When I Wake

by Rachel Lee

  And all of that money would mean that Luis could be his own man, not somebody else’s employee. He could have a nice house—maybe not as nice as Emilio’s, but Luis wasn’t greedy—and not have to upend his entire life every time some boss wanted him to do something. He might even be home enough to make his wife happy again.

  Thinking of Rosa made him frown. She’d been growing increasingly unhappy for the last several years, complaining that she was always lonely. Luis wasn’t particularly moved by her complaints because she was happy enough to spend the money he made, a sum he couldn’t have earned at an ordinary job. But . . . her misery made him unhappy because she made sure he knew she was miserable.

  So, with more money, and the freedom not to work unless he might feel like it, he could see his entire life improving.

  That was what he had to keep in mind: having his own villa, putting an end to his wife’s complaints, and being his own master, which was something a man ought to be.

  As he thought of those things, the shrimp began to look better, and he resumed eating as soon as his fresh bottle of beer and a glass arrived.

  It would be okay, he told himself. Emilio would never figure out what was going on because he really couldn’t read minds. That was just a stupid, superstitious feeling Luis had sometimes.

  And El Desconocido would never know who Luis was. He would arrange it so that he would be anonymous, even when the payment was made. He had learned well from Emilio, and he had already set up an account to handle matters.

  Burping with satisfaction—or so he told himself, even though he had a sneaking suspicion that his stomach was upset from nerves—Luis pushed the plate aside and reached for the beer. Life was good, he assured himself, and it was going to get much better. It had to. He deserved it.

  He finished the Tecate and paid his bill, wondering what he was going to do next. He had initially been delighted with the idea of coming to Key West, but there was little to do that truly appealed to him. It was a place for couples, not a place for solitary men who were on business, unless they wanted to get drunk.

  He sighed and looked up and down Duval Street. What now? He had no desire to buy a T-shirt or any of the other wares that were being displayed in shop windows. He decided to go back to his hotel room and simply wait. That’s what his life had come to, he thought irritably. All he did these days was wait.

  But when he was still a block from the hotel, his beeper chirped. All of a sudden he wasn’t bored. All of a sudden his heart was racing and his palms were sweaty.

  It was the moment of truth.

  Hurrying now, he reached the hotel in a lather, and punched the elevator button impatiently. It seemed to take forever for a car to come down to the lobby, and forever for it to open its doors and spill out its occupants, a group of laughing women who all had short hair.

  He sniffed disapprovingly, but they ignored him.

  Inside the car, he punched the button for the fifth floor, but before the doors could close, a man stuck his hand in. Then Luis had to wait while the bellman loaded a middle-aged couple and eight suitcases into the car. The couple spoke French excitedly all the way up. Luis was relieved to escape.

  He fumbled the card key into the lock and apparently didn’t do it right because the green light didn’t come on at the first try. He made it on the second and stepped into the cool, perfumed air of his room. At last!

  From the phone on the bedside table, he called his pager for messages.

  Then, despite being overheated, an icy chill ran down his back as he listened to a whispery, strangely accented voice say, “Call in fifteen minutes.”

  Luis had to play the message back three times to be sure he had the phone number correct, and each time he played it back, that strange, whispery voice, sounding as if it came from the bowels of hell, caused ice to run down his spine.

  Luis glanced at his watch, comparing the time with the time stamp on the recording. Three more minutes.

  He shouldn’t do this, he thought with sudden fright. This was going to be the biggest mistake he could make. Emilio was going to find out, and have him beheaded.

  And what about El Desconocido? He knew nothing about the man. He might be far worse than Emilio. At least Emilio was generally gentlemanly in his dealings unless he was thwarted. This unknown man might not have any reservations or inhibitions at all. What if he decided to use Luis to get the mask, then kill him?

  He’d heard of such things happening. He had to be very careful that this man couldn’t trace him. That’s why the pager.

  But just then, with a sinking stomach, he realized his mistake. He had purchased the pager with his own credit card. It was the only way he could get it activated immediately. He had lied about his name and address on the application, but there was still the credit card. What if El Desconocido was able to get that information?

  Realizing he had made a serious mistake by not knowing anything about the devil he was planning to bargain with, he sat on the edge of the bed and seriously reconsidered what he was about to do.

  He wouldn’t make the call, he decided. No amount of money was worth getting tangled up with someone who might be more of a threat than he could imagine.

  But then he thought how silly he was being. He was imagining devils from hell, not a human being who was probably very much like Emilio. He would direct payment for his services into a numbered account that couldn’t be traced to him, and he wouldn’t touch it for a while, not until he was sure it was safe.

  And if the man found out his credit-card number—Luis swallowed hard. Well, he would just report it stolen after he made this phone call. And he would deny all knowledge of the person who had bought the pager with it. He would cover his tracks so thoroughly that no one could find out it was him.

  Feeling better, he reached for the phone. Now. Punching in the number, he listened to the phone on the other end ring. Once, twice . . .

  He heard the receiver lifted out of the cradle. The whispery voice said, “Yes?”

