Chapter 3 – Not Quite the Cream of the Crop

 

Kensie stood on the hard gravel in front of the rickety wood structure that purported to serve as a dock in St. Vincent.

Unlike the other docks that she’d passed in the last hour, which were easily visible right off the road, this one required a short hike down a narrow trail surrounded by thick bushes. Kensie got a little nervous at how secluded it was – she half-expected someone to lunge from the brush and grab her – but when she saw the dock itself she realized she feared the wrong thing. It was badly warped and splintered, the victim of harsh tropical sunlight, salt air, and years of neglect. She questioned if she should even consider stepping on it – the badly-rusted nails she could see seemed incapable of keeping it together with even her trim frame on it, and Kensie had no desire to be tossed into the drink.

Stop being dramatic. It’s a two-foot drop into warm and calm bay water.

There might not have been much danger, but she was running out of options. And there was a boat – Julian’s Empire II, the stern proclaimed in faded red letters – tied to the warped pilings, supporting the sign that indicated she was at the right location. The craft was, to put it politely, very well-used and matched the dock in appearance, but there was diving equipment visible in the open back of the boat. That was what she needed, and right now this dilapidated option was the only one she had left. With a quiet sigh and a pronounced lack of hope, she stepped as gently as possible onto the gnarled wood.

***

She’d gotten up before six, drawing grumbles and complaints from Catrina even though she tried to dress quietly. From the sound of the uneven steps and the thuds from her crashing into the walls in the small cabin late the previous night, Catrina had made liberal use of her drink-inclusive package long after Kensie had retired for the evening. She was the only person at the Excursion Desk when an overly-peppy woman opened for the morning. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Kensie said, explaining that she needed information about local divers who would be willing to take a day charter, or perhaps a multi-day charter.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” the employee explained. “We have several approved dive companies who take groups of people from the ship out to dive on local wrecks and other features. I can put you on one of their lists from here.”

“I’m sure you can, but I’m an experienced diver and I have some specific locations I’d like to explore on my own.”

The cruise line employee was undaunted, dismissing Kensie’s request and forging ahead about the different locations, pointing out that their dive excursions were for “divers of all skill sets” and that one of the locations even had a shipwreck to explore, her eyes going wide with badly-forced excitement. She could talk to the tour director on the embarkation deck and see which one was right for her.

This is a dead end. Kensie thanked her politely and exited the ship, figuring she could make more progress once she got on shore, and she was right. The woman at the little chamber of commerce kiosk right at the end of the wharf was much more helpful. She handed Kensie several brochures and pamphlets of local divers and gave her a few tips. Grateful, Kensie grabbed a local cab and, after insisting she didn’t want or need to go to a nearby beach, was dropped off without fanfare at Eastern Caribbean Diving, a modest but colorful building a few feet off the bay.

“Oh, hell nah,” the suddenly unfriendly man at the counter said, his eyes jerking up from her chest and bulging upon hearing Kensie’s desired diving destination. “That’s mighty far. It would take over an hour just to get ya there, and it’s nothing but a mound of sand. Plus, it’s not for rookies.” He returned to the newspaper he was reading.

“I’m not a rookie diver, and I’ll be happy to compensate you for your gas and any lost time,” Kensie said pleasantly.

“I’m sayin’ I’m not interested. I don’t want to run all the way out there and put the strain on my boat,” he told her. She persisted, even going so far as to use her most flattering smile and batting her eyes a little, but it had no effect, and in a minute she was back on the sidewalk trying to figure out which of the remaining divers was closest.

It wasn’t a far walk, but the results were the same there, and the next one. After each visit she shuffled the brochures to determine her next destination, and each time she left frustrated. For whatever reason, no one would even discuss the trip beyond an unconditional refusal and a few excuses about how far it was. It reminded her of bad mafia movies, where the hoods had gotten to the witnesses and scared them so badly they were afraid to talk (SCUBA diving? Never heard of it.) Walking out of her sixth stop, she flipped to the last brochure. It was devoid of the exotic images and adventurous language that graced the other documents. It had only block lettering on off-white paper:

SCUBA Diving – Snorkeling – Site seeing
Fully Certified - All Levels of Experience Welcome!
Captain J. Burke
48 Seraphine Road

The complete lack of design or color suggested to Kensie that this Captain Burke either didn’t have access to anyone with a bit of graphics skill, or he was so good that he didn’t need to waste his time and money on fancy advertising.

What have I got to lose? She checked the map on her phone and, failing to hail a cab on the busy street, set off on foot.

