Swimming With The Dead
Prologue

The British Virgin Islands

On the last day that he would live, he sat in the dark on the bow of the Lucky Lady, legs dangling over the side. He'd left the marina early, in light still muted pastel.  Now the sky was saturated with intensity.  The horizon brilliant with reds, oranges, and yellows, spread across the glassy surface up to the water beneath his feet. 

He'd had no trouble locating the wreck and tying up to the mooring.  After a year exploring the waters of the British Virgins, he knew them like the rooms of his childhood.  Now he sat waiting and enjoying the fleeting solitude.  The sea was silent except for the gentle splashing of the boat rocking in the water and an occasional bar jack breaking the surface as it darted after its prey. 

Finally he rose.  He'd waited long enough.  He'd left word to meet him out at the site, an old ship resting at the bottom, right below his boat.  Though not a reckless man, he was impatient.  Ever since he was a kid he'd been a solver of riddles, determined to be the first to arrive at a logical and correct conclusion.  He would dive the wreck, find what he came for, and be waiting on deck, prize in hand, when the others finally arrived.

For a moment he hesitated.  Realized that if he were really smart, he'd keep his nose out of it.  But it was too late now.  Besides, he'd never been known to keep his nose out of anything.

He made his way to the back of the boat, where he struggled into his wet suit.  He attached his air tank and breathing regulator to his dive vest and turned the valve to check the airflow. Good. His gauge indicated a full tank; 3200 pounds of pressure.

He scanned the horizon.  Still no one in sight.  Just miles of dark, empty water.  He never dove alone if he could help it, but conditions here were not difficult, maximum depth seventy feet, no current.

He knew that swimming into a wreck was dangerous, and that he would need to watch himself, avoid catching a hose and cutting it on jagged metal or getting lost in the maze of passageways.  But he had dived the wreck dozens of times, even diving alone when he’d found no partner. He was more than a competent diver, he was an expert, having logged hundreds of hours under the water.  He would make his way into the wreck, find what he was looking for, and get out.  It would take less than 45 minutes.

He hauled his equipment to the back of the boat, put on his fins, tank, and mask, took one more look around, and rolled into the water.  He adjusted his face mask, pushed the valve that expelled air from his vest, and went under. 

This was the world he loved -– serene, slow-moving, mysterious.  In moments he was surrounded by hundreds of fish, huge schools of cobia, amberjack, and yellow-tailed snapper.  They brushed up against his fins and stayed just out of reach of his fingertips.  Every once in a while, he reached out and touched one.  As he swam toward the wreck, they trailed behind, a stream of yellow, silver, and blue.

He could barely make out the shape of the old refrigeration ship in the distance.  Visibility was poor after the wind and rain of the night before. As he approached, fear caught in his throat for an instant.  Every time he dove a wreck, he felt death hovering in the cavernous, skeletal remains.  The hollow structure, black against the blue sea, lay tilted on its side.  The crows nest pointed an accusing finger out to sea, condemning whatever force destined the ship to this final resting place. Rigging lines, laden with barnacles, hung in eerie drapes from the mast, coming to rest on sea floor.

The wreck was actually teeming with life, an entire ecosystem that had begun years before with just a few tiny larvae.  Coral and sponges had transformed the ugly steel hull into a tapestry of color.  Angelfish, sergeant majors, wrasse, and damselfish swam through portholes and around cables and beams.

Off the bow, a school of hammerheads suddenly appeared in the dim light.  Their ghostly silhouettes with characteristic snouts seemed one of Mother Nature’s bizarre jokes.  But these sharks were no joke.  He’d seen one consume a huge Southern Ray using its head as a weapon.  The hammerheads were gone before he’d had a chance to react.  They never gave him a second look.

He knew there was more to fear above the water than below, but he was nervous as he hovered at the entry to the black void.  Then he heard the distant whine of a boat engine.  Good, he thought, some of the tension easing, the others had made it and would be waiting when he surfaced.

He swam into the first compartment, a huge area that had been one of the refrigeration holds.  It was like swimming into a bottle of indigo ink. He switched on his flashlight, illuminating a tunnel of yellow ahead of him.  A turtle scurried across the beam and disappeared.  Things moved in the shadows, recoiling, retracting, retreating.  A moray eel slithered through the water into a hole.  Anemones snapped shut as he brushed against them.

His light found the entry way.  He checked his gauge.  At 70 feet, he had enough air in his tank for at least another forty minutes.  Plenty of time.

He knew the route that would take him to his destination in the deepest recesses of the ship.  He’d memorized the maze of companionways, crew’s quarters, and compartments from the old diagram.  He swam to the opening and shone his light into the passageway.  Empty and dark. He could not see to the end, but he knew that there was another passage twenty feet ahead on the left; from there he would make his way farther into the interior of the ship.  He knew exactly where to find what he was looking for.  Another half hour and he’d be on his way back to the surface.

He was one of those divers who was completely in tune to his surroundings when he dove.  He had just made his way into the next compartment when he felt it.  Something out of sync.   The slightest movement of water, then the flitting of a shape in the shadows.   He turned and caught sight of a squirrel fish as it vanished into the gloom.  Something had frightened it.  He swam back into the passageway and knew immediately that another diver had entered the ship.  He recognized the sound--raspy, bubbly breaths bouncing off the steel hull. 

Then he saw the diver, coming down the passageway toward him.  At first he thought it was someone sent down to help him.  By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late. 

Before he could get his dive knife from his ankle strap, the diver was on him, wrenching his regulator from his mouth and enveloping him in fish netting.  He grabbed for his air supply.  Without it, he didn't stand a chance of fighting off his attacker.  He twisted, straining to reach the mouthpiece floating just beyond his grasp.  Finally, he managed to grab it.  He had it in his mouth long enough to take one precious breath.

Then the other diver was back on him, pulling the net tighter, tangling him in a mass of rope.  His attacker was strong and fast, even in dive gear.  Again the diver ripped the regulator from his mouth.

The more he struggled, the more tangled he became, the netting caught on his tank and wrapped in his fins.  He could see the air bubbling out of his regulator above his head, just out of reach.  His chest was on fire.   His lungs screamed for air.  His body starved for oxygen.  He was hopelessly trapped.

He could see the other diver, the eyes glinting behind the face mask.  He knew who it was.  They had actually dived together once, only once.  He wasn't surprised as he watched his killer move off into the shadows, waiting for the inevitable.

It wouldn’t be much longer.  He could feel things slipping away.  His vision blurred, darkened around the edges.  He damned himself for being so stupid.  He had so much living yet to do.  So many more sunrises.  He tried to hold on.  But reflexes took over.  He inhaled, filling his lungs with salt water.