Beached_A Mer Cavallo Mystery

by Micki Browning

  "It felt like forever." She hooked her fins over her wrist. Unlike the LunaSea, this ladder had a central support and rungs that extended from both sides. Theoretically, one could climb it wearing fins, but she preferred the stability of foot-to-rung contact.

  Within minutes, they were underway. Skipper took a northwestern heading to navigate closer to Tavernier Key where Talbot and the patrol boat were staged. Although outside of the area where they'd dragged the magnetometer, it was as far from the key as Talbot would authorize. She hoped the location didn't tip off Bart and Winslet Chase.

  The game plan for the second site included a dive, some excitement on deck, and then dropping the blowers into the water. There was no reason to activate them. Even if they were working a legitimate salvage site, the blowers would be overkill in fifteen feet of water. The elbow-shaped pipes were designed to direct the prop wash of the twin engines onto the site and blow it clean. This shallow, it would be like using a sledgehammer when a feather duster would do the trick.

  Skipper anchored the boat and Mer entered the water. She couldn't stop thinking about how this afternoon could play out. As long as they released Oscar, she would be satisfied. He'd gotten her into this whole mess, but he was as much a pawn as she was. No, her wrath was directed at Bart Kingston and Winslet Chase. They were the puppeteers in this drama. She still didn't know how large a role Deputy Cole played, but it didn't matter. He'd fled. He was the Monroe County Sheriff's problem now.

  Phoenix remained an enigma. She had a legitimate excuse for not being on the boat today, but after yesterday's confrontation, was it feigned? Of course, most normal people wouldn't want to return to an endeavor that forced them to interact with armed smugglers. But frankly, Phoenix wasn't normal—and Mer desperately wanted to believe the professor had a lecture to present.

  Doubt plagued her the rest of the dive. Even the sudden appearance of a rare Kemp Ridley sea turtle failed to lighten her mood.

  Finally, enough time had elapsed for Mer to surface and she clambered aboard. Out of habit, she checked her air pressure. Because the first dive had been short and shallow, she hadn't breathed enough of her supply to warrant changing the tank. Even after the second dive, she still had nearly a third of her pressure left. Mer looped a bungee cord around the yoke of the tank to secure it to the makeshift tank rack, and peeled the wetsuit down to her waist. She'd break down her equipment on the way home, once this fiasco was finished.

  "Ready?" Mer hoisted the bow anchor and the Finders Keepers bounced in the current.

  "Yup. The blowers are going to need three anchors to make it look good."

  "Tell me what to do," Mer said.

  "Normally, we'd drop a buoy over the site as a marker, but it doesn't really matter where we end up."

  "Could have told me this before I hoisted the bow anchor."

  "You got a lot to learn, girlie. That one's set last." He squinted against the horizon. "Go ahead and drop the port anchor."

  Mer lowered it into the water.

  "We're going to pay out about a hundred and fifty feet of line. I got the line marked in fifty-foot increments. Let me know when it hits."

  Mer called out the markers. "Done."

  "Drop the starboard anchor. Same drill." He turned the boat toward port and goosed the engines. "Then move on up to the bow. When I tell you, pay out the bow anchor."

  She positioned herself and waited for his command.

  "Now," he shouted.

  She dropped the third anchor.

  He shut down the engines, and in the silence Mer heard waves slap against the hull.

  "Grab port, I'll man starboard," Skipper said. "Now it's just a matter of taking in the lines 'til we're set good and steady."

  When they finished, the three anchors formed an upside down T, with two angled off the stern and one in front of the bow.

  "Now for the mailboxes. I'll winch them down. You'll need to lock 'em in place with cotter pins so they don't bounce."

  "Okay." She studied the blowers as they lowered. "I give up. Where do the pins go?"

  "Underwater. Put on your mask. You'll see the hole."

  Great. She worked her arms through the wet neoprene, found her mask and jumped in. Without weight, the wetsuit increased her buoyancy and she flailed to stay under. She jammed the pin into the latch for the port blower. After a quick breath, she repeated the process on the starboard one.

  "Anything else while I'm down here?"

