A fuzz of dizziness passed through Sanders’ brain, and he knew he was dead. He waited for the flash of pain that would come as the spear pierced his wet suit and stabbed between his ribs. Maybe he would pass out first….
The man fired. Sanders saw the spear coming at him, felt the blow as it struck his chest, waited for the pain. But there was no pain.
A yellow blur. The spear gun jerked upward, spun out of the man’s hand, and fell. The man’s fingers tore at his throat; the mouthpiece flew from his mouth. Huge, gloved hands on each side of his neck knotted a length of air hose around his throat.
Then Sanders fainted. The pain in his head was gone, and he felt as if he were flying through a warm darkness.
He awoke on the surface. Gail’s hands cradled his face, holding the back of his head against the diving platform. He became aware of a face against his, a wet mouth engulfing his mouth, a blast of breath rattling down his throat. His eyes fluttered open and saw Treece’s face pull away.
“Welcome back,” Treece said.
Sanders’ mind was still foggy. “Did I drown?”
“Gave it a try. Another couple of seconds, you’d’ve been up there with Adam giving us the celestial eyeball. You’d better be glad the duchess was a greedy bitch.”
“What do you mean?”
“That bastard hit you full in the chest with his spear.
If it hadn’t been for the gold, you were dead.”
Sanders looked down and saw a neat hole in his wet suit. The spear had penetrated the rubber but had caromed off the gold rope he had stuffed inside his jacket.
Gail put her hands under Sanders’ armpits and, with Treece pushing from below, hauled Sanders onto the platform.
“How many were there?”
“Three. One’s floating out there somewhere, making terms with the devil. Your girl splashed another one all over their boat. The third one’s here.” Treece yanked his right hand, and a rubber-hooded head popped out of the water, a piece of yellow hose still wrapped around his neck.
Sanders looked at Gail. “You killed one?”
“I didn’t mean to. I had no choice. He…”
Treece said, “What’d I tell you? When you’re up against it, you do the damnedest things.”
Sanders rolled onto his stomach and stood up.
“Here,” Treece said, extending the still body to Sanders. “Take this trash and haul it aboard while I dive to fetch the gear.”
Sanders took the hose. “Is he dead?”
“I imagine. But don’t take it for granted.
Dump him on the deck and put the shotgun on him till I get back.”
“Don’t you want to start the compressor?” Gail asked.
“No, just toss me a mask. If I can’t make it on one good heave, it’s time to find another line of work.”
While Gail looked for a face mask, Sanders pulled the inert man onto the platform. He let go of the hose, bent down, and took the man’s arms.
“Don’t bother with that,” Treece said. “Just haul him up with the hose.”
“I…” Sanders knew that, practically, Treece was right: it would be much easier to pull the man aboard by the hose around his neck. But he couldn’t do it. If he knew the man was already dead, that would be one thing. If he wasn’t dead… Sanders was not ready to be his executioner.
“Don’t be so delicate,” Treece said.
“He’s as good as dead.” He took the mask from Gail, hyperventilated for a few seconds, breathed deeply one last time, and slipped below the surface.
“What did he mean by that?” Gail said.
“I don’t know. Help me with this, will you?”
Each holding one arm, they pulled the man over the transom and lay him on the deck.
“He’s heavier than he looks,” Gail said.
“Dead people are.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I read it somewhere.”
“You mean really heavier, or just heavier than they look?”
“I don’t know. Where’s the shotgun?”
“Over there.” Gail pointed. “I don’t think you’ll need it.” She looked at the still black form and shivered.
Sanders picked up the gun, sat on the gunwale, and rested the gun across his knees. “What was it like?”
He nodded toward the other boat. Sanders found that he envied Gail for having killed Slake. The thought of killing the man who lay helpless at their feet was repulsive. Unfair. But to kill a man in pure self-defense, to take up the challenge and beat the man who was trying to kill you-a fair fight.
Vengeance.
“It was horrible,” Gail said. “I didn’t know what I was doing, not till afterward.”
It was dark now; the moon was creeping over the horizon, and the stars were pale dots against the black sky. Sitting on opposite gunwales, David and Gail saw each other as faceless silhouettes.
They did not see the first faint tremors in the black rubber body on the deck, nor the opening of the eyes, nor the slight movement of fingers toward the calf of the left leg; did not hear the soft snap of the strap on the sheath around the leg or the sliding of the blade from the sheath.
The dog was the first to hear the new sounds. It whined.
Sanders looked toward the bow, and as he turned his head, the body sprang into a crouch and screamed-a high-pitched guttural yowl that sounded like a cat fight.
Sanders whirled back and leveled the gun. “Hey…”
He did not finish the command. The man leaped at him.
Sanders squeezed the trigger. Nothing. The gun wasn’t cocked. He pulled on the pump slide, leaning backward to gain one extra tenth of a second. He saw the blade swooping down at him, raised an arm in self- defense, and fell overboard. The slide snapped forward, and as Sanders hit the water, feeling a new, unspecific pain-in his arm or his side; he couldn’t tell which-his finger squeezed the trigger. The shotgun fired into the air.
The man turned to Gail-crouching, waving the knife slowly in front of him, daring her to grab for it.
He murmured low, throaty sounds, yips and growls and half-words, feinted with the knife, and, little by little, moved closer. Moonlight illuminated his face, and Gail saw his eyes—wild, fevered—and saw a trickle of drool on his chin. She wanted to talk to him, plead with him, but she was not sure the man even knew where he was or what he was doing. He yowled again.
Gail backed against the gunwale, glanced down at the water, and wondered if she should dive overboard.
No: he’d be on her in an instant. She hedged forward along the gunwale, hoping that, when the man lunged, she could dodge him in the darkness of the cockpit.
The man screamed and jumped, swinging the knife in a wide arc.
Gail ducked and threw herself to the left, hearing the sound of breaking glass: the momentum of his swing had carried the man’s hand through the pane of glass in the bulkhead. She crouched by the steering wheel.
The man turned, whispering incomprehensible curses, searching for her in the shadows. He saw her and raised the knife.
A noise behind him stopped his move. He half-turned.
Gail decided to dash for the stern. She took a step, then saw that escape was unnecessary: there was a heavy thump, the man’s eyes rolled back in his head until only two slivers of white were showing, and he fell to the deck.
Sanders stood where the man had been, a wrench in his right hand. He had hit the man with the flat side of the wrench, and it was matted with blood and hair.
