Lovely, Dark, and Deep (The Collectors)

by Susannah Sandlin

  * * *

  The Evangeline was rocking and rolling in rougher seas by the time they anchored a quarter mile off Scaterie in the spot closest to Moque Head and clear of the shoals they’d studied on sonar. Shane paced the master suite in his drysuit and boots, getting a feel for the weight and flex of the black neoprene. He hadn’t done any cold-water diving in a while, so the heavier suit, with tight seals around his wrists and neck, would take some getting used to.

  He made his way to the aft deck where he and Jagger had laid out the rest of his equipment before Jagger moved anchor. Regulator, buoyancy control vest, weight belt, steel tank, gloves, hood, mask, dive computer, fins, light, pony bottle, knife. He might sink like a boulder with all this stuff.

  He was studying the dive computer when the hatch door opened. “About time you got here,” he said, not looking up. Jagger would play the role of dive master today and help him finish suiting up.

  “You were expecting me?”

  “Hey, Gillian. You found anything on our…”

  He turned and lost his train of thought. She’d poured herself into a wetsuit. Royal blue, skintight—and not going anywhere near his ocean.

  “You must have missed the memo. I dive alone.” He pointed to himself. “Me, dive.” He pointed to her. “You, research. We agreed.”

  “Actually, we didn’t agree to any such thing. You assumed.”

  “I assumed you were a smart woman. Guess I was wrong.” Even if he dived with partners, which he didn’t, he needed to concentrate, not worry about what trouble she was getting herself into. “You aren’t qualified to dive here.”

  Her brown eyes narrowed and she got that pouty look he found sexy when it didn’t involve interfering with his dive. Now, it was annoying as hell.

  “I have my certification card and have logged a lot of open-water dives. I have a seven-millimeter wetsuit approved for this water. This is not a deep dive, so I’m not worried about decompression. There’s no reason for me not to go down with you.”

  “There are so many reasons I can’t count them.” He took a couple of steps toward her, and she backed up. He should toss her into the North Atlantic and let her learn the hard way that this water was not what she’d encountered in the Gulf. She could take her C-card and shove it. Well, okay, he wouldn’t actually throw her in, but he could make her think he was going to do it.

  The green-gray water heaved and foamed beneath The Evangeline, pitching him forward to pin her against the rail, then away, then forward again. His mind wanted her away from his dive; his body was all excited at the prospect of another round of body bumps with Gillian Campbell.

  Judging by her narrowed eyes, she noticed. “Should I be afraid of that little display of affection?”

  Little? Hardly. He gave her an extra bump with his rapidly growing display of affection. “You had no complaints about it last night, babe.”

  His attempt at humor was an utter failure; she looked more pissed off than before. “I’m going in the water, Shane. I can go with you or I can go by myself.” She shoved him away from her. “And really, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “I can not save your ass when you get in trouble.”

  “Fine. I won’t save you, either.”

  “Fine.” He reached down and retrieved his hood from the deck, slipped it on, and tucked the bib inside his suit. Then he turned his back to her. “Zip me up, if you can find the time before you jump to your death.”

  She closed the waterproof shoulder zippers, then wrapped her arms around his waist. Resting her head on his back, she gave him a bear hug. “Sorry. Let’s not even joke about dying, okay?”

  Nice going, Burke, you fucktard. He turned around and pulled her to him. “Nobody’s going to die. Not today, anyway.”

  He sighed, cursing his inability to say “no” to her and mean it. “How about a compromise? I’ll go down alone, run through a tank, and scope things out. If the current’s okay, I’ll get a new tank and then we’ll go down together on the second dive.”

  He slapped a hand over her mouth before she could say anything. “And I mean just for today. Not for the real wreck salvage, assuming I can find any signs of the damned thing. Today, we’re just scouting the environment and getting a feel for the new equipment. And you’re gonna get cold even in that heavier wetsuit.”

  She bit his fingers, and he snatched them back, examining his hand for blood.

  “Aye-aye, cap’n.” She grinned. “Stop being such a baby. I didn’t even break skin.”

