Dark Water Dive

by Kathy Brandt

  Now the question was where the hell was the shooter. Still there, standing above me ready to put another well-placed bullet in the back of my skull? I lay quietly, playing dead, and listened, trying to bring all my senses into the space.

  A warm breeze drifted through my hair. The front door was still open. An unimportant observation except for the fact that I could hear the periodic croaking of a frog on the doorstep. The frog didn’t detect any danger as he perched singing on the porch. Either nothing else was moving or it was one brazen frog. I could still feel my finger wrapped around the gun in my hand. I pushed myself up to a crouch, ready to shoot the first thing that moved. Nothing did, except the frog. It took a flying leap into the bushes.

  I sat up, waiting for my head to adjust to an upright perspective. Finally, the pounding and nausea dropped down a notch or two. I managed to get a foot under me and stood, leaning against the wall. The foyer was still dark. I wondered how long I’d been unconscious. Minutes? An hour? Not long enough, I realized, hearing shuffling in the back somewhere.

  I was in no shape to go after anyone, but damned if I’d let the guy just walk away. I pushed myself off the wall and started down the hallway. The adjoining room was lit only by moonlight. One wall was entirely glass, with French doors out to the patio beyond. Moon glow illuminated a lush garden. In the dimness I saw two people locked in an embrace that seemed distorted somehow. It took a second before I realized it was a bronze sculpture.

  I stood in the shadows, quiet, waiting for a sound or a shape to emerge from the dark. Seconds passed, nothing. Had I really heard something or had it been the hallucinations of a damaged brain? Then the damned statue moved. Things were definitely getting surreal. A man stepped from behind it and off the patio, a form, headed across the lawn.

  I moved to the door as fast as I could and eased it open. The darned thing squeaked. In the still night it was like the shriek of a banshee. Until that moment the guy probably thought I was lying dead in the house and that he was alone, escaping unnoticed into the night. He turned, surprised. I couldn’t see his face. A hat, one of those full-brimmed canvas things, kept any light from reaching his face. He was maybe five-ten, wearing shorts, tennis shoes, the damned hat. In this light he looked like half the tourists on the island. Definitely a white man, and maybe someone I’d met. All I had time for was a quick snapshot impression before he lifted his gun my way and fired. He wasn’t even close.

  “Police! Stop where you are!” I yelled. Right. He was already headed for the thick brush that bordered the lawn. I took off after him, trying to ignore the fact that my head felt like it was being pounded with a jackhammer. He disappeared in the thick tangle of green. I stumbled in after him. The place was swarming with mosquitoes, just waiting for flesh; they descended en masse. I kept going. I could hear the guy ahead of me crashing through the bushes, cutting a path that I easily followed. I yelled again.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot.” I didn’t have a clear shot but I fired, hoping it would scare him into stopping. No such luck—he only went faster, and he was pulling ahead of me. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to outrun him. I was dizzy, and the wet, gooey, red stuff was dripping off my chin. I stopped.

  “God dammit,” I muttered. My head was on fire. I heard him ahead, thrashing through the bush, the sound receding then nothing. “God dammit!”

  I sat, pulled my knees to my chest, rested my head on them, and waited for the world to stop spinning. After a while I realized a stick was poking me in the butt and I was being consumed by mosquitos that were especially gratified by the blood that covered my face and matted my hair. I swiped at them furiously, arms flailing, taking my anger and frustration out on the damned bugs. I got up and retraced my steps to the house. Where the hell was Ursala?

  I went back in through the patio doors and flipped on a light. The room was plush, thick mint carpeting, more sculptures, all abstract shapes of what looked like men in the process of rape, the women’s faces grotesque—misshapen, pained. I’d say whoever did these had a warped view of sexuality. Why would any woman, Ursala included, have such crap in her house? There was only one reason: Her husband had done them. I could see F.D. engraved in the bases—Frank Downing.

  I continued through the first floor—no one, and nothing out of place. I went back to the foyer. The front door was still open, the tile splotched with my blood. I touched my head lightly, thankful that my brains weren’t splattered all over the floor. I shuddered and headed up the steps to the room that was lit.

