A Single Deadly Truth

A Single Deadly Truth

Chris Blanchard knew it was a good day for finding treasure.  He squinted at the horizon while his fingers squeezed a vein at the back of his knee.  A mile offshore, alone on his lobster boat.  He hadn’t pulled a single trap all morning and had no plans to do so now.

Chris hadn’t told his friends about the shipwreck.  He wouldn’t have told anyone if he didn’t need help.  He pinched at his flesh again.  He kept thinking of the syringe and pictured himself thumbing down on the plunger.  No, I can’t shoot up, not when I’m this close.  He rubbed his palm over his calf muscle.  First get the dive done.  Because this time it’s going to be different.  People are going to trust me again.

He sat back on the deck, held his head, and took in the sun.  Bright skies.  Flat calm.  Good visibility for diving.  Things were falling into place.

He didn’t know how much gold was stashed aboard the ship but he knew it would be more than enough for him, even after he paid Emile Ducharme and the other salvagers.

Tap into this score and he’d be living large.  Just like his great-grandfather up in Newburyport, back when you could make a fortune on the water.  Now it was his turn and when he was done there’d be enough money to buy that old house and fix it up, restore the old place and the family name.  Or maybe he’d move in with Jane and stay in New Bedford.  He could do that.

Chris glanced at his watch -10:17.  Ducharme’s men were late.  Just a couple of minutes.  Still, they were late.  He picked up his cell and punched in his Jane’s number.

No answer.

“Where the hell is she?” he said aloud.  He dialed information and placed a call to his uncle’s friend, Steve Decatur.  He did it on impulse.  He wished he had told Decatur about the wreck.  That’s when the whine of twin outboards running wide-open interrupted his thoughts.  Chris glanced at the brass-plated clock mounted alongside the helm, then at his watch.  There was a ten-minute difference.  They were on time after all.  Chris closed the phone and hung up without leaving a message for Decatur.

The inflatable ran at near full speed right up until it was next to his lobster boat.  Then the driver cut around hard and the small boat came to a rest, rubbing up against the hull, pushed by its own wake.

Chris threw a line and extended his hand as they stepped aboard.  “Where’s Jane?”

The men ignored the gesture and instead focused on transferring their dive gear from the inflatable.

“I said where’s Jane, where’s the woman?”

“She stayed on shore.  We won’t need her help.”  The accent was heavy and foreign.

“Yes, she went shopping.”  The second man spoke with the same Eastern European tone.

Shopping?  She hates shopping.  He eyed the two men more closely.  Chris was strong from pulling traps, but these two were in a whole different category.  Two-fifty, two-sixty, most of it muscle and hard core by the looks of the diving bell tattoos on their forearms.  Didn’t talk much, though.  Chris decided he’d break the silence.  “Great conditions for a dive.”

The two men stared out at the water, but didn’t respond.

Just go easy, Chris thought.  “Jane told me your captain has found treasure all over the world.  Something like three big scores in the last two years, is that right?”

Neither man responded.

“And to think the next big find would be right here.  I mean who figured there’d be a shipwreck right off Chatham.”

More silence.

“I mean when I was a kid I dreamt about buried treasure all the time, but I always pictured it being far away.”

Nothing.

Come on, talk to me, will you.  “I mean I figured treasure was in places like the Caribbean.  Not here.  You know?”

Again, no response.

“Where are you guys from?”

This time one of the men turned toward Chris.  “Where are we from?  We are Americans, like you.”  Then he laughed.

Right.  Jane had told him where they were from, but now he forgot.  Maybe someplace in Russia?  Chris said, “You’re pretty handy with that boat.  You government trained?”

“You ask too many questions,” the larger man said.  The other man tapped on his watch and they both nodded.

Chris said, “Look, I’m a little nervous.  But don’t worry, this won’t take long.  It’s shallow out there.  We’ll only need fifteen minutes.  Enough time for you to see what’s down there so you can report back that this is the real deal.  Maybe take a souvenir.”

The smaller of the two men said, “We’ll follow you.”

“Sure.  Yeah.  You follow me.”  Without waiting for a response Chris walked forward into the cabin where he pulled out a sheet of paper that was wedged in between the pages of the chart book.

