by Steven Moore
15
George Wyatt
“It’s really good to see ya, man,” said George Wyatt as he clapped R.B. firmly on the back. “How long’s it been anyway, five years?”
“Yeah, might even be six. It’s good to see you too, amigo. Thanks for coming. Oh, George, this is my ... my friend, Megan Simons.”
“What an absolute pleasure to meet you Megan.” George took Megan’s petite hand in his bear-paw-like own, and kissed it as if kissing a precious diamond, glancing at R.B. as he did so. “And when did you start getting so damned lucky, R.B.? Megan, you’re a fine-looking woman. Why’n the hell are you hanging out with this particular Bodean, anyway?”
They took their seats at the table, and George insisted on ordering everything for them. He understood that if R.B. had called him out of the blue after so long, it probably meant things weren’t going so well. He didn’t mind. He knew R.B. was a good man, and he was happy to help in any way he could. Thus, he ordered a bottle of expensive red wine, lobster-cake starters, and a tasty looking filet mignon for the main course. He added three imported beers for good measure.
The difference between R.B. and Megan’s current situation and George Wyatt’s was stark, highlighted by the fact he’d flown in on his own private helicopter. Megan suspected one of George’s shoes was worth more than everything she and R.B. owned put together, which admittedly wasn’t saying much. But he wasn’t at all flashy, and she was enjoying talking to the Texan oil tycoon.
After eventually getting onto the subject of his old friend’s financial predicament, R.B. himself detailing how in the last couple of years he’d lost his business, his houseboat, his savings, and now their salvage boat, not to mention Megan’s apartment, George asked the obvious question; “What are you going to do?”
R.B. didn’t answer immediately. He glanced at Megan, then back at George, as if buying time before answering. He hadn’t yet told Megan about the thoughts he’d had down at the beach, and wasn’t sure how she’d react. But he knew George, and knew his friend wasn’t against hearing a far-fetched tale or three. Finally R.B. decided that neither he, nor Megan, had anything to lose, so he chanced his arm. “Thing is, George, I do have an idea about a project that, if successful, would solve all our financial issues.”
Megan looked sharply at R.B., her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He looked back at her and grinned, his eyes wide in anticipation.
“Oh yeah?” asked George, never one to shy away from a potential business opportunity. “What is this great venture you’re cooking up?”
R.B. looked at Megan again, as if convincing himself to admit what he’d been thinking about. With a subtle nod to himself, he proceeded. “You see, George, the thing is, we believe we might know the location of Atlantis.”
At first Megan looked at him aghast. She’d been embarrassed enough that R.B. knew what she’d thought this morning. But to have him tell someone she’d never met until twenty minutes ago was mortifying.
“I thought we’d agreed all that was nothing more than a myth? Why are you saying this now?”
“You’re right, we did agree. But I was thinking more about it this afternoon. You know, Meg, there’s rarely any smoke without fire, right?” He glanced from Megan to George. Megan just glared at him, but George was nodding.
“Go on, R.B. I’m all ears.” He grinned, apparently interested where this was headed.
“So, how is it there’ve been literally hundreds and hundreds of Atlantis myths for hundreds of years, without something sparking the idea in the first place? Now, I’m not saying that there’s an entire lost city lying undiscovered somewhere. Even I agree that’s unlikely. But what if there is something, maybe just a solitary temple, or some kind of evidence of ... I dunno, an alien landing si—”
“Oh, come on R.B., are you serious? Don’t you think all those many scientists with all their fancy equipment would have found something if there was something to be found? Have you lost your mind? I can’t even believe you’re saying this, after teasing me about it all being nothing but a myth this very morning.” She rolled her eyes, as if it was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard.
But R.B. was grinning. At least she was passionate. He continued. “So the place we were considering as a potential site of Atlantis is not under an ocean somewhere, as most believers claim, but actually on land. Mainland Spain, to be more precise.” He smiled again, this time even wider. “And we even have a map.” At this Megan’s eyes rolled so far they almost disappeared inside her head, which she shook from side to side with disdain. But George Wyatt did not roll his eyes. Nor did he shake his head. In fact, quite the opposite. He sat there quietly, nodding subtly, his fingers clutching his generous chin as if deep in thought.
