Next, J.J. shook her head and pointed to what first looked like a lump of rock. Then it breathed through its gills and morphed into a skillfully camouflaged scorpionfish. Sam nodded and held her free hand up to show she understood the danger. So much for grabbing rocks.
A shadow drifted overhead, and they both looked up to see the white hull of the boat suspended forty-five feet above them. A feathery insect dipped and zigzagged off the port side like a wounded squid. Sam squinted, but still couldn’t quite bring the unusual creature into view. On the starboard side, the surface plane of the water shattered briefly, and a similar creature floated down to join the first. Now Sam could identify the nearly transparent threads that joined the waterbugs to the world above. Ayala and Guerrero were fishing.
A scalloped hammerhead swam into view below the boat. A friendly hammerhead, she reminded herself, taking a deep breath to dispel the sudden tightness in her chest. She framed its pickaxe shape in her viewfinder. The white undersides of both shark and boat nicely complemented the shafts of light beaming through the jade water. Then she noticed the distinctive silhouettes of more of the goggle-eyed sharks as they surrounded the boat. Oh, swell. Schools of circling sharks. Wolf was famous for them. So far, the sharks didn’t seem interested in the two divers exploring the bottom. Or maybe they hadn’t spotted them yet.
As she and J.J. rose up from the canyon, a striped snout shot out from the outcropping below them, jaws agape to display jagged teeth.
Sam recoiled as if hit in the stomach, realizing a second later that those teeth belonged to a zebra moray. The eel had to be nearly as long as she was tall. J.J.’s eyes crinkled behind her face mask. Sam was pretty sure she was laughing. The moray glided backward into its lair as easily as it had surged forward, and hovered there, watching them, its jaws rhythmically opening and closing.
They spent fifteen minutes swimming over the miniature mountain ranges and canyons of the bottom. J.J. constantly tapped on her computer, noting the abundant wildlife. Sam recognized several species from her guidebook. She photographed yellowtail grunts and amberjacks, a couple of rainbow-colored redtail triggerfish, a plaid longnose hawkfish among strands of black coral. Goatfishes, surgeonfishes, cushion stars, brittle stars, parrotfish, blue-and-gold snappers, a spotted puffer. A tiny blue-striped nudibranch. Two green sea turtles, a lone spotted eagle ray that slid past like a spaceship touring planet Earth.
The variety was incredible. J.J.’s fingers must be ready to drop off. Dan would have loved this. She liked to think he could see it now.
Another shadow passed overhead. This time, instead of spotting the boat, Sam saw a giant shark. Her heartbeat doubled. The leviathan had to be at least thirty feet long. The fish’s dark skin was speckled with white spots, and it swam leisurely, propelling itself with slow swishes of its huge tail. It turned in her direction, and she saw its mouth gaping open.
Thank God. A whale shark. While that maw could easily have swallowed her, she knew whale sharks were filter feeders that ate only plankton and small fish.
Mesmerized, she parked herself in the lee of a rock and was filming video of the magnificent monster when J.J. tapped her arm. The other woman pointed to her watch, then to the surface. Sam was almost sorry that their time was up.
As they rose, the whale shark disappeared into the distance with a couple of quick tail swishes. Two hammerheads swam between them and the surface in a slow spiral. As they slowly neared the glittering surface, Sam realized that the boat was no longer above them. She searched the surface plane for the familiar shape of the hull.
The hammerheads swam away as Sam and J.J. reached their level. On breaking the surface, Sam immediately spat out her mouthpiece and sucked in a mouthful of real air, squinting against the piercing brilliance of the sunlight.
J.J.’s pushed her mask onto her forehead. They slowly treaded water as they surveyed the area. The abandoned lighthouse at the top of Wolf Island was visible from their position. They were at least a hundred yards from the rocky shore, and the current was pulling them out.
The go-fast boat was nowhere in sight.
21
“Those goddamn shitheads!” J.J. hissed.
