Severed Threads (8 page)

Ian’s laugh morphed into an exaggerated chuckle. "That’s right. Pirates of the Caribbean…"

Chase blanketed Ian’s discouraging pun. "This isn’t a joke, Blaine. What I’m talking about is
real
. We got ourselves a renegade merchant ship that was secretly carrying a fortune in gold."

"So what’s
this
going cost me?” Blaine asked.

Chase glanced at Ian. “With fuel, repairs, equipment – ”

“
How much, Mr. Cohen?”

“
We’ll probably need around eighteen for starters.”

“
Eighteen hundred? Shit…no problem.”

“
Thousand,” Chase corrected.

“
You don't say. Now that’s a lot of change.”

“
But you can manage it, right?”

A moment of silence. “I suppose. And just what kind of dividend would I earn in all this?" Blaine arched a brow. “I mean if I were to bail you out, then wouldn’t I deserve a nice share of the bootie you’d be stealing out from under that starboard ship?" 

The kid was a fast learner – in a scary sort of way. "What do you have in mind?" Chase said, already regretting the question.

"I’ll put up thirty thousand. In exchange, I tag along for a week. Whether I’m here or not, I get forty percent. Way I see it, that's more than fair."

"Are you out of yer fuckin’ mind?" The words flew out of Ian’s mouth before Chase had the chance to block them.

"Only seems right if I’m covering the majority of your costs. You're going to eventually need new dive gear, hookahs and a side scanner. And word has it you trashed your compressor, so your blowers are down. Might have to add an extra ten percent to replace that." The kid had the same high-stake poker smile Chase had seen on the game show network. Their fish was quickly turning into a major asshole, a wheeling and dealing asshole. Still, fifty percent of something was better than nothing. Especially if it meant beating
Legend’s
crew in a race to the federal courthouse.

 
Chase slid the throttle into full gear and headed for the harbor. "Meet me at the dive shop tomorrow morning at seven and bring along your checkbook," he called out. "You’re going to need it."

Ian’s head dropped. He hugged his middle like he’d been socked in his gut, not relaxing his arms until they finally entered the harbor. "Can’t believe you’re doin’ this," he huffed under his breath, out of Blaine’s earshot.

"What choice do I have?" Chase’s rhetorical question hung in the air. In reality, his “bail out” would cost him closer to fifty thousand dollars. No one, including Blaine, was going to fork-up that amount. He remained silent as he eased his boat into the first empty slip.

While Ian secured the lines to the dock, Blaine delved out six crisp one hundred dollar bills. "That takes care of today. See you tomorrow."

Chase stared at the cash in his palm. He was amazed how the kid had pulled the rolled stash out of his backpack like it was chump change before walking away. With a long look at the now closed dive shop, Chase regretted not coming back sooner.

"You can always change yer mind, ya know," Ian offered.

Chase knew that wasn’t the case. Without financial backers and a steady flow of greenbacks, they were only postponing the inevitable. And time was quickly becoming their greatest enemy. In two more weeks, if he didn’t find something worthwhile, he might as well take up residence on the ocean floor.

“
Hey, fish bait.” Ian called out, just as Blaine cornered the last dock. “Where’s yer plane?”

“
Oh, that,” he returned. “It was a charter. The pilot should be back in Bremerton by now.”

* * *

Chase was in the midst of stowing his gear when he noticed Dr. Ying rapidly approaching along the dock. "Doc," he called out. "What are you doing here?"

The professor slowed, apparently searching for a clear path around yellow-bibbed fishermen battening down their hatches. He dodged plastic bait buckets, piled nets, and rope lines strewed across the walkway. Chase was about to commend his sure-footedness, when his visitor stumbled and nearly fell on the dock’s uneven planking.

"Mr. Cohen, I’m so glad I found you," he said. "I wanted to give this to you before it got too late."

Chase accepted the white envelope from the professor’s wrinkled hand. He tore it open and read the contents. "I don’t understand. Why are you giving this invitation to me?"

"I know you had no initial interest in the cocktail reception this evening, but under the circumstances, I think it’s vital you attend."

"Circumstances?"

"Miss Lyons will be there. She’s in the process of lending her support."

Chase widened his eyes. "She’s giving us the grant money?"

"Not officially, but that can change after this evening. I need you to assure her that you’re an honorable man."

In another lifetime, maybe.
"Doc, if her decision to hand over free cash hinges on her impression of my honor, then you need to find a printing press… and fast."

"Are you telling me you can’t be trusted?"

Under present conditions, the insinuation seemed to fit. Honesty had become a matter of degree.

"I’m telling you that no matter what I say to Rachel Lyons, she’ll never believe me."

"Well, perhaps you need to find another voice. I’ll expect to see you tonight, Mr. Cohen. That is, if you’re still interested in finding the
Wanli II
before its whereabouts are disclosed to another salvage company."

Chase’s jaw tightened. For a brief moment, he chewed on an unsavory thought. Had the professor already placed a call to the
Legend’s
wheelhouse, providing the treasure ship’s coordinates? The little bit of common sense he had left suddenly returned. After exchanging information with Doc for more than five years, he knew a handshake with the Asian businessman was a binding contract. Still, he had no idea how the guy was going to take news of a third party being added to their agreement. Especially one with hands plunged deep into both of their pockets.

