Below the Surface

by Karen Harper

  “We’re here,” he yelled. “Let’s dive.”

  For Bree, it was like being in the storm again.

  Even with all the diving she’d done in low-vis water, she was not prepared for the impact of this dive on her body and her brain. She felt the heavy, gray weight of the water and the push and pull of powerful currents as if she swam through an Everglades swamp. All around in the wide channel that was the mouth of the Marco River, where it met the tides and waves of the gulf, eddies of sand and silt shifted and resettled. The dark bottom was like a writhing, living being, devouring things then spitting them back up.

  Ordinarily, if a diver stopped kicking and swimming for a minute, low-vis water would clear a bit but not here. She could see only about four feet ahead, even with the high-powered lights Sam’s divers had provided. Thank heavens, they each had a writing slate tied to their weight belts, because even hand signals from the others were hard to read.

  So she stuck close to Cole, or he to her, she wasn’t sure which. The four of them meticulously followed the typical search-and-salvage spiral-pattern grid they had agreed on before they’d left Sam’s dock. After marking their starting point on the bottom in the middle of the channel, at two arms’ width apart, they swam side by side in a widening circle. Occasionally, they switched positions because the divers to the east and west took the brunt of the buffeting currents.

  They also had to swim low because yachts with deep drafts occasionally went overhead, though even with the biggest, the divers had almost fifteen feet of clearance. They’d swum about forty feet from their dive boat to begin; they would have to be even more careful when they surfaced to come up at the site they’d marked.

  However much Bree had always loved diving, even under challenging conditions, and despite the fact it was at her insistence this search had been set up, she was suddenly panicked to get out. She should have listened to Cole about not diving. This was a desperate, stupid scheme. The coastal waters of the gulf were huge—as big as the gap between Amelia and the twins, as big as between poor Manny and his daughter right now. Daria and the boat could be anywhere out here.

  Bree’s acute hearing was bothering her. She should have worn plastic earplugs. The ping-ping or low, reverberating buzz of motors overhead, the occasional clank of a dive knife or gauge into a tank down here, the sound of all their bubbles fighting toward the surface—the shriek of fear in her own head and heart…

  When someone’s dive light accidentally swept her way, it almost blinded her as the glare stabbed deep into her brain. Even the dull reflection of a beam off Lance’s face mask was too bright. Yet maybe, since she was seeing better than she would have otherwise, it would help her to find things down here. She forced herself to try to pierce the swirling waters just as they all made a turn to the south.

  Her eyes caught the grayish glint of metal. It could be anything thrown over or lost from a boat. But it looked to be a curved aluminum handrail, like the one that led up from the diving platform to the stern deck of Mermaids II. She gave a kick away from the men and touched the cold metal, half-buried in sand and silt.

  Dented and bent, broken, it seemed to point a bit farther out, luring her on. Cole swam with her, behind her; she wasn’t sure where the other two were, only that she had to go on, off their search grid, off the ends of the earth, if she must.

  Then she saw a four-foot piece of gleaming white metal, also partly buried, but it looked new or well cared for, like their dive boat had been. She brushed sand away from a part of it and uncovered a jagged piece of what was once the stern of a boat. Her and Daria’s boat. She was certain, because part of the name Mermaids II was there in the bent and broken metal, painted bold and bright in the beam of her light: MA D I

  Bree gasped so hard, she choked on her mouthpiece and almost spit it out. Cole grabbed her wrist, but she yanked away and swam on, sweeping her light right and left, down, around, as if something drew her like a powerful magnet. Ahead, looming large, in the deepest part of the channel, at a slight tilt, rested the main deck and wheelhouse of their dive boat. It looked fairly intact.

  Good, she told herself. That surely meant Daria could have weathered the worst of the storm and gotten to shore before it went down. But this area was so heavily populated, why hadn’t someone found her by now?

  But then…then…

  Awed, horrified, Bree swam closer, upward to peer in through the side window of the wheelhouse. Trembling, she trained her light through the glass to look inside.

