She took a calming breath and stepped out into the open, taking confident but measured steps to avoid looking conspicuous. She stopped at the door, cast a sidelong glance in the direction of the spectators, and then grasped the doorknob.
Unlocked.
She let her breath out in a sigh of relief, then eased the door open a few inches and looked inside. It occurred to her, too late to do anything about it, that the door might be equipped with an electronic signal or even something as low-tech as a bell, but the only sound she heard was the faint rasp of the door’s weatherstrip brushing the threshold.
The back door let open to a small sales floor adorned with racks of sundry dive accessories, wet-suits, T-shirts and other souvenirs. She had an unrestricted view of the interior, all the way through to the open front entrance. Off to one side was a counter, and behind it, an open door that led, she assumed, to the storeroom where the more valuable equipment was kept. The shop appeared deserted. John was probably just outside, watching, along with everyone else.
She pulled the door shut and darted to the end of the counter, crouching behind it. She crouch-walked until she was at the door to the back room. She edged around the doorpost, saw that the coast was clear, and then slipped through.
During her swim, she had compiled a mental shopping list, the bare minimum of equipment she would need to swim out of the marina and reach her next destination: mask, snorkel, fins, buoyancy compensator, twenty-pound belt, regulator and a filled gas cylinder. She wouldn’t be swimming very deep, no need to worry about decompression sickness. A twelve-liter bottle would more than suffice.
The back room was well organized, and she was quickly able to locate the first few items on her list. She stuffed her selections into a nylon mesh carrying bag, and then moved to a row of bright yellow tanks, lined up with near-military precision. Each one had a paper tag wired to the K-valve fitting, which noted the date it had been filled and the internal pressure measured in bars. She took the closest one and cradled it in her arms.
The squeak of a loose floorboard caused her to look up, but the warning came too late. Her eyes met the weathered visage of John Moore, the dive shop proprietor. He stood warily in the doorway, and then, overcoming his initial surprise, he started toward her.
7
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Jenna froze. It was an instinctive response, and in the back of her mind, she heard Noah chastising her for not being more aware of her surroundings, not being in control of her reactions.
Freezing, she knew, was just another way of fleeing a situation, mentally at least, and hoping that things would get better. Usually, they didn’t. Freezing up was a way of surrendering control, letting luck and circumstances guide the outcome rather than a conscious decision.
Your gut reaction to a threat will be to either run away, Noah had told her, or to blow through it head on, which is what you would do because you’re a teenager and you think you’re invincible.
Run away?
John was between her and the exit. Nowhere to go.
Blow through?
Yes, she could do that. She could swing the SCUBA bottle at him, knock him down and then run… No, that would defeat the purpose of coming here.
Throw the tank at him, and then when he’s distracted, go on the attack, just as she had with Zack. A couple of punches to the jaw… Maybe hit the sweet spot and knock him out on the first try…or a kick to the solar plexus.
I can take him.
The very idea of attacking this man, not a killer with a gun but one of her neighbors, kept her rooted in place.
But a lot of times, Noah had continued, those are the worst choices you could make. You might make a bad situation even worse, or you might miss out on a real opportunity.
Most people are an open book. Watch a stranger for a few minutes and you’ll know everything there is to know about them — their body language, the way they move their eyes when they talk.
Jenna had exchanged pleasantries with the shop’s grizzled namesake, but not much more. He was the epitome of a crusty old beach bum: mid-sixties, a full head of white hair, skin bronzed and eyes faintly yellowed from too many years of staring at the sun-dazzled water. She didn’t know if he recognized her. The only thing she saw in his eyes was the fear of what might happen next.
Opportunity.
She shifted her posture, trying to mimic his alert stance, then slowly, visibly relaxed. Her spine straightened, her neck stretched, making her appear taller, more confident. She smiled.
“John!” She said his name like he was an old friend she hadn’t seen in years.
Uncertainty flashed across his face. She saw his eyes flicker upward, ever so slightly, as he searched his memory, trying to find the right connection to her.
“Hi, John,” she said again, repeating his name, reinforcing the familiarity. “Where do you want me to put this stuff?”
“What?” His eyes were moving wildly now, the biological equivalent of a computer hard-drive spinning to access data scattered across dozens of file locations.
Shape his perceptions, she told herself, control the finished product. When Noah had first taught her these techniques, she had been doubtful regarding their effectiveness. It seemed like something right out of the Jedi Knights’ handbook. Surely, real people couldn’t be that malleable. But thereafter, she had become acutely aware of how often people were easily tricked.
“For the trip out to the reef, John. Remember?”
“Ummm…”
I’m losing him, she thought. These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.
She mimicked his pose again, narrowed her eyelids, and used the small muscles of her eyes to change her focus and dilate her pupils without releasing his stare. It was a hypnotist’s trick, but she had no idea if she was doing it right, much less if it even worked at all.
“John, did he forget to tell you?” Her voice was lower now, almost seductively soft, but full of sympathy and commiseration. She made a conscious effort to avoid using any other name but his own. If she mentioned Noah, it might trigger a memory cascade that would connect her to the destroyed boat, and the spell would be broken.
“Do you want me to call him, John? I’ll bet he can get this cleared up in a jiffy.” Jiffy was a good friendly word. “Or we can take care of it when we get back? That’s probably what we should do.”
A smile, confused but nonetheless friendly, finally split his craggy face. “Ah, sure. That’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, so much.”
He nodded, but then the uncertainty started to creep back into his expression. Don’t let him think about it. “I could use a hand getting this stuff outside.”
“What?” John seemed to snap back into the moment. “Oh, sure thing, Miss…?”
She took a quick step forward and let the cylinder roll toward him. His reflexes took over and his arms came up to catch it. She scooped up the mesh bag containing the rest of the equipment she had gathered, then stepped around him, moving slowly to hold his gaze as he turned. She stayed close, backing toward the rear door. She made small talk about his wares, asked vague technical questions about diving to keep his mind occupied, and step-by-glacial step, got him to the back door.