  It was the master bedroom. A king-sized bed filled the space. Ursala lay in the center of a purple brocade bedspread, arms out, legs draped over the side. Her skirt was hiked up around her waist, underwear thrown in the corner. A tiny black circle marked her forehead, just like Robsen’s. Her lip was bloodied, face bruised. I wondered where Frank Downing might be.

  I sat down on the bed next to Ursala’s still form and called Dunn. Then I went outside to wait, away from the dead. When he got there, I was sitting on the front stoop, chin propped in my hands.

  It had been a bad day. The morning in O’Brien’s bed seemed an unfamiliar and unlikely event in someone else’s past. Right now, reality was a dead woman in the bed upstairs. My body carried the evidence, a slash on my temple where the blood still seeped.

  I was lost in the night sounds when the police cruisers pulled up. Dunn took one look at me and insisted that Snyder take me to the hospital. There was nothing I could do to convince him that I was fine.

  It took over an hour at the hospital—all for a piece of gauze taped on the side of my head and a few aspirin. Snyder dropped me off at Pickerings Landing. I dreaded facing the ruined boat and the night alone, but I just wanted to collapse into oblivion for a few hours. I’d thought briefly about having Snyder drop me at O’Brien’s but dismissed it. It bothered led me that I’d even considered it.

  When I got to the end of the dock, I could see lights on below the deck of the Sea Bird, and Sadie didn’t rush up to greet me. Somehow, for the third or fourth time today, my body tapped some final store of adrenaline and sent it coursing to my brain. Panic set in.

  I knew I had turned the lights off this morning when I’d left. What more could anyone possibly hope to do to the already ruined boat? Sink her, I supposed. Or maybe someone was waiting for me this time. I drew my gun. This was getting old.

  I heard talking below and a bunch of clanging and clattering. Then Sadie came bounding up on deck, followed by a dark figure.

  “Hannah. Please don’t shoot me.” It was O’Brien.

  “Jeez, you’re lucky I’ve been trained to look first, shoot later. What are you doing here? Who’s below?”

  “Come on down,” he said, smiling.

  Tilda and Calvin were in the galley, working over the stove. Rebecca and Daisy sat cross-legged on the floor, petting the kittens. Elyse was poised at the table with a needle and thread, just putting the finishing touches on one of the torn cushions.

  “Hannah, come join the party,” she said.

  The four of them had obviously been working for several hours to restore the boat. It looked better than before it had been destroyed.

  When I stepped into the light, they all noticed the bandage.

  “What happened?” O’Brien moved to my side, taking in my ragtag condition.

  “I’m fine, just a little run-in at the Downings’.” I nodded toward the two little girls and left it at that.

  “Sure hope there’s someone who wants to have a little kitten in a few weeks,” I said, changing the subject.

  “We do! Oh, mama, can we?”

  “We’ll see, children.”

  “What did you name them, Hannah?” Rebecca asked.

  “I haven’t really thought about names.” I knew what happened when you named something. It became yours.

  “Well, then, we’ll call this yellow one Butterfly, the white-and-black one is Drum, like one of those drum fish, and the littlest one is Tiny.” Rebecca had it all figured out.


  “What about the mother?” Tilda asked.

  “Hannah has to name her.”

  “Why me?”

  “’Cause you’ve got to keep her, Hannah. You saved her,” Rebecca reasoned.

  “I don’t think Sadie would like it,” I said. At the moment Sadie was busy cleaning one of the kitten’s paws.

  “Hannah!” Rebecca stood, hands on her hips.

  “Okay, okay,” I relented. “Let’s call her Nomad.” Christ, I had just inherited a scrawny yellow-and-white cat that still looked half-dead.

  “Yea!”

  After the Pickerings left, I told Elyse and O’Brien what had happened to Ursala and that Dunn was looking for Frank Downing. I could see that O’Brien was upset.

  “That woman deserved more,” he said. “She was so alone. What a shame.”

