Wake of the Sadico

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Wake of the Sadico Page 9

by Jo Sparkes


  “She’d have clawed your face off.”

  At least that stupid bitch hadn’t been the one to help her.

  “I could make her some coffee…”

  “No,” Wall’s low rumble barely reached her ears. “Leave her alone for now.” The voice trailed off as they moved away.

  They sounded awfully cozy together.

  “Stupid bitch,” Melanie mumbled aloud. “Just wait till you’re in trouble, Jill. Just you wait.”

  Behind her, between her shoulder blades, she felt the tiniest prickling of - something. It whirled with her anger, offering an empathy she needed. It was comforting.

  It was frightening.

  She wanted to turn around, but her body froze in place. Breathing deeply, she forced her head to slowly pivot...

  Mike and Jon burst through the surface. “WHOOO HOOO!” Mike shouted to the sky, and saw her. “WHOO HOO, princess!”

  Melanie completed her turn. The platform behind her was empty.

  “How did you do that?”

  Plucking a piece of chicken from the plastic tub, Wall glanced up at the brunette.

  “You breathed out of a dead regulator. Melanie had no air.”

  American dive training. “And Jon says he teaches you guys. Compressed air, Jill.”

  Her expression remained blank.

  He sighed. “What happens as we ascend?”

  “It expands…so the air grew in her tank!”

  “Something like that. Enough for a few breaths.”

  Taking a big bite of chicken, he realized he was starving. Diving did that; in fact, many things tasted fantastic on a dive boat that once on land he wouldn’t dream of eating. Cold fried chicken had to be one of them.

  “How should I have helped Melanie?” Jill persisted. “If you weren’t there, I mean.”

  His amusement faded. “Best thing would be attracting Jon or Mike’s attention. Bang on your tank. If no one else is there…I suppose you wait until she’s calmer. Not flailing so wildly.”

  “Wouldn’t she be dead?”

  “No - not immediately. Probably your best chance.”

  Jill didn’t understand. “But if she stops flailing doesn’t that mean she’s dying?”

  Wall closed his eyes. This was a particularly difficult area for him. “Don’t risk your life for property; don’t risk it for a life that can’t be saved.”

  “But she could be saved. All she needed was air.”

  “Someone panicking like that, someone bigger than you, while you’re in such a vulnerable environment…no. She’d have knocked your regulator out, clawed your face, torn off your mask. Once unconscious, you had a chance to save her. It’s not considered sensible for you to drown as well.”

  “Considered sensible?”

  “I saw a boy drown in Padstow.” He hadn’t meant to talk about it; the words just popped out of his throat. “Caught in a rip tide. He swept by me close enough I could see his face. Lifeguards ordered me to stay clear. They said I’d have been caught as well, if I tried to help…nothing I could do.”

  He was looking at his hands. Nervous, he realized, of looking at her. He didn’t want to see her reaction. Wall could feel her, though, motionless beside him. And then her hand lifted, as if to touch him.

  Jill, being touchy feely. She pitied him.

  So much for his appetite. Tossing the chicken aside, he left.

  Emerging from his cabin, Wall turned to find an armload of rubber and metal hooks thrust in his face.

  “Here,” Mike shoved again when he didn’t accept them. “Your afternoon work, partner.” Hoisting a tank over his shoulder, the muscle man clambered up the stairs.

  Wall gazed down at the rusted hardware, a cut from any piece of which would scream tetanus shot. Dragging the thing with him, he awkwardly climbed to the deck.

  “You’ve used a lift bag before?” Jon prodded as Wall freed a hook from the doorway.

  “Of course he has,” Jill snorted, wiggling into her wet suit. “Quit the ‘mother hen’ stuff! We can lift the chest.”

  Lift the chest? He and Jill - a novice diver who couldn’t control her own weight - let alone that of something else?

  Doubt must have shown on his face. “If you want your share of the salvage,” Mike told him. “Do your fucking share of work.”

  “We’ve got this,” Jill shot back.

  Ahhh. Her way of supporting him. And despite his brain urging otherwise, he couldn’t very well contradict her.

