The air was wet and cold and sweet and tasted of electricity. No surprise since lightning stabbed repeatedly through the storm.
“If I see anyone wearing a weight belt come on deck, he or she will be shot. Dump them in the water.”
Two weight belts clattered onto the stern and slid into the water.
Bugger, Holden thought, releasing his belt.
He had been looking forward to swinging the lead belt at Farnsworth’s head.
There are other ways, Holden thought.
His dive knife was one of them. He held on to the stern dive step as rain washed his face. One of the dive tanks washed over and sank in the water. No one made a move to recover it.
“You first, Grandpa,” Farnsworth ordered. “Come aboard and sit under the work light by the winch.”
Grandpa went aboard and sat where Farnsworth pointed. The older man’s face looked pale, almost skull-like in the light.
“You next,” he said to Kate. “Sit next to him and hug your knees.”
A single look told her that Farnsworth was dressed in a wetsuit, braced against the wind and waves, and his gun hand was steady enough that she wouldn’t risk Grandpa’s life.
“Holden needs help getting onto the dive step,” she said.
“Then he stays in the water. Move.”
By the time Kate was aboard, Holden had abandoned his dive tanks and heaved himself onto the stern. He hung on to whatever he could as the world spun from more than the motion of waves and wind. Now that he was free of the mask, he didn’t fight the nausea racking him. He threw up, letting the waves take the mess, and immediately felt better.
I’ll be making an appointment with the surgeon just as soon as I get ashore, he told himself.
Assuming he got ashore. But worrying about that wouldn’t help and could damage his chances, so he stopped thinking about anything but survival.
He peeled down his clumsy dive gloves and checked that his dive knife was still in place. After releasing the tab that kept the knife secure in its sheath, he tried to decide on the best way to get aboard. Not trusting his thigh to support him at the moment—and hoping to conceal the dive knife strapped to his calf—he crawled aboard on his hands and knees. Rain peppered across the deck, followed by a spray of salt water from an unusually large swell. The motion of the boat was sluggish, despite the fact that wind, current, and tide were working together instead of smacking the hull around like dice in a cup.
“Stand up and get to the main cabin,” Farnsworth said. The direction of his voice told Holden that the other man had climbed the stairs to the main deck. “If you can’t, I’ll—”
“Shoot me,” Holden said wearily.
“Actually, I’ll shoot the bint. You aren’t worth wasting a bullet on.”
You just keep believing that, you sneering sod, Holden thought.
Making unnecessary work of it, he pulled himself onto his feet and slowly followed Kate and her grandfather up the stairs.
The wind threw rain like grapeshot across the open deck. Despite that, Kate was sweating. She blamed it on the neoprene covering her, but knew Farnsworth’s gun was the real cause. She peeled off her heavy gloves, noting that Grandpa already had dropped his.
Farnsworth waited just inside the main cabin, watching them as they balanced against the sway of the boat and entered the cabin. He kept most of his attention on Holden, despite the obvious pain in his expression.
“Larry!” Kate said.
Without waiting for permission, she rushed to where her brother lay on the long couch that was bolted to one side of the main cabin. He was pale, obviously exhausted, and having trouble focusing. He was also soaked from shoes to dripping hair.
And tied hand and foot to the legs of the sofa.
“Don’t worry,” her brother said, slurring words. “Breathing okay. Just tired. Bastard made me . . . pull lift nets . . .”
“I’ll get a blanket.”
“You will back away from your brother now.” Farnsworth’s voice was almost eerie in its lack of emotion.
“Do it, Kate,” Holden said. “He’s looking for an excuse to shoot. Holding a pistol does that to some people.”
“Temptation is a wicked bitch,” Farnsworth said, glaring at Larry. “So shut it and keep it shut. I’ve heard more than enough of your whining.”
Larry slumped against his ties and went back to his semiconscious state.
Rain and spray spit through open portholes each time the wind shifted. People in regular clothing would have been cool, but everyone except Larry was wearing neoprene. The chilly blasts from the portholes were refreshing.
