Under Pressure

by Kathy Brandt

  I took his hand and lifted it to my lips, then pulled his arms tightly around my body. “It will be okay, O’Brien. By the end of the week, we’ll be sitting out here wondering what all the worry was for.”

  “I hope you’re right. I have a bad feeling about this one. People are getting nervous. Damned if I didn’t have to spend an hour arguing with Jack Westbrook about his boat. He’d just come in from a week of sailing and he wanted the boat moved over to Paraquita Bay immediately. He’s owned several boats in my fleet, upgrading every couple of years to bigger and better. But he is a pain in the ass.”

  “You know his wife was on that plane?” I said. “She got out, but the couple they were sailing with are dead.”

  O’Brien had already heard all the gory details about the crash. News travels fast in the islands and he’d been able to see things unfolding out at the site from his office window. He knew I’d been out there—I’d called him from the hospital to let him know I was okay. O’Brien hated the way I made my living.

  “You know, Hannah,” he began.

  “Let’s not have that conversation now, Peter.” I knew what was coming. Tonight was not the night. We were both tired and on edge, and after pulling bodies out of that wreck today, all I wanted was to escape. I wasn’t up to an argument.

  But O’Brien couldn’t let it go. “The diving you did today,” he said, “you know how dangerous that is. Sooner or later your luck is going to run out. It happens to almost every diver who does the kind of diving that you do. And Christ, pulling mutilated bodies out of the ocean. It gets to you, Hannah. You know it does.”

  What O’Brien said was true. Most extreme divers did eventually die under the water. They got too casual, maybe grabbed the wrong tank, or pushed the limit, going too deep or swimming too far into a complex underwater cave system, getting lost, running out of air, and getting the bends. It was all about air and the effects of breathing it at depth or not having it at all.

  But I wasn’t careless. And I didn’t consider myself lucky. I was skilled and I was careful. I also had a healthy amount of fear and respect. At a hundred feet in an ocean that is always unpredictable and with equipment that can fail, I counted on something going wrong. When it didn’t, well that was lucky. When it did, I was ready for it. The other part, the part that meant retrieving the dead? I’d learned to live with it.

  “Quit the job, Hannah. Let’s have a kid before it’s too late.”

  “Christ, O’Brien. I’m thirty-eight years old. I love my job. I don’t want to be pregnant, have a kid. You know that. How many times are we going to go over it?”

  I was angry now, angrier than I should have been, I guess. But O’Brien kept pressing. I knew he could see the impact the rescue and recovery had had on me today and he was concerned. I’d tried to hide it, but O’Brien knew me too well.

  “Don’t you think our relationship needs to evolve?” he asked, pulling his hands away and deliberately setting mine in my lap.

  That pissed me off. Call me sensitive, but the rejection hurt. “Why are you so dissatisfied?” I asked, defensive now.

  “Because I want more,” he said. “Maybe more than you can give, Hannah.” He swung his legs off the lounge chair and moved into another chair.

  “That’s right, O’Brien,” I said, standing and glaring down at him, seething now. “It’s more than I can give.” I emptied my wine glass, tipped the rest of the bottle into my glass, and consumed it in one long swallow. Then I grabbed the empty bottle and stormed inside for another. I intended to wash this conversation away in alcohol. A mistake, but dammit, I didn’t need this now.

  I was in the process of shredding the cork in a bottle of Cabernet when O’Brien came in.

  “Let me do that,” he said, reaching for the bottle.

  “I can get it, O’Brien,” I said, yanking it from him, jamming the opener farther into the bottle, and pushing the cork inside.

  “Shit.” I wasn’t bothering with a wine glass now. I filled a plastic water glass to the brim and chugged, daring O’Brien with a look to say another word.

  “Hannah, you’re being a jerk,” he said.

  He was right, but I wasn’t about to admit it. I was angry, hurt, overwhelmed by the day, and now I was getting trashed too. Bad combination.

  I refilled my glass, emptied it, slammed it on the counter, and headed upstairs. Before I realized where I was going or what I was doing, I found myself in the bedroom throwing clothes in a bag. I was forcing the thing closed when O’Brien came in.

