Under Pressure

by Kathy Brandt

  Later, when grandparents died, we were part of the process. Our questions were answered honestly and we were never shut out. I’ve learned to hate euphemisms like “passed on” or, even worse, “sleeping with the angels.” I believe in calling it like it is. Dead is “dead.” Still, I was having a hard time knowing just what to say to Simon.

  “What do you mean?” was all I could manage.

  “I mean where is his body?” Christ, I’d been making it a whole lot harder than it was. Simon knew his father was dead as in “dead.”

  “Oh. Well, Simon, he’s in the morgue. The hospital will keep him there until we get word from your aunt.”

  “Do you think I could see him?” he asked.

  “I’ll see what I can do, okay?” I had no idea what condition the body would be in. But the kid had the right to see his father.

  About then Dr. Hall came in. He gave Simon a once-over and said he was fit to be released.

  Christ. I pulled Hall out to the hallway and closed Simon’s door.

  “Doc, he doesn’t have any place to go,” I said. What was Hall thinking anyway?

  “I know, Hannah, but I can’t keep him in the hospital indefinitely,” he said. “This is no place for a healthy boy. I’ve called Child Services.”

  “You can’t just send him off to be with strangers after what he’s been through. The kid just lost his father.”

  “What do you propose I do?” I knew Hall didn’t like this any better than I did.

  “What if you talk to Child Services and recommend that Simon be allowed to stay with me until his aunt shows up?” I’d said it without thinking. I couldn’t believe I was offering to take the kid.

  “It can’t be more than a day or two before she gets down here. Surely you can get them to agree. You are a doctor.”

  “How are you going to take care of a nine-year-old boy?” Hall asked. “What about your job?”

  “I’m sure Tilda and Calvin will help and I’ve got plenty of room on the boat.”

  “What? You’re back on the Sea Bird?” he asked. “What happened with O’Brien?”

  Did everyone need to know the details of my love life? Jeez. “We’re taking a break,” was all I said. I wasn’t about to stand in the hallway discussing it.

  “Okay, Hannah. I’ll arrange it because I happen to agree. He’ll be much better off with you,” Hall said.

  It was a done deal, then. I knew whatever Hall recommended would fly. He was one of those doctors who always went above and beyond and his word was gospel in the islands.

  “Thanks, Doc. I’ll pick him up this afternoon.”

  Before we went back into Simon’s room, I told him that Simon wanted to see his dad. Hall understood immediately and said he’d call the morgue to make sure everything was in order so I could take him down there this afternoon.

  When I went back into his room, Simon had taken his digital camera out of the waterproof case it had been protected in when the plane went down, and he was snapping pictures of his feet. Typical kid.

  “Hey, Simon, how about you come stay with me until we get in touch with your aunt?”

  “Okay, Hannah,” he said.

  Hell, what else was he going to say? The kid didn’t have a lot of options. He could go with me or stay with strangers until his aunt came. It was the pits, being a kid.

  “I’ll pick you up this afternoon. We’ll go see your dad before we leave if you still want to.”

  ***

  When I got down to the Wahoo, Betty Welsh, the reporter from the Island News, was waiting for me. The first time I’d met her, I’d wondered what she was doing working for a little island paper. She was a top-notch writer and reporter. She always got the story right and she believed in responsible journalism. Later, she’d told me that she’d tried to work in the States, but no newspaper was interested in hiring a five-foot ten, 190-pound, black Caribbean woman whose cultural background differed so completely from an American perspective.

  She was pushing sixty, was a flamboyant dresser, and had big hair that she pinned up in a nest at the top of her head. She didn’t take any flak from anyone. Today, she was decked out in an orange and yellow African print that draped loosely on her huge frame. She’d tied a matching scarf around her head. Her photographer was with her. So were Sammy Lorenzo and Daniel Stewart.

  I knew what she was up to, and she knew me well enough to know that I wouldn’t like it. She also knew that I owed her. The last time she’d had a story, she’d agreed to hold it back when I’d asked because it would have jeopardized a case. She wasn’t above reminding me now.

