The Danger

  “Boy!” shouted English, lunging for his charge.

  Accelerating in the current, Kaz noticed for the first time how huge the shark was — much larger than he remembered Clarence. He could also make out pale yellow markings on the dark gray skin, almost like polka dots. The mouth looked wrong, too, limp and floppy. The tiger shark had powerful jaws, capable of snapping a person in two.

  The truth came to Kaz in a moment of horror. This wasn’t Clarence at all! This was a twenty-five-foot whale shark — a huge but harmless plankton eater.

  He had let go of the anchor line — the lifeline — for nothing.

  * * *

  Menasce Gérard watched Kaz’s receding form disappear in the surging current. He had no doubt that he could catch up to the boy. But then the two of them would be lost, with no way to call for rescue. No, the only course of action was to remain here; to remain calm. He would complete his decompression, return to the Pizarro, and then go after the boy.

  Mon dieu, those teenagers were trouble. Yet he had to admit that without Kaz, they never would have recovered the captain’s body. Oui, he owed the boy that. His stubborn insistence on joining this expedition was as courageous as it was foolhardy.

  English regarded his watch. He still had more than forty minutes to go, but he could cut that time in half. It was risky, but necessary to rescue the boy.

  Twenty nervous minutes later, he broke the surface. Not wanting to risk even a short swim in the powerful current, he hauled himself and his equipment straight up the anchor line, and swung a long leg over the gunwale of the Pizarro.

  Vanover’s remains had already been placed inside a gray body bag on the deck. Perhaps that was best — to remember Braden as he was, not in this state.

  But this was a time for action, not reflection.

  “That was fast,” commented Captain Torrington. “Where’s Kaz?”

  English kicked away his flippers and flung off his equipment. “The Zodiac! Vite!”

  Torrington did not ask questions. In the few seconds it took for the guide to scramble out of his dripping wet suit, she had the inflatable raft on the dive platform, ready for launch. She suggested one change of plan. “You must be exhausted. Let me look for him.”

  English shook his head. “I let him dive, me. He is on my conscience.” He tossed the Zodiac into the water and stepped inside. As the outboard motor roared to life, he looked around helplessly. Kaz had been drifting for almost half an hour.

  Who could guess how far away the boy might be?

  Tired.

  Kaz’s awareness diminished one wave at a time, until only that single word remained.

  He bobbed in the heavy chop, kept afloat by the air in his B.C. But he felt nothing anymore — no motion, no spray, no heat from the blazing sun. He knew only his own exhaustion.

  His sense of time had been the first to go. Underwater, fighting the current, he had lost track of the decompression schedule. Terrified of ascending too soon, he’d done the only thing that made any sense — stayed under until his oxygen had run out. At that point, he’d had no choice. He had broken the waves, gasping for air.

  He had no idea how long he’d been floating here. Hours? Days? The one thing he knew with absolute clarity was that it couldn’t go on much longer.

  He struggled against the confusion, reciting his name, address, and telephone number — concrete facts to replace his disorientation.

  “My name is Bobby Kaczinski … I play right defense …”

  Then what are you doing in the middle of the ocean?

  It took a moment for him to come up with the answer to that question.

  “I’m a diver. I was on a dive, but something went wrong.” He could not remember what, just that he was here, and had been here for a long time.

  He barely noticed when the roar of the outboard motor swelled over the whitecaps. Nor did he recognize the dark features that loomed over him as he was lifted into the inflatable raft. But the face of his rescuer was the most welcome sight he’d ever laid eyes on.

  * * *

  Adriana and Dante hurried through the narrow streets of the tiny village of Côte Saint-Luc.

  They had ridden their bikes back from the oil rig where they’d spent the afternoon with Star. At Poseidon, they’d been greeted by a message taped to Dante’s cabin door: Boy is at my home.

  It was signed Menasce Gérard.

  “What’s Kaz doing at English’s place?” Dante queried as they passed the bar and grill where they had bought Star’s lunch many hours before. “Do you suppose he’s got a dungeon in there somewhere?”

