Night Diver

by Elizabeth Lowell

  He shook his head sadly. “Mingo, he left.”

  “Left? Why?”

  Luis shrugged. “Dive is cursed. He took his gear and the first tender. He went to town. Wish he take me.”

  “When did this happen?” Holden asked, stepping close enough to test the other man’s scent for alcohol. Nothing fresh. Luis might have passed out in his bunk last night, but he was sober enough now.

  “I was sleeping,” Luis said.

  “It sounds like Mingo was planning on a solo,” Holden said. Or drunk. “Why else take a dive rig and a boat unless you’re going diving alone?”

  Luis shook his head. “Maybe Larry knows, but he was sleeping. So was the old man.”

  “Does Mingo make a habit of diving alone or taking off in the middle of a dive?” Holden asked Luis.

  “Mingo, he does what he want. Guess he want to play with the ladies. Maybe I take the extra boat ashore and go have fun.”

  “No one is going anywhere until we get to the bottom of this,” Holden said. “The keys aren’t in the ignition on either of the tenders, so unless you want to swim some kilometers, you’re staying.”

  The other man looked stubborn. “You go ashore, I go.”

  “We’ll talk about it when we know more,” Holden said.

  Kate left Luis to Holden. The sounds from the bow of the boat were getting louder. Too loud. She turned and hurried toward the shouting. She sensed Holden behind her, but didn’t slow down. Larry almost never argued with his grandfather, but it sounded like that was exactly what was happening.

  The door to the main cabin was open. Inside, two Donnellys glared at one another.

  “I told you Mingo was trouble!” Grandpa Donnelly yelled, putting a rasp on every syllable.

  Larry was slumped at the table, elbows on knees, head propped up on his palms. His customary Atlanta Braves cap was off, dangling from one hand like a dirty flag at half-mast.

  “He’ll be back,” Larry said wearily. “He always comes back. I’ve told you that every time he goes AWOL.”

  “You don’t hire shirkers!” Grandpa shouted. “Even if they’re the best divers when they show up, they end up making more work for everyone else.”

  “I’m not worried about him so much as I am the others, especially Raul,” Larry said, his voice hoarse from yelling.

  “Not worried? About your lead diver?” Grandpa said. “Sonny, we can have an army up here and without at least two divers down there, you can kiss your personal playpen good-bye.” He swept his hands about, indicating the whole of the ship. “That’s all this has ever been to you—play!”

  Holden watched as Kate stepped between her grandfather and brother.

  “Grandpa,” she said calmly, “what happened? Luis told me a little, but it didn’t make any sense.”

  “That son of a bitch Mingo snuck off in the middle of the night. Nobody knew it until we saw the tender was missing. If he’s put one scratch on it, I’ll shove my boot so far up his ass he’ll be chewing leather.”

  “From what I saw of the roster yesterday,” she said carefully, “we still have three divers aboard, plus Larry.”

  Grandpa said something that she chose not to hear. He glared at her for a long moment, then looked out the window toward that storm that would neither break nor go away.

  “We have Luis and me,” Larry said into the silence. “Malcolm took the others ashore in his speedboat when they refused to get in the water this morning. They said the whole dive was—”

  “Cursed,” Holden cut in. “We heard it in town. Rubbish, but people love to talk rubbish. Did Mingo own the diving gear he took?”

  “Most of it.” Larry rubbed his eyes. “Half of the wrist dive computer was ours. He was working it off for part of his pay. The cylinder was ours, but so what? He’ll be back when he runs out of cash. It’s not like this is unusual,” he added, giving a sideways glance at his grandfather. “He dives for thirteen, fourteen days and then he gets itchy for a woman and some nonstop drinking.”

  “Then why did you hire the lazy bastard?” Grandpa demanded.

  “Because he would work for us,” Larry said through clenched teeth. “Shit wages and bonuses paid out of pocket change aren’t much of a lure.”

  “Did the other divers quit or are they just hitting the bars in town?” Kate asked Larry.

