The Reef (5 page)

“We haven't any right to destroy something to get to something else,” Tate murmured.

Buck glanced over at Tate, grinned. “Wait, girl, till you get a taste of gold fever. It does something to you. You see that glint come out of the sand. It's shiny and bright, not like silver. Could be a coin, a chain, a medallion, some trinket a long-dead man gave his long-dead woman. There it is, in your hand, true as the day it was made. And all you can think about is more.”

Curious, she tilted her head. “Is that why you keep going down? If you found all the treasure the
Isabella
and
Santa Marguerite
held—if you found it all and were rich, would you still go down for more?”

“I'll go down till I die. It's all I know. All I need to.
Your father was like that,” he added, gesturing to Matthew. “Whether he struck the mother lode or came back with nothing but a cannonball, he had to go down again. Dying stopped him. That was all that could.” His voice roughened as he looked down at his beer again. “He wanted the
Isabella.
Spent the last months he lived figuring how and where and when. Now we'll harvest her for him. Angelique's Curse.”

“What?” Ray's brows drew together. “Angelique's Curse?”

“Killed my brother,” Buck said blearily. “Damn witch's spell.”

Recognizing the signs, Matthew leaned forward, plucked the nearly empty beer from his uncle's fingers. “A man killed him, Buck. A flesh-and-blood man. No curse, no spell.” Rising, he hauled Buck to his feet. “He gets maudlin when he drinks too much,” he explained. “Next he'll be talking about Blackbeard's ghost.”

“Saw it,” Buck mumbled around a foolish smile. His glasses slid down his nose so that he peered myopically over them. “Thought I did. Off the coast of Ocracoke. Remember that, Matthew?”

“Sure, I remember. We've got a long day ahead of us. Better get back to the boat.”

“Want some help?” Ray rose, was surprised, and a little chagrined to discover he wasn't entirely steady on his feet.

“I can manage. I'll just pour him into the inflatable, row him across. Thanks for dinner, Marla. Never in my life tasted fried chicken to match yours. Be ready at dawn, kid,” he told Tate. “And for a taste of real work.”

“I'll be ready.” Despite the fact he hadn't asked for help, she went to Buck's other side, draped his arm over her shoulders. “Come on, Buck, time for bed.”

“You're a sweet kid.” With drunken affection, he gave her a clumsy squeeze. “Ain't she, Matthew?”

“She's a regular sugar cube. I'm going down the ladder first, Buck. If you fall in, I might let you drown.”

“That'll be the day.” Buck chuckled, shifting his weight onto Tate as Matthew swung over the side. “That
boy'd fight off a school of sharks for me. Lassiters stick together.”

“I know.” Carefully, rocking a bit under his weight, Tate managed to maneuver Buck over the rail. “Hold on, now.” The absurdity had her giggling as he swayed over the ladder and Matthew cursed from below. “Hold on, Buck.”

“Don't you worry, girl. There isn't a boat been made I can't board.”

“Goddamn it, you're going to capsize us. Buck, you idiot.” As the dinghy pitched dangerously, Matthew shoved Buck down. Water sloshed in, soaking both of them.

“I'll bail her out, Matthew.” With a good-natured chuckle, Buck began to scoop water out of the bottom with his hands.

“Just sit still.” Matthew took the oars out of the locks, glanced up to see the Beaumonts grinning over the side. “I should have made him swim for it.”

“ 'Night, Ray.” Buck waved cheerfully as Matthew rowed. “There'll be gold doubloons tomorrow. Gold and silver and bright, shiny jewels. A new wreck, Matthew,” he mumbled as his chin dropped to his chest. “Always knew we'd find it. Was the Beaumonts brought us the luck.”

“Yeah.” After securing the oars and the line, Matthew eyed his uncle dubiously. “Can you make the ladder, Buck?”

“Sure, I can make the ladder. Got the sea legs I was born with, don't I?” Those legs wobbled, as did the small raft as he weaved toward the side of the
Sea Devil.

