The Deep Zone

ran the length of each wall. She had avoided looking into those mirrors when she’d entered. There would come a time when she would have no fear of mirrors, but not yet.

“Would mademoiselle care for a cocktail before dinner?” Yet a third steward was attending her this evening. Or was he the first one she had met when coming aboard? She couldn’t be sure.

“Yes.” Flemmer thought about that. What would she drink? “I will have a martini,” she said, and he turned to go. She stopped him. “Wait. With two olives.”

“Immediately, mademoiselle.” He reappeared in two minutes, white-gloved, with her drink on a silver tray.

“I have a question,” she said, when he had put the long-stemmed glass in front of her.

“Yes, mademoiselle?”

“Where are we? I mean, how long until we get to where we’re going?”

The steward looked at her as though she had said something that was funny without realizing it. But when he answered, she understood.

“We are almost exactly halfway, mademoiselle.” He half-bowed and left her.

The gin was so cold it stung her lips. She had never drunk a martini before, and couldn’t make up her mind whether she liked this one or not. The juniper’s perfume scent appealed, and she felt warm through and through after the first few sips. But the liquor did something strange in her throat, making it feel taut and a little numb. The suffusing warmth soon overwhelmed that, however, and before she knew it, she had finished the martini and ordered another.

The nausea began when she was halfway through the second cocktail. Right after came a headache, swift, sharp pain like a blow to the front of her skull. Her stomach moved.

I need to go to the bathroom, she thought, and tried to stand, and found that she could not. For just an instant she thought that she had imagined it, but then she tried to stand again and nothing happened. She opened her mouth to call the steward, tried to raise her hand to signal for help, tried to scream. Nothing happened. She was conscious, breathing, could feel the chair pressing against her buttocks and clothing touching her skin, but that was all. Panic flared. It felt as though she had been buried alive.

Where was the steward? What was happening to her? Then she heard movement from behind and four of them appeared, two on each side of her chair. She recognized the Algerian and one other. Two more she had not encountered.

Thank God. They must have seen I was having trouble.

They lifted her out of the chair, their hands careless and rough. She could still feel pain where they squeezed her flesh. They supported her under both shoulders because she would have crashed to the floor without them.

They tilted her backward, as though her heels were affixed to a hinge on the floor. Two of them held her under the arms and the others lifted her legs, gripping them at the ankles and knees. She could feel their hands tightening like manacles. None tried to touch her improperly, and she thought that they might be carrying her to a clinic or infirmary. But the stewards who had bowed and called her mademoiselle now bore her through those locked doors and along shadowed, diesel-smelling passageways as though she were a side of beef. They neither rushed nor lagged but moved purposefully and without speaking. At one corner, her head swung on its limp neck and smacked into the steel bulkhead. For a time she saw nothing but red, and when she came back, she knew they were not taking her to a clinic. She tried again and again to scream at them but managed not even a squeak.

They carried her to the ultimate end of the ship’s pointed bow. Working smoothly in unison, they lifted her over the chrome rail and dropped her into the ocean. She disappeared beneath the centerline of the onrushing prow. The yacht was making sixteen knots and she did not have time to drown before her body met the hacking screws.

FORTY-FIVE

SHE BROKE THE SURFACE GASPING AND FOR A SECOND thought she was hallucinating. The last time she had come up there were two men. Now there were more.

“Buenos dias, senorita.”

The speaker was ragged-toothed, leering. They wore patched jeans and odds and ends of scavenged military garments, sleeveless camo shirts, ragged straw hats, cowboy boots. Each one held an AK-47 and they all had pistols holstered on web belts. One, the biggest, carried crossed bandoliers of ammunition that gleamed like a golden X on his chest. He wore an oversized red ball cap with a huge bill cocked at an angle.

Narcotraficantes.

Holding his rifle in his left hand, the man who had spoken reached down with his right.

“Ven!”

No options to analyze this time. She reached up, took his hand, and he pulled her out. Once again she stood barefoot, dripping—now with four men leering at her. Two were obviously drunk, weaving on their feet, mouths slack, half-mast eyes. The big man with the bandoliers of ammunition appeared sober. He had a hard slab of a face, a beard like steel wool. A hand-rolled cigarette, or maybe a joint, dangled from his lips. He had huge feet and his shoes were black sneakers with the toes cut out.

The two drunk men, saying something in rapid-fire Spanish to the one who had pulled her out, started toward her. The big man remained where he was, watching the leader, who barked at the drunks. They scowled, mumbled slurred curses, but stepped back.

“Hablas espanol?” The leader was talking to her.

“Si, un poco. Ingles, por favor.”

“Ah. Norteamericano. Me llamo Carlos. Been Laredo, Houston, big cities. Some English, me. Them… no English. Brains here.” He grasped his crotch, shook his head. “Want you for bad things. But no. You I take to Comandante. A gift. From me to him.” He smacked his chest, grinned.

The two drunks were passing a clear bottle back and forth, swigging yellowish liquor that, even from where she was, smelled like kerosene and formaldehyde. Aguardiente, the local sugarcane moonshine. As they drank and passed the bottle, their eyes, red as crushed strawberries, never strayed from her breasts.

Negotiate. “If you let me go, I can get you money. Millions.”

He shook his head, looked genuinely regretful. “No good. No use to man with no hands. Feet. Head. Dick.”

Each time he named a body part, he made a chopping motion with the edge of his hand as though hacking with a machete, and she understood: Jungle justice.

He gave the big man orders, and Hallie caught enough of it to understand that he was to search the dead body, take anything of value from the camp, throw everything else, including the corpse, into the cenote, and then catch up with them.

“So. We go get your pack.”

He snapped at the other two, and they all walked around the cenote. She picked up her long underwear, not even bothering to glance at Carlos.

“Stop.”

His snapped command did stop her, and she stood, glaring. He looked back, expression neutral, considering. Pursed his lips, shook his head. One of the drunks muttered something guttural and obscene, and Carlos laughed so hard spit flew from his lips. But then he waved at her. “Okay. Put on. Is better for Comandante to undress you.”

Carlos said something to the men and one of the drunks led off. The other shouldered her pack and stood next to her.

“You now.” Carlos poked her in the side with the muzzle of his rifle and she started walking. The heels of the leading narco’s cowboy boots, she saw, were worn almost flat. She remembered her own bare feet.