“It’s a constant battle keepin’ da equipment workin’,” he said, noticing my amazement. “We gets people renting the gear don’ know how to take the proper care. Biggest problem’s the hoses. Start leaking around the tank attachments and mouth pieces. People finish their dives, they leave tanks attached to regulators and buoyancy vests. Drop the heavy tanks on the regulators. Then they complain ’cause they have a faulty breathing system.”
“What can you tell me about Michael?” I asked. “How did you two meet?”
“I met Michael at the Jolly Roger, just down around the pier. We were both drinking a beer. Started talkin’. Found out he was a scientist, lookin’ at the water and the reef. Turns out we had a lot in common. Dive operators in the BVI know about protecting da reef. Been helpin’ put in mooring balls at the dive sites to keep boats from anchoring in the coral.”
“What’s that got to do with Michael?” I asked.
“Mike and me, we went out a couple times a week. I’d help him collect his samples; he’d go along to help me check moorings. Help me repair ’em. Stuff like that. We be friends and dive buddies. He was a good man to have alongside at one hundred feet—comfortable in water, levelheaded. I sure do miss havin’ him around.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Same’s the police,” he said. “Mike got hisself caught in that damn wreck. Outta air and seventy feet down is a bad combination.”
“Was there anything that seemed unusual about it?” I asked.
“Naw, not really,” he said. “Some of the guys wonder how he managed to get hisself caught. Edmund Carr for one. He was one of the divers that went down and found him. But depends on da situation. I wasn’t there. But Mike wouldn’ta panicked.”
“Why do you think he went out there alone?”
“Well, that’s somethin’ I’ve wondered about. He hardly ever would go out by hisself unless nobody else could go. Usually call me or one of the other guys to go, always someone wantin’ to go out. Sometimes Lydia.”
“Did he call you that day?” I asked.
“That’s the thing,” he said. “He never called me.”
“What’s the site like?”
“Well, wreck’s in about seventy to eighty feet of water,” he said. “Hard to find unless ya know where it is. Not too many divers out there, but lotsa fish, lotsa sponge, coral. Not so disturbed as wrecks like the
Rhone
. Guess that’s why Mike was interested. He’d been out there coupla times in the weeks before he died. Kind of unusual really. Him spendin’ so much time at dat wreck.”
“Any chance you could take me out?” I asked.
“Well, sure, any excuse to drop these chores,” he whispered, nodding to the door. “But it’s no novice dive. You been diving much?”
I gave him the rundown; police diver in Denver, hundreds of dives in water so cold hypothermia would set in within minutes without protection.
The kind of diving that I did was in an underwater world unlike James’s. It was a suffocating, claustrophobic place, made worse by the cumbersome equipment. Not one inch of skin was exposed to the hazards of cold and contamination. First came a heavy thermal under layer, then a dry suit, a thick, loose-fitting rubber ensemble that looked a lot like kids’ pajamas with the feet in them. The neck was designed to fit to a point just short of strangulation, and the rubber hood was guaranteed to take off huge chunks of hair upon removal. Then came the dive vest with the tank and regulator, which supplied air from the tank to the face mask. The mask snugged tight around the entire face and had an earphone and speaker in it for communication with the shore. Last were fins and weights, some twenty to thirty pounds, enough to sink the diver to the bottom.
Once in the water, we swam blind in liquid thick with green and brown slime. Sediment and pollution limited vision to about two feet from the tip of the nose, sometimes less.
Physical stresses from cold, cramping muscles, pressure on ears, and constraining equipment exacerbated the psychological impact. Anxiety could work its way into total panic. Monsters appeared out of the muck; water crushed into the chest; breathing became strained, then impossible. Reason vanished; fear could turn to unadulterated terror. Then only one thought prevailed—“Get the hell out of the water!” I’d learned to swallow it, talk myself back. I don’t know why I kept doing it. Maybe just to prove that I could. That I was capable of that kind of emotional and physical control.
The dive and recovery team was mobilized whenever there was a report of a victim in the water or foul play that involved underwater recovery of evidence. There was nothing glamorous about the job. Seldom were we in rescue mode. By the time divers were called in, the victim had gone under for good.