  “I told you I’d collect on that debt, Hannah,” she said. “This is the story of the year for our little islands. And Mr. Lorenzo here is sure he can get it picked up in the States.”

  Sammy Lorenzo was standing behind her, gnawing on a cigar and nodding enthusiastically. “This will be great! Great!”

  “Okay, Betty,” I said, “but we need to make it quick. I’ve got to get out to the crash site.”

  She spent ten minutes writing down the details about the rescue and my take on Stewart’s role. Then Sammy insisted that Stewart and I stand together on the Wahoo, with all the dive gear as the perfect backdrop. Stewart gave me an apologetic look.

  “It’s okay, Daniel,” I said. “If it will help your career, I’m glad to do it. I do appreciate your help out there yesterday.”

  Stewart followed me onto the boat. Sammy kept trying to position us so that it looked like we’d just come in from the crash. Stewart was used to this stuff. But me? I was working hard to keep a pained expression off my face. Though Sammy was clearly into it, this was not my idea of fun.

  The photographer kept shooting. I was sure he was hoping for just one decent picture. He was snapping like crazy when a wave from the wake of an incoming ferry hit the Wahoo. Stewart lost his balance and I grabbed him. Damned if he didn’t pull me into his arms and brush his lips against mine.

  “Hannah, you are gorgeous,” he whispered. I lingered an instant too long, stunned and gazing into those damned bedroom eyes. I mean, the guy was a movie star, a hunk with a voice like rounded pebbles and a day’s perfect beard. Besides, I was still pissed at O’Brien.

  “Perfect shot!” the photographer said.

  “I do not want that photo to show up in the paper,” I said, threatening Lorenzo. “This is supposed to be a story about Stewart’s heroism, not some fictitious love affair.”

  Chief Dunn had been observing the entire encounter. I hadn’t seen him arrive. He was standing in his shirtsleeves, watching, amused, his suit coat draped over his arm.

  “Thanks again, Detective,” Lorenzo waved as he ushered his companions to the car.

  “Remember what I said, Sammy,” I hollered.

  “Hey, as they say in the islands, ‘no problem, mon,’” he shouted as they pulled away.

  Chapter 11

  Dunn was helping Jimmy and me load dive tanks onto the Wahoo when Gilbert Dickson pulled up on his Harley. Gil was the one-man-lab guy in the department. He did everything from fingerprinting to the handling of DNA that was sent out for analysis. He was a stickler for detail and that made him good and reliable. Gil would oversee anything we brought up from the crash.

  He’d been with the department for eight years. Today he wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt, polyester pants, and tennis shoes. His jet-black hair, which he slicked back over the crown of his head, barely covered the bald spot that was spreading across his skull. He had rolled his sleeves up. The only thing missing was the pack of cigarettes tucked in the fold. But James Dean he was not.

  “Hey, Gil,” I said as he hefted the bike onto its kickstand.

  “Hi,Hannah. Hear we’ve got an interesting situation out there. I can’t say I’ve ever worked on an airplane crash before.” He was releasing a snarl of bungee cords from the back of the bike and unloading a tower of gear. I’d swear he’d brought his entire lab.

  “Can’t some of this stuff stay on shore?” I asked
as he handed me a toolbox that had to weigh fifty pounds.

  “Can’t be too prepared,” he said. “No telling what you all will bring up out of that plane. The more I can do to preserve evidence out there, the better.”

  Gil spent the ride out to the site organizing all his equipment. By the time we dropped the anchor, he had every available surface covered—buckets for freshwater washes, containers of chemicals, his fingerprint kit.

  I was arguing with him about giving us a little room to suit up when the salvage divers appeared. One was a white guy about twenty-five who looked cocky as hell. He stood in the stern of their vessel gazing out to sea, hands on his hips, one foot propped up on the rail. He wore a wetsuit, zipped tight all the way up to his neck. He looked like he was posing for a GQ ad.

  He was definitely modeling what was in the wetsuit. It showed off every detail, wide shoulders, defined biceps and pecs, a tight butt, and washboard abs that offset a bulge that could only belong to a testosterone-overloaded twentysomething. Maybe by the time he was forty and things had started to sag a bit, he’d turn into someone you’d actually want to talk to. Right now, I figured, the only people who would be interested were twentysomething females inclined to the type—and maybe his mother.

