Infernal

4

Tom stood watch over the afterdeck as a dockside pump filled the Sahbons tanks. He was sipping another kind of fuel: the Grey Goose he kept stashed in the pilothouse.

Instead of making the longer trip back to the sound, they'd cruised directly to St. George's where they returned the scuba gear and the pump, paying an extra fee for the time it would take a couple of men to drive out to Somerset and retrieve the truck. Then they found a marina for refueling.

Jack was ashore, buying food and ice, and calling Gia to let her know they were on their way home.

Tom took a deep sip from the coffee cup he was using as a glass. No ice aboard, so he was drinking it warm. He preferred it freezer cold, but warm vodka was better than no vodka.

Even with half a snootful he doubted he could find a way to put a positive spin on this trip situation.

Only one way to spin being locked out of his stash and learning that the feds knew more about him than he'd dreamed.

The good news—the trip's only good news—was that he was now the proud owner of the Lilitongue of Gefreda. At least he assumed that was what the ugly thing was.

He glanced toward the door to the pilothouse where they'd stowed it in its chest.

The bad news was that he had no idea what to do with it, or how to use it.

His initial elation had begun to die when he opened the chest and got a look at it. He hadn't known what to expect, but he'd never dreamed it would look like that. Despair crept in when he could find no word of explanation in the chest as to what it held or what it could do or how it could be used.

He put down his vodka and stepped below into the pilothouse. There he pulled his beat-up green canvas backpack from under his bunk. He un-zipped it and searched among the banded stacks of bills. He managed a smile. Would Jack ever be pissed if he saw this pile of cash.

There. Got it.

He pulled out a Xeroxed sheet, one he hadn't shown Jack: a copy of the inscription on the band around the Mendes map. He knew it by heart, but unfolded the sheet anyway and retranslated the ornate script.

Let this be the only record of the final resting place of the Lilitongue of Gefreda, known to the dark few as a means to elude all enemies and leave them helpless. Consigned to the depths near the Isle of Devils by order of the Holy Father. May no man exhume it from its watery grave.

He didn't know who "the dark few" were. Maybe Jesuits—they dressed in black, didn't they? But "a means to elude all enemies and leave them helpless" echoed through to his soul.

Tom couldn't think of anyone who more needed to elude his enemies. He'd wanted the map the instant he saw it. And lately, as he'd felt the noose tightening around his neck, the promise of the Lilitongue had called to him.

If he'd been able to grab his stash, he'd have had no need of the thing, wouldn't even have looked for it. But the cash in his backpack wasn't going to get him far. Might be enough to help him disappear for a while, but he'd need lots more to stay invisible.

He needed a way to elude all enemies and leave them helpless.

Am I nuts?

The whole idea was crazy, wishful thinking. A fantasy.

But a part of him sensed truth there. Years ago, out of curiosity, he'd looked into it. He'd found next to nothing about the Lilitongue itself, but he'd come across veiled references to the pope himself—Clement VIII, to be exact—wanting it disposed of. That said a lot.

Maybe it said: Don't mess with it.

But Tom didn't think so. The pope in those times was king of the hill; he didn't need to "elude" his enemies. In fact, a great many people, especially heretics, had needed to elude him. The Spanish Inquisition was still in full swing back in 1598. When it had started in the preceding century, its main targets were Spanish Jews and Moors; but in the sixteenth century a real threat to the Church arose: Protestantism.

Could Pope Clement have assigned the Jesuit map maker to send the Lilitongue to a watery grave because of wild-eyed Lutherans and Presbyterians?

Well, they were heretics. And maybe he didn't want it to fall into their hands. Because it worked.

Or he believed it worked.

But if the inscription was to be believed, Pope Clement had been pretty damn determined to be rid—permanently rid—of the Lilitongue. He sent a ship on a four-week voyage, far off the trade routes, to hide the thing where no one would ever find it. No one considered Bermuda habitable back then—no one dreamed it would ever be inhabited.

Tom had wondered why go to all that trouble. Why not just dump it overboard in midocean?

He'd learned the answer today when he saw the chest shoot to the surface: The Lilitongue floats. And the pope hadn't wanted it washing up on shore.

But to sink an entire ship… that said something.

Maybe it said the Lilitongue was what he needed to save his sorry ass. And maybe it was.

But he hadn't the faintest idea how to use it.

Tom sighed—he'd been doing a lot of sighing lately—and stuffed the sheet back into his backpack, then returned topside for his vodka.

Let's face it, he thought as he took a gulp. I'm fucked. Might as well hold the fuel hose over my head, give myself a good soaking, and light a match.

He shuddered. Couldn't see himself doing that. Although the feds and the powers-that-be in Harrisburg were planning a figurative auto-da-fe for him, he wasn't about to give them the real thing.

He took another slug of Goose.

That didn't mean he might not come to the point where he'd look for another mode of exit, though one kinder and gentler.

"I't'row it right back in de water, me."

Tom looked up and saw a young black girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, standing on the dock, staring at him. Her hair was cornrowed and she wore baggy, cut-off shorts and a stained yellow T-shirt. The nipples of her small, budding breasts poked two little points in the fabric. She was smiling at him.

"Pardon?" he said.

"You hear me."

The homely, brown, short-haired mutt seated beside her on the dock barked. Its pug face hinted that a bulldog had sneaked into its lineage. One of its ears had a chewed look. Its pink tongue lolled as it stared at him and panted.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

"I say, I't'row it right back in de water, me."

Her voice was musical but didn't carry the cultured Brit tones of the typical Bermudian black; she sounded more like a Jamaican.

Tom looked at his almost empty vodka cup. "Throw what back?"

Her huge brown eyes bored into his. "Youuuu know."

Tom's mouth had gone a little dry. He took a sip to wet it.

Did she mean the Lilitongue? No. She couldn't know. There hadn't been another boat anywhere near them the whole time they were out today.

Or had there? No telling who had been around while they were underwater. But certainly no one too close—they would have heard the motor, seen the hull. And he was sure no one had been in sight when they'd brought it aboard.

So what was she talking about?

"I'm sorry, miss, but you'll need to be more specific."

Her smile faded. Her hands went to the hem of her T-shirt, gripped it, and slowly started to raise it.

Tom glanced around, nervous. He was an outsider, an illegal one to boot, and here was this local black girl, a minor, about to flash him. And not a soul in sight. She could accuse him of anything.

He licked his lips. "What on earth are you—?"

He never got to finish the sentence and she never got to exposing her breasts. Just her abdomen.

Tom looked, blinked, looked again. He felt his jaw drop, his tongue turn to sand. The cup slipped from his fingers and bounced on the deck.

The girl had a hole through her. Just to the right of her navel. Clear through her. He could see the yellow wall of the marina office shack behind her through the opening.

"T'row it back," she said, then lowered her shirt and walked away.