  Her brother shrugged. “Three divers quit outright. The fourth one, Raul, insisted on going and finding Mingo. What was I supposed to do, knock them out and tie them up?”

  Through the open galley door, wind gusted off the water, thick with moisture and surprisingly cool. That, and the gnawing ache in Holden’s thigh, told him the pressure was taking a downward turn. It wasn’t a guarantee the storm system had finally gained enough energy to be a problem, but the increased ache wasn’t good news, either.

  “The point is that you have only two divers aboard and deteriorating weather,” Holden said. “Is there anyone on rotation ashore you can call?”

  Larry shook his head.

  “Right,” Holden said. “We need divers.”

  Kate wondered if she was the only one who noticed that Holden had said we.

  “Have you checked the weather recently?” Larry asked. “Sometimes the Venezuela forecasts are more accurate for us than the British version.”

  Grandpa muttered something about looking through a window and making up his own goddamn mind.

  Holden said, “I checked both before we came aboard.”

  “And?”

  “The weather is still there. We’re still here.”

  Larry smiled tiredly. “Okay. I’ll get Luis and go suit up.”

  “Luis is riding a hangover,” Holden said.

  “So what else is new? The only perk I have to offer is that I allow alcohol on board. All I care is that the divers show up in shape to dive. If they’ve got a headache and bad stomach, it’s their damn problem.”

  Holden’s black eyebrows arched up. He had figured out that alcohol was aboard the first day. At first he had assumed it was limited to the Donnelly men—captain’s privilege and all that—but the crew quarters stank of alcohol and soiled laundry. There was a watermaker aboard ship, but no laundry facilities.

  “When will Farnsworth be back?” Holden asked.

  “Who gives a damn? He’s not a diver,” Grandpa said without turning around.

  Kate ignored him and talked to Holden. “I know the routine. I can rake the barrel and bag and tag anything we bring up with the siphon.”

  A stream of curses in Spanish and English and creole poured through the galley door. Kate reached the opening first and looked out. Luis was bent over the gunwale, cradling his left hand.

  “What happened?” she called to him.

  She made out enough of his answer to wonder if the dive was truly cursed, or if Luis had just found a quick way to go ashore to see a medic.

  Larry had heard enough, too. He shook his head. “Clumsy bastard.”

  Grandpa snorted and poked his head out the door and started for the dive deck, his voice fading as he moved. “Get some antiseptic from the cook, wrap it up, and quit whining. It’s just a cut.”

  Luis cussed and demanded a medic for stitches.

  Grandpa cussed him back and offered to stitch it himself. With a gaff.

  Kate watched while the men argued in low voices as the cut was examined. Blood dripped onto the deck. Then Grandpa hollered for the cook and came back upstairs.

  Larry waited like a man who already knew lousy news was coming.

  “How bad?” Kate asked.

  “To the bone,” Grandpa said angrily. “Sheathing his own damn diving knife and he cut himself. He won’t let me stitch it.”

  “Are you a surgeon?” Holden asked.

  “It’s meat, not major blood vessels,” Grandpa said. “I’ve stitched worse on myself.”

  “Hell,” Larry said, and blew out a long breath. “It doesn’t matter. Kate can take him to a medic. I can handle the siphon alone down below and Gr
andpa can rake up on board.”

  “No,” she said instantly. “Diving solo is too dangerous. Our insurance specifically forbids it.”

  “Are you offering to make it safer and dive with him?” Grandpa asked quickly, something close to satisfaction in his voice.

  “No.” She looked over at her grandfather. “I won’t dive. You know that.” Her voice was cold rather than panicked.

  “But—” he began.

  “No.”

  “It’s like riding a bicycle,” Grandpa said.

  “What, it only hurts when you fall off? I already fell off that bike.” Sometimes I’m still falling. “I am not going to get in the water. Not even for you.”

  There was a sheen of tears in her eyes, but no weakness. She was on fire at that moment, as fierce and determined as she had been the night when she’d pulled her father out of the water.

  “Then do it for David,” Grandpa said. “And for Mary Katherine.”