Twenty minutes later she found herself hot, sweaty, tired, and frustrated, standing at the precipice of a dock that looked like it had been built by three kids with too few nails and no paint, jutting out into a narrow, secluded channel hidden from the rest of the harbor by what looked like tall cocoplum shrubs. With little hope that this encounter would be any different than the others, she stepped on the first wood slat and, finding it to be sturdier than expected, continued down to the boat. No one stirred, and Kensie figured she was out of luck. Still, she had to make the attempt – she was already here.

“Hello? Captain Burke? Are you there?”

No answer.

“He-llo! Anyone in there? Captain?”

Still nothing. Taking a deep breath, she gave it one more try.

“I’M LOOKING FOR CAPTAIN BURKE!” A startled frigate bird took off, but nothing in or around the badly-discolored hull moved. She shook her head and turned back to the shore when she heard a hacking cough and grunt come through an open hatch at the bow.

“Yeah, dammit, wait a minute!” He sounded like someone waking up from an epic bender. Great. Kensie had already formed extremely low expectations upon seeing the boat, but the crashing and banging from the v-berth suggested that she’d been optimistic. Now that she had his attention, she wished she’d given up after two tries. She would have to waste time talking with him instead of trying to figure out alternatives.

Finally, the boat rocked and shifted slightly, and she heard the heavy smack of bare feet plodding on the deck. They were slow and unsteady and the cadence reminded her of a fat old man with a bad hip. She imagined a toothless, tottering wreck of a sailor.

But when the man making the noise came through the hatch, even with his hand shielding his eyes from the sun, she recognized him as an incarnation of Cyrus Buckwell, returned from the dead.

***

Julian Burke woke with a start at the insistent shriek of a female voice that sounded like it had run out of patience. Women usually roused him more gently, through the artful use of her lips and tongue on certain parts of his anatomy, although it had been quite a while since that had happened. He barked out a response, his voice hoarse and raspy from the dry throat he got when he snored. He only snored after a night of drinking.

Opening his eyes required a Herculean effort, to say nothing of actually getting his feet under him, but he managed to stagger to the head and splash tepid water on his face. He looked down at his ratty shorts that looked like they had come from a castaway on a deserted island, but they were appropriate in that the holes in the fabric showed nothing inappropriate. His lack of a shirt didn’t trouble him; after all, this was a tropical island.

He coughed a few times to clear his lungs and took a quick look in the mirror. His hair was nearly to his shoulders and looked like he was allergic to combs. His skin was ruddy from the sun, but it also sagged under his eyes from too much cheap island rum and too many nights thinking of things that needed to stay in the past. Not exactly his best look, but it would have to do.

The boat rocked more than it should have as he headed up to the main deck, which meant that he was probably not quite sober despite the – he glanced at his watch – six hours of sleep he’d gotten. Not enough.

The sun was far too bright – the hatch faced the east – so he squinted and shaded his eyes with his hands. Turning towards the dock, he saw a pair of tennis shoes and the bottom of some trim, ghostly white legs. Fuck. A tourist. Shoulda known. He wasn’t exactly in the mood or physical condition to troll around the island so that entitled college students could dive on the numerous “wrecks” (old barges intentionally sunk in shallow waters to entertain novice explorers) but he could use the cash. He got so few paying customers anymore – he wasn’t exactly on the cruise line’s list of approved diving instructors, and the few visitors that did make their way here assumed his worn boat would spring a leak any second.

“Yeah, I’m Captain Burke. What can I do for ya?”

“Well, um, yeah – I’m trying to charter – to hire a boat, um, for some diving.” Her uneven response sounded a little higher-pitched than he expected, like she’d been startled by his appearance. Maybe it was because he was shirtless and she was some kind of religious prude.

“How’d you find me?”

“The lady at the Chamber of Commerce stand at the cruise ship dock gave me your brochure,” she said.

“And you picked me first? There must be 10 SCUBA tour places between the dock and here.”

“No, not first. But no one else will take the job.”

That got Burke’s attention. The competition for taking tourists out to the many nearby coral reefs to see the trigger fish was fierce, and he could not imagine anyone turning a young woman down unless she had an enormous number of people with her or was making unreasonable requests. His interest piqued, he lowered his hand and opened his eyes fully, ignoring the slight flash of pain above his nose.

She was pretty – more than pretty. True, she was whiter than Casper the Friendly Ghost in Maine in January, but she had a face that pulled his gaze to it and wouldn’t let go. Her chestnut-brown hair framed keen, inquisitive green eyes that regarded him with curiosity and… something else. Burke couldn’t put his finger on it, but this young lady was checking him out with a mix of admiration and amazement. Her mouth hung open slightly, and she kept turning her head from side to side like she didn’t quite believe what she was seeing. It made him uncomfortable.

He shook off the uneasy feeling. “How big is your party?” he asked.

“It’s just me.”

“And you want to learn how to SCUBA dive?”

