Wake of the Sadico

by Jo Sparkes

  “You have to swim for it,” Mike intruded on his mood. The muscle man squatted by the salvaged chest, idly toying with a screwdriver. “Jon used the inflatable to ferry Jill over.”

  Wall nodded. “Thought we were leaving the chest for later. Letting it drain.”

  Mike met his look. “I’m guarding it. Temptation can do strange things to people.”

  Resentment flared, a surprisingly strong wave of it. Wall had to master the urge to snipe back. Yanking his fresh shirt off, he tossed it on the seat before stepping up onto the rail.

  Mike smirked in triumphant. “Remind Jon I need the bastard boat to set up the barbecue.”

  Wall dove in and struck out for the beach.

  Jon loved Sadicor Isle.

  It consisted of a single giant rock and a lagoon. The rock housed two caves - one upper, one lower - the latter only reachable underwater. Beyond a few lizards and tropical shrubbery, there was little else. Which was why the place remained uninhabited.

  Having discovered the island when Jon was eight years old, Ray Sadicor had returned occasionally only because Jon begged. It had been named anew every trip, from ‘Treasure Island’ to ‘Pirate Hideaway’, but nothing had stuck until Jill used the Sadicor label. The nearby coral reef made it an interesting day trip, but many more spectacular dives dotted the map.

  To Jon, however, there was magic in secret caves and deserted beaches.

  As a kid battling buccaneers or exploring underwater caverns when he was supposed to be scrubbing the deck, this was a private Disneyland. Treasure washed up in the form of empty crates and bottles. Geckos changed color, and the sideways-tilting palm tree must surely grow coconuts someday. Neither his dad nor family had shared his enthusiasm.

  But Mike had.

  At the age of twelve, with a famous athlete for a father, Jon had suffered in school. He was small by any standard and bullied unmercifully. Taunts about his dead mother drew the most reaction from him, so naturally these became the weapon of choice - until Mike Burke arrived. Back then he wasn’t any bigger than Jon, but something about him kept the bullies away. One day he caught two boys shoving Jon on the playground - and literally knocked their heads together. One lost a tooth.

  Mike was suspended three days. On the fourth he shook hands with Jon, and no one ever bothered either one again. From that day on, Mike followed where Jon led, scowling threats at anyone who stood in their way.

  Jon discovered an unexpected business savvy in himself, which helped launch the Crusty Porthole, their dive shop. Mike’s strengths proved more mechanical. He could fix any car, or construct a functioning dive compressor from scrap metal. The man liked using his hands to build solutions to problems, even if the problems only existed in his own view. He jury-rigged his gear for wreck diving, set special exercises to sculpt his triceps, and kept the sailboat Sadicor in prime functioning shape.

  The big man once told him, in a rare introspective moment, that Jon’s honor and his belief in Mike drew an answering loyalty. Unlike Mike’s own mother, Jon saw the best in him.

  Jon valued Mike’s purity. Mike was Mike - no hidden agendas, no ulterior motives. If he wanted something he told you; if he didn’t like your words he said so. And he was fiercely loyal to his friends. With so many in the world who wanted to get close to Jon because of his father, Mike preferred him.

  Now, as Jon lead Jill up the rocky path to the upper cave, he spotted the muscle man across the water, on the platform by the chest. His partner was standing guard. Totally unnecessary; totally Mike.

  “Just how far is this cave?” Jill demanded. She was struggling in her sandals, and trying not to let him see.

  “Not far,” he grinned. In some ways Jill was cool - in her diving, her appreciation of a good adventure. But in other ways she could act just like the silliest girl. He’d warned her twice about the sandals.

  “I’ve always loved this place,” he said, hoping to take her mind off her feet. “Felt an affinity - you know? I must have been a buccaneer in a previous life.”

  “A pirate?” she asked, trying to navigate the last few steps. They had reached the slender ledge that hovered twenty feet above a raging ocean. Jill pressed back against the rock wall, staring at the crashing waves below. He’d forgotten that; the far side of the island faced windward, with an odd shaped channel trapping the sea’s currents.