R.B. surged on, gaining momentum. “You’ve heard of the Christ of the Abyss statues, I’m guessing?”
George nodded. “Yeah, sure I have, and I’ve even dived on the one nearby here. Pretty damn impressive, I gotta tell ya.”
“Well, there are four of them in total, and each of them faces one of the others. What if ... well, what if they were kind of sign posts? Like a map, guiding us to Atlantis? I know, it sounds a little far-fetched. But what if?” At that moment, R.B. pulled the carved digit artifact from his pocket and showed it to George. “What do you make of this?”
George took his glasses from his pocket and slid them onto his nose. “Hmm, I don’t recognize it. What the hell is it?”
Megan answered, softening a little. “It’s a replica of a finger from one of the statues. At least, as far as we know it’s a replica, and not from one of the actual statues. Which suggests that this ... this thing, probably means absolutely nothing at all.”
“Maybe not. But I’ll tell you something, Megan, I’ve worked in the oil industry for more years than I care to remember. Part of the job of that industry is to carry out land and ocean surveys, scanning for potential sites of vast, previously unknown oil deposits. And I have to tell you, I’ve heard more than one oil man talk of Spain as a potential site for Atlantis. I can also tell you that researchers have been scouring that region of Spain for decades, though no one has ever been allowed to dig for anything. Quite simply, the Spanish government won’t allow anyone to break ground there. If I didn’t know better,” he said, a definite sparkle in his eyes, “I’d say they’re trying to hide something.”
R.B. clapped his hands together. “You see Meg, it ain’t just me. Much smarter guys than me think there’s something to this story, right George?”
“Damn straight,” George replied, “And I know many of ‘em myself.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about. Come on Megan, you have to admit that at the very least there’s no smoke without fire. Right?”
Megan had fallen silent herself now. There was to R.B. what appeared to be a wistful look in her eyes, as if daring to dream just a little. Finally she looked at George. “So are you seriously telling me you believe there’s something out there?”
“I’m telling you that maybe it’s worth investigating a little more.” There was a definite spark in the burly oil rigger’s eyes. “There seems more to this than meets the eye, of that I’m sure.”
“That’s the problem,” added R.B. “Well, the bottom line is we’re broke. All we’ve got is a few bucks and my old seaplane Gidget. If only we could go out there and investigate the other statues and the surrounding areas. We could at least rule Atlantis out for ourselves.”
Now George Wyatt was beaming. “Listen, guys. Just by chance I’ve got a freighter heading out to Spain later next week. If I can get the two of you and the plane aboard, would you go?”
R.B’s eyes flashed wide with delight. Megan’s didn’t. “Look, George, we appreciate the offer, but we have to be realistic about this ... we have no equipment and no money to buy any. What are we supposed to find that so many others have failed to find with all their high-tech support? I mean, really? Sounds like a wild goose chase to me.”
“Megan, I’ve only just met you an
d you seem like a great gal and all. But I see that look in your eyes. I see a young woman who doesn’t even really believe what she’s saying. I am certain you think there’s more to this than a whole lot of nothing. So here’s the deal. I’ll support the mission. I’ll cover all costs, and I will put you in the arena. You just have to find something. Pretty simple really. What do you say?”
Megan looked at R.B., her face a mixture of incredulity and anticipation. In turn, R.B’s face was pleading with her to say yes, to go with him to Spain and search for whatever it was they might find. It might turn out to be nothing. Or it might turn out to be the greatest archaeological discovery of all time.
