The bartender said something to Abanks and nodded toward Mitch. He opened another Heineken and walked to Mitch's table.
He did not smile. "Are you looking for me?" It was almost a sneer.
"Are you Mr. Abanks?"
"That's me. What do you want?"
"I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes."
He gulped his beer and gazed at the ocean. "I'm too busy. I have a dive boat leaving in forty minutes."
"My name is Mitch McDeere. I'm a lawyer from Memphis."
Abanks glared at him with tiny brown eyes. Mitch had his attention. "So?"
"So, the two men who died with your son were friends of mine. It won't take but a few minutes."
Abanks sat on a stool and rested on his elbows. "That's not one of my favorite subjects."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"The police instructed me not to talk to anyone."
"It's confidential. I swear."
Abanks squinted and stared at the brilliant blue water. His face and arms bore the scars of a life at sea, a life spent sixty feet down guiding novices through and around coral reefs and wrecked ships.
"What do you want to know?" he asked softly.
"Can we talk somewhere else?"
"Sure. Let's take a walk." He yelled at Henry and spoke to a table of divers as he left. They walked on the beach.
"I'd like to talk about the accident," Mitch said.
"You can ask. I may not answer."
"What caused the explosion?"
"I don't know. Perhaps an air compressor. Perhaps some fuel. We are not certain. The boat was badly damaged and most of the clues went up in flames."
"Was it your boat?"
"Yes. One of my small ones. A thirty-footer. Your friends had chartered it for the morning."
"Where were the bodies found?"
"In eighty feet of water. There was nothing suspicious about the bodies, except that there were no burns or other injuries that would indicate they had been in the explosion. So I guess that makes the bodies very suspicious."
"The autopsies said they drowned."
"Yes, they drowned. But your friends were in full scuba gear, which was later examined by one of my divemasters. It worked perfectly. They were good divers."
"What about your son?"
"He was not in full gear. But he could swim like a fish."
"Where was the explosion?"
"They had been scheduled to dive along a series of reef formations at Roger's Wreck Point. Are you familiar with the island?"
"No."
"It's around the East Bay on Northeastern Point. Your friends had never dived there, and my son suggested they try it. We knew your friends well. They were experienced divers and took it seriously. They always wanted a boat by themselves and didn't mind paying for it. And they always wanted Philip as their dive captain. We don't know if they made any dives on the Point. The boat was found burning two miles at sea, far from any of our dive sites."
"Could the boat have drifted?"
"Impossible. If there had been engine trouble, Philip would have used the radio. We have modern equipment, and our divemasters are always in touch with the dive shop. There's no way the explosion could have occurred at the Point. No one saw it or heard it, and there's always someone around. Secondly, a disabled boat could not drift two miles in that water. And, most importantly, the bodies were not on the boat, remember. Suppose the boat did drift, how do you explain the drifting of the bodies eighty feet below. They were found within twenty meters of the boat."
"Who found them?"
"My men. We caught the bulletin over the radio, and I sent a crew. We knew it was our boat, and my men started diving. They found the bodies within minutes."
"I know this is difficult to talk about."
Abanks finished his beer and threw the bottle in a wooden garbage box. "Yes, it is. But time takes away the pain. Why are you so interested?"
"The families have a lot of questions."
"I am sorry for them. I met their wives last year. They spent a week with us. Such nice people."
"Is it possible they were simply exploring new territory when it happened?"
"Possible, yes. But not likely. Our boats report their movements from one dive site to the next. That's standard procedure. No exceptions. I have fired a dive captain for not clearing a site before going to the next. My son was the best captain on the island. He grew up in these waters. He would never fail to report his movements at sea. It's that simple. The police believe that is what happened, but they have to believe something. It's the only explanation they have."
"But how do they explain the condition of the bodies?"
"They can't. It's simply another diving accident as far as they're concerned."
"Was it an accident?"
"I think not."
The sandals had rubbed blisters by now, and Mitch removed them. They turned and started back to the lodge.
"If it wasn't an accident, what was it?"
Abanks walked and watchea the ocean crawl along the beach. He smiled for the first ume. "What are the other possibilities?"
"There's a rumor in Memphis that drugs could have been involved."
"Tell me about this rumor."
"We've heard that your son was active in a drug ring, that possibly he was using the boat that day to meet a supplier at sea, that there was a dispute and my friends got in the way."
Abanks smiled again and shook his head. "Not Philip. To my knowledge he never used drugs, and I know he didn't trade in them. He wasn't interested in money. Just women and diving."
"Not a chance?"
"No, not a chance. I've never heard this rumor, and I doubt if they know more in Memphis. This is a small island, and I would have heard it by now. It's completely false."
The conversation was over and they stopped near the bar. "I'll ask you a favor," Abanks said. "Do not mention any of this to the families. I cannot prove what I know to be true, so it's best if no one knows. Especially the families."
"I won't tell anyone. And I will ask you not to mention our conversation. Someone might follow me here and ask questions about my visit. Just say we talked about diving."
"As you wish."
"My wife and I will be here next spring for our vacation. I'll be sure to look you up."
14
ST. ANDREW'S Episcopal School was located behind the church of the same name on a densely wooded and perfectly manicured five-acre estate in the middle of midtown Memphis. The white and yellow brick was occasionally visible where the ivy had for some reason turned and pursued another course. Symmetrical rows of clipped boxwoods lined the sidewalks and the small playground. It was a one-story L-shaped building sitting quietly in the shadows of a dozen ancient oaks. Cherished for its exclusivity, St. Andrew's was the most expensive private school in Memphis for grades kindergarten through six. Affluent parents signed the waiting list shortly after birth.
Mitch stopped the BMW in the parking lot between the church and the school. Abby's burgundy Peugeot was three spaces down, parked innocently. He was unexpected. The plane had landed an hour earlier, and he had stopped by the house to change into something lawyerly. He would see her, then back to his desk for a few hours at one hundred and fifty per.
He wanted to see her here, at the school, unannounced. A surprise attack. A countermove. He would say hello. He missed her. He couldn't wait to see her, so he stopped by the school. He would be brief, the first touch and feel and words after that incident on the beach. Could she tell just by looking at him? Maybe she could read his eyes. Would she notice a slight strain in his voice? Not if she was surprised. Not if she was flattered by this visit.