The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [110]
Instinctively, I spin myself upright. My breathing quickens; I’m not sure why.
I look to my right, but the mask blocks my peripheral vision. I quickly turn my head to both sides. There’s nothing to see. No one’s there. That is, until something slithers up against the left side of my neck.
Jerking wildly, I spin back and grab it by the throat. In front of me, Gillian whips around and shines the light my way. There it is. My attacker: the inanimate inflation hose that’s supposed to float next to me while I swim. Assaulted by my own octopus.
You okay there? Gillian motions with a sarcastic hand on her hip.
Floating helplessly, I just nod.
Once again, she dives toward the darkness. Once again, I follow.
She shines the light to survey the ocean floor, but all we’ve got are some swaying green plants, loose shells, and what looks like a rusty, abandoned lobster trap. Turning herself rightside-up, Gillian snaps her flippers and a snowglobe of sand swirls around her.
Not much further, she motions by holding her pointer finger only a few inches from her thumb. She lets out a huge breath of air and the bubbles rise between us. Tracing the slant of the ground downward, she swims out even deeper. As I breaststroke behind her, she just keeps going. From where I’m watching—the way she holds the light against her chest—the outline of her body glows with a shimmering halo. It’s like chasing a firefly through an underwater forest.
A convex black wall rises up from the sand and comes to a point right above our heads. To the left, it continues on further than the flashlight lets us see. With her hand sliding across its chipped metal surface, Gillian swims to the right and quickly turns the corner. Above a broken rudder and missing propeller, the words Mon Dieu II—Les Cayes, Haiti run perpendicular toward the ocean floor. Even when it’s turned on its side, there’s no mistaking a sunken ship.
The moment I see it, my breathing again starts to quicken. It’s like standing outside an abandoned house. Freaky and cool, but there’s no reason to go in. Gillian, of course, sees it differently. Wasting no time, she swims around to the back deck, leaving me in a blur of bubbles. By the time I catch up, she’s already investigating—shining the light up and down the barely rotted deck. There’s a bit of greenish brown moss, but not much—it hasn’t been down here long.
Straight above us, a silver flash catches my eye. At first, I assume it’s the metal railing that surrounds the deck, but as Gillian lifts the light, I quickly realize that’s just part of it. Bolted to the deck and perpendicular to the ground, a red-and-white Coca-Cola machine sways open above our heads. Inside, all the cans are gone. No doubt about it—the rustbucket little ship hit a rock and got picked clean. Haiti steals sodas from us; we steal ’em right back. Only in Miami.
I turn to share the joke with Gillian, but to my surprise, the only thing there is the flashlight—sitting on the ocean floor, pointed up at the Coke machine. Confused, I glance around the ship. No one’s there. Above my head, the door of the machine continues to swing with the tide.
“Illian… ?” I whisper through the mouthpiece, though I know she can’t hear me. Spinning around, I crane my neck in every direction. A cold wave of water shoves me in the chest. I don’t understand. Gillian’s gone.
Reaching down, I grab the flashlight and shine it out across the horizontal plane. In front of me, a trail of bubbles leads straight to the boat’s two-story cabin. The door’s missing from the doorframe and the glass has been pulled from the porthole windows, but even from here I can see how dark it is. I shake my head to myself. No way I’m going in there.
A minute later, the trail of bubbles is long gone. And still no Gillian. I shine the light at the doorframe of the cabin. No movement. No puffs of air. Slowly, I swim closer, mentally replaying every teenage slasher flick I ever laid eyes on. At the door, I hammer the flashlight against the metal hull. It clangs with a low vibration. There’s no way she’d miss it. Not unless