Get serious, get serious, Chris told himself.  He waved to the other two men.  “Come here.  Look at this.”

They did, and for the first time Chris felt he was in charge.  Diving was his element.  It always was.  “See here.”  He slid his fingers across the handwritten chart.  “I drew this last night.  It’s kind of rough, but it pretty much lays out what’s down there.  I’ve got a chart recorder and an even more detailed drawing back at the dock.  But this one’s good enough for today’s dive.”  Chris scanned the notes.  “The hull’s steel.  It was a cargo ship.  Just over two hundred feet.”  He read from a second list of notes, which was general information on the class of ship.  His handwriting was jagged, but he could read his own scribbling.  “It was built just after World War II.  Sank in ’52.  Went down in a February storm.  Most of the hull is under twenty feet of sand, but you can get into the ship here.”  He pointed with his index finger while trying to keep his needle-punctured arm from shaking.  “Once you’re through there, you’re golden.”

He took out another sheet that had a handwritten diagram.  “This is the best I can make of the inside layout.”  He pointed to the center section of his drawing.  “That’s where we’re most likely going to find our payday.”

The taller man said, “And you say you have other maps?”

“Yeah, a chart from a depth finder.  I figured I’d keep it back at the dock in case this one gets wet, but it’s the same map.  This is all we’ll need.”

After a few moments of silence Chris said, “How about we go for a dive.  It’s now or never.”

Each man suited up and made a final check of their diving gear before making their way to the rear of Chris’ boat.

“I’ll go first,” Chris said.  He back-rolled over the side and once in, he hovered just below the surface.

Chris relaxed and closed his eyes.  Once I have the money I’m going to spend every minute I can in the water.

When Chris opened his eyes he expected to see the other two men next to him, but they weren’t there.  As he looked up, Chris saw them splash into the cool Atlantic water.  About time, he thought.  He waved them on.  Then he began his descent.

The sun’s rays streaked through the water and lit the area ahead of him, all the way to the bottom, so bright he could have been in the Caribbean.  Yet even on this day, the sand concealed the wreck, all except for the one section he had visited the day before.  He took several more smooth strokes and swam for the access point, landing with his feet, standing erect.

For as long as Chris could remember, few people swam underwater as swiftly as he did.  Swim and wait for the others to catch up, that’s how it had always been.  He looked back to signal the way for the other two divers.  To his surprise, the larger man was already less than an arm’s length away and closing.  In the next instant he grabbed Chris and spun him around.  Then the other one came up from behind and held Chris in an arm lock.

Chris flailed his arms and struck the man with two right elbows to the abdomen.  He kicked, too, coming down as hard as he could with his heel, but the resistance of the water made it difficult to hit with any force.  Even when he made contact it seemed to have no effect.  All the while, the man’s arms drew tighter around Chris, tighter until Chris was unable to breathe.  However, the will to live is an impressive force and Chris continued to fight back.  That’s when the second man came around from Chris’ left side, with a knife in hand.  With a single stroke he severed the hose that fed Chris’ oxygen.

Chris kicked wildly and the inner sections of the brain that are wired for survival took over.  But the release of adrenalin expended his remaining energy.  His body began to go limp as his organs shut down.  His battle against suffocating turned to a losing struggle against drowning.

As the end came near, Chris’ mind drifted and in a dream-like moment Chris imagined his Uncle Marty waiting for him back at the dock.  It was a fleeting thought.  But even in that brief moment Chris saw his uncle’s expression, the sign of disappointment – Chris screwed up again.  It was that same look, that same reaction.  With the release of a final breath, Chris Blanchard gave up for good.

The harbormaster’s office wasn’t due to open for two hours, but Steve Decatur was already warming up one of the town’s boats.  His colleagues at Narragansett College spent summers on research, consulting, or just slacking off, but for Decatur, summer was a chance to be on the water working as an assistant harbormaster.  He had recently turned down a big job with an oceanographic startup founded by a friend from the Coast Guard Academy.  He hadn’t really said no to the offer.  He just couldn’t say yes.  More than anything he feared that it would lead to a life behind a desk.  So there he was, on the water, early in the morning, the first to start the day.

