Severed Threads (2 page)

Halfway mark
, he assured himself.

Out of nowhere, a current took hold, blasting him sideways into the grip of an abandoned fishing net – a ghost trap set adrift by an absent ship.

Oh, shit!
Tank tangled, he struggled to break free. But the woven trap held tight. He grabbed the knife strapped to his ankle and slashed wildly above him, behind him, all around until the web gave way. With his heart pounding, he quickened his strokes.

Almost there. Almost there.
Racing his small cluster of rising bubbles, he calculated his required safety stop. Miss it and he’d be facing decompression sickness and a whole heap of pain.

When he reached ten feet, he slowed his strokes and hovered. For an eternal minute of strained, rationed breaths, the silhouette of Sam’s ship taunted him from above.

Come on…come on.
Finally, he kicked his fins to rise. Reaching upward, he emerged in the choppy surf and spat out his mouthpiece. He gasped for air. Salty air. Air that never tasted so good.

“Bloody wind’s comin’ up,” the Irish helmsman barked at him. “Callin’ it a day.”

On board, the crew feverishly looped anchor lines. Froth-tipped waves rocked the ship back and forth as Chase bobbed in the restless surf. He slid his mask back over his dripping blond hair.

"Gauge is busted," Chase yelled. "Get me some new gear. I’ll head down and grab Sam."

Within a matter of minutes, Chase reached the bottom. He retraced his path and spotted his partner twenty yards out.

Up
, Chase repeatedly motioned.

Sam shook his head. He signaled, “Not okay.” Yet rising bubbles indicated his oxygen was still flowing.

Chase grabbed him by the harness to maintain contact.

Hang on, Sam
. As they ascended, Sam began moving his arms and legs. Then his limbs went limp. After ten more feet, his regulator fell out of his mouth. Heavy lids sealed his glazed eyes, indicating he’d lost consciousness.

Come on, buddy. Don't do this.
Chase’s brain scrounged for information, a practice drill from the certification classes he’d taken years earlier. Classes he should have taken more seriously.

Damn it!
This wasn't supposed to ever happen. Chase shoved Sam's regulator back into his vacant mouth. He pushed the purge button, forcing air down Sam’s throat. Escaping air bubbled around his slack lips, a clear indication he wasn’t breathing. Chase punched Sam's chest repeatedly. But his efforts proved useless. 

God no, God no.
This couldn’t be happening. Not to Sam. Not to Rachel’s father. Not when Chase had assured her he’d look after him.

Fifteen feet under the ocean, Chase struggled to keep his calm. He seized the lifeline and secured Sam to it. He removed his weight belt and inflated his BC. With one huge push, Chase shoved Sam upward.
Go!
Then remaining in place, he hovered – decompressing himself for the longest five minutes of his life. All the while, his memories filled with Sam. The only man in his life he had allowed himself to trust. The only father figure he’d ever known. Without hesitation, Sam had offered him a job. He opened his home and welcomed him like a member of his family. How could Chase have been so careless? So completely self-absorbed?

His reeling thoughts centered on Sam's daughter. The moment Rachel had stepped into his life, all the bad that ever was had vanished. Of all the women he’d allowed himself to become involved with, she was the one who had found her way into his heart. How could he possibly explain this fiasco to her? What words could he use to excuse his actions? Sam and Rachel were the most important people in his life and now in a matter of minutes, that could all change.

Be all right, Sam. Please, be all right.
Chase tucked away his anxieties and headed for the surface. With each determined stroke and kick, he prayed that his partner would survive. By the time he boarded
Stargazer
, the crew had already hoisted Sam onto the dive platform. They had radioed the San Palo Coast Guard station, only fifteen minutes away, and one of his crew members had taken over the helm. As they blazed a path toward shore, Chase breathed in oxygen to help purge the excess nitrogen from his system. His gut wrenched as he watched the bulky helmsman aggressively work over Sam’s body. Exhaled breaths, rhythmic chest compressions. Ian's relentless attempts continued for an eternity with no visible response from Sam. Then Ian checked Sam's vitals. He closed his eyes and shook his downcast head.

Chase could hear voices all around them asking questions, but his fear muted them. He shoved Ian out of the way. "No!" He took over breathing into Sam’s gaping mouth, hammering his chest with his fist. "Breathe, Sam, goddamn it! Breathe!" he yelled. Chase knew people could be revived after as much as an hour in cold water without brain damage. He couldn't give up. Not when it meant losing his closest friend.

They finally reached the dock and someone had the courage to pull Chase off. Hold him at a distance as a team of professionals took over.

"Looks like cardiac arrest," a Coast Guard officer announced.

The words reverberated in Chase’s ears. He grasped the ship’s gun-rail to keep from collapsing. He watched as they transferred Sam’s spent body into a waiting ambulance. Then he forced himself to follow closely behind, his rubbery legs barely cooperating. He begged to come along, but the same officer assured him nothing more could be done.

Chase stood barefooted in the graveled lot of the marina, watching the white emergency vehicle drive away. As soon as it disappeared from view, he fell back against a parked car. All sound had been siphoned from the air. The only thing registering was his throbbing brain and the radiating pain in his chest.

Why Sam?
He was a healthy fifty-five year old man. He had over twenty years of diving under his belt and knew the ocean better than anyone. With no threatening divers or reported sharks in the area, Chase couldn’t imagine what had caused his heart to stop cold.