  Luis had to clear his throat before he could speak. He felt his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “Are you interested in the Alcantara?”

  “Yes.”

  “How interested?”

  “What do you have?”

  Luis hesitated, considering how much to say. “I have a spy on a boat that is searching for the Alcantara right now.” It was a small exaggeration, one he fully intended to correct the instant the Mandolin returned to shore.

  “Yes?”

  It was not enough, apparently. “He is going to keep me informed.”

  “I see.” There was a long pause. Then, “What is your interest in the Alcantara?”

  Luis had no trouble with that one. “Money. My employer is paying me to keep him informed because he’s interested in an, um, artifact on the sunken ship. I am interested in knowing if you are willing to pay me more.”

  There was a feathery laugh, little more than a few puffs of air. “Trustworthy, are you not?”

  “Yes I am,” Luis said, feeling his cheeks heat with anger.

  “To the highest bidder.”

  “Of course.”

  The unknown on the other end of the phone was silent for a while. Luis began to sweat profusely, rivulets running down his face, and wonder if he’d messed up somehow.

  The man spoke again. “You work for Emilio Zaragosa, yes?”

  Luis suddenly felt as if he were cased in ice. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

  “Do not worry,” the voice said. “My agenda does not include exposing you. The mask is worth a great deal of money to me. I will pay you well if you deliver it. Keep me informed at this number. A machine will take your messages.”

  Then the call was disconnected.

  And Luis sat frozen for a long time, because he was certain he had just spoken to the devil himself.

  Ay Dios, what had he done?

  Chapter 9

  “This is boring,” Tam announced to no one in particular.

&
nbsp; They had been sailing back and forth across the area that interested Veronica for three days, and so far hadn’t found anything. Tam had taken to sunbathing on the bow and reading a paperback thriller. Dugan sat hour after hour in the cockpit, keeping them on course, wondering how long he was going to be able to do this without going crazy. He liked to sail, yes. But he preferred to have a destination.

  Just then Tam was standing at the stern, munching a peanut butter sandwich while they all took a break.

  Veronica’s brow furrowed as she looked at Tam. “What did you say?”

  He turned to face her. “It’s boring.”

  She shook her head slightly and looked at Dugan.

  “He said it’s boring.”

  “Cripes,” Tam said. “You’re translating English to English.”

  “What did he say?”

  Dugan stifled a sigh, reminding himself not to get irritated by this. It wasn’t as if Veronica could help it. He looked at her. “Why can’t you read Tam’s lips?”

  She flushed. “He has a moustache.”

  Tam’s hand flew to his luxuriant face hair. “No.”

  Dugan spared him a glance. “No what?”

  “I’m not going to cut it off.”

  “Then get used to me translating English to English.”

  Tam looked at Veronica.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Tam shrugged. “You can’t help it, I guess.”

  Veronica looked at Dugan.

  “He said you can’t help it.”

  “No, I can’t.” Then she turned her back on both of them.

  Dugan was beginning to hate the gesture. There was something exceedingly juvenile about it. At the same time, every time she did it, he was beginning to feel an ache in his chest. Not because he minded being ignored by her—he kept telling himself that being ignored by her was what he wanted—but because it had begun to speak volumes to him after her use of the word isolation the other day.

  He kept seeing her as alone and lonely. Alone was okay. He was alone himself, pretty much, and preferred it that way. But lonely was something else. He knew all about lonely, since he’d felt that way for months after Jana had dropped her little bomb. But lonely appeared to be a way of life for Veronica. And worse than that, he saw her keep widening the circle of emptiness around herself, as if she didn’t know how to do anything else. In another person he would have assumed she wanted the solitude, but after her tears the other day, he had quite a different opinion.

  But he didn’t know what the hell to do about it. Or even if he should do anything about it. After all, as far as she was concerned, he was nothing but the guy she had hired to drive a boat and do a little diving for her.

  He turned from her, not wanting to stare at her back any longer, because it was such a defensive, defenseless posture.

  That’s when he saw the clouds.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  “What?” Tam asked. “Holy shit,” he said a moment later.

  Veronica, hearing their voices, turned around to look at them. “What?” she said. Apparently she’d picked up on their tones.

  Dugan pointed to the west. The black squall line was clear, though it was nowhere near to blotting out the sun, and apparently not close enough yet to stir up the water.

  “Oh,” Veronica said when she saw the dark clouds, with their green underbellies. “That doesn’t look good.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Dugan hadn’t been paying as much attention to the weather as he probably should have. The thing was, the weather in these parts was appallingly boring. Sunny, the trades blowing steadily, day after day after day. He’d gotten lax.

  “Somebody kick my butt.”

  “Sure,” said Tam. And obliged with a kick that just barely grazed him. They were both surprised to hear Veronica laugh.

  “Well,” Dugan said, “I’d better go see if I can get the marine forecast.”

  “What for?” Tam asked. “I can tell you already what it’s going to say.”