Decatur had been alone in the office the previous evening, his ears tuned equally to the VHF radio and the Red Sox game, when a call had come in from a commercial fisherman.  “Wanted you guys to know I saw a shark a half-mile up the river.  Could just be a basking shark,” the fisherman had said, referring to the plankton eaters that harmlessly roam shallow waters.  “I tried to get a picture but I couldn’t.”

“Camera shy?” Decatur said.

“No.  I was too slow and it was past dusk, already getting dark,” the fisherman said.

“What’d it look like?”

“Mostly I saw the fins.  Dorsal, and when it turned, the tail fin.  Didn’t have good light, but it looked big.”

“And you’re sure it was a shark?”

“Let’s put it this way, it was bigger than a guppy, but smaller than an aircraft carrier and it swam in a circular hungry prowl.  I’ll let you figure out things from there.”

Decatur said, “Alright, I’ll get out on the water early and have a look.  Get back to me if you see it again.”

The call was the third report in the past two days, but it had been too late in the day to verify the sighting.  That’s why he was now up, excited by the opportunity to tag and monitor a big shark.

Decatur stepped onto the town’s pump-out boat and started the engine.  Someone in the office thought up the boat’s name: TSB, short for The Shit Boat.  While the engine warmed up he checked his e-mail.  No word from Susan since the day before last.  She was in New York City on business.  He typed in a short message.  As he did he pictured her walking around the East Side with a large drawing book under one arm, the other arm swinging with confidence.  Around Harbor Point Susan was known for dressing in work clothes and spending time in her rose garden or running her Boston Whaler on the river, but Decatur knew she’d slip back into attorney mode once she was in New York, even if she didn’t still practice.  But he also knew her softer side.  He knew Susan, as she knew him.  He keyed the rest of the message, ended it with “I love you,” and hit send.

Before he put down the handheld he noticed a missed call.  It was from Chris Blanchard.  No message, just the caller-ID name and number.

The last time Decatur talked with Chris he agreed to lend him some money.  Decatur later second-guessed that decision.  Helping out was one thing, but Decatur didn’t want to become an enabler.  Decatur decided he’d talk with Chris’ uncle, Marty Daponte, before returning the call.  In the meantime he wanted to see if he could find the shark.

He tested the engine by increasing the revs a few times before slipping the lines, and pushing the twenty-two footer away from the dock.  Easing forward on the throttle, Decatur steered a half-mile down the saltwater river to the area mentioned by the fisherman the evening before.

He slowed the boat and let it drift, his search aided by a pre-dawn glow that began to cast light on Harbor Point.  Decatur stood at six-four and had an even higher perch when he climbed up onto the bow deck.  The river’s surface was placid and unmarked.  He returned to the wheel, idled up a few hundred yards, and drifted back again.  Still nothing.

Maybe the inlet, he thought.

The tide was high.  With comfort from the river’s added depth, he ran the boat fast.  He ignored the channel markers, and made a straight shot for the harbor entrance.  As the hull skimmed over flooded sandbars and mud flats, Decatur’s mind went back to Chris Blanchard and Marty.  He thought about the day several summers back when the three of them came upon a young humpback whale while they were trolling off of Noman’s Island.  The whale was small for a humpback, but it must have been twenty-five feet long.  It was dragging thick green strands of an abandoned fishing net and the eventual outcome was clear.  Chris was the first to strip off his shirt and shoes.  Without hesitation he grabbed a knife and jumped into the water.  Decatur was right behind him.

On the way home that day, Chris said, “Steve, I’ll never forget what it looked like seeing you climb up on the whale’s back.”

“Call me Jonah.”

“The whale was looking at you, Steve.”

“Yeah, kind of like me looking at the dentist when he’s got the drill in his hand.”

“No, I’m serious, Steve.  When he was over on his side his right eye was tracking you when you climbed up.”

“Trying to figure out what kind of fish you were,” Marty said.

“I’m not kidding,” Chris said.  “There was something about the way he looked at you.  Kind of how a dog looks at you when you’re pulling porcupine quivers from its snout.  That helpless look that says I don’t know what happened to me, but I trust you.  From where I was I could see that look in him, no question about it.”

Decatur knew it was a compliment.  More so, though, it said a whole lot about Chris.  That was one hell of a day, Decatur thought as he refocused on the present.

