The Secret of Othello Page 6

  “Here’s the list,” he said, handing it to Steven. “Everywhere I want to go.”

  Steven studied it. Some of the sites were easy to get to and easy to dive. Beginner divers liked them a lot. Others were deeper and trickier. The most difficult dive on the list was the Rumney Marsh, a research vessel that had been sunk to make an artificial reef.

  “We should start with the Rumney Marsh,” Brad said. “I might want to go back a few times.”

  Steven passed the paper to Denny and said, “The Crayford’s easier, and pretty photogenic.”

  Brad’s gaze narrowed. “You don’t think I can do it?”

  “I think we’d feel better starting with the easy ones,” Steven said, not backing down. “Better that we get to know each other before we tackle the hard ones.”

  “My brother said you were good,” Brad challenged. “He didn’t say you were timid.”

  “Not timid,” Steven said. “Cautious. Three years ago someone died diving the Rumney Marsh. Two people died last summer, up in Key Largo, similar kind of accident. You want someone to take you there, fine, but it’s not going to be us on the first day.”

  Denny wasn’t saying anything. Steven got pissed at that. Usually you could count on Denny to speak up. He was studying the water, his face perfectly blank. The only sounds were the gulls, the chugging of a nearby motor, and the honk of a car horn up in the parking lot.

  Tristan broke the stalemate. “I’d rather get to know someone before I dive somewhere dangerous, Dad. Let’s do the Crayford today. That’s on your list, too.”

  Brad lifted his chin. “Fine. But I’m certified, she’s certified, and I expect to get my money’s worth once we’re all cozy friends.”

  Denny took the helm and Steven busied himself double-checking his and Denny’s equipment on deck. Brad went through his cameras, inspecting cables and batteries. They were twenty minutes out of Fisher Key when Steven spotted three ships south of Bardet Key. One was a Coast Guard cutter and the other two were civilian ships.

  “Othello II,” he said, reading the name on the smaller of the two ships. “They’re looking for their lost spy satellite.”

  Denny shook his head. “You heard Captain Flaherty. It’s just a weather monitor.”

  “He has to say that,” Steven said confidently. “He can’t go blabbing about national security.”

  Once the ships were out of sight, Steven went down to the galley to get a bottle of cold water. Tristan was sitting at the table, her feet propped up, reading one of her books. She didn’t lift her gaze from the page.

  “You don’t have to dive with us when we get there,” she said. “Dad and I can do fine on our own.”

  “Part of the service,” he replied.

  “Because he’s crippled and I’m a girl?”

  “Because anyone can get into trouble down there,” Steven replied. “Decompression sickness, sharks, jellyfish—you name it, we’ve seen it.”

  She still didn’t look up from her book. “We can handle whatever happens.”

  “Then I’ll be happily bored,” Steven said.

  When they reached the Crayford, two sport fishing boats and a dive boat were already on the site. The dive boat was the Goat Locker, run by a retired Navy chief named Darla Stewart. Steven knew she was a good diver, very safe. Stewart must have just arrived because a dozen or so customers were still gearing up on deck. The fishing boats were backing off, per tradition in the Keys, but a dozen other divers were going to make the wreck a little crowded.

  “We should have arrived earlier,” Brad muttered.

  Steven stopped himself from saying something sarcastic.

  The sunken ship had an underwater mooring buoy tied to its bow and another to its stern, both designed to keep boaters from dropping anchor on the fragile reef. Denny used the GPS to maneuver to where the stern buoy should be. Steven and Tristan peered over the side to locate it.

  “There!” Tristan said, pointing.

  Steven took a deep breath, dove into the water, and swam down. The current tugged at him but he had no problem mooring. When he surfaced, Tristan and Brad were slipping on their gear and rigging the wheelchair.

  “We’ll do two dives here,” Brad said. “Then we should head to Thunder Shoals. I want to get some shots in the afternoon light.”

  Steven said, “Okay, but we should be back at Fisher Key by three o’clock.”

