by Blair Howard
I’d called her just before I went to close out the day with Leo, and she was waiting for me when I got back to the cottage. She looked fantastic in a white bikini and an almost transparent, red-and-white flowered beach cover. I went to grab her, but she was having none of it.
“Not right now,” she said, backing away. “I’ve arranged something special, and they’re waiting for us. So do what you have to; get changed, and let’s go.”
“Whoa. Wait just a minute. I don’t want to be around anyone but you, and I need to talk to Tim before I do anything. So cancel whatever it is you’ve arranged.”
“Nope. You’ll like this. I know you will. Tim and Sammie are outside on the patio. So strip; get into swim gear and a shirt. Take five to talk to Tim, and then we’re away to the dock.”
“Damn, damn, damn,” I mumbled as I headed to the bedroom. “Is this how it’s going to be? I hate people making me—”
“I can hear you!”
Still grumbling to myself, I did as she’d asked. I changed into a pair of Tommy Bahama swim trunks and a loose-fitting white linen shirt and headed out to find Tim. He and Sammie were indeed on the patio, he with an incongruous white shield covering his nose, Sammie looking very fetching in a black one piece.
“Hey,” I said as I dragged out a chair and joined them at the table. “I need a quick word.”
“You got it,” Tim said.
“Did Tommy Quinn give you the fingerprint scans?”
“Yep. He sent the files to me. I was going to run comparisons this afternoon. Is that okay?”
“Yes, fine. Amanda and I are heading out; for how long, I have no idea, but it would be nice if you could have that ready for us by morning. Can you do that?”
“Sure. No problem. I already have the basic CSIpix Matcher fingerprint comparator software in the Cloud. I can use that, and everything else I need is on my laptop, or back at the office, which I’m connected to via Wi-Fi. Anyway, if we’re just comparing local images—family and staff—I have what I need. I’ll just transfer everything from Daisy and Lieutenant Quinn’s files to my computer and away we go. If I need to get into AFIS, however…. Well, I can do it, but it will take a little time.”
“You can get into the national AFIS database?” I asked, stunned at the very idea.
“Um… uh, no,” he said, sheepishly. “Of course, not. Well, not officially.”
Oh hell. The boy’s going to end up in jail, and me along with him.
“Do not,” I said, as sternly as I could, which wasn’t easy, considering the wounded-puppy look he was giving me. “Do not do that ever again. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“We’ll get Kate to do it, okay?”
He nodded again, this time grinning.
“In the meantime, this CSI software you have—and I don’t like the sound of that either—it will do what we need?”
“Oh yeah, and it’s a private proprietary software—CSIpix is a legitimate company. You bought the software for me a few months ago for—”
“I did?”
“Well, you didn’t. I did. It only cost, like, six hundred, so….”
“Tim, why do you never ask me when you want something? Why do you just go ahead and get it?”
“Well you’re always so busy! And six hundred’s not a lot, not for this kind of tech.”
“From now on, you ask, damn it… still, I’m glad you have it. If it will do what we need, that is.”
“Oh, it will, so long as I don’t need to get into AFIS—”
“Stop. I said no more AFIS, and I meant it. Now, I need to get the hell out of here before I pull a Donald on you and fire your ass.”
I didn’t miss the sly grin he gave me as I got up and shoved back my chair. I leaned over, put both hands flat on the tabletop in front of him, leaned in close, and whispered loudly enough for them both to hear, “Log into AFIS one more time and I swear….”
The grin never left his face. Damn it. The boy knows me far too well.
“Have a nice time, boss.”
I shook my head and left them to it.
Ten minutes later Amanda and I were at the dock, and she was right. The moment I saw the Lady May I fell in love with her. She was a forty-four-foot Lagoon 440 catamaran sailboat, the most beautiful boat I’d ever seen.
“Well?” Amanda asked. “Did I do good or what?”
“Depends. I hope there’s someone to sail her.”
“Of course there is, silly. Come and meet Captain Walker and Tag.”
And what a pair they were.
