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He watched her sip the daiquiri, her graceful fingers idly caressing the
glass. Her perfect nails were painted the color of blood. She reminded
him of a woman he'd once known, a beautiful woman who'd come to a bad
end. He signalled for another Jack Daniel’s over ice.
She sat profiled to him,
gazing diffidently through the window at the yacht harbor below, her
posture reflecting a state of mild boredom. Her simple white dress,
like her jewellery and accessories, was strictly Rodeo Drive in origin.
To Fitzwater, a man of the world, who knew class and money when he saw
it, she had definite possibilities. He also knew that she’d been
watching him from the corner of her eye.
Several days earlier the
yacht club bartender, an enterprising young man named Jason, had given
Fitzwater the low-down on Faith Bond, yon elegant widow. In her
mid-thirties, she was beautiful, wealthy, loved to sail and ride
horseback, and drank strawberry daiquiris. New to the area, she was
definitely not on the make.
Fitzwater had noted this
for himself. Mrs. Bond attracted male admirers like government handouts
attract clients. But these men had all gone down to ignominious
defeat. In disposing of some half-a-dozen pretenders, she'd been
polite, gracious, but firm.
Time for the Real McCoy.
He summoned the
bartender. Slipping a $20 into his hand, he gave Jason instructions.
The boy grinned and shook
his head. "I’ll give ya even money,” he murmured.
Jason went to the woman,
whispered a few words, pointed to the yacht basin, nodded his head, and
returned.
"Congratulations,” he
murmured, showing some surprise. “She says to bring your drink with
you.”
"Thanks." Fitzwater
picked up his glass and sauntered to her table.
"May I?" He asked,
pulling out a chair.
“Surely.” She observed
him with an air of grudging approval as though he were on probation.
He sat across from her,
affecting nonchalance. “Nice day,” he said.
“Yes it is. Is that
really your boat, Mr. Fitzwater?” she said, pointing a shapely finger at
his fifty-footer’s ecru colored superstructure.
“Yep. And please, call
me Troy.”
“Okay, Troy.” Her eyes
were a pale powder green, the opaque color of cresting waves when the
sun hits them just right. “I’m Faith. Faith Bond.”
“Delighted to meet you.
You like my boat, then?” He asked rhetorically.
“Silly question. It’s a
Hatteras, right?”
“Sure. The Screaming
Mimi.”
She sipped her drink and
carefully appraised him.
An ice goddess, he
thought. Yet he sensed that her coolness was artificial that underneath
her drawing room facade there lurked a passionate and fun loving person,
perhaps even an erotic one.
“You like sailing?” he
asked, discreetly admiring her gold Piaget watch.
“Absolutely.” Her skin
was flawless, her body prime in all the right places, her auburn tresses
teased into a glistening copper streaked crown. She raised her glance,
showing him a directness and candidness that pleased him. She was
exquisite. Beauty, brains--and bucks?
He decided on a bold
stroke, figuring with this woman one could cut to the chase. “I’m
taking her out tomorrow. Care to be my mate for the day?”
She laughed. “Just how
do you mean that, sir?”
“Anyway you wish,
madam.” Their eyes met and held.
“Hm.” She quickly
dropped her glance and sipped her daiquiri.
“Well, how about it?”
“What will I have to
do?” She asked.
“Just be yourself.”
“All right. I’ll be your
mate. But in a nautical sense only.”
He laughed warmly. “Of
course.”
The next morning they
took The Screaming Mimi out of the harbor and into deep water.
The sea was calm, the sun warm and inviting. It was a day made for fun
and adventure, and they took full advantage of it, lunching on crab
salad, drinking champagne, and getting better acquainted. Both were
good listeners and each had an interesting personal story.
Faith was in her
mid-thirties, had travelled much with her family as a child--she was a
navy brat--and had finally settled in San Francisco. She’d met her late
husband, Raleigh Bond, an investment banker, at a Mark Hopkins cocktail
party hosted by his company. It had been love at first sight. After a
few years they’d sold out and moved to southern California. Since
Raleigh enjoyed sailing, they’d bought a Catalina sailboat and joined
the Sea Clipper Yacht Club. Theirs had been a happy marriage, ending
tragically six months ago when Raleigh--twenty years her senior--had
struck his head on the garage door and died three days later from a
brain haemorrhage. When Faith finished this part her eyes were moist
with tears.
Fitzwater, definitely not
the sentimental type, found himself surprisingly moved. Faith exuded an
appealing vulnerability and it engendered in him just a brief moment of
nettlesome self reflection.
