The Ocean Dark

63

Angie Tyree saw them every time she closed her eyes. Images played across her mind of the legless things hanging from the walkways of the Antoinette’s accommodations block, or slithering over the railings, pale and luminescent, as though their flesh consisted only of scars. She could still hear the echoes of Dwyer’s screams, still see the things driving Miguel to the deck and tearing him apart.

She couldn’t stop crying and she hated that. All her life she had prided herself on being the tough girl. But all of that had been stripped away and she felt raw and jagged inside. The doctor hadn’t found anything physically wrong with her, but she knew that she would never be okay again. The fear had gotten deep inside her, not just under the skin but down to the bone, and it nested in her marrow like a cancer.

So when the door opened, the click of the latch alone was enough to make Angie let out a soft cry and slide across the cot, jamming herself into the corner, hugging herself protectively, wondering if she would die now. The sunlight streaming in through the window and the bright blue Caribbean sky did nothing to lessen her terror.

When the FBI agent entered the room, she let out a breath and her eyes fluttered closed for a second. She allowed herself to sit on the cot instead of crouching in the corner, but her muscles remained tensed, ready to fight or run. Angie told herself she would not die quietly, that she would scream the way Dwyer had, so that her screams would ring in the ears of those who heard them for the rest of their lives. In that way, for a time, at least, she would be remembered. Someone would know she had been on this damned planet.

The agent had a plate of food, rice and black beans or something. When he spotted her perched uncomfortably on the cot, his eyes were filled with such humanity that Angie began to cry harder. She tried to staunch the flow of tears, tried to summon the inner bitch she had always worn as a mask at her own convenience, but it wouldn’t come.

“Ms. Tyree,” the agent said. He was a big guy, and decent-looking — not one of the agents who had questioned her earlier. “I’m Special Agent Plausky. I thought you must be hungry. I don’t know when you ate last—”

“Why are we still here?” she asked, hearing the numbness of her own voice but unable to do anything about it.

Plausky set the plate on a little table in a corner opposite the cot, never taking his eyes off her. The FBI body language spoke clearly — he wore his gun in an armpit holster like a cop in some eighties movie, and was aware both of the weapon and of the crying woman in his custody. He would not turn his back on her, give her a chance to try for the gun. Angie figured it must just be training, because the idea that she might attempt such a thing felt absurd.

“Ms. Tyree, this is a major FBI investigation. The operation is not going to be over any time soon. When my superiors feel like they’re done with you, and if opportunity arises, I’ll do my best to have you transported either back to St. Croix or to Miami. You’ll remain in federal custody until someone decides to let you go.”

The words fell upon her like icy rain. Angie shivered, shaking her head.

“You don’t get it. You don’t get it,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth. She glanced at the window and turned quickly away, afraid of what might appear there, despite the sunshine. “I can’t stay here. None of us can stay here.”

Plausky sighed and dragged the chair over from the small table. He perched on the edge of the chair, maybe trying to make her feel comfortable by moving down to her level, but still not letting his guard down.

“Ms. Tyree — Angie — trust me when I say you’re not in any danger now.”

She laughed, but the laugh became a sob and she broke down, bowing her head. “Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding?”

Again, Plausky sighed. “Look, I’m trying to be polite here, but you’ve got to get it together. A real conversation wouldn’t be a bad place to start. If you want to help yourself, you could start by talking about the Rio brothers and Viscaya, and what you know about the guns.”

Angie shuddered, closed her eyes, and heard gunfire that made her flinch. But it wasn’t happening now, only in her memory.

“The guns are gone.” She opened her eyes and fixed him with a stare, breathing evenly, and managed to stop crying. Sniffling, she wiped at her nose. “You people are fucking crazy. The guns are gone.”

“But you saw them?” Plausky asked, obviously interested now that she was talking about his precious investigation.

Angie took a long breath, steadying herself. “Yes. I saw them.”

Plausky tried to keep a straight face so she wouldn’t know how pleased he was with this. When he had tried to question her before, Angie had been unable to stop crying, had barely been able to speak. It had all been a blur to her, but she thought she had been screaming as well.

“Can you describe what you saw?” Plausky asked. “What type of guns, and how many?”

Angie hugged herself and glanced at the window. Forcing herself to stand, jaw tight with fear, she climbed off the bed and went to peer out through the glass. In the distance she could see the island. Closer — much closer — the Antoinette loomed in the water, dark and menacing. It looked abandoned, but she knew that was not the case.

“Not enough,” she whispered.

“What’s that?”

Heat rushing to her face, she rounded on him. “Not enough!” she screamed, fists clenched at her sides. “We didn’t have enough guns, you stupid fucking Fed. These things were endless, like cockroaches. Bring all the guns you want; it won’t make a difference!”

Plausky got up from his chair, backing away so quickly that he tipped it over. She saw the alarm in his eyes, saw his hand twitch toward his weapon and the way he tensed, and she started to fall apart all over again.

“Please,” she said, slumping back against the wall. The images forced themselves into her head again, and now she did not even have to close her eyes. Dwyer’s screams lingered in the air around her, following her, haunting her. “You’ve got to get me out of here. I don’t care where you send me, but please don’t make me stay. I’ll say whatever you want, but please …”

Her body shook and she crawled back onto the bed, pushed herself into the corner, and watched the windows and the door and the shadowed corners, despair crushing her.

“Angela, listen,” Plausky ventured. “You’re totally safe here. I swear.”

She turned from him, covered her face, and curled into a fetal ball. Words had failed her. All she could do now was wonder how many hours remained before nightfall. How many minutes were left for her to live.