do and damned if we don’t,” she said. “I don’t know if I could live with the pressure at home; the threat, the not knowing, always wondering: What if…?”
David gazed at the lettering for a few seconds more, then said, “Let’s go see Treece.”
“I’ll not say ‘I told you so,” Treece said. “Bloody fools have to be scorched before they’ll admit there’s a fire.”
Sanders said, “Did you register the Spanish ship?”
“Aye. You didn’t tell the noble Mr. Hall about it, did you?”
“No.”
“He was pretty… reserved… about you,” said Gail.
“Reserved?” Treece laughed. “That’s not the word for it. Paper-pushers can’t figure me out. All they understand is bullshit and politics, which amount to the same thing.”
“You think they’ll do anything?”
“Maybe, around the turn of the century.” Treece shook his head, as if to dismiss the government from his mind. “So,” he said, “now that you’ve a half interest in what may turn out to be nothing, what are you going to do?”
“Stay,” Gail said, “we don’t really have a choice.”
“You’ve figured your risks?”
Sanders said, “We have.”
“All right. A few ground rules, then. From this moment on, you’re to do what I tell you. You can question all you want, when there’s time. But when there’s not, you jump first and ask questions later.”
Gail looked at David. “Leader of the pack.”
“What’s that?” Treece said.
“Nothing, really. When we were diving, David got annoyed at me for not obeying him.”
“And rightly, too. We could get through without a bruise, but there’ll be times when getting through at all may depend on how quick you respond. Any time you’re tempted to buck me, know this: I’ll kick your ass out of here in a trice. I’ll not have you getting killed on my account.”
“We’re not out to fight you,” Sanders said.
“Fine. Now”—Treece smiled—“bad-ass decision number one: Go back to Orange Grove and turn in your mobilettes. Pack your gear, check out, and call a cab to bring you out here.”
“What?”
“See? You’re bucking me already. If we’re going to get into this mess, I want you where I can keep an eye on you, and where Cloche’s people can’t. Back there, Christ knows who-all will have you in their sights.”
“B…,” Gail protested. “This is your—was—”
“It may not have all the amenities of your hundred-dollar-a-day bungalow, but it’ll do. And you won’t have to worry about some tomcat planting voodoo dolls in your bed.”
VIII
When the taxi had departed, leaving the Sanderses and their luggage outside Treece’s house, Gail said, “You think we’ll sleep in the kitchen?”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s the only room in the house we’ve ever seen.
He’s never even let us in the front door.”
The screen door flew open, and the dog bounded down the path toward them. She stood inside the gate, wagging her tail and whining.
Treece appeared in the doorway. “It’s okay, Charlotte.” The dog backed away a few feet and sat down. “Need any help?”
“We can manage.” Sanders opened the gate, hefted the two large suitcases, and, with Gail following him, walked along the path to the door. Gail had an air tank slung over each shoulder.
“You have meat on you,” Treece told her. “Those aren’t light.”
He held the screen door for them and ushered them into the house. The doorway opened onto a narrow hall. The floor was bare-wide, polished cedar boards. An old Spanish map of Bermuda, the parchment cracked and yellow-brown, hung in a frame on the wall. Beneath the map was a mahogany case with glass doors, full of antique bottles, musket balls, silver coins, and shoe buckles.
“In there,” Treece said, pointing to a door at the end of the hall. “Here, give me those bottles.
Are they empty or full?”
“Empty,” Gail said.
“I’ll set ’em out by the compressor.”
Sanders said, “You have your own compressor?”
“Sure. Can’t dash into Hamilton every time I need a tank of breeze.”
David and Gail went into the bedroom. It was small, nearly filled by a chest of drawers and an oversize double bed. The bed was at least seven feet square, and obviously handmade: cedar boards pegged together and rubbed with an oil that gave them a deep, rich shine.
“This is his room,” Gail whispered.
“Looks like it. What do you think that was?” Sanders pointed to a spot on the wall above the bed.
A painting or photograph had hung there until recently: a rectangle of
clean white was clearly visible against the aged white of the wall. They heard Treece’s footsteps in the hall. Sanders dropped their suitcases on the bed.
“We can’t take your room,” Gail said to Treece, who stood in the doorway. “Where will you sleep?”
“In there,” Treece said, cocking his head toward the living room. “I made a couch big enough for monsters like me.”
“B…”
“It’s better I sleep there. I’m a fitful sleeper. Besides, I was told I snore like a grizzly bear.” He led them toward the kitchen.
As they passed through the living room, Gail decided that a woman had lived in the house and had decorated it, though how recently she couldn’t tell. Most of the decor reflected Treece: gimbaled lanterns from a ship, brass shell casings, old weapons, maps, and stacks of books. But there were feminine touches, such as a needlepoint rug and a gay, flower-pattern fabric on the couch and chairs.
The paintings on the walls were mostly sea scenes.
There were two empty spots, from which pictures had been removed.
In the kitchen, Treece said, “I might’s well show you where things are.” He looked out the window.
“It’s that time of day.” He opened a cabinet filled with liquor bottles. “Make yourself a charge if you like. I’ll have a spot of rum.”
Sanders made drinks, while Treece guided Gail through the other cabinets.
“Can’t we contribute something?” Gail said.
“By and by. Food’s not much of a burden.” Treece smiled. “Feel you’ve been asked to a house party?”
“Sort of. Show me what you want to have for dinner, and I’ll get to work.”
“Supper’ll be along. I’ll take care of it.”
Treece took a glass of rum from Sanders.
“We’ll start tomorrow; pick Adam up on the beach.”
“Coffin?” Sanders said. “He’s going to dive?”
“Aye. I tried to put him off, but he wouldn’t have it. He still thinks it’s his ship, and he’s hot to stick it to Cloche.”
“Is he good?”
“Good enough. He’s a pair of hands, and we’ll need all the hands we can get. We’ll have to work like bloody lightning, ‘cause Cloche will get on to what we’re doing fast, and then it’ll be dicey as hell. Another thing about Adam: He has a zipper on his mouth. Once he shuts it, nobody’ll open it. He learned a lesson from that
