by Marc Cameron
Overheating quickly, even in the cool of the morning, he wanted to get into water pronto. It seemed irreverent to jump in and mar the smooth surface, so he slipped in almost noiselessly from the swim step, waiting to put on the jet fins once he was in the water.
At the step, Cutter wiped the salt water out of his eyes and swished his mask around in front of him. Cassandra peered over the rail, arms crossed, frowning.
“What’s eating her?”
“This is unnatural,” January said. “In her mind, you’re venturing into the realm of Frog, and Kushtaka, and a dozen other strange beings that do not always have the best of intentions toward man. And don’t forget, I nearly contorted myself to death when my suit came open a couple of days ago. This ain’t Florida, my friend. That water’s a heartless bitch—around forty-eight degrees—which means you got about five millimeters of neoprene standing between you and a quick case of hypothermia. Ten minutes of exposure in this and you’d be hard-pressed to climb back up the steps.”
Cutter slipped the mask over his head and adjusted it up under his nose. “I’ll be fine.” He took the video camera and housing and clipped it to a lanyard on his buoyancy control vest. The storm had made the water more murky than usual and he didn’t want to risk dropping it and having to conduct a search at seventy feet.
“And the murder weapon,” January said, leaning down so Cassandra couldn’t hear as she handed him the multifaceted wrench.
Cutter took the tool and affixed the idiot cord to the D-ring opposite the camera. “Speaking of that,” he said, looking at his watch. “I forgot to tell you. I think I might have figured out who killed Millie Burkett.”
January patted the rail impatiently.
“Who?”
“Tell you when I get back,” he said, looking at his watch. “See you in fifteen.”
“You bastard!” January whispered to Cutter’s fins as they pushed him beneath the surface.
* * *
Cutter cleared his ears the moment his head was underwater, hearing the telltale squeal as the pressure equalized on either side of his eardrum. Diving was a familiar activity to him, almost as familiar as driving a car, and he fell quickly into the rhythm of a relaxed kick-cycle. The regulator in his mouth gave an audible click with each breath, accompanied by the burble of silver bubbles that trailed along either side of his face.
Tide Dancer had a displacement hull and sat low in the water, drawing nearly seven feet to the bottom of her deep V. January took care of her vessel but there was still enough new barnacle growth to keep Cutter swimming well away from the boat, fearful of compromising his dry suit on the tooth-like crustaceans. Caribbean pirates, and even the British navy, had keelhauled misbehaving sailors by dragging them under ships with long ropes. An unlucky sailor might be cut in half if dragged lengthwise along the keel. Cutter shuddered at the thought, and kicked deeper. He wanted to get a good look at the bottom of the boat and feel for the currents before he ventured too close.
Playing his small light in front of him in the murky water, he kicked his way down to a depth of thirty feet. Mean mug or not, he couldn’t help but smile when he looked up and saw Tide Dancer and her accompanying skiff tied off to a stern cleat. There was something about the sight of a big boat looming overhead as if floating in midair that made him feel as though he was really diving. It was a perspective few people got to witness, and a reminder that there was a whole other world up at the surface.
Tide Dancer floated directly over a slack anchor line, which disappeared into the blackness below Cutter. There was no current to speak of, so that was good. Cutter kicked upward slowly, venting air from the BC and the suit to slow his ascent as he came up directly under the boat. There was enough light to make out the metal bracket that was affixed to the keel, the bolts of which fit into the corresponding holes in the camera housing that was now attached to his vest.
Turned on and off via an RF transmitter, the camera was fixed with the lens pointed forward so all January had to do was point the boat in the direction she wanted to film. It was a simple but effective setup, and she was out enough to get hours of footage.
Cutter wore no gloves and the cold water made threading the large nuts a little awkward, but the homemade wrench he’d suspected to be the murder weapon worked perfectly. He mulled over his theory on Millie Burkett’s murder while he snugged down the camera housing. If he was right, then that still didn’t explain who abducted the FISHWIVES! crew and why. There had to be another bad actor on the island.