  The names of her parents were rarely spoken aboard the Golden Bough. They seemed to echo in the room, louder than wind or seabirds or the grumble of the repaired generator.

  Past and present flip-flopped and she was yanking at her father’s body, trying to get him into the workboat as he convulsed and blood frothed at his mouth and a terrible knowledge chilled her.

  Dying. Her father was dying.

  Then she took a breath and looked at the echo of her father in her brother, in her grandfather.

  “How could you?” she asked through pale lips.

  “Did you ever stop to think that I lost my only child that day, Kitty?”

  Don’t let him do it, Holden thought urgently. You aren’t Kitty, a child unformed and needing guidance. You’re a woman grown. It’s your choice to make.

  Holden realized that Larry was watching him as if he’d just discovered that there was a large predator in the room. Holden didn’t care. Kate was talking again.

  “I drove this ship back to shore with my father dead not ten feet from where you’re standing.” Her rage was focused, a rapier of fire. “I docked it in a storm with no help. I was seventeen.” A single tear slid down her cheek. She ignored it. “I almost died more than once looking for my mother. If I had, the ship you love so much would now be at the bottom of the ocean you love even more. I couldn’t save my parents, but I saved the Golden Bough. Don’t you dare insinuate that I’ve failed in my family obligations unless I dive now. Without me, you wouldn’t be captain of anything more than your memories.”

  Grandpa Donnelly looked as if he had been hit by a rogue wave that had come without warning, pouring water over the gunwales and sending the ship staggering.

  With outward calm, Kate walked past her grandfather and out of the main cabin. “I’ll take Luis ashore. If I see the first tender or hear anything about Mingo, I’ll let you know.”

  Bravo, Kate Donnelly, Holden thought.

  He wanted to grab her and kiss her until the flush on her face came from something hotter than anger, but this was her family, her moment. He would wait until they were alone to tell her how magnificent she was.

  Larry and Grandpa exchanged a long look.

  “I’ll suit up,” Larry said to his grandfather. “You can check me out.”

  “Diving alone?” Holden asked. “Bad form. Especially when there is another diver aboard.”

  “Grandpa’s doctor told him if he did anything more than snorkeling, he would be at risk of dying,” Larry said. “That leaves me.”

  “I’m a highly qualified diver,” Holden said.

  “Oh, so you’re all about helping now,” Larry shot back bitterly.

  “No. I’m about facilitating. Helping implies some sort of altruistic attachment. Altruism isn’t any part of what I’m feeling for you two at the moment. If it weren’t for Kate, I’d let you sink like waterlogged rubbish.”

  He pulled out his smartphone and went to work.

  “Are you really a salvage diver?” Larry asked after a few minutes.

  “I spent too many years dismantling and placing explosives underwater. I’m used to working deeper than the bloody wreck you’re picking over.” The thigh will hurt like hell burning, but I’ve taken worse and survived.

  His phone vibrated. He read quickly. “Excellent. Farnsworth is only a few minutes out. He can handle the cataloging. Someone go shake the charming Volkert from his carb coma so that he can man the dive center.”

  Larry looked at Grandpa, who hissed a word between his teeth and went to kick Volkert out of bed.

  Nobody mentioned that Holden was now in charge, but no one pushed back. He was their last hope of pulling the dive out of the toilet.

  “Shall we suit up?” Holden said.

  “Why do you care about Kate?” Larry asked.

  “She’s too good a woman to be dragged down by a manipulative old man. In any case, I doubt that my diving will make a difference.”

  “Then why do it?”

  Holden looked at Larry and said patiently, “So that Kate knows the fact of her not diving didn’t matter, either.”

  Larry absorbed that, put his hat in place with a tug, and followed Holden down to the dive locker. Kate’s boat was already little more than a white wake pointing toward the shadow that was St. Vincent.

  As Holden unzipped the duffel, Larry watched with open interest.

  “You expected to dive,” he said finally.

  “A camera only tells you what passes within the field of the lens. In case more is needed, I always carry the minimum of dive equipment with me.”

