What Lurks Beneath (5 page)

V
al stood alone on the deserted docks down in the Moss Landing shipyard. The early night was still, foggy. In the buzz of fluorescent lights, PLARG research vessels rested in their berths beside the main raised pier.

Sturman regularly worked into the night during the shorter days of winter, which worried her since he was often underwater alone. She'd had the connections to get him the general maintenance job with the Point Lobos Aquarium—a job that sometimes involved donning scuba gear to scrub boat hulls—thinking it would be short-term only. A paycheck. But he still hadn't looked for anything else.

She'd passed through the unlocked gate in the chain-link fence a full minute ago, then walked down the floating dock to Will's wet scuba gear piled in a fresh puddle by a larger yacht. He still hadn't surfaced.

“Will?” she called quietly to the vessels around her, but nobody answered. Maybe he was just finishing cleaning this one. But why didn't he have his gear on?

Suddenly, his stubbled head and square jaw burst above the water fifteen feet away, to the left of the yacht. He exhaled loudly, then sucked in fresh air. He blinked the seawater out of his eyes and saw her standing on the dock.

He didn't smile. On his face was that same dull expression he'd worn for months now. He swam toward her.

“You were down there a long time,” Val said.

Sturman spit into the water and nodded. “Yeah, I reckon I was.”

“You must be cold.”

He nodded and kicked toward her. She saw that he wore only a neoprene wet suit and weight belt, with no dive gear or even a mask on. She thought about asking what the hell he was doing down there, but didn't. He reached the dock and started to remove his weight belt.

“Can I help you with that?” she said.

He nodded and lifted the lead-laden belt out of the water. Her thick brown hair, which she'd grown out now for a year or longer, hung past her shoulders as she leaned down to him. She grunted as she hoisted the belt onto the cement next to his fins and scuba tank.

She said, “How's work going? Still good?”

“Yeah. I guess.” He spit out cold seawater. “If you call cleaning boat hulls good.”

“You really should think about buying another boat, Will. Maybe one you can fix up. To get out of all this . . .”

“I'm not ready.”

She tugged at the ends of her hair. “I haven't seen you since lunch yesterday.”

“Yeah. I was at the Pelican last night.”

“Again?”

“I had a lot on my mind.” He pulled himself out of the water and sat on the low dock, feet dangling in the water. She remained standing beside him.

“How much did you have to drink?”

He looked up at her. “You look really good, Doc,” he said, the hint of a smile on his face. “I always liked that sweater on you.”

She felt a girlish thrill at the rare compliment, and touched her tight yellow sweater self-consciously. Lately, she felt so insecure. As quickly as it had arrived, the thrill was gone.

“You're just trying to change the subject,” she said. “I asked how much you had to drink.”

His smile went away, and he rubbed the prematurely gray-tinged hair on his head. “More than I should've. But I meant it. You look nice.”

“Thanks . . . Did you drive home? Or did—”

“I'm not having this talk now, Doc.” He lunged to his feet and reached for his gear. “Let's head inside where it's warm.”

She helped him carry his scuba gear and sponges back down the docks and into the large maintenance office. It was an older building, complete with a wood-burning stove. It was stuffy inside, and dimly lit by the single lamp on a desk on the far end of the room, but the warmth felt good, and it smelled pleasantly of burning oak. She moved to stand on the worn carpet by a couch against the side wall near the stove—another couch where he sometimes slept lately—while he dropped his gear in a pile near the door and turned away from her to add a log to the fire. When he opened the furnace door, orange light filled the dark half of the room.

Quietly, she said, “I got an e-mail from a colleague today. There may be a job for me in the Bahamas.”

He looked at her for a moment, then stood and began to strip off his wet suit. “Through PLARG?” he asked.

“No. Freelance.”

He nodded. He stepped closer to her, to study her face, the muscles on his bare chest, the large tattoos on his shoulders dripping with cool water. He still bore the scars on his chest from when he had saved her, and nearly died. She glanced down at the scratched gold wedding band on his hand, from his earlier marriage. She had grown to hate it, and what it still meant to him.

At almost a foot taller, he towered over her. For a man in his late thirties who'd been very hard on his body, he had a strong build, and was still ruggedly handsome. But Val had always thought he looked older than he was, from living a hard life. And spending too many summers in the sun. Now, in the harsh shadows of the firelight, his face looked even more tired, older. She wondered what he was thinking. Would he even care if she left?