The hum of an approaching boat motor drew his attention back to the present. He tightened down the last nut and vented more air from his vest, allowing him to sink a few feet so he had a better view.
It was a larger vessel, not the faster aluminum Alaska State Troopers boat he’d seen in the harbor, but another displacement hull, like a popular cruising tug. It also towed a small skiff.
Two boats sharing an anchorage was not uncommon at all, especially one as picturesque as Kaguk Cove, but this new vessel came right up on Tide Dancer’s starboard side, bumping her with enough force that Cutter heard fiberglass grind twenty feet below the surface. There was a plunking splash and the rattle of chain playing out over the bow roller. Cutter turned to watch a large Bruce anchor fall past, disappearing into the shadows below.
No one with good seamanship or decent intentions would anchor this close to another vessel.
Cutter surfaced quietly, careful to exhale as he rose, venting air from his expanding lungs and rising no more quickly than his bubbles. Many a diver had discovered how fragile the thin layers of lung tissue were by ascending too quickly while holding their breath. Injury to the lungs could happen in just a few feet of water. An uncontrolled ascent from deep water was almost certain to cause a ruptured lung. The bends, caused by expanding nitrogen bubbles in the blood, was an added worry.
Cutter broke the surface with little more than a ripple, keeping Tide Dancer between him and the new boat. He was greeted by the sound of Havoc’s frenzied barks. Gruff male voices carried down from above, mingling with January’s curses and the sound of someone crying.
Lapping wave action and the squeak of rubber boat fenders made it almost impossible to hear the specifics of the conversation, but he got the gist of it. These men were looking for something, and whatever it was, they were fully prepared to kill for it.
“January,” the crying voice said. “I am so sorry.”
“Well, Carmen Delgado,” Cutter heard January say.
Carmen. She was one of the missing television crew.
The men began to laugh—Cutter counted at least three male voices, maybe four.
“We have plenty of guns, little girl,” a derisive voice said in a Hispanic accent. “We need no more.”
Cutter watched as Cassandra’s small hand extended over the rail—holding his grandfather’s Colt Python. She held it there for a long moment, and then let it splash into the sea a full twenty feet away from where Cutter floated in the shadow of the Tide Dancer’s hull.
Looking toward the shore, Cutter took a couple of quick references and tried to triangulate so, hopefully, he’d be able to find Grumpy’s gun again. The Colt would have come in handy about now, and Cassandra’s plan to drop the gun to him would have been a good one if he’d been at the right spot to catch it. The conversation topside was heating up quickly, and there was no time to go looking for it now. Cassandra had a plan, albeit a foolish one, but at least she’d done something rather than hide in the corner. Now Cutter needed a plan, and whatever it was, judging by the bloody threats being hurled around above, he needed to do it quickly.
CHAPTER 45
Two minutes earlier
JANUARY LOOKED OUT THE OPEN BACK DOOR OF TIDE DANCER’S CABIN, a fresh cup of coffee in her hand.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered, eyes locked on the oncoming vessel. “What is this? Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead?”
The new boat barreled in fast, chugging into Kaguk Cove like it
owned the place. It was some kind of tug—Nordic or American—January couldn’t tell in the low sun. She guessed it to be a fifty footer, well-appointed with a satellite dish on top of a raised pilothouse nearly as big as her entire cabin. It looked like it had a couple of staterooms, probably Corian counters, and even a washer and dryer. A boat like that was easily three-quarters of a million dollars, maybe more.
Cassandra was glued to her side, gripping the hem of her sweatshirt, giving it little concerned yanks as if January was somehow capable of stopping the oncoming craft.
Havoc scampered out and hopped up on the lazarette, barking at the intruder.
Fifty meters away, the big tug still hadn’t slowed. January took her coffee outside and tried to wave them off. Two dark-haired men stood on the foredeck. One, a smiling guy with slicked black hair, waved back as if she were just saying hello instead of trying to keep them from running over her.