  Dugan just shook his head. He already knew what Tam could tell him, but he wanted to know more. He wanted to know how strong the winds were, how high the seas might be, and which direction that squall line was moving. Little things like that.

  But there was nothing on the radio. Apparently the storm was a localized one, probably caused by warm rising air off the water meeting a draft of colder air from the north. It might be nothing to worry about.

  On the other hand . . .

  Sticking his head out of the cockpit, he called to Tam. “Nothing on the radio. It must have just started building.”

  Tam nodded toward the west. “It’s building fast, skipper. I think we ought to hightail it.”

  Looking at the clouds once again, Dugan had to agree. They were piling higher and taller, and he could already see the first chop on the waves. “Better pull in the sea anchor, Tam. Then let’s sheet some sail and get the hell out of here.”

  Veronica was still standing where he’d left her, watching the storm clouds. Far from looking dismayed, she looked exhilarated. Her blue eyes were sparkling, and a smile curved her mouth. He decided she was too much of a landlubber to realize that she was in a small boat in the middle of nowhere facing the wrath of nature.

  But her smile faded when she saw Tam pull in the anchor and start hoisting the sails.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “We’re going home,” Dugan told her.

  “We’re not supposed to go until tomorrow.”

  “So we go one day early, miss the storm, and come back out here a day early. No time lost really.” Then he went to help Tam hoist the sails.

  He was going to enjoy this, he realized as the wind caught the sails and jerked the Mandolin forward. He was really going to enjoy this. It had been a long time since he’d had his baby under full sail, a long time since he’d let her fly at her top speed.

  Veronica followed him into the cockpit when he resumed his place at the wheel. Tam took up position near the bow, also dearly enjoying the speed of their rush.

  “I don’t want to go back,” Veronica told Dugan. “We were getting close to that other place I saw from the plane.”

  “If what you saw is part of the ship, it’s been there for three hundred years. It’ll still be there the day after tomorrow.”

  “But you don’t understand.”

  He shook his head, forcing himself to keep looking at her so she could understand him. “I do understand,” he said. “I understand that you’re obsessed. We’ll be back here the day after tomorrow. That’s soon enough.”

  “Why couldn’t we just ride the storm out?”

  “Because it’s not necessary. And if it’s not necessary, there’s no reason to risk all our necks to try to tough it out.”

  “I thought you were a bigger risk taker than that.”

  “Lady,” he said sharply, “I’ve never been a risk taker. I prefer being smart. And right now, heading for port is the smart thing to do. You have no idea how small a forty-two-foot boat can feel when nature kicks up a fuss.”

  But before all was said and done, she got a taste of it. He was clipping along at a good twenty-five knots, but the storm was building faster. Before long, it was breathing down their necks, darkening the sun and roiling the water into choppy, high waves. The Mandolin began to feel as if she were skipping over the tops of the waves, each contact with the water causing the boat to shudder quickly.

  Veronica stayed beside him in the cockpit, but Tam went below, saying something about better light to read by. That was okay by him. He was enjoying this run before the storm, and Veronica, at least, was being quiet. Tam seemed to have an aversion to quiet, needing to fill it with conversation.

  Not that it was truly quiet. The sails were humming with life, the water was crashing against the bow, and from time to time he heard a distinct roll of thunder.

  The ride was getting rougher by the minute. In the shallow water, it didn’t take long for the wind to whip
the waves up. He glanced at Veronica and saw her smiling, her eyes alight. She was enjoying it, too.

  That surprised him. She had struck him as such a closed, crabby woman that he thought it amazing she liked staring into the teeth of a storm. He found himself grinning at her, enjoying her pleasure. Enjoying sharing this with her.

  Just then a rogue wave came along, catching them from the stern. It lifted them up high, causing them to yaw to starboard, then vanished beneath them. The bow rose sharply, then plunged downward, nearly throwing him out of his seat. The wave had cost him control, and the Mandolin heeled sharply, tipping the world to port. He caught himself just in time, bracing himself against the side of the cockpit. When he found a moment to glance over at Veronica, she was gripping the console in front of her and laughing.

  She looked his way, her face alight, and shouted, “It’s better than an amusement park.”

  Tam stuck his head up through the hatch just then. “What the hell was that?”

  “A wave,” Dugan answered.

  Tam rolled his eyes. “No shit, Sherlock.”

  He decided they had to reverse course. As the seas became rougher and choppier, battering them from aft, he realized it was foolhardy to keep trying to outrun the worst. He needed to have his bow into the waves before the boat heeled over. That meant bringing them around. Cautiously. The wave had started the process, and they were still rolling wildly to the side as each new wave hit them.

  Dugan called below. “Tam?”

  “Yo.”

  “Put out the sea anchor.” It would drag from the stern of the boat like a parachute, and help turn and keep them bow into the waves. Much easier than fighting the wheel.

  “Aye, aye.”

  Water was splashing over the gunwales now, and he decided it might be a good time to take down some of the sail. He turned to Veronica.

  “I need to take in the sails.”

  “Okay.”

  “I need you to take the helm.”