Frowning, worried, Kate backed away from her brother through the sporadic spray coming in from various openings. Without warning the ship pitched and she went backward against the main cabin’s long table. When she put her hands behind her to brace herself, she felt the unmistakable weight and smoothness of gold against her fingers. She turned, saw what was heaped carelessly on the wood, and stood frozen in astonishment.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Farnsworth said.
“Pretty?” she said. “It’s . . . impossible.”
The gold looked alive, sliding and shifting with the motion of the boat, barely held in check by the half-inch rail that rimmed the table. Chains, coins, bracelets, earrings, breastplates, arm cuffs, rings, necklaces, figurines—every shape of gold imaginable, supple, gleaming, mesmerizing, heavy with the weight of time and the nature of the metal itself. Gems shimmered in bolts of pure color from some of the pieces. Other pieces were valuable for the pure workmanship of the gold itself.
As though from a distance, she heard Farnsworth order Grandpa and Holden to stand near Larry. She tried to shake off the spell of the past and beauty and focus on the dangerous present, yet the lure of history was too compelling. She could do nothing about Farnsworth and his modern pistol, but she could absorb the presence of the kind of treasure that had driven men for millennia, the shining reason for so many deaths and dreams revolving around the wealth of the New World.
“Go ahead, touch it,” Farnsworth said, amusement and vindication in his voice. “More gold than most people ever see in a lifetime.”
“The history,” she said. “It’s staggering. My mother collected centuries-old drawings of jewelry like this.”
She touched a crown that sat atop a pile of gold chain instead of resting on a regal skull. The crown was made with long, almost delicate tendrils of gold that curled up at the coronet points like flame frozen in metal. Standing at each point was a richly colored cabochon emerald . . . dark tears of long-dead ambitions still glowing with rich promises. As metal and gems, the crown had considerable monetary value. As history it was priceless.
Holden breathed more easily with each passing second as pain began to loosen its paralyzing grip on his leg. The occasional spray of water from the portholes felt good against his sweaty face.
Keep everyone distracted for a bit longer, he silently urged Kate. I’m getting stronger by the second.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Farnsworth said, eyes wide as gold coins while he stared, resting the gun against his thigh. “That filigreed piece will have buyers salivating.”
She followed the direction of his eyes. The jewelry he was looking at was large enough to be a breastplate, meant to ride low over a lady’s breasts. Emeralds, sapphires, and rubies bloomed like a miniature garden kissed by dewdrops of diamond.
“The goldwork is incredibly fine,” Kate said. “It looks very like the drawing my mother used to dream about. It was commissioned by an old Spanish lord for his spoiled young wife. She wanted to outshine even the queen at the Mid-May ball held in Seville in 1685. No goldsmith in all of Spain could make the young bride’s design, so it was sent to Venice. The rumor was that making the piece nearly beggared her husband.”
The jewelry ran like a liquid dream over Kate’s fingers, untouched by the black corruption of human vanity and lust and envy.
“More likely,” she said, “t
he lord was punished by the queen when a pretty young upstart wore jewels that put royalty in the shade. Court courtesy demanded that the bride make a gift of the necklace to the queen. That didn’t happen. Legend has it that the lord and his young bride were allowed to keep the necklace, but they were banished to the New World. There is no record that their ship ever arrived. Yet here the necklace is, side by side with a solid gold mask of an Inca god or king.”
Rain came in a whispering roar over the deck as the ship rose up and up to meet a swell, then slid slowly down the back of the invisible force. The Golden Bough seemed a bit slow in responding. Grandpa frowned and looked at the wood beneath his feet as though he could see through down to the bilge.
“Pity I have to leave,” Malcolm said. “My understanding is that there is much more down there, but I don’t have the time to dive for it. I should have left days ago, but the nights . . . the nights were so bloody lucrative. They more than repaid my patience. Just as I’ll repay your cooperation. Most of this is yours.”
“What?” Kate said, shocked.
“I’ll take some, but not all,” he said, gesturing to the table. “I’m a runner, not a weight lifter.”
