Wake of the Sadico

by Jo Sparkes

  Contents

  Title Page

  The Summoning

  Bait

  Regress

  Forward

  Ghosts of the Past

  Raising the Dead

  Pandora's Box

  Dive in the Dark

  Snare

  Possession

  Cargo

  Man Down

  Trapped

  The Climb Back

  Aftermath

  Thank Yous

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Wake of the Sadico

  Jo Sparkes

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  Copyright © 2019 Jo Sparkes

  All rights reserved. See notice last page.

  ISBN 978-0-9853318-9-4

  The Summoning

  They'd fooled her.

  Melanie fumed as she rubbed suntan lotion into her skin. Caribbean vacation, they'd said. She ought to be sipping frozen margaritas from odd shaped glasses, lying on a beach watching muscled hunks slamming volley balls at each other. There ought to be luxurious resorts, gourmet dining, dancing under the stars.

  Instead here she lay, alone in her ridiculously expensive bikini, on the bow of a dilapidated boat. An ocean-going sailboat should be elegant, not cramped and old and shabby. Never mind the Jacuzzi she’d hoped for - there was no bathtub. No hot water at all unless you boiled it yourself on the tiny, swiveling stove. Even ice was precious as they had to cart it with them, and huge bags stored in the cooler lasted only a few days.

  Being this close to the equator, you needed ice.

  She couldn’t even play with her new smart phone. There was no reception and no Wi-Fi.

  She, Melanie Mason, deserved better than this. Tall and blonde, she had the kind of figure few men could resist. They usually took better care of her.

  Enrolling in the dive certification course had been an impulse, because she’d been suckered by a British accent and liked the image of herself wearing bikinis on the edge of the diving pool. To think she’d actually turned down a charity ball invitation for this.

  Gazing across the sun-damaged deck, she spied her pink dive mask beneath Jill’s prized ‘Best Diver in Class’ T-shirt. She impulsively grabbed her magazine and hurled it at the pair. Her aim was too good - mask and shirt tumbled over the tiny rail, splashing into the water.

  Shit.

  Melanie scooted to the edge to see the pink plastic and cloth bobbing in the sea. Well out of reach. Glancing around, she saw no net or pole to fish the stuff out of the water. There was nothing to use.

  There was no one to see.

  If she lost her mask, she couldn’t dive - which wasn’t so bad. She didn’t actually like diving. And if Jill lost her prize shirt…well, boohoo.

  Shifting back to her towel, Melanie shrugged off a nagging guilt.

  The others sure were taking their time. She could hear them below as they slammed down sandwiches, while the clanging compressor filled air tanks. No concerns of abandoning her while they dove on a stupid reef. Wall thought she had a headache, for Christ’s sake. Shouldn’t he be more concerned?

  Jill’s laugh drifted through an open porthole, adding to her annoyance. Best in class Jill. Serve her right if she got eaten by sharks. Serve them all right - insensitive pricks.

  A spike of doubt fluttered her stomach. It was bad luck to wish like that.

  “I don’t care!” she hissed. “They deserve it!”

  The words wound through her skull, echoing on the breeze. Except the breeze used a male voice.

  The hair bristled on the back of her neck.

  For an instant the air stilled, as if the world held its breath. She really ought to take that back.

  Melanie deliberately stretched out on her stomach, nestled her head in her arms and shut her eyes. “They deserve it.”

  A puff of air ruffled her discarded magazine. Wood creaked as the sea lapped at the hull.

  A shadow flickered across her face. Peeping through her lashes, she caught the dive mask and t-shirt slowly rotating on the water.

  Her eyelids drooped.

  As the murmuring breeze faded, another sound teased her. Sort of like…marching feet. On the edge of sleep, Melanie pushed the sound away.

  The wind stirred again, and in its wake tramped the men. Louder. Stronger. Her forehead wrinkled in denial, but still they came.

  One eye slit open, enough to see sunlight glistening off the teak. Through her lashes she saw flickering shadows. Rows of men clad in gleaming metal.

  One man strode through sunlight and obscurity, through dream mist to solid deck. His boots stopped at her nose.