  The entrance to the underground cave was just there. For a diver underwater at slack tide, the water was safe and calm.

  “A buccaneer - it’s not the same thing,” Jon told her. “You understand something of reincarnation now. Conservation of souls - just like matter and energy.”

  Dropping to his knees, he brushed the covering vines aside. “I sailed the open seas, commanded a swift ship with a cunning crew. Feared throughout the Caribbean.”

  Jill pointed beyond him, to the smaller hole not buried behind vegetation. “Isn’t that a better entrance?”

  “That’s the ‘Turtle’ - drop to the lower cave. Drop being the operative word.” Sweeping the vines aside, he ducked low and crawled.

  Not hearing the sounds of her following, he tossed over his shoulder, “Good thing you’re not Melanie. She’s too girlie for this.”

  Jon grinned at the hesitant shuffle and reluctant scrape. In some ways his cousin was so predictable.

  The rock tunnel curved in on itself, before opening up to reveal a large cavern. Faint light seeped in from some hole overhead, though not enough to see beyond a few feet. He flashed his beam across the back wall.

  “Just as I remembered,” he smiled. “Maybe a little smaller. Been a while since I’ve made the trek up here.”

  Helping Jill to stand, he suppressed a grin when her fingers hastily raked her hair to dislodge any insects.

  His light caught the ledge along the rear rock - a ridge just wide enough for a boy to lay down with his arms folded behind his head and daydream. “My bunk.”

  Despite her aversion to bugs, a warm gleam shone in her eyes. “I had no idea you’d such an imagination.”

  Old crates still clustered around a rock-ringed campfire spot that when lit, as he well knew, sent the smoke up and out through the ceiling gap.

  Dusting off two crates, he sat on one. Jill gingerly perched on the other.

  “I had such stories,” he said, warming to the memories. “There was a sea captain who lived here. Dark, bearded, and angry.”

  “Why was he angry?” Jill shivered.

  Come to think of it, Jon had no idea. “Something about a crew that had mutinied.” He must have seen it in a movie.

  “That’s a little odd for an eight-year-old playing games,” Jill told him.

  “I was ever precocious,” Jon grinned.

  Wearing a hastily-donned bathrobe was a mistake.

  Melanie discovered this as she tried to climb the ladder, her foot treading on the loose folds. She discovered it again when she popped out of the cabin to find Mike alone on the platform.

  “Where’s Wall?”

  Taking his time to lean back against the chest - and look her over from head to toe - Mike aimed the screwdriver toward the island.

  She stepped to the railing and spied the launch on the beach. She wasn’t exactly dressed for swimming. With a deep sigh, Melanie dug her hands in her pockets - and only just snatched the robe material from lifting in the breeze.

  Mike, she realized, was still watching her. Probably relishing her troubles with Wall. Well she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of running away like a scared little virgin.

  She deliberately climbed down to the platform.

  Feeling the delicate silk flutter against her thigh, she instantly regretted it. When she turned, he cocked an eyebrow as if to say: ‘trying to entice me?’

  Angry retorts rose to her lips. Melanie swallowed them before speaking. “So. Are we rich?”

  It was Mike’s turn to grimace. “The ‘Universe’ said we let it drain a while. I’ll be on Medicare before we know what’s in this ba
stard.”

  “What is this ‘Universe said’ stuff?” Feeling a…prickling…between her shoulder blades, her eyes noticed the chest itself. Larger than she’d realized, constructed of iron. Or was it dark wood? A heavy padlock seemed to hint of treasure within. For all the world like a Hollywood prop.

  “It’s just Jon’s way of avoiding decisions.”

  Maybe it held a lot of treasure, she thought. Hadn’t it proved heavier than they expected lifting it?

  Moving closer, she dropped to her knees, caressing the worn top. “Why don’t you open it now? You found it, after all.”

  The muscle man looked at her throat - where her robe had parted, she realized - and chuckled. “No dice, sweetie. We wait for Jon.”

  This idiot actually thought she was trying to play femme fatale.

  The phrase flared in her brain, roiling through her conscious. Femme fatale - as if she would with him. As if she needed to with him.

