The Lower Deep Read online

  THE LOWER DEEP

  Hugh B. Cave

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  © 2011 / The Estate of Hugh B. Cave

  Copy-edited by: Patricia Lee Macomber

  Cover Design By: David Dodd

  LICENSE NOTES

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  OTHER CROSSROAD PRESS BOOKS BY HUGH B. CAVE:

  NOVELS:

  Conquering Kilmarni

  Lucifer's Eye

  Serpents in the Sun

  Shades of Evil

  The Evil

  The Evil Returns

  The Nebulon Horror

  The Cross on the Drum

  COLLECTIONS:

  Murgunstrumm & Others

  UNABRIDGED AUDIO FROM AUDIBLE.COM:

  Conquering Kilmarni

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  This one’s for Betsy

  1

  On the map that Dr. Stephen Spence carried in the pocket of his yellow sport shirt, the road he traveled this afternoon was but a thin black line.

  The map was a recent one, too. Full of apprehension about what he might be stumbling into, he had acquired it at the St. Joseph consulate in Miami just before leaving the States two days ago.

  The road ran along the north coast of the Caribbean island of St. Joseph, from Cap Matelot west to the town of Dame Marie du Nord. Turned into a strip of red mud today by the driving rain that swept in off what the map referred to as the Ocean Atlantique, it had no right to be called a road at all, really. It was unpaved. After the Azagon turnoff it would end at Dame Marie, which was little more than a fishing village. Nothing but a fourwheel-drive vehicle could be expected to handle it in this kind of weather.

  Steve frowned at his watch. In spite of the rain, he should reach the Azagon before dark if he didn't miss the turnoff. In the last twenty minutes, though, he had passed not a soul he could ask about it. Your St. Joseph country fellow didn't venture out of his thatch-roofed caille in this kind of weather. Non, merci!

  For that matter, there had been almost no huts for anyone to venture out of. The whole area seemed uninhabited. Not a jungle, of course. Not in this part of St. Joe. But a kind of wasteland, full of thorny bayahonde bushes and other scrub growth.

  No doubt the road was one of the reasons, perhaps the principal one, why the Azagon had failed so quickly as a resort hotel. After paying top rates for a tropical beach and a touch of West Indian atmosphere at the end of such a nightmare journey, what tourist in his right mind would go home and recommend the place to his friends?

  Suddenly the Jeep's headlights, turned on to penetrate the downpour, picked up a metallic glint from a sign on the right edge of the mud. AZAGON it said, with an arrow pointing down a side road even more improbable than the one that continued straight on to Dame Marie. Here, Steve thought with a shake of his head, Mr. New York might at least have paved his own private road to reassure his incoming guests, but apparently the good millionaire had decided not to disturb the primitive status quo. Ah well, it took all kinds.

  His borrowed Jeep made the turn and defiantly growled on.

  For another quarter mile the four-wheel-drive had its work cut out. Then, with a sound of surf causing his eardrums to ache, Steve found himself confronted by a structure so wildly unlikely in such primitive surroundings, he could only lean on the wheel and gape at it.

  It appeared to be two stories tall—hard to be sure in the rain and semidarkness—and vaguely resembled the Palais National in the country's capital. Like the National Palace it was white, or had been, and had a broad front lawn, probably a sponge at the moment, and an elaborate entrance with wide steps.

  "Good Lord."

  Steve shook his head. What an assignment, after his plush hospital post in Florida! But, of course, he was probably the only medic old Tom Driscoll could have called on who knew St. Joe and could speak both the Creole of the peasants and the French of the elite. Perhaps even more important, he would not be intimidated by Dame Marie's voodoo as much as might someone facing that polytheistic religion for the first time.

  "I'm certain the voodoo practitioners resent our being here," Driscoll had written with admirable frankness, "and I sense a nasty conflict heating up. So if you decide to come here, Steve, as I dearly hope you will, please don't expect everything at the Azagon to be sweetness and light."

  With trepidation Steve sent the Jeep growling up the curving driveway. Overnight case in hand, he climbed the steps to the double front doors and pressed the bell beside them. In a moment an overweight man in sandals, khaki pants, and a shabby green sport shirt opened one of the doors. "You must be Dr. Spence."

  "Yes."

  "I'm Paul Henninger. Manager here. How are you, Doctor?" The pudgy hand that came out felt clammy to Steve's firm fingers. "Welcome to the Azagon."

  Henninger, Steve's mind echoed. Tom Driscoll had mentioned him in letters. He'd been with Tom from the beginning here, having worked before that at a hotel in St. Joe City. Tom thought highly of him, very highly indeed. But he was grossly overweight and looked sorely worried.

  "I'll show you your quarters," the manager said. "Just let me get someone to carry your things."

  "No need. This isn't heavy."

  "That's all you have?"

  "The rest got lost in St. Joe City. They've promised to fly it on to Cap Matelot when they find it." A shrug. "The friend in Le Cap who lent me the Jeep will get word to me when it arrives there."

  Henninger peered with gray eyes full of sadness. "Problems. Always problems here. But come."