  Hazily she peered up at a dark face, a black beard and blue eyes. Pale, watery blue. The beard creased in a smirk that made her hair stand on end, as his hand reached down to her.

  “Come, Isabelle.”

  Fear shot through her stomach; she scrambled backwards till her spine smacked against the sailboat mast.

  Gasping, Melanie blinked. She was alone on the deck.

  Slowly, very slowly, she recovered her breath. She laid back on the towel, feeling foolish. At least no one had witnessed her panicking over some stupid dream.

  But she didn't close her eyes again.

  Melanie never saw the mask in the water, spinning at cyclone speed.

  Bait

  “I don’t want to dive with Wall!”

  Startled, Wall forgot to duck and thumped his head against the door jamb. Mike sniggered behind him, probably at Jill’s outburst from the galley rather than his own clumsiness. Though as the Americans say, he wouldn’t bet on it.

  “Lower your voice,” he heard Jon admonish her. “He’s good with novices. You’ll learn from him.”

  “But you’re better. Let me dive with you.”

  “Next time, mermaid.”

  Shouldering the two dive tanks, Wall dipped low this time to maneuver safely out of the compressor room. The old boat’s tiny doorways forced his six foot six frame to duck and slide through like some sort of circus freak.

  Recovering his balance, he strode noisily around the corner.

  Jill and Jon faced off in the galley, both short, both slight. Jon beamed his friendly smile; the girl scowled and crossed her arms. Did she know he’d overheard and didn’t care? Or had his noisy approach fooled her?

  The pair looked like the cousins they were, apart from skin color. The girl’s mother had been white, or so Melanie whispered as if it was some sort of secret. Jill was lightly tan to Jon’s deep brown, though she echoed his long dark hair, thick eyelashes, and delicate features. He was a small man; she was petite. From Wall’s perspective they seemed veritable children.

  Wall nodded a belated greeting and ambled towards the ladder, halting when Jill skittered out of his way. Her cheeks flared red, eyes lowering like an awkward teenager. Melanie liked to joke about the girl’s frantic need for a large personal space.

  “Need any help?” Jon asked.

  “Nah,” said a voice behind him. Mike trotted past, bearing all the remaining dive tanks on his shoulders. Swinging them down by the base of the ladder, he winked at Jill. “Me and Jill got it.” He then climbed up and out to the sunshine.

  Though five inches shorter, Mike never failed to make Wall feel paltry. Possibly due to his muscle mass - the man was an amateur body builder - though more likely because he sauntered through the world upright and proud, while Wall habitually slouched to make himself less prominent. Years ago his grandfather called him ‘that great, crumbling wall’, and the name had stuck ever since. His christened name, Trevor, had vanished along with his toy womble and comic books.

  “Hand ‘em up, Jill.” Mike’s massive arms reached down from the top deck, muscles gleaming with sweat.
<
br />   She actually bent to comply.

  Wall touched her arm - she hopped back as if scorched. Suppressing a smile, he hoisted a tank up to the waiting hands. The weight made him grunt, and Mike’s lips twitched.

  Jill folded her arms protectively across her chest. “We’re buddying.”

  “I heard.” Her cheeks burned as he lifted the next tank. Christ, he hadn’t meant to embarrass her. “Looking forward to this reef.”

  She didn’t smile. “I…just thought I’d be diving with Jon first time out.”

  “I understand.”

  With a last unhappy glance she climbed the ladder, until the muscle man plucked her out with the same ease as the tanks.

  Wall sighed. His first warm water dive was not quite shaping up as he’d hoped.

  Snatched out of the hold, Jill was dropped onto the sunny deck. Mike’s high-handed tactics annoyed her, but then he knew that. Since the first day they’d met, when she was all of eight years old, he’d teased her like a kid sister. Apparently her relationship to Jon precluded his normal Lothario act, which suited her just fine.

