ballast here; somebody else spotted a strange timber there; ‘Hey, look at the coin I found off Spanish Rock.’ That kind of thing. So it wasn’t hard for Treece to check the rumor, and it was true. A private yacht was due into St. George’s with ten kilos of heroin. Part of it would be moved aboard a cruise ship in loaves of bread; the rest would be stowed here and taken up north little by little by “businessmen.”
“In those days, Treece still had some trust in the government. Priscilla had taught him that all authority wasn’t necessarily out to get him. So they went to the government, right to the top, and told what they knew. Well, the government didn’t believe them, and, to be fair, there wasn’t much evidence for them to believe-fair, that is, considering that they were pigheaded about Treece from the start. They didn’t have any idea how much he knew. As far as they were concerned, this was all rumor started by a kid.
“That got Treece pretty riled, partly out of pride. Here he had the bloody goods on some people smuggling heroin, and the government wouldn’t take his word. He decided to stop them himself and present the drugs to the government on a platter. He didn’t know what he was getting into, and he did a couple of foolish things, like tell one too many people what he was up to. He was threatened a few times, and that got him still hotter. Priscilla tried to calm him down, but it was hard “cause she agreed with him.
“Not to burden you with all the details, Treece and some chums met the yacht outside St. George’s harbor and tried to board her. There was a bloody great rumpus, and the yacht steamed away.”
“With the drugs?” Gail asked.
“Aye, but their plan was a wreck. Four days later, Priscilla was found dead at her desk in her office. The medical examiner said she had died of an overdose of drugs, and the case was closed. What people figure happened, one of the smugglers’ contacts here—his operation ruined—waited for her in her office one morning and, before anybody else got there, stuck a needle in her. There were track marks on her arms, but they were all fresh, put there to make it look like she was a user.
“Treece near went crazy, with grief and guilt and fury. He half-blamed himself, half-blamed the government.”
“Did he ever find the man who killed her?”
“No one knows… for sure. But about a week after she died, a man was found in St. George’s, high in the top branches of a tree.
Every bone in his body had been broken at the joints.
His fingers were all bent upward, his arms bent backward, same with his knees and his toes. His head was turned full around, like someone had tried to unscrew it. He was a bartender, mostly unemployed but always with ready cash. Nobody was ever prosecuted, and the only reason anybody connects it with Treece is that it had to have been some powerful man who splintered that fellow and hauled him fifty feet off the ground.
“For about a month, Treece stayed drunk, morning, noon, and night, guzzling anything that had a charge to it. He sat in his house, and the only people who dared go near it were the folks delivering booze and food. Then one day he came out and started diving, did all manner of crazy-ass things: dove alone, in foul weather, went too deep and stayed too long. It was like he was trying to purge himself, or kill himself, and he damn near did that: got bent up like a pretzel and had to spend three days in a decompression chamber. A fisherman found him floating on the surface.”
“What brought him down?”
“Down? You mean back to normal? Time, I guess. But what’s normal? He’s never been the same as he was before she died. I doubt he ever will.”
“Was Cloche involved?”
Coffin paused. “I’d bet on it, but there’s no proof. Anyway, the important thing is, Treece sees the same thing happening again.”
After a moment’s silence, Gail said, “Thank you.”
She felt a sadness, a vicarious pain for Treece. She tried to form a mental picture of his wife, but the only image that fit was herself.
Coffin held the scuba tank for her while she put on the harness and straightened the straps. He handed her the canvas bag she had brought up and said, “When you’re in, I’ll give you the other two. Take ’em down and set a rock on ’em so they won’t drift away. When they’re full, give three tugs on the line, and I’ll haul ’em up. Follow ’em, though, to make sure they don’t tip.”
“Okay.” She stepped over the transom onto the diving platform, checked tank and mask, and jumped into the water.
Pulling the ropes behind her, she swam for the bottom.
Without weights, she tended to float, and she had to use both arms to aid her descent. She found her weight belt on the bottom, strapped it on, and made her way toward the cloud of sand.
She had been gone longer than she thought. A mound of ampules more than a foot high and two feet wide rose in the sand beside David. She kneeled on two bags and opened the third. She found she could scoop handfuls of ampules off the mound and drop them in the bag; they floated safely to the bottom. She filled one bag, then another, then the third. She tapped Sanders to let him know she was going up, and tugged three times on the two ropes. As she unbuckled her weight belt, the two ropes tightened and the bags rose. She grabbed the ropes with one hand and, holding the untethered bag with the other, let herself be dragged to the surface.
“You’re bleeding,” Coffin said.
Gail crossed her eyes and saw bloody water washing around her nose. She tilted her head back and blew her mask clear. “I know. It’s nothing.”
“Sure you don’t want me to take a trip?”
“I’ll do one more.”
Carefully, Coffin pushed the ampules out of the bags onto a tarpaulin he had spread on the deck. “I’ll count ’em while you’re down,” he said, passing the bags to Gail.
She went down again, and this time she felt pain-a tight ache in the sinus cavities above her eyes.
She stopped a few feet below the surface, struggling to maintain depth, and waited for the pain to subside. She descended farther, until the pain stopped her and forced her to wait. This is the last one, she thought: too many ups and downs.
There was pressure now on her ears, too, and she made herself yawn. She felt two squeaky pops, and the pressure was gone. As she started down again, she saw something move-a grayish blur at the edge of the gloom beyond the reef.
She looked harder, straining to see through the haze.
Nothing. Then, farther to the left, another flicker of movement. She turned her head, trying to anticipate where it might appear next. Behind her, away from the cloud of sand, the water was clearer, and as she turned, she saw it: gliding out of the fog as if from behind a curtain was a shark. It moved with sure, unhurried grace, thrust through the water by smooth strokes of its crescent tail.
A knot of panic struck Gail’s stomach. She was more than halfway to the bottom, and she remembered David’s warning about not fleeing for the surface. She could not tell how big the shark was, for, in open water, there was nothing against which to measure it. Nor could she tell how far away it was; it cruised at the outer limit of her vision. But how far could she see? Fifty feet? Sixty?
The shark swam in a wide circle, and as streaks of sunlight caught its back, Gail could see faint stripes along its sides, light brown slashes against the gray-brown skin. One black eye seemed to be watching her, but it registered no interest, no curiosity.
Still holding the ropes, she continued down toward the belching air lift. She found her weights, strapped them on, and tapped Treece. When he looked at her, with her right hand she made a sinuous swimming motion, then, with her fingers, a biting motion.
She pointed off to the right, where she guessed the shark would be by now. Treece looked in the direction she was pointing, but, surrounded by drifting sand, he saw nothing. He looked back at her, shook his head, and, with a curt wave of his hand, dismissed the danger.
Sanders was not sure he understood what Gail had told Treece. He recalled her nervousness in the company of a barracuda and assumed she had seen another one. But seeing the wide-eyed fear on her face, he wondered. He put the heels of his hands together, spread his fingers, then slammed them closed—a fair approximation of a big mouth. He looked at her, raised his eyebrows, and spread his arms, asking, How big? She shrugged: Can’t tell. But she spread her arms as wide as she could: At least this big. Sanders noticed that half an inch of bloody water was
