Shallow enough to have no decompression worries.
He stared around in the aquamarine sea and noticed only a few tropicals here and there, some wrasses and an angel, but nothing like the numbers one would expect. He knew Haiti’s reefs had been decimated by overfishing and sedimentation. Most of the trees on the island were gone—cut down for fuel and shelter with few replantings—allowing rainwater to cascade from the mountains unimpeded, carrying along tons of mud that ended up on the seafloor. Not enough reef fish also meant fewer to keep the coral clean of algae. So the twisted limestone hulks loomed mostly lifeless, everything stained dark green.
Dubois motioned to a formation fifty feet away and indicated that Malone should lead the way.
He swam toward it.
A loud rasp from the regulator accompanied each of his breaths. He was trying to ignore the foul-tasting air and hoped nothing was toxic.
They came to a coral formation, this one, too, devoid of polyps. A few fish were gorging on the algae. The shark had drifted off. The water was warm and comforting, almost too much so, and he cautioned himself to stay alert. Rays of bright sunshine, fractured by the surface, danced to a quick beat. Dubois had been right. A steady current in their face made the going difficult.
They arrived at the limestone hulk, which rose ten feet toward the surface, stretching out many more yards toward the open sea. A darker hue in the water a few hundred feet away signaled greater depths, and he assumed that was where the shallow reef ended.
Dubois pointed to an opening in the rock, where chunks had fallen away to reveal a crack that spread for twenty feet. A small, cavelike opening led into the crevice. Dubois motioned with his hands, indicating that a storm had caused the damage.
Malone swam close and peered inside. He saw what appeared to be wood timbers on the bottom, encrusted with barnacles and algae. Other shapes lay embedded in the sand, thick with encrustation.
A wreck of some sort. Old, too. Hidden beneath this rock mound for a long time. He motioned—Is this all?—and Dubois nodded. He decided he’d seen enough. He’d need to return for a closer inspection, but first more information was called for.
He motioned for them to surface.
They drifted away from the limestone wall.
Scott had apparently found a shipwreck. But there were probably thousands of those in these waters, as Cap-Ha?tien had been a bustling seaport. French, Spanish, British, and Portuguese ships had plied these waters, along with buccaneers. Probably hard even to count the number of ships that met the bottom.
What made this one so special?
He exhaled and turned his attention toward the surface, watching as the bubbles drifted upward.
His next breath drew nothing.
What?
He tried again, sucking harder.
No air came through the regulator.
He reached for the pressure gauge, which read zero.
He whirled around, searching for Dubois, who was only a few feet away watching through his mask. The tiny bit of air in his lungs was about gone, no way to ditch his weight belt and make it twenty-five feet up before he blacked out. He slashed his right hand across his throat, the universal sign for no air, and kicked toward Dubois.
The Haitian handed over his regulator.
Malone drew a deep breath.
Then another.
Two more were required before his nerves stabilized.
He shared the air, then watched as Dubois reached around him. He felt something being turned, then noticed the air gauge move from zero to more than 2,000 pounds.
The son of a bitch had turned the valve off at the tank.
He replaced his regulator in his mouth, and Dubois motioned for them to surface. They made it to the boat and Malone climbed aboard first, quickly releasing his waist belt and dropping the tank to the deck. Dubois came up and, before he could do a thing, Malone pounced, slamming the Haitian to the deck. Dubois remained still—as if he’d expected an attack—calmly releasing his own belt and freeing himself from the harness.
“What in the hell just happened?” Malone yelled.
Dubois stood. “Scotty not drown. He be killed. Just like I show you.”
It was true, he’d never felt his air valve being closed. Never seen it coming. If Dubois hadn’t been there, he’d be dead.
“That’s what I tell police.”
“He was down there alone. Who the hell killed him?”
“The other man.”
“The police report said nothing about another man.”
“I tell them. They don’t want to hear. I know something wrong with that policeman. Something wrong with all of them here.”
Which was one reason why United Nations peacekeepers were all over the country. Corruption had long been a way of Haitian life.
“I don’t mean to kill you,” Dubois said. “But I want you to know truth. You said Scotty your relative. So you need to know. The other man kill Scotty.”
“Was he on this boat?”
Dubois shook his head. “He come in another, anchor over there.” He pointed east. “Not far away. Diver go down. I don’t think much. Lots of divers around here every day. Next thing I know he comes up and boat leaves. But Scotty never comes up. So I go down.”
“You get a look at the other guy?”
Dubois nodded. “Good one.”
Playing a hunch, he stepped over to his travel bag and found the copies of the two passports he’d obtained in Atlanta. He showed them to Dubois.
“That’s him,” Dubois said, pointing at Rócha.
“Sure?”
“Real sure.”
Murder changed everything.
“Scotty was good to me,” Dubois said. “I bring him here several times. He pay me good, always nice to me. He come to my house and eat with my wife and children. I like him.”
That had been Scott. A liar. A thief. But a friendly soul.
“What was Scott after?”
“He tell me he find Santa María.”
That shocked him.