  The guy driving the boat was close to fifty, balding, his face a road map of deeply imbedded wrinkles. He wore swim trunks that had probably once been red but now were a pinkish white, the waistband so stretched out that the suit barely covered his behind. He maneuvered their boat in next to ours, tossed a couple of bumpers over the side, and tied up to the Wahoo.

  Mr. GQ stepped up on the rail and jumped onto our boat. “Trey Harper,” he said, holding a hand out to Dickson, the only white male in the group. I guess to Harper, Dickson had to be the one in charge, given the fact that everyone else was black or female. Did this guy actually live in the twenty-first century? What an ass.

  “This is my associate, Don Sturtevant,” he said.

  Dunn stepped up, his mass casting a shadow across Harper’s face. “Chief of Police John Dunn,” he said, emphasizing the chief part. Then he introduced Carmichael, Mason, Jimmy, Gil, and me. He made a point of telling Harper that I was the lead diver and heading up the underwater investigation. Trey almost choked at the prospect of diving with what he clearly thought was a substandard team. Me and Jimmy, a skinny kid with corn rows, wearing swim trunks that reached below his knees. Then there was Carmichael, in a wetsuit as bleached and torn as Sturtevant's swim trunks. Mason was the only one who could compete in the cool category. His wetsuit had bright orange accents down the sleeves.

  “Sampson and Deputy Snyder were on the scene when the plane went under and were the first down there,” Dunn explained. “They did the rescue and recovery yesterday, with help from Carmichael and Mason here.”

  “Jesus, I hope the hell you didn’t disturb anything pulling those victims out,” Harper said.

  “Hey, what dey be doin’ was savin’ lives,” Carmichael said sneering at the guy. “Sampson here be an expert. If anything be disturbed down der, it be necessary. ‘Sides, your job be salvage, not investigation. I be thinkin’ you’re not knowin’ your ass from da hole in da ground. How long you be divin’, Sonny?” Carmichael had moved into Harper’s space and hovered over him, hands on his hips.

  “Long enough,” Harper said, holding his ground.

  “We be seein’ ‘bout dat when you swim into dat wreck, Harper,” Carmichael said, turning away and hefting a tank out of the rack.

  “Okay,” I interrupted, pleased that Carmichael had put Harper in his place but anxious to dispel the tension, “let’s go over the dive plan.”

  Dunn had picked up the preliminary photos that I’d taken of the wreck yesterday. He spread them out and we spent the next half hour going over them. Sturtevant looked at each one carefully and took detailed notes.

  “I want to make sure I know what we’ve got down there,” he said when he saw me watching him. Those were the first words he’d uttered since he stepped on board.

  “How long have you been doing salvage diving?” I asked.

  “Too long,” he said, glaring at Harper. “Started out as a navy diver. Dove out on the oil rigs after that. I’ll be the one developing the salvage plan. It seems pretty straightforward, but I’ll know better after I have a look.”

  I nodded and told them I planned to do the examination of the aircraft and recovery of material as efficiently as possible. I pulled out a schematic of the aircraft that Edith Leonard had given us. The Beech 99 had been configured to hold fifteen passengers, five rows with one seat on each side. Then in the back, two rows with two seats side by side and one extra seat across from the entry door. Small baggage compartments were in the long, pointed nose section, as well as in the belly.

  In addition to the passenger door, which was in the rear of the aircraft on the left, there were emergency exits on either side of the cabin right behind the cockpit. That was where the Rileys had been sitting. No attempt had been made to open those exits. The tiny bathroom where I’d found Simon was in the tail section.

  I would pair with Harper. I didn’t trust the guy and did not want him diving with Jimmy. Harper and I would be examining the cockpit and the cabin for structural damage and I’d take more photos. Jimmy would accompany Sturtevant. They would do a visual check on the exterior, take photos, and comb the surrounding area for debris.

