Wicked Tempest: A Kate Waters Mystery (Kate Waters Mysteries Book 2) (5 page)

She rose from the couch, went into the kitchen. After rummaging through the cupboards, she took out a jar of peanut butter and a spoon, and dipped into it.

Thoughts sometimes best digested with comfort food, Wells thought. He walked over to the living room window. Front Avenue cut through a line of cherry trees below. On the corner, an old grey Subaru wagon parked. The car was too far away and too dark to see the license plate number, but he made a mental note of its characteristic details: new tires, ski rack, a purple and white sticker on the back passenger window, and a dent in the front fender.

Wells turned around to Julie. “I won’t pressure you anymore. I understand your fears, I really do. But I want you to think about what I said, about what might happen in the future if that boy learns he can get away with doing whatever he pleases.”

Julie’s eyes dropped from his again. “Okay.”

Wells’ phone buzzed in his jacket. He picked it up. “Detective Wells.”

“You were right about the marks,” a familiar voice said. It was John Collins, the medical examiner at Emanuel Hospital who had helped him with Jevanna Waters’ case. “They are Lichtenberg’s Flowers.”

“I thought so. I’d seen another patient with similar marks at the hospital recently."

“Right. That’s the fourth one this week.”

“No kidding?” Wells said.

Julie walked back into the living room and sat down on the couch, peanut butter jar in lap.

“The storms have been unusually prevalent this year,” John said. “I imagine we could see a few more injuries like this before they push through.”

“Can we make a definite call that lightning is what killed her?”

“Yes. She was definitely electrocuted by a very high voltage, which is commonly produced with lightning, and this resulted in her cardiac arrest. I still don’t see anything that would suggest foul play—there weren’t any chemicals in her system and no sign of bodily harm. Just a plain old freak accident.”

“You don’t think someone could have electrocuted her?”

“That still asks the question of how and with what? I suppose someone could have dragged in a generator or tapped into an electrical box in her place, but there didn’t seem to be any struggle marks on her body, so I’d have to go with the lightning theory. Makes sense.”

“I guess that’s as good as the news is going to get.”

“Unless you need anything else,” John said, “I’ll go ahead and call the undertaker.”

“No, that’s all. Thanks, John.”

“Sure.”

Wells hung up the phone. Although John had said there wasn’t any foul play that he could make of, he still couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling or forget about the fact that the girl’s front door was open, as if someone had left in a hurry. He suspected involvement with witchcraft again. To be sure he didn’t end up making the same mistakes he had made in the Jevanna Waters’ case, he made a note to interview a few of her friends and relatives before he submitted his report.

Julie set her tea down and walked over to him by the window. “I know you try real hard, Dad, and that you care about me and everyone else. It’s just that I’m an adult now. I have to take care of myself. You can’t always do it for me.”

Wells pulled her head gently to his chest and hugged her tight. “I know. I trust you’ll do the right thing, make the right decisions.” He looked out the window. The grey Subaru had left during his phone call with John. He wondered about the driver, if it were someone dangerous who might return, but Julie was right. He couldn’t watch her round-the-clock. She was going to have to take care of herself. It was just that he didn’t think she was doing a very good job of it.

Night deepened to an ink-black darkness, seemingly thicker than curtains. With only the deck lights on the boat, the stars shone like a spray of glitter across the sky. Water clapped against the side of the hull as the Dawn Maiden idled in the rolling waves of the Pacific Ocean. Barry threw the anchor over the side of the boat while Keith and Nick zipped up their wet suits, checked the regulators on their tanks, and strapped on their weight belts.

Keith held out a receiver to Nick. “When this blinks—”

“Yeah, I get it—you’ve located the ship.”

Keith lodged a glare at him. “Remember who you’re doing this for. If you can’t find the balls to steal a multi-million dollar statue for the money alone, then don’t forget what that money will buy.”

A punch of guilt hit Nick square in the gut. Keith knew how to deliver them better than anyone. He knew Matt desperately needed another plastic surgery to fix the warped, melted skin of his face where the fireworks had exploded, and he knew Nick would do anything to make it happen, because primarily, this operation had begun for just that reason. Recovering artifacts was Nick’s idea. He was the one who had discovered the
El Oro Señora
, ‘The Gold Lady’, and the one funding the explorations with equipment he had from years in the oceanography business. Keith was only the guts of the deal, the means to exchange the statue and other treasures for cold cash. Keith needed him more than Nick needed Keith, but he would never see it that way.

“I’m well aware of what money can buy and also what it can’t.” Like morals, Nick thought. He moved from the helm so Barry could take over.

“Both of you just focus on the job,” Barry said. “If another body washes ashore, we’ll be done for.” He cracked open a can of Rolling Rock.

“Same goes for you,” Keith said, gesturing to his beer. “If another body washes ashore, it won’t be because of my fucking noodle brain.”

“If another body washes ashore, it won’t be because of either,” Nick said.