Sam panted. Was this shortness of breath due to the tension that was squeezing her chest, or to the effort of treading water in full scuba gear? She added a bit more air to her BCD and stopped moving her legs. Where were those sharks? She flipped onto her stomach, putting her face into the water to survey the blue-green depths. Was it her imagination, or did the water feel colder now? A stingray flapped toward the canyon they had explored, dipped gracefully over the lip of rock, and disappeared from sight. The only hammerhead in view was quite a distance to the south, barely visible in the cobalt dimness. Unfortunately, she spotted several sharp-finned silhouettes that seemed to be swimming in their direction.
She pulled her face out of the water, gulping in the fresh air, studying the rocky shoreline. The current had moved them a few yards farther away from Wolf’s shoreline. Would it drag them out to sea? She swallowed hard, trying to keep panic at bay.
“Hammerheads?” J.J. asked.
“Only one now. A long way off. But there are other sharks moving this way. Smaller. Sharp noses.”
J.J.’s eyes widened. “Galápagos sharks. Keep an eye on them. They have a rep.”
A frigatebird swooped low overhead to get a better look at the strange apparitions in the water. She felt a ridiculous longing to reach out for it.
J.J. groaned. “Looks like we have to swim for it.”
“Can we buck this current?”
“Not all the way to the island, we can’t. We might be able to go under, but I’ve only got a few minutes of air left. You’ve probably got even less, the way you were huffing down there. That rock.” J.J. thrust out her chin in a southward direction. “It’s our best bet.”
“That rock” was a jagged spear of basalt the go-fast boat had rounded when delivering them to the bay. A black sentinel, rising perhaps thirty feet above the waterline, bordered by ragged chunks of smoother lava. It was difficult to estimate distances from sea level, but Sam guessed the rock might be as much as a thousand feet away. “That’s the same direction as the sharks,” she said grimly.
“And it’s not getting any closer.” J.J. pulled her face mask and snorkel into place and set off toward the spear, her fins breaking the surface with silvery splashes.
Sam folded her arms against her sides and followed, kicking for all she was worth. The current pushed at her left side. She tried to fin harder with her right foot to counteract it.
There was way too much time to think. She debated dropping her tanks to make the going easier. Would Out There deduct the cost of lost equipment from her check? First her partner died, and then the police confiscated her passport. Next, she was threatened by a disgruntled Third World fisherman, and then duped and dumped by a couple more. And she’d have to pay the expenses to boot?
The absurdity of this line of thought suddenly hit her. Why was she worrying about lost equipment? Hell, she probably wouldn’t survive this particular adventure. Even if they made it to the rock, Wolf was a long way from anywhere. It could be days before a boat happened by. Damn it, she should never have jumped in the water from a boat manned by Eduardo’s poacher cousin.
She imagined the staff at Out There fuming in frustration tonight as they waited for her dispatches. Would they sound the alarm and mount a search? Would Eduardo?
She raised her head to check her course. J.J.’s flippers churned thirty feet away. It didn’t look as if they’d made much progress toward the sentinel rock. She lowered her face back to the jade-colored world below. The Galápagos sharks—she counted five—were keeping pace with them, paralleling them.
Focus on swimming. She imagined her legs as pistons, fueled by solar energy from the bright sun overhead. Stroke, stroke, stroke, long slow breath in, stroke, stroke, stroke, long slow breath out.
A large silvery shape rose rapidly toward her. Flare
d pectoral fins, dorsal triangle. She lost count of strokes and breaths. Her stomach muscles clenched in anticipation of the shark’s rush, the vise grip of powerful jaws. If attacked, kick, hit, make sure the shark feels pain, she remembered her instructor saying. Make the shark think you’re not worth messing with. She felt the push of water as the creature veered away at the last minute. It had a racing stripe down each side. It took another few seconds for her brain to register the spaniel-like eyes, the horizontal tail fluke. A dolphin.
When the second one came, she was prepared. As it neared, she stretched out a hand, but it flashed away, disappearing in the silvery fog of bubbles churned up by J.J. After Sam had doggedly done a couple dozen more strokes, the two silver bullets streaked back again, turning when they were within a few yards, as if deflected by a force field. They spiraled into underwater barrel rolls and loop-the-loops.
It seemed like the dolphins were mocking the clumsy humans churning through the water overhead. Clearly, these creatures had never heard the legends of dolphins rescuing swimmers in trouble. Or maybe they didn’t do their lifesaving routines until the humans were actually drowning.
