by Kathy Brandt
“Sampson, Sampson, wake up!” When I opened my eyes, I realized it was Stark of all people, and that I’d had my head on his damned shoulder.
“Stark!”
“It’s okay, Sampson. I didn’t mind being your pillow. Been here for about a half hour listening to you mumble in your sleep. You started gettin’ kinda noisy.”
I sat up and finally remembered where I was.
“No, nothin’ yet,” he said, anticipating my question.
A crowd had gathered around Jimmy’s mother—sisters, brothers, nieces, uncles, aunts, cousins, all talking quietly. Stark and I were sitting in the middle of it, mine the only white face. I seemed to be the only one who noticed. To the others I was simply Hannah, Jimmy’s colleague.
“I came on ahead,” Stark was saying. “Others will be here in a while. You’re lookin’ like a zombie, Sampson.” Stark had never put this many words together and actually directed them at me since we’d met. And damned if he didn’t have his arm around my shoulder.
“Brought you somethin’ to eat.” He pulled a sandwich and a soda out of a brown sack.
“Thanks, Stark.” It seemed like days since I had swallowed anything other than caffeine.
“What did you find out there?” I asked him between bites.
“Everything you told Dunn. The Manettis were floating in the water. Carr pulled Suzie Tagan off the bottom, and O’Brien and Carmichael found Wold.”
Suddenly the door from surgery banged open and Hall burst through, white coat flapping behind him. I jumped to my feet and felt myself close down, dread turning every cell icy. I knew what Hall was about to tell us—that Jimmy hadn’t made it. That damned pasty Ichabod countenance said it all.
Then the guy actually smiled. “He’s in recovery. Looks like he’s going to pull through.”
“Course he be makin’ it,” Jimmy’s mother said.
***
Stark gave me a ride back to the Sea Bird. “You know, Sampson, I’ve been thinkin’ maybe you stay around long enough, you’ll be turning into a real islander. See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Stark,” I said, and smiled. See you tomorrow.”
O’Brien was below, a bottle of merlot and two glasses on the table.
“Jimmy’s going to make it,” I said as he stood and folded his arms around me. He still had marks on his face from his diving mask, and his hair was wet. He smelled like soap and the sea.
“Yeah, I called the hospital. They said you’d just left. You okay?”
“Fine. I’m glad you’re here,” I said, pulling him against me, feeling the warmth.
We never got around to opening the wine.
***
The next morning I dove under the Calypso to check the keel. The compartment was obvious once Wold had pried it open and removed the drugs. It was just big enough to hold what amounted to about seven cubic feet of cocaine. Once Wold had pulled it from the keel, he would have been able to handle it fairly easily. Under salt water the bundles would have weighed about fifty pounds total. And, of course, Wold was motivated. Rodriguez had been really upset to learn that the Calypso would not be his.
By noon we had the entire picture. Elizabeth’s journal made it all pretty clear. Her husband had thought drug running would be an easy way to make enough money to keep the Calypso and their million-dollar home in California, and continue his endeavors as a nature writer. If not for Wold, maybe it would have worked.
Pirating was a habit with Wold and Tagan. They would hire on as crew on expensive boats, kill the owners, take their identity for a while, run up their charge cards, sell the boats in some port, and then grab another. The life of luxury without the expense. For Wold the Calypso was a double bonus—a boat worth several million and drugs worth twenty-five million. Even that hadn’t been enough, though. All the jewelry that had been taken in the robberies was found on Wold’s rented motorboat, stashed in the head. The kids that Stark had arrested would be charged with theft but were off the hook for armed robbery.
Mahler and Worthington had arrested the guy who had trashed my boat. He was a local fisherman, out of work and broke when he met Wold. He’d been down at the Doubloon, bragging about the fun he’d had wrecking a boat over at Pickerings Landing. He identified Wold from a photo and confessed that Wold had told him to scare me out of the islands one way or another. Said that Wold had offered him a bonus if I happened to be on the boat and have an unfortunate accident.
“Hell, wrecking a boat’s one thing, but I ain’t no killer,” the guy had said.