She said, “He sent me an image of what looks like some sort of cephalopod. Something that doesn't belong where the picture was taken. It's a very interesting opportunity, Will. It might even be a new species.” She glanced down at her feet, then back up at him. “I spent a lot of time thinking about it today. I've accrued a lot of leave at work, and—well . . .”

“You're leaving, aren't you?”

She bit her lip. “Well, I was thinking about it, but . . . I wanted to talk to you first.”

“You planned to go without me?”

“Well, I figured . . . with your job, you couldn't—”

He snorted. “My
job
. Right. And where would that leave us?”

“I don't know, Will. Where are we now? It feels like you're always pushing me away.”

“Hard to lead a horse that's already headed in the other direction.”

He fell onto the couch and tore the wet suit off his legs, and then in only his swimsuit turned to hang the 7mm neoprene one-piece on a line suspended in the corner. He gathered up his weight belt and scuba tank and brought the equipment over to a tub of freshwater near the line and dumped it inside, wincing. When he got cold, she knew his shoulder always bothered him.

She remained quiet, letting his temper subside as he moved to gather the rest of his gear. She picked at a seam on the thigh of her jeans, unsure of what to say next. Her feelings for him were still there, but there was such a distance between them now. The walls he'd built around himself after losing his wife years ago, which had gradually come down as they grew to love each other, were back, built almost overnight.

As he grabbed his fins and mask off the cement by the door and tossed them into the tub next to the other gear, she noticed the one-inch stump of the middle finger on his right hand. Will had nearly drowned before. When he had saved her life. Before she had saved his. Or thought she had. She realized that despite his own courage, his incredible acts of selflessness, the women in his life had always been saving him.

But they weren't saving him now.

He and Bud had moved up here more than a year ago, to be with her. Her job was based in Monterey Bay, and so much in his life had suddenly changed that there was nothing left for him in Southern California. After a few weeks apart as he got his affairs in order, he had hurried up here. So excited to see her. Almost as excited as Bud.

There had been so much passion, so much romance. Their strong personalities added that much more excitement. Despite his lousy job, things had gone great.

Then Bud died. So unexpectedly. It had been much harder for Will than for her, but he had struggled through it.

As he was regaining his feet, the unexpected had happened. Just the thing they both needed, bringing wonder, joy, and a good measure of anxiety, distracting them from the loss of Will's dog. Six weeks of moving forward. Planning for the future. But then more bad news came, and Will, defeated, had sought familiar refuge in the bottle.

She pushed the thought away. None of this was her fault. Not Bud's rare heart condition. And not the grim fact she would never be able to bear children. Will had been through a lot, but so had she. She was tired of making excuses for him. For them. She finally took a deep breath and moved to the tank beside him.

“Will, I think maybe you need help.”

He stopped dunking his gear, looked at her, then turned and leaned on the rim of the plastic tub, facing the firelight.

From beside him, she continued. “I don't know what to do for you anymore. Obviously, I'm not helping you.”

“I don't know what you're talkin' about.”

“Will. You know it's only because I care about you.”

“Whatever.”

“Don't you know how hard this is for me? To see you self-destruct?” Val fought the rare tears forming in her eyes. “I love you.”

Sturman turned to her. His expression had softened, and she saw him fighting back his own emotions. He suddenly reached for her, his strong arms pulling her small figure into his huge frame. His wet skin smelled like the ocean, and his rough embrace brought back so many memories. It had been a long time since she had felt his touch. He was strong, but so weak.

She looked up into his eyes. He kissed her, and she returned the kiss fiercely. They had always been able to express themselves physically. Still kissing her, he reached down and began to unbutton her jeans.

Without thinking, she helped slide them off.

O
n a stool in front of Val sat Eric Watson. He was cute despite the gold-rimmed glasses, with green eyes and sharp features, but shorter than Will, with a slimmer build. And younger than her. Cute, but not really her type.

She thought,
Maybe I just pick the wrong type
.

Thank God, nobody had walked in on her and Will last night. She already regretted her impulsiveness, her uncharacteristic weakness as she gave in to her desires on the worn couch in the dock's maintenance office.
No.
For once, she had given in to her feelings. But it had gotten them nowhere. As Sturman was getting into dry clothes afterward, pulling on his cowboy boots, she had again said they needed to talk about his problem. The smile had left his face. Like her father, he wouldn't admit he even had a problem. She'd suggested he attend a meeting, or seek counseling, and he'd laughed at her. Spoken the familiar words:
I don't need any help.