Through more luck than design, he gripped a rung and hauled himself up before he could turn the inflatable over. Soaked to the knees, Matthew joined him on deck. Buck was weaving and waving enthusiastically to the Beaumonts.

“Ahoy the
Adventure.
All's well.”

“Let's see if you say that in the morning,” Matthew muttered and half carried Buck to the closet-sized wheelhouse.

“Those are good people, Matthew. First I was thinking we'd just use their equipment, string them along, then take us the lion's share. Be easy for you and me to go down at night, lay off some of the best salvage. Don't think they'd know the difference.”

“Probably not,” Matthew agreed, as he stripped the wet pants off his uncle. “I gave it some thought myself. Amateurs usually deserve to be fleeced.”

“And we've fleeced a few,” Buck said merrily. “Just can't do it to old Ray, though. Got a friend there. Haven't had a friend like that since your dad died. There's his pretty wife, pretty daughter. Nope.” He shook his head with some regret. “Can't pirate from people you like.”

Matthew acknowledged this with a grunt and eyed the hammock strung between the cabin's forward and aft walls. He hoped to God he wouldn't have to heft Buck into it. “You've got to get into your bunk.”

“Yep. Going to play straight with Ray.” Like a bear climbing into his cave, Buck heaved himself up. The hammock swayed dangerously before he settled. “Should tell them about Angelique's Curse. Thinking about it, but never told nobody but you.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Maybe if I don't tell them, they won't be jinxed by it. Don't want to see anything happen to them.”

“They'll be fine.” Matthew unzipped his jeans, peeled them off.

“Remember that picture I showed you? All that gold, the rubies, the diamonds. Doesn't seem like something so beautiful could be evil.”

“Because it can't.” Matthew stripped off his shirt, tossed it after his jeans. He slipped Buck's glasses off his nose, set them aside. “Get some sleep, Buck.”

“More than two hundred years since they burned that witch and people still die. Like James.”

Matthew's jaw set, and his eyes went cold. “It wasn't a necklace that killed my father. It was a man. It was Silas VanDyke.”

“VanDyke.” Buck repeated the name in a voice slurred with sleep. “Never prove it.”

“It's enough to know it.”

“It's the curse. The witch's curse. But we'll beat her, Matthew. You and me'll beat her.” Buck began to snore.

Curse be damned, Matthew thought. He'd find the amulet all right. He'd follow in his father's footsteps until he had it. And when he did, he'd take his revenge on the bastard who had murdered James Lassiter.

In his underwear, he stepped out of the cabin into the balmy, star-splattered night. The moon hung, a silver coin struck in half. He settled under it in his own hammock, far enough away that his uncle's habitual snoring was only a low hum.

There was a necklace, a chain of heavy gold links and a pendant etched with names of doomed lovers and studded with rubies and diamonds. He'd seen the pictures, read the sketchy documentation his father had unearthed.

He knew the legend as well as a man might know fairy tales recited to him as a child at bedtime. A woman burned at the stake, condemned for witchcraft and murder. Her final promise that any who profited from her death would pay in kind.

The doom and despair that had followed the path of the necklace for two centuries. The greed and lust that had caused men to kill for it and women to plot.

He might even believe the legend, but it meant only that the greed and the lust had caused the doom and despair. A priceless jewel needed no curse to drive men to murder.

That he was sure of. That he knew, too well. Angelique's Curse had been the motive behind his father's death.

But it was a man who had planned it, executed it.

Silas VanDyke. Matthew could conjure up his face if he needed to, the voice, the build, even the smell. No matter how many years passed, he forgot nothing.

And he knew, as he had known as a helpless, grief-ravaged teenager, that one day he would find the amulet, and use it against VanDyke.

For revenge.

It was odd, that with such dark and violent thoughts hovering in his mind as he drifted to sleep, he would dream of Tate.

Swimming in impossibly clear waters, free of weight, of equipment, slick and agile as a fish. Deeper and deeper, to where the sun could no longer penetrate. The fans waved and toothy clumps of colors gleamed like jewels and carried bright fish in their pockets.