"Hog tied or not, he’ll be there." Ian’s voice came from behind. "I’ll even loan him a clean shirt."

No way.
The last person in the world he wanted to see tonight was Rachel. He didn’t appreciate Ian’s contribution – not in the least. Chase huffed a sign of frustration and scanned the invitation, seeking a justified out. "You have a monkey suit to go with that? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t."

"Oh, I think we could manage to round one up," Ian replied.

"Thanks a lot," Chase mumbled. As he watched the professor weave his way toward the parking lot, he realized he’d have to come up with a good excuse for blowing off his party. He flung the invitation at Ian. "What’s got into you? Why would I ever go to this stupid thing? Rachel’s never going to give in. At least I know where we stand with Blaine."

Ian’s silence and furrowed forehead said it all: they were dealing with a kid who could very well take them for every cent, if they weren’t paying close attention. But Chase had never been the kind of person who needed to sell himself to anyone, least of all a member of the female gender. They had always come willingly and with predictable expectations, and he’d never failed to deliver. Well, at least before Rachel Lyons screwed with his head.

"Okay. I admit I shouldn’t have gone along with boy wonder," Chase conceded. "But just how am I supposed to get Rachel to change her mind?"

Ian pulled his cap on backward and smiled. "You wouldn’t be askin’ yers truly for advice on talkin’ to a fine lady, now would ya?"

Before Chase could reply, Ian smacked his back. "C’mon, Cap'n. We got work to do."

Chase rationalized to himself as he followed Ian down the dock: He
did
win her over once. Who’s to say he couldn’t do it again? Besides, by getting Rachel out of his system once and for all, he’d know for sure leaving her wasn’t the worst decision he’d ever made in his life… just an unavoidable one.

Eight

Rachel had been in her office since dawn, making calls and repeating her spiel to board members all over town. She double-checked her tally: four voting yes, four leaning toward no, and one undecided. Dear Megan Van Dozer. By tomorrow’s 10:30 A.M. meeting, if she didn’t win the trenchant woman over, she might as well kiss her father’s pending honor and recognition goodbye.

Chase's history wasn’t making the time-consuming process any easier either. One scan of his file confirmed what Rachel had already surmised. Although he had an amazing gift for recovering the unattainable, exorbitant expenses had nearly wiped out his amassed income. With full-time salaries for four crew members, workmen’s comp insurance, busted equipment, and long-term legal battles, it was remarkable his business had survived as long as it had.

Evidently he was as thoughtless with his management dealings as he was with his personal relationships.

Rachel slipped out of her seat and walked into the next office. "Marcy, do we have any more information on Trident Ventures?"

The sturdy administrative assistant was an invaluable asset. She'd been with the firm since its conception. And although a good portion of her time was now spent bringing the new president up to speed, she had the remarkable ability to pinpoint the exact location of virtually anything within the building’s stone and mortar walls.

"Let me think," she replied, resting a hand on her desk. "If memory serves, there’s another Trident folder in the storage room’s file cabinet."

Oh, great.
Rachel had no desire to wander past Tom Nash’s open doorway. Over the last three weeks, he seemed to be materializing everywhere: Starbuck’s, Kinko’s, the San Palo Library. Yet with the founder's recent passing and his only heir's new promotion, she was hard-pressed to avoid the executive director. In order to pay off the loans she had cosigned for her father, she had no choice but to dig her heels into her assiduous job and disregard Nash’s persistent advances.

"Is there any chance you could bail me out here?" Rachel asked Marcy. "I’ve got to get my report finished before tomorrow morning."

Marcy pointed at the stacked volumes on her desk. "Wish I could help you, but I don’t know how I’m going to get through this as it is. Mr. Nash is leaving for Atlantic City in the morning and wants a summary of discretionary expenditures by the end of the day. Maybe Vern could help you. I think I saw him getting off the elevator on the third floor."

The combatant clerk from the mailroom would no doubt find Rachel’s request absurd. He’d throw himself on top of his rolling cart to save it from an earthquake rather than abandon his deliveries.

Rachel took a moment to strategize her approach before half-sprinting down the long carpeted hallway. The architectural renderings, cityscapes and board members’ photos lining the walls became an innocuous blur. She slowed as she neared Tom’s office at the end of the corridor. Finding it empty, she slowed her pace and blew out a held breath, commending her excellent timing. However, her victory was short lived. As she stepped around the corner, her stalker materialized inside the opening elevator doors.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

"Good morning, Rachel." Nash grinned and smoothed his hand over his wavy brown hair.

"Mr. Nash." She smiled politely then continued on her way.

Why did the storage room have to be so far away? She passed three more doors before she realized Tom was hurrying to catch up with her
.

"That’s a pretty outfit you have on today," he offered, now matching her stride.

Rachel glanced down at her ivory linen suit, forgetting she’d already dressed for the reception. "Thank you.” She considered reciprocating with a compliment, but then dismissed the notion, realizing it would only encourage him. She sensed his dark eyes on her profile, but willed herself to concentrate on the beige speckled carpeting stretching out before her.

Together, they veered down another passageway, and still she made no effort to enlist small talk. Yet the man remained undaunted in his pursuit. "Are you going to the reception tonight?" he asked.