And then somehow his dead wife had again joined the conversation, like she always seemed to. Will had compared Val to Maria, made some comment about how
she
'd never left him for her work. Val had finally felt defeated. She didn't know if they still had any chance, but she'd known then she had to go. To leave, and put distance between her and Will.

And if she was going to the Bahamas, she would need help.

When Val had walked into Eric's lab, he'd been hunched over a table soldering some part. It still smelled a little like melted plastic. At first, he'd seemed happy to see her. But he looked embarrassed now, having just apologized for having a near panic attack at his Saturday-night presentation the previous weekend.

She said, “So you had another episode. So what?”

He sighed and ran his hands through his unruly brown hair. He needed a haircut. “But it was during a presentation,” he said, with a slightly nasal quality she remembered from past discussions. “Yeah, I managed to finish. But I was getting some funny looks when I was done.”

“You maintained control. That's all that matters, Eric. Millions of people deal with claustrophobia. It's one of the most common phobias.”

“I don't know. I hurried out of there afterward, to get some fresh air. I didn't even return for the meet and greet. I just couldn't go back in the building.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. I kept thinking about the earthquake again. Being trapped.”

“For good reason.” She had heard that in the earthquake last year, he'd found himself trapped in a small room until rescuers came, re-igniting a claustrophobia he'd had as a kid.

“I know it doesn't make sense,” he said. “The meet-and-greet room at PLARG is a lot bigger than a broom closet.”

She leaned forward and touched his hand. “Eric, what you went through last year was significant. Don't discount that. I'm sure others who were in that room with you still have nightmares, regardless of having any prior phobias.”

“I don't know. Maybe. But what happened last weekend . . . That's never happened to me at a presentation before. It worries me. I even went to my therapist.”

“And what did he say?”

“
She
. She said that it was just a setback. All the people in there, and the closed windows and doors probably triggered it.”

He looked away, and rubbed his palm back and forth over the metal table in front of him.

“See? You're fine.”

She thought again of how different Eric was from Will. So much accomplishment, but so little confidence.

He said, “You know we can't afford to botch our role at these fundraisers.”

Eric Watson, like Val, worked at the Point Lobos Aquarium Research Group, or PLARG, pronounced by staff and local residents of Monterey Bay as if it rhymed with “large.” At only twenty-seven, Eric already headed its Unmanned Underwater Vehicle Division because of his expertise in operating and maintaining the small, unmanned submarines—and in no small part because he had built his own prototype ROV, which had been the focus of his botched presentation last weekend. The ROV had proven so capable, despite the remotely operated vehicle's simplistic design and low production cost, that PLARG was now planning to build several identical models. But they needed funding first.

One of the most important parts of the Saturday fund-raising event was having the scientists mill about with the crowd after the presentations, over wine and cheese. The casual conversations, fueled by a few alcoholic drinks, made the wealthy older couples feel comfortable talking science one-on-one with the young researchers—the men and women taking care of their oceans. The cocktail hour loosened their pocketbooks. That's when the money flowed.

Val said, “Next time, why not have someone simply man the doors? To make sure they stay open? I'd be happy to do it.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I guess so. Say . . . why are you being so nice all of a sudden?”

“Because you're being too hard on yourself. But it's kind of cute.”

He blushed, and she smiled.

The Saturday night PLARG presentations were especially important to Eric, whose position was funded entirely by grants. He'd done well at procuring funding on his own, upon completion of his master's degree here in Moss Landing a few years ago. The kid didn't even have a PhD, but he'd found the money right after graduating. As a freelancer. Oil companies in the Gulf needed inspections off a number of abandoned deepwater rigs, and Eric's self-designed ROVs offered a cheap and safe solution. Everyone at PLARG knew where that money came from, though, and some of the more left-leaning scientists still scoffed at Eric for profiting from the petroleum industry.

His ROVs offered advanced 3-D imaging sensors that allowed one to visualize underwater structures, like the rigs, and like the dams of deep reservoirs that he had next been paid to scan and measure in a larger project for a Swedish environmental firm. After that, PLARG had picked him up. The kid was clearly a cash cow for research. And now the rich philanthropists living around Monterey Bay were his bread and butter.

“Really, Val . . . why are you here?”

“I'm thinking of heading to the Bahamas, for a little private research. And I need another cave diver.”

His smile disappeared. “You can't be serious.”

She laughed. “I'm sorry. That wasn't funny. Really, though, I think you might be able to help me out.”

He scratched his head. “You really can't think of another researcher? Maybe an actual
caver
? Or at least a certified scuba diver?”