Only once had I actually brought someone up who had been revived. We’d been training out at Rocky Mountain Lake. We were practicing search patterns, which involved a starting point from which we took ever-increasing arcs to cover the search area. I’d been in the water with one of the novice divers when the call for help came. A kid, playing near the edge, had disappeared. We were at the site in minutes. I went down and started sweeping the area. As usual, visibility was nonexistent. I swam along the bottom, arm outstretched, brushing against rocks and debris—a washing machine.
I’d almost missed the kid, just the tips of my glove brushing against fabric as I swam. I turned, reached out, and found something soft—arms, a face, hair flowing in the current. Her eyes were open, but unseeing. I grabbed her around the waist, kicked hard for the surface, and started CPR the instant I saw daylight. By the time we got her to shore, she was shaking and whimpering. Alive. Mostly, though, I’d pulled bodies out of the lakes and reservoirs of Denver.
“I’ve never had the luxury of diving in warm water or in conditions where I could see more than five feet in front of my nose,” I said, handing James my worn dive certification card.
“No problem. You be in for a treat. Da waters here be like one of dem Disneyland places.”
Disneyland. Christ, these people were fanatics about their ocean. Nothing could be that spectacular. I’d seen underwater pictures. I was sure they were shot just like the postcards of sun-drenched beaches. That’s what photographers get paid for. They place the huge hotels just out of the frame and the busy highway behind them. Same thing with the underwater shots. They get a shapely diver, wearing a bright yellow wet suit, hair flowing behind her, and wait for a pretty fish to swim by. I kept my cynicism to myself.
“Think one of the divers who helped recover the body would come along?” I asked.
“I’ll make a couple calls, see who I can round up. Plan on about one o’clock. What gear do you need?”
“Regulator, weights, and tank,” I said, regretting the fact that my regulator was still in the shop in Denver being reconditioned. They’d promised to have it ready within the week, then called to tell me they were waiting for a part. Right. I put that excuse in the same category as “the dog ate my homework.” I didn’t relish using one of the devices that lay tangled on James’s worktable.
He noticed my discomfort. “No worry; I never be usin’ equipment that’s not in da best workin’ condition,” he said. “I don’t want nobody getting hurt on account of my gear.”
I didn’t like diving without my own regulator. I knew its idiosyncracies. And I kept it in perfect working order, every gasket, fitting, and hose in top condition. James’s equipment was probably okay, but I felt a familiar twinge of uneasiness. I should have paid attention.
Instead, I agreed to meet James back at the shop in a couple of hours and walked back to the hotel. I settled at a quiet table beside the pool for lunch. I’d brought the diving guide that I’d retrieved from Michael’s effects. I wanted to know as much as I could about the site of his death before I ventured beneath the surface. The pages detailing the wreck of the
Chikuzen
were worn, passages underlined, notes in the margins.
According to the guide, the wreck sits in open water nine miles off of Mountain Point, Virgin Gorda. The ship was a 246-foot steel-hulled Korean refrigeration vessel used to service Japanese fishing fleets and later as a floating warehouse on Saint Martin. When Hurricane Henry threatened the island, government officials told the owners to get the decrepit ship out of the area so that it would not damage the docks or sink in the harbor. The owners set the ship on fire and sent it adrift, hoping it would sink offshore. Instead it drifted seventy miles to the BVI. When it became apparent that the ship was headed for Tortola, she was towed out and sunk. That was over a year ago. Since then, she has become home to a vast array of sea creatures. For those who are able to locate her, she is considered a premier dive.
Michael had written a question mark by the description of the boat as a warehouse, a date in the margin—August 2—and a name—Derrick Vanderpool, Port Authority, Saint Martin.
“Hannah Sampson?” I had not noticed the man until he was standing at my table.
“Yes?” I responded, startled.
“Peter O’Brien. Lydia mentioned you, said you are here about Mike. I own the marina, the SeaSail fleet,” he said, gesturing around him. “Live just up the hill. The desk clerk said you were out here. Thought I’d introduce myself.”
