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.