“I'm not looking for a person to dive with me,” Val said. “I'm looking for someone who is good with ROVs. You're the best sub operator out there, Eric. And your vehicle designs are perfect for caves—”

“Wait. Hang on. So you want to explore underwater caves, using an ROV?”

“Right.”

“That simply isn't done, Val. It's too hard to remotely maneuver a machine through tunnels, when your camera only faces forward. Every time it's been tried, the machine gets stuck.”

“Maybe. But what about your work on oil rigs? And in Mexico? You've had pretty good luck with that one ROV model . . . what's it called? Some girl's name.”

He looked hurt. “Her name's DORA, Val. You know that. That's the same vehicle we used last year to film your school of squid.”

Eric had lent other researchers at PLARG his assistance and vehicles for a few projects in the past few years, since he'd started work there. Although he specialized in 3-D and photographic imagery of underwater structures—oil rigs, sea mounts, cenotes—there were safety benefits to using an ROV to study more dangerous or remote undersea animals.

“Sorry, Eric. I wasn't very involved in that project, despite my name being on it. But I think you can do this. You
and
DORA.” She smiled.

He frowned and took off his glasses. He was still clearly insecure around women. But she knew he found her attractive, and had purposefully worn a tight sweater and slacks, her citrus-smelling hair spilling onto her shoulders.

He said, “I've read about the blue holes there. In the Bahamas, I mean. Geochemical processes create these huge passages off each hole. Did you know they can sometimes extend
thousands
of feet into the substrate? To other blue holes, and even out to the ocean?”

“Yes. I just learned about them this week. And I'm impressed by how much you know.”

He said, “I learned about them when looking for applications for my ROVs. There are like a thousand of them in the Bahamas alone, but only a quarter of them have ever been explored. Because it's too dangerous to dive them.”

“But not for an ROV. You could be a pioneer on this, Eric. It could lead to more funding—”

“Well, I had already written them off as too difficult for my vehicles to operate in. But . . . I don't know.” He thought for a moment. “I don't know. It would take time.”

“I'm in no hurry,” she said.

“I'd need to get to know the caves, and work on maneuverability. But if I get her stuck . . .”

“You won't.”

“Can you pay to replace her if I do?” he asked.

“About that . . . this wouldn't be a salaried operation.”

Eric laughed nervously. “This just keeps getting better.”

“I'll provide the lodging, travel expenses, equipment, you name it. Except for the ROV, and your salary.”

“All from your own pocket?”

She nodded. “It's like a free vacation. And a chance to test the limits of your ROVs.”

“I'd only bring DORA. She's the best.” He paused. “Does Rob even know about this?”

“No. Not yet.” Val would have to talk to their boss later. “This isn't sanctioned by PLARG. Eric, let me back up. I told you I'm looking into what may be a new species of cephalopod. My hypothesis is based entirely on a single digital photo. Downloaded from the camera of two divers who went missing.”

“Really? Are they dead?” He leaned toward her.

“Probably. Nobody knows.”

“In a blue hole?”

“Yes.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Like I said. Those holes are dangerous.”

“They went missing in an inland hole on Andros Island. They were apparently exploring an arm off a main cavern, and never resurfaced.”

“How does anyone know what happened, then?”

“Another dive team followed the safety lines in to where one had broken off six hundred feet into the tunnel they were in.... Look, Eric. I'm not an experienced cave diver. And I don't want to end up like them, or anyone else.” She smiled at him. “But you and DORA can help keep me safe.”

He blushed. “So you want my ROV to do the dangerous work. I get it. You also need samples? Oh-two? Salinity? Bottom composition?”

She shook her head. “Just footage. And 3-D images. I want to see if we can catch a critter on tape, and map the cavern contours. If you can get anything else, it's a bonus.”

“So who else will be down there with us? No professional cavers, I guess. But at least someone to advise? Or help with logistics?”

She thought of her Uncle Mack, who last she heard still lived somewhere near Tallahassee. The man who'd taught her to dive. They hadn't talked in years.

She said, “Nobody yet. But I'm working on it.”

“Why not bring your boyfriend? He's a diver. You're still with him, right?”

“Sort of. I don't know. He's been dealing with some . . . issues. It's complicated. . . .” She felt herself redden, and ran her hands over her face, through her hair.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to pry.”

“It's all right. So, are you in? It's a great opportunity. And you'd be in the
Baa-haaa-maaaaas
. Sun, warm water, girls. Better than the Central Coast in winter.”

He smiled. “You should have gone into sales.
If
I agree to do this, when would you want me to start?”

“How fast can you pack your bags?”