by Brenda Hiatt
“Who’s going to believe that a novice diver and a non-diver would attempt a dive like that at midnight?” I tried to sound logical instead of desperate. “Not a very believable accident, if you ask me.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Phelps said. “Jealous ex-husband trying to prove something to win back his wife. And you were seen arguing in the hotel lobby earlier, which lends credibility. Besides, with luck, your bodies won’t be found for a day or two, so no one will know you went out at midnight.”
Their luck, not ours. Ours wasn’t looking good.
“Anyway, enough talk,” he said then. “Get all this stuff down to the edge so they can put it on. You two can help, too. Men carry the tanks and weights, women carry the other stuff.”
The vests and regulators were already attached to the tanks, which probably meant they’d stolen the equipment from a dive shop or boat, already set up for tomorrow morning’s diving. I doubted Lenny could have put the things together himself, though I had no idea if Michelle was a diver.
Tom picked up one of the tanks with a grunt while Lenny carried the other. I picked up one shortie wetsuit, mask with attached snorkel, and a pair of fins and saw Michelle doing the same. Phelps pulled a flashlight from somewhere and led the way through the jagged rocks and down a short slope to the water.
Every wave that crashed against the rocks was caught by the fierce wind, flinging the water twenty feet in the air and spraying us all liberally. It was awe-inspiring, and from a safe distance would have been beautiful. Up close, it was terrifying.
And chilly. Even though it was probably still eighty degrees, between the wind and the spray, I was shivering. Maybe not only from the chill.
“Now, get the gear on,” Phelps shouted over the wind, playing the flashlight beam over the piled equipment with one hand, the gun steady in the other. “Help your husband with whatever he doesn’t understand, Ms. Seally.”
“You’re crazy!” Tom exclaimed, a hysterical edge to his voice. “We can’t possibly go out into that.”
I agreed, but didn’t say so—I didn’t want to hear that same hysteria in my own voice.
“It’s that or a bullet, Tom, which I admit was my preference. Less margin for error. Unfortunately—” he slanted a glance at the woman—“I was overruled. But the result should be the same.” Phelps spoke with the same inflection he might have used to discuss some legal case. “The equipment, Ms. Seally,” he prompted me, motioning slightly with the gun.
Then Michelle spoke for the first time—a voice I recognized, though her words surprised me. “Do we really have to do this, Curt? Now that we have the ring back, can’t I just disappear again?”
It was Lenny who answered her. “You’re the one who insisted it should look like an accident, Mel. I was willing to just . . .” he made a slashing motion across his throat. “Gotta be one or the other. She’s seen you. She testifies, he gets off.”
I didn’t have to ask who “he” was. But—“Mel?” I repeated. “Melanie?”
“Does that answer your question?” Phelps said to her.
“Still—” she started.
Lenny cut her off. “It’s too late for cold feet now, Mel. If you hadn’t pitched that ring off the boat during that dinner cruise—”
“Which I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t kept needling me about Stefan,” she retorted. “I was only trying to prove to you—”
“Enough!” Phelps barked at them. Then, to us, “Get that stuff on, both of you.”
I considered telling him to just shoot us and get it over with, and to hell with Melanie’s conscience. It would be an easier death. But a certain one—and I wasn’t ready to die.
Maybe, just maybe, we could survive out there long enough to get below the waves. Make our way around the island to calmer water, stay on the surface until morning, get rescued. It was a long shot—a very long shot—but a better gamble than that gun.
I thought of Deb and Bess, of some stranger giving them dreadful news. No. It was unthinkable. Somehow, we were going to survive this.
“Come on, Tom. I’ll show you how to put on the wetsuit.” I handed him the larger one, looking over his shirt and slacks. “You’ll never get it on over those pants.” My voice shook, but I tried to ignore it. “You’d better strip to your shorts.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but then glanced at Phelps’s gun and unzipped his slacks without a word.
“Okay, put your right leg through here, then zip up from the left.”
“I can’t do it. I can’t see.” It would be unkind to say Tom was whining, given the circumstances.
“We need more light here,” I said over my shoulder to Phelps, who obliged without comment. “There, look. It’s just like starting a jacket zipper. Be careful not to pinch yourself. Arms through the sleeves, then zip the rest of the way up.”
It took him some time and some flailing around, but Tom got his wetsuit on at last. As he was zipping it to his neck, I slipped out of my own shorts and into my wetsuit. In spite of the dark and the unremitting spray, I got it on in record time. Too bad there was no one here who’d be impressed by that.
Warmer now, I had Tom sit on a rock while I checked his equipment. Irrelevantly, or maybe vindictively, I hoped Phelps and the others were shivering the way I’d been a moment ago.
“Here, you’ll need a weight belt.” Without those, we’d never be able to get below the surface, and I was very much hoping that it would be calmer down there. Assuming we survived the rocks on the way out. Big assumption.
Rather than take the time to explain any of this to Tom, I picked up the heavier weight belt and fastened it around his middle myself. I hoped it would be enough weight to compensate for his middle-aged spread.