To say that O’Brien was handsome would be like saying that skiing Devil’s Crotch at Breckenridge was challenging; it was more like a death wish. My stomach did a quick flip. God, that hadn’t happened since I was sixteen. O’Brien was about six-one, deeply tanned, with chiseled features, a strong chin, and eyes the color of the pool. He reminded me of the guy who plays James Bond. He wore beige shorts, an olive-green polo shirt, and scuffed boat shoes, no socks. Sunglasses hung from a rope around his neck.
“I’d invite you to join me but I’m just on my way out,” I said. “I’d like to talk with you about Michael. Lydia said you were friends.”
“We were,” he said. “Why don’t we talk over dinner. I’m known to be an excellent chef.”
“All right,” I said. Probably a stupid move. O’Brien was way too good-looking, and he was a part of my investigation. But what the hell. I did need to question him; might as well be over food.
“About seven o’clock?” he asked. “I’ll meet you here at the pool and we can walk up to the house.”
“I’ll be here.”
He stopped to talk with the maître d’ on his way out. I never got the bill for lunch. That ended up being the best part of the day. It went straight downhill from there.
Chapter 8
I didn’t think it could get any hotter. It had. By one o’clock even the lizards had taken shelter in the shade. One scurried further under a hibiscus bush as I walked down the sidewalk and back to the dive shop.
James and another man were loading the tanks onto the boat. Sweat ran down their faces and dripped onto the deck. They hardly seemed to notice.
“Hannah,” James said, “this is Harry Acuff.”
“Hello,” I said, shaking the man’s grimy hand. He was small, wiry, and reminded me of the island dogs that roamed the beaches and streets. He had a tattoo of a naked woman on one forearm, on the other a map of Puerto Rico, etched in blue and red.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
“No problem,” he said. “Always happy to help a pretty lady.”
Christ, I thought, what a condescending jerk, but I managed to keep it to myself.
“Harry helped recover Michael’s body. He be workin’ around the marina and over at da boat yard,” said James.
“Yeah, hands in engine grease all day,” Harry said.
I stepped aboard and James headed the dive boat into the main channel. Outside the breakers, the breeze picked up and the temperature dropped at least ten degrees. No wonder people came here to sail. Hiking the islands could only lead to heat stroke and certain death.
“Down there, dat distant island, that be Virgin Gorda,” James said. “That group off to the left is the Dogs. We’ll head between them and Scrub Island, and then it’s about five miles to the wreck. Take about half an hour.”
A dozen sailboats glided past, most of them with the SeaSail logo. Clearly, Peter O’Brien’s charter company was doing well. I wondered how detrimental Michael’s research might be to his business. Proof of the damage from boating could cost him plenty in reduced business and in refitting the entire fleet with holding tanks.
The boats were beautiful, tipping in the breeze. Every so often, one would suddenly alter its course, ropes creaking and sails flapping until the wind caught them from the other side and pulled them taut again.
“Coming about,” James explained. “It’s how a sailboat makes its way against the wind. Nothin’ like an engine if ya ast me. Gets ya there about ten times faster.”
I had the feeling that for sailors, getting there was not the point.
We passed a batch of tiny uninhabited islands that James identified as Great Dog, George Dog, and West Dog. They looked a lot nicer than they sounded. Quiet coves nestled along their shores. Pelicans fished in water that turned from ink to indigo to turquoise, to crystal aquamarine. I spotted a couple of mooring balls scattered in some of the coves.
“Those be the moorings we put in to keep boaters from anchoring in the coral,” James said. “Some great diving around those islands. That’s The Chimney over there. Has underwater canyons and a huge arch covered with coral polyps. Over there’s Bronco Billy. Bunch of canyons and ridges, can see lobster, eel, lots of anemones, sponges, coral, all kinds of fish.”
Another few minutes and James was throttling back on the engine. “This is it,” he said. I wondered how the hell he knew. We were out in the middle of the ink. It looked deep, and I couldn’t see anything until we were just about on top of the slime-encrusted mooring ball that bobbed up and down on the waves.
“How do you find this place?” I asked.
“Come out here enough, ya know where it is. These days, though, anyone with a GPS can find it. Just get the coordinates from the Internet. Used to be easier to spot. Ship had white paint on the hull. Now it’s getting covered with sea life.”