What did I miss?
Chase racked his brain for answers. He’d personally checked Sam’s tank and regulator after picking it up at the dive shop. At the time, everything was in working order. He was sure of it. And yet if the cause of Sam’s death was ruled equipment failure, he would be held accountable. Even if the court let him off, he would always believe himself responsible.

Chase’s eyes dropped to a white plastic bag, bouncing and rolling across the ground – a discarded and insignificant piece of life.

“Mr. Cohen?”

A man's voice turned him around. The Coast Guard officer had been making inquiries, taking statements. Checking their dive equipment. The crew members were now huddled at the far end of the dock, casing weary looks in Chase’s direction.

"Would you like to come with me…to explain all of this to Miss Lyons?" he asked.

God, Rachel.
The worst was yet to come. He glanced at the ship’s fantail, now vacant except for Ian. The mountainous man stood hunched over, face in his hands, sobbing.

"I'll tell her," Chase said. He waited until the officer turned and walked away. Until he was completely alone. Why had he agreed to do such a thing? Knock on Rachel's door. Tell her he was responsible for taking away the only parent she had left.

Watch the love in her eyes turn to hate.

Although he loathed his decision, he chose the coward's way out. He flipped open his phone and auto-dialed her number.

Rachel’s voice came on the line. Confident. Captivating. Unaware. "So, don’t tell me. Another fool's errand, right? I swear my father will never grow up."

Chase remained silent for an eternal moment. And in that moment, he wished for the strength of Goliath – to rein in his quaking nerves, to give him the courage to spill the words that refused to form.

"Chase?" Concern edged her tone. "Chase, are you there?"

He forced another swallow. "Rachel, listen," he began, a rasp of a voice. Rusted from panic, from guilt. From disbelief. "Something happened. It…it’s your dad."

Two

Four Years Later:

San Palo Archeological Museum

Dread traveled on Rachel Lyons’s rapidly clicking heels. With each breath, she drank in the musty smells of ancient relics and discovery. Her gaze dusted the familiar terra-cotta warriors and inscribed cuneiform tablets lining the plastered walls. As she rounded the museum library’s sharp corner, she was jolted by a woman’s shriek and the thundering boom of falling books.

"Good Lord!" Eleanor Briggs, Dr. Ying’s silver-haired assistant clutched her chest. "I didn’t realize anyone was in the building." Her eyelids fluttered beneath her yellowed bifocals before recognition took hold. ‘Please excuse me, dear."

"Sorry, Eleanor. I didn’t mean to startle you."

"What’s that?"

Rachel repeated loud enough for the woman to hear. “I said I didn’t mean to startle you."

"Not to worry. That’s what I get for not paying any mind." Eleanor’s translucent blue eyes dropped to the scattered textbooks around her feet. "Goodness. Would you look at the mess I made?" Her slight frame wobbling, she gingerly lowered herself. She planted a blue-veined hand on the floor for balance and reached out to collect the nearest volume.

Rachel stole another glimpse at her watch and her muscles tightened. Only two minutes left. But what choice did she have? Without assistance, Eleanor might keel over from exhaustion.

"Here, let me get those for you." Dropping her briefcase, Rachel knelt and gathered the books into her arms.
Imperial History
,
Swift Explorations
,
Treasures of the Deep.

She stacked the professor’s texts on a nearby table, then reached a hand under Eleanor’s boney arm and guided her back onto her feet with care. A thirty-year museum veteran with more knowledge than the entire basement archives, the woman was an exhibit in and of herself.

"My, my," Eleanor said. “It does seem a bit harder to get up than it used to."

Rachel flashed a smile while collecting her bag. "Dr. Ying? Is he in?"

"Oh, yes – of course. Come with me."

She linked one of her arms through Rachel’s and shuffled beside her down the never-ending corridor of coin collections and metal implements. Rachel battled the urge to break into a sprint.

Nearing the museum director’s office, Eleanor released her hold. "Just one moment," she directed. After a rap on the door, she opened it a crack and peered inside. "Professor, excuse me. Miss Lyons is here."

Rachel slipped off her black beret and tucked it into the pocket of her tan overcoat. Noting a dust mark on the knee of her black slacks, she gave the pressed seam a brush.

"Go on in, my dear." Eleanor widened the door for entry.

Rachel edged past her guide and made her way toward Dr. Ying, a compact, sparse-haired man. He stood beside the crowded bookcase in his tiny office. Dark circles weighed heavily under his eyes. When their outstretched hands connected, crow’s feet deepened behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses. He offered his usual warm smile, which today only added to her discomfort.

"I can’t thank you enough for stopping by." He waited for Rachel to seat herself before rounding his desk. "We’ve been busy with preparations for the maritime reception tomorrow night. I hope you’re planning to attend." His executive chair creaked under his weight.

"Oh, right. I’m looking forward to it."
Make that dreading it.
She hated attending formal affairs, subjecting herself to idle chitchat. At the moment, however, even conversations at that event sounded more appealing than the one she was about to have.

Eleanor was suddenly at her side. "Shall I fetch you any coffee or tea, Miss Lyons?"

"None for me, thanks." Rachel watched as Eleanor confiscated a scarred red saucer filled with cigarette butts from atop the professor’s cluttered secretariat. A reprimanding but caring shake of her head followed before she left the room. Apparently his vow to abstain from his two-pack-a-day habit had fallen to the wayside since Rachel’s last visit. At least the scent of vanilla from a shelved air freshener masked any airborne evidence that hadn’t escaped through the partially opened windows. She unfastened her briefcase and pulled out the manila folder.