Leaving him sitting, I dragged one set of equipment over to him, put the tank against his back and buckled him into the vest. Then I checked the connections—no easy task in the fitful flashlight beam and spray—and turned on his air. To my relief, the gauge read a full three thousand PSI. They’d definitely snatched these sets dive-ready.
“You . . . you really do know how to do this, don’t you?” Tom said almost wonderingly as I turned to go get my own equipment.
“I do. But in conditions like this—” I gestured toward the crashing surf and rocks—“I can’t promise that will be enough. Not by a long shot. I’m still a beginner.” But my voice wasn’t shaking now. That was something.
Before weighing myself down with my own tank, I helped Tom on with his mask and handed him his fins.
“No, don’t take your shoes off yet,” I said when he bent down. “We won’t be able to walk in the fins, and those rocks will tear bare feet to shreds. We’ll have to kick off our shoes once we’re out there.”
He looked down. “But these are . . . Never mind. They’re pretty much ruined already.”
I didn’t point out that with his life on the line, the price of his shoes shouldn’t matter. He was scared enough without an extra reality check. Instead, I sat down and buckled myself into my own gear, then checked my gauges.
“I guess we’re as ready for this suicide mission as we’ll ever be,” I told Phelps, willing my heart to stop pounding. It was like telling the waves to stop pounding on the rocks.
“Not quite,” he said. Then, to Lenny, “Let the air out of their tanks.”
Lenny came forward, then hesitated, obviously unsure of just how to do that—and I wasn’t about to tell him. Instead, I turned to Phelps.
“If you do, we’re not going in at all,” I told him, my voice surprisingly steady. “Just shoot us instead. It won’t look like an accident, but hey, that’s on you. It’ll be less painful for us than drowning while we’re being battered against the rocks.”
I started to take off my mask to prove my resolve. My heart was hammering in my throat. I wondered what it felt
like, being shot. Behind me, Tom made a faint whimpering noise.
Phelps hesitated, then Melanie said something I couldn’t hear, and he shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t see you lasting long out there anyway, air or no air. Go on in. But I’ll be here with the gun if you try anything.” He switched off the flashlight.
He was probably right about our chances, but since I’d won my point, I didn’t argue. Maybe we did have a very slight fighting chance this way. Maybe. I struggled to my feet, hampered by the heavy tank on my back.
“Come on, Tom,” I said, taking him by the hand. “Stand up. Watch your balance—the tank will throw you off. No, hang onto those fins. You’re going to need them if we get past the rocks.”
He obeyed me without a word. Through his mask, I could see his eyes wide with fear in the moonlight. Together, bent forward against the wind and under the weight of our tanks, we slowly picked our way through the rocks and into the water.
The next wave knocked me off my feet. I clutched at the nearest rock as I went down, lost my grip on Tom’s hand, and skinned my knees. He was still on his feet, but listing sideways against another rock. At least we both still had our fins.
“Hands and knees,” I gasped. “Oh, and here.” I reached over and grabbed his regulator and stuck it in his mouth. “Breathe through this, so you don’t have to worry about inhaling water.” I did the same, and watched as he took his first tentative breaths.
Since I couldn’t talk now, I waved my fins at him to indicate he needed to hang onto his own. Then I started crawling toward the ocean, trusting him to follow me. My hands and legs were going to be a mass of cuts and bruises, but that was the least of my worries. One big wave at just the wrong time and one or both of us could be bashed against a rock and knocked out—or killed.
Clinging to the bigger rocks, I gradually moved away from shore, bracing for each wave. After every one, I turned to make sure Tom was still behind me, still okay. Why I cared, when he’d tried to save himself at my expense earlier, I didn’t know. Probably the same reason I’d tried to help Lenny the other day. I just couldn’t turn off that stupid nurturing switch.
The next five minutes felt like an eternity. For every two steps forward we managed, the water pushed us back a step and a half. But slowly, slowly, we made our way into deeper water. When I was about chest deep, I managed to move around behind a rock that stuck up out of the water. I motioned to Tom to join me. It gave us a little bit of shelter from the battering waves.
Taking my regulator out of my mouth, I said, “Here. This is a good place to put on our fins. Then we can try to swim.”
He stood there, chest heaving, then managed a nod. I considered it a minor miracle that we both still had our fins, and sent up silent thanks and a quick prayer. One miracle at a time. My fins were too big, but I pulled the strap at the back as tight as possible. Then I helped Tom on with his, which at least fit.
I reached over and pushed the button on his vest to inflate it all the way. He’d probably panic if he started to sink. I’d worry about actually diving once we were away from the jagged rocks.
“Okay, let’s go. Follow me,” I said, and put my regulator back in my mouth.
I waited for the next wave to break, then took advantage of the backwash as it went out to come around the rock and let it carry us further from shore. When I saw the next wave coming, I ducked down, motioning for Tom to do the same. It still pushed us backward, but not as dramatically as when we’d been on the surface. This just might work.
The moment that wave receded, I leveled out and kicked my fins as hard as I could, trying to get well away from the rocks before the next wave could reach us. A few more yards and we’d be past the breakers, which should make for easier going.