A Galápagos shark zipped into position directly below her now, thirty feet down. The creature had a dead-looking white eye. Were all the sharks coming closer? The dolphins playfully zipped through the space between her and the shark, paying no more attention to the shark than they did to the school of yellow jacks they jetted through. Sam just kept moving her arms and legs through the water.
The waves began to slap her from all sides, bouncing her like a Ping-Pong ball. The surf was rebounding from the line of rocks that stretched between them and the island’s shoreline. She’d surge forward with a couple of strong kicks, then get bounced backward.
Every muscle in her body burned. She glanced up. The rock spear was still so far away.
The heck with this. She’d drop her tank. She was fumbling for the harness buckle, holding her breath as she floated a foot beneath the surface, when she spotted J.J. with regulator mouthpiece in place, swimming a couple of yards beneath the churning waves. The other woman made a c’mon motion with her hand, then turned and disappeared behind a ridge of lava. Sam pulled her own mouthpiece into position. Even a few minutes of canned air might get her to the rock. She dove and followed J.J., swimming ten feet down, making much better time as she avoided the chop at the surface. The dolphins zoomed close, slowing for a curious gaze as they passed. As their shadows passed overhead, a small spotted ray burst forth from its hiding spot beneath the fine sand on the bottom. One of the dolphins dove down to nip at it.
Suddenly her mouthpiece vacuumed the oxygen out of her lungs. Out of air. She clawed her way to the surface.
Gasping between ragged coughs, she struggled to keep her mouth clear of the waves that buffeted her from all sides. She was in a washing machine. Rebound chop repeated endlessly around her in foot-high triangles of water as far as she could see. She was treading water between rounded boulders and sharp points of rock just under the surface here, at the edge of the outcropping from which the rock stack arose, still hundreds of feet away. Impossibly far. Shivering with cold and exhaustion, she fumbled for the buckle to release the tank. Her fingers felt as useless as waterlogged sausages.
Her leg scraped against a rock below the water’s surface. Or maybe it was a shark, bumping her in a test nudge before it took a real bite. She rolled over onto her back, too tired to care. A wave sloshed over her face, followed by another. She coughed. Among the slapping of the waves and the bird cries, she heard scraping as her tank banged against something. The sun overhead was merciless in its brightness. Another beautiful day in the Galápagos. A wave pounded her head under the water, then bounced her back to the glittering surface. First she’d go blind. Then she’d drown.
Her left arm was abruptly pinched in a vise grip. She’d thought a shark’s teeth would just slice neatly, not mash and bruise like that.
J.J.’s bronze face appeared, and fierce brown eyes peered into hers. “You’re not dying on me, are you?”
“I might,” Sam mumbled. Dan, I’m coming to join you.
J.J. released Sam’s harness buckle and stripped off her tank, dragging her underwater for a moment before hauling her back up. Then J.J. shucked off her own tank and BCD. Sam summoned enough energy to help her hook the equipment over a sharp fin of rock that barely broke the surface. They bobbed in the waves for a few seconds, catching their breath. The clanking of the air cylinders added to the cacophony of the slapping waves and raucous sea birds.
“There’s no place to haul out here,” J.J. yelled in Sam’s ear. “We’ve got to make it to the stack.”
Sam put her face in the water again. Damn. J.J. was right, that black fin of rock was straight up and down. And there were more slender spears, thrusting up from the bottom like dragon’s teeth. They might be able to cling to them, but not for long. The larger rock they were headed for was still at least two hundred feet away. A two-hundred-foot maze of churning waves, bone-breaking boulders, and flesh-piercing spears of lava. In spite of being surrounded by liquid, her throat was desert-dry. “Shit,” she croaked.
“Swim!” J.J. yelled.
Sam’s arm dragged over rough lava. Felt like being scoured with heavy grade sandpaper. A wave slapped her face, hard. At least she thought it was a wave. This was not a peaceful place to die.