  "Not until we pack things up for the night."

  The time had come. Mer climbed back on board and picked up the radio mic. She didn't know the name of Bart's boat. Winslet Chase might not even be monitoring the channel.

  "No use getting all worked up," Skipper said. "Either they're out there or they're not."

  She depressed the microphone talk button, waited a second, and spoke slowly, "Finders Keepers, Finders Keepers, Finders Keepers, calling Picuda Bart, Picuda Bart, Picuda Bart. Over."

  The radio crackled with static, but no response. Two minutes later, she repeated the transmission. And then again after two more minutes. Nothing.

  Disappointment soured her stomach. "Now what?"

  "Wait fifteen minutes, try again."

  The satellite phone Talbot had given them rang. Mer answered.

  "We heard you loud and clear," Talbot said.

  "No offense, but it wasn't you I was trying to reach."

  "Bet you'll be plenty glad to see us when Picuda Bart shows up. Nice call sign, by the way."

  "If I annoy him enough, he's bound to respond."

  "I always do," Talbot said with a laugh. "We'll be monitoring, but if they show up unannounced, get us on the phone."

  That possibility hadn't occurred to her. Bart had the data from the GPS tracker. He could be on his way this very moment.

  "Dr. Cavallo?"

  "I'm sorry, what?" Mer ran her fingers through her hair.

  "No heroics. If any boat gets close, call us. They might be in something other than the Picuda."

  "I'm just bait. This is your bailiwick. I just wish they'd show up so you can finish this."

  Skipper threw his cup of sunflower shells into the trashcan and stood. He peered intently at the horizon.

  Mer moved next to him, the phone still against her ear. "Hold on a second." She lowered the phone. "What do you see?"

  Skipper raised his arm and pointed. "Girlie, best be careful what you wish for."

  * * *

  It took several seconds before the hull of the speedboat distinguished itself from the horizon.

  Mer tightened her grip on the phone. "They're coming."

  "Be there in a flash."

  Talbot's voice was reassuring, but there was no doubt; the race was on, and the Picuda had a head start.

  The racing boat drew closer, its engines screaming with speed. Three men crowded the cockpit. Two looked like modern-day bandits, wearing sunglasses and neck gaiters pulled up to mask their faces. Even so, she recognized Bart. He still wore his faded Mets cap. The captain sat at the helm. Winslet Chase? The fabric around his face hid any hint of a tribal tattoo. The third man was Oscar.

  Mer tore her gaze away from the men to glance toward Tavernier Key. Talbot's boat was just a speck.

  The Picuda won by a mile. The captain throttled back and waved. "Ahoy! A merry life and a short one," he shouted the pirate greeting. "I come bearing gifts."

  Arrogant with an edge of menace. It had to be Chase.

  Bart hauled Oscar to his feet. His hands were bound behind his back.

  "This can't be good," Skipper muttered.

  Bart forced Oscar to sit on the gunnel.

  Mer sucked in a breath. "They wouldn't—"

  Before she could complete the thought, Bart shoved the bound man. With no way to check his momentum, Oscar slammed into the ocean and disappeared under the surface.

  "Bastard." Mer grabbed her fins and mask.

  “Wait.” Skipper seized her by the biceps. "They don't want him, but they
may want you. Those engines hit you, only the sharks are gonna be happy."

  Mer yanked free of Skipper's grasp. "He's going to drown."

  Oscar surfaced. He tilted his head backward. Sputtered for air. His body bobbed to the uneven tempo of his wild kicking.

  The captain craned in his seat and watched Oscar thrash. He raised his head toward the crew on the salvage boat. Even from behind dark glasses, Mer felt his piercing stare. "I'm here to collect my treasure."

  He idled the Picuda closer to the Finders Keepers, narrowly missing Oscar.

  Bart tossed a line at Skipper. "Permission to board," he said sarcastically.

  Skipper made no effort to catch it. "And if I refuse?"

  The captain, his face still covered, remained seated. He casually leveled a gun at Skipper's chest. "We're coming anyway."

  The waves from the boat swamped Oscar and he started to choke. His head barely remained above water.