  Now, with her feet planted on teak, gently rocking with the current, she finally found her sense of humor. So she wouldn’t be diving with Jon - she’d still be diving. Warm water diving in the Caribbean, that mystical place she’d dreamt about since the age of seven. From the day she first waved goodbye to a teenage Jon and his bigger-than-life family. Three times a year they’d vacationed in this exotic paradise, abandoning her to her father, whose idea of vacation was sneaking her into the campus swimming pool during summer break.

  Her dad was Chris Sadicor, brother to the famous Ray Sadicor. Just like Ray, he was a retired athlete. Unlike Ray, her father never made enough money to ‘sit on his ass all day.’ He coached football in an NCAA Division III school, much removed from the hectic competition of Division I. Still, it was an all-consuming religion for him.

  After her mother left, she rarely saw her father. Jon swore it was the loss of her mom - and not the sight of his daughter - that the man couldn’t face.

  Jon was the single male in her life she admired. Though seven years separated their ages, her cousin had always championed her, helping equally with a geometry test or a bully on the playground. He once bestowed an old Phillies baseball cap on her head as she cried over her scraped knee. She wore it day and night till the thing fell apart.

  When he first started diving, she’d begged to go. Her father denied permission, and later college and career had eclipsed such yearnings. But Jon never forgot.

  On her twenty-fifth birthday he gave her a spot in his dive certification class, with the Caribbean trip to follow. His dive shop, the Crusty Porthole, boasted the top-rated training in Delaware.

  Standing here now, sun on her face and sea sparkling below, Jill deeply appreciated his gift.

  A fluttering on the bow drew her eye. It was Melanie, startled at Jill’s appearance. Honestly, the woman seemed to expect the ocean to jump up and grab her, or a swooping gull to snatch her sunglasses.

  She didn’t look like she had a headache.

  For an instant, Jill’s anger flared - if the blonde would quit reading magazines and dive, Jill could buddy with Jon.

  The Brit knelt beside Melanie, speaking softly. She tugged his hand to her lips, caressed his thigh. Awfully touchy feely for someone so ill.

  Jon popped out of the cabin and winked at her. Instantly she grinned back. No point in being pissy when she was about to fulfill a dream. And poor Melanie would miss out, after all.

  Moments later Jill found it harder to remain enthusiastic. The makeshift metal platform creaking beneath her as she buckled her gear, when Wall suddenly spun her about. He was doing the buddy drill - each dive buddy ensuring the other’s gear was properly assembled - but he loomed so close, his shadow blocking the sun as his hands roamed her air lines. She hated to be crowded.

  Fortunately, Jon caught her eye before she spoke. This was, after all, a safety routine. And as Mike had wickedly pointed out, the Brit stood for all things safety.

  When Wall tapped her tank twice, Jill turned to find the bottom half of his tank in her face. The top part, with its valves and hoses to be inspected, stood high out of reach. Geez, he was tall.

  The temptation to tap his rig, pretend she had finished, died a quick death. The consequences of an error could be catastrophic. Besides, when assisting in class he’d been known to deliberately miss a connection just to see if the student caught it.

  “Kneel,” she said. Exasperatingly, the Brit merely glanced over his shoulder. “Kneel down,” she told him. “I can’t see your gear.”

  Swift comprehension, fleeting amusement. Before she got properly riled he steadied himself on the stern ladder and knelt. Something about his needing the ladder made her smile.

  Then her hands roamed the hoses from tank to regulator to the buoyancy control device. The B.C. gave a diver the ability to rise or sink in the water by inflating or deflating a sophisticated life jacket. Without it, as Jill had discovered in the quarry dive, she was too heavy to swim fifty feet up to the surface.

  Mike, in full gear, fell backwards off the platform, splashing into the ocean. Realizing she was lagging, Jill swiftly finished her buddy check. Rather than touch him, she edged her way round to his front.

  “You’re good.”

  Annoyingly he stuck his wrist out, showing his dive computer displayed a full tank of air.

  “Click this button here,” he told her, “to sequence through bottom time, air in tank. Even the temperature.”

  After the briefest hesitation, she nodded. Truth was, she envied Wall’s wrist computer. Jon refused to give her one, insisting the added complexity of paging through screens wasn’t good for novices. She had to suffer with the more awkward console display dangling from her equipment.

