Below the Surface (10 page)

She had not answered his question about loving Ted. She guessed she had once, an adolescent love, fierce then faded. Although she'd been with Cole only three days now, they'd been in such a seething cauldron it seemed she'd needed and wanted him forever. But it was the impact of her own desire that stunned her. This man, she told herself, as they finally, shakily stepped apart, made that jolt of lightning that had hit her seem like nothing.

A
s they left Turtle Bay in the smaller of Sam's two slow barges, Cole almost wished he hadn't pushed Bree to call Travers for help. It wasn't so much Travers's bleary-eyed employee who captained the sluggish vessel nor the two divers who worked for Sam that worried him, but the spearguns they were cleaning.

Cole had never hunted with spearguns, and these babies looked fierce. “State-of-the-art,” one guy boasted, and explained to him how they worked.

The weapons had small carbon-dioxide bottles slung beneath their shafts, so a squeeze of the trigger released a burst of gas and fired the spear with a velocity that could not be matched by older guns. The spearheads were bulky and contained .357 magnum cartridges that would explode on impact, driving the shafts deeper and springing out the prongs they proudly demonstrated to Cole while Bree was talking to the captain in the engine house. They showed him how the shaft clipped to their weight belts.

“You aren't going to dive with those today,” Cole said, more a statement than a question.

Ric, who looked like a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, muscles and all, just nodded. Lance, the thin, red-haired guy, said, “Usually do, in case we see something we don't like—or something we do, for dinner.”

“With four of us diving in murky water, it doesn't sound safe,” Cole countered.

“Nothing too safe about looking for debris in soupy water in a boat channel anyhow,” Ric said. “But I guess we can leave the guns on board for once. If we have to pass up a big grouper though, it'd be real nice if you'd spring for a fish dinner.”

Cole could not believe they'd consider fishing on a dive as critical as this one, but it must be just more business to them. “You guys and Sam have been very helpful. Yeah, I'll do just that,” he promised.

He was glad Bree hadn't overheard the conversation. She was standing at the stern now, staring into the water, so she didn't hear the divers or his agreeing to their bribe. But then, maybe she did hear, because he was amazed at how acute her listening powers seemed to be. It had worried him when she'd said she'd heard and seen more things than she should after Daria went missing. At first he thought she meant she was seeing ghosts, or some sort of visions of her sister, but that wasn't it—he hoped.

He walked aft and leaned on the taffrail beside her. Partly blocking their view, heavy wire cables and a big hook hung from the winch spool; he wondered how much dead weight this barge could lift out of the water, but he didn't feel like asking Sam's divers. For some reason, Sam had not been able to come along, but said he'd be out in a smaller boat soon to see how they were doing. Cole's protective instincts about Bree made him want to tell Sam he ought to let bygones be just that, where Bree was concerned.

Sam had told his captain to anchor on the north side of the channel and float several dive flags. Hopefully, those would slow boats and Jet Skis coming in and out of the Marco River even more than the No Wake and Slow—Manatee Zone signs already did.

“I'm glad we're in this scow, even if it is a bit slow,” Cole told Bree, intentionally trying to lift her spirits. Her fierce determination had ebbed to a quiet moodiness. “In the crosscurrents there, it will give us a stable diving platform.”

“Despite its flat bottom,” she said with a sigh, “a boat the length of
Mermaids II
would have been anything but stable there in that bad storm.”

“Do you sense something?” he asked. “I mean, that we're getting closer to answers—to the boat or Daria?”

“Not exactly that,” she said, frowning out at the churning wake of the barge. “It's just that she
has
to be alive. I know she is. I want answers and yet I fear them. This possible scenario seems so possible. I've seen wrecks in the gulf, both ships and airplanes, but it just can't be
my
boat and
my
sister! But then,” she said, her voice softer, “I'll bet poor Manny and Juanita are saying it can't be
their
girl who ran away.”

“You don't mean that you think Daria could have run away, staged something…”

“No, no!” she said, covering her ears like a child. “She has no reason to. She's not the type to do that. I know my sister like—like the back of my own hand. Except,” she added, staring dazedly at the back of her hand in the bright sun, “one of the mirror-image things about us was that I'm right-handed and she's a leftie. Lefties always feel a little different from others. It was the earliest thing that made us feel we weren't one and the same.”

He took her hand in his. “Bree, why don't you stay on board with the captain and let me go down alone with Sam's divers?”

“Because having a fourth diver could make a difference in low vis. If you reported nothing was there, I'd have to prove it to myself. And if something is there, I'd have to be on-site, look for clues of how the boat broke up.”

She tugged her hand back and hit both fists on the rail, then, obviously fighting tears, whispered, “Cole, I don't know what I would have done without you, even after you got me breathing again and to the hospital. You've been my life preserver in more ways than one, but I know you have a life to go back to.”

“I do need to drive to Miami soon to look over a yacht for a big client I might take on. Actually, it's Dom Verdugo's casino cruise boat. I was going to turn him down flat, but I think he bears watching and that would be a good way to keep an eye on him. To tell you the truth, my mother was a gambling addict and ruined her life—and almost Dad's and mine—that way. I'm not sure, but her accidental death may have actually been suicide. Beyond needing this big commission, I'd like to see Verdugo's plans and boat stopped somehow.”

“I'm sorry about your mother. I can imagine how terrible that must have been—losing a mother tragically,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.

She sniffed hard and abruptly turned away to check her gear, which she had laid out behind her on a metal bench. He raked his fingers through his hair. He was a selfish jerk to bring his own family problems up right now, but that had just spilled out. He'd kept what Dad had called their “dirty linen” secret for years, penned up inside, without even telling his wife much about it, yet here he was sharing it with Bree.