  And there, floating near the top of the ceiling, her hands lifted and her hair shifting in the water as to hide her once beautiful face, her sister, her other self, was trapped inside.

  Cole could barely keep up with Bree; for a moment he’d lost sight of her in this thick water. All at once, she’d seemed to know where she was going, kicking hard toward he didn’t know what. But he was certain they had found the wreck of the boat.

  And then he saw the bulk of the sunken ship. The hull had a huge piece missing, or was just caved in, but the small upright, half-glass wheelhouse looked intact. Intact—and within…Daria?

  Floating inside, her hair streaming loose and free, was a woman, or what had been a woman before being trapped two days in the graveyard of the sea. Her skin looked loose and greenish, mottled. And he saw Bree meant to go inside to her.

  He kicked harder and reached for Bree. She tried to shake him off. She dropped her light and put both hands to the doorknob, braced her fins on the side of the wheelhouse and tried to wrench the door open. Cole seized both her wrists, shoved her feet off the metal, got his mask right next to hers and shook his head, no. No!

  He would never forget the look in her wide eyes: shock, terror, fury and tears. Up! He pointed. We go back, get help, he tried to gesture.

  To his surprise, she reached for her slate and scribbled, “Can’t leave her here,” then shone his light on it.

  Without going for his own slate, he wrote on hers, “Crime scene?”

  He was grateful when she nodded. Then she broke his heart, going closer to the window of the wheelhouse and putting both her palms against it as if she gave some sort of blessing—or as if she could embrace her sister’s body through the barriers of glass and death.

  On board, after holding out hope and pushing herself for so long, Bree collapsed in tears. Cole led her into the small supply room aft on the barge and, leaving the door ajar for air and light, sat on a huge coil of ropes next to her. She didn’t want to be held, but she kept a tight hold of his hand. She was shaking, in shock, he figured, but he knew she’d never agree to go ashore right now. Besides, until Sam or the authorities showed up, he had no way to get her there.

  Sam’s men radioed both the coast guard and the Naples Police dive team. The already busy waterway quickly became a hub of activity. Gawkers lined the edge of the river and boats huddled close; the press arrived by boats, trying to get video and interviews. Bree and Cole hid out, but they could hear Ric and Lance answering shouted questions. Finally, Sam arrived.

  “Sorry for your loss,” he told Bree gruffly as he stood in the doorway of the small supply room, arms crossed over his chest. “Obviously, I know whereof I speak, losing someone nearest to you.”

  Cole glared at the man. Although they had him to thank for the means to discover and recover the ship, it was hard to feel grateful to him.

  Sam plunged on, “Don’t know if foul play has a part in this, but there’s always something foul about the death of a healthy, vital, young person, especially one dearly loved. In a ways, someone’s always to blame. I’ve known that for years, even if you’re just finally learning it.”

  “Stow it,” Cole demanded. “Have a heart, man.”

  “I had one once, but got it shattered,” he said. When Cole made a motion to rise, Sam left them alone again.

  “I don’t suppose he’s right about foul play,” Bree said in a monotone, the first time she’d spoken for an hour. “He was probably only trying to make his point about
my screwing up Ted’s life again. The evidence will probably point to her not handling the storm somehow and the boat going down in it.”

  “With that storm, it will be hard to convince people of anything else, but I’m sure they’ll do an investigation.”

  “If they don’t, I will. She was good with the boat—with swimming, too, you know.”

  “Of course she was, but you need to concentrate on a funeral and getting your life back together.”

  “But…without her, it may just seem like half a life. I need to call Amelia and Ben. Could you get my cell in my stuff?”

  “Sure. Be right back.”

  When he returned, a Naples Police officer was talking to her. Though he stood back, Cole overheard what they were telling her, especially the word he’d been afraid to say—autopsy.

  “I understand,” she was saying in a terrible monotone that didn’t sound like her. But he remembered mourning, the out-of-body feeling of it where you moved and talked but weren’t really there. With a sick-in-the-gut feeling, he pictured again his mother’s body, drowned, though she hadn’t been in the water as long as Daria was. He and his dad had put their arms around each other and sobbed.