Over lunch in the salon,
he was prompted by Faith to talk about himself. He poured more
champagne, settled back on the comfortable sofa, and waxed eloquent. It
was a compelling narrative, if only marginally accurate. Had she known
the truth about him, she wouldn’t have been on this boat--not now, not
ever.
After lunch they fished
for a while. The bonito were running and the sea was mirror calm. They
caught half-a-dozen nice ones in the first hour. Soon, though, a school
of blues showed up, going after the anglers’ hooked catches with savage
élan.
“Oh, God!” Faith shrieked
suddenly as a large blue shark came out of the water and neatly sliced
in half the fat bonito she was landing. The blue’s powerful jaws
clanked shut like a steel trap. She shuddered involuntarily. "My God!"
“Not to worry,” laughed
Fitzwater. “This isn’t Jaws. They’re not coming on deck.”
She shivered again
nevertheless. “Horrible brutes. That last one could have taken off
your arm.”
He nodded. “True. They
can go to eleven feet. They've got a bad rep, too.”
She tried to smile.
“They do?”
“Oh, not like the tiger
or white, but they've done their share. He mentioned the fate of the
Tinker Toy half a dozen men in the water, and all that was left were
some kapok life jackets ripped to shreds. Blues were suspected.
Her face paled
appreciably. “Enough.”
“Sorry.” He stood by the
rail and studied her, his dark eyes narrowing with an even darker
speculation. “Maybe we’d better go in.”
“Yes, thank you.”
They returned to the
yacht club, changed for dinner, and had a fine meal of grilled sea bass
and asparagus. The next morning they played a round of golf, and he
later took her to a friend’s ranch where they rode horseback until the
sun went down. She was as accomplished a horsewoman as he was an
indifferent one. They had a splendid day, topped off with a steak
dinner at the Moonstone, Fitzwater’s favorite Malibu bistro.
As the weeks went by,
Fitzwater’s urbane courting seized the day, though Faith was maddeningly
proper and aloof in the early going. In fact, she was quite a
challenge. Finally, though, experience and skill won out and they
blended as one, becoming inseparable companions, settling into a
suitable living arrangement by dividing their time between her luxury
waterside condo and his cozy bachelor pad. The depths of their devotion
seemed unplumbed.
Once, however, when she
left him alone at her place, he expertly tossed every drawer in her
desk, assessing, with a mortgage banker’s acumen, the gross value of her
jewelry, her bank accounts, and her various investments. She was a rich
woman.
Satisfied, he stepped up
his efforts to woo her into the holy state of matrimony. It took him
exactly three more months. It was a whirlwind and expensive romance.
They went to the opera, dined in swank restaurants, and made love on
remote sandy southern California beaches. He taught her how to handle
the big power boat, shared with her his love of deep sea fishing, and of
reading Jane Austen while sipping a wine spritzer at four in the
morning. She shared her love of classical music, thoroughbred racing,
sailing, and the grand opera. It was a dizzying time, and when
Halloween rolled around they were quietly married.
She tentatively suggested
a pre-nuptial agreement, but he vigorously objected, arguing that since
neither of them had family, why bother? She acquiesced. They took out
substantial insurance policies on each other’s life, though, again his
idea. Routine he said. And she, eager to please him, went along with
it, a lamb led, by subtle pressures and Errol Flynn charm, to the
slaughter. Soon they settled in a large two-story condominium just off
Pacific Coast Highway north of Malibu, one which they purchased
jointly. Wedded bliss is not too strong a term for their new life
together.
Something unsettling
happened, however, just two weeks after they moved into their new digs.
Fitzwater came home one afternoon to find the place ransacked. Faith
had been to the hairdresser, Fitzwater out on the Hatteras. The police
were helpful but not hopeful that they’d catch the perpetrator. It
seems a clever gang of thieves was working the area.
Faith was devastated.
Inconsolable. Cash, bearer bonds, and some precious icons from her life
with Raleigh had been stolen. But it could have been worse, Fitzwater
belatedly realized. His wall safe had been jimmied, but fortunately it
seemed to have withstood the burglar’s tools. A good thing, too, for
there was incriminating material within. Like many of his ilk,
Fitzwater kept certain grim mementos.
The couple immediately
had all the locks changed. And later, for insurance purposes, they had
jewelry and valuables appraised. They also made joint all assets and
investments. Fortunately, Faith seemed unconcerned about who had the
money, so long as they had plenty of it. Fitzwater sometimes worried
about her indifference to financial matters. It nagged at his acute
sense of caution. But he realized, after reflection, that his problem
with this was his own predatory and suspicious nature. She, like so
many other women he’d known, was too accommodating, to artless in
matters of money. Content to let him assume the pivotal role in their
affairs, she had failed to understand the lethal mystery of his true
desires.
