The Reef (17 page)

He climbed up, impressed again by the sharp, cutting look of the bows. It would take the water, he mused. It would fly.

“So, when you finish this thing, eh?”

“I've got the time now, don't I?” Matthew envisioned the rails. Brass and teak. “All I need's the money.”

“Me, I got plenty of money.” Thoughtfully, LaRue took out a leather pouch and began the slow and, to him, pleasurable process of rolling a cigarette. “What do I spend it on but women? And they don't cost so much as most men think. So maybe I give you the money to finish it, and you give me part of the boat.”

Matthew let out a sour laugh. “What part do you want?”

LaRue leaned into the backrest, carefully sealing the cigarette paper around the tobacco. “A boat a man builds is a good place to come when he wants to brood. Tell me this, Matthew, why did you let him hit you?”

“Why not?”

“Seems to me he'd be better if you hit him.”

“Right. That would be great. It would do a lot of good for me to knock down a—”

“Cripple?” LaRue finished mildly. “No, you never let him forget he's not what he was.”

Furious, surprised into hurt, Matthew lunged to his feet. “Where the hell do you come off saying that? What the hell do you know about it? I've done everything I can for him.”

“You've done.” LaRue struck a match, let it flare on the edge of the neatly rolled cigarette. “You pay for the roof over his head, the food in his belly, the whiskey he kills himself with. All it costs him is his pride.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do, toss him out into the street?”

LaRue shrugged. “You don't ask him to be a man, so he's not a man.”

“Butt out.”

“I think you like your guilt, Matthew. It keeps you from doing what you want, and maybe failing at it.” He only grinned when Matthew hauled him up by the shirtfront. “See, me, you treat like a man.” He cocked up his chin, not entirely sure it wouldn't be broken in the next ten seconds. “You can hit me. I'll hit you back. When we're finished, we'll make a deal for the boat.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” In disgust, Matthew shoved him back. “I don't need company, I don't need another partner.”

“You do, yes. And I like you, Matthew.” LaRue sat again, neatly tapping the ash from his cigarette into his palm. “And I figure this. You're going to go back for that ship you once told me about. Maybe you'll go after this VanDyke you hate so much. Maybe you'll even go back for the woman you want. I'm going, because I don't mind being rich. I like to see a good fight, and me, I have a soft spot for romance.”

“You're an asshole, LaRue. Christ knows why I ever told you about that shit.” He lifted his hands and rubbed them over his face. “I must have been drunk.”

“No, you never let yourself get drunk. You were talking to yourself,
mon ami.
I was just there.”

“Maybe I'll go back for the wreck. And maybe, if I get lucky, I'll cross paths with VanDyke again. But there's no woman anymore.”

“There's always a woman. If not one, another.” LaRue shrugged his bony shoulders. “Me, I don't understand why men lose their minds over a woman. One leaves, another comes along. But an enemy, that's worth working for. And money, well, it's easier to be rich than poor. So we finish your boat, eh, and go looking for fortune and revenge.”

Wary, Matthew eyed LaRue. “The equipment I want isn't cheap.”

“Nothing worthwhile is cheap.”

“We may never find the wreck. Even if we do, mining her is going to be hard, dangerous work.”

“Danger is what makes life interesting. You've forgotten that, Matthew.”

“Maybe,” he murmured. He began to feel something stir again. It was the blood he'd let settle and cool over the years. He held out a hand. “We finish the boat.”

 

It was three days later when Buck made his way into the garage. He'd gotten a bottle somewhere, Matthew deduced. The sour stench of whiskey surrounded him.

“Where the hell you think you're going to take this tub?”

Matthew continued to lovingly sand the teak for the rail. “Hatteras to start. I'm hooking up with the Beaumonts.”

“Shit, amateurs.” A little rocky on his feet, Buck walked to the stern. “What the hell did you build a catamaran for?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Single hull's always been good enough for me. Good enough for your father, too.”

“It's not your boat. It's not his boat. It's mine.”

That stung. “What kind of color is this you're painting her. Damn sissy blue.”

“Caribbean blue,” Matthew corrected. “I like it.”

“Probably sink the first time you hit weather.” Buck
sniffed and stopped himself from caressing one of the hulls. “I guess all you and Ray are good for now is pleasure sailing.”

Experimentally, Matthew ran the pad of his thumb over the teak. It was satin smooth. “We're going after the
Isabella.
”

Silence sparked like naked wires crossed. Matthew hefted the sanded rail over his shoulder and turned. Buck had a hand on the boat now, braced as he swayed like a man already at sea.

