Dead Asleep (6 page)

Randiger nodded. “I know. Crazy, right? But those stories have been handed down for years through our ancestors. I know these people. Salt of the earth fisherman not given to hallucinations. If they tell the story, there must be some truth there. At the very least I suggest that you not go alone, and I can guarantee that you will have a difficult time getting anyone from the island to accompany you.”

“Please don't worry, I'm not so foolish as to dive alone. As for company, what about Mr. Marwell?” Elliott Marwell was the head of Seahook Tours, a fishing company that specialized in deep-sea fishing.

Randiger looked skeptical. “Doubtful. He's never agreed before when other tourists have asked him.”

“He's never agreed before because he's one of the tale-tellers,” Moore said. Randiger looked surprised.

“Elliott? Really?” Randiger said.

Moore nodded. “He went out one day and got too close. Swears that his boat almost got taken in. He never went near that area again.”

“That's what I need,” Emma said. “Someone who's been there.”

Moore shook his head. “Won't be Elliott.”

“Still, I'll ask.”

Moore shrugged. “Can't hurt.” He indicated the skull. “We'll look into this as best we can.” That's it? Emma thought. She probed a bit deeper.

“Will you inform the police in the neighboring islands about the two of them?” Randiger glanced at Moore out of the corner of his eye. Moore frowned.

“I'd hate to wind everyone up. I thought I'd interview the staff of the various houses first. See if anyone knows or has seen them. The one with the dreadlocks in particular, since he should be easy to spot.”

“How many houses are on the island?”

“One hundred, not including the hotel and various boats that dock. Since we're past peak season now the population is shrinking daily as visitors fly home.”

“News travels fast,” Randiger added, “so don't be surprised if most have already heard it.”

“I'm actually more concerned that the neighboring island police forces get a report so that they can keep an eye out for these two,” Emma said. Once again she noticed Moore's discomfort at the idea. “I'm not looking to kill tourism, but if you're correct and they came from a nearby location, that seems to be an obvious choice.”

“I'll be sure to let them know if it becomes appropriate.” Moore's face held a stubborn look, and Randiger gave Emma an apologetic glance. It was clear that notifying the authorities would be last on Moore's list. Emma decided to let them start with the locals and work their way around.

“I guess that will have to do for now,” she said.

Randiger walked her to the door. “In the meantime, it sounds as though you'd better lock your doors
and
windows at night,” he said.

Chapter 8

K
emmer stood in the dark in front of his partially gutted beach house and watched the solitary beam of light on the water draw closer. The fire department had gone and the girls were asleep in the big house. He was alone. His Akita hound sat at his side. Kemmer liked the dog, but unless it could suddenly learn to do a trick that would generate mounds of cash it was going to have to find somewhere else to live. His sister was enamored of all of his dogs and owned an estate five miles away. He would send them to her. The light pulled closer and he could make out the shape of a boat drawing near. When it reached the dock the driver cut the engine and brought it alongside. Another crew member jumped lightly onto the pier and secured the boat. He nodded at Kemmer, stepped aside to allow a tall, thin man to step past him onto the boards, then retreated into the cabin, leaving Kemmer and the thin man alone on the pier. Kemmer strolled up and thrust out a hand.

“Welcome to St. Martin,” he said.

The man's narrow face, long nose, and hard eyes matched his nickname: the Vulture. He'd been given the name by some of his corporate victims; companies whose balance sheets had turned bright red when their profits dried up in the latest downturn. The Vulture dangled the carrot of investment capital at outrageous interest rates in front of the CEOs of the struggling companies, swooped in when a company failed to make a payment, and then picked clean the assets, leaving the employees, creditors, and shareholders in the dust. Kemmer had met him several times before but always made it a point to keep his distance. Of course, that was when he'd been flush with cash and had no need of the Vulture's bailout funds. Now, he wasn't so lucky. Without an immediate capital infusion, the entire network of shell companies that he used to hide the fact that he was broke would come crashing down. As so famously spoken by financier Warren Buffett, when the tide goes out, one sees who is swimming naked. Kemmer was naked and shivering. The Vulture was his last hope.

“What happened to the beach house?” the thin man asked.

“A bomb.”

