Woolsey sat up and touched his neck where the point of glass had pierced his skin. His fingers slid, smearing the blood that trickled from the wound. But his whole arm felt wet inside his sleeve and when his fingers continued to probe the arm, he found another small shard of glass that protruded from the backside of his upper arm. When he touched it, pain shot down the length of his arm.
At once, all the yelling stopped and all Woolsey heard was the ever-present rumble of the big sub’s diesels.
Woolsey looked up as the captain played the light around the compartment. Finally, it found the two Englishmen, still and quiet and prone on the deck. Woolsey was surprised to see Mullins lying flat across the bigger man pinning him down. For a moment, a small smile played around Woolsey’s mouth until he saw the growing pool under McKay’s shoulder, soaking his sweater. For several seconds neither man moved, then McKay sat up, pushing the younger man away, rolling him onto his back. McKay leaped to his feet, his breathing hard and noisy in the cavernous compartment. The front of his heavy wool sweater was stained dark and his face was spotted with blood.
“Jesus,” he said, wrapping one of his big arms across the top of his head. “Jesus Christ.” He turned away and bent over from the waist, his hands on his knees.
McKay’s movements had settled the younger man in an awkward, splayed pose revealing a long gash that traveled from his jawbone across the front of Mullins’ throat, down his chest to its finish where the glass shard remained stuck in the body, its traverse stopped by the bunched fabric of the young man’s woolen shirt.
“What the fuck were you thinking, Wally?” McKay flung his arms wide, entreating the body on the floor. “Stupid kid. I wasn’t really gonna hurt him.”
McKay turned and faced the two officers, his head angled to one side as though he could no longer support the weight of it. The tears on his face glinted in the torchlight. “He’s just a fuckin’ kid.”
A loud clank from the far side of the compartment startled them, and they turned to the entrance. Lamoreaux swung the torch away from the body. They saw the wheel turning on the watertight door. When the door swung open, Ensign Gohin peered into the darkness for a moment, then jerked his head to one side, indicating that someone should enter.
“Dix minutes,” he said.
It was Kewpie, the telegraphist, who entered carrying a tray of food, a big smile on his face.
“Ah, Michaut,” the captain murmured.
“Bon soir, mes amis,” the young man said as the door swung closed behind him. From outside, someone switched on the overhead lights, illuminating the entire hold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Îles des Saintes
March 26, 2008
7:25 p.m.
Cole opened one eye and the searing pain in the back of his head and behind his eyeballs made him squeeze it shut again. Light, bright light. Where was he? He reached up and touched the back of his scalp.
“Ow.”
“Wake up, Bob, or whatever your name is. I didn’t hit you that hard.”
When he heard her voice, he remembered. He was on her boat. That woman. Citrus scent. Riley. He swam out to get the coin, but it wasn’t where he’d left it. He’d started to search the salon and then decided to see where she lived, where she slept. Bad move.
He grew aware of the rest of his body beyond the center of pain that throbbed at the back of his head. He was sprawled on the floor, his cheek and chest pressed against something cold and hard. Wood. Opening one eye again, he rolled onto his side, careful not to press the back of his head to the floor. She was sitting on a bunk, her bare feet dangling above him, and a fluorescent light on the overhead behind her made it impossible for him to see her face. How did she get aboard?
Raising an arm to shield his eyes from the glare, he said, “That light up there’s killing me.”
She twisted her torso around and he heard a click, followed by another and the overhead light went out. The cabin was now lit by the softer glow of the bunk reading light. At least it wasn’t shining in his face.
“Thanks,” he said as he rolled over and curled up into a sitting position. As he bent his bare legs in front of him, he realized that he was again confronting this woman almost naked. He had swum out wearing only his Speedos. “What did you hit me with, Magee?”
She lifted her right hand. In it was a long black Maglite flashlight, and she slapped it into the palm of her other hand like a beat cop with his baton. “If I’d known it was you, I might have hit you a little harder.”
Cole’s fingers explored the painful lump on the back of his skull. “Any harder and you might have killed me.”
“Stop whining and get up.”
She slid off the bunk, her firm thighs brushing his shoulder, and she walked aft through the main salon to the galley, turning on an overheard red-colored light. Sailors used them to move about without impairing their night vision. She knew the bright light hurt his head right now and she was being kind to him. That was a good start. And now, watching the way she moved — silky, like a panther stalking its prey — he didn’t care how much it hurt. He didn’t want to close his eyes anymore.
After filling the tea kettle from the sink, she lit the burner, then looked up at him. “Come on, off the floor and onto the seat. There.” She pointed. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
This woman always seemed to be ordering him around. He picked himself up off the floor, his body stiff and sore, and he hobbled his way into the salon. He looked at the neat, tufted-velvet upholstery. “My swimsuit,” he said, rubbing his hand across his hip and feeling the wet nylon fabric.
She stepped out of the galley, cocked her hips to one side, placed a hand at her waist, then threw a dish towel hitting him on the side of his head. He spread the towel on the edge of the cushion and perched, wishing he had at least worn swim trunks over the Speedos. If she kept moving her body like that, things could get embarrassing real fast.
He needed to get his mind onto something else. Reaching back he probed the lump on the back of his head. The pain had slowed to a dull throb. He needed to get back on track. Forget the woman he told himself. Stop thinking about her. He peered around the boat’s interior. He hadn’t found the scrapbook where he’d hidden the coin, so had she moved it?
She lifted two heavy white mugs off hooks and dropped teabags into them. “So? What do you have to say for yourself?”
He looked up at her and shrugged. What could he say? That he’d broken into her boat to steal back the gold coin that was the key to the location of a sunken treasure? He was pretty sure he knew how that would go over.
Before he could come up with some clever retort, she said, “I should report you to the police for breaking and entering.”
He felt like he was back in eighth grade and Mrs. Laughlin was threatening to report him to the principal for cutting school to go fishing. Riley sure as hell didn’t look like Mrs. Laughlin, though. The thought struck him as funny, and he began to smile.
“You think this is funny?”
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. Well, yeah, he wanted to say. She had just slid a potholder shaped like a shark over her hand, and the fish now looked like it was trying to bite a chunk out of her hip. He couldn’t help it. He tried to stifle the laugh, but it bubbled up the back of his throat until he sounded like he was choking on something.