  “How long,” she was asking the officer, “before I can have her—have her back and we’ll know the cause of death?”

  “I can’t tell for sure, Ms. Devon. It will be up to the coroner, but of course, as soon as possible.”

  When the man moved away, Cole returned to sit beside her and handed her her cell. The moment she turned it on, it played “Under The Sea,” the bouncy tune from a Disney animated movie. For a second, he couldn’t recall the movie’s name or why he’d seen it. Oh, yeah, he remembered—The Little Mermaid. He’d taken a client’s kids to see it when the parents had the flu a couple of years ago.

  “Lots of missed calls,” she told him, swiping at tears on her cheeks. “Can word have spread that fast already? Amelia will hear it from someone else. I should have called her right away, because she’s all I have now…but I want to go back down to Daria. I want to be with her when they bring her up.”

  “Sweetheart, you can’t. They’ll take good care of her, bring her up in a body bag so no one can see. It’s out of your hands now—”

  “I know. I know.”

  Suddenly, she exploded into sucking, gasping sobs and threw herself across his lap and clung to him. With his foot, Cole closed the storeroom door and, tears running down his face, held her hard to him.

  That night, Bree swam from dark dream to dark dream. She and Ted stood together on the deck of the Titanic as it went down into icy waters—no, that was Daria beside her, going down, down under the sea…voices somewhere…Ben, Amelia. Had they drugged her? Was she back in the hospital. No, this was her own bed.

  She dived again, swimming hard to get to the wreck of her life. The sign with the boat’s name was still there, broken, distorted: MA D I

  Only one mermaid left now, just Bree alone. And she was mad. “I am mad,” she changed the sign to say, scribbling on Cole’s slate. I am furious and I am crazed with anger and pain. She beat her fists on the glass of the wheelhouse to get Daria’s attention. Wake up, wake up! Swimming around inside, she was swimming when she should have been steering the boat. Had the storm killed her? The iceberg? Or something else?

  Daria turned to her and waved, mouthing the words, Come on in. The water’s fine….

  Bree tried to pull the wheelhouse door open. Tried and tried, but Cole wouldn’t help her, and Daria shook her head and tried to hold it shut.

  “No, I have to go to her!” she screamed at Cole. “I have to find her, find out what happened!” Someone shrieked those words so close that it woke Bree up.

  It was her own voice. Thank God, just a dream! But waking reality was just as bad.

  She sat up amid the sheets she’d churned to huge waves around her. The bedside digital clock read 3:00 a.m. and her bedroom door was ajar. Lights came on in the hall, and Amelia rushed in, wearing silk pajamas. She had huge half circles of black mascara under her eyes.

  “I’m here, I’m here,” Amelia said, sitting on the bed and reaching out to hug Bree. For one moment, Bree just stared at her.

  That’s right, Amelia and Ben were here, though Bree had hated to see Cole leave.

  “You—are you sleeping in her bed?” Bree stammered.

  “No, of course not. On the sofa. Ben said not to touch anything of hers.”

  Maybe he thought something was strange about Daria’s death—or else he was just being himself, a trained criminal lawyer who was now a prosecuting attorney. Amelia kept saying over and over, “Bree, I’m so sorry—so, so sorry! So, so sorry…”

  So Bree pulled Amelia into her arms and comforted her.

  10

  Manny was furious that the police refused to start looking for Lucinda for at least forty-eight hours. They’d said she was just another teenage girl who’d left a note she was running away, and they saw that “all the time.” Not with my daughter, Manny had insisted, but he knew this was all Lucinda’s fault.

  Still, all afternoon, and again when the high school let out, he drove the streets of Immokalee, looking for her. He stared at clumps of kids as they walked home, boarded buses or hung around. Lots of chicas resembled his youngest daughter—but none were. Didn’t Lucinda know that human trafficking was a growing problem in South Florida? Sure, most of the girls abducted and forced into prostitution were from Guatemala, but it could happen if she was found wandering the streets. She looked as Hispanic as those poor women who were either sold by impoverished families or just plain abducted. Didn’t Lucinda know she could ruin her life, much worse than she was ruining his?