  Brad’s gaze narrowed suspiciously. “We paid you for seven hours per day.”

  “Which started at eight o’clock this morning,” Steven replied.

  Tristan put her hand on her father’s shoulder. “You know we were late, Dad. Let’s just concentrate on the dive, okay? You’ve been planning this trip for months.”

  Brad muttered something under his breath and consulted his charts again.

  A few minutes later, Steven, Brad, and Tristan splashed over the railing and started their descent, the camera equipment and prop wheelchair with them. Sunlight shimmered around Steven, liquid light illuminating schools of fish darting beneath his flippers. The visibility was excellent, the water seventy-five degrees. Steven grinned behind his mask. He could dive and dive and dive for the rest of his life, each time sparkling new. Too bad Denny had to stay behind on the boat—a dive like this might cheer him up from his funk.

  It hadn’t been hard to get Brad into the water, and his descent was controlled by his buoyancy compensator vest. He had also brought along a portable propeller or sea scooter to move around without tiring himself. Tristan stayed beside him, her pink bathing suit unmistakable in the blue sea. She filled that bathing suit perfectly, every curve clearly defined, but Steven told his brain not to go there.

  The Crayford was forty feet down. She was an old cable-laying ship, not much to look at, but years of growth had turned her into a splendid oasis of marine life and plants. They’d only been there a few minutes before divers from Darla Stewart’s boat started to appear. Brad set his wheelchair up near the stern and took photographs. Tristan stood watch, waving off other divers if they got in the way. Steven kept an eye on his watch and gauges, but they still had plenty of time.

  The other divers swam around them in groups of two and three, snapping their own pictures or underwater video. A girl in a white bikini took Steven’s picture and grinned at him from behind her mask. With fifteen minutes left per his watch, Steven signaled Tristan. She nodded. Five minutes later, he gave her the signal to ascend. She tugged on her father’s arm, but he brushed her off and held up five fingers. He wanted to push it to their maximum.

  Steven didn’t like that at all. He swam to Brad and Tristan and once again signaled them to ascend.

  Brad shook his head, held up five fingers, and snapped another picture.

  Steven wanted to thump the man on the side of his head. Instead, he put his hand over the camera lens. Brad shook him off, angry behind his mask, but Steven insisted with another signal.

  Tristan tapped her father on the chest, maybe some kind of symbol between them.

  Looking annoyed, Brad started upward.

  They stopped at fifteen feet for a three-minute safety stop. But Brad broke upward at least thirty seconds early, which pissed Steven off even more. He waited, though, unwilling to risk the bends. By the time he surfaced, Brad was clinging to the dive platform and berating Denny.

  “—don’t need a babysitter, and I’m not some kind of idiot newbie who doesn’t know the risks—”

  Denny, to his credit, was giving Brad his best blank face. He said, “Why don’t we get you back on board and we’ll settle it then?”

  “Not a newcomer,” Brad repeated, hauling himself up on the platform as far as he could. “Crippled doesn’t mean stupid.”

  Tristan, bobbing in the water beside Steven, said, “Dad, you knew time was up.”

  Steven shrugged off his tank and flippers, swung them up to Denny, and hauled himself up the platform ladder. Together, he and Denny lifted Brad back into the boat. Steven tried not to stare at the man�
��s long, useless legs and focused instead on what a jerk he was being.

  “So what exactly happened down there?” Denny asked, handing out towels.

  “He ignored the timetable,” Steven said.

  “I knew exactly how much time I could spend,” Brad retorted.

  “Dad, you didn’t—” Tristan started.

  “I don’t need your input, Tris,” her father snapped.

  Denny jerked his head toward the galley and Steven followed him. Once below, away from where they could be overheard, Denny turned on Steven angrily.

  “Are you trying to ruin my career, or what?” he demanded.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Why are you mad at me?” Steven snapped. “I’m not the one putting myself in danger.”

  “If he gives a bad report about us to Captain Flaherty, word will get around,” Denny said hotly. “I don’t need a bad reputation before I even show up at the academy.”