He kept TSB’s throttle just short of wide open and charged around Elephant Rock, past the mouth of the river, and along the ocean beach.  He was covering the water fast, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw something.  “Jesus,” Decatur said, as he pulled back hard on the throttle and cut into a tight turn.

Even at thirty knots, he thought he recognized the shadow-like form.

“Jesus,” he said again, seeing the animal glide past, just off TSB’s bow.

Twelve feet, easy.  More like fourteen.

He grabbed the tag stick and went forward, but before Decatur could make a positive identification it sounded.

Decatur had been around the sea his whole life.  Throughout his youth his father introduced him to everything from shellfish to sharks.  He was picking up horseshoe crabs before he could walk, unhooking barracuda on winter trips to Florida in his early teens, and coming across great whites in high school when he worked on a sword fishing day boat out of Rhode Island.  The captain of that day boat said he’d never seen anyone like Decatur before.  The old man told him, “The first time people see a great white’s head rise from the sea, they lock up and freeze.  Rigor mortis.  Mighty whitey does that to people.  The world’s great predator makes other sharks look like little fish in a tank.  But, Sonny, you didn’t freeze.  It might not be so good to be fearless of that creature.”  The thing was, Decatur wasn’t fearless.  His father taught him to keep his distance from wild animals.  Respect them, watch, and learn.  But never forget that they are wild animals.

On this morning Decatur had been prepared, but he hadn’t seen enough to make a confirmation.  Maybe it was a basking shark, he said to himself.  It was a nice thought.  Not a convincing one, but a nice thought.

*          *          *

He turned TSB back into the river and idled against the current as he made for the town dock.  The harbor was showing more signs of human life, with early morning fishermen motoring out to Buzzards Bay and a big yawl heading toward the Knuble under foresail and mizzen.

He was a quarter of a mile from the harbormaster’s shack when he noticed several men standing at the end of the pier alongside what appeared to be a police car.  He clicked on his radio.  “TSB to Base.”

There was a delay before a recognizable voice came back on Channel 9.  It was Dan Fawcette, the harbormaster.  “I wondered where you were.”

Decatur clicked on the microphone again.  “What’s going on, Dan?”

“Marty Daponte’s nephew is missing.”

Decatur first thought was to say something about the shark, only because it was at the forefront of his mind, but he decided to wait.  At almost the same time he checked his phone.  The previous day’s call from Chris Blanchard was time-stamped 10:05 a.m.

Decatur said, “How long has he been missing?”

“A day, maybe two.  That’s what we’re trying to piece together.”

“Who’s we?”

“We’ll talk when you get here,” Fawcette said.

As Decatur headed for the dock he tried calling Chris back.  When there was no answer, he tried Marty Daponte.  No answer there either.

*          *          *

The older of the two cops answered.  “Not sure.  Have you seen him?”

“Not in months.  I had a call from his yesterday, but we didn’t connect.  Is he in some kind of trouble?”

The cop made a slight step forward, his hand resting on the butt of his holstered pistol.  “He’s missing at sea.”

“Anyone check his boat in New Bedford?”

The cop shifted his stance, his hands moving to his hips.  “It’s gone and his girlfriend said he hasn’t been home for at least three days.  The Coast Guard started this morning with aerial sweeps of Buzzards Bay.”

Decatur turned toward Fawcette.  “Anyone talk with Marty?”

The harbormaster shook his head.  “Tried to raise him on the VHF, but there’s been no luck.”

The older cop said, “Why would Blanchard call you?”

“I’m a friend of his uncle.  Chris used to go fishing with us when he was a teenager.”

“But this call was out of the blue?”

“You could say that.”

“But you don’t know what he wanted.”

Dan Fawcette said, “Officer, if Steve or I had any information about Chris we’d share it with you.”

A commercial lobster boat passed in front of the office and distracted the two cops who watched as a crewman washed down the deck with a hose while the other crewman steered.  When the commercial boat was just beyond the pier, Decatur said, “But I don’t get it.  Why are you checking for Chris here?”

The two staties turned back to Decatur and the younger one said, “Helping the Coast Guard and the Feds track down information.”

Feds, over a missing-at-sea response?  That stuck with Decatur.

