Adrift

by Micki Browning

  Selkie watched her progress from the bridgedeck of the Dorado 36 but didn’t offer to help. She set the tanks down on the dock and slid the backpack to the ground by the stern of the boat.

  Mer took in the sleek lines and the midnight-blue exterior of the Dorado. The back deck looked to be about twelve feet square, and had a table. A bench seat along the stern had been pushed up to make room for Selkie’s dive equipment. A swing door accessed a generous swim step that was inlaid with teak to match the main deck.

  The boat looked fast, sophisticated, and expensive.

  “Permission to board?” Mer asked.

  Selkie hesitated so long she worried that he was rethinking his end of the bargain, but he finally grunted an acknowledgment and descended the steps to the main deck.

  Mer handed her first tank to him and waited until he’d secured it before hefting the second one. She slipped her backpack on and stepped onto the side. Selkie grabbed her hand to steady her. When she had both feet on the deck, he broke contact.

  “You can leave your gear on the deck or stow it in the cabin if you’d rather.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He perched his foot on the bottom step. “Now that the Sheriff’s Office has opened the site again, we’re going to have to hurry if you want to get to the Spiegel before the charter boats get there.”

  Mer nodded and hopped back on the dock to manage the stern line. Within minutes, they were under way.

  Alone on the rear deck, Mer hefted her gear bag and stepped into the cabin. Light from sweeping front and side windows fell on ash-colored cabinetry. On her left, a small dais elevated a leaf-shaped table. On her right was the galley.

  She ran her fingers along the cool surface of the countertop. All the edges tapered. Everything about the space suggested curves and softness. A stark contrast to the man at the helm above her.

  More steps descended into the V-berth. She knew she’d find the sleeping quarters and the marine head there. The boat leaped forward as they left the no-wake zone, and Mer had to take a step back to adjust to the increased speed.

  The cabin felt oddly confining and she retreated, setting her bag outside the sliding door so that it wouldn’t mar anything inside.

  The boat flew across the waves, skimming the water as they neared the wreck. She wanted to go up on the bridgedeck. Feel the strength of the wind, taste the salt in the air, let the power and peace of the ocean wash over her, but Selkie was up there. And, well, he was a problem.

  She stood at the stern. The blues of the water changed as they motored across varying depths and Key Largo receded. Ten minutes remained until they reached their destination. Her stomach fluttered.

  Mer found the hook to snare the mooring line, and when the boat slowed she moved to the bow.

  “What mooring ball were you guys on?” Selkie shouted from the bridge.

  “Six.”

  He positioned the boat by that buoy. So far, they were alone. But even on a Monday morning there would be others. And soon.

  “On line,” Mer said.

  Selkie killed the motors.

  The sudden silence thundered in her ears, leaving her breathless. She steadied herself against the railing and forced herself to breathe. From a distance, she heard the screech of a gull, and then, closer, the slap of the mooring line against the water each time a swell pulled at the boat.

  Raising her head, she found Selkie staring at her. Be careful about trusting your neighbor. Advice that would have come in handy when she had been twenty and they’d first met.

  She squared her shoulders and handed him the hook.

  The butt end scraped the deck, and he leaned against it as if it were a crutch. “They never found the camera?”

  Mer shook her head. “Makes me wonder how thoroughly they searched the ship.”

  “Josh doesn’t miss much.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it.” She shucked off her T-shirt.

  “What? Eschewing empirical data?”

  A sigh escaped her mouth. “ ‘Empirical’ by its very definition is based on observation or experience.”

  His jaw tensed. “I bet you’re a hoot on a date.”

  “Don’t you remember?” she shot back. Great. Less than two minutes of talking with the man and she’d regressed to playground taunting. That might be a new record, but probably not.

  He spun and stowed the hook, then unleashed the tether that secured his equipment. “I figure we have about fifteen, twenty minutes max before the first dive charter arrives.”

  She hurried to assemble her gear and was ready before Selkie finished prepping his rebreather.

