Adrift

by Micki Browning

  Without thinking, Mer swatted it away. “Then you and your viewers should ambush the Sheriff’s Office.”

  Wendy played to the camera. “The criminal investigation into the missing diver continues as Monroe County deputies scour the Spiegel Grove shipwreck for answers—answers that appear to be as elusive as the ghosts the team sought. Foul play on the high seas? Perhaps dead men really do tell tales. I’m Wendy Wheeler, the key to Keys News.”

  Mer nearly retched. The only thing holding her in check was the little red light on the camera and how much she didn’t want an image of her leaning over the trash can to be the lead story on the six o’clock news.

  “That’s a wrap.” The reporter held her hand out to Mer. “I’m Wendy—”

  “Wheeler. Yes. We’ve met.” Mer noticed that the cameraman hadn’t lowered the camera.

  “I’d like to talk to you about Ishmael Styx.”

  “I told you, you need to contact the Sheriff’s Office.”

  Wendy leaned onto the counter as if she were about to order a cocktail. “Is it true that they were filming a documentary for the Expedition channel?”

  “You seem to know as much as I do.”

  “Will last night’s footage be included?”

  Mer’s mouth dropped. “Do you even care that a man is missing? That he could be dead? What is wrong with you?”

  Wendy straightened and the microphone snapped back into place. “Witnesses fear that Ishmael Styx is dead. I understand you were with him. What really happened?”

  “Out.” Mer stepped around the counter.

  “Have you retained a lawyer?”

  “Out!” She herded the two newspeople toward the door just as Bijoux entered holding the coffee and the three collided on the threshold. The cardboard carrier shot into the air and the two iced coffees landed on Wendy, soaking the front of her dress.

  “Cut, cut!” Wendy held the cloth away from her skin. “Turn off the damn camera.”

  The cameraman toggled the switch and bent down to wipe his lens dry, but not before Mer detected a smirk.

  Bijoux surveyed the chaos, then glanced outside as if trying to decide where she’d rather be.

  Mer had no such uncertainty. She desperately wanted to be on the Spiegel Grove.

  —

  The shop had closed at six, and, in the hour since, rain had fallen on the roof in a constant patter that set Mer’s nerves on edge as she waited. She needed to talk to Leroy, and he was still on the Spiegel.

  She’d spent her free time during the day researching paranormal activity. She was used to scanning documents for pertinent facts, but everything she found online skewed toward the anecdotal if not downright fictional. The Keys had earned a reputation as a hotbed of sightings, mostly in the old hotels in Key West. She didn’t find any mention of haunted ships, apart from Rob’s encounter. That topped her searches. The AP had picked up the story and every small-town paper ran an article on the Spiegel Spirit.

  Her mind churned. The heavy rain would deter anyone from lingering on the dock, and then she could talk to Leroy while he hosed down the boat. She didn’t know what she hoped to hear. If the dive team found Ishmael, that meant he had gone into the ship against her explicit instructions. It would exonerate her, but it would mean Ishmael was dead. If they didn’t find him, he could still be alive. Obviously, that was the better option, but it also meant that in her preoccupation with getting Amber to the surface she had failed another diver.

  Leroy returned to the dock around seven. Mer shut down the computer and waited for it to power off. The door chime startled her out of her thoughts and she turned, expecting to find Leroy. “Amber. What are you doing here?” The idiocy behind the question hit her as soon as the words left her mouth. “I mean, is there something I can do for you?”

  The young woman shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then cleared her throat. “Captain Penninichols thought you’d still be up here. Do you have a minute?”

  The request took Mer by surprise, but she hurried forward and held open the door. “Of course. Come in. You’re soaked.”

  Amber stopped a few feet inside. Water dripped from her hair. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you the other night.”

  Mer shook her head. “Thank me?”

