Return to The Deep (From The Deep Book 2) (14 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As Greg suspected, Tom and the others had arrived as instructed the following morning. They were every bit as nervous and cautious as he expected them to be, and eyed up the thirty two foot boat with more than a little apprehension. The green painted hull was cracked, tired, and spotted with rust. A far cry from the expensive cruiser he used to own, it was all he could afford and although it didn’t look it, was just about as sea worthy. They had set out to sea under slate coloured rain heavy skies, the vessel tossed around by the choppy oceans. Greg controlled the vessel with ease, his disability not affecting his ability to function as Tom and his friends sat around the table, watching him carefully.

Tom looked out of the window as the first spots of rain fell, and then turned to Greg. "Why are we staying so close to the coast?"

"We need to make a quick stop off before we head out."

"For what?"

"None of your business."

"I think it is since you brought us along. We deserve to know."

Greg glared at Tom, then slid his eyes to Joanne who sat next to him and was infinitely more subdued than last time he saw her.

"What's the matter with her?" Greg said, avoiding the initial question.

"Nothing."

"Doesn’t look like nothing."

"None of your business," Tom said, echoing Greg’s earlier comment.

Joanne felt their eyes on her, and stared at her hands, which were folded on the tabletop. She hadn’t told the others what was wrong, and for the most part they hadn’t asked, assuming she was simply struggling to cope with everything that had happened. She was happy to let them think it because it meant they wouldn’t dig around for the truth. She
was
afraid, that much was true, but not of the creature, they were setting out to find.

She was afraid of Jim.

She suspected he had more to do with what had happened on the beach, and was less than convinced by his version of events that fully implicated Clayton, and left him as the innocent party. She knew well enough the kind of background Jim had. He was a troublemaker, a reckless kid who liked to act first and deal with the consequences later. She knew he came from a violent family, but always gave him the benefit of the doubt. Now however, she was convinced he was responsible for not only the death of the truck driver, but also of Clayton. Even as she sat there on the boat, she could feel Jim’s eyes on her, burning into her soul. Flashbacks of the previous night came flooding back, and she had to grip the edge of the table to stop herself from losing it.

After Greg had left the previous night, they had talked for a while, and quickly came to the conclusion that they had no choice but to go along with it. Only Jim objected, saying they should run, and that they could be far enough away so that, if and when, Greg notified the authorities, they would stand a good chance of staying hidden. The rest of the group disagreed, and although he fought it, Jim went along with it. Shortly after, they decided to get a few hours sleep.

Later, with the steady sounds of her sleeping friends all around her, Joanne lay in the dark, too agitated to sleep. They were already in deep, and the way she saw it, things would only get worse. She closed her eyes, trying to will her body to rest and give her some respite, but her brain wasn’t playing ball, and fired scenarios and questions at her with distressing regularity.

She heard a sound.

Opening her eyes, she peered into the gloom. She watched as Jim got up from the floor where he had been sleeping, creep to the dresser, grab the bag Joanne had brought with her and take it to the bathroom. She glanced at Tom, who was still sleeping. She reached out a hand to wake him, and then stopped. Instead, she quietly climbed out of bed and walked to the bathroom door. She could see the bar of light flooding under it, and as she put her ear to the wood, could hear him rummaging around, no doubt searching for the money she had brought with them.

Overcome by anger, she opened the door and walked into the room without knowing she was going to do it, closing it behind her. Jim stared at her as she entered, eyes wide, one arm still inside the bag.

"If you're looking for the money, I moved it," she whispered.

"I wasn’t, I was looking for some pain killers or something for this headache."

"Drop the act. I’m on to you."

"What do you mean?" Jim said, still playing innocent.

"You know what I mean. The others might not see it, but I know you had more to do with Clayton’s death than you're saying. Wouldn’t surprise me if you were the one who shot the driver too."

She expected Jim to flounder, or stutter some kind of explanation, which would further confirm her suspicion. Instead, he slowly removed his hand from the bag and turned towards her. He smiled, the harsh lighting from above throwing his face into a ghoulish mask.

"You should be careful saying things like that," he whispered.

She tried to back away, finding the closed door stopping her. All the bravery had gone now, leaving only fear.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said, trying to convince herself.

"Yes you are," he replied, taking a step towards her.

"What are you going to do?" She asked.

"Me? Nothing," he replied, stretching his smile. "As long as you stop giving me a hard time in front of the others."

"You did it though, didn’t you? It was you, not Clayton," she said, unable to keep the waver out of her voice.

He leaned close to her, his nose inches from hers. He reached up and put a hand around her throat, his touch gentle but sinister all the same. "Let's just say I did," he whispered, "that means it wouldn’t be hard to do it again if somebody was threatening to tell people."

She was trembling now, unable to stop. She wasn’t sure how she had missed it before, but could see now in his eyes that they were bottomless black wells.

"Then go, if that’s what you want to do. Run, take the money. Just leave us alone."

"I was going to, but now I’m not so sure."

"Why not?"

He tightened his grip slightly, just enough to make her uncomfortable. "Because I know what will happen. As soon as I leave, you'll start to talk, you'll make things up."

"I won’t, I swear I won’t, I-"

"You know what will happen to me? Have you any idea what my dad would do to me if he knew I was involved in all this? I can see him now, sitting at home with his buddies, already half cut and watching the news telling his friends how no son of his would get away with doing something like that."

"And is he right?" Joanne whispered.

"About what?"

"You know what I mean."

