The sharks were not visible, but Mac could sense them. As he scanned the water, he saw a disturbance above. A boat stopped and something dropped into the water that landed in the sand about thirty feet from where he hid in the reef. Mac didn’t have to look up, one glance at the anchor and rode and he knew Mel and Ned were here. His now-sporadic bubble trail would be the only way they could have known his location, and he doubted it would be visible in the choppy water. Mac wrote it off to luck that they had anchored so close.
Just as he thought about making a move for the anchor line and safety, his peripheral vision picked up a shadow crossing behind him. First the head, then the entire body of the ten-foot shark appeared. Mac knew what was coming and flinched as the shark spun, and though he knew their maximum speed was just above ten miles per hour, it seemed much faster as the shark flicked its tail, so close that Mac saw its pectoral fins twitch as it adjusted its course.
Bracing for the inevitable bump that preceded the bite, some instinct took over, and he pulled the regulator from his pocket. Just before the shark slammed into him, he pressed the purge valve. Bubbles spewed from the mouthpiece, disrupting the shark’s attack, at least for a second. But when the bubbles suddenly stopped and Mac tried to draw his next breath, he knew what had happened. With his air exhausted, the clock in his head started ticking.
Mac knew from freediving that he had about ninety seconds of air in his lungs. In his prime, he might have had closer to two minutes, but as a leading indicator of his age every year he saw seconds drop off. But that was under the best of circumstances, when he could build his oxygen reserve and purge the carbon dioxide from his lungs before submerging. Now, in the opposite scenario, his lungs were already starting to burn and he knew he had only seconds before the first convulsion hit.
Purging the air from the tank had confused the shark enough to deter the first attack, but Mac knew that it wasn’t over. Just ahead, he could see the shark shake its head, then get its bearings and, head towards him.
Mac was out of options and dropped the useless regulator from the death grip of his hand. With the little air he still held in his lungs, he picked up the inflator hose, pressed the release button, and blew enough air to partially fill the bladder of the BC. With the shark coming toward him, Mac recoiled and sprung from the cavity. Finning hard, he bolted for the surface.
He was free from the coral and had just taken his first kick when he felt something snag. Used to diving with lobster bags and stringers, Mac didn’t panic, but instinctively reached down to unhook the hose that had hooked on a piece of coral.
Despite the danger going on around him, he couldn’t help but notice the pitted ball that the hose had caught on. At first glance, it looked like a knob of coral, but the color was different, a dark bronze with green lines running through it. Mac knew instantly he was looking at history: likely the cascabel, or breech assembly, from an old cannon. The hose had caught on the knob. With his lungs burning and the shark behind him, there was no time to examine it further. Mac removed the hose and finned hard for the surface.
With the aid of his partially inflated BC, he reached the surface in a few kicks. His head broke free of the water as he gasped for air. It wasn’t over, though; he knew sharks were also surface feeders.
To make matters worse, he couldn’t see, his mask fogged by either his desperate breathing or the change in temperature. Only the vague outline of a boat was visible. Squinting, he could see the stern and two figures motioning to him from the dive platform. As he made a desperate attempt to reach it before the shark found him, Mac heard a blast, followed by a concussion in the water.
Everything went black.
Thirty-One
Mac fought through the pounding in his head and slowly, one at a time, cracked his eyes open. Her face was blurry at first, but his vision cleared, and he recognized Mel staring down at him. Mac wasn’t sure where he was. It was dark, making it even more confusing, but the scene around him slowly started to make sense. Trying to get up, his head exploded like bombs were going off inside, and he felt Mel pull him back down to the deck.
“Easy there, big boy. That was quite a shark after you.”
Mac looked up at her, seeing her lips move, but not hearing her voice. He tried to speak, but his mouth tasted like sawdust as he croaked out, “Water.” Mel brought him a bottle and sat back down beside him. He drank, swirled some of the liquid around in his mouth, and spit it out.
“The shark?”
“I think it’s still alive, just stunned. All we had was the powerhead and the shotgun. It all happened too quickly to get it with the bang stick, so Ned used the shotgun.”
Mac nodded his head, glad that the shark was still alive. He knew he was invading its territory, not the other way around. He’d killed sharks before, but it was for self-preservation, not sport, and he knew the predators played an important, if misunderstood, role in the ecosystem.
Mel handed him another bottle of water, which he sipped. “There were only seconds between when we saw the bubbles and you surfaced. I think Ned fired just when your head came out of the water.
“Saved your damned life is what I did. That shark was about to have a meal from your leg.”
He was starting to hear the words now, though a persistent ringing prevailed. “And I thank you.” Mac said it more to shut him up than offer gratitude. As his memory started to return, he was pretty sure he would have made it without being fired upon. Instead of a childproof lock for the weapon, he thought about an old-man lock for his trigger-happy friend.
“There’s something down there. Just before I came up—“ Mac started, then saw another face hovering over the group. Looking past Mel, it took Mac a long second to recognize Sloan, and he dropped back to the deck. Scrunching up his eyes to make it appear he was in pain, Mac studied the man and remembered his ineptness in sailing, and saying the phrase “knots per hour,” which he unfortunately would never forget. Every time he looked at Sloan from now on, he would see the words tattooed on his forehead.