  “Yeah, I think Dunn believes Downing is responsible for Allen Robsen’s death too. It’s not making much sense to me, but we’ve pretty much ruled out Clement Davies. First thing in the morning I’m going to talk to the captain of the fishing boat to make sure Davies was where he says he was when Robsen was killed.”

  Then I made the mistake of telling Elyse and O’Brien about the fins I’d seen on the Dolphin and what Davies had told me about the local fishermen selling them to a fishing boat that was out in the deep water.

  Elyse was furious. “Don’t you see, without that middleman, the locals have no reason to kill sharks. They can’t make anything selling fins locally. You saw those fins in the market the other day. No one was buying. They were rotting in the sun. I want to find that boat.”

  “Jeez, Elyse,” O’Brien said. “It’s probably long gone by now.”

  “Well, then why are the locals still collecting fins? I’m going over to the Dolphin. I’ll get them to tell me where they’re unloading them.”

  “Elyse, it’s almost midnight,” I said as she stood. Damned if she wasn’t going to go down to the docks right now. “There won’t be anyone down there. Wait until morning. We’ll go together. Besides, you know they aren’t breaking any laws with these fins. Neither you nor I can do anything at all if they don’t want to cooperate.”

  “Okay, Hannah. First thing in the morning. But legal or not, I will find a way to stop this.” She stomped off the Sea Bird, and a few minutes later we could hear her banging around in the galley of the Caribbe.

  “You’d better be careful,” O’Brien said. “When it comes to the maiming of innocent sea creatures, Elyse can spit fire.”

  “I know. I’m hoping by tomorrow morning she’ll have calmed below the burning point.”

  God, I was tired. Just a couple of hours ago I’d been chasing Ursala’s killer through thick brambles. The wound was minor, but I was bruised, scraped, and bug bitten. What didn’t ache or burn, itched.

  I ran my tongue around the rim of my glass, gathering the last drops of red wine that O’Brien had poured me. Somehow I’d managed to get smashed on one glass of wine. Now I wanted to dance—the slow, hip-crunching kind of dance. I stood and hung my arms around O’Brien’s neck and swayed. All the shit of the day melted to insignificance.

  The next thing I knew O’Brien was tucking me into bed. I could hear him rumbling around in the galley, cleaning and doing dishes, as I fell asleep. At some point he slipped into bed next to me. God, it felt good, body wrapped around mine, safe. I was glad he was staying.

  Chapter 19

  When I opened my eyes the next morning, O’Brien was gone and Elyse was standing over me with a coffee cup in hand.

  “Come on, Hannah; let’s get going before the Dolphin heads out to prey on more sharks.”

  “Jeez, Elyse, let me wake up first.” My brain felt like it was embedded in wet cotton; my head pounded. I wasn’t sure whether it was from bullet or Beaujolais. My limbs did not want to unfold.

  “You can wake up on the way. I filled a thermos with coffee and already fed Nomad and Sadie.”

  Two aspirin later, a cup of coffee balanced in one hand, I steered the Rambler toward Road Town with the other. Once we were away from the water, the temperature jumped about twenty degrees. Only six in the morning, and damn, it was hot. Already I could feel the perspiration in my hair, the salt burning the cut on the side of my head.

  Somehow Elyse managed to look like she was standing in a cool breeze. She wore an aqua knit shirt with a matching skirt that looked like ice against her mahogany skin. She was an attractive woman, though I doubt she ever gave it much thought.

  “Saw Peter leaving the Sea Bird this morning,” she said, eyes twinkling.”

  “Yeah, it’s getting to be a habit.” I didn’t like the idea that I liked the idea. Things were moving too fast with O’Brien. I got scared thinking about it. I needed to slow them down.

  “Don’t you be hurting that man,” Elyse said. “There aren’t many around like Peter. You’d be crazy to let him go.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “No maybe about it.”

  By the time we got to the marina most of the fishing boats had already gone out; others were starting engines, loading coolers, throwing nets on board.