  “I’ll join you in the water in a minute if you want to get in before you overheat,” he said.

  She stepped onto the swim step and lowered the mask over her eyes. Her heart jumped to a faster tempo. The regulator hung by her right side. She dipped her shoulder and swept her arm until the hose lay in the crook of her elbow.

  “Can you check my air?”

  “Already did. You’re ready to splash.”

  She toed the edge of the swim step and placed the regulator in her mouth, then removed it again. “Sorry, but do you mind double-checking? It feels like it’s not open all the way.”

  Selkie gave her a quizzical look but reached over her shoulder and turned the valve. “Let’s see. Righty tighty, lefty loosey. Yup. Good to go.”

  The sun was still low in the cloudy sky, but she could feel sweat between her shoulder blades and the smell of neoprene nearly made her gag. She ran a finger around the neck of her wetsuit to hold it away from her throat. A wave slapped the boat broadside, and she clutched at the edge to keep her balance. Dizzy.

  She spit the regulator out and pulled the mask off her face. The rubber strap tangled in her hair. She ripped it loose and several curly strands came with it. “I can’t.”

  Selkie held on to her arm to steady her. “What’s going on?”

  She shook her head, trying to dislodge the darkness, the wetness, the weight on her chest that would suffocate her if she went into the water. She fumbled with the buckles of her buoyancy compensator until they loosened. Selkie lifted the tank from her back. As soon as she was free, she yanked the cloth tail connected to her zipper. The wetsuit parted down her back and she gloried in the cooler air. She peeled the wetsuit off her shoulders until it hung at her waist.

  “Sit down,” Selkie ordered. “I’ll help you with your fins.”

  He stowed her gear so it wouldn’t roll and returned to her side. Her teeth chattered even as she sweated. “I’ll be okay. Just give me a minute.”

  “No. You’re done for the day.”

  She clutched the sea-glass pendant around her neck. “I don’t think that’s your choice.”

  “It’s my boat—that makes it my choice. Argue and I’ll unmoor right now.”

  Mer opened her mouth but caught a glimpse of his face. She crossed her arms and remained quiet.

  Selkie disappeared inside the cabin. A moment later he returned carrying what looked like a diver propulsion vehicle, although of a design Mer had never seen before. He squatted in front of his rebreather and threaded his arms through the harness.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Rhetorical question, Dr. Cavallo, or has the heat addled your wits?”

  “Fair enough.” God, he had a knack for making her feel stupid. “I can infer by your actions that you are planning on going into the water. As our purpose was to retrieve the camera, I can further assert that you are going to attempt to locate it. Why?”

  He strapped his computer to his left forearm. “Because you can’t.”

  “You need a buddy.”

  “Recreational divers need buddies—a dictate I wholly endorse, by the way. But I’m not a recreational diver.”

  “That raises a follow-up question.”

  “No.”

  “Clearly, it does.” She scrambled to her feet.

  Selkie straightened. “Question-and-ans
wer time is over.” He pointed to his propulsion vehicle. “It’ll be easier if you hand that down to me.” He grabbed his fins and stepped onto the swim step.

  “I drowned as a child,” Mer blurted out.

  He pulled the fin strap over his heel and set his foot down.

  Mer dipped her head, unable to meet his eyes. “I was dead for seventeen minutes.” Her hand slid across the first stage of her regulator, where it connected to the tank. “I never saw a light, never heard voices. No one came to claim me.” Heat radiated from the metal of her tank and warmed her cold fingertips. “I’ve been to the other side. There’s nothing there.”

  She avoided his eyes and studied the horizon. The waves had increased to whitecaps.

  “Drowning is a lot quieter than most people realize. I couldn’t call for help, I couldn’t breathe. I just sank.”

  She waited for his reaction, but he stayed silent.

  “I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. It burns your lungs, water. It feels like someone is tearing you apart from the inside. I panicked, but my body couldn’t do anything.”

