Diver
Down
by Ben Newell
“Oh no,”
Tracy said.
Mark frowned
at his wife. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes met
his. “I forgot my mask.”
He stood
there in his scuba gear, searching Tracy’s face, hoping she was pulling his
leg.
Crouched on
the deck, his bikini-clad wife riffled through her oversized gear bag
repeatedly. “It’s not here. I must’ve left it in our room . . .”
No shit,
Mark thought. He managed to hold his tongue. Berating his wife in the presence
of another man was not his style. Later, he vowed, when they returned to the
island.
The small boat swayed gently in the
sun-kissed Caribbean water. A cloudless azure sky bore silent witness to Mark’s
mounting frustration. They had planned this trip for the better part of a year.
Coordinating their hectic work schedules had been a major challenge. Now this .
. .
“Look
again,” he told her.
“It’s not
here, Mark.” Tracy rose to her full height. “Looks like you’ll have to dive
without me.”
Mark started
to protest, but she cut him off. “It’s okay, baby. We’ll go one at a time.”
“In that
case.” He reached for the mask atop his head. “Ladies first . . .”
“No, no, you
go ahead.”
“You sure?”
“Age before
beauty.”
Mark
returned Tracy’s smile. She didn’t have to twist his arm. He was eager to get down
there and take a look around.
#
No sooner
had Mark executed a flawless back roll into the water than Tracy turned to
address Captain Godfrey Ottey. “Piece of cake,” she said. “I told you it would
work.”
The captain
was a native islander, his skin deepest black and glistening with sweat. The
whites of his enormous eyes were tinged with red from the vast quantities of
rum he had consumed the night before. No stranger to drink, he had ingested
even more than usual.
Tracy’s scheme had weighed
heavily on his conscience. After all, he hardly even knew the woman. And he
certainly felt no ill will toward her husband. Still, her offer had been too
good to pass up. Ten thousand dollars was life-changing for an aging skipper,
struggling to make ends meet.
He leaned over the gunwale to pull
up the anchor, trying not to think about her husband when he surfaced and found
himself all alone in the middle of the sea. Hangover and heat conspired to dull
his senses. He tugged on the line, oblivious of Tracy’s presence behind him.
#
Tracy plunged her diving knife
into the captain’s back, twisting the blade to inflict maximum damage. She
grunted with the effort, grunted like she did on the tennis court back home in
Florida when battling a particularly strong opponent.
Captain Ottey straightened
reflexively. He dropped the line and tried to face her. Tracy stuck him again.
The blade still buried in his back, her hand gripping its hasp, she pushed with
all her might. The captain splashed into the water, taking the knife with him. The
handle protruded from his spine like some sort of obscene tumor. He rode the
current, inert, then sank.
The preceding minute had been
the most exhilarating of Tracy’s thirty years. Her nipples were stiff,
threatening to poke holes in her fashionable bikini top. Adrenaline pumping,
she padded to the cockpit and took a seat.
Captain Ottey’s blood would
bring the sharks. There would be nothing left of the old skipper, nothing left
of Mark. Her husband’s fortune would be hers soon enough.
The sharks, she would tell the
authorities, had shown up shortly after her husband had hit the water. Captain
Ottey had sprung into action; determined to scare the predators away, he had
fired several rounds at the sky with the small caliber handgun he kept on board,
this before inexplicably losing his balance and falling overboard, both he and
his fictional gun devoured by the ravenous fish.
When they asked her why she didn’t
summon help instead of returning to the island—well, she wouldn’t even have to
lie. In addition to being a drunk, the captain was also a cheapskate whose old
radio hadn’t worked in years.
“Mayday, mayday,” Tracy muttered
into the inoperable mic, her mouth a malicious sneer.