Still, Dunn was not pleased. Sure, Ursala Downing’s and Allen Robsen’s murders had been solved once and for all. But the BVI stakes its reputation on law and order. That’s what makes it so attractive to all the off-shore bankers. This did not look good. The murders of the Pembrooks, millions in drugs dissolved in territorial waters. Don and Melissa Manetti dead.
At least Trish Robsen did not have to live with the fact that her husband had died in a sordid manner—tangled in another woman’s sheets. Instead, he’d simply made the mistake of looking at the dust jacket of a travel guide to Hawaii.
I’d caught up with Trish at the airport. She and her son were about to board a flight back to the States. Out the window I could see the ground crew struggling to load Allen’s casket into the luggage compartment. She managed a fleeting smile when I told her what had happened to Allen.
“We’d talked about taking a trip to Tahiti someday,” she said.
I waited as they handed their tickets to the agent and walked out the door. Trish turned briefly, mouthed, “Thank you,” and was gone.
That evening I went to see Jimmy. He was asleep, his head propped up on pillows, his bed surrounded by a maze of tubes and monitors. The room was crowded with outlandish island bouquets, boxes of candy and magazines, none of which Jimmy was yet able to enjoy. I made my way through the jungle of color to his bedside and stood watching him breathe. God, he was so young. He stirred and opened his eyes.
“Hey, dar, Hannah,” he said.
“How you doing, Jimmy?”
“Doin’ real good. I be ready to take you riding in da Wahoo ‘fore ya know it,” he said, managing his wide smile.
Same Jimmy. Damned kid.
Author’s Notes
While most of the places in this book are real, events and people are entirely fictitious, and I am unaware of any underwater caves in the British Virgin Islands. In addition, to the best of my knowledge, shark fins are not taken in that region. However, shark fins are harvested in other parts of the world and shark populations have plummeted. Conservation efforts are underway. For more information on shark conservation go to:
http://www.pewtrusts.org/our_work_detail.aspx?id=140
http://www.sharks.org/
http://www.bite-back.com/
Next in the series
Turn the page for a preview of Dangerous Depths,
the third book in the
Hannah Sampson Underwater Investigation series. . . .
Chapter 1
At 12:03 the sea quivered. Then it exploded. The cat, whom I’d graciously allowed to curl at my feet, flew across me, claws extended, fur flying, and hit the ground running. So much for gratitude. I wrestled with a damned tangle of sheets that held me like a mummy. Finally they set me free, and I landed beside the bunk on my ass as the Sea Bird pitched up one side of a rolling wave and slammed down the other.
I fought my way to my feet as the boat crashed down onto an ocean that seemed to have turned to concrete. I wanted out of the floating horror house before the thing sank. I clung to anything that was bolted to the floor, pulled myself out of my cabin, into the salon, and made it up the steps to the deck. I didn’t like what I saw. This was not what I considered a good start to the week.
The ocean was a confusion of flaming waves. In the middle of it all was the Caribbe, Elyse Henry’s boat—burning. Flames shot out of the roof, pointing hellish fingers to the sky. I jumped onto the dock and raced toward the heat.<
br />
The entire right side of the vessel was already consumed in fire and angry waves crashed against her hull. Where the hell was Elyse? Still inside? No one could survive long in the inferno.
“Elyse! Elyse!” I shouted, frantic and disoriented.
Sadie skirted the edge of the dock, whining, tail between her legs. Neither one of us knew what the hell to do.
The Caribbe was a clunky flat-bottomed boat with boxy living quarters perched on top. The fire was concentrated in the galley. Flames flashed out the hatches.
If Elyse were still on board, she could be back in her cabin, trapped, maybe unconscious. I had to get to her before the gas tanks exploded.
I knew better than to spend any time thinking it through. If I did, I might flinch, wait a second too long, and then it would be too late.
“Stay, Sadie,” I demanded firmly. She’d be right on my heels otherwise.
I jumped onto the aft section of the Caribbe, which was still secured to the cleat on the dock. Just about the time my feet touched the deck, the frayed line broke and the Caribbe began to drift out of her slip and away from the dock. At least the Sea Bird and the other boats in the marina might be spared the flames.