  “Whatever.” He turned as Jagger exited the hatch. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Checking on the tides, weather, currents. You should be okay for a couple of dives but we’ll reassess after the first one. There’s a front blowing in later.” He picked up the buoyancy control vest with the single steel tank already attached and held it up for Shane to slip inside. Tomorrow, he’d go down with two tanks.

  “Think you have enough equipment?” Gillian had knelt beside the pile of gear, looking through it while Jagger fitted Shane with a pony bottle and Shane strapped on his weight belt and strapped the dive computer around his forearm.

  By the time everything was attached, he was sweating inside the watertight suit. A little fifty-degree water was going to feel good. When Shane donned his mask and fins, Jagger opened the gangplank door and nodded. “You know the signals.”

  “Yep. See you on the other side.” Shane popped in his regulator, took a giant step off the edge of The Evangeline, and hit the water feet first. Perfect. He surfaced and gave an “okay” sign to Jagger and Gillian, then let himself sink slowly along the anchor line, swallowing to help his ears adjust to the change in pressure and adjusting his buoyancy to compensate for the extra layer of gas bubbles in the drysuit.

  With the day cloudy and the currents strong, Shane also wanted a slow descent to adjust his vision. He doubted the daylight reflected more than fifteen feet, and at twenty feet he turned on his dive light, illuminating the area around him in eerie green. At seventy feet, he touched bottom. Shallower than he expected.

  This section of the North Atlantic was a geologist’s dream. Shane made note of the anchor line’s location on his compass, marked it on his dive computer, and swam in the direction of Scaterie. The ocean floor, like the edges of the island itself, was bedrock, cracked and broken by millennia of rough seas and icy winters. Boulders the size of pickup trucks littered the floor, but worse were the uneven shoals that reached almost to the surface in spots. No wonder so many ships had gone down in these waters. From the deck of a ship, what looked like deep water would be a foot of murky water hiding a deadly rock.

  In these shallow waters, the kelp forests were impressive, and Shane maneuvered among their brown, wavering fronds, small schools of silver and orange fish darting out of his way.

  He did a one eighty and headed back in the direction of the mainland. In a few yards, on his right, he spotted an oblong lump lying on the ocean floor. He swam to it and began sweeping aside marine growth. Concretions had formed around the edges, effectively attaching it to a small rock formation. After a couple of minutes, Shane realized with a rush of adrenaline that it was the barrel of a cannon.

  Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing and checked the dive calculator. He had a good twenty minutes of air before he needed to begin his ascent. He made note of the cannon’s location on his computer, cursing at his lack of dexterity in neoprene gloves. The computer gauged the water temp at just over forty-five degrees, so he slipped the gloves off and tucked them beneath his weight belt.

  Adjusting his BC to lift him above the cannon, Shane used a small underwater camera he’d bought on impulse, and took a couple of shots. Then he swam in a pattern in the shallower water toward Scaterie, examining the areas adjacent to the relic’s location. Twice, he spotted what he thought might be wreck detritus of some sort, but turned out to be junk. A glass bottle tangled in a kelp forest. An aluminum can. Even a freaking rubber-soled athletic shoe, althoug
h at least it was being used as a home for tiny fish.

  He was just about to write the cannon off as a fluke, something washed far afield by the currents, when he spotted something that glinted when his light swept across it. The object had been encased in the concrete-like materials that built up over the years from silt and sand and shells, but as Shane fanned the water and kelp away from it, he could tell it was the edge of something metallic. He adjusted his buoyancy so he could work at freeing more of the object, cursing as the wave action at this shallow depth kept washing him away just as he’d reach for it.

  The current had been tugging at him with increasing pressure over the last ten minutes. Gillian would be disappointed, but he doubted they could do a second dive today. And tomorrow morning, the real work would begin.

  With an eye on his dive computer, Shane used another five of his remaining fifteen minutes working at the small piece of metal. Finally, he was able to clear enough of the concretion around it to get a light on it. The small, curved bit was crusted and corroded, but he’d swear it was the bowl of a spoon. Looking closer at the concretion, he spotted other bits of metal and, a few feet farther toward the island, another piece of a cannon—maybe a trunnion.