“Was Mr. Sumner in it when it exploded?” Kemmer had no idea who Mr. Sumner was, but he wasn't going let this man know that.

“No one was in the house.”

“A pity,” the man said.

“Come to the top of the hill. I have some fine brandy up there. We can sit and talk.”

The man shook his head. “No. I have only a few minutes here. I'm headed further south to the Windward Islands. How much money do you require?” Kemmer did his best to hide his surprise at the blunt question.

“Ten million.” The man showed no emotion at the figure.

“And the collateral?”

“The proceeds from my salvage company.”

“What company is that?”

“It's called Deep Sea Treasure Hunters. We search for buried treasure from sunken Spanish galleons throughout the world.” The man raised an eyebrow.

“And are you successful?”

Kemmer puffed up a bit. Treasure hunting was his passion. “Very. We just discovered coins from a shipwrecked Spanish galleon that will be worth millions at auction.”

“How much are you allowed to keep?”

“Fifty percent of the proceeds.”

“Why do you need my money, then?”

“It will take close to three years to catalog, verify, and auction the coins. I need the money by next week.”

“I know of your tax trouble. This money will be confiscated, I'm sure. I want you to hand deliver the majority of the company's shares to me and then begin an expedition to the blue holes.”

Kemmer was astonished. He'd thought he would be the one directing this meeting, but it was clear that this man had his own plans hatched. Still, he felt compelled to tell him that the blue holes were an unlikely spot for a shipwreck. The odds of finding treasure there were slim.

“There's nothing in the blue holes except mineral deposits.” The man gave him a considering look.

“I understand that many believe them to be guarded by a sea monster. Are you afraid?”

Kemmer snorted. “Of monsters? No.” He stared at the man a moment. The request was extraordinary. And easy to fulfill, given enough time. “How soon do you require this expedition?”

“In three days.”

“What? Impossible. It's high season, my boats are booked for the next three weeks.”

The man shrugged. “Then we have no deal.” He turned to go. Kemmer grabbed his arm.

“Wait. If I arrange this expedition, you'll lend the money?”

“The expedition
and
the shares.”

“As collateral only. They remain mine unless I default,” Kemmer said.

The man nodded. “That is acceptable.”

Kemmer felt something akin to elation at the idea that his immediate money troubles might be over. “You're on.” The thin man turned back to his boat. “But tell me,” Kemmer said, “what's in the blue holes that you want so much?” The man shot him a look from the corner of his eyes.

“Not what, who. Just prepare the expedition. I'll arrange the rest.”

Kemmer watched him step back onto the boat. The crew untied it and turned it back out to sea. Walking past his burned beach house toward the estate above, Kemmer couldn't shake the feeling that he'd agreed to something much more deadly than a simple expedition.

Chapter 9

T
erra Cay's harbor was unlike those of any Emma had seen in the islands. Pristine and well regulated, it only accommodated a few ships, a design created deliberately to control the number of boat owners requesting to dock. If you didn't have enough money to buy or rent a villa, the island didn't want your company.

Seahook Tours operated out of a blue painted shed at the dock's far end. She parked and started over to it, strolling in the sunlight. From twenty feet away she spotted Elliott Marwell on the deck of a beautiful white yacht. As she drew near, Emma saw the boat's name:
Siren's Song.
Marwell's dark skin gleamed under a white baseball cap. He wore a navy tee shirt, black cargo shorts, and a small silver hoop earring in his left ear. He glanced up and straightened to watch her approach. When she got closer he began to smile.

“Something tells me you're Emma Caldridge,” he said.

Emma smiled back. “I finally made it here.”

“Come aboard. It's nice to meet you in person.” He came to the boat's edge and helped her onto the deck. His hand was warm and rough-skinned. She'd been in conversation with Marwell both on the phone and by e-mail for over three months in preparation for her trip and had arranged an expedition around the island's perimeter. She would use the time to scout good locations for her search.

The deck sported built-in cushions and tables in a configuration for casual dining, as well as side benches covered with outdoor fabric. Emma peeked into the main salon. Gleaming wood with shiny black, glossy painted trim lined the walls. A flat screen television complete with a built-in sound system ran along one side, and next to that, a granite-covered wet bar with a stocked liquor cabinet behind it. On the opposite side there was a modern couch, chairs, cocktail table, and credenza, and to the rear, a dining table with six chairs.