Wind gusted from an unexpected quarter, shoving the ship like a toy against the pull of the anchor until everyone had to brace themselves as the deck tipped hard to port. Farnsworth lurched into the galley counter and went to his knees in a thin puddle of salt spray and rain. His knuckles turned white around the pistol.
Holden lunged for the gun even though stars flared at the edges of his vision as he demanded strength that his thigh didn’t have. Farnsworth brought the weapon up just in time to give Holden a good look at the black mouth of the barrel. The weapon wasn’t wet enough to affect anything that mattered.
“Get back,” Farnsworth snarled above the whine of wind across the open portholes.
Silently raging at missing his chance, Holden stepped backward until his leg gave way and he went to the deck.
“Sucks to be weak, doesn’t it?” Farnsworth said, relishing the American slang. “All those brute muscles useless against a skinny nerd holding a gun.”
Pain bit into Holden, but it wasn’t as great as his anger at not taking the other man down.
There will be another chance, Holden promised himself grimly. He’s too busy swaggering not to screw up. A professional would have shot us in the water and taken off with whatever treasure he could carry.
Fortunately, Farnsworth was an amateur at the killing game.
“Crawl over and sit in one of the swivel chairs,” Farnsworth said, gesturing to the table heaped with gold. “You too, Grandpa. Sit so that you two are back to back. Kate, stand by Larry.”
Holden could have walked but saw no reason to waste the effort. He crawled to one of the swivel chairs and pulled himself into it. Grandpa moved carefully, his legs wide to help him balance on the shifting deck.
“Swivel the chairs so that you’re facing away from each other,” Farnsworth said. “Kate, take the line I hung on the hook by the door and bring it here. Be very careful. I would hate to shoot you or your brother because you tripped and fell in my direction.”
She glanced at Holden from the corner of her eye. He was watching Farnsworth with predatory intensity.
Barely audible beneath the sound of the generator and the storm, the automatic bilge pumps started. In the wheelhouse, an alarm kicked in. The bilge pumps choked and died.
“Let me up or this ship will sink under our feet!” Grandpa said fiercely.
CHAPTER 23
SHUT IT, OLD man. You’ll have plenty of time if Cameron’s half as clever as he thinks he is,” Malcolm said carelessly. “I am certain the brawny hero is planning madly. Put your arms behind your back, hero. You, too, Grandpa.”
Holden turned his wrists and stacked them to make extra room.
“Chop-chop, Kate. Tie them together.”
The sound of the bilge pump cutting in and out and the feel of the ship itself was more frightening than Farnsworth and his tiresome weapon. Kate went to work quickly, ignoring the fact that both men leaned slightly away from the back of his chair. In addition, Holden took a deep, silent breath and held it while she coiled orange safety line around chairs and men.
She glanced down at Holden’s leg, where a knife waited in its sheath. When she looked up, he shook his head very slightly.
“Tighter,” Farnsworth said, then staggered when water broke over the ship’s bow and ran in a green-white torrent over the main deck. “Sod it. Just get the job done.”
Quickly she tied a very impressive-looking knot on her grandfather’s chest.
“I taught you too well, Kitty,” he said. “That’s as neat a viceroy knot as I’ve ever seen.”
“I always loved the pattern,” she said.
Holden thought quickly back to his days of learning knots and almost smiled despite the pain. One sharp pull and the fancy knot would unravel—as soon as they found a way to get enough slack to work someone’s hand free to reach the knot. Not as easy as it sounded, but at least a fighting chance.
“Isn’t that sweet,” Farnsworth said. “Now back off, bint.” He gave her a shove.
“Real brave with a girl, aren’t you?” Grandpa said. “Gutter slime.”
“I can buy this ship a thousand times over. What makes you think I care what a pissant mick like you thinks?”
“All mouth and no trousers,” Grandpa said. “Untie me and say that.”
With a mean smile Farnsworth slapped the old man hard.
Kate made a shocked sound. She grabbed the first piece of treasure that caught her eye.