Deciding to keep the find to himself for the time being, checking each muscle and joint for damage as he went, he carefully worked himself into a sitting position,. Finally, his back lay against the gunwale, allowing him to survey the deck. Dive gear was strewn to the side, lying where it had been removed from him. Seeing the yellow hose for the octopus brought back the missing pieces of his memory, and he reworked the incident in his mind. A picture of the knob that the hose had caught on formed in his mind. There was no doubt it was man-made. Shapes like that don’t exist in nature.
Although a night dive was not out of the question, he knew he needed time to recover, and Mel wouldn’t let him back in the water anyway, so he decided to be proactive. “Let’s wrap this up and call it a night.” Using the gunwales for support, Mac started to rise, breathing a sigh of relief when he finally stood without dizziness. That told him, in at least his opinion, that he didn’t have a concussion. He was sure Mel would differ, but that fight could wait, for now.
He fought through headaches and dizziness as he started towards the pile of gear, and he began to doubt his initial self-diagnosis. Moving slowly, he made his first mistake by trying to purge the regulator, realizing the tank was empty even as he did it. He sensed Mel’s critical eye observing him as he slowly moved through the process. Unscrewing the first stage from the tank valve, he blew into the screen, but left off the rubber dust cap that prevented water from entering the first stage. Mel raised an eyebrow, forcing him to review what he had done. He hated the pressure, but if he wanted her off his back, he would have to prove to her that he was okay. It was one thing to be grounded for the night; he had no intention of wasting tomorrow.
Backtracking, he set the stopper in place and tightened the valve stem to hold it. Glancing up at Mel, he continued by disconnecting the low-pressure inflator hose from the BC. Once the parts were separated, he took them to the transom, where he rinsed everything off. Reaching down for the tank, a wave of
dizziness overtook him, and he fell forward onto the deck.
It was too late—and useless—to fight, and he accepted Mel and Ned’s help to the cabin. Once he was comfortable on the settee, he looked around.
“Where’s Sloan?” he whispered.
Mel brought her head closer, and he said it again. “It’s only us. I think he went back to his boat.”
Mac wanted to be certain and asked Ned to have a look. Once Ned was out of earshot, Mac was about to tell her what he had found, when she interrupted him.
“What’s up with that guy? He gives me the creeps.”
Pamela worked by instinct, and she appeared to have misjudged Sloan, but Mel’s senses were fine-tuned after working for the ACLU. She knew a fraud the minute she saw one.
“Could have told me that a little earlier.”
“I think your head’s still a little out of whack.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. Mac knew there was little point in fighting her. He would surely lose. The best he could hope for was that his condition improved overnight, at least enough to convince her to let him back in the water in the morning.
“I found something.”
Mel looked toward the empty doorway. “Give it a minute.”
Ned popped his head into the cabin. “He’s gone back to his boat. Pretty damned impressive rig he’s got there.”
Mac smiled and said. “If he only knew how to sail it,” then told Ned about Sloan’s use of “knots per hour.”
Ned snorted and gave him a knowing look. They both knew many sailboats never felt the thrill of their sails. If you classified “slow” boaters into groups, the sailboat owners would be dreamers; trawler owners, pragmatic, traveling anywhere at six knots, you had to have patience, but the wider beam of the trawlers at least allowed for some elbow room and comfort. Most sailboats were neither comfortable or fast. The Surfari was the exception, rather than the rule.
For a true cruiser, a sailboat was the logical choice. Unhindered by fuel requirements the sails provided freedom, but there were few sailboat owners with the skill to make even a simple Gulf Stream crossing under power, let alone under sail. Mac had just witnessed firsthand that having electronic controls, self-furling sails, and automatic winches didn’t make a sailor.
“Might as well bed down for the night,” Ned said, looking around the small cabin.
Aside from the double berth in the bow, Ghost Runner offered little in the way of comfort. “There’s twin staterooms on the Surfari,” Mac suggested, thinking Ned would be more comfortable aboard the motorsailer. Ghost Runner was mostly a utilitarian work boat. Electing against most niceties such as a comfortable seat at the helm, Mac had relented and allowed the forward, and only, stateroom to be done to Mel’s taste.
Mac needed to talk privately to Mel. Eventually, Ned would have to be included in the conversation. But once the old man knew they were sitting atop what Mac was fairly certain was at least a cannon, Ned’s curiosity wouldn’t let him stop until it was uncovered, and the extent of the find known.
If it weren’t for the problems presented by the missing Trufante and the threatening Warner, Mac would be happy in the knowledge that he had found something, and just as happy to leave it where it was. From his experience, nothing good ever came of bringing up the past.
Mac had another motive for pushing Ned to stay aboard the Surfari—keeping an eye on Sloan was a priority, as well.
JC was almost giddy. Not an emotional state that many would ever attribute to him, but the gods had favored him with two hostages, and he finally had options. Though he hadn’t heard anything from Travis, JC didn’t expect to until morning. Travis had to know that Pamela was missing too, making the likely assumption that JC had her, as well.
