her breath followed by the singing stream of bubbles was remarkably soothing; Marcella felt herself relax. Suspended weightless in the dark, no sound but the mysterious song of her own breath, safe with Kamuela beside her, she finally stopped thinking.
When the silt had settled a bit, she pointed her light down into it, and they began systematic passes, looking into the silty mud with the lights and keeping their movements small. As they suspended in the hypnotic environment, time seemed to slow.
Marcella was surprised to see her O2 gauge begin flashing a yellow warning on the dive computer dangling from her BC. She glanced at the built-in clock—they’d been down an hour. Kamuela suddenly kicked forward, engulfing them in a brown cloud. She shone her handheld light on his face, grinning around a stream of bubbles.
He was holding a cell phone.
They still had around fifteen minutes of oxygen, and moments later found a beige purse drifting gently against a cement piling, a few feet away from where Kamuela had found the phone. Marcella photographed both items where they were found.
The purse was weighted with something or it would have washed away even in the slow current. Marcella’s heart picked up speed with excitement, but now wasn’t the time to investigate its contents. Hopefully the .22 Pettigrew was shot with was weighing down the purse.
Marcella’s O2 meter began flashing red. She caught Kamuela’s eye and pointed up. He nodded, and they inflated their BCs, rising at the speed of their silvered breath to the surface. They were mere feet from the concrete lip of the canal.
Kamuela held up the purse, streaming water, and Rogers reached for it, grinning. “Yes!”
“This too,” Marcella said, holding up the phone. Rogers took the items as the divers reached up for the edge. Kamuela was able to haul himself out with brute strength, his gear still on, but Marcella was rendered too clumsy and heavy without the buoyancy of the water. She took off her weight belt, handed it up to Rogers, then her BC. He hoisted the gear up onto the cement, and Marcella took hold of the edge, pulled herself up. She flopped on her back, panting. The sky had gone dark, streaked with the flame of sunset, and late-evening shadows surrounded them. She sat up.
“I’m hoping the purse was weighted down with a weapon,” Kamuela said. He’d stripped out of his gear and squatted beside her.
“Let’s see.” Rogers turned the purse upside down.
Out poured water, a ballpoint pen, a Nikon digital camera, a metal pill canister, a comb, a ChapStick, a pair of sunglasses, a soaked paper datebook, a roll of Tums exploding out of their wrapper.
No gun.
“Must have been the camera weighing it down,” Marcella said. “Maybe we can save the SIM card.”
“Same with the phone. Hopefully the water didn’t get all the way into it.” Kamuela shook his head briskly. “We need to get this water off us—I can feel an itch coming on. Everywhere.”
“Yeah. Why don’t you guys take off? I’m going to run this stuff back to headquarters and hand the SIM cards and whatever else over to IT. They’re going to need some time to process it, so let’s call it a day.” Rogers glanced at his watch. “My wife’s given me an hour, tops, to get home before she and the kids break into the steaks without me.”
Marcella’s stomach rumbled at the mention, and she glanced over at Kamuela as she heard a similar sound come from his direction. He grinned, the first time she’d seen that blaze of smile without a regulator in the way.
“No such luck for me,” Marcella said, pulling off her fins. “I just want to get home to a hot shower. Doesn’t seem like you’re doing much when you’re down there, but you sure feel it when you get out of the water.” She stood, hunched her shoulders. “Can someone unzip me? Damn zipper tag is gone.”
“No problem.” Kamuela pulled the zipper down to her waist. She wriggled her shoulders, and he
When the silt had settled a bit, she pointed her light down into it, and they began systematic passes, looking into the silty mud with the lights and keeping their movements small. As they suspended in the hypnotic environment, time seemed to slow.
Marcella was surprised to see her O2 gauge begin flashing a yellow warning on the dive computer dangling from her BC. She glanced at the built-in clock—they’d been down an hour. Kamuela suddenly kicked forward, engulfing them in a brown cloud. She shone her handheld light on his face, grinning around a stream of bubbles.
He was holding a cell phone.
They still had around fifteen minutes of oxygen, and moments later found a beige purse drifting gently against a cement piling, a few feet away from where Kamuela had found the phone. Marcella photographed both items where they were found.
The purse was weighted with something or it would have washed away even in the slow current. Marcella’s heart picked up speed with excitement, but now wasn’t the time to investigate its contents. Hopefully the .22 Pettigrew was shot with was weighing down the purse.
Marcella’s O2 meter began flashing red. She caught Kamuela’s eye and pointed up. He nodded, and they inflated their BCs, rising at the speed of their silvered breath to the surface. They were mere feet from the concrete lip of the canal.
Kamuela held up the purse, streaming water, and Rogers reached for it, grinning. “Yes!”
“This too,” Marcella said, holding up the phone. Rogers took the items as the divers reached up for the edge. Kamuela was able to haul himself out with brute strength, his gear still on, but Marcella was rendered too clumsy and heavy without the buoyancy of the water. She took off her weight belt, handed it up to Rogers, then her BC. He hoisted the gear up onto the cement, and Marcella took hold of the edge, pulled herself up. She flopped on her back, panting. The sky had gone dark, streaked with the flame of sunset, and late-evening shadows surrounded them. She sat up.
“I’m hoping the purse was weighted down with a weapon,” Kamuela said. He’d stripped out of his gear and squatted beside her.
“Let’s see.” Rogers turned the purse upside down.
Out poured water, a ballpoint pen, a Nikon digital camera, a metal pill canister, a comb, a ChapStick, a pair of sunglasses, a soaked paper datebook, a roll of Tums exploding out of their wrapper.
No gun.
“Must have been the camera weighing it down,” Marcella said. “Maybe we can save the SIM card.”
“Same with the phone. Hopefully the water didn’t get all the way into it.” Kamuela shook his head briskly. “We need to get this water off us—I can feel an itch coming on. Everywhere.”
“Yeah. Why don’t you guys take off? I’m going to run this stuff back to headquarters and hand the SIM cards and whatever else over to IT. They’re going to need some time to process it, so let’s call it a day.” Rogers glanced at his watch. “My wife’s given me an hour, tops, to get home before she and the kids break into the steaks without me.”
Marcella’s stomach rumbled at the mention, and she glanced over at Kamuela as she heard a similar sound come from his direction. He grinned, the first time she’d seen that blaze of smile without a regulator in the way.
“No such luck for me,” Marcella said, pulling off her fins. “I just want to get home to a hot shower. Doesn’t seem like you’re doing much when you’re down there, but you sure feel it when you get out of the water.” She stood, hunched her shoulders. “Can someone unzip me? Damn zipper tag is gone.”
“No problem.” Kamuela pulled the zipper down to her waist. She wriggled her shoulders, and he
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