I glanced back but didn’t see Tom. Grumbling, I had to let the next wave carry me backward, undoing all of my progress. There he was, still clinging to the rock. I motioned to him again but he shook his head at me. Was he hurt? I moved back around behind the rock where I could stand and took my regulator out again.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I mwama sfay eer,” he said around his mouthpiece.
I pulled it out of his mouth. “What?”
“I said I want to stay here. It’s the safest spot we’ve found. Maybe they’ll give up and leave after a while, and then we can go back.”
“Well, I guess we can at least—” A loud crack interrupted me and made us both jump.
“What the?” I turned to look back toward shore and saw three figures still there, one pointing at us. There was another crack, this one even closer—and this time I saw sparks from a nearby rock. “They’re shooting at us!”
“Okay, I guess that was a bad plan,” Tom said. I was relieved that he didn’t sound as scared as I’d expected. Maybe, like me, he’d worked past that first rush of terror. I hoped so.
“As soon as the next wave breaks, follow me,” I said. “Swim as hard as you can. We need to get out past the breakers and away from these rocks—and out of range from that gun.”
I didn’t know if Phelps was a bad shot or if he was just trying to scare us. Both, I hoped.
The next wave broke, and this time Tom came with me around the rock and out toward open sea. It took two, three more waves, with us ducking down for each one, before we were past the main line of breakers. The water was still rough, with whitecaps breaking all around us. Too rough for talking. And the current was still pushing us toward shore.
I stretched my fins down as far as they’d go and discovered I couldn’t stand. I took a deep breath, then pulled out my regulator just long enough to say, “We’re going to go down. We’ll be safer there.”
Tom started shaking his head, but I didn’t have the energy to argue or explain. Instead, I reached over and let some air out of his BCD, then did the same with my own. We started to sink.
Tom sort of half screamed through his regulator and flailed his arms. I grabbed one arm firmly and patted it, then took his hand. It seemed to calm him slightly. He stopped screaming and kicking and started breathing again.
It was pitch dark below the surface, but only a few feet down we hit rocks again. I guided Tom’s hand to hold onto one, then I grabbed another. The current was still strong, still trying to force us in toward shore, but now we had some leverage.
I considered working our way deeper, but then realized Tom would have no idea how to equalize to keep his ears from hurting. Best if we just stay here. But for how long? Our air wouldn’t last forever.
Now that we were out here in the pitch dark, the current tugging hard against our grips on the rocks, I realized that my plan of swimming around to the calm side of the island was worse than desperate—it was impossible. If Phelps and the others didn’t leave before our air ran out, we’d be dead just as surely as if he’d shot us.
As the minutes passed and my fingers started to go numb, I started to wish he had.
I tried to distract myself by thinking about what Lenny had let slip earlier. Apparently Melanie Melampus had managed to fake her own death after all. So where did her sister come into all of this?
I shifted my grip slightly, feeling my energy ebb as the adrenaline that had driven me this far started to wear off. I tried to check my air gauge, but it was too dark. Anyway, I was pretty sure my fingers would give out before my air did.
A nudge on my arm made me turn, but all I could see was a dark shape in the water—and an outline of Tom’s arm, pointing upward. I looked up and saw what he was pointing at: a light, bobbing on the waves, not far off. A boat?
Maybe we’d been given another miracle after all. No matter who it was, they had to be a better bet than waiting here to die or going back to be shot. I groped at Tom’s vest until I found the button to inflate it, then inflated my own, swimming as hard as I could in the direction of the light.
Tom
reached the surface before I did, but I was right behind him. It was definitely a boat—but it was farther away than I’d thought. Still, neither of us hesitated in swimming toward it. I only hoped it would stay put until we could get close enough to shout.
I tried to switch to my snorkel to conserve the air in my tank, but the ocean was far too rough. After getting seawater in my snorkel—and mouth—for the third time and coughing so hard I nearly threw up, I switched back to my regulator. Just as well I hadn’t suggested Tom use his snorkel.
My arms and legs felt like lead after strugging against the ocean for so long already. At least the water wasn’t too cold, especially with a wetsuit . . . Something brushed against my thigh, and I let out a yelp through my regulator.
I twisted around in the water, imagining sharks and even worse things in the black water, then realized it had been Tom’s fin. Still, that surge of adrenaline wasn’t without effect. I felt a renewed burst of energy, and I put it to good use, kicking and stroking toward the light of the boat. Was it my imagination, or was it starting to move?
Panicked at the idea of the boat leaving, I dropped my regulator and shouted as loudly as I could. I managed a couple of good yells before a wave hit me in the face, making me splutter and choke again. Beside me, Tom slowed, then took his own regulator part way out of his mouth and hollered, too—then put the mouthpiece right back in. I couldn’t really blame him.
I took a couple of deep breaths through my regulator, then kicked upward as hard as I could while attempting another shout, to keep my head as far above the water as possible.
“Here! Over here! Help!” I screamed, before I had to shut my mouth as I sank back down into the waves. Was the boat turning? Coming this way? No . . . Yes! Yes, it was.
“Hello?” A man’s voice came across the water toward us. “Is someone out here?”
Tom and I shouted, “Yes!” simultaneously, and he apparently heard us, because now the boat was definitely coming toward us.