One afternoon, while
Faith was at the dentist, Fitzwater opened his safe, took out a metal
container, and spread its contents across his desk. Locks of hair,
newspaper clippings, grainy photos, and bits of jewelry lay on the
polished surface. He fondled each item, recalling the face that went
with it, the flavor and texture and scent of each of his six former
wives. He’d once been devoted to each one, but had nevertheless taken
their hearts, their valuables, and then their lives.
After awhile he gently
replaced the artefacts of love and betrayal.
He sighed, went into the
kitchen to make coffee, and began plotting a plan of action, for now
Faith must of necessity join the others. But she would be the last. It
was over. He’d set his cap set on a small island off the Washington
coast, secluded and anonymous. There he’d enjoy the good life. He
mulled it over, thinking the sea might provide the right sort of stage
for Faith’s final curtain call. An accident in heavy weather,
that’s the ticket. A tragic drowning.
Accordingly, one blustery
November morning he suggested they pack a luncheon hamper and go out for
a fishing trip aboard The Screaming Mimi. Faith countered by
proposing, instead, that they take a sail on the Sea Witch, her
Catalina. She argued that the wind was up, it being a perfect weather
for a sail and not so good for fishing. It made sense and he readily
agreed, deciding to put off the other excursion for another time. He
could wait.
An hour later they were
stowing aboard food and other things while chatting amiably with Steve
Beard, who berthed the Pescador, his sixty foot yawl, between the
Fitzwater boats.
“Dicey day for a sail,
you guys,” opined Beard, a short, chunky widower with more money than
brains. It amused Fitzwater that the man couldn’t seem to take his eyes
off Faith.
“Don’t worry Steve, we’ll
be careful,” Fitzwater assured him.
Faith nodded. “Yeah, and
we’ll stay good and close to shore.”
Beard smiled. “Okay.
Have a ball you lovebirds. But wear your life jackets.”
“Aye, aye matey.”
Fitzwater climbed aboard the sailboat and fiddled with the sails. Faith
quickly joined him. Later they started the inboard, backed out of the
dock, cleared the stone jetty, set the jib and mainsail, then headed
into deep water. It was a perfect day for sailing; a million white caps
dotted the indigo sea, and the sky formed a pale blue blanket above.
After awhile Faith went
below to set out lunch.
While she was away,
Fitzwater began to speculate if this might not be the perfect venue for
his wife’s death. It excited him. He could plead unfamiliarity with
the boat and the choppy, high running seas. Also, Beard would recall
warning them of the danger. Fitzwater could explain later that the
Sea Witch had gotten into a trough and had yawed, pitching his poor
bride into the drink. As Faith was only an indifferent swimmer, it
would be over in minutes. They’d suspect him, sure, but would have no
proof. Plastic surgery and some excellently crafted IDs would distance
him from any discovery of past adventures.
And so he decided her
fate in the affirmative; it would be this day. Expectation of the
event, as usual, sent blood thrumming in his ears. Damn me, but I
love this.
He noticed now, with mild
surprise, that the bright orange pair of life jackets he'd brought on
board were missing. He was sure that he’d earlier loaded them on
board. Maybe not. Well, no matter, it plays right into my hands.
Looking around he saw
that they were completely alone, the shoreline a distant yellow and
green slash against the anaemic blue of the sky. Just right. He
stood up, quickly designing Faith’s upcoming murder in a sort of ad
hoc fashion. Where should he place her? Forward? Yeah, on some
pretext or other. Then spin the wheel. I won’t have to touch her. No
scratches, no bruises.
His lips thinned against
capped teeth, his heart thumped loudly in his chest, and his dark eyes
closed in anticipation, like those of an attacking shark, the nictating
membrane of his predatory nature blotting out even the briefest glimmer
of humanity.
Just then something
caught his attention. Trailing behind them was the high dorsal fin of a
very large blue shark. They’d been playing tag with it for awhile but
not lately. Shivering, he briefly thought of tender Faith in the water
with that thing. But it failed to move him much, at least not enough to
save her life.
“Troy, honey, lunch is
on,” she called from below.
“Okay. I’ll be right
down.”
He secured the wheel and
started to duck into the cabin.
“Oh, Troy?” She poked
her head out of the forward hatch and pointed at the flapping jib.
“Will you take it down before you come in?”
“Sure thing.”
“And Troy.” She stood up
in the hatchway. “I got more than lunch here for ya.”
He grinned. One final
meal and one last roll in the hay. Best I can do for ya, darlin’.
Making his way forward, he stopped to kiss her. Her breath tasted of
spearmint. Her tongue invaded his mouth.
She said huskily, “I’ve
never done it on a sailboat.”
“Be right with ya, love.”