  She was so tired of his mockery.

  Between her shoulder blades the prickle expanded to a whirlwind of - determination. Enough of this cowardice; this backing away when he tossed down a gauntlet. He thought she was trying to manipulate him? She’d show him just how easy that was.

  Leaning close, Melanie allowed the robe to gape. Her voice grew husky. “But you could, couldn’t you? Pick the lock…close it again afterward? No one need ever know.”

  Shifting the screwdriver, he deliberately traced the nipple she’d half-revealed. “Now just what are you proposing, princess? Maybe you can twist idiotic Brits around your little …” He pointedly gazed at her breast. “I’d take you up on your offer. So tighten that belt of yours and go back to your cabin.”

  She was more startled than he when her hand snatched the tool from his fist.

  “What a hypocrite you are, muscle-brain. You want to see inside - an easy thing to do. But the little black man ordered you to wait.” She poked him with the screwdriver, the metal tip imprinting his skin. “You’re nothing but his lackey. And I thought you were the only real man here.”

  The words sizzled in the heat.

  Melanie suppressed a hysterical giggle when Mike glanced at the island. The beach was empty - no one nearby to witness what they did.

  “Be a man, Michael. No one is harmed here. Don’t be such a fucking coward.”

  She flipped the screwdriver over, shoved the handle into his stomach. Both breasts were exposed now and she no longer cared. She was amused at him.

  Seconds passed. Then the screwdriver shifted, penetrating the padlock.

  Leaning back to watch, Melanie’s insides whirled in a vortex of glee. She never bothered to tighten her robe.

  Wall found the footpath off the beach exactly as Jon had described.

  The trail spun around the rock summit, through green bush with large leaves and a carpet of yellow orchids, to rapidly climb forty feet to reach the summit. Before him lay a short walk to the rock ledge. He had but to travel most of that length, search behind the vines, and he’d find the tunnel.

  After his fight with Melanie it was a welcome diversion.

  He saw what surely must be a toucan - sharp beak, scarlet and blue plumage making it easy to spot in a tree just below him. Wall thought the bird lived only in South America - he’d have to ask Jon. His head was still turned when he stepped onto the rock surface.

  Then he turned back. And stopped short.

  The ledge cut into a smooth rock wall, hovering fifteen meters above a raging sea. Unlike the lagoon and beach, the sea here was furious white caps bouncing against each other, bashing the rock as if determined to break it down. Even so high above it, the spray dampened his legs.

  All of which should have fascinated him. Instead Wall staggered, so dizzy from the view he almost lost his breakfast.

  A second glance proved something was very wrong. Swallowing, he forced his gaze up to the opening in the stone. Farther than Jon had described.

  Straightening his back, Wall stepped carefully towards it. The swaying sea below spurred him on, till he dropped to his knees intending to dive through the hole.

  The Turtle saved him. The knob at the top of the opening, with four protrusions for head and feet, marking the top of the chimney of the lower cave.

  Thrusting his head inside, he saw little more than a black hole yawning beneath his hands. The impression was deep - a huge cavern. He’d nearly dove to his death.

  Withdrawing, he carefully turned while avoiding glimpses of the sea below, to finally spy the opening covered by vines.

  Even as his mind questioned what the hell he was doing, Mike plied tool to chest.

  “Hurry,” Melanie rasped in his ear, fingernails edging circles his shoulder.

  The sun dimmed as if a cloud covered it or a mist rose up out of the sea. Neither had happened - the world just tilted dark somehow. Jon would have known the cause, would have explained it well. But then he couldn’t ask Jon.

  “This is wrong,” he said, pulling back. And the padlock fell open.

  He watched it a long moment before plucking it free. His fingers clutched the chest lid as his eyes scanned the island, the beach. There was no one to stop him.

  “You can’t chicken out now,” the blonde softly needled.

  His hands lifted the lid against his mind’s will. It screeched in protest, finally yielding to reveal a soggy dark mass.

  Melanie slipped under his arm, grabbing at the stuff, pulling. Layer after layer spilled across the deck, reams of oily gunk. Worthless. She was practically swimming through it, nearing the bottom, when he grabbed her arm.