  Steven rolled his eyes. “You’d rather be known for cutting corners and letting people walk all over you?”

  “I’m not letting—”

  “You’re being an asshat,” Steven said. “Safety first, all the time. That’s the rule.”

  Denny folded his arms. “I think this is personal. He rubs you the wrong way and you keep snapping at him. Two alpha dogs barking and barking.”

  “Alpha dog?” Steven asked scornfully. “That’s what you think?”

  “I think you better lay off before you ruin this,” Denny said.

  Steven said, “Fine. You deal with him. I’ll take the wheel and shut up for the rest of the day.”

  Steven stomped his way up to the wheelhouse. After the mandatory rest period, Brad and Tristan descended again with Denny at their side. Steven brooded and glowered across the waves at Darla Stewart’s boat, where a group of divers were also readying for their second descent. The breeze had picked up and some rain clouds were gathering in the west, but the forecast remained mostly okay.

  He had nothing to do but wait, wait and wait some more. Because of nitrogen buildup, Tristan and Brad couldn’t dive as long on this trip. Steven hoped, pettily, that salt water got into Brad’s camera and ruined it. But when the trio surfaced a short time later, Brad seemed in a good mood and Tristan was grinning.

  “We saw a huge grouper,” she said. “At least six hundred pounds!”

  “Seven hundred,” Brad said, handing his camera gear up.

  Denny slipped off his tank. “The locals call him Fred. He’s a celebrity.”

  They got Brad settled back on the boat, as well as the prop wheelchair and other equipment. Denny let them loose from the underwater buoy and Steven steered them toward Thunder Shoals, a shallow section of the reef where they could snorkel freely. Steven didn’t say anything to Brad or Tristan and responded minimally to Denny. It occurred to him that maybe he was being childish, but so what? It felt good to sulk.

  Tristan climbed up to the wheelhouse on the way to Thunder Shoals. She had pulled on a long-sleeved jersey and had a book tucked under her armpit.

  “Can I steer?” she asked.

  “Do you have a boater’s license?”

  “No.”

  “Then no. You can steer when you have a license,” he said primly.

  Tristan scowled. “You like rules, don’t you? Is that why you want to go into the military?”

  “It’s not about rules,” Steven said. “It’s about not getting killed and not doing stupid stuff.”

  “My dad knows what he’s doing.”

  “A lot of people who know what they’re doing still do stupid things.” Through the window, Steven watched a flock of seagulls swirl against the sky. “Like pushing the table or skipping safety stops.”

  Tristan asked, “And you’ve never done either one?”

  “Never.”

  She made a little noise of disbelief.

  “You think I want to permanently damage myself? Brain damage or lifelong pain or paralysis?” A sudden thought occurred to him. “That’s how it happened, isn’t it? That’s why he’s in a wheelchair now.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “He was injured in Iraq, six years ago.”

  Steven asked, “He was a soldier?”

  Tristan stared out at the sea. “No. A civilian journalist embedded with the U.S. Army. A suicide bomber hit the mess hall in the middle of dinner.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Steven said, truthfully.

  “If he’s temperamental, it’s because he’s had to fight every day for the last six years,” she said. “For good medical care, for permanent disability benefits, for everything. There’ve been lawyers and lawsuits and more lawsuits, and do you know how many journalist jobs there are these days? He had to completely change careers.”

  “What does he do now?”

  “Teaches at a community college,” she said. “And hates it, but that’s all there is. Two years ago one of his counselors set him up with scuba diving to relieve stress and depression. He and my mom got certified together.”

  Steven asked, “So where’s she?”

  “She left him,” Tristan said. “Anything else you think you need to know about my family?”

  “No,” Steven said. “I just need to know that he won’t do anything stupid or dangerous down there.”

  “Trust me,” she said. “We’re not suicidal.”