  These items might or might not be from Duncan Campbell’s day, but by God, Shane had found a shipwreck.

  CHAPTER 24

  Gillian looked out the window of the salon for at least the hundredth time since Shane dove. As near as she could calculate, figuring he could get forty-five minutes of dive time on a hundred-pound tank depending on his depth, he probably had only another twenty minutes of air. Jagger had stayed on deck, ready to help him aboard.

  She’d tried researching the first two names on the list for Tex’s boss, but in this location she had to use her cell phone signal to access the Internet so it was a lesson in aggravation. Plus, she kept looking at the last name on the list: U.S. Secretary of State Weston Flynn.

  It couldn’t possibly be he, and yet if anybody had “reach,” it would certainly be Flynn. She began an online search and, as expected, found thousands of articles and photos. He was a nondescript man in his midfifties, graying, slick-talking, and seen as a moderate conservative, whatever the heck that meant.

  Gillian had often heard his name included in conversations about presidential hopefuls, although her impression from the Sunday morning news shows was that some felt he was too privileged and insulated to identify with the average American.

  Weston Flynn wanted to be president, though. Surely a man with that much to lose wouldn’t risk playing such an evil game.

  And yet. And yet…Gillian couldn’t quite shake the bad feeling she got when she thought about him.

  She stared out the window again, scanning the water for a sign of Shane. After a couple more attempts to read about Flynn, she grabbed her phone and headed for the locker room off the kitchen, the little room she still thought of as Tank’s. She was way too restless to read; she wanted to dive, and she’d hidden the rest of her gear behind the door.

  For at least the dozenth time today, she prayed that Tank and Charlie were safe. They’d all agreed that Charlie was most likely being cantankerous and paranoid. If Tex had Charlie, he would have called with more threats. But their tormenter had been silent. Gillian’s guess was that he was either en route to Main-à-Dieu or already here, watching them.

  Tex could watch her dive, then. She’d be on deck and ready when Shane came back up. She attached her aluminum tank to her buoyancy vest, grabbed her dive bag and fins, and headed toward the aft deck.

  Jagger was leaning on the rail, using binoculars to watch a boat sitting close to shore off the north corner of Scaterie Island.

  “Think that’s Tex or one of his flunkies?” She couldn’t tell much at this distance. The fog had lightened a bit, but the wind had picked up and the water was choppier.

  “I don’t know—maybe. The name painted on it is The Breton and it’s a workboat, but we’re well out of lobster season. Could be hikers who’ve hired a fisherman to bring them out here. Scaterie’s a protected wildlife preserve and the weather’s still mild.” He turned and frowned at Gillian’s gear. “It’s gotten too rough for a second dive. Once Shane gets in, we need to get back to Main-à-Dieu harbor. We’ll get an early start tomorrow after this storm blows through.”

  And tomorrow, she’d have to fight with Shane all over again. “Then I’m going in now. I’ll just get wet and come back with Shane.”

  Jagger grinned. “I could make all kinds of sexual innuendos.”

  “Not if you’re smart.”

  He picked up Gillian’s BC vest and began singing “Play with Fire” while he helped her slip it on. She went through her predive ritual, checking gauges. “What’s the water temperature?”

  “Last time I checked, just under fifty. I’d say to wear the hood and gloves if you were going in longer, but Shane’s only got about five minutes left, ten if he pushes it. You should be okay without them.”

  “Does he usually do that? Push it with his time?”

  Jagger scanned the water. “Yeah, but not enough for it to be risky. He’s carrying a pony bottle and he has the dive computer. Plus, I’ve been monitoring the sonar; it’s not that deep here. Forty to sixty feet, deeper in a few spots. It doesn’t get really deep until you hit the middle of the channel.”

  Gillian decided to wear the gloves but not the hood and pulled on her mask. “Anything else I need to know?”