“Well, I think we have enough,” the older cop said, returning his pen and pad to his pocket.  “Keep us posted and let us know if you hear from Blanchard’s uncle.”

*          *          *

After lunch it was Dan Fawcette’s turn to ride the water, and Decatur stayed in the office doing paperwork and filing mooring permits.  From the business side of things, it was a quiet midweek afternoon.  There wasn’t a single distress call over the radio.  There wasn’t even a telephone call until late in the day when one of the state cops from the morning rang the office and asked if Dan Fawcette was available.

“He’s on the water, can I help you?” Decatur said.

“This the Assistant?”

“Yeah, Steve Decatur.  What can I do for you?”

“My partner and I were by earlier this morning.”

“Sure, I remember.”

“I figured you should know they found Blanchard.”

The cop’s tone said it all.  “Where was he?” Decatur said.

“Coast Guard found him near Chatham.  They figure he got tangled up as he was setting traps and fell over while the boat was in gear.  The damn thing probably ran in a circle pulling him until he drowned.  Something got at him, too.  We think it was a shark.”

As the words came through the receiver, Decatur looked out across the harbor to where he had been earlier in the morning.  Chatham was forty or fifty miles away as the crow flies.  Sharks were known to cover a distance like that in a day, but the same animal?  Can’t be, he told himself.  Too much of a coincidence.

“How bad?” he asked.

“Lost a leg.  Chunk out of his torso.  We’re not sure that’s what killed him, though.  Probably drowned first.  The ME’s testing for substances.  The guy had needle tracks all over him.  It’s a good guess that he was messed up at the time.  I mean, just knowing the guy’s history.”

Decatur understood, at least in general terms, but he wasn’t going to engage in that subject.  “Anything else?”

“No.  Like I told you, I thought you and your boss would want to hear it before word got out.  And we may have some more questions down the line.”

“Okay,” Decatur said, “I’ll tell Dan.”  But as Decatur was about to hang up he thought to ask, “Anyone know what he was doing over in Chatham?”

“What’s that?” asked the cop.

“Nothing,” Decatur said.  “Thanks for letting us know.”

The commute from the harbormaster’s office to Decatur’s mooring took five minutes.  One of the perks of the job.  Decatur motored past the Back Eddy where music was blasting from the dockside bar and customers were practicing the local version of a sunset celebration.  Several friends waved and Decatur waved back while he steered the thirteen-foot Boston Whaler past the restaurant.  Some afternoons, he’d go straight to the Back Eddy, tie up, and meet Susan for dinner, but this week she was in New York finishing illustrations for a new book.

He kept the green channel marker to starboard and idled past rows of moored boats.  Decatur thought back to the crowd and the restaurant.  It wouldn’t take long for word about Chris to spread.  He figured that those who knew Chris from when he was younger would be kind, the others probably less so.

He slowed the Whaler and came to a stop just off the stern of his big old wooden boat.  At fifty-two feet, Full Moon had more than enough room for living aboard.  He had bought the old Alden at a fraction of its replacement cost, but that was before he understood the reality of keeping a big wooden boat.

With the Whaler tied off to the stern he stepped up onto the deck and went below.  He opened a couple of portholes, turned on a small fan above the stainless steel galley, and went to his cabin to change out of his uniform.  He’d spent the last few evenings catching up on varnishing, but he had no interest in that now.  With a bottle of red wine under his arm and a corkscrew and glass in his hand, he headed up to the cockpit.

As Decatur eyed the harbor he thought back – years back – to when he first met Marty and Chris.  It was the summer before they saved the whale, back when Marty Daponte first started keeping his boat in Harbor Point, just after Marty’s final season in pro hockey.  During those years, Chris visited his uncle on weekends.  He was a regular fixture in Harbor Point and eventually it seemed as if he lived on his uncle’s boat.

One time that first summer Chris said, “Is it true you were kicked out of college?”

“Who told you that?” Decatur had said.

“Hell, I got kicked out of every school I’ve been to.”

“Don’t be proud of that, Chris,” Decatur had said.

“I say something wrong?”

It was like that with Chris.  Naïve, candid, and always dangling around trouble in one way or another.