Walker was a Barbados native in his early thirties, a tall black man with a shaved head and an overwhelming sense of humor. He liked to talk, constantly, but I took to him immediately. He wore only a pair of raggedy cargo shorts, and sported a set of muscles that had to be seen to be believed. Tag, however, was something else altogether. She too was a Barbadian, tall, slim, with skin the color of coffee grounds and a huge halo of black hair. She was maybe twenty-five and dressed in cut-off jeans she could only have gotten into with the aid of a shoehorn, and a scarlet bikini top. She was beautiful, quiet, and graceful.
“Welcome to the Lady May,” Walker said, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. He reached out, grabbed my hand, and shook it vigorously. “Let’s get aboard. We got a long way to go.”
“Keep your eyes in your head, Harry,” Amanda whispered as we followed them up onto the boat.
I slipped my arm around her waist and whispered in her ear, “I have eyes only for you.”
“If that’s true, boy did you ever change,” she whispered back.
“Not fair,” I said, taking her hand and steadying her as she stepped onto the boat.
“What would you like to drink?” Tag asked, as Amanda and I took our seats at the rear of the well.
“I don’t suppose you have any—”
“Laphroaig?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer, went on, “Of course. Mrs. Starke provided a bottle.” There it was again: “Mrs. Starke.” It was a little unnerving, but I was beginning to get used to it, and I liked it.
“Just a small one for now please, Tag. What do you and Captain Walker have planned for us this afternoon?”
“We gonna cruise to Black Rock at Salt Island in the BVI,” she replied, “for some snorkeling over the wreck of the RMS Rhone. She sank in a hurricane in 1867. The stern section of the ship, what’s left of it, lies between fifteen to thirty-five feet underwater. The rest of the wreck is much deeper. The water is crystal clear. You’ll love it. Then we’ll have a bite to eat. You can get some sun, take it easy in the guest suite as we sail back, if you want—” she looked slyly at Amanda as she said that last bit “—and we’ll be back on Calypso Key by about 7:15. Does that sound good?”
It did, and we settled ourselves down to watch as they made the boat ready to leave. In less than ten minutes we were heading northeast at a fine clip. It was one of those magical days. The sky was blue, dotted here and there with fluffy white clouds, and the sun shone down on the Lady May as she cut through the calm water that gurgled along the twin hulls, talking to us, singing a song I couldn’t understand but that was strangely hypnotic nonetheless.
Amanda had stripped off her beach cover and was stretched out on one of the trampolines up front. The sun was high, but she already had a tan and was lathered in sunscreen, so she was in little danger of burning. Me? I had a tan too, but mine was a five or ten minute a day thing, and I figured no amount of sunscreen would save me from the ravages of Mr. Sol. That being so, I had seated myself under the awning on the forward bridge and, with the small shot of Laphroaig now nothing more than a memory, was sipping on a very tall, very cold Yellow Bird.
With the boat under full sail, she fairly flew over what few waves there were. We’d been out for no more than twenty minutes when I heard Amanda squeal.
“What the hell?” I asked Walker, jumping up, trying to see what was wrong.
“It’s arl right,” he said, grinnin
g. “It’s just dolphins she’s spotted.”
“Harry, Harry, c’mere, quickly.”
I set my drink down in the cup holder and made my way unsteadily forward, hanging on to any rope or cable I could catch hold of.
She was on her knees at the front of the trampoline, hanging over, looking down into the water. She looked around, saw me coming, and gestured for me to join her. More than a little unhappy about it, I carefully inched my way onto the trampoline and knelt down beside her.
“Look,” she said, pointing first here, then there, then back again. At first all I could see was the water rushing by under the boat and for a minute it made my head spin, but then I saw them. There were at least six bottlenose dolphins under and in front of the boat, keeping pace with it, surging up and down, sweeping from side to side. Occasionally one would break the surface, its great gray back there one second and gone the next. Amanda was entranced and, yep, I admit it; I was too. And then they were gone.
For maybe five minutes we waited, staring down into the rushing water, but the show was over, and I reluctantly rolled over onto my back and gazed up into a perfect blue and white sky, and then at the bulging foresail straining and creaking under the pressure of an eight-knot breeze. I didn’t want the moment to end, ever.