  “Hannah, for chrissake, this is silly,” he said, grabbing my wrists.

  “Let me go! I knew this would never work. You just keep wanting more. I can’t do it!” I shouted, pulling out of his grip.

  “Fine! Run away. Just know I that I won’t be coming after you.”

  O’Brien was in the kitchen scraping dinner into the trash when I stormed out the front door with Sadie on my heels.

  ***

  It was late when I pulled into Pickering’s Landing. I shouldn’t have been driving, but by the time I eased into the gravel lot, the buzz was gone and a headache was taking its place. A light glowed from the office on the first floor; no doubt Calvin was still up.

  I could see the silhouette of the Sea Bird at the end of the pier, the mast swaying gently in the glassy harbor. O’Brien had been the one who’d found the Sea Bird for me. A couple from California had bought it as a live-aboard. After six months in the confined quarters on the boat, they’d ended up divorcing. So much for retiring to paradise. O’Brien could think of no better place for me to make a home. I’d had in mind living in something a bit more solid, something with a foundation, maybe a little cottage up in the hills. But once I’d stepped on board the Sea Bird, my idea of home changed.

  I liked waking up to the sound of water splashing against the hull, having breakfast with the gulls, and sitting at dusk watching pelicans dive. I liked the rhythm of the ocean, the way the water changed from deep indigo to the brilliant, sparkling shades of blue as the sun made its way across the sky, then set on the horizon, reflecting gold, tinged in sunset hues across the sea. Nights when I found sleep impossible, I’d sit on the transom dangling a toe in the water and stirring up the microscopic organism that turned to luminescent diamonds.

  I’d had the chance to call the boat my own when an uncle I hardly knew left my sister and me each some money. My sister had followed my father’s advice and invested it in a mutual fund. I’d bought the Sea Bird. My father had been upset but not surprised. I’d quit doing what I was told at about sixteen. Back then, I had driven my parents, especially my father, crazy.

  When I’d switched to criminology and a career in law enforcement instead of going on for a degree in literature, he’d been furious. He’d wanted me to follow in his footsteps, teaching. In spite of the futility of it, at seventy-seven, he was still trying to direct my life. It’s funny, though. We’d fought our way to being about as close as a father and daughter can be.

  I’d missed the Sea Bird and living at Pickering’s Landing. Calvin and Tilda Pickering were good friends. Calvin maintained the boats and ran a boat repair shop. Tilda tended a little grocery with the freshest fruit and vegetables in the islands. They had two daughters, Rebecca, seven, and Daisy, five. They’d become like family. Since I’d moved in with O’Brien, we were invited for the midday meal every Sunday.

  Calvin was coming out the door, Tilda close behind, as I stumbled out of the car.

  “Hannah, what you be doin’ here dis fine evenin’?” Calvin asked, kind enough not to comment on my inebriated condition.

  “O’Brien and I had a fight,” I said. “I’m moving back onto the Sea Bird.”

  “You just can’t let dat man love you, can you?” Tilda asked, shaking her head. “When you gonna realize what you be havin’? He be one of a kind.”

  “He wants a kid, Tilda!”

  “Dat such a bad idea?” she asked. Tilda was completely happy in her role as mother. Her girls were sim
ply a part of her.

  “Hannah needs to be makin’ up her own mind about dat. Not everyone be suited to havin’ kids, Tilda. Daisy and Becca be real happy to be havin’ you back, Hannah. Let’s get dat boat unlocked,” Calvin said, grabbing a key off a hook near the door.

  “Have you eaten?” Tilda asked.

  “No.” It was nine o’clock. I was famished and the headache had developed from a dull thud to a sharp pain behind my left eye. I could hardly remember breakfast. The day had started out as a leisurely Saturday morning diving session with Jimmy. Christ.

  Tilda insisted on bringing me leftovers, as well as a few supplies from the store. She didn’t come aboard. She simply handed them over the side of the boat, lecturing me the whole time about O’Brien.

  “Tilda, you’re supposed to be on my side,” I said. “I knew you first.”