“No,” she responded in a way that indicated she’d done this dance more than once today. “I’ve got a master SCUBA rating with a deep diver specialty. I don’t need any instruction. I need a boat and gear and someone who knows how to back me up while I explore an area. The right way.”

She sounded knowledgeable and determined, and that made her different from other potential clients. What is this woman about?

“OK. For a normal party of four, I charge $150 US for four hours. Per person.”

“That’s fine, but I’d like to get the whole day for starters, and maybe another couple of days depending on how things go.”

“That’s a lot of money and a lot of diving. How many sites do you want to visit?”

“Just one. Fraunce’s Shoal. Do you know it?”

Burke blinked. “Yeah, and that’s far. Like 40 miles far, and not exactly an easy run or an easy dive. I don’t know too much about it, but I’ve heard there are a lot of dangerous currents. It’s a tricky dive, even if you are highly-experienced. I’ve never actually been there myself.”

Her curious look gave way to irritation. “I know. I know all about the area. Even if I didn’t, every diver on this damn island has told me about it in glorious detail. That’s why I need someone who knows how to get there safely, how to back me up, and how to let me do my job. Can you do it or not?”

 

Burke raised his eyebrows at the slight rebuke. This woman wasn’t some bubblehead just interested in recreation; she had a goal and was determined to fulfill it. But whenever people needed his services in a non-recreational manner, they always set things up ahead of time. He’d taken out a bunch of students and academics who wanted to test their theories of sand density and fish migration and feeding patterns, but they’d always given him a check from a university or research center. This was not quite right.

“So this is research? Who are you with and what do you want to find out?”

“I’m working independently for my doctoral thesis. I have a theory about how global warming affects erosion and sediment displacement, and how it interacts with metallic anomalies in the sediment and bedrock. Fraunce’s Shoal is the perfect environment for me to learn what I need.” Her words came out too fast and too well-rehearsed, setting off another yellow flag. Whatever she was after, it had nothing to do with erosion and Burke knew it – her explanation didn’t make a bit of sense. He thought about sharing a little piece of his own story with her, one that was very relevant to her fictional task, but chose not to right now. Entertainment is where you find it sometimes.

“Erosion, huh? What school?”

“University of Delaware. School of Marine Science.”

“You go to Delaware, and you couldn’t hitch a ride on any of their research vessels? There’s nowhere between the shore and the shelf where you couldn’t find the conditions you need?”

“If there was and I could,” she said with elevating levels of aggravation seeping into her voice, “don’t you think I would have done that?” She paused, her big green eyes fixing on him for several seconds, but not in real anger. She was testing him, he felt, seeing how he would react. He didn’t know whether she wanted him to snap back at her in defiance or submit to her stern tone, but it didn’t really matter; he wasn’t about to take the bait no matter what she was looking for.

“People do a lot of – well, questionable things – especially when they get down here,” he responded neutrally, taking in the luster of her emerald eyes, so bright they rivaled the pastel blue of the bay. “Just trying to figure you out.” He intentionally lowered his voice half an octave for the last sentence, just enough to suggest his interest in her might not be solely as a client.

Kensie’s face went from irritated to exasperated as she caught the hidden message. Burke saw the tiniest hint of a twitch in her upper lip before she shook her head dismissively. “There’s nothing to figure out. I need to dive at Fraunce’s Shoal. I have more than enough cash on me right now and I’m ready to go as long as you have gear that’s in good shape for me. Can I hire you or not?”

Burke filed her reaction away for the moment and, turning his mind back to the matter at hand, raised his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t go around telling strange men that you’re carrying that kind of bread, but as long as you have your C-card on you, yeah, I’ll take you wherever you want to go and babysit from up top.” He noticed the way she pulled a face at his last phrase. “Come on aboard, Miss …?”

“Prescott. Kensie Prescott.” He held out his hand to her, but she eschewed it in favor of hopping adroitly over the gunwale and onto the deck. Pulling off her backpack, she produced a wad of cash, counting out 24-$50 bills, which she handed to Burke. He put the money in his pocket and took the C-card she offered, scrutinizing it closely.

“Kensington?” He raised his eyebrows at her in barely-contained amusement.

She sighed. “Yes, Kensington,” she snapped back. “For some reason, my parents thought it sounded regal and elegant, so that’s my legal first name. But no one,” she said, leveling her gaze at him to make sure what she was about to say was clear, “uses it. It’s Kensie or Ken.”

“Understood. And, since you don’t really look much like a ‘Ken’” – he swept his eyes up and down her form just obviously enough that she could see him do it – “we’ll go with Kensie.” He returned the C-card. “Now that we have that settled, seems we’re all set. You can pick out your gear – it’s at the front of the cabin – while I get things ready, and we’ll cast off in a few minutes.”