Amanda must have been able to sense my feelings, because she too rolled over, her chest against mine, her cheek next to mine, and then she slid her arms around my neck, and for the next thirty minutes we just lay there, enjoying the moment; life was indeed good.
Except…. Oh hell. I can already feel my back burning.
It was just after three thirty that afternoon when Tag dropped anchor off Black Rock Point on the west side of Salt Island, and we weren’t alone. There were at least a dozen other boats of various types and sizes at anchor.
“Don’t worry,” Watson said with a grin. For a moment, I thought he was going to finish the iconic piece of advice and tell us to be happy, but he didn’t.
“This is one of the best scuba diving sites in arl the Caribbean,” he said instead, opening a locker and taking out several sets of masks, flippers, and snorkels. “But we’re goin’ snarkellin’. You can both swim, I take it?” He didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “Have you snarkeled before? You have. That’s good. You know what to do then.
“I’ve set her close to the stern of the wreck where the water’s shallow—well, I say shallow. It’s fifteen feet or so at best, but the water’s clear, there’s plenty to see, and if you’re adventurous you can make it down to the wreck easy enough. Most of them people is scuba divin’ in deeper water, so we won’t be runnin’ into them. Here, put these on while I’m talkin’.” He handed us each a set of gear and he and Tag set about putting on their own. “Tag and me, we’re gonna take you over the wreck and show you the sights. Okay?”
We both nodded.
“So,” he continued, “let me tell you what we got here. This is some fine divin’. Did you ever see the movie The Deep with Jacqueline Bisset and Nick Nolte? No? Oh well. Never mind. Anyway, some of the underwater sequences were shot right here.” He stood, wriggled his feet inside his flippers, and when he was comfortable he sat down again.
“Now then, it was on a dark day in October of 1867 when the RMS Rhone set her anchor off Peter Island just over there.” He waved his hand in the general direction of the island and continued, “When the hurricane hit the islands, it descended upon them quick-like. So strong were the winds that the anchor wouldn’t hold the ship, and she began to drift. The captain ordered that the line be cut. He figured he would make a run for the open sea. But the eye of the storm came in from the south and slammed the ship onto the rocks right where we are now, at Black Rock Point. She hit the reef and broke her back and went down in just a few minutes, so they say. All but 23 of the 146 souls on board perished. Some were recovered and are buried here on the island….” For a moment, he lapsed into silence, and then was soon back to his normal, cheery self.
“Ready? Good. Let’s do it then. Oh. One more thing—well, several, really. Stay close to me and Tag. Don’t touch anything. Stay off the wreck. There are big eels down there; don’t touch them. Take off your jewelry. Rings too, Mrs. Starke. I know, I know, you only just got it, but shiny stuff catches the light underwater and glitters. A barracuda likes nothing better than to snap at fingers with glittery things on them…. Oh come now. It will be arl right. They don’t like people, stay away from them… mostly. Put your things in here. I’ll lock it up.” And he did.
“Put some of this on the inside of the lens,” he said, handing Amanda a bottle of baby shampoo. “It will stop it fogging up. Wash that stuff off when you get in the water. Are we ready? Good!” And he jumped to his feet, waddled to the stern, and slid easily into the water. Tag hung back, waiting. I helped Amanda into the water and then jumped in after her.
It was amazing. The water felt like warm silk on my skin. I looked around. The others were close to me; we were in a tight group.
“Take no notice of other divers and snarkelers,” Walker shouted. “Stay with me; be careful; don’t touch anything, especially the coral. Masks on? Now put your head under, take a look around, then tell me what you see.”
I pulled the mask and snorkel down, breathed in through my nose so that mask gripped my face, and looked down. An impossible distance below, I could see the barnacle- and coral-encrusted structure, a tangle of ironwork, plating, and cable that stretched away into the darkness as the water grew deeper. Almost directly below was a huge, coral-encrusted shaft.
I brought my head up out of the water. “Oh my God,” I spluttered. “It’s incredible.”