  The waves, the boat, Selkie—they all disappeared as she sacrificed herself to the memory. The initial icy plunge into a winter-cold lake behind her grandparent’s house. The taste of cattails and mud in the back of her throat. The impenetrable darkness.

  Lost in thought, she worried the pendant between her thumb and forefinger. “My mind just turned off,” she said. “That was the most frightening part. Not being able to think. For a long time, I was terrified of water. I couldn’t even take a bath.”

  “You obviously overcame your fear.”

  His voice broke her reverie, and for the first time since speaking she stared him in the face. “No, I didn’t. I just built it into my life so I’d have to deal with it.”

  She plucked the loose elastic from her hair and smoothed the mass into a tight ponytail. “I need to find that camera. So, in about half an hour, when my heart stops pounding, I’ll suit up and do what needs to be done.”

  “Or you can give me ten minutes and my DPV and I’ll do it for you.”

  “Ten minutes? At a hundred and thirty-five feet? Now whose brains are baked?”

  “It’s not your average scooter.”

  A turtle surfaced off the port side, its snout above water, searching for the sun.

  “Wait.” She inhaled a deep breath. “I’ll go with you.”

  “I only have one DPV. I’ll be back in a flash.” He held up his finger. “Don’t argue.” He donned his other fin, brought his regulator to his mouth, and made a giant stride off the swim platform into the ocean.

  She contemplated her options. They came down to two: hand Selkie the diver propulsion vehicle and watch him disappear under the waves by himself or ignore his request and try to suit up before he could climb back on the boat and grab the DPV himself.

  She grabbed her wetsuit.

  It only took Selkie a second to realize her intentions. He swam to the ladder. “You are the most stubborn—” The rest of his sentence was overwhelmed by the sound of water shedding from his equipment as he pulled himself onto the boat.

  She thrust her arms through the sleeves and rolled her shoulders to pull the neoprene tight. “For the record, I’m not arguing.”

  He grabbed the black high-pressure hose connected to her dive computer and twisted the quick release, then tossed the computer through the cabin door. It bounced twice and slid into the V-berth.

  “I’ll buy you a new one.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “While I don’t doubt for a second your ability to watch my back underwater, I don’t need your assistance, Dr. Cavallo. By the time you get your gear put together, I’ll already be on the sand. To take this to its logical conclusion—as that seems to be the only thing that penetrates that thick cranium of yours—if you enter the water you’ll only ensure that there are two people diving solo, not one. And since that’s the very thing you’re trying to prevent,” he leaned forward until his face was only a few inches from hers, “I think we can both agree you should. Just. Stay. Put.”

  Mer stepped back. “A convincing argument.” She raised her chin. “I don’t think I like you right now.”

  “How will I ever recover?”

  She hoisted the scooter and maneuvered it toward the swim step. “Sarcasm does not become you.”

  He cocked his head sideways. “Are you the pot or the kettle?”

  The jab pricked. “Get in. I’ll hand you the DPV. The sooner you get back, the quicker we can head home.”

  His expression remained suspicious, but he jumped into the water.

  Mer lifted the fifty-pound torpedolike device and lowered it to him. When he had a grip, she let go and he sank beneath the surface. Her legs wobbled and she collapsed cross-legged on the swim step, her head against letters that identified the boat as the Devil’s Advocate.

  Selkie’s dark silhouette faded until all the blues merged together and blocked him from Mer’s sight. Still she stared.

  “Be careful,” she whispered.

  Thirty minutes later, he surfaced. “It’s gone.”

  Chapter 12

  Unlike most everyone in the known universe, Mer loved Mondays. They offered a fresh start, structure, an opportunity to map out what needed to be accomplished in the coming days. A couple hours in, and she could already tell that this Monday wasn’t living up to her expectations.

  By now she had expected to be scrutinizing photographs for evidence of what had really happened on the Spiegel Grove. But that required a camera. One she didn’t have.