Still deeper, to where the colors—reds and oranges and yellows—faded to cool, cool blue. Yet there was no pressure, no need to equalize, no fears. Only a bursting sense of freedom that mellowed into complete and utter contentment.

He could stay here forever, in this soundless world, with nothing on his back, neither tanks nor worries.

There. There below him, a child's fairy-tale image of a sunken ship. The masts, the hull, the tattered flags waving in the current. It lay tilted in the bed of sand, impossibly whole and impossibly clear. He could see the cannons, still aimed against ancient enemies. And the wheel waiting for its captain ghost to steer it.

Delighted, he swam toward it, through swirls of fish, past an octopus that curled its tentacles and ballooned away, under the shadow of a giant ray that danced overhead.

He circled the deck of the Spanish galleon, read the proud lettering that christened her the
Isabella.
The crow's nest creaked above him, like a tree in the wind.

Then he saw her. Like a mermaid, she hovered just out of reach, smiling a siren's smile, gesturing with lovely, graceful hands. Her hair was long, not a flaming cap, but long, silken ropes of fire waving and swirling over her shoulders and naked breasts. Her skin was like a pearl, white and gleaming.

Her eyes were the same, green and amused.

As if a tide had swept him, he was helpless to do anything but go to her.

Her arms went around him, satin chains. Her lips parted for his and were sweet as honey. When he touched her, it was as if he'd waited all his life for that alone. The feel of her skin sliding under his hand, the quiver of muscle as he aroused her. The drum of pulse under flesh.

The taste of her sigh was in his mouth. Then the slick
and glorious heat enveloped as he slid inside her, as her legs wrapped around him and her body bowed back to take him deeper.

It was all dreamy movements, endless sensation. They drifted, rolling through the water in a soundless mating that left him weak and stunned and blissfully happy. He felt himself spill into her.

Then she kissed him, softly, deeply and with incredible sweetness. When he saw her face again, she was smiling. He reached for her, but she shook her head and danced away. He gave chase, and they frolicked like children, darting around the sunken ship.

She led him to a chest, laughing as she tossed back the lid and revealed the mountain of gold. Coins spilled as she dipped her hand in. The glint was like sunlight, and scattered with it were jewels of great size. Diamonds as big as his fist, emeralds larger than her eyes, pools of sapphires and rubies. Their color was dazzling against the cool gray of the world around them.

He dragged his hand through the chest, spilled a shower of star-shaped diamonds over her hair and made her laugh.

Then he found the amulet, the heavy gold chain, the blood and tears that studded the pendant. He could feel heat from it, as if it lived. Never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful, so compelling.

He held it up, looked at Tate's delighted face through the circle of the chain, then slipped it over her head. She laughed, kissed him, then cupped the pendant in her hand.

Suddenly fire exploded from it, a spear of violent heat and light that slammed him back like a blow. He watched in horror as the fire grew, in size and intensity, covering her in a sheath of flame. All he could see were her eyes, anguished and terrified.

He couldn't reach her. Though he fought and he struggled, the water that had been so calm and peaceful was a whirlwind of movement and sound. A tornado of sand funneled up, blinding him. He heard the lightning crack of the mast splitting, the seaquake roar that burst through the bed of sand and silt to tear through the hull of the ship like cannon fire.

Through it he heard screams—hers, his own.

Then it was gone, the flames, the sea, the wreck, the amulet. Tate. The sky was overhead, with its half disk of moon and splatter of stars. The sea was calm and ink-black, barely whispering against the boat.

He was alone on the deck of the
Sea Devil,
dripping sweat and gasping for breath.

T
ATE TOOK TWO
dozen pictures of ballast and cannon as she and Matthew explored. He humored her by posing at the mouth of a corroded gun, or manned the camera himself to take shots of her among the rocks and patient fish. Together, they attached a crusted cannonball to a flotation and sent it up to the second team.

Then, after a tug on the line, the work began.

