Mitch glanced over the side of the boat. The water looked dark and cold. God knows what’s down there. He heard the Jaws soundtrack music somewhere in the back of his mind. Mm, Steven Spielberg has a lot to answer for, he thought. Turning, he lowered his scuba mask over his face, inserted his mouthpiece, and gave the thumbs up before leaning back and dropping into the water.
So quiet. The ocean was dark and silent. Mitch heard his heart beating way too fast.
Calm down. Breathe … hold … let it out. He repeated the mantra to himself as he followed the light from his torch, swimming deeper.
He knew what he was going to see, but that never made it any easier. His instincts were on full alert. The report said a package was some forty feet below the surface. Two amateur divers had called it in.
Shame they didn’t investigate, he thought. But it was on his turf, right where he had been doing his surveillance. There was no way round it but to make the dive. He knew he wasn’t swimming very fast; fear and loathing slowed his pace. The silence of the water was deafening.
Mitch saw it.
Damn. Definitely looks like a body wrapped up. He swallowed his revulsion and swam towards the package. He turned slightly to look around.
There’s no one around, he told himself, just get it over with.
The package was wrapped in plastic. He could just make out patches of clothing, a person’s features and shoes.
Mitch reached for his switchblade and began hacking at the rope tied around the body and secured to a concrete brick block. His movements were slower in the water, but soon the rope gave way. He grabbed a corner of the package to pull it to the surface and shone his torch over it. Two eyes stared back at him and blinked.
Mitch yelled.
He sat up in bed gasping for air, his T-shirt drenched.
No body. No water.
“Mitch!” Charlotte, his girlfriend of seven months, reached for him.
Mitch pushed her off. “It’s fine, it was just a dream.”
“Again. You’re drenched.” She stroked his back. “These night sweats are happening more and more.”
“It’s nothing, they’re not night sweats, it was just a bad dream.” He exhaled.
“The third night in a row?” Charlotte’s training as a psychologist kicked into gear. She rose and went to get a wet facecloth from the bathroom. Returning, she handed it to him, sliding back into her own side of the bed.
Mitch wiped his face with the cloth.
“Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep,” he said quietly as though expecting that to have a lulling effect.
“You know, Mitch, it might help to talk about it.”
“Nothing to talk about, I’m OK.” Mitch rose from the bed. “I’m taking a shower.”
He headed to the shower knowing he wouldn’t get off that lightly. Charlotte was a psychologist after-hours as well and would want to talk about it, and talk about it, and talk about it some more.
He stripped off his T-shirt and boxers, pulled open the glass shower door, adjusted the water temperature and stepped in. He closed his eyes, feeling the stream of water on his face.
Got to get that case out of my head, long time ago now. The Cape Hatteras dive is not helping.
He felt Charlotte step into the shower behind him.
“Mitch, talk to me.”
Mitch turned to face her. “Charlie, it’s just a bad dream, but nice to have you here.”
He pulled her closer.
“I’ll tell you what,” she bartered. “You tell me about your dream and then I’ll help you forget it.”
Mitch put his head back under the shower stream and let the water pour over him.
Charlotte pulled him forward.
“I know what you are doing. You’re stalling so that you can give me a manufactured version of the dream. Spill it.”
Mitch groaned.
“Spill it or that’s the only groaning you’ll be doing,” she said.