  When he’d gotten home, he’d learned Juanita had called Lucinda’s Latina friends. They weren’t sure who her Anglo friends were. Like poor Bree, he was out looking for a lost girl, when the news he’d been expecting and fearing came over his car radio.

  “Boat debris and the body of missing Turtle Bay resident, Daria Devon, has been discovered underwater in Big Marco Pass. Although the coast guard and civil air patrol have been searching for her since she disappeared during the storm on Tuesday, the discovery was made by her identical twin sister and business partner, Briana Devon. Authorities, including the county coroner, are now on the scene. Daria and Briana Devon owned and operated the Two Mermaids Search and Salvage Shop, and are sisters-in-law of Ben Westcott, Collier County prosecuting attorney. Daria Devon and her sister were currently overseeing the Save Our Sea Grass project for the Clear the Gulf Commission and…”

  Manny pulled into the parking lot of Our Lady of Guadalupe Church and, gripping the steering wheel, pressed his forehead to his hands. They—Bree—had found the body. Now came worse suspicions and, maybe, accusations. He could only hope it would be ruled an accident to avoid all that.

  Despite his trials, Manny hadn’t cried for years—not macho. But now, tears ran down his wrists; some plopped onto the knees of his jeans. Too much…too many things out of his control. He owed it to Bree to be with her, to help comfort her, even though she’d gone starry-eyed over Cole DeRoca. And she had her other sister and her big-man husband to call if she needed them. Caramba, if there was any hint of someone hurting Daria…

  “An autopsy will be performed,” the radio voice went on, “to discover the cause of death and rule out any possibility of foul play.”

  Foul play—foul play! Play was a stupido word for such a horrible thing.

  Manny jumped when his cell phone rang. He swiped away tears with his sleeve and reached for it on the passenger seat. It would be his wife on the line, probably to tell the bad news about Daria—or, God forbid, something about Lucinda.

  “Que pasa?”

  “It’s Lucinda,” Juanita said in her quick Spanish. “She came home because she heard Daria is dead. Did you hear?”

  “Sí. Muy malo! At least something good can come of that if the news brings Lucinda home. Give her the phone.”

  “She says sh
e’s sorry. She went right into your mama and told her she is very sorry. She’s been with friends—her Anglo girlfriends, no boys, she says.”

  “I’m coming right home, then I have to go see Bree, help if I can, after…”

  “After what?”

  “I’ll be right there. And that chica better be waiting,” he muttered and punched off.

  On the short drive home, he berated himself. He’d caused Daria’s death, and Bree knew it. If he’d just been there, she’d said. But in a way, it was his defiant daughter and his beloved mother who had caused it. Too much pressure on him. He needed control of his family and he needed money. Es necesario! And half of the salvage business was now his. He’d done what he had to do.

  Fists clenched, blood pounding, he banged into the house, furious with himself, his daughter and the world. Juanita met him at the door, holding up both hands to halt his steps.

  “Get her out here,” he ordered, walking past Juanita, then turning back to face her in the small, cluttered kitchen. He lowered his voice. “My sick mother does not need to hear this. Lucinda’s not hiding behind her or you. I said, get her out here.”

  “I said she’s very sorry. She learned her lesson,” Juanita pleaded. “Don’t let your temper get the best of you, because it can be the worst of you.”

  By the next afternoon, Bree had sobbed herself sick, then gone stoic. When their pastor dropped by, she had asked him if they could use the little Turtle Bay Community Church for the funeral. The twins loved the church, with its seaside ambience. When they stood up to sing a hymn, they could see the bay and God’s great sea beyond, and the congregation was so Deep South friendly. But Pastor Wallace had been right to suggest that, weather willing, they hold the funeral in the back of the church on the lawn, overlooking the bay. “The family of the bereaved,” as he put it, had many friends, and with the publicity, a lot of strangers might also come to pay their condolences.