Without pausing, Farnsworth backhanded Holden, raking a line of red across his cheekbone with the pistol.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since you came aboard,” Farnsworth said, “you with your family connections and medals and London accent. I came up the hard way, getting my arse kicked by my old man and learning to imitate my ‘betters.’ Guess who is better now?” Taking his time, relishing the moment, he drew back his gun hand to deliver another brutal blow.
Holden had let himself go with the first hit, lessening its force. But a few more like it and he would have the wits of a scrambled egg.
“Stop it!” she yelled, holding her hand high.
Her fingers were clenched around a priceless, palm-size golden frog that was set with cabochon emeralds. The jewels had an uncanny resemblance to the real animal’s skin. Its two round ruby eyes glinted, washed by spray from the nearby porthole.
Farnsworth looked up just before the second blow descended. “Are you mental?”
She measured the heft of the jeweled creature in her hand. It felt like pure wealth, like the heady ability to create a bit of jeweled whimsy from the wealth of kings. It felt like power.
She threw it out the open porthole.
Farnsworth goggled at her, his mouth opening and closing without sound.
Blindly she grabbed another piece, something heavy and solid—the mask. “Leave them alone or more goes overboard. How much is it worth to you to beat helpless people?”
The ship lurched into another swell. All that kept Kate on her feet was her one-handed grip on an open porthole and the piece of treasure hooked through it.
Farnsworth dug his fingers into Holden’s hair and brought the gun to his cheek. “How much is it worth to keep him alive?”
Slowly she brought her hand in from the porthole. She wanted to throw the heavy mask at Farnsworth’s head but was afraid of hitting Holden instead. At least Farnsworth was distracted from beating Holden. She would have to be satisfied with that.
Farnsworth went to her, casually kicked her legs out from under her and smacked the gun along the side of her head as she fell. He lifted her by her hair, saw the dazed look in her eyes, and dropped her.
“If I see you move, you’ll get more.”
She went slack on the floor only a few feet from Holden. Bitterly, silently, fighting the lines and the sticky neoprene, he
separated and flattened his wrists. Then he slammed his back against his own chair and let out all his breath, giving Grandpa Donnelly every bit of slack he could, for the knot was on the older man’s chest. From the tugging and twisting of the lines, the old man was all but turning himself inside out to work a hand free.
Farnsworth ignored them. He seemed in a hurry now, sweating visibly as he pulled a beautifully made aluminum case from beneath the couch. Cases like that were created to protect weapons, delicate electronics, or anything small and portable that required coddling.
The ship lurched again. Hard. Lightning exploded and thunder instantly followed, deafening. Artifacts slid and skittered on the tabletop. A few bounced free to shoot across the floor. Farnsworth’s foot came down on some gold chain and he fell on his back. His weapon slammed onto the floor but didn’t go off. The metal case bounced and bloodied the knuckles of the hand holding it.
Cursing, he retrieved the gun, glared around the cabin, saw no one threatening, and dismissed everything but the treasure in front of him. He put his gun on the table and opened the case. Loose gems already gleamed inside, as though a rainbow had been captured and cut into jewels. Quickly he grabbed handfuls of jewelry from the table and dumped the glittering piles in the case.
The bilge alarm came on as the pumps shut down again.
Sweating, swearing, Farnsworth heaped wealth into the case until it overflowed. When he tried to latch the top, it wouldn’t close. He made a sound that was more animal than human and clawed frantically at the excess gold.
Holden hadn’t taken his attention off Kate since she had been kicked to the floor. She was only a few feet away from him when her eyes opened, dazed. Slowly they cleared. He saw her take in the room from her ankle-high view.
Stay down, Kate. Farnsworth is mental, barely one breath from losing all self-control.
The ocean itself shuddered and heaved beneath the storm, the ship a toy anchored in hell’s own washing machine. The Golden Bough rode it, but not gracefully.
“Can’t do it,” Grandpa groaned. “Joints too stiff.”
Night Diver Page 26