  "The deal was the coin for Oscar." Mer removed the coin from her bootie, held it up, and then placed it on the workstation table. "I'm going to get him before he drowns."

  Cautiously she moved toward her gear. If Oscar went under, she'd need the tank for the search. She shrugged into her BC and settled it onto her back. Her hands shook as she donned her equipment. She missed the buckle and cursed silently. When it clicked, she tightened the straps.

  Skipper cut his eyes toward Mer, giving her time to sit on the transom before he reeled in the line. The Picuda bumped against the Finders Keepers as she entered the ocean.

  She surfaced and oriented on Oscar. Fifty feet of choppy water separated them.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bart jump from the Picuda to the deck of the salvage boat.

  The patrol boat was coming, but Oscar needed her now. She closed the distance, but not soon enough. His head slipped underwater.

  "No!" Mer dumped the air from her BC and descended.

  The Picuda's engines churned the shallow water into a murky soup that cut visibility to nearly nothing but he must be close. She had to find him.

  Oscar materialized in front of her like a mountain rising from the fog. His eyes were closed and his kicks feeble. She came up behind him, snugged her arm under his, and fought for the surface.

  Their heads broke the water and Oscar choked a breath, gasping for air.

  Mer removed her regulator. "I've got you. You're safe, now."

  He continued to cough and retch.

  "Trust me, Oscar." She cradled his head against her chest. "I'm right behind you. Listen to my voice. Everything will be all right."

  His body relaxed.

  Kicking backward toward the boat, she continued to talk to him. She tried to shield his face from splashes so he wouldn't panic again. "We're almost there. As soon as we're at the boat, I'm going to cut apart your wrists, okay? I'll need you to hold as still as you can."

  He nodded.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Bart was on the deck, toe-to-toe with Skipper.

  Mer kicked the final few feet to the platform. The transom blocked her view of the men. She put Oscar's feet on the bottom rung of the ladder and unsheathed her dive knife. "Remember, keep still." She pinned his body against the ladder to stabilize him and then slid the knife between his wrists. A quick upward thrust cut the plastic tie.

  Mer helped him up the ladder and then hoisted herself onto the swim platform.

  He'd gotten onto his hands and knees, but couldn't manage more.

  "Take a deep breath. You're okay now." She said the words aloud, hoping to convince them both.

  "This is one coin," Bart shouted at Skipper. "Where are the rest?"

  "Stay down," she told Oscar, and then peeked over the transom.

  Bart raised his fist and Skipper dropped into a fighting stance. The captain of the Picuda trained his gun on Skipper.

  Mer jumped up. "Skipper doesn't know. I'm the one who found them."

  Oscar struggled to his feet next to her.

  The patrol boat bore down on their port side.

  Bart heard it, too. He spun and then snapped back and decked Skipper. "It's a setup!" He turned to Mer and pulled a knife from his waistband. "You bitch!" He jumped toward her.

  Oscar pushed Mer, placing himself between her and Bart. She stumbled sideways. Clawed for balance.

  Heard a gunshot.

  Fell.

  And the ocean swallowed her whole.

  41

  Her mask flooded from the force of the impact and the regulator dangled behind her as she sank. The retort of a second shot echoed through the water. She flinched and fought the urge to surface.

  Air.

  Leaning to the right, she brushed her hand against her thigh and then swept her arm in a wide arc. The hose settled into the crook of her elbow and she shoved the regulator into her mouth, purged the water from it, and drew a big breath.

  The engines of the Picuda roared to life, stirring up the ocean. Blinded, she readjusted the mask, then tilted her head back and exhaled through her nose to displace the water. The Finders Keepers floated above her. She was under the swim platform. Safe from the three massive outboard engine props that minced the water.

  With any luck, the patrol boat—

  The water around her exploded. The fury ripped the regulator from her mouth and stole her mask. The shriek of the Finders Keepers engines filled her head. Crowded out reason.

  Sand and debris pelted her. The prop wash pinned her to the seafloor. Held her captive.

  The blowers.

  She didn't dare open her eyes. Relentlessly, water and sand pounded against her. The pressure knocked the air from her lungs. Like an underwater hurricane, she was trapped in a maelstrom.

