Backwater Tide

by Steven Becker

  Mac took a deep breath. “These kind of ships transported a lot of goods and money. Treasure hunting is not always about Spanish gold. Think about it. If you’re out to make money at this game, salvage of any kind that nets a profit is what you need to focus on. Instead of searching for the decayed bones of four-hundred-year-old wooden ships that barely register on a magnetometer, why not focus on something that’s easier to find and can pay the bills?”

  I had been a little disappointed as well, but Mac was right and I needed to remember that I was here to find a murderer, not discover treasure. My watch showed we had been on the surface for thirty minutes. We had decided on a ninety-minute break before diving again, to allow the nitrogen to dissipate from our bloodstreams and to also allow us about the same bottom time as the first dive. Scrolling through the settings, the computer showed almost an hour of no-decompression bottom time for our second dive if we waited that long.

  Something in the corner of my eye distracted me and I scanned the water, checking for boats and storms—something I should have been doing automatically. My eyes found a school of birds crashing the surface not far away. The water was churned up and small silver humps reflected the sunlight when the fishes’ backs broke the surface as they chased the baitfish. I looked over at Ray and Mac, who had seen them as well. Otherwise it looked like the horizon was clear of any storms, nor were there any signs of the huge, anvil-shaped clouds forming that would bring them.

  October is what the locals call a “shoulder season” here. Midway between the beginning of school and the start of the winter season, the area became almost devoid of tourists. When the weather was as nice as today’s, the locals took advantage, and there were several boats out. A few were heading to the deeper reef or offshore to fish, but there seemed to be a steady stream going in the direction of the Fowey Rocks Lighthouse, which looked about half its true height on the horizon.

  The first in the chain of steel beacons that marked the reef and extended to Key West was a prime snorkeling and diving spot. Some boats, probably seeing the huge blowers now in their upright position on the stern of the Reale, moved in for a closer look—closer than I would have liked. This boat was like bait. With its winches and blowers, it looked like what it was, and we felt the wakes of several boats as they passed close enough to save the waypoint and come back for their own shot at whatever might lie below the surface.

  I tried to ignore them as we planned the next dive. Mac wanted to identify the ship, Ray was intent on further exploration of the hold, and I had to find some kind of clue to justify this endeavor. By now, Martinez likely knew where I was. He might not know who I was with or that we had taken Gross’s boat, but underestimating his abilities had gotten me in trouble before.

  With our dive plan set and the tanks topped off, we relaxed on deck to kill the remainder of the surface interval. Planned correctly and with the assistance of the on-board compressor, we could do four dives before the buildup of nitrogen in our bloodstreams started to affect the bottom times. Anything less than twenty minutes was not worth the effort.

  I continued to scan images on my phone, hoping for an easy identification. A search for Civil War-era wrecks yielded more vessels than I could count. It seemed that the Gulf had seen most of the official action, with New Orleans and Galveston being key cities in the war. The vastness of the Atlantic made it harder to patrol and the Navy, based in Key West, the lone Union outpost in the area, patrolled the waters as best they could.

  The east coast had less of an official history, but the Bahamas, lying fifty miles to our east, had been a hotbed for smugglers. And smuggling meant wealth. My guess was that the ship below us was either a confederate blockade runner or a union patrol. In either event, there was the very real chance that there was wealth aboard. If Gross had been interested, it was likely not of the perishable variety.

  “Time to gear up,” Mac called out.

  I checked my computer and noticed we had about ten minutes until we could start the next dive. Mac was not one to sit and wait, however, and we were just about ready to hit the water when the last minute expired.

  The current had noticeably decreased and we dropped easily to the bottom. Without the energy it had taken to reach the anchor on the first dive, I hoped my air consumption would improve. We reached the site of the main wreck at about the same time and each went our separate ways. Ray soon disappeared in the metal frame and Mac finned around the stern, hoping to find something to identify the wreck.

  I hovered above the smokestack, wondering where to start my search. Trying to imagine Gross’s last dive, I had originally surmised that he’d heard a boat directly above and shot to the surface. And in fact, every so often I could hear the vibration of a boat somewhere above. Underwater, sound travels well, except identifying its source or direction was impossible. Looking up to the surface would have been the only way that Gross could have known there was a boat above.

  I glanced up and saw the hull of the Reale bouncing on the small waves at the surface. At this depth, provided the visibility was good, he could have easily seen another boat. His actions in the few minutes after he’d seen it were what had gotten him killed. It was out of character for an experienced diver, especially when it would take only another minute to safely reach the surface, to bolt and risk his life, and though his tank had been empty, I found it unlikely he’d been out of air.

  I saw Mac’s bubble trail moving along one of the masts and decided to follow. After reaching him, we looked at each other, exchanged the okay signal and I dropped back. As an experienced salvor, he might see things that I would pass by. He stopped several times to brush the sand off a fitting or part, but continued on. Because she was mostly buried in the sand, there was nothing I saw that could identify her; hopefully Mac’s more experienced eye would spot something.