Keith eyed him for a moment, perplexed.

Barry smacked him lightly across the arm. “The curse.”

“Oh, right,” Keith said with a sharp tone of sarcasm. “The dreaded curse.”

“There may be some weight to the curse,” Nick said.

“And I might be Gandhi incarnate.” Keith and Barry laughed him off.

But Nick knew a trail of death followed that statue. He had done the research on the 16
th
century
El Oro Señora
and how it came into possession of the statue. Descendants in the Spanish empire made a statue of the Goddess Rán for the wife of Philip IV of Spain, Elisabeth, but she died, along with many of her children. Philip’s second wife, Marianna, also lost most of her children, and the decline of Spain fell on Philip as he lost successive battles. The statue disappeared on a voyage with Jesuit missionaries—a voyage believed to have been on one of the Manila Galleon fleets—and hadn’t been seen since. Nick couldn’t help but question that even if they did find it, how many more people would die? Maybe some things should stay buried.

“C’mon, let’s do this,” Keith said with renewed seriousness. Determination shimmered in his eyes like dark waves beneath moonlight.

“Now or never,” Nick replied, mirroring his disposition. He sat down along the bench of the boat at the stern and stuffed a netted bag into his belt that he would use to carry artifacts to the surface.

Keith took a seat next to him. His flippers squeaked as he pulled them over his heels. “Take what you can. We can always make another trip tonight if we need to.”

“Whatever it takes,” Nick said before tugging his mask over his face. His heart pounded faster than normal. He worked to block out the voices ranting in his head, those of Keith, Matt, and the last words spoken by Jim:
See you on the other side
. He hadn’t meant in death—he used the phrase to refer to the world beneath water. In the end, it was essentially just that.

Keith secured his mask and scooted back to the edge of the bench. Both men gave a “thumbs-up” to Barry and fell over backwards.

Once in the water, Nick and Keith turned their headlamps on. Beams of light cut through the dark, particle-filled water. Bright flashes of silver fish darted in front of them. They swam down, steering toward a ridge that connected to the Juan de Fuca, the resting place of the
El Oro Señora
.

Nick checked the depth on his gauge. 120-feet. In another 30, they would bump into the mast of the 265-year-old Spanish ship, a tombstone of gems, gold, and other treasures worth millions of dollars. They estimated the artifact they coveted, the statue of Rán, at $2 million. That kind of money could bring out the worst in people, which Nick had always grasped, but was now discovering firsthand. While he had known Keith for half of his life, had considered him a close friend at one time, he questioned lately if Keith even believed in friendship. Anymore, he seemed to have an agenda, and tonight, Nick followed it into a cold, dark abyss.

Ahead, a large shadow emerged, ominous as the storm clouds earlier in the day. Keith signaled for Nick, the more experienced diver of the two, to lead the way. Nick passed by him, approaching what he could now distinguish as the massive Spanish vessel,
El Oro Señora
. The ship was breathtaking. Nick found himself slowing to absorb its entirety. The bowsprit protruded out like a bellow fish, and the stem’s sharp point, which once cut through the water, was half-buried in the ocean floor. Railings and ladders were still intact, as well as two of the shrouds, the riggings that held up the masts, and other instruments on the main deck.

Keith swam up beside him and pointed to a large hole in the side of the hull where it must have broken apart during its descent. The
El Oro Señora
hadn’t had a chance and neither had its crew. Rán made sure of that.

Nick swam closer, through another small school of fish, until he could see the intricate carvings and details at the starboard. Crustacean sea life clung to the metal, brass, and iron of the boat and accrued along the railings. He pulled himself into the opening of the hole in the hull, careful not to shake up sediment that had collected inside. Many of the ship’s compartments had caved in after centuries of rot and corrosion. Nick tied a fluorescent yellow rope to a plank, and then motioned to Keith to swim toward where they presumed the crew might have stored some of the treasures. The water churned with particles and clouded around them, becoming thicker the farther they went. Nick checked his tank and saw he had already used up a quarter of his oxygen. His chest tightened, making it difficult to breathe.

Cautiously winding through the tight space, weaving the rope behind them, Keith and Nick slowly made their way to the back of the ship, the captain’s quarters, and the most logical place for hidden valuables.

In the largest quarters, Keith located a chest buried in a corner; on it, an old, rusted chain with a lock wrapped around two loopholes. He drew lock cutters from his belt and worked to break through it. Mostly eroded, the chain snapped easily, but the lid proved difficult to lift. Nick gave him a hand. With their combined strength, the lid broke free of its casings as they heaved it up. Keith peered inside with his flashlight. Muck and silt coated broaches, necklaces, and fine eating utensils that had once glimmered, but nothing that couldn’t be cleaned and polished to a bright gleam again.

Keith scooped up handfuls and filled his netted bag. Nick shined his light around the rest of the cabin, at the dark rotted wood and rusted metal. He located another chest in the corner next to an old crate. The chest lid was open and the lock busted. Jim’s doing? He peered inside and found three iron knifes and other assorted cutlery and weaponry. One small box, made of steel, was empty. It was similar in size to the statue.