  Mer pulled into the parking lot of the Aquarius Dive Shop and swore aloud. Satellite vans took up several parking stalls and reporters milled together, drinking coffee and talking about whatever reporters talked about when they weren’t in front of the camera. The Sheriff’s Office must have announced that it had completed the search of the Spiegel. Now the reporters were looking for a reaction. There were too many lenses, all ready to swing into action.

  She inched forward and the reporters’ heads snapped around as one, marking her progress like lions tracking a wildebeest. For a moment, the only thing moving was Mer’s car. When one reporter broke away, the remaining herd of reporters and camera operators stampeded toward her Subaru. Buffeted her windows. Barked questions that she couldn’t understand from inside her car. She parked in the nearest open spot and braced herself.

  Before she’d even collected her backpack, someone flung open her door. A barrage of questions assaulted her.

  “Was it the Spiegel Ghost?”

  “Was Ishmael murdered?”

  “Are you a suspect?”

  Mer pushed her way through the crowd without answering any of them. The reporters trailed her to the bottom of the steps and stopped as if a force field held them at bay. She took the steps two at a time and sought refuge in the shop.

  Bijoux poked her head out of the back office and appeared relieved to see reinforcements. A bright-red head scarf covered her hair and framed her face. Large hoop earrings brushed the top of her slim shoulders. “The next time you ask to come in late, the answer is no.”

  “How long have they been here?” Mer asked.

  “Long enough to interview every single one of our divers as they boarded the boat.”

  “Bet Leroy loved that.”

  “I believe he gave them some particularly colorful quotes.” Bijoux played with her earring. “None of which are suitable for network television.”

  Mer’s already high esteem of the captain climbed another notch.

  “Apparently, ghosts are good for business.” Bijoux walked over to the counter and turned the reservation book so Mer could read it. “We don’t have a single space left on any of the boats for the rest of the week.”

  As if to provide confirmation, the phone rang. Mer stretched across the counter and picked it up. “Aquarius Dive Shop.”

  A male voice greeted her. “I’m with the Cincinnati Sentinel,
and I’d like to speak to the woman who was involved in the recent incident on the Spiegel Grove.”

  “I’m sorry, she no longer works here,” Mer replied.

  “Do you know how to get in touch with her?”

  “Why in the world do you think I’d share that information with you?” She slammed down the receiver.

  Bijoux arched one of her delicate brows. “Do we need to review customer-service etiquette?”

  “Another reporter.” Mer shook her head. “Isn’t there any real news to report?”

  “Never underestimate the allure of the unknown.” Bijoux scrutinized the reservation book.

  Scooting around her boss, Mer crammed her backpack into one of the cabinets that lined the rear wall. “Ishmael was from San Diego, right?”

  Bijoux lifted her head. “What?”

  “The address Ishmael wrote on his boat waiver. He lived in California, didn’t he? I couldn’t find the release.”

  “It’s in my office. I started a file for the insurance company of all the paperwork we provided to the Sheriff’s Office. Plus, it will be in one place in case we need to provide it to anyone else.”

  Mer remained quiet. The only other people interested in the paperwork would be attorneys. She pushed the thought away. “I want to reach out to his parents.”

  “Just because Ishmael is from San Diego doesn’t guarantee his parents are. You Americans tend to drift far from home.”

  “Says the woman from the Caribbean.” Mer opened the shop laptop. “There’s got to be phone books on the Web. How hard can it be to find Styx?” Mer typed Ishmael’s name into the browser, hit Enter, and waited for the return.

  “What kind of surname is Styx?”

  “If I hadn’t seen his certification card, I’d have said phony.”

  A wicked grin stole across Bijoux’s face. “Perhaps you can ask that handsome detective for the information.”

  Mer scowled at her boss over the top edge of the laptop. “Detective Talbot? Uh, no. We don’t have that kind of relationship.”

  Bijoux snorted. “When was the last time you went out?”

  The sudden turn in their conversation made Mer wary. “You mean on a date?”