“This is stunning,” she said. “It looks like some sort of penthouse in New York City. Not like a boat at all.”

Marwell nodded. “It's an eighty foot Hatteras. It has two staterooms and two heads, along with a hot tub up top. It's a nice size. Of course, not as big as some of the others.” He jutted his chin at two much larger yachts docked farther down. “But in some ways I like it better. When you're out on her you still feel as though you're boating. Those others feel like a floating hotel.” She saw that he'd been pouring ice into a cooler. Next to it sat several six packs of beer and cans of soda. “Care for a drink? Take your pick.” Emma shook her head.

“Little too early for beer.”

He chuckled. “For the group that I'm taking it's never too early.”

“And that would be?”

“Richard Carrow and his guests. Up on the West Hill.”

“I've met him.”

Marwell settled onto a bench seat along the boat's side.

“He's friendly. Been an owner here for four years, so I know him well. Some of the others in his crowd . . .” Marwell rocked his hand back and forth. Emma settled onto the bench next to him.

“Is this your boat?”

“No. This is Carrow's. The
Seahook
is over there.” He waved at a much smaller boat a few slips down. It had two fishing rods locked into holders at the aft.

“Ahh. That one looks fast.”

Marwell beamed. “She is. I like these big cruisers for comfort, but there's something about a fast boat that gets me smiling. We'll use the
Seahook
for your expedition.” His comment gave her the opening she needed.

“My research into the island leads me to believe that the reason the seaweed here is so unique is due to the proximity of the blue holes. I think the same minerals that give them that blue glow are feeding the seaweed. Rather than do the perimeter tour, I'd like to head out there to dive them.”

Marwell's face closed. “I can't take you there. The blue holes aren't safe.”

Emma nodded. “I've heard the stories. Can you fill me in? Everyone seems to know the fables in general, but no one has the specifics. I'm told you might.”

He sighed. “I used to get quite close to them. Not enough so that anyone could dive them, but close enough to get a glimpse. They're famous among the diving set and a lot of people wanted to explore them. The only thing that has stopped them is the fact that they would have to dock here to do it, and this island is too expensive for most.” Marwell seemed reluctant to speak further. Emma decided to prod him.

“What's so dangerous about them?”

“Well, they've never been mapped, for one thing. Some say they extend all the way to the Bahamas, where there is a second set. Like an underground network of caves. Once inside, they stretch downward. It takes a better than average diver to attempt them. And the rumors of a sea creature have kept most of the locals in the area away.”

“Do you believe the rumors?” she asked. Marwell rose, began to pull bottles from the six packs and shove them into the cooler.

“One time I got closer than usual. Was a sunny day, just like this one,” he waved a bottle in the air, “and I didn't have a booking. I decided to head that way, and when I got near I thought, oh what the hell, I'll just go take a look.” He shook his head. “It takes at least three hours to reach them, and when I did, the sky was still bright blue, the waves slow and easy, a perfect day for boating.” He paused. “I was directly over them. They were beautiful. The sea takes on a deeper, richer hue where they are and seems to sparkle ten times more than usual. I wasn't there more than five minutes when I felt the boat give a lurch. It was as if something had grabbed onto the hull and yanked.” Emma was surprised to see Marwell shudder.

“I threw it into gear, but the boat didn't move. Something was holding it in place. I opened the throttle all the way.” He pointed to the
Seahook.
“You've got to understand that I have two powerful engines on that boat. I have to if I'm going to deep-sea fish. But the engines were whining and the boat didn't budge. Whatever had it in its grasp gave another yank and the aft section started to sink in the water, which should give you an indication of the incredible power of the thing.” He put the bottle in his hand into the cooler.

“By this time I was in an outright panic. I leaned over the side to see what was there. The water near the stern was churning and foaming and there was a large black mass below. I ran back to the bridge and turned the steering wheel. The boat swung to the side and broke free. The twisting motion must have forced whatever it was to release its hold. I took off out of there as fast as I could go.” Marwell wiped an arm across his face where he'd begun to sweat. He looked at Emma. “I hope you don't think I'm a coward, but I've never gone back there, and I never will.”