Maneuvering an airlift well requires skill, patience and teamwork. It was a simple tool, hardly more than a pipe, four inches in diameter and about ten feet long with an air hose. Pressurized air ran into the pipe, rising and creating suction that would vacuum water, sand and solid objects. It was as essential to a treasure hunter as a hammer to a carpenter. Used too quickly, or with too much power, it could destroy. Used too carelessly, the pipe would become clogged with conglomerate, shells, coral.

While Matthew ran the airlift, Tate examined and collected its fallout that spewed from the top of the pipe. It was hard and tedious work on both sides. Sand and light debris swirled, obscuring vision in a dirty cloud downcurrent. It took a sharp eye and endless patience to search through the fallout, load the bits and pieces and chunks into buckets to be hauled to the surface.

Matthew continued to make test holes with a steady, almost soothing rhythm. Stingrays basked in the fallout, apparently enjoying the massage of sand and small rock. Tate allowed herself to dream, imagining a slew of glinting gold bursting out of the pipe, like a jackpot in a slot machine.

Fantasies aside, she gathered fused nails, bits of conglomerate and the shards of broken pottery. They were every bit as fascinating to her as gold bullion. Her college studies in the past year had accented her love of history and the fragments of culture buried in the shifting sea.

Her long-term ambitions and goals were very clear. She would study, earn her degree, absorbing all the knowledge she could hold through books, lectures, and most of all, by doing. One day, she would join the ranks of scientists who sailed the oceans, plumbed the depths to discover and analyze the relics of doomed ships.

Her name would make an impact, and her finds from doubloons to iron spikes would matter.

Eventually, there would be a museum carrying the Beaumont name filled with artifacts.

Now and again as she worked, she would catch herself falling behind because she'd paused to wonder over a broken cup. What had it held the last time someone sipped from it?

When she nicked her finger on a sharp edge, she took it philosophically. The thin drip of blood washed away in the swirl.

Matthew signaled her through the cloud. In the hole, perhaps a foot deep, she saw the iron spikes crossed like swords. Caught between their calcified tips was a platter of pewter.

Forty feet of water didn't prevent Tate from expressing her glee. She caught his hand and squeezed it, then blew him a kiss. Efficiently, she unhooked her camera from her belt and documented the find. Records, she knew, were essential to scientific discoveries. She might have spent some time examining it, gloating over it unscientifically, but Matthew was already moving off to dig another hole.

There was more. Each time they transferred the airlift,
they would uncover another discovery. A clump of spoons cemented in coral, a bowl that even with a third of it missing caused Tate's heart to slam against her ribs.

Time and fatigue ceased to exist. An audience of thousands watched the progress, small fish scanning the disturbed area for exposed worms. If one got lucky, dozens of others would rush in to search for food in a colorful flood of motion.

At his usual distance, the barracuda remained like a statue, looking on in grinning approval.

Matthew ran the lift like an artist, Tate thought. Probing here, then shifting with a delicacy that seemed to remove sand a grain at a time. He brushed away silt clouds with a wave of the pipe. If the wall of sand was parted by an object, he would back off the pipe, work carefully to prevent damage.

She saw with dazzled eyes a fragile piece of porcelain, a bowl with elegant rosebuds rimming its cup.

He would have left it for the time being, knowing that something that fragile when cemented to coral or some other object could be snapped off at the slightest touch.

But her eyes were so big with wonder, so bright with delight. He wanted to give her the bowl, see her face when she held it. Signaling her back, Matthew began the tedious and time-consuming process of whispering the sand clear. When he was satisfied, he handed her the pipe. Reaching below the bowl to the coral that had claimed it, Matthew worked it free.

It cost him some skin, but when he offered it to her, the nicks and scratches were forgotten. Her eyes glowed, then filled so unexpectedly both of them stared. Disconcerted, Matthew took the pipe back, jerked a thumb to the surface. He cracked the valve on the airlift, released a torrent of bubbles. Together, they swam up in the spray.

