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 ofdivers 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.
He knew the tale.
On his first voyage Columbus anchored somewhere in these waters. But on Christmas Day, 1492, his flagship, the
Santa María
, lodged on a reef. With no way to free the keel, the ship was dismantled, its timbers and cargo hauled ashore and used to construct a settlement. Three weeks later Columbus sailed away in the
Niña
, leaving 39 of his crew behind in what he called La Navidad, the first settlement of Western Europeans in the New World. He charged those men with exploring the island and finding gold. But when he returned in November 1493 with 17 ships and
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 ofdivers 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.
He knew the tale.
On his first voyage Columbus anchored somewhere in these waters. But on Christmas Day, 1492, his flagship, the
Santa María
, lodged on a reef. With no way to free the keel, the ship was dismantled, its timbers and cargo hauled ashore and used to construct a settlement. Three weeks later Columbus sailed away in the
Niña
, leaving 39 of his crew behind in what he called La Navidad, the first settlement of Western Europeans in the New World. He charged those men with exploring the island and finding gold. But when he returned in November 1493 with 17 ships and
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