  Just as we had rounded the bow, I heard an engine above. Trying to imagine what Gross had gone through in the last moments of his life, I looked up. The only thing visible was the disturbed water from the hull of Gross’s boat popping in and out of the water as the waves lifted and then dropped it. The engine noise grew louder, though, and I continued to look up. A minute later, I saw the shape of a hull coast to a stop next to the Reale. The propellor stopped and the frequency of the engine noise lowered, indicating it was in neutral.

  I felt the breath tighten in my chest when I realized the hull had the same profile as my center console. I glanced down at my dive computer; we were only thirty minutes into our planned fifty-minute dive. I doubted Mac or Ray would be happy, but feeling like Gross must have, I had to surface.

  Removing the brass clip from my BC, I banged it several times on my tank to get Ray’s and Mac’s attention. It took several repetitions before they acknowledged me and I pointed up at the surface. Ray shook his head, immediately recognizing the profile of the hull; he had the same boat as well. Mac had a different kind of concern in his eyes; one of having our find discovered.

  We headed for the surface, careful to not exceed the speed of our bubbles. Mac held a hand out flat when we were about ten feet below the hull, signaling us to hold there. We adjusted the air in our BCs to obtain neutral buoyancy and waited. Mac motioned to the far side of Gross’s boat and, maintaining his depth, headed in that direction. Ray and I followed. He was counting on using the hull as a blind spot where, unless the newcomer was peering directly over the gunwale, we would be hidden. Reaching the side, we popped our heads above the surface.

  The only sound I could hear was the purring of the small outboard aboard the center console. We were under the bow flare of Gross’s boat but unable to see anything, and I motioned toward the stern. It appeared we had been unobserved up to this point, and though it would have been easier to inflate our BCs we left them in their partially inflated state and finned toward the dive platform.

  Once I rounded the corner of the boat, I saw the forest green T-top of the center console, which confirmed my guess as to the identity of our visitor. />
  Mad now, I removed my fins and placed them on the platform, then climbed out of the water, spitting out my regulator as I stepped onto the deck. I didn’t have to search. Just inside the wheelhouse, Susan McLeash stood with her hands on her hips, staring at me.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked as I pulled the mask off my face and tossed it to the deck. I was about to drop my tank when I saw another figure emerge. He came slowly and when I saw the limp I knew who it was. He propped his boot-encased leg on the larger boat’s gunwale before shifting his weight across and standing on the deck.

  “You’ve gone off the rails this time, Hunter.” Her phone emerged from her pocket and she took several pictures.

  “You trying to cut me out? Just like Gross,” Slipstream spurted.

  I thought for a second before deciding, that if I wrote a memoir, this would be called The Case of the Odd Couples—first Maria and DeWitt and now these two. I was surprised this couple had reunited after the scene at the restaurant last night, but I also knew how shrewd they both could be. Susan’s instincts were as finely honed to be in the wrong place at the right time as Martinez’s were for the podium. There was no doubt that in his drug- and alcohol-induced state Slipstream, in an attempt to impress her, had regaled Susan with stories of treasure.

  “You want to explain what you’re doing here? The boss is pissed and wants you back at headquarters now. Using a crime scene like this.”

  It sounded like a scolding from a kindergarten teacher. Despite her superiority complex, she knew she crossed the line more than I did and needed to watch her step. There had been several of her transgressions, mostly involving firearms, where I had covered for her. “I could ask you the same question,” I told her.

  She hesitated and I watched her eyes as they moved past me to the dive platform. “And who is this?”

  I wanted to leave Mac’s name out of it. He was here doing me a favor and I knew his distaste for publicity. Living with Mel, his girlfriend, on a remote island in the Keys, I knew he craved privacy. Turning, I could see him cringe and I looked back at Susan. It wasn’t her that he was looking at.

  “Mac freaking Travis,” Slipstream spat around his cigar butt. “Now this is getting interesting.”

  Twenty-Two

  Mac ignored the introduction and climbed over the transom. Ray followed. Both men ignored Susan. Mac removed his mask, leaned over the gunwale, and cleared his nose before stepping right into Slipstream’s personal space.

  “Figures you had something to do with this.” He walked past the startled mate, sat on the bench, and removed his dive gear.

  “What is he doing here?” I asked Susan. while looking at Slipstream.

  “It seems I have to use my own sources to get the truth.”

  It sounded like we now had an Internal Affairs department at the Park Service headed by none other than Susan McLeash.

  “Y’all stop bickering,” Ray said, pulling a beer out of a cooler he had brought. He offered one to Mac, who shook his head and grabbed a bottle of water. “We’re out here working the park. That’s the job, isn’t it?”

  “I have a claim to whatever’s down there,” Slipstream said. “Gross and me, we been dragging magnetometers around here for years.”

  I wondered how this was going to go if there was value to a wreck that lay inside the park boundaries. If DeWitt had issued a permit to salvage it, he had done so without authority, but from his constant request for the coordinates where Gross was killed, he apparently hadn’t. “This is federal property. There are no claims here.”

  Mac suddenly perked up. I looked in his direction, but he held his tongue. I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t going to say anything, and that was fine because both Susan and Slipstream were here for their own personal gain. Suddenly we were at a standoff.

  “Go on back,” I told Susan. “We’ll finish up here and I’ll go see Martinez.”