  “Damn, I hope the Dolphin hasn’t pulled out yet.” Elyse marched quickly down the dock, taking two steps to every one of mine. Every man on the dock knew she was trouble the moment she passed by.

  “There she is,” Elyse said.

  The Dolphin was right where she’d been when Snyder and I had spotted Davies yesterday.

  “Okay, Elyse. Let’s go slow here. You won’t accomplish anything by pissing these guys off.”

  “Don’t worry, Hannah. I’m an islander. I know how to manage these guys.

  “Good day to ya,” she hollered to a man who was standing on the bow coiling a line. “You be goin’ out today?” Damned if she wasn’t flirting. Whatever works, I thought.

  “Sure,” the man said, giving Elyse a look that went way past admiration, something like lust. “You want to be comin’ along miss?”

  “Actually, we’d like to speak with the captain,” I said. “Is he around?”

  “Now, what do two beautiful women like you want to talk to that ol’ salt for. Be glad to help you out.”

  “I’m the captain,” a big man of at least sixty-five, face wrinkled from the sun, stepped out of the hold, wiping greasy hands on a stained rag. “Name’s Theodore, Theodore Bentley. Folks call me Teddy.”

  “I’m a police officer, Hannah Sampson. This is Elyse Henry.”

  “Come on aboard,” he said, holding out a hand. His grip was like iron. “Got to get this damned engine running. Mind if I work while we talk?” He picked up a huge wrench and bent over a heap of metal covered in oil. Pieces were scattered over the deck.

  “What can I be doing for you ladies?” Not a trace of concern that I was a police officer. It was obvious that Bentley had nothing to hide.

  “Actually, I was hoping to talk with you about Clement Davies. He work with you?”

  “Davies? Sure. He’s a no-account but I was short-handed. Hired him on.”

  “When was he out with you?”

  “Let me think.” He ran an oily hand through his hair. “We went out early Saturday morning, came back yesterday. Haven’t seen him since. Probably spending all his pay in town.”

  I had no reason to doubt Teddy. Davies had been out at sea when Robsen was killed. One loose end tied up.

  “What about those shark fins?” Elyse said, nodding toward a stack of freshly cut fins piled in blood-tinged ice.

  “What about them?”

  “We’ve heard someone is buying those fins. Like to know who it is.”

  “What’s your interest in that?”

  “Elyse works with the Society of Conservation,” I said. “She’s concerned about the killing of sharks.”

  “What’s a few sharks? My guys make a little extra, put food on the table, maybe buy their missus a new dress. Don’t see no harm.”

  I could see that Elyse was about to lose it and launch into an angry diatribe
about the slaughter of innocent sharks. I didn’t think that Teddy way going to care a whole lot.

  “We just want to talk to the guys, make sure that they are following guidelines for shipping the fins. Don’t want anyone getting sick on fish coming from the BVI, right? Something like that gets around, say over in the U.S. Virgins, folks will think twice before buying from our local fishermen,” I said quickly, hoping Elyse would get hold of herself in the meantime.

  Teddy could see the logic in this. “Well, the fellows collecting them fins be on the Emerald Queen. Guess they’ve been around for a week, maybe more. Can’t imagine they be around much longer. Soon’s I get this engine fixed, I promised the guys who got these fins we’d head out there to offload them. You can come along if you want.”

  “Yes, we would like to go along,” Elyse said. “Okay, Hannah?”

  I didn’t object. The Emerald Queen was the boat that Trish said they had encountered on their way to Tortola. It might be a good idea to check it out. Besides, I didn’t want Elyse going out there alone. No telling what kind of trouble she could get into.

  “How long before you head out?” I asked.

  “Just about got it,” Teddy said, tightening the last bolt down on the engine. “I hold my mouth just right, I believe the old girl will fire up.”

  He flipped the switch on the console and turned the key. The engine sputtered, then came to life.

  “Okay, let’s go,” he said, closing the engine compartment.

  One of the guys untied the lines and jumped on board as Teddy put the Dolphin in gear and pointed her out to sea.