The Deep End

by Traci Hunter Abramson

  Cover Image: © BananaStock / Alamy

  Cover design copyrighted 2007 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2007 by Traci Hunter Abramson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

  First Printing: August 2007

  978-1-60861-514-8

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my husband, Jonathan, for supporting my dreams. Thanks to my daughters Diana, Christina, and Lara for sharing me with the computer, and to my son Luke for taking long naps.

  My continued thanks to Rebecca Cummings for reading everything I write and making it better, and to Mandy Abramson for liking everything I write even when it’s only a rough draft.

  As always, thank you to the wonderful people at Covenant who help bring out the best in what I write, especially Angela Eschler and Kathryn Jenkins.

  My sincere thanks to Laura Cwick for sharing her invaluable knowledge of elite swimming.

  Finally, thank you to all of my friends and readers who asked, “What happened next?”

  To my swimmers, who inspire me,

  and to my family for sharing me with them.

  Prologue

  Jimmy Malloy leaned back in his lounge chair and flipped through the morning New York Times. He didn’t give a thought to the expense of obtaining the paper each morning on the little desert island of Bonaire. He wanted it, so he got it. Simplistic, maybe, but that was how Malloy ran his house and his business. And it was his business now, even though Chris Rush still considered it his own.

  Malloy often thought of his situation as poetic justice—the fact that his actions had ultimately caused the demise of his former employer. When two of his men had killed a cop and left a witness alive to testify, the entire smuggling organization headed by Rush had been jeopardized. Rush had been too arrogant to believe himself vulnerable, unwilling to give up his life as an apparently honorable federal judge until it was too late.

  Malloy had been smarter than that. The house in Bonaire suited his purposes perfectly. The desert island was only fifty miles from Caracas and could be reached easily by plane or boat. When necessary, a man of his talents was capable of slipping past port authorities and entering Venezuela without leaving a paper trail. Once in the country, traveling from Venezuela to Colombia was hardly complicated with the network he had built over the past decade. After all, drugs would always turn a profit, and cocaine and its by-products had long been the lifeblood of the organization.

  The sun was high in the sky as he glanced over the water at a speedboat heading out with a group of scuba divers. He was considering moving inside to escape the warm spring air when the patio door opened. Malloy looked up but didn’t move as Miguel Artez approached him.

  “Well?” Malloy left the unspoken question hanging in the air.

  “They arrive in Aruba tonight.” Miguel spoke in a quiet voice. “Everything is ready.”

  Malloy swung his long legs over the side of the lounge chair. “It will look like an accident?”

  Miguel nodded. “No one will know.”

  “Inform me when it’s over.”

  * * *

  Tom Miller stepped onto the wooden dock and walked toward the speedboat that would take him off the coast of Aruba. White, sandy beaches stretched behind him, and the sun glistened off the water beyond. The beauty was wasted on Tom. He just wanted to get to where they were going.

  Most of the tourists lingering on the dock had taken the scuba class that morning that was required for uncertified divers. Tom’s all-expenses-paid trip to Aruba included the basic course along with a dive every afternoon with this particular scuba shop. He figured they were as good as any as long as he got to do an advanced dive.

  Besides Tom, only one other person in the class had been scuba diving before. The two of them would go out on a more advanced dive, while the beginners in the class would take a second boat to an easier dive site. Tom thought it a bit odd that the other advanced diver, Larry, already seemed to know their instructor, but when Tom thought to ask about it, Larry explained that he vacationed in Aruba every year and remembered Bill from the year before.

  The beginning dive group was already loading up in the second boat. Tom reached the spot where the air tanks were lined up waiting to be loaded. When he reached for a tank, Bill, the instructor, stopped him.

  “Hold on a second. Let me make sure everyone gets the right one.”

  “Does it matter?” a woman with the beginning group asked before Tom thought to voice the question.

  “Since most of you are using rented equipment, we just have to make sure you have what was signed out to you.” Bill handed Tom his air tank and then proceeded to help everyone else check their equipment.

  Tom accepted the tank that Bill gave him and stepped onto the boat to store his gear. He took his seat, wiping the sweat off his face with his towel before setting it beside him. Since his first vacation to the Bahamas nearly fifteen years ago, he had enjoyed scuba diving. The stress and nerves that always seemed to plague him at work and at home melted away when he went below the water’s surface. The beauty on the ocean floor never failed to amaze him, and he was looking forward to finding that peace again.

  For months he had gone to work each day, always wondering if this was the day they would find him. He wasn’t exactly sure who “they” all were, but he knew they were out there. Jimmy Malloy was the only name and face he could recognize, except for Chris Rush, the former judge whom he would testify against in a few months.

  The knowledge that he was one of two witnesses—not the sole witness himself—should have given Tom some comfort. After all, what was the point of killing him if the girl was still alive to testify? Still, he knew from experience how determined Rush was to see the other witness knocked off. If Rush’s men found the girl, they could find Tom.