Then, kaboom! A whoosh of hot air pummeled my face, and a ball of fire roared through the Caribbe. The blast hit like a freight train, flinging me off the boat into air and space. I hit the water and was hurled toward the sea floor, tumbling. Finally, my momentum slowed and I fought my way up, arms flailing, feet kicking hard.
Miraculously, I made it to the surface, gasping for breath, but somehow still in one piece. I was surrounded by smoke and patches of flaming oil. I choked up diesel-filled salt water and sought out pockets of air in the burning liquid, trying to see past the smoke though eyes that stung and teared. I was desperate to catch sight of Elyse. I forced my arms and legs into action. Treading water, I whipped around in a circle, searching the darkness and smoky gloom. Nothing.
Then Sadie began barking furiously from the edge of the dock, her fur prickled, her snout pointing at what looked like a rag doll drifting in the water. I swam to the floating mass, my heart pounding, flames licking my arms. I feared what I would find. I knew it was Elsye. By the time I got to the place she’d floated, she had disappeared under the water.
I filled my lungs with hot acrid air and dove. What I wouldn’t do for a scuba tank, face mask, and fins now. I went down, arms sweeping, searching, eyes shut tight against the brine. I’d done this before, searched blind in water so mucky it was black. But never without my gear, never in water on fire, and never for a friend who had just gone under before my eyes.
I kicked hard, forcing my body down, hand outstretched, praying to grasp a sleeve, hair, a foot, anything. Nothing but empty water washed through my fingers.
Out of air, I surfaced back into the flames, sucked in another breath, and dove, heading for the bottom. I hit sand and fought to stay under against the powerful ocean forces determined to shoot me back to the surface.
Grasping desperately at the turtle grass that grew along the sea floor, I edged along the bottom, seeking, on automatic now. I swept my free hand back and forth, feeling my way through the water, doing what I’d been trained to do. I brushed against rocks, a conch, a sea cucumber.
God, where the hell was Elyse?
Once more I surfaced, took a hot desperate breath and dove. I knew if I didn’t find her this time, I would not find her at all—at least alive. Hell, she might already be dead. I was frantic—panic was setting in. So was exhaustion.
Could I make it to the bottom one last time?
Kicking hard, I pointed my body down. Before I’d even made it back to the sea floor, I swam right into Elyse, suspended a few feet off the bottom. I wrapped my arms tight around her chest. I was not about to lose her. I twisted in the water, anchored my feet on the bottom, and drove them into the sand. Seconds later we were on the surface.
I wrapped an arm around Elyse and side-stroked, pulling her behind me, trying to avoid the pockets of fire still flashing on the surface and at the same time keep Elyse’s head above water. I knew by the smell that flames sizzled in my hair.
Finally I made it to the dock, its underside reeking of green algae and dead fish. The owners of the marina, Calvin and Tilda, waited, ready to assist. Their two girls, Rebecca and Daisy, stood back, arms wrapped around Sadie’s neck.
Calvin slid his black, muscled arms under Elyse’s and pulled her gently out of the water and onto the dock. I climbed wearily onto a slimy wooden rung and Tilda gave me a hand up.
Calvin quickly looked away, embarrassed. It wasn’t till that moment that I realized I was topless. I hadn’t taken the time to grab a shirt when I’d raced off my boat. Even in a crisis, Calvin was modest. I didn’t have the time or luxury to worry about it. Elyse wasn’t breathing.
Frantic, I bent over her and began CPR. Calvin immediately joined me, taking over chest compressions as I began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Over and over, I forced air into Elyse’s depleted lungs as Calvin pushed on her sternum. Through a haze, I could see the tension in his face, the perspiration forming at his brow.
Time seemed to stretch out. Christ, how long had we been going now? Was it too late to bring Elyse back? Calvin’s face was marked with determination. Neither one of us was about to call it.
“Come on, Elyse, breathe, breathe, breathe,” I whispered, and then forced another breath into her.