  “That was no easy dive they went on today,” Adriana reminded him. “I’ll bet Kaz did well, and English is having him over for dinner. We might be invited, too.”

  “That guy hates our guts,” grumbled Dante. “If he’s having us for dinner, it’s because we’re the main course.”

  She swallowed hard, afraid to say it out loud. “Do you think they found the captain?”

  “I sure hope so. I don’t like the idea of him lost down there.”

  English lived in a tiny cottage in the center of town. The big dive guide answered their knock, scowling as usual. They looked beyond him to where Kaz sat in a high-backed rattan chair, drinking from a steaming mug.

  Adriana stared. Kaz’s face gleamed with a thick coating of cream covering an angry red sunburn. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” said Kaz. “I’m okay.”

  “But how’d you get roasted underwater?” Dante persisted.

  “I lost the anchor line during decomp,” Kaz explained. “Drifted for a while. But we found the captain.”

  “Thank God,” Adriana breathed.

  English spoke up. “This ointment is the best remedy. There is an old woman in the hills who makes it. Also the tea. Good for the dehydration.”

  “Don’t ask me to describe the taste,” Kaz added sourly.

  “So what happens now?” Dante asked English. “With the captain, I mean.”

  “The body will be shipped to his sister in Florida.” The dark eyes flashed bitter resentment at them. “You are maybe surprised there is no miracle cure for three days drowned?”

  Adriana felt instant tears spring to her eyes. “You blame us for his death, don’t you?”

  The dive guide didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “I blame only the bad luck. But if you do not come to my island, Braden, he is still alive, yes?”

  “We’re so sorry,” she barely whispered. “He was really good to us.”

  “I think you take your friend and go now.” It was not a suggestion; they were being dismissed.

  Kaz stood up. “You probably saved my life — again.”

  “It was you who found Braden,” English said grudgingly. He looked over to where Adriana, always the archaeologist, was staring at the weathered wooden carving of an eagle’s head and wings that hung in a fishnet in the window of the small cottage. “And you, mademoiselle,” he added impatiently. “What may I say that might drive you away from me and my property?”

  Kaz spoke up. “Give her a break.”

  “This piece,” Adriana persisted. “I e-mailed a picture of it to my uncle, and he thinks it might be just as old as some of the other stuff we found.”

  English sighed. “If I explain you this thing, you will leave, yes?”

  “Please,” said Adriana, flushed with embarrassment.

  “The story of my supposed-to-be English ancestor — after the shipwreck, he floated to Saint-Luc on this wood.”

  The girl’s eyes shone with excitement. “Uncle Alfie said the piece probably broke off a ship, because the back is all jagged! And the wood definitely doesn’t come from here!”

  English was unimpressed. “This is family legend only — probably not true. And now you will do me the favor to go home.”

  Kaz paused at the door. “It was worth it — going after the captain, I mean. I’m glad we found him.”

  “I, too, am glad,” said Menas
ce Gérard.

  08 September 1665

  Samuel came awake to the strong taste of rum being forced down his throat. He gagged.

  “Drink it, Samuel,” ordered York. “It’ll clear your head.” Once again the burning liquid was forced past his lips.

  Choking and spitting, he sat up and leaned back against the bulwark. He would have vomited, too, had there been anything in his belly. For three days, the crew of the Griffin had battled the storm. There had been no time for eating or sleeping with the destruction of the ship so close at hand.

  The storm. That was what was different now. The tempest had passed, praise heaven. The rain had ceased, the wind was down, and the sea was calm. But the Griffin — the barque looked like the aftermath of a battle. Ropes and debris littered the deck. The mizzenmast had been snapped in half, and a loose starboard cannon had smashed through planking and partially collapsed a companionway.

  The cabin boy’s eyes turned to York. The barber’s white smock was spattered with blood. Amputations of broken or crushed limbs, thought Samuel. The pungent smell of burned flesh filled the air. Stumps sealed, wounds cauterized, all to prevent an infection that would very likely come anyway.