  Tom hoped when the trial was over he would finally be able to relax. Maybe he would take his wife’s advice more seriously and move their family to some tropical place where he could dive and where she and the kids could enjoy the outdoors. Surely he could find a new job and a new life for himself and his family. He wasn’t sure which bureaucrat had chosen Boise, Idaho, for his new residence, but the only time he seemed to spend outside was when he had to shovel more snow off the driveway. As the winter months had dragged on, his wife’s suggestion to relocate after the trial had grown more and more appealing.

  This vacation had come at the perfect time, giving them a chance to get away from reality, or at least to have the illusion of escaping it. Even now his wife and kids were at the beach, probably lathering on sunscreen and playing in the sand. The thought flashed into his mind that he should have informed the FBI when he had won this free trip, but it was quickly pushed aside. After all, he deserved a little time off.

  The feds didn’t understand the constant pressure that came from pretending to be someone else all the time. They didn’t know what it was like to see his wife and kids trying to adapt to a new city and a new home, all the while remembering that their last name was now Miller, not Abbott. As far as Tom was concerned, the FBI didn’t ever need to know about this week away.

  A spray of salt water misted over him as the boat pulled away from the dock and they headed out to sea. He glanced down at his dive watch, mildly annoyed that they were five minutes behind schedule. The boat bounced ove
r the waves, and the sound of the engine made conversation with the other passengers difficult. Tom didn’t mind; he didn’t have much to say anyway.

  Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Malmok Reef, the dive site. Tom began to strap on his equipment with ease and adjusted the diving weights in his belt that would help him counteract his natural buoyancy as he descended into the deep water.

  Bill went over a few basic instructions before motioning to Tom. “Are you ready?”

  Tom nodded. He took a last breath of sea air, put in his mouthpiece, and followed Bill beneath the surface. Dutifully, Tom checked his air gauge as they slowly descended. Giant barrel sponges colored the water orange, purple, and green. He continued deeper, two sting rays hovering nearby.

  At nearly seventy feet below the surface, Tom moved toward some brain coral to study it more closely, unaware that Larry had circled around behind him. Again he checked his air gauge, for the first time realizing that it had not changed in the past twenty minutes. With the experience of a practiced diver, he turned to find Bill to signal that he was going back up to the surface. Though he was out of reach, Bill was close enough to see the signal.

  Instead of signaling that he too would surface, Bill used his light to check the dive watch he wore. The warning that something wasn’t quite right went off in Tom’s head just a second before his air ran out. Panic showed in his eyes as he tried to move to Bill’s position. He signaled with both hands that he didn’t have any air.

  When Bill moved away from him instead of toward him, Tom turned to look for help. Instead, he locked eyes with Larry. The man was clipping something onto Tom’s diving belt and had tangled his equipment on the coral Tom had just been admiring. Tom held his breath as he struggled to free himself from his useless scuba equipment, but he continued to tangle in the lines that were clipped to his belt. He looked down to see the thick rope attached to an anchor just below them.

  He watched Bill and Larry move away from him as he shed his air tank and tried once again to untangle himself. When finally he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he gasped, breathing in water instead of air. With one last surge of energy, Tom shed the rest of his equipment and started for the surface.

  Excruciating pain filled his ears as he struggled upward. Logically, he knew that his body couldn’t handle the rapid ascent, but panic and survival instinct took over. He even managed to delude himself that maybe he could survive after all, since the only pain was in his ears and sinuses rather than his chest. He held his breath, his head now throbbing as a tingling sensation crept along his skin. He thought of his wife and children alone on the beach and realized that maybe he should have told the FBI about this vacation after all. He was within fifteen feet of the surface when his struggles suddenly ceased, and he began drifting back down into the dark.

  Chapter 1

  CJ Whitmore stretched her arms high above her head, tucking her chin so that she was in a streamline position. Silently, she counted to ten before she let her body relax and then began stretching out the muscles in her arms. The swimming pool in front of her was now empty, the water rippling from the swimmers who had just finished their practice. A few teenagers still lingered on the deck, but CJ barely noticed them. Instead she studied the young woman stretching a few yards away.

  At six feet tall, Bridget Bannon towered over CJ and possessed a confidence many athletes envied. She was the best female breaststroker in the world, and she knew it. For nearly a year, CJ had been training beside her. She would have liked to think of Bridget as a teammate, but CJ was more astute than that. They were two competitors striving for the same goal, and they just happened to share a coach.

  CJ had only been with the team a few days when she was informed that the aquatics center where they practiced had been built to give Bridget a place to train. Her father had used his influence with the city government to have the state-of-the-art facility built when Bridget had started breaking swimming records at the age of thirteen.

  Bridget had been just seventeen when she had made the Olympic team in the 200-meter breaststroke. Youth and inexperience had taken their toll on her, though, and she had not advanced beyond the semifinals in the event. Now, at twenty-one, expectations were high that she would finally bring home a medal to her family and the city of Philadelphia.