  Instead Wall gazed down at the rubber armload, and tried to recall anything he’d read on lift bags.

  Huddled in her cabin, Melanie clutched the crystal pendant to her chest. Which was damned silly. It was supposed to protect her from evil spirits - not heartbreak.

  She hurled it across the room, and winced when it struck the door. Dreading the running footsteps - he hadn’t been easy to kick out the first time. And when Wall didn’t come running back, her anger evaporated.

  From the open window - porthole, she corrected herself - she heard him talking to Jill once the others had dove. “I don’t know anything about lift bags.”

  “Easy,” Jill said, huffing between syllables. “Just hook whatever you’re lifting, and use your air to inflate it.”

  Melanie knew that huffing well - the brunette was tugging her gear on. They must be nearly ready to dive.

  “Oh shit - Wall! Your octopus rig broke…you don’t have an extra mouthpiece.”

  Wall chuckled. “I’ll manage.”

  His thread of amusement drove Melanie off the bed, out the door and up the ladder.

  She practically leapt out onto the deck.

  “Melanie! You coming after all?” Reaching for her B.C., Jill eyed her doubtfully.

  Melanie shook her head.

  “How do you feel?” Wall asked. No endearment this time.

  “I - I’m okay.”

  She perched on a cockpit bench, surveying from on high as they donned B.C.s, buckled weight belts. A memory from class rose in her mind: when she put her weight belt on first. Wall had admonished her embarrassingly - the weights must go on last. In an emergency, when you couldn’t work your gear to inflate, the last resort was dropping your weight belt to reach the surface. Putting it on last meant it would come off, not snag in your B.C.

  The splash brought her back to the present. Wall and Jill floated in the sea, swishing spit around their masks, arguing about her entering the wreck. They looked like a happy couple, she thought, with a tiny stab.

  Jill noticed her watching. “We’re lifting the treasure chest, you know.”

  “Likely filled with someone’s clothes,” Wall told her. “Ruined sludge now.”

  Jill rolled her eyes.

  “Wall is right,” Melanie murmured. Not because she believed it, but to needle Jill.

  Jill merely grinned. “We’ll see. Ready to salvage?”

  He returned a serious look. “Stay by the opening - okay? When I go in, you stay right where I can see you at all times.”

  “Oh, for the love of -”

  “Okay?” He cut her off ruthlessly. Jill finally nodded.

  Chomping down on mouthpieces, their eyes locked. Wall gave the brunette a look; she gave him one back. He spit out his regulator to laugh aloud.

  Jill’s eyes twinkled merrily in response. Together their heads popped under the sea.

  Melanie stared at the ripples left behind. She hadn’t come up here, she acknowledged, to see them off. She hadn’t come to let Wall know she was okay. Spurred by their shared laughter, she’d felt jealous and miserable.

  And they’d laughed again and left her all alone.

  Wall peered into the wreck.

  His light played along the top, the bottom, revealing little. Floating debris, thick silt on the floor. He traced the beam up a white string dangling from the ceiling, a ghostly cobweb in a corner, finding nothing more.

  In truth, the interior looked more a cave than a cabin.

  Snatching a glance at Jill, he pul
led himself up over the edge, and through. The void engulfed him, blanketing him alone with his own raspy breath.

  His first wreck penetration.

  A ray of light danced beneath him; Jill’s, he realized. Turning, he saw her clinging to the splintered edge of the hole, flashlight tilted straight down to spotlight the chest. He’d swam right over it.

  It squatted just beneath the opening, as tall as his knee, more than half a meter wide. In the torch beam it appeared wooden, though that seemed unlikely. No coral covering had protected it.

  Then his light struck the dangling padlock guarding the contents, and the explorer in him rubbed his hands in glee.

  Now to get it through the hole.

  Jill watched, offering suggestions through her regulator as the Brit worked. He never heeded her - and she realized there was a good chance he hadn’t heard a thing. Oh well.

  The treasure chest gleamed beneath her dive light as Wall shoved it round sideways, in preparation of getting it out. When she caught sight of the padlock, excitement surged through her stomach.