  Jagger turned her around and checked her tank, then her regulator. “Go down slow, and hang onto the anchor line. Don’t leave it or we’ll have a helluva time finding you if you get in trouble. The current’s strong so be prepared to get tossed around.” He grinned. “Oh, and have fun.”

  Right. “Great to hear you singing again,” she said, then took a giant step off the side of The Evangeline. The water enveloped her like a cold, wet blanket and she floundered a little before finding the anchor line, surfacing, and giving Jagger the “okay” sign. He waved and closed the gangway door, and the last thing she saw before biting down on her regulator and submerging was Jagger resuming his position at the rail, his eyes back on the other boat.

  Gillian took a few seconds to get acclimated before beginning her descent along the anchor line, adjusting her buoyancy. She was glad she’d decided to wear the gloves. Especially near the top of the line, the current tossed her around like a Raggedy Ann in neoprene. It settled a bit as she slowly descended, pinching off her nostrils hard every foot or so to equalize the pressure in her ears.

  Gradually, her vision adjusted to the turbid world into which she’d immersed herself—well, it sort of adjusted. Her dive time had been limited to Florida and Louisiana, where the water was relatively clear unless a storm was brewing. Here, everything was murky green and after ten feet she knew Shane had been right. She couldn’t see crap, and the current had her holding onto the line so tightly her fingers had probably turned white inside the blue neoprene gloves. She wasn’t experienced enough to dive here.

  Until now, she figured she’d dive today and then talk Shane into taking her with him tomorrow, after they’d spoken to Chevy McKnight and began the real hunt for The Marcus Aurelius.

  Time to rethink that strategy. Shane would end up having to babysit her, which wouldn’t make either of them happy. She’d have to admit that she was wrong and he was right.

  Damn, but she hated that.

  Gillian reached the ocean floor, amazed at the rock formations brought to life by the swaying kelp forests. She checked her dive calculator and saw that she was at seventy feet, and by her calculations, Shane should be arriving back at the line soon.

  If she were the stupid and impulsive woman he thought she was, she’d swim off in search of him, maybe even surprise him. But when he arrived back at this line, he was going to find stubborn—but ultimately sensible—Gillian hanging onto it for dear life.

  Instead, she practiced adjusting her buoyancy, seeing how long she could remain motionless before the c
urrent turned her sideways.

  And she thought about Weston Flynn.

  Cursed though they might be, the Campbells had good instincts. Well, except when old Duncan’s instinct told him to steal the damned Templar cross in the first place. But Gillian had learned to trust her gut, and her gut kept leading her brain back to Flynn.

  It could be as simple as the fact that he was an avid hunter and she was a biologist, which put them on opposite sides of a lot of social issues. If he ran for president, she was pretty sure she’d vote for his opponent as long as he or she wasn’t a three-headed troll.

  But her fixation with Flynn as Boss-of-Tex material went further than politics. She’d never admit this to Shane, but a lot of her distrust had to do with the guy’s eyes. Gillian had spent a lot of the past twenty-four hours looking at pictures of the secretary of state, and he was colder than Cape Breton in the dead of winter. He saw the world through irises of a hard, flinty blue-gray. They made him looked distinguished, along with his graying hair and his expensively tailored navy suits. But even in pictures with his immaculately groomed family—the pampered, anorexic wife with big hair and the two blandly handsome grown sons—he looked detached. No, more than that. He looked bored.

  If one were filthy rich and incredibly powerful, how long before everything seemed boring? If one held a public office where every action was scrutinized, how tempting would it be to stretch the limits? To see how far one could go?

  Testing boundaries wouldn’t be boring. It would be exhilarating.

  Gillian’s gut told her Weston Flynn might well be the wizard behind the curtain of Oz, working the controls of Tex and however many flying monkeys he employed, seeing the extremes to which he could push poor, stupid people to do his bidding.

  Poor, stupid people like her. Like Shane and Jagger and Harley.

  It really pissed her off.

  A clanging noise sounded from behind her, startling her so badly she momentarily let go of the line and had to scramble to get back to it. Shane had slipped up behind her while she was focused on Weston Flynn and had begun banging his light against his pony bottle to get her attention.