But she did not want him-at least did not want what he wanted to give her-and Sanders suddenly found himself annoyed at Treece.
Treece had not told them about his wife, didn’t even know they knew, but somehow he, his past, his grief, had come between them. Sanders knew his annoyance was irrational, but he could not control it.
Finally, he slept. He could not awake at the new sounds that intruded on the still night, the sound of an automobile engine, in different cadence from the compressor motor; the sound of tires crunching on gravel.
It was the wind that woke him in the morning, whistling through the screen and rattling the shutters, blowing straight off the sea and gathering force as it swept over the cliff.
Treece sat in the kitchen, leafing through old papers.
Sanders did not ask if he had found anything new; by now he knew that Treece would speak when he had something to say. So all he said, with a flip of his hand toward the window, was “You were right.”
“Aye. She’s blowing pretty good. But it’s worse up here than below. We’ll be all right.”
Sanders looked at his watch; it was 6:30. “What time do you want to go?”
“Half an hour, forty minutes. If your girl wants to eat, you better rouse her.”
“Okay.” Sanders couldn’t contain his curiosity.
“Anything new?”
“Bits and pieces; nothing that amounts to much. Diaries—Christ, to hear some of those sailors’ myths, you’d think bloody Fort Knox was on every ship that sailed.”
The ride along the south shore was rough.
David and Gail stood in the cockpit beside Treece, bracing themselves against the bulkheads.
“We can dive in this?” Sanders said.
“Sure. It’s all of twenty knots, but we’ll anchor in the lee of the reef and go along the bottom.”
“What if the anchors don’t hold?”
“Then Orange Grove’ll be the owner of a brand-new pile of wreckage.”
When they were abeam of Orange Grove, Treece turned the boat toward shore. Waves crashed on the reef and burst in plumes of foam.
Sanders had expected that, as always, Treece would pick his way carefully through the reefs. Instead, he lingered seaward of the reefs for a few moments, examining the currents and the patterns of the waves, then pushed the throttle forward and aimed for a spot in the first reef.
“Hold tight,” Treece said. “She’s gonna buck.”
The boat lunged toward the line of rocks. Caught in the surge of a wave, the stern swung around to the right; Treece spun the wheel hard right, and the boat straightened. He throttled back for a second or two, then gunned the engine and headed for the second reef.
By the time they had cleared all the reefs and were cruising in the relatively calm lee, Sanders felt sweat running down his temples into the neck of his wet suit.
“Roller coaster,” Treece said. He saw one of Gail’s hands, still clenched around a handle on the console, and he patted it. “It’s done.”
She relaxed her grip and smiled wanly. “Wow!”
“I should’ve warned you. That’s the only way to clear the bastards in a sea like this. If you time it right, there’s enough water to
They did not have to idle in the chop, waiting for Coffin. As soon as he saw the boat cross the reefs, he hurdled the low line of breakers and began to swim.
“Sorry we’re late,” Treece said as he hauled Coffin aboard. “Did a bit of bouncing out there.”
“I “magine. Anchor in the lee?”
“Aye. You willing to get wet today? Girl’s head’s messed.”
“Like to.”
Treece turned the boat toward the reefs. Coffin went forward and examined the anchor lines. “Port and starboard?” he called.
“Aye, with a Christ lot of scope. I’ll give a yell.” Treece gunned the boat through the first two lines of reef, then slowed as he neared the third line. The boat pitched and rolled wildly, with no rhythm, but Coffin-using his thick brown toes as stabilizers, bending and unbending his knees to absorb the shock of the boat’s motion-kept his footing on the bow.
Watching Coffin keep his balance, Sanders smiled and shook his head.
“What?” Gail said.
“I was just remembering. When Treece first said Coffin was going to dive, I asked him if Coffin was any good. Look at him up there. If that was me, I’d have been overboard a dozen times already.”
Gail took his hand.
“Starboard!” yelled Treece.
Coffin threw an anchor at the reef; the coil of rope at his feet whipped overboard.
Treece shifted into neutral and let the boat slide backward until the rope sprang taut.
Coffin put a hand on the quivering rope and said, “She’s bitin” good.”
Treece put the boat in forward gear and ran up the anchor line. He called “Port!” and Coffin threw the other anchor.
When both anchor lines were taut, Treece turned the key, and the engine died, leaving the sounds of the waves banging on the rocks, the wind hissing over the water, and the slapping of the hull on the surface.
Treece said to Coffin, “You’ll want a Desco.”
“Aye. Don’t want a bottle bangin’ around, not in this surge.”
Treece rigged three air hoses to the compressor, checked the fuel level and oil pressure, and started it.
As they dressed, Treece said to Gail, “Not that you’ll need it, but you might’s well learn.” He took the shotgun from the steering console, pumped it until all five rounds had ejected into his hand, and passed it to Gail. “It’ll be all ready to go.
All you do is pull back on the forward grip and press the trigger.”
Gail held the gun gingerly, as if it were a snake. Unconsciously, the corners of her mouth turned down, and she frowned. She worked the action and pulled the trigger; there was a metallic click.
“What do I aim at?”
“You don’t aim. You hold it at your hip. If you put it to your shoulder, it’s like to tear your arm off.
Fire it in the general direction of what you want to hit, and if it’s close enough to you, it’ll come to pieces.” Treece took the gun and replaced the five shells in the chamber.
“I couldn’t,” said Gail.
“We’ll see. One of Cloche’s maniacs comes at you waving a butcher knife, you’ll find you can do the damnedest things.” Treece saw the distress in her face. “Like I said, you won’t have to use it. Likely your biggest concern’ll be keeping your breakfast down.”
Treece went below and returned with six old, unmatched wet-suit gloves, which he tossed on the transom. “Find some that fit you,” he said to the others. “Gonna be grasping for rocks just to stay in one place. And make sure you got enough weight; want to head for the bottom like a stone to get out of this topside trash.”
They went over the side. Sanders started to rise to the surface to clear his mask, but quickly changed his mind: the waves wrenched his body from side to side, sweeping
him to within inches of the bouncing hull. He exhaled and dropped swiftly to the bottom. He could not stand on the sand; the current was less severe than on the surface, but still strong enough to cast him forward and back, like hay in a windstorm. He fell to his knees and crawled toward the reef. Above him, Treece descended fast, dragging two canvas bags and the air-lift tube.
The surge near the reef was worse: waves washing overhead caused bottom eddies that pushed the divers onto the rocks. Sanders tried to stop before the reef, but couldn’t. His hip struck a rock, and he tumbled toward sharp outcroppings of coral. He swung an arm blindly, hit something, and grabbed it: a coral ledge. Without the rubber glove, his hand would have been torn. His body hung horizontally in the current; he saw Treece and Coffin,