"I know, I want you to say it."

Although she was older than he was by five years, the seventeen year old Jim was tall and stocky, and had huge arms and shoulders. There was no mistake that he could easily overpower her. "Did you kill Clayton and that other man?"

He paused, and for a moment, it felt as if the whole world had stopped moving, then without warning, he released his grip on her neck and took a step back. "No. Of course not, but if, for the sake of argument I had, then you might want to tread carefully from here on."

"Why?"

"Because someone who had already gone to those lengths twice before, might be desperate enough to do it again if it meant saving their own skin."

"Is that a threat?" she asked.

"It's a statement. Take it however you want."

He reached past her and grabbed the door handle, hesitating just long enough to make her flinch, then opened it and squeezed past her, leaving her alone in the bathroom.

She hadn’t mentioned it to the others, and neither had Jim. Now as they sat on the boat less than five feet from each other, she was more afraid than ever.

"Hey, man," Fernando said, "this boat is way too small. Where the hell will we all sleep?"

"Don’t worry about it," Greg grunted.

"Seriously though, there's no way we can all stay here. There's no space."

"Who said we were staying on this boat?" Greg said, grinning at them.

"What do you mean?" Tom said.

"Take a look."

They stood and looked out of the window. Ahead, bobbing on the ocean was a ninety foot white hulled boat, which even from a distance oozed luxury. From the blacked out windows to the name penned in tall script on the bow, the luxury yacht was a clear step up in class from their current rickety vessel.

"Alright, that’s what I’m talking about," Fernando said.

Greg slowed the boat and turned towards them. "Alright, here's the deal. When we get there, you all stay here until I speak to the owner. He was only expecting me and he gets a little jumpy."

"Anyone we know?" Tom asked.

"I doubt it," Greg replied. "Believe, me, it’s better you don’t know. Just wait here until I call you over."

Greg moved the boat to the stern of the yacht, which had a wooden diving deck attached. He idled the boat and pulled parallel to the deck, then hurried outside, tossing lines with his good hand to the men waiting on the other boat, who secured the rickety fishing boat to the infinitely more impressive vessel.

"Remember, wait here," Greg said, grabbing a bag from an overhead cupboard then climbed over the side onto the deck of the Lady of the Mist. Men dressed in black suits and dark sunglasses showed him onto the deck, where waiting for him was the man he had come to see, Victor Mallone.

"Greg, it's been a while my friend," he slobbered in his thick Italian accent.

"How are you, Victor? Well I hope?"

The near four hundred pound Italian limped towards Greg, leaning heavily on his cane. He had slick black hair heavy with grease, and although they were hidden behind sunglasses right now, cruel eyes befitting of his status as a gangland boss. Victor's most striking features however, were the network of scars that covered his face and in particular his arm. Nobody knew for sure how he got them, but Greg had heard the stories. Some said it was during the attack on his New York office by rival gangs, which had resulted in the death of his wife and family. Other rumours said it was a car bomb designed to kill him, which he had only survived because he had been too drunk to drive and had ordered one of his men to do it for him. There were even rumours that it was due to an altercation with Chinatown crime lord, Wang Li, who was said to have cannibalistic tendencies and had chosen Victor as a potential meal. No matter the reason, Victor wasn’t a man you asked questions of, but one you answered. A dangerous man by any means, since his injuries, he had developed a ruthlessness and lack of compassion left by the death of those closest to him. The good thing about Victor for people like Greg was that if you had enough money and played by the rules, there was nothing that Victor couldn’t or wouldn’t get you. It had taken every penny Greg had, and whatever he could borrow from some of the Vegas loan sharks to get the money Victor had asked for. He only hoped now that the deal could be completed.

"You bring me my money?” Victor said in his Italian drawl.

"Of course," Greg replied, reaching into his jacket and handing over the bag he’d brought with him. "Fifteen grand as agreed."

Victor took the bag and handed it straight to one of his men, who disappeared into the boat.

"You're not even going to count it?"

"I know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to short change me," Victor said, making Greg grateful the oversized Italians eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses.

"Of course not, this is business."

"Just so we're clear," Victor said, "you bring my boat back in one piece. Not a scratch, you hear me?"

"Of course."

"The equipment you asked for is in the cargo hold. This boat is special to me, it means a lot. I’d be upset if anything happened to it. You know what happens to people who upset me, don’t you?" Victor said, giving Greg a crocodile smile.

Greg nodded. Everyone knew what happened if you crossed Victor.

"Okay, then I guess we have a deal," Victor said, then turned to one of his men, whispering something in his ear before the man promptly disappeared inside the vessel. Victor looked past Greg to Tom and his friends on the deck of his boat.  

"Who are your friends?" the Italian asked.

"Assistants. They’re helping me."

"They’re just kids."

"They were cheap."

"You really think there's a monster out there?" Victor said, smiling at Greg.

"I'm sure of it."

"Well," he said with a shrug, "it's your money and time. Who am I to tell you that you're wasting it."

Remembering how volatile a man he was dealing with, Greg said nothing, preoccupied by the appearance of the two brutes that were approaching Victor from inside the boat. It was obvious they were related, they shared the same sharp blue eyes and hooked noses. Both had blond hair, the taller, stockier of the two, wore his in a buzz cut and had a light stubble. His leaner but no less intimidating sibling was clean shaven and wore his hair in a side parting. Both were wearing black combat trousers and boots with a T-Shirt tight enough to show off their muscular physiques.