  “I am on your side. That’s why I be tellin’ you,” she said. “Good night, Hannah.”

  I went below and dug out an unopened bag of dog food I’d left in a locker and fed Sadie. Then I took the casserole and a liter of water up to the cockpit to sit in the dark. The night was still, the ocean a smooth expanse disturbed only by the occasional fish breaking the surface.

  A new boat was tied across the dock in the place that had once belonged to Elyse Henry. I didn’t much like it, someone being in her slip. I knew it was silly, but Elyse and I had been close. Then she’d died. Elyse had been an environmentalist and worked for the Society of Conservation. This looked like her replacement. A new boat and a new environmentalist. I planned to stay clear.

  Sadie and I walked down the dock to the beach. Along the water’s edge, the sand was wet, cool, and hard-packed. My footprints disappeared behind me as waves washed the shore. Sadie raced ahead, splashing in the water, then taking off up into the trees. Pretty soon she was back, a stick in her mouth. She dropped it at my feet and wagged her tail. No matter how far I threw it, she always brought it back. After a half-hour, she was panting, wet, and ready for more.

  “Enough, Sadie,” I said, sitting down on a log. She lay down next to me and put her head in my lap.

  I’d been trying to bury the fight with O’Brien in activity. Now it all came rushing in. What he’d said about my running, my fear. I knew he was right. Christ, I thought about the hurt on O’Brien’s face when I’d walked out the door tonight. How could I be such an ass? I’d really blown it, overreacted. Hell, I admit it. I was scared, scared that I was giving up too much of myself to be with O’Brien.

  And he was asking me to give up even more. Why couldn’t he see how important it was for me to be who I was, do what I did? I wasn’t asking him to give up his business. Why did he expect that I should be willing to give up what defined me?

  This was the problem, the endless argument. As open-minded as O’Brien was, he was still a chauvinist when it got right down to it, when it came to his personal life. He was fine with having a mate who was a professional—but only to a point. He wanted a wife whose job didn’t get in the way.

  Once a part of me had wanted a family. I’d thought about it when I’d been with Jake. When he died, I’d left that dream behind. It was too late to go back.

  I knew it wasn’t just the fact that O’Brien wanted kids. He was worried about me too, about my dying on the job, either diving or chasing down a bad guy, and about the emotional impact of the kind of recovery I did today. But he’d known what I did when we met. I knew he loved me, but was it enough? Enough to let me be who I was?

  I’d been so absorbed thinking about O’Brien that I didn’t hear the man approach until he spoke.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Some cop I was. I jumped and almost fell off the log.

  I noticed his hands first—dinner plate-sized hands. The man was huge, but at least he was smiling. He was barefoot and wore only a pair of cut-off jeans that were wet and salt-stained. Loose threads fringed thighs the size of gumbo-limbo trees.

  “I’m sorry I startled you. I’m Enok Kiersted. I’m on the boat down at the end of the pier,” he said.

  “Hannah Sampson. I’m on the Sea Bird.”

  “Sure. Tilda and Calvin have told me about you. You’re a cop, huh? Mind if I sit?” he asked.

  I didn’t want the company but what could I say? I made room on the log.

  “I heard what happened to Elyse Henry, the woman I’ve replaced,” he said, sitting down beside me. “Guess you two were close. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks,” I said, thinking no one could replace Elyse.

  “How’s it going with the new job?” I asked, changing the subject.

  That’s all it took. A half hour later, I had his life story and the feeling that he wouldn’t last a month in the job. He said he was born on St. Thomas. His father had been Danish. The family was one of the few that had come to the islands when Denmark had colonized. His mother was from a generation of slaves who had worked on the sugar plantations. She’d been the one to instill his love of nature and the ocean. She’d taught him to snorkel and had known the name of every sea creature they ever encountered. He described his bedtime stories as treatises on the behavior of anything that swam, crawled, or grew on the ocean floor.

  Kiersted had gone to school in California, earned a master’s in ocean ecology, and learned of the Society of Conservation though a colleague. When he’d heard there was an opening for an environmentalist down here, he’d pushed hard for the job. Now his plan was to lobby every legislator in the BVI government to stop the dredging of beaches, the development of seaside property, and everything else that might threaten the ocean environment.