She smiled and ducked
into the cabin.
Gingerly making his way
forward past the hatch, he knelt down and wrestled with the jib. It
took just a few minutes to get it secured. Satisfied, he stood up.
There, that should--
Suddenly, the boat yawed
violently, sending Fitzwater toppling into the sea.
Shit!
The shock of plunging
into the cold water was heart stopping. He came up spitting, choking,
and gagging. “Help,” he croaked, realizing with horror that she was
down below and might not hear his cries. He screamed anyway. Then he
shucked his pants and shoes and began to paddle around in a circle.
Got to keep warm. He prayed she’d miss him soon and turn the boat
around.
But what the hell
happened?
Just over the horizon he
watched the Sea Witch suddenly lose headway. Moments later the
mainsail came down. Soon he could detect a change in the boat’s
direction, the mainmast moving right against the shifting, hissing
horizon. She was coming about, coming back for him. Thank God!
He considered the cruel
irony of it--the chicken rescuing the fox.
After what seemed like an
eternity, the prow of the Catalina poked into view. Faith was running
the inboard. Even in these high swells, the sailboat moved toward him.
Picking him up would be easily accomplished. Faith was standing by the
wheel, tensely peering ahead, slender fingers guarding her green eyes
from the bright sunlight. She was looking for him.
“Over here,” he hollered,
ingesting about a quart of sea water for his pains. He coughed the
water out of his lungs. His body was near frozen by now in the fifty
degree water.
The Catalina immediately
slowed, the engine idling. The boat drifted toward him, coming ever
closer--thirty feet--twenty feet. Faith engaged the reverse drive and
the sailboat stalled, not ten feet from Fitzwater. She turned it into
the swell, managed the wheel with a light touch, and stared at him.
“Throw me a line,” he
shouted, frantically waving his arm.
She ran her glance to
him--then past him. For some odd reason she held the bait bucket in her
free hand.
“Faith,” he screamed,
“Help me here.”
She ignored him, grabbing
the chum ladle, while holding on tight to the wheel.
“What the hell are you
doing?” he hollered. “Throw me a line. Quick.”
Instead, she began
chumming, scooping out fish guts and blood, tossing the stinking mess in
his direction.
He could smell it. It made
him want to retch.
“Help me,” he gasped,
kicking hard to stay afloat in the frigid water.
But she didn’t answer,
just scooped out more blood. Then she threw the bucket into the rolling
sea.
“Faith, for God’s sake,
bring her in closer. Help me.”
Still she remained mute.
Has she gone nuts?
The fishy effluvium drifted around him in a bloody cloud. He began
thinking of sharks, remembering the awful clank of their scimitar shaped
jaws, the dorsal he'd just seen. “What in hell do you think you’re
doing?” he hollered.
“Saving my life, you
bloody bastard,” Faith snapped, slowly backing the boat. And in her
chilly, uncompromising gaze he read his death warrant.
But why?
“Are you crazy?” he
bellowed.
“Like a fox. Listen,
whoever you really are. This is gonna really shock ya. But you and me,
baby--we’re in the same business. I know `cause I got into your safe,
love.”
The robbery she
allegedly was so cut up about!
“But--”
“No butts, Mister. I
read those clippings. Looked at your treasure trove. I know all about
your six wives--and how you did `em in. You’re clever, I’ll give you
that.”
He felt a sickening
horror crawling like a spider into his mind. “Listen I--”
“Cut the crap. We’re
birds of a feather. I got mine the same way you did.” She was grinning
now, like a snake preparing to swallow its prey. “The joke’s on you,
buster.”
He treaded water and
moaned. Same business? No, it can’t be!
She leaned over and
studied him coldly. “Good-bye, sucker.”
“No, don’t,” he cried.
And suddenly he could hear the rattle of the guillotine’s blade as it
slid down between the uprights. “Jesus! You’re not going to leave me?”
“You were going to leave
me,” she shouted into the wind.
True.
“Please, Faith! Don't do
this.”
But she just shrugged,
changed gears, and the boat fell away toward shore in a following sea.
He watched her until the
Catalina became just a speck. She never looked back.
Cold-hearted,
merciless hussy.
Paddling in the clear
water, he suddenly wondered if, perhaps, he could make it in. A strong
swimmer, in excellent shape, he figured he had a good shot. Besides, he
was probably just three or four miles out.
And revenge is a powerful
motivator.
Just then something hard
and abrasive smacked his leg. Looking down he choked, then screamed.
Something huge, indigo blue, looking as wide as Mack truck, passed
beneath his terrified gaze.
He was still screaming
when it pulled him under.
The End
"Deep Water"
first appeared in Shatter the Glass Ceiling
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