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.
5
Whistling the chorus from Alice Cooper's "School's Out"—stuck in his head since the second viewing of Dazed and Confused—Jack arrived back at the dock with two sacks of groceries, a bag of ice, and a feeling that he'd wasted nearly a week of his life. Except for a weird, mysterious piece of junk, Tom was in the same straits now as when they'd set sail.
Despite that he was feeling pretty good. He'd talked to Gia. She and Vicks and the baby were all fine. In two days he'd be back with her.
He'd also checked his voice mail. No word yet from Joey.
In a way that was a relief. Meant he hadn't missed out on anything. His rage had receded underwater. Real-life cares seemed a world away down there. He couldn't help feeling guilty about that.
But soon he'd be home and back to the reality of the streets. Soon he'd rejoin the hunt for payback.
Back at the boat, he found Tom sweeping pieces of what looked like shattered ceramic into a pile on the deck. He looked pale, shaken.
"What happened?"
"Dropped a cup."
"You okay? You don't look so hot."
"Don't feel so hot."
"Sick?"
He shook his head and gave Jack a wan smile. "Nah. I guess I'm not used to the active lifestyle. I tend to eat more and exercise less. Maybe that's why the vodka hit me so hard."
Oh, hell, Jack thought. Am I going to have to drive all the way back to the States?
"You're drunk?"
He shook his head. "Don't feel drunk. But I think I hallucinated a little while ago."
"Yeah? What did you see?"
Another head shake. "Too weird to even talk about." He swept the fragments through a scupper and into the water, then pointed to the neatly dressed, middle-aged black man standing by the pump. "Pay the man and let's get out of here."
Jack pulled out his credit card as he approached.
"What's the damage?"
The man looked at the gauge and said, "Two thousand seven hundred and two dollars and seventy cents."
Jack laughed. "Very funny. Now give me the real number."
The man looked at him. "That is the real number, sir."
"Twenty-seven hundred bucks for gas? You've gotta be kidding!"
"Twenty-seven hundred and two bucks, sir. And seventy cents."
Jack looked at the meter. "Twenty-five hundred and seventy-four gallons! This thing only holds seven hundred!"
"Those are liters, sir. In gallons that would be somewhat less than seven hundred, but not much."
"Liters?"
Jack studied the sign over the diesel pump: 1.05/L. He'd been so happy to see such a cheap price that his brain apparently had registered only the number and assumed it was the gallon price. He handed over his card. "No wonder everyone around here drives mopeds."