  The feeling of hopelessness that washed over Samuel was becoming more and more familiar. His had not been a happy life — he had been kidnapped from his family at the age of six, and had worked as a chimney sweep before running away to sea. Yet the despair that visited him now was sharper than what he remembered from his deprived childhood. Fear of dying was not nearly as unpleasant as fear of living. The captain and crew of the Griffin were privateers — licensed pirates. Murderers, torturers, thieves. The world would have been a finer place had the ship and all hands gone down in the gale.

  “Any idea where we are, sir?” Samuel asked listlessly.

  “None at all, sad to say,” the barber told him. “Separated from the fleet and leagues off course. ’Twill be a miracle if any of us see home again. Now shake a leg. The captain’s cabin needs tidying after the storm.”

  James Blade’s quarters were in a frightful state. He was not a neat man to begin with, hurling objects in his terrible temper, and letting dropped items lie where they fell. The storm had added to this disarray. Possessions and bedclothes were strewn about the deck space, and a crystal decanter of brandy had shattered. Books had toppled from the shelving and lay open, the paper soaking up the brown liquid.

  Samuel rescued the books first, out of a feeling that they were more precious than anything else in the room. Although he could not understand the strange symbols on their pages, he suspected that the volumes revealed a world less harsh than this one. A world where life held more than suffering, violence, and greed.

  Lying in the twisted bed linens was the captain’s snake whip, its baleful emerald eye glowing from its setting in the carved whalebone handle. Samuel drew back. This was the object he hated more than any other — almost as much as he hated Captain Blade himself. The image of Evans the sail maker, Samuel’s only friend, brought tears to the cabin boy’s eyes. The poor old man had tasted this whip many times. Those floggings had brought on the terrible circumstances in which Blade had pushed Evans to his death.

  He was about to make up the captain’s berth when the cry came:

  “Sail ho!”

  A ship! The fleet!

  By the time Samuel reached the companionway, seamen were flocking to the port gunwale, and an excited babble rose from the deck. Samuel joined the rush, careful to avoid stepping on the rats that any shipboard stampede was sure to stir up.

  Captain Blade strode to the rail. “Well, come on, man! Is she one of ours?”

  “She’s square-rigged, sir! I’m looking for a marking.”

  With a practiced flick of the wrist, Blade snapped open his brass spyglass and put it to his eye.

  “A galleon, by God! She’s a Spaniard!”

  York pushed his way forward. “One of the treasure fleet?”

  “Aye!” roared the captain. “Storm-damaged and helpless. Take up your swords, lads! This night we’ll be counting our plunder!”

  Star sat up in bed and swung her legs over the side, her features set in an expression of grim determination.

  I will not be crippled by this. I had a disability before, and it didn’t stop me. This isn’t going to beat me, either.

  But her legs buckled instantly, and no force of will could straighten them. A flailing arm tried to catch the nightstand, but succeeded only in upending the duffel bag that sat there. The pain that came when her shoulder made contact with the hard floor was nothing compared with the anguish in her heart.

  I didn’t expect to tap-dance today, but shouldn’t there be some sign of improvement? Some ray of hope that I’m getting better? Something?

  Enraged, she picked up the first thing her hand closed on — the bone handle. With a cry, she hurled it with all her might across the room. With a crack, it struck the steel door frame and bounced off.

  All at once, her anger turned inward. Sure, that makes sense. Smash a three-hundred-year-old artifact. That’ll help you walk.

  Now the only piece from the shipwrecks that Cutter didn’t know about was lying on the floor like a dropped pencil. She had to hide it away before anybody saw it.

  Using her arms, which were swimmer-strong, she began to pull herself across the tiles. Panting, she reached for the hilt. It was just out of her grasp.

  “Room 224,” came a familiar voice from outside in the reception area.

  Oh, no, Marina Kappas!