  Amber twisted the engagement ring Ishmael had given her and her words tumbled out in a rush. “I know it wasn’t your fault. During the dive? Right before I closed my eyes.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I…I saw something. Something I don’t understand. I thought you might be able to help me.” Her eyes darted around the room. “Understand, that is.”

  Mer was momentarily at a loss for words. “Amber, are you sure I’m the one to talk to about this?”

  A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth, then faded. “You were there. I thought…” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I should go.”

  “Wait.” Mer held her hand out. “Please. We both have questions. This is outside my area of expertise, but I’ll do what I can.”

  The relief that flooded Amber’s face quickly drained. “That night, when Ishmael signaled for me to take the photograph of the two of you. I had checked the camera, it was set to a single strobe.”

  Mer recalled Lindsey reminding Amber to take off the camera-lens cover at the picnic tables when they first met. “Perhaps you accidentally set the camera to strobe when you prepped it for the dive.”

  “No, I was really careful. It was Lindsey’s camera. I didn’t want to mess up.” Tears welled in Amber’s eyes. “Lindsey is such a great photographer. Ishmael always goes on and on about her work.”

  Amber had used the present tense, and Mer softened her words. “I’m sure you’re a great photographer, too, or Ishmael wouldn’t have put you in charge of land photography.”

  “I’m really not.” Amber hung her head. “Truth is, white balance confuses me, and I’m color-blind.” The woman’s shoulders started to shake and more tears streaked her face.

  Emotional outbursts confounded Mer, and she retreated to her comfort zone. “Most octopuses are completely color-blind, although some cephalopods can discern ultraviolet wavelengths. Humans are trichromatic; they have three visual pigments.” Which, Mer realized as she bit her lip to prevent more rambling, was germane to absolutely nothing.

  Amber hiccuped. “Yeah, well. My blue-sensitive cones don’t work so well. The only reason Ishmael made me a photographer was so I’d feel included.”

  Mer berated herself. A normal person would know what to do, what to say. “At least he had a reason.”

  “Maybe. I mean, yeah, but with Lindsey being the team’s photographer it kind of created some tension between us.”

  That was an understatement. Even in the limited interaction Mer had witnessed between the two women, tension hovered over them like a storm cloud.

  “I asked her for help, thinking that maybe we could work together.”

  Mer waited.

  “Lindsey accused me of stealing her husband.”

  Ouch.

  “But it isn’t the strobe that I want to talk to you about,” Amber said. “After the flash kept going, I saw Ishmael look at the opening in the side of the ship, like something scared him.”

  “What makes you say that? He hunted ghosts—what could scare him?”

  “He was helping you hold Ariel.” Amber used the name Echo had given his acoustic device. “But then he kind of flinched or something.”

  Mer pictured their motion underwater. The space between flashes made each movement appear jerky, disjointed.

  “Then it looked like something pulled him into the hole, only he didn’t want to go.”

  Mer drew her brows together and considered the statement. “Pulled him?”

  Amber lifted her chin. “Ishmael didn’t disappear. He was snatched.”

  —

  “Snatched?” Leroy asked.

  “That’s what Amber told me.” Mer wound the dock hose around the hook on the piling. It would be dark soon. “She
didn’t say anything to you on the boat?”

  “Not a word. She had her hands full just trying to weather the waves. She’s a trouper, though. Offered to take her back to the dock when the squall hit, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

  Mer double-checked the dock to make sure they had stowed everything before they left. Her bare feet splashed through the puddles left by the earlier storm. More clouds darkened the horizon. “What time are you going out tomorrow?”

  “I haven’t heard that we are.”

  Mer jerked around to face him. “What?”

  “Detective Talbot’s having himself a sit-down with Amber.”

  “Detective Talbot.” His name left a sour taste in her mouth.

  Leroy swung off the boat. “Lower your hackles. He strikes me as the kind of man who plows straight and to the end of his row.”