“What you see down there,” Walker said, “was once the rudder post of the Rhone. The tip is maybe thirty feet. You can make it easy enough. You want to try?”
I looked at Amanda. She nodded. I took her hand.
“Let’s do it,” I said, and we both took a deep breath, jackknifed, and headed slowly down into the silent world that once had been the RMS Rhone.
I grabbed hold of the post with one hand and pulled Amanda to me with the other. I slipped my arm around her waist and for a few seconds we gazed out at the fantastic underwater world. We paused long enough to take in what little we could see of the sprawling wreck: a giant propeller, parts of the great engine and gears, the massive propeller shaft, and the largely intact stern section of the ship. And then we had to return to the surface to take a breath.
“Oh my God,” Amanda gasped. “It’s so beautiful. Did you see the fish, all those beautiful colors? Let’s do it again. C’mon.” And she grabbed my hand, jackknifed, her flippers in the air, and down she went, hauling me after her.
Again we anchored ourselves to the rudder post… well, I did. She anchored herself to me, to my back, her arms wrapped around me.
Details of the wreck began to emerge. The ship was lying on its starboard side. The stern was almost intact but the hull had begun to collapse. Here and there, picked out by shafts of sunlight from the surface, I could see pieces of the wooden deck, the teak planks remarkably well preserved after nearly a hundred and fifty years underwater. And then Amanda grabbed my hand again and pulled, and once again we surfaced.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, coughing as she took in water. “Oh my God. Have you ever seen anything like it? I’m going back.” And again, she turned her tail to the sun and, with a flash of her white-clad bottom, disappeared in a flurry of water. I followed. Now it was my turn. I slipped my arms around her, spit out the snorkel, and nibbled her neck, her ears; she wriggled around to face me, clamped herself onto me, and together we rose once more to the surface.
We dove down maybe a half dozen more times. Each time we grew a little more adventurous, until finally we made it onto the deck, a fantastic, silent world of indescribable beauty: corals, anemones, tube sponges, and the fish—it was a work of art more than 140 years in the making. Over almost a century and a half, the Rhone had transformed herself from a ship into a reef, and had become
home to a myriad of undersea life. The Caribbean lobster, the moray eel, turtles, and thousands of reef fish: gray angels, sergeant majors, triggers, spotted eagle rays, sting rays, yellowtail snappers, and a hundred more I couldn’t possibly begin to name made up its resident population.
We didn’t want to leave, but Walker and Tag were already making the boat ready. So, reluctantly, we climbed the ladder onto the stern.
“We’ll be under way in a couple of minutes,” Walker said. “There are heads—bathrooms—below. Why don’t you take a shower and… maybe a nap?” he suggested slyly. “You can use the master suite. We won’t disturb you. We’ll give you a shout when we’re thirty minutes or so out from Calypso.”
I looked at Amanda. She nodded, and that was what we did.
The cruise back to Calypso was one I’ll never forget. The shower—we did it together—was another experience I’ll never forget. By the time we made it in, the boat was under way and pitching slightly, tossing us back and forth against each other. It was a little disconcerting at first, but then we got the hang of it and the shower soon turned into something else entirely.
We never did get that nap, as Walker knew damn well we wouldn’t, and boy did he look pleased with himself when we finally emerged from below.
“You two look like you need a drink!” he shouted down from the forward bridge. “Tag, look after the customers!”
And she did. A couple of minutes later, I was sipping on another Yellow Bird and Amanda on what could only have been a half pint of gin and tonic.
-----
Dinner that Sunday evening was a quiet affair. Amanda and I were exhausted, and my arm was giving me a lot of grief from all the swimming. I looked down at the two scarlet scars—courtesy of Mr. Tree’s partner, Kathryn Greene—and inwardly shuddered. Involuntarily, I rubbed the two wounds. The one on the inside, the entry wound, was quite small; the exit wound and surgical scars were something else. The surgeon had done an amazing job repairing the artery and pulling it all back together, but I was beginning to wonder if I would ever again be totally pain-free.