The Deep

Suddenly his head was snapped backward, and he was pulled toward the bottom. Something had grabbed his air hose. He reached for his mask, trying to wrench it off his head, but the pressure on the straps was too great. His flailing hands found the hose and pulled against the downward force. In the twilight blue, he could only see a few feet of the yellow hose. Then there was a flicker of steel, and he saw, rising at him-climbing his air hose-a man with a spear gun.

Sanders’ head throbbed with the need for oxygen.

He yanked frantically at the hose, but the man had a firm grip.

They were six feet apart when the man released the air hose, raised the spear gun, and aimed it at Sanders’ chest. Sanders kicked at the gun with his flippers, hoping to deflect the aim, but the man was patient. His cold eyes watched and waited for an interval between kicks.

A fuzz of dizziness passed through Sanders’ brain, and he knew he was dead. He waited for the flash of pain that would come as the spear pierced his wet suit and stabbed between his ribs. Maybe he would pass out first….

The man fired. Sanders saw the spear coming at him, felt the blow as it struck his chest, waited for the pain. But there was no pain.

A yellow blur. The spear gun jerked upward, spun out of the man’s hand, and fell. The man’s fingers tore at his throat; the mouthpiece flew from his mouth. Huge, gloved hands on each side of his neck knotted a length of air hose around his throat.

Then Sanders fainted. The pain in his head was gone, and he felt as if he were flying through a warm darkness.

He awoke on the surface. Gail’s hands cradled his face, holding the back of his head against the diving platform. He became aware of a face against his, a wet mouth engulfing his mouth, a blast of breath rattling down his throat. His eyes fluttered open and saw Treece’s face pull away.

“Welcome back,” Treece said.

Sanders’ mind was still foggy. “Did I drown?”

“Gave it a try. Another couple of seconds, you’d’ve been up there with Adam giving us the celestial eyeball. You’d better be glad the duchess was a greedy bitch.”

“What do you mean?”

“That bastard hit you full in the chest with his spear.

If it hadn’t been for the gold, you were dead.”

Sanders looked down and saw a neat hole in his wet suit. The spear had penetrated the rubber but had caromed off the gold rope he had stuffed inside his jacket.

Gail put her hands under Sanders’ armpits and, with Treece pushing from below, hauled Sanders onto the platform.

“How many were there?”

“Three. One’s floating out there somewhere, making terms with the devil. Your girl splashed another one all over their boat. The third one’s here.” Treece yanked his right hand, and a rubber-hooded head popped out of the water, a piece of yellow hose still wrapped around his neck.

Sanders looked at Gail. “You killed one?”

“I didn’t mean to. I had no choice. He…”

Treece said, “What’d I tell you? When you’re up against it, you do the damnedest things.”

Sanders rolled onto his stomach and stood up.

“Here,” Treece said, extending the still body to Sanders. “Take this trash and haul it aboard while I dive to fetch the gear.”

Sanders took the hose. “Is he dead?”

“I imagine. But don’t take it for granted.

Dump him on the deck and put the shotgun on him till I get back.”

“Don’t you want to start the compressor?” Gail asked.

“No, just toss me a mask. If I can’t make it on one good heave, it’s time to find another line of work.”

While Gail looked for a face mask, Sanders pulled the inert man onto the platform. He let go of the hose, bent down, and took the man’s arms.

“Don’t bother with that,” Treece said. “Just haul him up with the hose.”

“I…” Sanders knew that, practically, Treece was right: it would be much easier to pull the man aboard by the hose around his neck. But he couldn’t do it. If he knew the man was already dead, that would be one thing. If he wasn’t dead… Sanders was not ready to be his executioner.

“Don’t be so delicate,” Treece said.

“He’s as good as dead.” He took the mask from Gail, hyperventilated for a few seconds, breathed deeply one last time, and slipped below the surface.

“What did he mean by that?” Gail said.

“I don’t know. Help me with this, will you?”

Each holding one arm, they pulled the man over the transom and lay him on the deck.

“He’s heavier than he looks,” Gail said.

“Dead people are.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I read it somewhere.”

“You mean really heavier, or just heavier than they look?”

“I don’t know. Where’s the shotgun?”

“Over there.” Gail pointed. “I don’t think you’ll need it.” She looked at the still black form and shivered.

Sanders picked up the gun, sat on the gunwale, and rested the gun across his knees. “What was it like?”

He nodded toward the other boat. Sanders found that he envied Gail for having killed Slake. The thought of killing the man who lay helpless at their feet was repulsive. Unfair. But to kill a man in pure self-defense, to take up the challenge and beat the man who was trying to kill you-a fair fight.

Vengeance.