  The detective’s words still stung. Criminally curious. As if she had somehow orchestrated a connection between rescuing Rob Price and losing Ishmael Styx. Maybe Selkie was right. Talbot had goaded her to see if it would provoke an admission of guilt or something. Well, he’d succeeded in the or something. The less she had to deal with him, the better.

  “I forgot to tell you, I saw you on the news last night.” Leroy hefted his backpack over his shoulder. “Those extra ten pounds look good on you.”

  Mer smoothed the front of her shirt. “How is it you remain married?”

  “There’s a lid to fit every skillet.”

  Mer slid her feet into her flip-flops and they headed toward the parking lot.

  They reached Leroy’s pickup truck first. The driver’s door creaked as it opened. “Had a couple helicopters buzzing around the site today, before the weather turned.”

  Mer stopped. “Doesn’t surprise me. The phone in the shop has been ringing off the hook. Every ghost hunter in the Keys wants to go out on our boat.”

  Leroy shrugged. “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

  “Technically, no.”

  “You know, Ms. Smarty-pants, someday someone is going say something about a subject you know nothing about.”

  “Lots of ambiguity in that statement.” Mer almost managed a smile as she trudged toward her car. “Plus, you really shouldn’t end a sentence with a preposition.”

  Leroy slammed his door but rolled down the window and shouted, “I just hope I’m around to see it.”

  —

  It took less than an hour for Leroy’s prediction to come true, and he missed the whole thing.

  Detective Talbot stood in the carport, sheltered from the rain that pummeled the palms lining Mer’s driveway.

  “What do you mean, you’ve called off the search?” Mer demanded.

  He ran his hand across his shorn head and flicked off the wetness. “We’ve explored the entire interior. Mr. Styx isn’t inside the Spiegel Grove.”

  “That’s good news, then.”

  “The Coast Guard has been conducting a parallel investigation. So far, however, they haven’t found any trace of him, either.”

  Mer slumped against the doorframe. “They can’t be ready to give up?”

  Talbot lifted one shoulder. “That’s their decision. This weather hasn’t helped, but if anyone can find him it’ll be them. Their computer models formulate search parameters based on several criteria.” He used his fingers to tick off the points. “Gulf Stream, body weight, biological changes, weather patterns. They can even factor in that he was using a rebreather and whether the circuit remained closed or if the regulator came out of his mouth. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the decay model—”

  Meredith held up her hand. “Enough, I get it. They’re doing all they can.”

  Detective Talbot stopped. “May I come in?”

  Her first impulse was to deny his request. He’d said it all.

  “Please.” He smiled. Crinkles formed around his hazel eyes, giving him the air of a man who liked to laugh.

  Mer moved to allow him entry. Inside, he paused, swiveling his head to take in the surroundings before stepping closer to examine the fish tank. He peered into it from several angles. “Am I missing something?”

  The tank still had crystal-clear water in it. Water she hadn’t drained yet. The aquarium had been an impulse buy, but stocking it required commitment. And that didn’t align with her plan to leave the Keys at the next research opportunity. “I’m sure you didn’t come over here to discuss what I intend to add to my tank.”

  “No.”

  “Were there any images on the camera that were helpful?”

  He turned his back to the aquarium. “We didn’t recover the camera.”

  Mer shook her head. “What?”

  “The weather hasn’t been cooperative. Plus, we’ve been contending with very strong current. We searched the area where you claimed the camera was dropped but didn’t find it.

  “Claimed? Do you doubt what I told you, Detective?”

  “Cops have a lot in common with scientists. Everything you learn is subject to verification. Our priority was to locate Mr. Styx.”

  “Congratulations. You didn’t find either one of them.”

  His eyes narrowed, and the laugh lines deepened into something more serious.

  “The Sheriff’s Office has determined that he’s not in the ship. Unless the Coast Guard finds him, based on the circumstances he will be—”

  “Presumed dead,” Mer finished.

  His jaw tightened. “Missing. I’m a detective. I don’t presume anyone is dead unless I see a body. The courts, however, may take a somewhat more liberal stance.”