Finally, with just meters to go, the water behind the larger boat began to burble and froth. The guy at the wheel had reversed the prop. The boat decelerated quickly, veering as it did, to come up directly alongside.
“What the hell?” January said. She started to warn them there was a diver in the water, but saw both men wore pistols, and thought better of it. Cutter was smart enough to keep his head down when he heard the thrum of a diesel.
The larger of the two men held a line, ready to throw it across the rail. He kept his head down, a gloomy expression on his face.
January cupped a hand next to her mouth, shouting over the chugging diesel and frothing water. She addressed the guy with slick hair, who was obviously the leader—praying Cutter was somewhere down there hiding and listening. “Am I late on the boat payment or something?”
The slick guy laughed, flicking a hand over his shoulder as he did so. “You Americans,” he said. “Always making jokes at the worst times.”
A small man wearing a black dry suit exited the side door of the cabin and shoved Carmen Delgado out in front of him. It was startling to see her, and not just because she’d been abducted. The poor thing looked like she’d been dragged behind a train. Her face was a mass of bruises. Her hands swollen and red. She wasn’t bound, but ligature marks around her wrists said she obviously had been. There was no need to tie her now. She could hardly stand up.
“January, I am so sorry,” the other woman said, trying unsuccessfully to choke back a sob.
With the boat coming up alongside, the two women were less than twenty feet apart and getting closer fast.
“Carmen Delgado!” January yelled, knowing that in a few moments, anything other than a normal volume would seem like she was trying to warn someone—which is exactly what she hoped to do. It was only then that she noticed two sets of scuba gear set up on the other boat’s deck, next to the transom. There was something off about them, something she couldn’t quite place. She glanced at Delgado, who had tears streaming down her face. “Did these guys hurt you?”
The bow wake from the bigger boat shoved Tide Dancer to one side, like a cue ball hitting another billiard ball. Both boats rocked for a moment, then settled again on the calm water.
“Do not concern yourself with her,” the slick guy said, drawing the pistol from his belt. “Tell your friend to come back outside.”
January looked down to find Cassandra had gone back in the cabin. “Good girl,” she whispered.
Her relief was short-lived. The men laughed when Cassandra came out a moment later, carrying Cutter’s stainless steel revolver by the barrel. They obviously saw her as no real threat by the way she held the weapon, but trained their own pistols on her in any case.
“We have plenty of guns, little girl,” the smallest man jeered. “We need no more.”
Cassandra walked to the far rail, away from the tug, and peered over the side. January heard the revolver plunk as it hit the water. She wondered if Cutter had even seen it.
The big, sad one threw his line across the rail and January caught it, wrapping it loosely around a cleat. There was nothing else she could do. They had guns.
Another Hispanic man, this one older and also wearing a dry suit, came out from the wheelhouse and walked behind his boss to the bow pulpit. He pulled a pin on the roller, and then stepped on a deck control to let the anchor deploy. A good thirty feet of chain rattled off followed by the zip of the quieter nylon line behind it.
An excellent judge of character, Havoc stood on the bench over the lazarette, barking ferociously. January had to hiss at him to keep him from hopping over the rail to the other boat. The small man lifted his pistol to shoot him, but the slick one touched his arm.
“Not the little dog,” Slick said. “We are not savages.” He turned to a trembling Carmen Delgado. “So, you know these people?”
She nodded, her eyes stricken when they met January’s—apol-ogizing again.
“Too bad,” Slick said. “But it does give me another opportunity to demonstrate my resolve.” This time it was Slick who raised his pistol—directly at Cassandra.
What sort of man was this? What could he want? January’s words came all at once, trying to get the man’s attention before he shot the child.
“Your dive gear is all wrong!”
Slick paused but kept his pistol aimed.
“What?”
Cassandra stood frozen.