***

Kensie couldn’t help but watch as Burke’s muscles rippled and flexed as he worked the lines to free the boat from the dock as she pretended to look over the diving gear. He had the musculature of a man who knew hard work, contained under golden-tan skin. A tattoo that she could not decipher decorated his right shoulder. It was a simple tattoo, the uniform greenish-gray suggesting it was done by an amateur – or in prison. Either way, it gave him an air of danger and rebellion that made Kensie’s stomach twist and her crotch tingle with unbidden and quite graphic thoughts.

But it was his face that had stopped her cold on the dock when he first stepped from the hatch. Of course, there were no photos of Captain Buckwell, but there were paintings and sketches. Kensie had long ago determined (accurately or not she was unsure) what he looked like in her own mind, and Burke was definitely his doppelganger, right down to the stubble on his cheeks and chin and the sun-bleached streaks in his light-brown shock of unruly hair that was just a touch too long to be orderly. The similarity of his appearance to the man whose treasure for which he would be unwittingly hunting had to be nothing more than a coincidence, Kensie was certain, but it assured her that she had ended up at the right boat.

She might have considered his good looks a positive omen, but they did not, however, translate into gallantry or manners. His subtle insults annoyed her, and his snickers and facial expressions suggested he considered himself superior to her, at least in this realm. He displayed an arrogance that seemed unearned, especially based on the boat and where he was docked.

Whatever. All that matters is that he gets me out and back. You’re here for a reason.

She found the equipment she needed and set it off to the side just as the engine rumbled to life. It had an odd warble to it, sounding old and badly in need of maintenance. Kensie was not a mechanic in any sense of the word, but the uneven rumble and the jarring vibrations coming through the deck reminded her of her first car, a 1983 Chevy Cavalier that rattled her teeth loose at highway speed and spent more time up on jack stands in their driveway – with her father’s legs sticking out from under it and a steady stream of creative profanity spewing into the neighborhood – than being driven to and from work and school. And this engine was going to take her out into the Atlantic Ocean?

Forgetting that for the moment, she opened her backpack and pulled out a few additional items, the most important being a small but powerful metal detector. Her plan was to sweep it over the sand, following a grid search pattern and hoping that the slope of the shoal would have kept layers of heavy sand and sediment from building up, burying the treasure forever. She’d never dived in tropical waters, but the heavier mud of the eastern seaboard acted in much the same manner at roughly the same depth, so she had confidence in her plan – well, at least she had a chance.

Making sure everything was secure, she headed back up to the weather deck. Burke was guiding the Empire through the wide harbor with practiced indifference, one hand barely on the wheel, the other free to wave at vessels or to people on the docks. 

“You’re popular around here,” she commented nonchalantly.

He grunted. “Yeah, we’re a pretty tight community in this bay. Every once in a while someone needs a helping hand. You give help, then you get help.” They passed the breakwater and Burke swung the wheel to port. The seas grew a little rougher, not anything to worry about, but enough to make Kensie grab the handhold on the conn. Burke let out a tiny smile.

“I guess you didn’t get your sea legs from being on that big cruise ship yet, huh?”

Kensie scoffed. “How could I? That thing barely rocks. I mean, the weather has been downright beautiful, but if you didn’t see the water going by, you wouldn’t think you were moving at all. There’s no chance to get any sea legs.”

“I’m sure,” he said, a hint of contrition in his response. “You’ll get ‘em today, though, hon. We got a little chop going on, and it’s going to get worse once we get out of the lee of the island.” Kensie was about to object to his sexist “hon” remark but was instead taken aback by the increased roar of the laboring engine when he pushed the throttle forward.

It may have been louder, but the increased noise did not translate to much more speed. Julian’s Empire II accelerated, but only to about 14 knots – pretty slow, considering the distance they had to travel. There were other boats in sight, and they were zipping around at the head of bright, white wakes as if they were showing off.

“Is this top speed?” Kensie asked in a near yell.

“No, but I don’t like to push the engines real hard, ya know?”

Kensie rolled her eyes. “It’s gonna take two hours to get there!”

Burke nodded. “More like two-and-a-half.”

“I’ll lose half the day! Can’t you get us going a little faster?”

Burke shook his head. “It ain’t worth getting there faster if I blow a bearing and we’re stranded.”

“Yeah, but –”

“But nothing. Getting you out and back safe and sound is my first job. If Empire isn’t quick enough for you, we can head back right now and I’ll refund you.” He kept his eyes sighted over the bow, but what Kensie could see of his face told her that, short of a tsunami coming up from behind, the throttle wasn’t going forward one additional inch.

Fucking slow boat to China.