  For a hotel in such a place, even a resort hotel, the lobby was almost indecently large and far too expensively furnished, Steve decided. The staircase could have been half as wide and still have been adequate, though it was not carpeted—not anymore, at least. He was led along a second-floor corridor, past a number of closed doors, to a room at the front.

  Some of his apprehension fled when he saw that his windows, two of them, afforded a fine view of the grounds, the driveway, and the sea. The room itself contained a bed, chairs, and dresser, and he wouldn't feel at all cooped up in it. The bed was a double, too, thank God. Taller than most men, he detested small beds.

  "I hope it suits you, Doctor."

  "Indeed it does, Mr. Henninger. Thanks."

  "Paul, please. The doctors call me Paul."

  "Paul it is."

  "No doubt you'll want to unwind a bit before dinner after driving that road in weather like this. But would you like to say hello to Dr. Driscoll first?"

  "I would."

  Tom Driscoll's room was at the far end of a downstairs corridor—a location he had chosen, Henninger explained as they approached it, because he was unwell and wished a measure of seclusion. "And because, with you coming to take over, he felt he wouldn't have too much to do for a time."

  The door was shut. The manager knocked. "Dr. Spence is here, Dr. Driscoll!"

  The answering voice seemed weary. "Come in, come in, please."

  Inside, facing them as they entered, a white-haired man sat by a window, reading a letter while he ate from a tray laid across the flat arms of h
is chair. The antique silver letter opener on the tray was one Steve recognized—one given to Tom Driscoll years ago by a grateful patient. In his late seventies, Driscoll wore loose-fitting white trousers, a white shirt, a gray sweater. The meal consisted of a bowl of dry cornflakes and a glass of milk.

  This was dinner for a doctor with from twenty to thirty patients in his care—most of them wealthy and demanding? But maybe the repast was only a snack. Don't jump to conclusions, Steve warned himself. That's an old failing of yours, and here it could be dangerous.

  He paced forward, and Driscoll extended a thin hand over the tray to grope for his. "Steve! Thanks for coming! You've no idea how glad I am to see you!"

  "I'm glad to be here, Tom. What's wrong with you?"

  "Tired, that's all. And it doesn't help to be getting old."

  With honest affection Steve studied the man. No way could he have refused Driscoll's plea for help. He owed this man his life. "Do you want to talk now or later, Tom?"

  "Later, I think. But let me look at you." While looking, Driscoll slowly worked up a quivering smile, then reached for Steve's hand again and wrung it. "Yes, by God, it's good to see you! But you'll be tired. That miserable road. How'd you get here, anyway? Did Beliard bring you?"

  "No. He lent me a Jeep."

  "And you drove it here yourself?”

  "That's right."

  "My God. Not even knowing the road? And in weather like this?" The older man wagged his head in awe. "You haven't changed a bit in two years, have you? No, by God, you haven't. Still as headstrong as when you worked with me in Fond des Pintards and had to attend that ghastly voodoo service when you should have known better."

  Steve smiled. But you've changed, old friend, he thought sadly. You've aged twenty years in those two. It has to be the—how long?—thirteen months you've worked your butt off here, trying to make a success of this improbable place.

  Then, recalling why and how Driscoll had come here, Steve shook his head. It would never cease to amaze him, how this man had fallen heir to the Azagon. The tale was straight out of the Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Andersen.

  A filthy rich New York architect builds a resort hotel on a Caribbean island because his beautiful actress wife thinks it would be a dandy place to relax when she is not making pictures. The beautiful wife becomes an alcoholic. Dr. Tom Driscoll, whose specialty is alcoholism, applies all his know-how to her case and dramatically saves her from boozing herself to death. By doing so, he earns the undying gratitude of her husband, who has never stopped adoring her.

  Soon afterward the hotel founders—as anyone with a brain the size of a hummingbird's could have predicted. Out of gratitude, its millionaire owner urges Driscoll to accept it as a gift because "It's just what you need for your patients, Tom. A nice quiet retreat only a few hours from the States, where your people can get away from all the stress. Take it for the miracle you worked with Ellen!"

  Yes, indeed. The Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian would have loved it.

  Steve let go of the man's hand. "Just why did you send for me, Tom? What's happening here?"

  "Steve—God help me—I wish I knew what's happening?"

  "You mean you don't?"

  "No, I don't. It's all so damned weird. So mysterious. So damned St. Joseph. You've worked in St. Joe. You know what I mean." In only a moment Driscoll's face had grown even older.

  Steve knew he should back off. "Do you want to talk about it now, or should we wait?"

  "I think later."

  "Later it is." Glancing at Paul Henninger, Steve got the slight nod he expected and gently withdrew his hand from Driscoll's weak grip. He and Henninger departed.

  As they paced the corridor, the overheavy manager said quietly, "You've known Dr. Driscoll a long time, haven't you, Dr. Spence?"

  "For years. Three of which we worked together at the Brightman, until I left there two years ago. You know the Brightman, I suppose." Was there anyone in St. Joe who didn't know about that remarkable hospital in Fond des Pintards? Or about the American industrialist who had built it with his own money and then even become a doctor so he could better serve the poor of this backward island?

  "The Brightman. Yes," Henninger said.