  Focused on her goals, Bridget hadn’t seemed to notice the addition of CJ to the elite team until just the week before. When their coach had lined them up for sprints, CJ had beaten Bridget in the 100-meter breaststroke for the first time. CJ had been thrilled, finally feeling like she was ready to compete with the world’s best. Bridget’s response had been disbelief, followed by a hard stare and a cold shoulder.

  Their coach called out their warm-up, and CJ dove into an empty lane to begin. She glided through the water, finding comfort in the simple routine. By this time, a handful of other swimmers had entered the pool for their morning practice, most of them hoping for the same thing as CJ: a trip to the Olympics.

  CJ finished her first warm-up set and again caught sight of Bridget. She thought of the way Bridget’s mother often hovered over her after practices, despite the fact that Bridget was already an adult. She had seen situations like Bridget’s before. Often athletes were so focused on their training that they remained dependent on their parents for everything, including making decisions. Though she understood how it could happen, CJ couldn’t imagine living a life in which a parent was so controlling.

  We’re the same age, CJ thought to herself, struck by how different their lives were. Her own childhood had been idyllic, or at least as perfect as a child could have being raised by a widowed father. She had grown up knowing that she was loved by both her father and the members of her local church congregation—her ward. She thought back to the countless number of people from her church who had given her rides to swim practice, taught her to cook, and watched after her when her father was at work. She knew she would always be grateful that her father had raised her as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

  Her life’s plans had been coming into focus after she graduated from high school, until her father’s fatal heart attack had turned her world upside down. He had supported all of CJ’s activities and interests, sacrificing so much to be there for her in everything she did. He had always told her she could do anything, and his death had cemented her resolve to prove him right. From that day forward, she had focused on making the Olympic team as much to fulfill her father’s hopes as to pursue her own dreams.

  Her closest friend, Chase, understood her motivation and encouraged her to use swimming as a way to work through the loss of her father. She had just begun focusing on her future again, one that would include attending Stanford on a swimming scholarship, when she had stopped by Chase’s house one evening for a date they had planned.

  That day had changed her life forever. Two men had charged into Chase’s apartment, men that Chase knew through his work as a detective. Chase had been more concerned about her than he had been about himself, CJ realized now—he had sent her into his bedroom to protect her. Ultimately, CJ had escaped any harm the men would have inflicted on her, but Chase had died that day, just moments after uttering a warning that had taken her months to understand.

  That had been almost three years ago, and the ordeal was almost over. The trial of Chris Rush, the man Chase had been investigating, would take place in June. CJ could hardly believe that she had been in the Witness Protection Program for so long, or that she had already assumed her third identity.

  She wasn’t sure how many times her location had been discovered by Rush, and she doubted that Doug Valdez, her agent in charge, would tell her how many times her life had been spared. She knew of at least four attempts on her life, two of which had resulted in her being relocated under a new name. After she finished testifying in June, she hoped to once again enjoy life outside the Witness Protection Program.

  * * *

  Matt Whitmore strolled down the stre
et, passing the various bookstores and cafés along Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia. With relief, Matt noticed the trees in full bloom, a sure sign of spring. Even though he had spent the last six weeks based out of Florida, he had been in Philly enough of the winter to be grateful that it was now behind him.

  A boy about seven years of age tugged on Matt’s sleeve, causing him to slow mid-stride. The request for his autograph caught him by surprise, even though he knew he should be used to it by now. Matt accepted the proffered piece of paper, signed it, and handed it back with a smile. The boy’s face split into a huge grin, revealing a gap where a tooth should have been. The boy’s mother thanked Matt before ushering her son back to the park.

  As a young boy, Matt had fantasized about a career in baseball. However, as he grew into his teenage years, he had been practical enough to realize it would probably never happen. Now, in just his second season as a professional baseball player, he was already playing in the major leagues.

  A woman sitting on a bench caught his attention. She was obviously pregnant, and Matt noticed a look of contentment on her face as she tossed a handful of breadcrumbs to the pigeons scurrying at her feet. Moments later, she smiled, her face radiating with joy as her husband came into view.

  Matt watched them embrace before turning away. He wanted that in his own life, that sense of contentment, a family of his own. Just as those thoughts crossed his mind, he saw her. Slim and athletic, she moved through the crowded sidewalks with relative ease. Her dark hair was pulled back at the base of her neck, falling past her shoulders. Ivory skin stretched over high cheekbones, and her gray eyes surveyed the surroundings as she walked.

  She hesitated ever so slightly when her gaze fell upon him. He stared a moment longer before forcing his eyes back to the sidewalk in front of him. His hands balled in frustration—here he was on a beautiful spring day, and he couldn’t even acknowledge that he knew the dark-haired beauty down the street, much less the fact that he was married to her.