Megan was fighting her emotions. Half of her thought it was a ridiculous idea, a crazy waste of time and expenses. The scientist in her dismissed it all as a load of nonsense. But that was only the scientist in her. The other half of Megan was quite the opposite. Adventurous to a fault, she wanted nothing more than to go out into the world and search for the unknown, the mysterious legends and myths from the past that had so engrossed her for most of her life. She’d had a fairly religious background. Her parents were strict Catholics, so strict in fact that they’d inadvertently forced her away from their belief system. But as she thought of her and R.B’s current situation, she realized that perhaps all she needed was a little more faith. Not faith in the religious sense, but faith that she should follow her innate instincts and go with her gut feeling. And her instincts and gut feeling were right now screaming at her to say a hearty yes. This was a battle of wits that for once the scientist in her couldn’t win.
So she agreed. “Okay, fellas, I say let’s do it.”
And with that, Megan, R.B. and George Wyatt set about drinking to their new adventure.
16
Opportunity Knocks
Three bottles of wine later, plus the beers, and a couple of shots each of premium Clase Azul tequila, George Wyatt decided it was time to call it a night. He had his driver Charles, who’d been waiting for his boss out front, take R.B. and Megan to his apartment on his way to the helipad, and promised to be in touch in the next couple of days to arrange their passage to Europe. They thanked him profusely for the dinner, the drinks, and of course the opportunity he’d offered, then made their way up the elevator to George’s penthouse apartment. Not, however, until R.B. had spent a full minute fumbling with the keys.
Finally they were in, and both were giggling like teenagers. Despite George’s wealth, the apartment was tasteful yet modest. After a quick look around, and after helping themselves to beers from the fridge, on George’s insistence, they took a seat on the balcony. They were both pretty hammered, and Megan said it would be her last drink before bed. Their spirits were high though, and both were more than a little excited about their proposed trip on the trail of one of the greatest mysteries of all time; the lost city of Atlantis.
Not long later, Megan stood and walked unsteadily towards the bedroom. It was only a little after ten, but she was exhausted and certainly not used to drinking so much on a school night. There followed the usual awkward moment. R.B. and Megan had become close, and there was a definite spark between them, though it hadn’t yet developed into anything other than the occasional moment of flirting. Each sensed the other might be open to taking it a little further, but as yet it remained unsaid. So, after that few seconds’ pause, when neither was quite brave enough to suggest they share the bedroom, R.B. did what he usually did and deferred the bed to Megan, taking his spot on the futon in the living room. That was totally fine with R.B. He was a prodigious sleeper, and had been known to sleep under almost any circumstances. A cozy futon would feel like luxury compared to his last few nights.
And yet sleep eluded him. It was so rare R.B. didn’t fall promptly asleep that it was almost a novelty. After tossing and turning for a full five minutes, he realized it just wasn’t going to happen, probably because his mind was so alive with the prospect of adventure and lost cities. He poked his head into the bedroom to check on Megan, not that he needed to. He heard her snoring from the living room, and she had totally passed out. He grabbed another beer and sat back out on the balcony, enjoying the cooler night air. But after five minutes he decided to polish off the beer and take a walk.
Before leaving the apartment, he tucked the map and the carved digit into the front pocket of his jeans and set off, almost inevitably ending up on Duval Street, pausing outside Captain Tony’s. But with no money, and no credit on any cards, going in seemed futile. He did anyway. He sat heavily on a stool at the bar, and beckoned over the bartender, a young kid he didn’t recognize. “Hey buddy. Look man, I’ve had a rough day and well, my money’s gone missing. Could you please get me a Corona? On credit?”
“What do you mean, missing? Like, stolen?”
R.B. thought about it for a second. He wasn’t a liar, and he didn’t want to get the kid in trouble. But he didn’t have any money, he did really want a beer, and his money had gone missing, though he would keep the reasons for that to himself. “Listen man, I’m good for the cash, I just ... well, could you just trust me?”
The young bartender appraised R.B. for a few seconds, and seemed to be on the cusp of saying yes. R.B. smiled and seized the opportunity. “Hey, do you like the ocean man?” he slurred.
Now the kid smiled. He was living and working in Key West, and R.B. knew there was a high probability he loved the water. “I do,” the bartender answered. “I mean, I wish I could spend more time out there, you know?” And Ryan Bodean did know.
“Me too, brother. I have a seaplane, so maybe I’ll take you out for a ride sometime?”