Finally, a gasp, a shudder. Then water gurgled out of her lungs and down the side of her face, and Elyse took a breath. But she didn’t open her eyes.
Calvin and I sat back on our haunches for just an instant trying to regain equilibrium; then he picked her up and we ran toward his van. Tilda tossed me one of Calvin’s shirts and I pulled it on as I rushed ahead to open the door and climb in.
Calvin gently handed Elyse in to me. I slid across the seat, and cradled her head in my lap. Once Calvin got behind the wheel, he was a maniac, throwing gravel as he slammed his foot into the gas pedal and swerved the van onto the highway to Road Town. I glanced back to see Tilda, still in her robe, her arms around the girls, Sadie nuzzled into Rebecca’s side. Daisy sought comfort from the thumb she was sucking on, her eyes wide. I could see the fear and confusion on their faces. I felt it too. An hour ago I’d been sleeping on the Sea Bird, my cat keeping my feet warm. Now it was after one in the morning and my best friend was lying in my lap, barely breathing. What the hell had happened?
Praise for Dangerous Depths
“White-hot writing, a charismatic heroine and crackling tension flawlessly merge in Brandt’s latest Underwater Investigation. Plus, her crisp depiction of the British Virgin Islands lends lush atmosphere to this suspenseful story.
“Police diver Hannah Sampson is smart, skillful and independent. But her independence makes things difficult when her best friend is seriously injured in a boat fire. Hannah’s the only person on the island who believes the fire was a murder attempt. Clues lead to dead ends, but Hannah knows she’s onto something. Threats against her own life reinforce her gut instinct and push her toward a risky resolution.
“This richly plotted mystery is as satisfying as finding buried treasure.”
—Romantic Times Book Club Magazine
“Beginning in Swimming with the Dead, and then Dark Water Dive, Brandt introduced Hannah Sampson, an independent and spunky heroine who, not coincidentally, hails from Colorado. Her special talents, aside from a quick, sometimes raw wit and a bulldog-like curiosity, include diving.
“While the storylines in Brandt’s books are compelling and the plots, filled with murder, pending murder, and intrigue, keep the pages turning, it’s really her special gift for atmosphere that has kept me reading.
“Her latest book, Dangerous Depths, is no exception. I will say that Brandt continues to grow as a writer and her heroine, Hannah Sampson, emerges as a more fully developed and complex character. And, as much as I like Sampson, I enjoy the descriptions of the Bri
tish Virgin Islands even more, particularly the detailed evocations of diving that can almost make you taste the regulator in your mouth.”
—Springs Magazine
“The third novel in this engaging series begins, literally, with a bang. The reader is instantly drawn in and experiences events right along with Hannah. . . . As always, the author writes about the gorgeous area of the British Virgin Islands in such an evocative way that you’ll feel like you’ve had a vacation, complete with underwater investigations, without leaving your favorite armchair. The mystery is compelling and involving, and all the characters are complex and realistic. I’m already eager for the next installment in this great series.”
—Deborah Hern
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the folks at Dive Rescue International; to Sgt. Steve Ward, Underwater Search and Recovery Unit, Colorado Springs; Allen Meador, Colorado Springs Fire Department; and to a man I’ve never met, Cpl. Bob Teather of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, whose Encyclopedia of Underwater Investigations is the definitive text in underwater crime scene investigation.
And as always, deep gratitude and love to my family for their constant support and enthusiasm. As for my husband, Ron, well, thanks hardly does it.
About the Author
Kathy is the author of four mysteries in the Underwater Investigation Series. She is the co-author with her son, Max Maddox, of the bestselling Walks On The Margins: A Story of Bipolar Illness, which received the Colorado Independent Publishers Association Award. She is the recipient of the Golden Quill Award from the Pikes Peak Library Association and the 2012 National Alliance on Mental Illness Award. Kathy has a B.A. in English and an M.A. in Rhetoric and taught writing at the University of Colorado for ten years before becoming a full-time author. She is an avid sailor and scuba diver. She lives in Colorado. Visit her websites www.csi-underwater-mysteries.com and www.kathybrandtauthor.com.