Keith swam over and inspected the box with him when a rumble shook the space around them. Particles sifted up and swirled in front of them, obstructing their view. A crash pounded, then a screeching scrape along the bottom and the sides of the ship.

The ship was moving, sliding down the mountain.

Panic gripped Nick by the throat and constricted air to his lungs. He reached for Keith as falling debris hurled past them, but a board crashed down and knocked him back. Nick lost his grip on the rope. The ceiling descended toward him as the ship slipped down the mountain, propelling him farther away from Keith and the rope and tossing him around the sharp, heavy equipment in the ship.

He clipped his bag to his belt and braced himself against the wall, which was now the floor. He covered his head with his arms as items in the ship sailed around him. The chest they had just opened hurtled toward him and crashed into his shoulder. He fell back and hit a beam hard enough to whack his regulator from his mouth. His hand grazed the tubing, and he quickly stuffed the regulator back into his mouth. Without it, getting out of the boat wouldn’t matter.

Nick turned his attention back to finding Keith, but he was nowhere visible. He couldn’t even see the door where they had first entered. The dark space had become a storm of silt. He searched around the cabin and caught sight of Keith’s light. He was cramming more artifacts from the last box into his net. It was too full, and he signaled for Nick to help him.

But fear had frozen Nick in place, fear of Rán’s cold hands dragging him down into the dark folds of the ocean. Images of Matt graduating high school, playing soccer, and his last birthday flashed through his thoughts. An ache ballooned in his heart at the thought that he might never see him again. All Keith cared about was collecting his treasures. He wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind except his regret at not having scored as many valuables as he could.

The ship moaned, skidding deeper into the Pacific. The water grew cloudier until it was a viscous soup of muck and roving objects. The pressure in Nick’s ears escalated until a sharp burning stab pierced into his head. He lost sight of Keith again and the distant glow of his headlamp. An iron rod busted free of the wall and struck against his back. Thunder rolled over him as large pieces of furniture tumbled around. A bench rolled in his direction and slammed him against the wall. His headlamp broke and plunged him into total darkness. Something sharp cut into his side. His suit ripped and his torn flesh stung from the salt water. He kicked his left foot, struggling to escape, but his flipper stuck underneath the bench. He combed the room for Keith, but he was still nowhere visible. Keith had his valuables, and that was all that mattered to him.

A large board crashed beside him and shoved the bench just enough for Nick to free his left foot, but then the bag at his belt snagged on something. He jerked at it, not wanting to leave the valuables behind because unlike Keith, Matt needed them. He wriggled the bag some more until it slipped loose. Then, he swam along the wall in search of the rope, Keith, and the exit. The stinging cut in his side burned. Water swirled and pushed against him. It had turned so black and thick with debris, he could feel it through his gloved fingers.

The ship creaked under the weight of the Pacific and tossed him to the side again. He found an opening in the wall, the doorway to the captain’s quarters, but couldn’t locate the rope, and even if he did find it, it might not lead him to the exit anymore if the ship had tossed over on its side, blocking the hole in the hull. He needed to ascend and equalize before his eardrums popped or his heart exploded.

He ran his hands over the cylinder of a large pipe, and then remembered seeing it near the gap in the hull. A current of water streamed over him, pushing him up. He reached out, striving to grab a hold of the splintered side of the wooden ship, but his hands slipped through the water as the current pulled him away from the exit. The ship slid faster down the hillside. He had to get out soon or the
El Oro Señora
would lead him into a watery grave.

Nick paddled for the top of the ship, hoping to escape out a stairwell at the deck of the ship. The force of water pressed against him like a wall. He bent his head down and dug into it. He found the stairs and heaved himself along, losing his grip on the railing as the ship crashed against the rocks beneath it. His chest wheezed and pain tore away at his will, shredding him like the ocean ridge outside was ripping up the
El Oro Señora
.

A cold realization hit him—he was likely going to die, like Jim, and wash ashore bloated and blue-skinned. The curse of Rán was real. He knew then that it had taken Jim, probably Keith, and now him too. He thought of Matt again, of what would happen to him and how he would handle his death. The thought of his son suffering even more roused him with one last fight for survival.

He hoisted himself up the stairs and through the current and debris. His fist hit a latched door. The good news was that the door probably opened to the cargo hold on the deck. He tried the latch but it wouldn’t budge. Something must have moved across the deck and rested on top of it.

This close to escape, he couldn’t give in now and slammed himself against the door. A railing along the wall was still intact, and he used it to kick his foot at the door. His heart pounded so fast, and his lungs gasped for oxygen—he hoped he would have enough oxygen left to make it back to the surface, if he even made it out of the
El Oro Señora
. Sharp pain pierced his ears again as his body struggled to equalize under the pressure of increasing depth.