She didn't speak, couldn't. Grateful they were hampered by the airlift and her last bucket of conglomerate, she reached the side of the
Adventure.
Her father beamed over the side.

“You've been keeping us busy.” He'd pitched his voice over the roar of the compressor, winced when Buck shut
it off. “We've got dozens of artifacts, Tate.” He hauled up the bucket she held out. “Spoons, forks, buckets, copper coins, buttons . . .” He trailed off when she held up the bowl. “My God. Porcelain. Unbroken. Marla.” His voice cracked on the name. “Marla, come over here and look at this.”

Reverently, Ray took the bowl from Tate. By the time she and Matthew had gotten aboard, Marla was sitting on deck, surrounded by debris, the flowered bowl in her lap, her video camera beside her.

“Pretty piece,” Buck commented. However casual the words, his voice betrayed his excitement.

“Tate liked it.” Matthew glanced toward her. She was standing in her wet suit, the tears that had threatened forty feet below flowing freely.

“There are so many things,” she managed. “Dad, you can't imagine. Under the sand. All these years under the sand. Then you find them. Something like this.” After rubbing the heels of her hands over her face, she crouched by her mother, dared to skim a gentle fingertip over the rim of the bowl. “Not a chip. It survived a hurricane and more than two hundred and fifty years, and it's perfect.”

She rose. Her fingers felt numb as she tugged at the zipper of her wet suit. “There was a platter, pewter. It's caught between two iron spikes like a sculpture. You only had to close your eyes to see it heaped with food and set on a table. Nothing I've been studying comes close to doing it, to seeing it.”

“I figure we hit the galley area,” Matthew put in. “Plenty of wooden utensils, wine jugs, broken dishes.” Grateful, he accepted the cold juice Ray offered him. “I dug a lot of test holes, about a thirty-foot area. The two of you might want to move a few degrees north of that.”

“Let's get started.” Buck was already suiting up. Casually, Matthew walked over to pour more juice.

“Saw a shark cruising,” he said in an undertone. It was well known among the partners that Marla paled and panicked at the thought of sharks. “Wasn't interested in us, but it wouldn't hurt to take a couple of bangsticks down.”

Ray glanced toward his wife, who was reverently documenting the latest treasures on video. “Better safe than sorry,” he agreed. “Tate,” he called out. “Want to reload the camera for me?”

Twenty minutes later, the compressor was pumping again. Tate worked at the big drop-leaf table in the deckhouse with her mother, cataloguing every item they'd brought up from the wreck.

“It's the
Santa Marguerite.
” Tate fingered a spoon before setting it in the proper pile. “We found the ordinance mark on one of the cannons. We found our Spanish galleon, Mom.”

“Your father's dream.”

“And yours?”

“And mine,” Marla agreed with a slow smile. “Used to be I just went along for the ride. It was such a nice, interesting hobby, I thought. It gave us such adventurous vacations, and was certainly a change from our mundane jobs.”

Tate looked up, a pucker of a frown between her brows. “I never knew you thought your job was mundane.”

“Oh, being a legal secretary is fine except when you start asking yourself why you didn't have the gumption to be the lawyer.” She moved her shoulders. “The way I was raised, Tate, honey, a woman didn't move in a man's world except to quietly pick up behind him. Your grandma was a very old-fashioned woman. I was expected to work in an acceptable job until I found a suitable husband.” She laughed and set aside a pewter cup with a missing handle. “I just got lucky on the husband part. Very lucky.”

This, too, was a new discovery. “Did you want to be a lawyer?”

“Never occurred to me,” Marla admitted. “Until I was heading on toward forty. A dangerous time for a woman. I can't say I looked back when your father decided to retire. I did the same, and I thought I was more than content to drift with him, playing at treasure-hunting. Now seeing these things.” She picked up a silver coin. “Makes
me realize we're doing something important. Valuable in its way. I never thought to make a mark again.”

“Again.”

Marla looked up with a smile. “I made my mark when I had you. This is wonderful, and it's exciting. But you'll always be treasure enough for your father and me.”