As Cole started to recheck his gear, too, the boat began to rock and roll, as he always called such movement in crosscurrents. On the barge the motion was subtle, not like in a sailboat where the helmsman could feel every shift and shake intimately.

He admitted to himself that he was yearning to be that way with Bree, to be able to read her, to sense her movements and moods like a sleek ship under his command, although he knew he'd never control her any more than he could the sea. Still, like the best sailing on the
Streamin',
it could be a beautiful union. But the shaky ship that was Briana Devon right now was in rough waters, and he prayed she wouldn't break apart. Cole shook his head to clear it, but Ric's voice cut short his agonizing.

“We're here,” he yelled. “Let's dive.”

For Bree, it was like being in the storm again.

Even with all the diving she'd done in low-vis water, she was not prepared for the impact of this dive on her body and her brain. She felt the heavy, gray weight of the water and the push and pull of powerful currents as if she swam through an Everglades swamp. All around in the wide channel that was the mouth of the Marco River, where it met the tides and waves of the gulf, eddies of sand and silt shifted and resettled. The dark bottom was like a writhing, living being, devouring things then spitting them back up.

Ordinarily, if a diver stopped kicking and swimming for a minute, low-vis water would clear a bit but not here. She could see only about four feet ahead, even with the high-powered lights Sam's divers had provided. Thank heavens, they each had a writing slate tied to their weight belts, because even hand signals from the others were hard to read.

So she stuck close to Cole, or he to her, she wasn't sure which. The four of them meticulously followed the typical search-and-salvage spiral-pattern grid they had agreed on before they'd left Sam's dock. After marking their starting point on the bottom in the middle of the channel, at two arms' width apart, they swam side by side in a widening circle. Occasionally, they switched positions because the divers to the east and west took the brunt of the buffeting currents.

They also had to swim low because yachts with deep drafts occasionally went overhead, though even with the biggest, the divers had almost fifteen feet of clearance. They'd swum about forty feet from their dive boat to begin; they would have to be even more careful when they surfaced to come up at the site they'd marked.

However much Bree had always loved diving, even under challenging conditions, and despite the fact it was at her insistence this search had been set up, she was suddenly panicked to get out. She should have listened to Cole about not diving. This was a desperate, stupid scheme. The coastal waters of the gulf were huge—as big as the gap between Amelia and the twins, as big as between poor Manny and his daughter right now. Daria and the boat could be anywhere out here.

Bree's acute hearing was bothering her. She should have worn plastic earplugs. The ping-ping or low, reverberating buzz of motors overhead, the occasional clank of a dive knife or gauge into a tank down here, the sound of all their bubbles fighting toward the surface—the shriek of fear in her own head and heart…

When someone's dive light accidentally swept her way, it almost blinded her as the glare stabbed deep into her brain. Even the dull reflection of a beam off Lance's face mask was too bright. Yet maybe, since she was seeing better than she would have otherwise, it would help her to find things down here. She forced herself to try to pierce the swirling waters just as they all made a turn to the south.

Her eyes caught the grayish glint of metal. It could be anything thrown over or lost from a boat. But it looked to be a curved aluminum handrail, like the one that led up from the diving platform to the stern deck of
Mermaids II.
She gave a kick away from the men and touched the cold metal, half-buried in sand and silt.

Dented and bent, broken, it seemed to point a bit farther out, luring her on. Cole swam with her, behind her; she wasn't sure where the other two were, only that she had to go on, off their search grid, off the ends of the earth, if she must.

Then she saw a four-foot piece of gleaming white metal, also partly buried, but it looked new or well cared for, like their dive boat had been. She brushed sand away from a part of it and uncovered a jagged piece of what was once the stern of a boat. Her and Daria's boat. She was certain, because part of the name
Mermaids II
was there in the bent and broken metal, painted bold and bright in the beam of her light:
MA D I

Bree gasped so hard, she choked on her mouthpiece and almost spit it out. Cole grabbed her wrist, but she yanked away and swam on, sweeping her light right and left, down, around, as if something drew her like a powerful magnet. Ahead, looming large, in the deepest part of the channel, at a slight tilt, rested the main deck and wheelhouse of their dive boat. It looked fairly intact.

Good, she told herself. That surely meant Daria could have weathered the worst of the storm and gotten to shore before it went down. But this area was so heavily populated, why hadn't someone found her by now?

But then…then…

Awed, horrified, Bree swam closer, upward to peer in through the side window of the wheelhouse. Trembling, she trained her light through the glass to look inside.

And there, floating near the top of the ceiling, her hands lifted and her hair shifting in the water as to hide her once beautiful face, her sister, her other self, was trapped inside.

Cole could barely keep up with Bree; for a moment he'd lost sight of her in this thick water. All at once, she'd seemed to know where she was going, kicking hard toward he didn't know what. But he was certain they had found the wreck of the boat.

And then he saw the bulk of the sunken ship. The hull had a huge piece missing, or was just caved in, but the small upright, half-glass wheelhouse looked intact. Intact—and within…Daria?

Floating inside, her hair streaming loose and free, was a woman, or what had been a woman before being trapped two days in the graveyard of the sea. Her skin looked loose and greenish, mottled. And he saw Bree meant to go inside to her.

He kicked harder and reached for Bree. She tried to shake him off. She dropped her light and put both hands to the doorknob, braced her fins on the side of the wheelhouse and tried to wrench the door open. Cole seized both her wrists, shoved her feet off the metal, got his mask right next to hers and shook his head, no. No!

He would never forget the look in her wide eyes: shock, terror, fury and tears.
Up!
He pointed.
We go back, get help,
he tried to gesture.

To his surprise, she reached for her slate and scribbled, “Can't leave her here,” then shone his light on it.