  In a desperate bid, Star stretched her body to full extension, snatched up the carved whalebone, and wriggled back toward the bed. There were footsteps in the hall as she stashed the handle back in the duffel, zipped it shut, and shoved it under the nightstand.

  Two legs appeared in the doorway. “Star, what are you doing on the floor?” the striking Californian asked in alarm.

  “The Australian crawl,” Star replied sarcastically. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to walk, and it isn’t happening.”

  And then a soft voice spoke her name.

  For the first time, she looked up. “Dad,” she barely whispered.

  So much had happened in the past weeks, but their exotic location had given it a dreamlike fairy-tale quality. Now, to see her father — someone from home, from her real life — brought it all crashing down on her.

  It was heartbreaking and terrifying at the same time.

  Mr. Ling scooped his daughter off the floor and lifted her gently back to her bed. There he held her and let her cry.

  Zipped safely away in the duffel bag, the whalebone handle rested on a pile of wadded-up T-shirts. What Star had been in too much of a hurry to notice was that the collision with the door frame had chipped a piece of coral from the hilt. The stone set in its center now glowed a deep fiery green.

  * * *

  The crane was so large that, when its winch was in operation, the roar was like an airport runway during takeoff. Poseidon Oceanographic Institute had nothing like it. This titanic piece of equipment, along with Antilles IV, the enormous ship that supported it, was on loan from Antilles Oil Company. It was normally used to salvage lost drill parts and underwater piping. But today the quarry was Deep Scout, the research submersible that had been disabled and abandoned by the late Captain Vanover and the four interns.

  Three hundred feet below, oil company divers fastened grappling hooks and lift bags to the crippled sub’s hull. And then the powerful cables began to haul Deep Scout from its watery prison. The lift bags inflated as the vehicle rose and the air inside expanded.

  Minutes later, Deep Scout broke the surface, its clear bubble gleaming in the sun. Dripping, it was winched onto the expansive work bed of the Antilles IV, where dozens of crew members awaited it.

  Far astern, a second, smaller crane was in operation. It was raising the diving bell, which housed the salvage divers. It also acted as a decompression chamber, saving the deep-sea workers the need to make d
ecompression stops in the water.

  Inside the bell, the men played cards, read magazines, and snoozed the time away. But one pair of eyes was glued to the porthole, following the progress of the work on Deep Scout.

  English watched intently as the crew shoveled an endless supply of wet mud out of the sub’s belly. Oui, this was in agreement with what the four teenagers had told him. Two fiberglass plates had separated, causing Deep Scout to scoop up huge quantities of sand and mud from the ocean floor. The extra weight had made the vehicle too heavy to return to the surface.

  English and his fellow divers were used to decomps that lasted up to two weeks, but today their stay was short. After two and a half hours, the bell was opened, and the deep-water crew emerged. By this time, the sub’s titanium husk was suspended above the salvage deck. A single technician stood below, examining the vehicle and making notes on a clipboard.

  English went to join him, peering up at the short, snub-nosed hull. He spotted the loose plates almost at once.

  He pointed. “Here — this was the problem, yes?”

  The man nodded. “The temperature gauge is behind there.” He frowned. “I can’t imagine how the plates came apart. It’s never happened before, and this boat’s fifteen years old.”

  The native guide squinted for a better look. According to the interns, the damage had been done by a collision with the shark Clarence. But, alors, this seemed unlikely. The attack of a large tiger shark would batter the fiberglass, leaving dents from the rounded snout. These panels were intact except for the locking mechanism, which was bent apart.

  A one-in-a-million shot from an angry predator?

  No. Then the connection would be bent inward. This was bent outward — almost as if it had been pried apart….

  “Sabotage?” he mused aloud.

  The technician laughed. “What for? Who would go after a research sub? It’s got nothing but bottom samples and rare algae.”

  It took a lot to surprise Menasce Gérard, but when his mind made the leap, he was profoundly shocked. Perhaps other missions were seeking sand and algae. But on this occasion, Deep Scout had been after sunken treasure.