January raised both hands, hoping to make herself more of a target than Cassandra. She nodded to the scuba tanks on the other deck. “Air toward your hair,” she said.
All the men looked back at the dive tanks. The older diver shook his head, then nodded as if something was finally dawning on him.
Slick frowned, cocking his head to one side. “What does this mean, ‘air to the hair’?”
“Your hoses,” January said. “They’re hooked up backward. If your guys go down that way they’ll have a big knob poking them in the back of their heads. Might even knock themselves out when they jump in the water.” January doubted that was true, but it sounded good.
“You are a diver?” Slick asked.
“I am,” January said. She kept her hands raised, but tipped her head toward the water. “I’m assuming there’s something down there you guys need. Something you want bad enough to risk the lives of men who don’t know squat about diving. What is it? Sunken treasure?”
Slick still hadn’t lowered his gun. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Look,” January said, her voice cracking a little. She hadn’t intended for it to, but it was a nice touch, and the fact that she was frightened appeared to put these bastards at ease. “You’re right. I do know how to dive. I have my own gear inside. I’ll help you retrieve whatever you want, just promise me you won’t hurt the girl.”
“Again with the bargaining,” Slick said. “You Americans always think you have something to trade.”
The sad-looking one leaned down, whispered something in Slick’s ear.
January upped the ante. “You don’t have to bother about Cassandra talking about you to anyone. She’s unable to speak. To tell you the truth, she’s a little handicapped—you know, not right in the head—so you don’t have to worry about her.”
“Oh, my dear,” Slick said. “I am not worried.”
The little mean one moved closer, also whispering to his boss, but he looked up and leered at Cassandra while he did. The twisted grin on his face made January shudder.
Slick finally lowered his pistol. “Very well,” he said. “The girl—Cassandra, you said—she will be my guest aboard Pilar. You assist my men in their dive. If anything happens to them while you are below, or if you swim away and try to save yourself, please know that I will personally make the last few moments of this young one’s life worse than anything you could possibly imagine.”
Cassandra stood completely still. She must have been terrified, but to her credit, gave the men a wacky smile, as if to confirm January’s assessment of her mental abilities.
“I won’t try anything,” January said. “What ab
out after? Once you’ve gotten what you want?”
“I will put the girl ashore,” Slick said. “I give you my word.”
On the deck of the other vessel, Carmen Delgado came unhinged.
“Your word!” Eyes wild, she hissed like a cornered cat. “You lying piece of shit! Your word is nothing. Don’t trust him, January. I watched him shoot his own girlfriend, then throw her in the ocean like she was garbage.” She held up her arm, which was blistered and blackened with an angry burn. Chest heaving, shoulders wracked with sobs, she began to break down, even as she spoke. “He did this to me to make sure I know how cruel he is. You gotta understand . . . these people . . . they thrive on blood. I . . . I’ve never seen anything like it. . . .”
Slick merely sighed, then raised his pistol once again toward Cassandra.
“January . . . What an interesting name.” He gave a little shrug. “Dive or do not dive. It is up to you.”
January slowly raised her hands. She nodded to Slick, not wanting to antagonize or startle him since he was aimed in on Cassandra. “Of course I’ll dive. It was my idea.”
January shot a furtive glance at Carmen, wishing she could say something to give the poor woman even the small glimmer of hope she had. Cutter was down there, hopefully listening and coming up with some kind of plan. January had a plan of her own, but it was probably doomed to fail. He was the deputy marshal, the expert at dealing with desperadoes. Surely a guy like him went up against scuba-diving pirates every other day.
She helped Cassandra across the rail, feeling the little girl tremble in her hands. “Be brave,” she whispered. Cassandra nodded, but of course, she said nothing.
Slick seemed to relax measurably when Cassandra was in his custody. And once their leader relaxed, so did the men, except for the older one who appeared flustered as he went about turning the regulators around on the two dive setups.
Slick flicked the barrel of his pistol toward Tide Dancer’s cabin. “Hurry and change,” he said.