  The Brit grabbed the ladder again to haul himself upright - and Jill suddenly noticed the stern. “Whoa - Jon!”

  Her cousin turned, one fin extending over the sea. She pointed to the boat’s painted name - SADICOR - with the R scratched and faded.

  “The ’Sadico’? Uncle Ray would be pissed.”

  Jon frowned. “I’ll see if we’ve got any paint later.”

  Bobbing in the sea, Mike spit in his mask and ran a finger around the inside. “Shake a leg, Sadicor!”

  Determined not to be last - not to appear a novice - Jill leapt off the platform.

  Her splash drowned out Mike’s next words. Through the water running down her faceplate, she saw him lift something from the sea. Melanie’s dive mask and some soggy material.

  Her T-shirt.

  “You ladies,” Mike set them on the platform, “need to be more careful.”

  So now they lumped her in with the chickenshit blonde. Great.

  Her mask slipped below the water line; Jill’s world changed.

  Caribbean sunshine coyly followed her down, bathing the water, and the diver beside her in glowing detail. She could actually see the snorkel tucked against his temple.

  Better not get distracted, she realized. Clasping her console up to her dive mask, Jill cautiously dumped air from her B.C. Dump too quickly and she’d drop too fast, maybe burst an eardrum. Dump too slow and she’d lag behind.

  Wall stayed beside her, nodding when she made eye contact. She almost basked in his approval until she realized what she was doing.

  Breaking off eye contact, Jill glanced down. And gawked, until free flowing bubbles obliterated the sight below.

  Diving in Delaware, quarry or ocean, was like swimming in murky soup. Visibility averaged fifteen feet, with everything a colorless gray. Now slowly rising up to greet her was an undulating mass of color.

  Jon's 'small' reef looked large, with a gap almost dead center making it in fact two reefs. Twin masses of vivid orange and blue, writhing red and yellow. She couldn't begin to guess what was fish and what was coral.

  The depth gauge flashed fifty-three feet as her fins set down in sand.

&
nbsp; Coral swelled before her in rounded lumps and purple pipe tubes, stitched together by strands of seaweed. The reef loomed well above her head, though surely Jon had said it was only four feet high.

  More colors appeared as she stepped closer. Neon ribbons of fish darted in and out, moving so rapidly that they seemed not to swim so much as vanish from one spot to appear in another.

  Enthralled, it took a moment to realize she was the only one standing on the bottom. Her companions hung suspended in the water, Wall floating beside her.

  Jon and Mike drifted higher, pointing at the reef ends, gesticulating at each other. Plucking his ridiculously huge knife from his sheath, Mike zoomed over to tap the coral with the handle.

  The hollow thunk seemed to vibrate in her ears.

  Kicking her fins, Jill swam up to see. She caught a glimpse of a green scaly head and needle teeth before sinking back to the sand.

  Damn.

  Clawing back behind her shoulder, she snagged her console, and squeezed a puff of air into her B.C.

  Nothing.

  More air, and finally her body lifted, rising like an astronaut in space. She glimpsed Mike actually stroking a moray - and the eel rubbing against his glove like an affectionate puppy - before floating higher towards the surface.

  Jill quickly dumped air.

  And reversed direction to fall back into the sand. Immediately she swam upwards - she’d figure out that floating thing later.

  The eel looked friendly, except for the evil grimace of the mouth. It seemed to love Mike, and the big man certainly had no fear. Jill tried to find the courage to touch it herself, but hesitated placing fingers near those needle-teeth.

  Well, Wall was content to watch. Maybe mere spectating wasn’t so chicken-hearted.

  Even Jon hovered at a distance too far to pet it. In fact, too far to see.

  He took off, skimming along the top of the reef.

  Shouldn’t he stay closer? Or Mike be with him?

  She spoke the question into her regulator, but neither Mike nor Wall so much as looked up. Just like the quarry dive, when she’d talked underwater and no one even flinched. Jon explained later that no one had realized she spoke, much less understood. Sound waves traveled differently, deceptively, underwater. Tricking the ear into believing some were louder and closer, while others muted oddly.