Decatur looked over at the marina’s F Dock.  Marty’s boat was back and friends were at the dock.  He shook his head as he thought about Chris Blanchard’s abbreviated life and he decided he wouldn’t go over to F Dock until the others cleared out.

He poured his glass full and stared out at the harbor entrance.  In the quiet he thought about the recent shark sightings and the massive animal that passed off TSB’s bow earlier that morning.

He set his wine aside and went below to the forward end of the main salon where a built-in bookshelf held a variety of hardcovers.  Everything from Hemingway to Frost, plus a heavy dose of celestial navigation, astronomy, and maritime history.  He pulled a book on the fish of the ocean from the shelf and turned to the index, then sifted through the pages.  He found the image of white sharks on page 236.  He flipped through several more pages that contained images of various types of dolphins, then to the photos of basking sharks before flipping back to 236.  No question, he thought, definitely a white.

Later, Decatur untied the Whaler and motored across the river toward Marty’s slip.  Marty, a short, strong-shouldered man who was ten years older than Decatur, was in the stern of his boat.  He was alone except for Bear, his little black-and-tan dachshund, which was curled up on Marty’s lap.

Decatur secured the Whaler and stepped aboard.  His eyes almost teared when they embraced.  Marty’s brown eyes were reddened and his voice wavered.  “You must have heard.”

Decatur simply nodded.

Marty kept his eyes on Decatur.  “They found him in the water, and now they tell me there can’t be an open casket.  They don’t even want me to see him.  You think maybe it’s that bad, Steve?”

Decatur didn’t say anything.  He was pretty sure Marty hadn’t wanted to hear an answer.

Marty began to speak quickly, as if fast talk would mask his emotions.  “I’ll be driving to New Bedford tomorrow to clear out some of the gear Chris kept down at his dock.  And I need to stop by his apartment.  His girlfriend said she’d box up his things, so that part shouldn’t be too bad.  But then I need to get his boat and bring it back to New Bedford.  Not looking forward to that, you know.”

Decatur said, “You want some help?”

“Don’t worry about me.  All the guys are offering.  I’ll be fine.”

“If you drive to Chatham to get Chris’ boat someone’s going to have to drive your car back.”

Based on Marty’s reaction, Decatur realized that his friend hadn’t even considered how he’d make the return trip.  Decatur added, “How about I go with you?  We can take my truck.”

Marty shrugged his shoulders as if it didn’t matter either way, but Decatur sensed that it mattered a lot.

“And why don’t I run the boat back.  Let’s do it that way.”

It took Marty a few moments before he answered.  “Yeah.  That sounds good.  Thanks.”  He looked away.  “Still, I can’t figure it out.  The boy finally seemed to find his way by running his own boat and earning a living.  Seemed like things were at last straight with him.  Work he liked, girl he wanted to marry.  And I thought drugs were behind him.”

Marty’s eyes were back on Decatur.  “I think you knew about Chris’ problem, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.  I knew.”

“This last time I really thought he was over it.  Everything going well until he started getting messed up with heroin.”

The heroin part Decatur didn’t know until earlier that day, not that it mattered now.  He turned away from Marty and wondered how long Chris had been shooting up.

Marty’s voice grew angry.  “I gave that boy every opportunity I could and every time he’d only go and screw up again!”

Decatur recognized the sentiment, but he said, “Marty, don’t.”

“Dammit,” Marty said and his voice grew tight and the tears began.

Bear cuddled close to Marty.  Unlike the little dog, Decatur wasn’t sure what to do.  He wondered if he should wrap an arm around his friend’s shoulder, but he didn’t.  He stood back and watched as his friend’s tears flowed freely.  “Let’s go sit on the dock,” Decatur said after a few minutes.

For the next hour the two men sat with their feet hanging over the edge while they watched the outgoing current wash weeds, and whatever was below the surface, out to sea.

It wasn’t until two friends from the marina approached from the other end of the dock that Marty spoke.  Before the men reached them, Marty said, “Steve, I haven’t told anyone else, not even the cops.  But I’ll tell you.  I’m not sure it was an accident.”

Decatur hesitated before he said, “What do you mean?”

“I think Chris got involved with someone who wanted him dead.”

“Who wanted him dead?”