He’d locked the woman in the crypt with Trufante, giving them the coffee he had brought for his offering to his ancestors to hold them over. The Cajun had nothing to say, but the woman was still fiery. He said a quick thanks to his ancestors for the substantial construction of the crypt; after closing the stone door her screams were muted to the point that a passerby wouldn’t notice. Even if they did, it was still Key West, where the barometer for behavior was skewed.
Things were looking up, and with a processing facility or not, his business would continue. With the bins in the bed of his pickup packed with crushed ice, he started to make the rounds of the commercial docks. He knew better than to expect much this soon after the front passed, but he needed to keep his face—and his checkbook—out there. The passing front had kept most fishermen in the bars. Several hours later, he had only one bin of yellowtail snapper and some stone-crab claws to show for his efforts. He swung by several of the local restaurants that often bought from him to offload his catch.
Other than capturing the woman, it had not been a profitable morning, and though he knew the face time was important, he was used to cash in his pocket, not the sympathies of the fishermen and chefs.
After selling the last of his catch, JC thought about, then decided against, contacting the priestess. She surely would assure him that his change in luck was due to the sacrifice last night. Things were indeed looking better, if you called the first step out of the basement an improvement. Yes, his luck was on the upswing, but it had a lot further to go before he would call things good.
As JC started to drive back to the cemetery he concluded that in order to really, really change things, he needed something big, and as he thought about the two hostages, he knew he had his answer. Travis would find out pretty quickly that he was serious when he saw his two friends were about to die.
Sloan laid back on the berth, wondering what his next move should be. Travis apparently had found nothing besides a shark or two, Eleanor was gone, and Pamela wasn’t here to replace her. The only person around was the old man, who kind of creeped him out; something about the way he stroked his beard when he studied Sloan seemed judgmental. He’d tried to start a conversation with Ned before he turned in, but the old man had only grunted.
Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, his sat phone buzzed. Rolling over, he pulled it from the compartment running alongside the berth and glanced at the screen. The message was simple: He had a deadline of nine tomorrow night to pay off his debt. There was no need for a threat; he knew what to expect if he didn’t come up with the money. Thinking back, it might have been a mistake to burn down his old man’s facility. At the time, the fire had served its purpose and flushed the drugs out, but that hadn’t turned out well. If he’d known then that he would be faced with a decision between living and begging for his father to bail him out, he knew his choice would have been to ask.
His old man would have paid, and Sloan admonished himself for letting his ego get in the way. Instead, he had kept his pride but backed himself into a corner. The ride from Key West to the Dry Tortugas had been plenty long enough for Travis to realize he was no seaman, and now it was three to one against him. His ploy of garnering their trust had been washed out with the bilge water.
Thirty-Two
JC stood outside the crypt. After a quick prayer to his ancestors, he opened the door. A cat bolted past him, and he stepped to the side, losing his balance in the process. Once he recovered, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his two captives still there. Trufante made a move toward the door, but JC was fast enough to close and lock it before the Cajun could reach it. With his back against the door, he slouched against it, breathing in, then out, not sure whether to curse the gods or to thank them.
After the near escape, JC continued with his plan to light a fire under Travis, but that meant moving the hostages. There was too much traffic through the cemetery to brandish a firearm, and Trufante’s quickness had surprised him. Worried that he wouldn’t be able to handle them both by himself, he would need help, but he also needed information. Trufante had been locked up for close to twenty-four hours. He wouldn’t know what Travis was up to, but Pamela might. The one thing JC was sure of was that Travis had left the island on Slo
an’s son’s fancy-ass new boat, which had to mean something. While he didn't like Mac, he respected the stubborn fisherman, and JC knew there had to be a compelling reason that Travis had left with Sloan.
With a plan forming in his mind, he stood to his full height and moved far enough away from the crypt that the hostages couldn’t hear him. Pulling out his phone, he hit Rusty’s number and offered him a path to redemption. Now that JC had a boat and experienced captain on the way, he sat on a bench across from the tomb, staring at the circle he’d drawn that symbolized the connection to his ancestors. After promising them he would redeem himself, he worked through the rest of his plan while he waited for Rusty.
Stooped over, with his long legs only able to take a step and a half in any direction, Trufante started to pace.
Pamela grabbed his arm. “Stop it. You’re driving me crazy.”
“Crazy is what we’re gonna be if we don’t get out of here. Spooky as all get up being stuck in this joint all night.”
“We need a way out.”
“I done checked every nook and cranny of this damned vault. Enough room for the cat, but that’s about it. Sucker’s stone and steel.”
They’d already tried calling for help with no result.
“He’ll come back. We just have to be ready.”
“Takin’ him out by himself ain’t no thing. I’ll be betting he brings a friend next time.” Trufante extended his forefinger and raised his thumb, making his hand look like a gun. “How ‘bout if the cat shows up again, we toss it when the door opens?”
Pamela moved to the crack that the cat used to slither in and out. “Worth a try.” She started making a mewing sound.
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