  We’d carry grease markers and labels to record the location of each item we recovered. Jimmy and I would also carry containers to retrieve and store any items that needed to be protected from exposure to the air. That was standard procedure in an underwater crime scene and right now that was how we had to treat the aircraft. Anything that was significant would be placed in a watertight container along with the seawater to keep the object from corroding on contact with the air or to preserve fingerprints.

  We’d be searching for any explosive devices or signs of explosion and taking more photos. We’d be looking for pieces of tape, wire, clock mechanisms, fuses, and battery parts. Any debris that was lying on the bottom or loose in the plane would be taken to the surface. We’d not be wasting our time looking for a black box or recorder. Sturtevant had spoken with the AAIB investigator and learned that this aircraft carried neither.

  Carmichael and Mason were to stand by outside the plane to ferry items to the surface, where Gil would take possession. Harper’s and Sturtevant’s main task would be to assess the wreck for the best way to bring it up.

  Once we’d labeled and collected the important evidentiary material, our final effort would be to recover the cargo in the holds. According to the records of Flight 45 that Edith Leonard provided, the cargo load was minimal and harmless. We would encounter no hazardous material, such as pesticides, chemicals, or explosives, but only luggage and a couple of boxes containing island goods being shipped to outlets in the States.

  I knew Carmichael was secure enough about himself and his diving that he would have no problems being backup. Mason, though, like Harper, had things to prove. I could see that he’d identified Harper as competition.

  Mason had just taken a job as dive master for Carmichael at Underwater Adventures. As a dive master, he was used to being in charge, supervising somewhere between ten and twenty recreational divers at a time. He would have been responsible for the safety of the novices, some of whom would have a hard time emptying the air from their BCs or clearing their ears, and also keeping track of those who thought they were Jacques Cousteau and took off looking for an encounter with a man-eating shark.

  Right now, Mason was standing on the deck with his hands on his hips, pissed. Harper was looking cocky, smug. I couldn’t believe I was witnessing what threatened to turn into a battle for dominant male. Both would be willing to push the limits and take risks in order to prove themselves. Their attitudes were a formula for disaster under the water.

  When a diver was encased in gear and swimming in tight, dark places, it was easy for panic to set in. If it got
out of control, the diver would hyperventilate, cerebral arteries would constrict, heart rate would increase, blood pressure would drop or shoot up. The increased pressure of the underwater environment, the equipment, marine hazards, magnified everything. Stories were always circulating in the diving community about divers found lying on the bottom, regulators in their mouths and tanks full. I’d seen divers race to the surface, ending up with the bends and in decompression chamber for days. Some could never dive again.

  “Look, you two,” I warned them, “save it for the bar. I don’t want any problems.”

  There would be dangers down there, especially inside the wreck. We needed to know if one of us got into trouble we could depend on the others. There was no room for animosity or for divers so concerned about outdoing one another that somebody, too worried about losing face to admit being in trouble, ended up dead.

  We were quiet as we prepared our gear for the dive, all six of us intent on the task. I hefted a tank out of the rack and snapped it into my BC, then attached the regulator hose to the tank and the other hose to the vest. I turned the air on and checked my gauges—3200 psi. Then I tested my regulator to make sure the air was flowing, taking a couple of short breaths. The others were following exactly the same procedure.

  I spit in my mask, spread the saliva over the lens, and rinsed it in the sea to keep it from fogging. Then I put my weight belt on, with enough weight to carry me to the bottom when I was ready to go down. I remembered the first day I’d donned all the damn equipment and sat on the edge of the pool, ready to slip under the water for the first time. Had it really been over more than fifteen years ago?

  I’d gotten certified with a little dive shop in Denver. We’d spent some classroom time on theory. But when it came to getting in the water, hell, I couldn’t understand why I’d need any weight. Didn’t people always sink in the water? That’s why they drowned. As a result, I’d ignored that part of the lesson and strapped on a weight belt with a token five pounds. I found myself fighting and using up air like crazy trying to get to the bottom of the pool. With all the equipment, my wet suit, and my BC, along with my body mass, I was a lot like a beach ball. That was the last time I ignored any rules when it came to diving. I’d become a stickler for correct procedures.