Emma didn't know what to say. She didn't think Marwell was the type to lie, but she didn't know what to make of the story.

“Could it have been a sea creature?” She put up a hand. “
Not
a monster, you understand, but an actual creature?”

Marwell came back to sit next to her on the bench.

“I've thought long and hard since then, as you can imagine. I've actually spent quite a bit of time researching it, just trying to figure out what the heck it was . . . Did you read the recent story about a boat in an open ocean race in the vicinity of the holes?”

“The one that claimed a giant squid had attached a tentacle to the hull and they dragged it for miles before it let go?”

Marwell nodded. “That's the one. They actually saw tentacles and suction cups the size of dinner plates, because they had sleeping quarters and a cabin window below. I never saw anything like that, but it's the only possible explanation that I can come up with.”

“Some Japanese fisherman photographed a giant squid just recently. It was over forty feet long.”

“I've read about that as well. Forty feet is amazing. Just one tentacle of that size would wrap around my boat completely.” Marwell shook his head. “The ocean is something mysterious, isn't it? It's why I love it.” He frowned at Emma. “But whatever it was, I don't need to meet up with it again. It's too dangerous. That thing latched on within five minutes of me being there. It's waiting and watching.”

Emma wasn't sure how to respond to Marwell's story. He struck Emma as a practical, rational sort of person not prone to flights of fancy, yet she wondered if the years of folklore about the blue holes had left him assuming he'd meet a creature there. Still, that explanation didn't entirely sit well with her either. She thought there was likely something in the holes. Nonetheless, she intended to dive them.

“I understand your concern,” she said. “Is there anyone else that you think would be willing to take me there? I'm not so foolish as to dive alone, but everyone seems to be leery of the area.”

Marwell shook his head. “No one I know will do it. I'm sorry.” The sound of several engines reverberated through the air, and moments later four Jeeps screeched into parking spots near the
Siren's Song.
Emma watched Carrow, Warner, and several others pile out, all with tote bags. They headed toward the boat. When Carrow saw her, he broke into a smile and waved. As he approached he greeted Marwell.

“She ready to go?”

Marwell nodded. “Ready when you are.”

Carrow turned to Emma. “Care to join us?”

She shook her head. “Wish I could, but I've got more collecting to do.”

“Where?”

“She's thinking of diving the blue holes,” Marwell said. “I'm working on talking her out of it.”

Emma patted Marwell on the shoulder. “Thanks for the concern, but I've got to do this.”

“Not alone you won't. Promise me,” Marwell said.

Carrow tilted his head to one side. “No one will go with you?”

Emma shook her head. “No one.”

“And you have to do it?”

She nodded. “It's my job. I'm certified. But of course I won't go alone.”

Carrow smiled. “I'll go with you.”

Marwell frowned. “Mr. Richard—”

“You will?” Emma was thrilled. “Are you certified?”

“I am,” he said. Emma glanced at Marwell, who nodded.

“He's actually quite an experienced and careful diver, but that doesn't mean I think you two should do this.”

“Do what?” Warner and a man Emma hadn't met were on deck now, standing next to Carrow.

“Dive the blue holes,” Carrow said. The man cocked his head to the side.

“Cave diving? Isn't that a type of extreme sport?” he said. “I saw a television show about a cave that has over forty dead divers in it.”

“That one is in Egypt,” Carrow said. “It's legendary due to its danger. But the blue holes here don't have that reputation.”

Warner grimaced. “Forty dead people? That's disgusting. Why do they do it?”

“It's a form of extreme diving,” Emma said, nodding at the man who'd mentioned extreme sports. “The Egyptian caves represent a challenge that a lot of divers can't resist. Like the challenge that Mount Everest represents for mountain climbers.”

“Lots of dead people left there too,” the man said.

“I don't understand that obsession either,” Warner noted.

“I can't go today.” Carrow indicated the crowd that was forming on the cruiser's deck, “but I can anytime this week. You just let me know when.” Marwell got an agitated look on his face.

“Both of you stop. This is dangerous. There's something out there. I've seen it. The risk is not worth it. Especially not for a job. Let the boss take his own risks.”

“I can't,” Emma said.

“Why not?” Marwell put his hands on his hips.

“Because I am the boss.”