  Mer plunged her hands into the sand. Her shoulders bunched and she drew herself forward, muscles straining. She needed air. Her diaphragm pulsed. She knew it was a matter of seconds before instinct overpowered logic and she inhaled water.

  She anchored herself with one hand and swept her other hand behind her. No regulator. Nothing. Mer forced her hand upward. She fought against the pressure until she felt the yoke of her tank. Grabbed the low-pressure hose and drew it through her fingers until she found the regulator. Shoved it in her mouth. And then she bit down—hard—so not to lose it again.

  Her fingers hit the purge valve. Blasted the water from her mouthpiece.

  She drew a breath.

  Then another.

  The mouthpiece fluttered against her lips from the constant energy that swirled around her.

  She clawed her way forward, inch by inch. Breath after breath. Deep and rapid.

  Without a mask, she couldn't read her gauges, but she knew she'd sucked the tank nearly dry.

  Which meant she had to surface.

  And face the man who had just tried to kill her.

  The water roiled. Before she could surface, she had to free herself from the crush of the blowers. She kept her eyes closed to protect them from the whirling debris. Her progress was slow, but at last the pressure abated.

  The cacophony created by the blowers prevented her from discerning other noise—which meant she could be swimming directly into the whirling props of the Picuda or even the patrol boat. Ideally, she wanted to surface under the bow of the salvage boat, tucked in close so that nobody topside would see her. Then she could figure out what the hell had just happened and what fresh dangers awaited her.

  There had been two gunshots. Bart had a knife. Even now Skipper and Oscar could be injured. She needed to get back on the boat.

  Drawing a breath got harder. She had one, maybe two, breaths left in the tank. She risked opening her eyes to orient herself. Floating particulates and her unbound hair obscured everything but the fact that there was nothing above her. She had no idea how far she was from the boat. Or how long she'd be exposed before she could hide.

  The blowers finally stopped. The quiet disoriented her even more than the noise.

  She sucked in one last breath.

  Out of
options, she kicked toward the light.

  * * *

  Mer surfaced on the port side of the Finders Keepers, about ten feet from the hull. She drew a breath and submerged again, swimming the short distance underwater. Her hand brushed the hull and she stayed as close to the boat as she could without clanking any of her gear against it. Slowly, she raised her head out of the water.

  The wind had increased and the boat bounced in the chop. She kept one hand against the hull, afraid to push too far away from the boat. She strained to listen. Her heart pounded against her ribs with such force she was certain it would give away her hiding spot.

  Still touching the hull, she edged up to the bow.

  Until she knew who had control of the boat, she didn't want to announce herself. The only thing she had going for her was an element of surprise. And that wouldn't buy her much. She took stock. Her dive knife had survived the storm and was still attached by its sheath to her BC. Other than the fish identification slate she had in her pocket, that was it. She'd lost her mask, snorkel, and surface marker buoy.

  A shadow fell on the water. Fingers wrapped around the bow railing above her.

  Her heart leaped into her throat.

  At last a voice broke through her fear. Female, but unintelligible.

  Silently, Mer shimmied around the bow to the starboard side. The Picuda was gone. In its place was the patrol boat.

  Another voice, male this time. "Girlie's tough. She'll be up."

  Skipper's voice had never sounded so good.

  "I'm here!"

  Detective Talbot leaned over the railing. "Thank God. Are you okay?"

  "I think so." She'd been too busy to check for injuries.

  "Told you," Skipper said.

  The patrol boat blocked her way and she retraced her path around the Finders Keepers until she arrived at the stern. Talbot stood on the swim platform. Even though he was in shorts, it was the first time she'd seen him in a uniform. He reached over to help her to the ladder. Concern creased his face. "No bullshit now. You're sure you're not injured?"

  She handed him her fins and pulled herself up the final step. "I'm fine."

  Bart sat with his hands cuffed behind his back and his legs straight out in front of him. Buckets and equipment had been knocked over, and the deck looked as if they'd landed a thrashing sailfish. Gina knelt next to a motionless man.