  “Makes sense,” Larry said. “As long as you’re not a pro basketball player or a sumo wrestler, dive suits with a reasonable fit aren’t that hard to come by, and water pressure can smooth out a lot of bumps. But a personally fitted mask like yours takes time—and a hell of a lot of money—to replace. Nothing like being able to breathe and talk to the surface at the same time. Righteous dive computer, by the way. I’m hoping to buy that model.”

  “It’s a nice piece of kit,” Holden agreed.

  He headed for the dive storage room, Larry on his heels. Holden had already decided which suit he would wear if he had to dive. He opened a locker and pulled out a Pinnacle full-body suit that was just about his size. Like nearly everything else on the Golden Bough, the suit had survived a good bit of wear in its time. Still sound, though, which was all that mattered.

  “I was going to recommend that one,” Larry said. “Thick enough to keep you warm but not so thick you’re too buoyant. You really do know your business.”

  Left unsaid was that anyone with money could buy expensive dive accessories and still not know enough to be a decent dive partner.

  They took the gear and the cylinders out to the stern to dress. Dive gear was wonderful in the water, and clownishly clumsy out of it. When Holden was fully suited, Larry checked him out. Holden returned the courtesy, right down to two taps on the dive cylinder. They began breathing canned air as they did the awkward shuffle required by fins on a solid surface. Going feetfirst into the water was a relief.

  While Larry talked with his grandfather over the com about the siphon’s placement, Holden finned slowly, keeping just beneath the surface. This part of the water column was bright. The sensation of freedom from gravity was as heady as the beauty of the surface bending light into flowing patterns across his arms.

  Years of dive training took over, regulating Holden’s breathing. In the first instants below water, the reptilian brain said hold your breath hold your breath hold your breath. But that only led to patterns of oxygen conservation followed by hyperventilation, followed by increasing anxiety, followed by conservation—a brutal feedback loop all divers learned to short-circuit. If they didn’t learn, they didn’t dive again.

  When Larry finned slowly past him, headed down for the wreck, Holden bent at the waist, put his fins where his head had been, and followed. Getting down to the bottom was the easy part, the compression stops short. Going up, decompression, was another animal entire
ly, with boredom enforced by stabbing pain for the impatient. Or in Holden’s case, pain no matter how patient he was.

  Silvery light gave way to a twilight world as the water filtered out all but the color blue. Everything became a thousand nameless variations on the theme of blue. It added to the feeling of growing chill as the water went from warm to cool to cold. The dark line of the siphon hose swayed all the way back to the blinding silver of the surface, a long, thick line showing the way back to the ship. Between that and the weighted dive line that went from a buoy to the bottom, with fixed markers for decompression stops, a diver would have to be drunk to miss the home ship.

  Quite different from a lot of dives Holden had made, where stealth was the first safety rule.

  Like the water itself, Holden went down in easy stages, stopping at prescribed depths to compress. The sea was clear, a welcome change from the dives that had taken him through algae soup to search blindly for active mines. Today he could see far enough down to recognize some of the topography from the map. The white plastic pipe of the grid that divided sections of the wreck was the color of bones. The spreading ribs of the ship were darker shadows.

  With the ease of long practice, his brain blended the static, one-dimensional maps rendered by photography and cartography into the living, tridimensional landscape of the undersea world. When the blending was complete in his mind he would be ready to find his way around the wreck without needing to come up for an overview.

  Even after Holden was certain he was oriented, he stayed for a few minutes more, suspended in the water, studying the wreck and enjoying the luxury of clear water. As he finned toward his designated work area, he ignored the piercing ache in his thigh and wondered if anyone had spotted Benchley lately.

  Not that it mattered. If a large tiger shark decided you were food, it would try very hard to eat you. Bad luck happened, but a diver was in more danger from his own mistakes than from any shadow lurking where blue shelved off steeply into water so deep it looked black.

  He found his designated grid and went to work. For all the hours a diver spent in the water, only a few included actually working the wreck. The dive computer was a relentless machine, recording elapsed minutes and water pressure and computing how much time the diver would require to decompress.