  She suddenly looked unsure of herself. If her goal had been to catch me red-handed at something out of line, she had failed. Her meaningless reprimand was all she had accomplished. While I waited for her to make up her mind, I realized Slipstream was missing. It didn’t take long to find him.

  Stepping out of the wheelhouse, he held the coral-crusted munition that Ray had recovered. “Just like Gross said.”

  He rotated the object in his hands, almost dropping it twice. I knew at one point it had had enough firepower to take out this ship. Mac must have thought the same and grabbed it from him.

  “Y’all don’t know what you’re sitting on,” Slipstream said. “Or what Gross was really up to.”

  “Maybe you could enlighten us.”

  By revealing that he knew something about the wreck, he now had all of us, including Susan, staring at him. I needed to stop his true confession. He must have told her something to get her out here, but it was obvious from the look on her face that she didn’t know everything. If Susan figured out what we were sitting on it would be on the internet within hours—and Martinez would be making an appearance on the evening news. Leaning to my side, I released the bungee strap on the tank next to me and pushed it forward enough to unseat it. Thirty pounds of steel rolling around the deck of a rolling boat is enough to stop anything and as we scrambled for the tank, I pulled Mac aside and told him to take Slipstream below and sort him out.

  Mac nodded and while Ray and I chased down and secured the tank, the two men disappeared. While we worked, Susan sat in one of the deck chairs with her feet curled up under her, likely more concerned about her recent pedicure than what was happening around her.

  I couldn’t hear the conversation, but could tell the difference in Slipstream’s demeanor when he emerged on deck. There was going to be no dramatic reveal. With him contained, I had to get rid of Susan. In the company of four men, however, that was going to be a hard task. I had learned over time that the easiest way to remove her from the equation was to make her a better offer.

  “Think you can track down Jim DeWitt, the state inspector? There’s supposed to be some huge extravaganza this afternoon at the Savoy. Maybe you could get an invitation and check it out.” I could see from the look on her face when she heard the words Savoy and extravaganza in the same sentence that she was already mentally browsing her closet for what to wear. A look of indecision crossed her brow when she found nothing appropriate—but there would be shopping and that settled it for her.

  “Good idea. I’m tired of running around with deckhands anyway.” She took one more look around and carefully climbed over the gunwale to her boat.

  “Deckhand… I’m a goddamned partner,” Slipstream muttered.

  He was as relieved as we were to see her go. I could see it on his face. He was where he wanted to be now, where he felt at home, and where he had a chance to take some riches from the waters that, as of yet, had withheld any reward. Mel Fisher’s famous creed, Today’s the day echoed through my mind when I looked at the newfound optimism in Slipstream’s expression. The famous treasure hunter had said those words thirty years ago when his crew had found the motherload of the Atocha.

  Mac was clearly not happy with him aboard, but as we watched Susan head back to headquarters, I think he was relieved that at least one of them was gone.

  “Where did they find that piece of work?” Mac asked, watching her leave.

  Her boat was porpoising through the waves, barely on plane. I found myself rooting for her by association, willing her to adjust the trim. Finally, she dropped speed and the boat leveled out, but it was far from an efficient attitude. I wondered if Mac’s opinion of the Park Service dropped a notch until I remembered that when I had first met him I was as much of a novice boater as she appeared.

  “Might as well get wet again before she does any damage,” Ray said.

  We agreed and Slipstream was given a stern warning to stay away from the electronics. I doubted, with him having the run of the boat for almost an hour, that he could, and volunteered to skip the dive and babysit. It had
already become apparent that whatever had killed Gross had occurred above the surface of the water. As much as I would have liked to dive, topside was where I needed to be. Besides, a little quality time with my “partner” was probably a good idea.

  Ray and Mac hit the water, both taking large mesh bags to collect any artifacts that might help identify the wreck. That left me staring across the deck of the boat at Slipstream.

  “Got any more of those pills, I might tell you a story.”

  I’d had enough of being his private pharmacy. “I don’t have them. They’re back in the truck.” It was at least the truth.

  “You have no idea how freaking irritating this thing is.” He reached down and released the velcro straps holding the boot in place. It fell free and he moved his leg around like there was nothing wrong with it. There was no guilt at all when he stood up and started walking normally around the deck to restore the circulation. There was no apology for his deception when he tossed it overboard and sat in one of the deck chairs.

  “Seen a beer floating around.”

  I didn’t want to hand out Ray’s stash, but I would offer one to get him to talk. “Maybe you tell me what you know first.”

  He rolled the cigar in his mouth. “There was a whole lot of action out here both before and during the Civil War that ain’t recorded in the usual places. See, lot of rich southerners wanted to be hedging their bets and moved their wealth out of the states, you know—just in case.”

  “I heard the Union set up blockades.”

  “Damned Bahamas got about a thousand islands and they was more interested in New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. Besides, them islands”—he chewed on his cigar and looked to the east—“they been a pirate and smugglers’ haven since old Chris Columbus landed there. Ain’t no way of blockading them.”

  The cigar almost disappeared into his mouth. “Soon as word got out about what was being run across the Stream, them pirates sprung up again, only they called them privateers then.”