“The hell you are.”

“Ray's decided to go. He found something he wants to show me. As soon as I can get things done here, I'm heading up. Regardless of what Ray's come up with, I'm going after her. It's long past time I did.”

“Are you out of your mind, boy? Do you know what she cost us? Cost me?”

Matthew set the rail aside for varnishing. “I've got a pretty good idea.”

“You had a treasure, didn't you? You let her go. You let that bastard VanDyke dance off with it. You lost it for me when I was half dead. Now you think you're going back and leaving me here to rot?”

“I'm going. What you do is your business.”

Panicked, Buck slammed the heel of his hand into Matthew's chest. “Who's going to see to what I need here? You go off like this, the money'll be gone in a month. You owe me, boy. I saved your worthless life. I lost my leg for you. I lost everything for you.”

The guilt still came, waves of it a strong man could drown in. But this time, Matthew shook his head. He wasn't going under again. “I'm finished owing you, Buck. Eight years I've worked my ass off so you could drink yourself into a coma and make me pay for every breath I took. I'm done. I'm going after something I'd convinced myself I couldn't have. And I'm going to get her.”

“They'll kill you. The
Isabella
and Angelique's Curse. And if they don't, VanDyke will. Then where will I be?”

“Just where you are now. Standing on two legs. One of them I paid for.”

He didn't take the punch this time. Instead he caught Buck's fist in his hand an inch before it struck his face. Without thinking he shoved back so that Buck stumbled into the stern of the boat.

“Try that again, and I'll take you down, old man or not.” Matthew planted his feet, prepared to face-off if Buck lunged again. “In ten days, I'm leaving for Hatteras with LaRue. You can pull yourself together, or you can go fuck yourself. It's your choice. Now get the hell out. I've got work to do.”

With a shaking hand, Buck wiped his mouth. His phantom leg began to throb, a nasty, grinning ghost that never quite gave up the haunting. Sick at heart, he hurried off to find a bottle.

Alone, Matthew hefted another section of rail and went to work like a man possessed.

A
S FAR AS
Silas VanDyke was concerned, Manzanillo was the only place to spend the first breaths of spring. His cliff house on the western Mexican coast afforded him the most spectacular view of the restless Pacific. There was nothing more relaxing than standing by his wall of windows and watching the waves crash and spew.

Power never failed to fascinate him.

As an Aquarian, he considered water his element. He loved the sight of it, the smell of it, the sound of it. Though he traveled extensively for both business and pleasure, he could never be away from his element for long.

All of his homes had been bought or built near some body of water. His villa in Capri, his plantation in Fiji, his bungalow on Martinique. Even his brownstone in New York afforded him a view of the Hudson. But he had a particular fondness for his hideaway in Mexico.

Not that this particular trip was one of leisure. VanDyke's work ethic was as disciplined as the rest of him. Rewards were earned—and he had earned his. He believed in labor, the exercise of the body as well as the mind. It was true that he had inherited a great deal of his wealth, but he had not whiled away his time or whittled away his resources. No, he had built on them doggedly and
shrewdly until he had easily tripled the legacy passed to him.

He considered himself discreet and dignified. No publicity-seeking Trump, VanDyke pursued his personal and business affairs quietly and with a subtle flare that kept his name out of the press and tabloid news.

Unless he put them there. Publicity, of the proper type, could shade a business deal and tip the scales when necessary.

He had never married, though he admired women greatly. Marriage was a contract, and the negating of that contract was too often messy, too often public. Heirs were often a result of that contract, and heirs could be used against a man.

Instead, he chose his companions with care, treated them with the same respect and courtesy as he would treat any employee. And when a woman ceased to entertain him, she was generously dispatched.

Few complained.

The little Italian socialite he had recently grown weary of had been a bit of a problem. The icy diamonds he'd offered as a parting gift hadn't cooled her hot temper. She'd actually threatened him. With some regret, he'd arranged for her to be taught a lesson. But he'd given strict orders that there were to be no visible scars.

After all, she'd had a lovely face and body that had given him a great deal of pleasure.

It seemed to him that violence, well-skilled violence, was a tool no successful man could afford to ignore. In the last few years, he had used it often, and he thought, quite well.

The oddest thing was that it gave him so much more pleasure than he had expected. A kind of cheap, emotional profit, he decided. Privately, he could admit that by paying for it, he often soothed those black tempers that raged over him.

So many men he knew. Men who, like him, controlled great wealth and managed responsibilities, lost their edge by accepting certain failures, making too many concessions. Or they simply burned themselves out by fighting
to stay on top. Frustrations, he thought, unreleased, festered. A wise man took his relief and always, always, counted the profit.

