstadz. The big bad wife-beating bully. Buster had run into someone he couldn’t push around. The bone structure of his face was a collapsed jumble of bruises and purple flesh. The nose was sideways. One eye was gone. The crab was upset. It hadn’t gotten a chance to finish its work. It plopped huffily into the surf and swam away. Buster’s mouth was
open as if frozen in a scream. The tongue was swollen and swung animal-like with the motion of the waves.

  “You people get back to your duties—now!”

  It was Jason. There was still toothpaste on his beard. He came trotting down toward us. “No questions. Move!” There were no questions. They stiffened like soldiers and left immediately. They were oddly silent in the turquoise dawn of Full-moon Cay.

  “God help us,” said Jason. “God help us all . . .”

  It was one rude awakening; one ugly way to start the day.

  “Is that . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s Ronstadz.”

  I didn’t like the way my mind was working. I didn’t like what I was thinking.

  “Where’s Wayne?”

  Jason thought for a moment. “I haven’t seen him this morning. Wasn’t he on the beach with the others?”

  “No. I want to talk to him.”

  Some nasty facts were beginning to click in my head. Wayne didn’t like my troublesome old friend, Gifford Remus. And he had been very upset when he heard about my little run-in with Buster.

  “My God, Dusky, you don’t think . . .”

  “I don’t know, Jason. You mentioned Wayne’s temper. How bad was it?”

  “Well, he would go sort of wild—but no worse than the rest of us.”

  “The last time you went ‘sort of wild,’ Jason, you broke a man’s neck.”

  He sagged, horror-struck. “I can’t believe it . . . I can’t believe what’s happening. Not Wayne . . . he was so, so perfect . . .”

  I could picture the invitation in the Christ’s Children of America literature: “Join us in the tropical Florida Keys for an enjoyable and enlightening archaeological experience with fellow young Christians. . . .”

  But Wayne Peters had been an outsider. He couldn’t make himself believe. And suddenly things were going very, very sour indeed.

  Wait a minute, MacMorgan.

  I made myself stop. Some jury I was. I had thrown together some circumstantial evidence and already found the kid guilty. Some friend I turned out to be. I liked Wayne Peters. He was a kindred spirit, one of the very few I had ever met. So at least give him a chance.