The two friends coming down the dock were closer now.  “We’ll talk tomorrow.  We’ll have more time then.”

Decatur had no idea how to respond.  “Okay, tomorrow.  I’ll pick you up at seven and we can head to New Bedford, then Cape Cod.”

*          *          *

Before he went below, Decatur stood in the night and wondered if the shark he had seen earlier in the day was still in the river.  He sensed it was.

The one hundred and seventy-five foot Oceanus was stationary in the evening waters south-by-south-west of Cape Cod.  The ship wasn’t adrift, it was holding its position under the orders of Emile Ducharme.  Ducharme was French by birth, but a resident of the sea since his teens.  The sixty-year-old sea captain commanded a rogue crew through two parts reward, one part fear.  Most notably, Ducharme was exceptionally good at recovering underwater treasure.  And he had the ship and the equipment to make it work.

The Oceanus began its life as a trans-Atlantic telecom company’s survey ship, but a stock scandal put the vessel at auction.  Ducharme and his international syndicate of treasure hunters stepped up and bought the vessel.  In the following three years, he and the crew of the Oceanus made underwater discoveries in the Mediterranean, West Indies, and, most recently, coastal Florida.  For the past three months, the focus was Buzzards Bay and Nantucket Sound.

The ship’s wheelhouse was like any other with the helm located dead center, a pedestal chair off to the side for the senior officer on watch.  A low-watt red bulb over the wheel cast enough light to steer by the ship’s compass while a similar light glowed over the navigation table in the room’s back corner.  That’s where Ducharme stood, hunched over a chart as he made pencil marks on a large three-by-four sheet.  He was plotting a course using parallel rulers while a crewman stood alert at the wheel waiting for instructions, occasionally engaging the engines in order to keep the ship pointed into the wind.

After several minutes of silence the man at the wheel leaned forward, looked down at the illuminated deck and said in French, “The inflatable is aboard, Captain.  Are we good to proceed?”

Ducharme nodded.  “Put us on a course bearing three-one-zero degrees and bring her up to twelve knots.”

The increasing engine noise affirmed the Captain’s order.

“Evening, Cap.”  The voice came from the side door of the wheelhouse.  It was a young crewman, the lone American among the men.

Ducharme lifted his head from his work, but said nothing.

The American stepped into the room.  “How far to Hyannis?”

The question was intended for Ducharme, but it was the helmsman who replied.  “Three hours.”

Ducharme slid the chart to the side.  “Were our divers successful?”

The young American approached the chart table.  “Yeah.  They’re real efficient.”

“I asked if they were successful.”

“Sorry, Cap.  Yeah, they were successful.  According to what they found we’ll have to cut through two steel bulkheads, but that won’t be a problem.  Two days of diving should do it.”

“And were they able to confirm the sonar reads?”

“Even better, Cap.  They brought back maps of the wreck that the lobsterman made.  Look for yourself.”  He laid papers out on the chart table.  “And these are some underwater shots they took while they were down there.”

The ship’s captain reviewed the sheets and photographs and asked a series of questions about the condition of the wreck, how it was lying on the bottom, and how long it would take to cut through the hull.

“Like I said, Cap, we’ll get to the ship’s safe in three days, max.  More likely two days.”

“And what’s the condition of the ship’s deck?”

“I didn’t ask.  Good, I guess.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.  Not exactly.”

“Was I not specific?  I wanted photos of the deck.”

The young crewman shuffled through the images twice.  “I’m not sure we have anything of the deck, probably because so much of the wreck is buried in sand.  But we have a bunch here that show how we’ll find the safe,” the man said, pointing.

“I told you, and I told them, I wanted photos of the deck.”

“Sure, sure.  Next time.  Sorry, Cap.  These guys are good.  They just forgot, I guess.”

Ducharme stared at him as if to say he didn’t think so.

“Next time, Cap.  I’ll talk with them right away.  As soon as they’re back at the site we’ll get them.”

Ducharme remained silent, which only further emphasized his displeasure.  He then said, “The news on the radio said the lobsterman was attacked by a shark.”

“Yeah, yeah, the shark.  I wondered myself.  They told me the shark just showed up when they were finishing the dive.  According to them it went for Blanchard and they were able to get out in time.  At least that’s what they said.”