  “What’s that even mean?”

  “Depending on jurisdiction, it used to take seven years before a missing person could be declared dead and a death certificate issued. September eleven changed that. Based on the totality of peril, the presumption of death can be made much more quickly now. You found a mask, he was at a depth of one hundred feet in an environment that requires specialized equipment to survive, it’s been storming since his disappearance. These are factors that could persuade a judge to authorize a death certificate.”

  A heaviness settled in Mer’s chest. “So that’s that.”

  “A man can die but once.”

  “At least we agree on something.”

  “You’re agreeing with Shakespeare. Henry the Fourth, to be exact. The point is, it’s not against the law to be missing.” He leaned closer. “Murder, however, is a different story.”

  She gasped. “You think I killed him.” It wasn’t a question. Accusation lurked behind his eyes as he studied her.

  The corners of his lips lifted, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes this time. “I came here as a courtesy.”

  “Courtesy or curiosity?”

  The space between them crackled with tension. “Actually,” he said, “I came to offer you a word of advice.”

  “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who goes out of his way to offer unsolicited suggestions.”

  He seemed to reflect on that for a moment. “You don’t really know me.”

  “Considering the current situation, please forgive me for wishing I’d never met you.”

  He stepped around her and moved toward the door but stopped and turned. “Well, then. Consider this a gift, Dr. Cavallo. You’re new in the Keys and may not know as much as you think you do.” He cut his eyes toward Selkie’s house. “Be careful about trusting your neighbor.”

  He stepped outside and disappeared into the rain.

  Mer followed him to the doorway, staring, but not seeing anything beyond the wall of water cascading from the edge of the carport. She missed the Arctic. Missed the harsh beauty, the unnerving quiet. Missed the little berth she called home, the routine, the other scientists, the very predictability of it all.

  The wind picked up and blew water against her bare legs. Well, she wouldn’t give up on Ishmael.

  She needed answers. Needed to know what had happened on the Spiegel Grove. Discover what went wrong. She straightened. She wo
uld find out what happened to Ishmael or he’d haunt her forever.

  Goosebumps pebbled her arms. She’d never tried to find a dead man before.

  Chapter 11

  Mer brushed a pebble off the bumper of Selkie’s Range Rover and hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt. “I need your help.”

  Selkie leaned over two dark duffel bags on the damp ground and lifted one into the back of his SUV. “You made it abundantly clear that you do not.”

  The Monday-morning sunshine did nothing to brighten Detective Talbot’s words from the night before. “They didn’t find Ishmael in the wreck,” Mer said. “That makes him lost at sea.”

  “And that involves me…how?”

  She’d thought about it all through a sleepless night. “They didn’t recover the camera. We need to find it.”

  He straightened. “We?”

  “You have a boat.”

  “There are plenty of boats in the Keys.”

  Mer picked up the second bag, surprised by the weight. “Yours isn’t currently chartered.”

  Selkie took the bag from her. “I don’t do charters.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  He settled the bag next to its twin. “Sorry, my mercenary days are over.”

  “Why did you offer to help me?”

  A frost foreign to the Keys settled in his eyes. “I know what it’s like to lose someone I had a responsibility to protect.”

  Her cheeks burned and she looked away. Recouping her thoughts, she tried again. “Despite what transpired between us, I would like to take you up on your offer of assistance.” He was still staring at her, and she plunged her hands into her pockets to avoid twisting them. “If you know what it’s like to lose someone, you should know that this isn’t just about me.”

  He stared at her. She stood straight and stared back.

  Finally, he pulled the duffel back out of the SUV. “Be back in ten minutes or the deal’s off.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Fine,” he replied.

  Right.

  —

  Pack mules carried less weight than Mer. Whoever thought aluminum was light never schlepped scuba tanks. Factor in the gear she carried on her back, and it all weighed as much as she did.