  "I worked under Dr. Driscoll there and never stopped admiring him. We all admired him. Hell, we all loved him."

  The manager looked pleased. "Well, then, goodbye for now, Doctor. I expect you'll want to talk to me again after you've looked the place over."

  "I'll want to know how things are done here, yes."

  "You'll find an information packet in the top drawer of your dresser. The various schedules, who we have for doctors and nurses, who the current patients are—the whole bit. I've been putting it together for the past week or so. And, of course, there are complete files in the office. We dine at seven, by the way."

  "Thanks."

  "If you want me before then, I'll be in the library, downstairs. My office is there. No doubt you'll be using Dr. Driscoll's office, off the lobby."

  "If you say so."

  "Well, then—"

  But as the big man turned away, Steve reached out to stop him. "Wait, please, Paul. What was Tom Driscoll trying to tell me just now? What the hell is going on here at the Azagon?"

  "I wish I knew, Dr. Spence. I mean I know what's happening, but I'm not sure what's behind it. Unless—"

  "Unless what?"

  "Well, Dame Marie is a hotbed of voodoo."

  "Meaning?"

  "Maybe the voodoo people resent our being here. After all, their houngans claim to be doctors, too. Of course"—Henninger spread his big hands, palms up—"maybe you don't put any stock in—"

  "I've tangled with voodoo before. Believe me."

  The manager stared. "There's also the name of this place, Doctor."

  "I know." How, for God's sake, had the Azagon come by its unlikely name, anyway? Through yet another whim of the builder's actress wife? If so, she'd been as stupid as she was gorgeous.

  A hotel in a place like this couldn't exist for outsiders only. One had to consider the attitude of the locals.

  And in the pantheon of voodoo gods, Azagon was a loa associated with darkness, death, and cemeteries!

  2

  With his door shut, Steve flipped his overnight case onto the bed, opened it, and tossed its contents into a dresser drawer.

  The room was almost dark now. Instead of switching on a light, he went and stood at a window, gazing out at the nearby shore. It seemed to consist of a pale strip of deserted beach at the edge of a vast grayness. This Azagon really was on the edge of nowhere.

  Come to think of it, why had old Tom Driscoll kept that voodoo name for the place? It was a retreat for alcoholics now, not a resort hoping to lure trade with sly hints of occult adventures.

  A knock on his door made him reach for a light switch and call, "Come in!" The door opened with a flourish.

  "Well, I'll be—" Steve took a long stride forward and thrust out a hand. "No one told me you were here, Juan!"

  Dr. Juan Mendoza pumped the hand and grinned. Younger than Steve, he could have passed for a professional athlete. One with raven hair, near-black eyes, the whitest of teeth.

  "It's been a long time, Steve."

  "Sit. Are you on the staff here or just visiting?"

  "Neither. I'm a patient."

  "What?"

  "After I quit the hospital in Florida and moved to New York, I had a breakdown. Muddled along there for a while, getting nowhere, then offered to help Driscoll out here if he'd let me come for a change of scene. He seemed more than willing."

  "I'm not surprised you folded, the way you were rushing at things."

  Mendoza's laugh was like the face it came out of, full of vigor and high spirits. Everything about this man was handsome, Steve thought. Even the unstudied but graceful way he straddled a chair backward.

  Juan Mendoza should have been a ballet dancer, not a doctor. He would have been superb in some of the modern ballets. As a me
dic—well, he was at least dedicated. But he became dedicated to everything that caught his fancy, didn't he? In Florida it had been harness racing at Pompano Beach—from the sulky seat, not the betting windows. Tomorrow it could be hang gliding.

  "All right, Juan. You came here for a change of scene and to help Tom. What else are you doing?"

  "Nothing much."

  "Ha!"

  "No, really. A bit of scuba diving and such. That's all."

  "Scuba diving where?"

  "Oh, roundabout. There's an old buccaneer island just off the coast here. Ile du Vent, it's called now, but Henry Morgan and the Brethren of the Coast used it back in those great old days. Oops. Sorry." Mendoza laughed. "I'm forgetting you're an old hand in St. Joseph."

  "I've never been to Ile du Vent."

  "Well, then, I can tell you the channel between it and the mainland is full of the most fantastic reefs. I've been poking around out there."

  Steve frowned. "That doesn't seem the best way in the world to get over a breakdown."

  "Hell. Do I look broken down now?"

  No, you don't, Steve decided. You look like a young daredevil who could swim all the way to Florida, shouting for joy at every stroke.

  Juan Mendoza glanced at the watch on his wrist and said, "But let me get what I came here for, hey? I mean, why I came now instead of waiting until you were settled in." Leaving his chair, he walked to the bed and reached under it to slide out a cardboard carton. "Until yesterday this room was mine, and I forgot my charts and books when I moved out." With the carton under one arm, he thrust his hand out again. "Steve, it's great to have you here. Just great!"

  The parting handclasp echoed the vigor of the voice. Those fingers, Steve thought, could probably break rocks without a hammer.

  Mendoza opened the door. A middle-aged black man in black trousers and a white shirt stood there, seemingly about to knock.