“You've always made me feel like I can do anything. Be anything.”

“You can.” Marla glanced over. “Matthew, come join us.”

“I don't want to interrupt.” He felt out of his depth, and clumsy, stepping into the family unit.

“Don't be silly.” Marla was already on her feet. “I bet you'd like some coffee. I've got fresh in the galley. Tate and I are organizing our treasure trove.”

Matthew scanned the scatter of artifacts over the table. “I think we're going to need more room.”

Marla laughed as she stepped back in with the coffee. “Oh, I like an optimistic man.”

“Realistic,” Tate corrected and patted the seat on the settee in invitation. “My diving partner is far from optimistic.”

Not certain if he was amused or insulted, Matthew sat beside her and sampled his coffee. “I wouldn't say that.”

“I would.” Tate dived into the bowl of pretzels her mother set out. “Buck's the dreamer. You like the life—sun, sea, sand.” Nibbling, she leaned back. “No real responsibilities, no real ties. You don't expect to find some crusted chest filled with gold doubloons, but you know how to make do with the occasional trinket. Enough to keep you in shrimp and beer.”

“Tate.” Marla shook her head, muffled a laugh. “Don't be rude.”

“No, she's hitting it.” Matthew bit into a pretzel. “Let her finish.”

“You're not afraid of hard work because there's always plenty of time for lying in a hammock, snoozing. There's the excitement of the dive, of the discovery, and always the turnover value rather than the intrinsic value of some small booty.” She handed him a silver spoon. “You're a
realist, Matthew. So when you say we'll need more room, I believe you.”

“Fine.” He realized no matter how he weighed it, he was insulted. He tossed the spoon with a clatter back onto the pile. “I figure we can use the
Sea Devil
for storage.” When she angled her chin, peered down her nose, he sneered at her. “Buck and I can bunk here, on deck. We can use the
Adventure
for our workstation. We dive from here, we clean the conglomerate and artifacts here, then transport them to the
Sea Devil.
”

“That seems very sensible,” Marla agreed. “After all, we have two boats, we might as well make full use of both of them.”

“All right. If Dad and Buck agree, so will I. In the meantime, Matthew, why don't you help me bring in another load from on deck?”

“Fine. Thanks for the coffee, Marla.”

“Oh, you're welcome, sweetie.”

“I'm going to have to run to Saint Kitts later,” Tate began as they started out. “To have the film developed. Want to come with me?”

“Maybe.”

She caught the edge to his voice and smothered a smile. “Matthew.” To stop his progress, she touched a hand to his arm. “Do you know why I think we work so well together down there?”

“No.” He turned. Her skin was still an impossible alabaster even after weeks at sea. He could smell the cream she used to protect it, and the perfume that was salt and sea air that clung to her hair. “But you're going to tell me.”

“I think it's because you're realistic, and I'm idealistic. You're reckless, I'm cautious. Contradicting traits inside ourselves and against each other. Somehow we make a balance.”

“You really like to analyze things, don't you, Red?”

“I guess I do.” Hoping he was unaware of how much courage it took, she shifted closer. “I've been analyzing why you were so angry after you kissed me.”

“I wasn't angry,” he corrected evenly. “And you kissed me.”

“I started it.” Determined to finish it, she kept her eyes on his. “You changed it, then you got mad because it surprised you. What you felt surprised you. It surprised me, too.” Lifting her hands, she spread them on his chest. “I wonder if we'd be surprised now.”

He wanted, more than anything he could remember, he wanted to swoop down and plunder that fresh and eager mouth. The hunger to taste it came in swift, sharp waves, and made his hands rough as they snagged her wrists.

“You're moving into dark water, Tate.”

“Not alone.” She wasn't afraid any longer, she realized. Why, she wasn't even nervous. “I know what I'm doing.”

“No, you don't.” He shoved her back, arm's length, hardly realizing his hands were still cuffed around her wrists. “You figure there aren't any consequences, but there are. If you don't watch your step, you'll pay them.”