  *

  Three other boats were moored to the floating buoys at Thunder Shoals. The reef was only fifteen feet down, covered with several varieties of beautiful, brilliantly colored coral, with fish swarms and occasional nurse sharks. Brad, Tristan, and Denny went into the water with snorkel gear, leaving Steven on board to mind the helm. Denny noticed that Tristan had gone up to talk to him and afterward, Steven had seemed in a more thoughtful mood. Maybe things would get better between him and their clients.

  After the snorkeling, Steven turned back to Fisher Key. Denny helped Brad and Tristan rinse the seawater from their equipment. Brad seemed satisfied with the afternoon’s results.

  “Tomorrow we should head out to Sombrero Reef,” he said.

  Denny breathed a silent sigh of relief that there would be a tomorrow—that they weren’t fired. He was still stinging from Steven’s accusation that he was being a doormat. Compromising and listening to both sides of a story didn’t mean he was a pushover. But he didn’t want Captain Flaherty hearing complaints about Steven being unprofessional.

  Then again, Brad might be the kind of person to complain no matter how much you tried to please him.

  Denny joined Steven in the wheelhouse for the final leg of the trip back to Fisher Key. Steven said, “You want the wheel?” which, for him, was sort of an apology.

  “No, you keep it,” Denny replied. And then, because he accepted the apology, he added, “As long as you don’t ram us into the dock.”

  “Tristan said her dad got hurt as a civilian in Iraq,” Steven said. “Sucks, huh?”

  “Recently?”

  “About six years ago.”

  “We were only in sixth grade,” Denny mused.

  “Doesn’t excuse him for being dangerous,” Steven said.

  “I know.” Denny didn’t say anything else. Sometimes it was best to let Steven stew over his ideas and figure them out on his own.

  As they turned into the marina, Denny saw that the civilian ship Othello II had moored at the outermost pier. Up close, she was about fifty feet long with a large A-frame and winch on deck. He was surprised they were in port so early in the afternoon. Steven said, “They must have found what they were looking for.”

  “Or they had mechanical problems,” Denny said.

  Steven docked the Idle. Denny went down to make sure Brad got to the pier safely. Steven helped as well, and if he wasn’t very talkative to Brad at least they didn’t snap at one another. The twins helped Tristan carry the cameras and other equipment back to their van.

  “We’ll be back tomorrow at eight,” Brad said. And then, maybe as his own sort of apology,
he said, “Promptly at eight.”

  “We’ll see you then,” Denny said.

  Steven only nodded.

  On their way back to the Idle, Denny made a list in his head of everything they had to do, including refuel the boat, check the weather forecast, check the dive tanks, make sure everything was rinsed off and stowed properly. And, oh yes, have dinner with homophobic Aunt Riza. He’d tried not to think about it too much, preferring to concentrate on the ocean and diving, but his stomach clenched in anticipation of a tense and unhappy dinner.

  As they passed the Othello II, a pretty blond woman inspecting some scuba tanks leaned over the railing and smiled at them. “Hi there! Are you locals?”

  “As local as you can get,” Steven said.

  “I was looking for the nearest grocery store.” She swung down to the deck, tanned and fit in khaki shorts and a yellow polo shirt. “I’m Claire. Claire Donovan.”

  “The marina store has groceries,” Denny said.

  “I’m looking for some tofu,” Claire said, and how her accent came through—Irish, Denny thought. She said, “I’m vegetarian. The marina store’s more of a carnivore kind of place.”

  “There’s a health store on U.S. 1, about three miles north,” Steven said, returning her smile. Denny watched in amazement. He swore that half the time Steven didn’t even know he was flirting. It was some kind of default setting, hardwired into him.

  “Can I bike there?” Claire asked.

  “There’s no bike lane,” Steven said. “I’m going to the dive shop up there, if you want a ride.”

  This was news to Denny. They’d agreed he would borrow Steven’s truck and fill the tanks. On the other hand, if Steven wanted to make a fool of himself with an older woman, Denny could stay behind and maybe get some time with Brian before the dinner with his family.

  Claire said, “I don’t want to impose.”