  This was why Jon and Mike loved wreck diving. The chance - the slightest chance - of finding treasure. And this trunk had to be valuable - otherwise why the lock? They’d have to celebrate tonight, whatever lay inside.

  And to think she’d get a share. Maybe enough to pay off her car.

  Wall strained to lift one end up onto the hole edge. Jill reached in to grasp a handle, but he waved her off impatiently.

  Then the chest itself plugged the opening.

  It slid an inch through, grating harshly against the coral edge. The scraping hurt her ears.

  The side handle wiggled in her face. Grabbing it, she braced her legs on either side of the hole. And pulled.

  The thing remained stuck.

  Putting her back into it, Jill heaved with all her might.

  Slowly, very slowly, the sunken wreck gave up its prize. She felt the rough scrape, the reluctant shudder. When most of the chest emerged it suddenly shifted, tilting down. Losing her balance, she sank ass first into the sea floor.

  CRACK - a bit of coral snapped, a dead anemone fell away. Jill scooted back awkwardly as the trunk fell, hitting the bottom in a blast of sand.

  Wall popped his head out of the wreck, reminding her of a silly cartoon. Then their eyes met - and she knew he shared her feelings. They’d just plucked a treasure from a shipwreck.

  Maybe treasure enough for a new convertible.

  Wall drifted over, making a show of checking his air gauge before sticking it in her faceplate. To prod her to do the same. The British, she could hear Mike’s snide murmur, are way too much into rules.

  Fishing her console from behind, Jill was pleased to see she still had over a half tank of air.

  Unhooking the lift bag from his belt, Wall examined the damn thing again. Mike’s contraption consisted of tired rubber and rusty hooks, and he didn’t want to injure himself. Why Jon and Mike - owners of a good dive shop - didn’t buy proper lift bags he’d never understand.

  This, he’d been told, was a two-hundred pounder, which meant it could lift two hundred pounds of weight. If the chest was too heavy for that, then they’d all retire on the contents.

  Six hooks total dangled from the opening, set evenly around what was basically the lip of a rubber balloon. Placing the first hook was easy - he snagged a side handle - but the rubber wouldn’t stretch far enough to place a matching hook on the other side. He finally opted to latch three on the single grip - hooking the first, skipping the second, so that the three hooks were evenly balanced around the bag opening.

  Truth was, he’d never used a lift bag. All his dives had been to sightsee - he’d never needed to send stuff to the surface.

  Satisfied, Wall next grabbed his octopus regulator - Mike had checked it and found nothing wrong. He wedged it between hooks and rubber so it could fill the balloon.

  No bubbles; no air flow at all. Mike had missed something.

  So Wall took a deep breath and used his own mouthpiece.

  Jill swam nearer, eagerly watching. To his amusement, she thrust her spare regulator in beside his. Well, she had the air to contribute, and with the trunk seeming so heavy it could well take a full balloon.

  Exactly how much would fill it he had no idea.

  Bubbles erupted around him. Startled, he saw Jill’s wide eyes framed in her mask, fixated on him. No - fixated on something past his right shoulder. He thought fleetingly of Jon and Mike, but her reaction belied that. Nervously he turned.

  The manta hovered inches from his faceplate.

  Wall jerked backwards, hastily slamming his mouthpiece back between his teeth. Breathing, gasping, he stared.

  The creature didn’t stir. Black eyes gazed unblinkingly, the solid pupil making it impossible to tell if the creature watched him.

  Slowly he lifted his free hand.

  The ray scooted into his palm like a dog seeking affection. Wall scratched its ear - or where an ear ought to be. The ray liked it.

  Jill stepped closer, cooing softly. It was only that - seeing her spare regulator tucked back in place, and an odd shadow flickering around her - that made Wall turn back to the lift bag.

  The balloon soared upwards, gathering speed as it flew. Of course - the air would increase in volume, driving it faster. For an instant he worried he’d done the thing wrong.

  BUMP. The Manta actually nudged him, demanding attention. Apparently Jill’s alone wasn’t enough.

  He complied.

  Melanie lay on her belly, warming her back and paging through a silly book Jill had lent her. She’d already finished her magazines and had nothing else to read. Somehow she expected to be busier on a tropical vacation.

