The Deep

“A friend in customs. There were bottles, regulators, suits-six of everything.”

“Didn’t the government ask questions?”

“Nothing illegal about it. He paid the duty-in cash. Besides, he imports so much crap for his jewelry business that most of the customs people are his chums. He could say he was starting a dive shop.”

Treece cocked his head, listening, and for the first time Sanders noticed the low, muffled chugging sound of an engine, coming from somewhere outside the kitchen.

“Compressor’s running out of juice.” Treece stood and said to Kevin, “Call Adam Coffin for me. Tell him to be on the beach at high noon.”

Then he said to Sanders, “You better rouse your lady. If Cloche is training divers, we’ve just lost our practice time. You’ll have to settle for on-the-job training.”

“She’s up,” Sanders said.

They went outside. Kevin left, and Sanders followed Treece to a small shed behind the house.

Inside the shed, a gasoline-powered air compressor was coughing and sputtering as it used up the last of its fuel. Two scuba tanks were connected by hoses to the compressor. Treece checked the gauges atop each tank. “Twenty-two hundred,” he said.

“Want to top them off at twenty-five.” He stopped the compressor, filled it with gasoline from a jerry can, and restarted it. “Gonna get me an electric system one of these days. Gasoline’s a mean hazard.”

“Fumes?”

“Aye. That’s why you see that hose there.” He pointed to a metal exhaust pipe that led from the compressor down to the dirt floor and out through a hole in the wall of the shed. “When I first got the thing, I left it outside, just covered over by a lean-to affair. The wind swirled all around it, but I paid it no mind-till one day it swirled the exhaust fumes right back into the air intake. That was a memorable dive; almost bought me a one-way ticket to the glooms.”

“How did you find out?”

“Started to doze off at fifteen fathoms. I figured pretty quick that was what was happening, so I chucked the tank and let her rip for the surface. I made it, but barely.”

Gail appeared at the door of the shed, a piece of toast in her hand. “Good morning,” she said.

“That’s about all I’d eat if I was you,”

Treece said. “Got a hell of a lot of work to do, and you don’t want to be puking in your mask.”

They left Treece’s dock a few minutes before eleven. In the cockpit of Corsair there were three coils of yellow rubber hose. One end of each hose was screwed into the compressor; the other was attached to a full-face mask. Six scuba tanks were arranged in the racks along the gunwales. The aluminum tube lashed to the starboard gunwale had been rigged to a coil of pink rubber tubing, and it, too, was connected to the compressor.

On a ledge in front of the steering wheel Treece had placed the sawed-off shotgun. The dog rode on the pulpit, swaying slightly with each swell but never stumbling. David and Gail flanked Treece at the steering console.

“You really think they’ll come for us?” Sanders said, gesturing at the shotgun.

“Never know.” He looked at Gail. “Ever use a gun?”

“No.”

“Adam’ll take the first shift aboard, then. It’s better, anyway. He knows how to turn off the compressor, and he won’t have any second thoughts.”

“Turn it off?”

“Aye. That’s the only way to let us know if something’s cooking topside. We’ll get the message pretty quick when we start sucking nothing.

Long as you don’t hold your breath on the way up, there’s no problem. Of course,” Treece smiled, “if things are really hopping up here, we might be better off staying down there breathing sand.”

Treece throttled back and began to pick his way through the reefs. The offshore breeze was strong enough to cause foam to roil around the rocks, so he had no trouble finding the slim passages between the reefs.

As they neared the Orange Grove beach, they could see Coffin standing in the wave wash, a rawhide figure in torn denim shorts.

There were no swimmers in the water, so, once inside the reefs, Treece opened the throttle and sped toward shore. When the boat was within ten yards of the line of gentle surf, he shifted into neutral, and the boat glided to a stop. Coffin ducked under a wave and swam to the boat. Treece put a hand over the side and, with one heave, brought Coffin into the cockpit.

“I’m glad you dressed formal for your trip to Orange Grove,” Treece said.

Coffin spat sea water over the side and wiped his nose. “Buggers. Told me not to use their elevator; told me it was private property. I told ’em to call my solicitor.” He laughed. “Rode down with the nicest piece of flesh I’ve seen in years. I fell deeply in love; almost got engaged.”

Treece swung the boat seaward. On the way to the reef, he briefed Coffin about Cloche’s threat and about the diving gear that had cleared customs that morning.

When he told Coffin that he wanted him to stay aboard, Coffin protested, but Treece convinced him, praising his supposed skills with firearms and his rapport with complex machinery.

They anchored behind the second line of reef.