  The problem was, he was an outsider, a non-belonger. You didn’t just come charging into these islands and expect people to trust you. Elyse had been a zealot about the environment, but she had also been a BVIslander.

  This guy was an extremist, a fanatic. Right now he was ranting about the boat he’d seen dumping garbage in Paraquita Bay. I’d tuned him out when he started talking about his research in the mangroves and the Woods Foundation. I recognized the name. It was the foundation where Simon’s dad had been employed. Evidently the foundation had awarded Kiersted a big grant to finance his study and had sent a grants officer down to assess his progress on the project and determine future funding.

  “That wouldn’t have been Lawrence Redding would it?” I asked.

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “I’m afraid he died in that airplane crash today.”

  “That’s horrible,” he said. “What about his kid?”

  He was relieved when I told him Simon had made it out. Before I had the chance to quiz him about his ties to Redding, he got up, stretched, said goodnight, and walked down the beach to his boat.

  I was left sitting on the log with Sadie’s head still in my lap. Out over the water, I could see a thundercloud forming.

  Chapter 10

  At seven the next morning, I was standing at the sink, head pounding, trying to obliterate the foul taste in my mouth with toothpaste. It worked for about five minutes. I swallowed a couple of aspirin with a swig of coffee and headed into Road Town to check on Simon. The streets were lined with people walking to church, men in their Sunday suits, women in flowered dresses and straw hats, their children skipping behind.

  I picked up an Island News at Wilson’s Bakery on the way to the hospital. The airplane crash was spread all over the front page, along with a photo of Stewart and Debra Westbrook clinging to the yellow horseshoe and another of him helping her into the rescue boat. They’d also gotten one of Simon and me. You could see the shock in his eyes.

  The headlines read, Actor Saves Senator’s Wife, just as Lorenzo had predicted. The story read like a scene out of one of one of Stewart’s movies.

  Hollywood star Daniel Stewart risked his life to save the wife of Senator John Quincy Westbrook from a sinking airplane Saturday morning. With severe injuries to his shoulder and arm, he somehow managed to wrestle the aircraft door open. He jumped into the ocean with Debr
a Westbrook held fast just as the plane began its journey to Davy Jones’s Locker. In an effort of extreme determination and heroism, he then dragged her through the water to a life preserver and clung to it, his broken arm dangling useless, until rescue boats arrived. Police divers Hannah Sampson and Jimmy Snyder, who were in the vicinity training when the plane went down, were able to rescue five passengers.

  The article ended by listing the names and hometowns of the dead. I could practically hear Sammy Lorenzo dictating the text. It was fantastic hype for all those Avenger fans.

  When I walked into his room, Simon was sitting up in bed, dipping a spoon into what appeared to be oatmeal and letting the pasty stuff dribble back into the bowl. He clearly had no intention of eating it. I didn’t blame him.

  “Pretty bad, huh?” I said.

  “Hannah! I’m glad you came,” he said, his face breaking into a smile.

  “I brought you some donuts.” I’d had the misfortune of being confined in this hospital on a couple of occasions. I knew what the food was like. Wilson’s sold the best fresh baked goods on the island. Simon stuck his hand in the bag and pulled out a chocolate-covered specimen, and took a huge bite.

  “So, how are you doing, Simon?”

  “I’m okay.” I could see he wasn’t though. The kid had to be wondering what the heck was going to happen to him.

  “No one has been able to reach your aunt yet. Is there someone else we should be calling?”

  His face crinkled in on itself, but he didn’t cry. “I don’t have any other relatives. Just my friends at school.”

  He was quiet for a minute. Then he asked, “Where’s my dad, Hannah?”

  Jeez, how was I supposed to answer that question? Tell the kid his dad was in heaven? How were you supposed to talk to kids about death? Myself, I was raised to confront death, to see it and accept it. We buried our pets in the backyard and had funerals for them. I realized later my parents designed those ceremonies to teach us that death was an inevitable part of life.