Now he had business to attend to, business to entertain him. At the moment, his priority was the
Nomad,
its crew, and its brilliant find.

As he'd ordered, the reports were on his desk. He'd handpicked the team for his expedition, from the scientists to the technicians and down to the galley staff. It pleased him to know that once again, his instincts had been on target. They hadn't failed him. When the expedition was complete, VanDyke would see to it that each and every member of the
Nomad
team received a bonus.

He admired scientists tremendously, their logic and discipline, their vision. He was more than satisfied with Frank Litz, both as a biologist and as a spy. The man kept him up to date on the personal dynamics and intimacies of the
Nomad
's crew.

Yes, he thought Litz a happy find, particularly after the disappointment of Piper. The young archeologist had had potential, VanDyke mused. But that one little flaw had made him sloppy.

Addictions led to a lack of order. Why, he himself had given up smoking years before simply to make a point. Inner strength equaled power over personal environment. A pity Piper had lacked inner strength. In the end, VanDyke had harbored no regrets in offering him the uncut cocaine that had killed him.

In truth, it had been rather thrilling. The ultimate termination of an employee.

Settling back, he studied the reports from Litz and his team of marine biologists on the ecosystem, the plants and animals that had colonized the wreck of the
Justine.
Sponges, gold coral, worms. Nothing was beneath VanDyke's interest.

What was there could be harvested and used.

With the same respect and interest, he studied the reports of the geologists, the chemist, those of the representatives he had sent to observe the operation and its results.

Like a child with a treat, he saved the archeologist's
report for last. It was meticulously organized, thorough and clear as new glass. No detail was omitted, down to the last shard of crockery. Each artifact was described, dated and photographed, each item catalogued according to the date and time it was discovered. There was a cross-reference with the chemist's report as to how the article was treated, tested, cleaned.

A father's pride swept through VanDyke as he read the carefully typed pages. He was glowingly pleased with Tate Beaumont, considered her a protégée.

She would make a fine replacement for the unfortunate Piper.

Perhaps it had been impulse that had urged him to have her education monitored over the years. But the impulse had more than paid off. The way she had faced him onboard the
Triumphant
with fury and intelligence firing her eyes. Oh, he admired that. Courage was a valuable asset, when tempered with a well-ordered mind.

Tate Beaumont possessed both.

Professionally, she had more than exceeded his early expectations of her. She'd graduated third in her class, publishing her first paper in her sophomore year. Her postgraduate work had simply been brilliant. She would earn her doctorate years before the majority of her contemporaries.

He was thrilled with her.

So thrilled he had opened several doors for her along the way. Doors that even with her skills and tenacity might have been difficult for her to unlatch. Her opportunity to research in a two-man sub off Turkey in depths of six hundred feet had come through him. Though like an indulgent uncle, he had taken no credit. Yet.

Her personal life earned his admiration as well. Initially, he'd been disappointed that she hadn't remained attached to Matthew Lassiter. A continued connection would have been one more method of keeping tabs on Matthew. Yet he'd been pleased that she'd shown the obvious good taste to shrug off a man so clearly beneath her.

She'd concentrated on her studies, her goals, as he would have expected from his own daughter, had he a daughter. Twice she had explored relationships. The first
no more than the rebellion of youth, in VanDyke's opinion. The young man she'd attached herself to in the initial weeks after her return to college had been little more than an experiment, he was sure. But she'd soon shaken herself loose from the muscle-bound, empty-headed jock.

A woman like Tate required intellect, style, breeding.

Indeed, after graduation she had been drawn into a liaison with a fellow postgraduate student who shared many of her interests. That had lasted just under ten months, and had caused VanDyke some concern. But that, too, had ended when he'd arranged to have the man offered a position at his oceanographic institute in Greenland.

To fully realize her potential, he felt Tate needed to limit her distractions, as he had over the years. Marriage and family would only tilt her priorities.

He was delighted that she was now working for him. He intended to keep her on the fringes for the present. In time, if she continued to prove worthy, he would draw her into the core.

A woman of her intelligence and ambitions would recognize the debt she owed him, and would understand the value of what he could continue to offer.

One day they would meet again, work side by side.

He was a patient man and could wait for her. As he waited for Angelique's Curse. His instincts told him that when the time was finally right, one would lead him to the other.

Then he would have everything.

VanDyke glanced over as his fax began to hum. Rising, he poured himself a large tumbler of freshly squeezed orange juice. If he hadn't had such a full schedule that day, he would have added just a dollop of champagne. Such small luxuries could wait.