  “Jesus, enough!”

  Eyes on the island, fearful of discovery, he stuffed it all back in.

  Waves of the muck landed on her, snapping her daze.

  Revolted by the ooze in her lap, Melanie scuttled backwards. Mike gathered it up, cramming wads of it back in the trunk.

  Out of the dark mass something solid tumbled onto her thigh. Sort of round, hard. Sharp. Her instinct was to brush it away before the red gleam caught her eye.

  “Mike,” she gasped.

  “Put it away, goddammit! Adam should have strangled Eve!”

  He hadn’t seen it. Too busy watching the shore, furiously thrusting gunk back in the chest. You can’t put the genie back in the bottle she thought, and wondered why that phrase sprang to mind. Scrambling to her feet, she saw ugly brown patches spreading across the red silk of her robe. The need to get clean, maybe rescue the garment before the stain set, sent her scurrying up the ladder.

  Which was difficult with the thing in her hand.

  Climbing over the bow she turned back to face him, opening her palm. More dirt clung to her hand, revealing the sharp red edges, glittering in the sun. “Mike, this fell.”

  A ruby. A beautiful ruby, the width of her thumb.

  His muscles strained as he slammed the lid shut, fumbling to replace the lock. “Just go,” he hissed, eyes riveted on the island’s deserted beach.

  She couldn’t just take it. “But…”

  “Get the fuck out of here!”

  So she did.

  “And you’re sure nothing’s dangerous?” Jill demanded.

  Her cousin nodded, which she only caught because she was watching him carefully in the poor light. “Honestly, just a few insects that you have to look for to find, and the occasional lizard. No snakes, no bats. You’re safe.”

  Jon balanced the flashlight on its end, creating a halo of illumination flickering about them.

  “Scorpions or spiders?” she asked suspiciously.

  Her cousin’s teeth gleamed. “Absolutely no scorpions.”

  Which meant there were spiders. She’d have questioned him further but for Wall’s shout. “Jon!”

  “Crawl through. We’re in here.”

  Best to drop the insect questions - she didn’t want the Brit to think she was afraid. She forced a smile as Wall’s head popped through the tunnel entrance.

  Bizarrely shadowed, just for an instant Wal
l’s face was all hollowed eyes and open mouth. Just for an instant her stomach dropped.

  Just for an instant, she felt terror.

  “This is bloody brilliant,” he grinned, crawling closer. The hollows vanished, he was suddenly just the British guy with all the rules. She watched him claim a crate, folding his tall form to an awkward perch.

  “I used to hide here after a day of diving with my dad.” Jon grinned. “Played with pirates and sea captains…sword fighting, swashbuckling. Treasure hunting.”

  There had been something profoundly familiar, Jill thought, of Wall’s hollowed eyes. An echo from a childhood chimera, best forgotten.

  “Mike told you we think there’s another level to the wreck.”

  “Doesn’t seem likely,” Wall told Jon. “I mean, given the proportion of the two halves.”

  “Likely or not, it’s there. Definitely a second level buried in the sand.”

  Her terror receded, there yet lingered a…disquiet. Instinctively she shifted closer to the men.

  “We found a hole in the deck - flashlight revealed a big, hollow area. Has to be part of the wreck.” Jon’s eyes twinkled in the odd light. “That’s a man-made room. A fully enclosed, big room.”

  “Sounds like a cargo hold.”

  “Exactly like a cargo hold.” Excitement rose in her cousin’s voice. “The cargo hold of a large, wooden vessel. An honest to God cargo vessel…that no one has ever explored. We should know more after we open that chest.”

  Suddenly she recognized the fear. When she was little, Jill had been terrified of being in the dark. No…of being alone in the dark. Her father later told stories of his getting her late at night when her mother would have left her to cry. Such terror in her cries, he’d felt it cruel to leave her alone.

  “So you might have struck it rich.”

  “We all might have struck it rich.”

  So why this fear - or memory of fear - now? She’d not felt it in years. In forever, really. Only a fleeting impression of watching her father’s back, watching him retreat. Leaving her all alone…