Zing wouldn’t put up with this crap. Zing would survive. Sam struggled to push herself away from the rocks. She lifted leaden arms in an excruciatingly slow crawl. One hundred strokes, she promised herself. Then she could rest. One. Two. Three. Disconnected visions of all the men in her life floated through her thoughts. Her roommate Blake. The guy worked at a greenhouse for twelve dollars an hour. She’d given him the house in her will before her last stupid escapade, so at least he’d have a place to live. Would he take care of her cat Simon? Would he be kind to Maya? Twenty-five, twenty-six . . . Chase. What would he do with that hot pink ski suit? Thirty-two . . . Who was she kidding? He probably had any number of women he could give it to. Maybe he was with one of them now. If he was still alive.
She inhaled water instead of air, thrashed blindly as she coughed it out. Forty-five, forty-six . . . Adam Steele. Former lover, handsome jerk, charming ambitious pseudo-friend. As a Christmas gift, he’d sent her a coffee mug featuring a woman howling with wolves. What did he want? Sixty, sixty-one . . . Her father. She could hear his deep Reverend Westin voice delivering her eulogy. She died in the back of beyond, out someplace nobody ever heard of. But that was Summer. Always running after birds and lizards and mountain lions. He’d be so disappointed that she’d never married, never had children. Had never returned to the church.
The neoprene over her elbow snagged on one of the dragon’s teeth. She ripped it loose, slammed her knee against the rock in an attempt to shove off. Seventy-four . . . seventy-five . . . Dan. Oh, damn it, Dan, I did my best.
You really think so? her conscience asked sarcastically. You’re going to let them win?
She was a complete and utter failure. Her limbs felt like petrified wood. The air she breathed through her snorkel seemed too thick to suck in.
J.J. was yelling again, somewhere up ahead. Sam followed the sound, unable to raise her head. She was away from the dragon’s teeth now, but she could no longer lift her arms. She settled for a modified breaststroke. Eight-seven . . . eighty-eight . . . Pretty soon she would really have done her best. Then she could just stop and settle to the bottom, wriggle into the sand like a stingray. Ninety-four . . . ninety-seven . . .
J.J.’s screaming increased in volume. The woman was practically roaring. Probably because Sam slowed down. She let herself drift, sinking below the surface for long moments of peace and quiet. She opened her eyes to blue-green. Diamonds of sunlight glittered above.
The roar grew louder. She floated up next to J.J. Between waves, Sam saw the triangular shape of a boat’s hull heading in her direction, the long white comet tail from the e
ngine streaking out behind. Two silver torpedoes raced alongside, leaping and then diving back into the jade liquid. Those same damn dolphins.
Maybe she wouldn’t die today after all.
The pointed hull swung in their direction, approaching at alarming speed. Could the driver see them swimming in the water? The boat bore down on them. Should she dive to safety? She couldn’t summon the energy. Her limbs were numb. Where were those infuriating dolphins? Were they hovering nearby, waiting with the sharks to see how Guerrero and Ayala finished her and J.J. off?
22
The boat coasted for a long moment. It looked like its path would cross directly over her belly. She’d be cut in half. Sam flailed, trying to swim out of the way. Then there was a strong surge of water as the twin engines rammed into reverse. She struggled to keep her face above water.
Beside her, J.J. was still yelling. “You goddamn shitheads!”
Ayala’s head appeared above the curve of white fiberglass, and for a moment Sam saw the whole scene reflected in his mirrored lenses. His face was curved into a frown around the designer sunglasses.
Guerrero’s visage swam into focus beside his partner’s. He, too, wore an anxious expression. Or maybe an angry one—it was hard to tell through the film of saltwater that sloshed against her mask.
J.J. switched to Spanish. “Idiotas!”
Was it wise to be calling them names right now?
Guerrero hefted a long metal pole to shoulder level. It made a hissing sound as it split the air, descending toward J.J.’s head. The black woman dodged sideways, and the pole wedged against a hump of black rock behind her. Guerrero pushed, shoving the boat away from the lava outcropping. He barked an order in Spanish to Ayala. The other man disappeared. A second later his dark curls reappeared, struggling with something he carried. A rifle? Speargun? Sam waited for the barrel of a weapon to slide over the side of the boat.
Undercurrents Page 25