He lifted a brow as he picked up the fax. It was his latest report on the Lassiters. So, he mused, Matthew had jumped ship and gone back to his uncle. Perhaps he would stick the drunken fool in another rehab center. It continued to surprise him that Matthew didn't simply leave the old man to wallow in his own vomit and disappear.

Family loyalty, he thought, shaking his head. It was
something VanDyke knew existed, but had never experienced. If his own father hadn't conveniently died at fifty, VanDyke would have implemented his plans for a take-over. Fortunately, he had no siblings to rival with, and his mother had faded quietly away in an exclusive mental hospital when he'd been barely thirteen.

He had only himself, VanDyke thought, sipping the chilled juice. And his fortune. It was well worth using a small part of it to keep an eye on Matthew Lassiter.

Family loyalty, he thought again with a small smile. If it ran true, Matthew's father had found a way to pass his secret to his son. Sooner or later, Matthew would be compelled to hunt for Angelique's Curse. And VanDyke, patient as a spider, would be waiting.

 

Rough weather hit the
Nomad
and halted excavation for forty-eight hours. High seas had half the crew down for the count despite seasick pills and patches. Tate and her cast-iron constitution rode out the storm with a thermos of coffee at her worktable.

She'd left the cabin to a moaning, green-faced Lorraine.

The rock and roll of the boat didn't stop her from cataloguing the newest additions to the trove.

“I thought I'd find you here.”

She looked up, let her fingers pause on her keyboard and smiled at Hayden. “I thought you were lying down.” She tilted her head. “You're a little pale yet, but you've lost that interesting green tinge.” Her smile widened wickedly. “Want a cookie?”

“Feeling smug?” Warily, he kept his eyes averted from the plate of cookies on the table. “I hear Bowers is having a great time finding new ways to describe pork to Dart.”

“Hmm. Bowers and I, and a few of the others, enjoyed quite a hardy breakfast this morning.” She laughed. “Rest easy, Hayden, I won't describe it to you. Have a seat?”

“It's embarrassing for the team leader to lose his dignity this way.” Grateful, he lowered himself into a folding chair. “Too much time in the classroom, not enough in the field, I guess.”

“You're doing okay.” Happy to have company, she
turned away from the monitor. “The entire film crew's down. I hate to be pleased with anyone's misfortune, but it's a relief not to have them hovering for a couple days.”

“A documentary will pump up interest in this kind of expedition,” he pointed out. “We can use the exposure, and the grants.”

“I know. It isn't often you have the benefit of a privately funded expedition, or one that pays off so successfully. Look at this, Hayden.” She lifted a gold watch, complete with chain and fob. “Beautiful, isn't it? The detail of etching on the cover. You can practically smell the roses.”

Lovingly, she rubbed a thumb over the delicately etched spring of buds before carefully opening the clasp.

“ ‘To David, my beloved husband, who makes time stop for me. Elizabeth. 2/4/49.' ”

Her heart sighed over it. “There was a David and Elizabeth MacGowan on the manifest,” she told Hayden in a voice that had thickened. “And their three minor children. She and her eldest daughter survived. She lost a son, another daughter, and her beloved David. Time stopped for them, and never started again.”

She closed the watch gently. “He'd have been wearing this when the ship went down,” she murmured. “He'd have kept it with him. He might have even opened it, read the inscription one last time after he said goodbye to her and their children. They never saw each other again. For more than a hundred years, this token of how much she loved him has been waiting for someone to find it. And remember them.”

“It's humbling,” Hayden said after a moment, “when the student outstrips the teacher. You have more than I ever did,” he added when Tate glanced up in surprise. “I would see a watch, the style, the manufacturer. I would note the inscription down, pleased to have a date to corroborate my calculation of its era. I might give David and Elizabeth a passing thought, certainly I would have looked for them in the manifest. But I wouldn't see them. I wouldn't feel them.”

“It isn't scientific.”

“Archeology is meant to study culture. Too often we forget that people make culture. The best of us don't. The best of us make it matter.” He laid a hand over hers. “The way you do.”

“I don't know what to do when it makes me sad.” She turned her hand over so that their fingers linked. “If I could, I'd take this and I'd find their great-great-grandchildren so I could say—look, this is part of David and Elizabeth. This is who they were.” Feeling foolish, she set the watch aside. “But it doesn't belong to me. It doesn't even belong to them now. It belongs to SeaSearch.”

“Without SeaSearch, it would never have been found.”