The kid’s brow furrowed, as if concerned by R.B’s approach. R.B. immediately sensed what the kid thought.
“Oh, no, it’s not like that. Shit bro, I, uh, I have a girl. No, what I mean to say is, I’m an explorer. We salvage shipwrecks.”
The bartender visibly relaxed. “Really? That’s so cool.” He turned then, and almost without thinking, handed R.B. a Corona from the fridge. Apparently, it was the Corona that tore down the last of R.B.’s good judgement in keeping his mouth shut.
“Thanks man. Yeah, like I say, we salvage wrecks. I just had to get rid of my boat, but, well ... we have something big in the works, kid, something huge.”
“Oh yeah, what? Like a famous wreck? Lost treasure?” The boy was clearly interested, and R.B. knew now that he was good for a few beers.
He looked around the bar, as if checking no one else was in earshot, and winked conspiratorially at the bartender, who’d just introduced himself as Blake Russell. “Well, Blake, I’ll tell ya what it is, but you gotta promise you can keep it a secret, eh?”
Blake nodded profusely, his eyes now wide with excitement. “Of course, whatever you tell me will never leave the bar, I promise.”
“Well good. So, you ever hear of Atlantis?”
17
Murder
Now the kid’s eyes beamed with interest. Of course he’d heard of Atlantis. In fact, what R.B. didn’t know was that Blake was a student of marine archaeology at Florida State University and had read all about Atlantis and other nautical myths. There was another thing R.B. didn’t know about the kid. But Blake Russell wasn’t about to tell him that. He would find out soon enough.
An hour and a half later, and R.B. was into his seventh beer. On top of the bottles of wine he’d had at dinner with George Wyatt, and the beers and tequilas, R.B. was well and truly sloshed. Thus, he’d been blabbering on a little too easily to Blake about Atlantis and how he and Megan were going to find it, and Blake had listened carefully, showing genuine interest. He’d also been taking subtle notes on a notepad behind the bar. Blake Russell had a nefarious ulterior motive.
R.B. stepped down from his chair, accidentally sending a Corona bottle smashing onto the concrete floor. “Ah man, I’m real sorry. Let me get that.” But as he reached down, clinging to the bar with one hand, he slipped on a shard of broken glass, and managed to pull three more empties down
with him, landing in a heap of limbs and broken glass on the floor.
Blake rushed around the bar. “What the hell, man? You need to leave. My boss’ll be here in a few minutes and I need to get this shit cleared up.”
He helped pull R.B. to his feet, and R.B. had no complaints when Blake Russell led him to the door. He had suffered only minor scratches.
“Real sorry buddy, and thanks for the beers. I’ll be back soon to pay the tab, okay?”
“No problem ... just get outta here.”
“You believe me, don’t ya? About finding Atlantis?”
Blake Russell did not believe R.B. Not because he didn’t believe in Atlantis. He did, and always had. It’s that he knew more than he was letting on. Much more.
R.B. found himself out in the now dark and quiet Duval Street. It was exactly how it was just a few days before when he’d met Barnaby Quinn. Or at least where Barnaby had met him. Of course, R.B. knew nothing of their encounter until the following morning, when he awoke tied up in the old man’s boat. R.B. walked on—more of a stagger really—heading straight to the dock where his own boat was moored, ready to hit the hay.
It wasn’t until he got there thirty minutes later that he realized his mistake. The boat had been removed and claimed by the bank against unpaid debts, and he was staying with Megan at George Wyatt’s apartment. He was exhausted, he’d forgotten to bring the keys with him, and it was at least an hour walk back there anyway. So R.B. did what he always did in these situations; he took a seat on the dock and watched the sun make its gradual appearance over the distant horizon to the east.
Half dozing, half awake, R.B. got as comfy as he could on the hard wooden dock. It wasn’t going well. But the light of the day was coming, and he would soon be moved along by the dock authorities anyway, so he gave up on sleep. It was just then that something in the water below his feet caught his attention. He rubbed his weary eyes and looked again. “What the—”