  Jon had forbidden bringing smart phones, saying there was no reception, and they’d easily get damaged. For the umpteenth time she wondered why the hell she hadn’t tried it anyway...

  The water exploded in gray rubber.

  For an instant she thought a whale had breached. She leapt to the cabin doorway, poised to duck inside.

  The thing hissed, bubbles boiling the sea around it. The hiss rose to a high-pitched squeak; the bulge flattened, and the whole mass subsided back under the waves.

  She clung to the door frame handles, anxiously watching the ocean. But whatever it was, the thing had gone.

  Wary, Jill retreated a few feet. Something about the manta’s sudden demand for attention just felt so odd.

  And in retreating, she saw shadows whirling around her. The chest - it must be on the surface by now. She looked up.

  Fifty feet above, the dangling box seemed trapped in gray and bubbles. Slowly it broke free.

  And then it floated downward. Straight down, gathering speed. Aiming for their heads.

  Water dampened motion, Jill told herself even as she kicked backwards. The damned thing wasn’t tumbling off a cliff. But that chest was heavy - and dear God, would drop on Wall’s head.

  She launched herself at the Brit, knocking him toward the wreck. She felt a weight scrape the back of her leg just before it struck.

  A blast of sand engulfed them. Jill couldn’t move her leg.

  Through the whirling dust Wall appeared, faceplate to faceplate. She nodded to let him know she was okay, frowning when she noticed his shaking arm.

  Only it wasn’t him. She was trembling so hard her mask shook. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice.

  The manta, she realized, had vanished.

  Jill tried to stand, but her leg wouldn’t move. Turning, she saw her fin trapped beneath the chest - and a dark thread rising from her calf.

  Blood. She was bleeding.

  Oddly Jill felt nothing. She’d never have known she was cut if she hadn’t seen the blood in the water.

  Blood in the water. Sharks.

  Yanking with all her might, Jill couldn’t free herself. She clawed at her foot, struggling to slip out of the fin. Jon could damn well retrieve it for her later.

  Her breathing loud in her ears, she gaspe
d when Wall leaned in to check her face. His eyes calmly inquired; she angrily pointed at the problem before scanning the sea for great whites.

  The Brit freed her fin. It was all she could do to ascend at a safe speed.

  Pandora's Box

  “I know all about the barbecue,” Melanie informed him over her shoulder. “Mike told me.”

  She lay on her stomach in the red silk bathrobe Wall had given her. Sneaking a glance, she saw his expression - confused, a little hurt - as his head poked out from the shirt he just donned. She kept her head down, pretending to read her book in the face of his frowns.

  He couldn’t believe she’d refused to explore the island with him. And she couldn’t care less.

  Earlier, when the man had surfaced, he’d shouted for Melanie to find the first aid kit while he fussed over Jill - practically carried her up the ladder. Even the brunette had told him it was just a scratch.

  And when he’d finished treating the injury, damned if the two hadn’t taken another lift bag and dove back down to get the chest. Leaving Melanie all alone again, still demanding to know what happened.

  Now his hand caressed her - but it was too late.

  “Wouldn’t you like to get off this boat?” he asked softly. Cajoling. “Come to the beach with me.”

  Way too late. “Take Jill,” she spat out. “You spent all day with her - why stop now?”

  She felt him tense. The caress died.

  Suddenly Melanie wanted to reach out to him, apologize. She had no idea why she was so angry, but he really didn’t deserve it. Marking her passage in the book, she looked round.

  Just in time to watch the door click shut. He was gone.

  When she glanced down at her book, she shivered.

  Her finger pointed to the passage, “Strife beset the doomed crew.”

  Hands on the ladder, Wall hesitated.

  He’d seen Melanie’s face, her unhappiness at being left alone. He’d tried to make it up to her. What more could he do? Mark it lesson learned, and try not to count the remaining days.

  Emerging into sunlight, the scent of some exotic flower caught his attention. They’d moved the Sadicor near the island, and its spiced breeze urged him to step on solid land. Explore a little Caribbean above sea level.

 

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