Severed Threads (6 page)

"No!"

Her voice rang in her own ears, jolting her back to reality. Vision clouded, she took in her surroundings. Ticking mantle clock, pale yellow walls, curved horseshoe chair, dragonflies on a linen shade. She was in her bedroom. In the cottage. Entrenched in a blue comforter. Perspiration dampened the navy tank top and boxers now twisted around her body. Through the screen of the second-story window drifted the sounds of waves crashing on the beach, like slaps from Neptune, bringing her to her senses.

It was the dream. The gut-wrenching, recurring nightmare. Magnified tenfold by her exchange with Chase.

Rachel took a deep, cleansing breath. She held tight to both sides of her neck, wishing she could simply squeeze away the images and dread each morning brought. If only she could end the horrific thoughts, perhaps she could regain control over her life.

She climbed out of bed and tugged the covers back in place. Then she picked up a small box of fish food from the bureau and shook it once over the goldfish bowl before dragging herself into the bathroom.

Once showered and dressed, she headed downstairs and swung open the door of her compact fridge. A quart of milk bordering expiration, half-empty bottle of Chardonnay, a few slices of individually wrapped cheddar cheese. Nothing appetizing, just items to fill empty space and failing.

She flipped through the stacked mail on the white ceramic counter. Between the catalogues and utility bills appeared a postcard reminder for tomorrow’s foundation board meeting. A gathering guaranteed to be even less thrilling than the contents of her refrigerator. All conversations would undoubtedly center on highlights from tonight’s stuffy cocktail reception – Mayor Potter’s canned dedication, the ladies’ room gossip, and who should and, most vitally, shouldn’t have been wearing what. No question, she’d be wise to upgrade her usual single shot latte to a double today, just to prevent falling asleep mid-celebration.

Scooping up her car keys, she forged toward the front door. She had just grabbed the knob, when the phone rang.
Sorry folks, leave a message. Starbucks takes priority.

Then again, it might be Devon. Assuming he could be bothered long enough to call her back.

The machine’s beep broke into Rachel’s thoughts, and a man’s voice echoed through the room. "Rachel, I’m still trying to reach you."

She froze. Her heart contracted at the familiar tone. Her father’s. But how –

"I’m going to be in town for a few days. If you don’t mind, I’d really like to stop by. If you get this...just
please
return my call this time, okay?" A pause. "You have my number."

Slowly, her muscles relaxed as she realized it wasn’t her father on the phone, haunting her from the grave. It was her Uncle Paul, her dad’s brother. A walking ghost with a voice and face bearing too much resemblance for Rachel’s comfort.

Shaking off the voicemail, she retrieved an engraved pill holder from her purse. She swallowed two aspirins and clicked the container shut. Her reflection beamed on the silver casing. Only a long peaceful sleep could erase the fine lines edging her hazel eyes – or pricey Botox injections. Neither one a viable option. Thank goodness for Visine – magic in a bottle, preventing mistaken presumptions at the office or, even worse, inquiries of concern.

She shouldered her purse and opened the front door as the phone rang again. Clearly her uncle was determined. Another ring and the hypocrisy hit her. Who was she to criticize Devon for refusing to acknowledge calls from a family member?

Reluctantly, she picked up the phone and said hello.

"Rachel, it’s Lao," the man replied. “I’m so glad I caught you.

She was so relieved that it took several seconds for his name to register.
Dr. Ying.

On a monthly basis, he had made a point of checking up on her since her father’s death. But the casual use of his first name and urgent tone were uncharacteristic this morning.

"What can I do for you, Professor?" She hoped he wasn’t going to take her question literally.

"Is there any possibility you could stop by the museum for a few minutes?" He sounded preoccupied, as if troubled by something greater than his denied grant application.

"Well, I guess I could delay my ten o’clock…"

"Good, good. Meet me in the maritime wing outside the new exhibit hall."

"Can you at least tell me – ”

Click.

"Professor? Hello?"
Fabulous.
Why on earth hadn’t she kept walking out the door? The last thing she needed in her life was to borrow someone else’s trouble.

* * *

Rachel hadn’t misunderstood him. She was sure of it. A quick peek inside an adjacent room revealed gold chairs and floral decorations for the planned reception. But there was no sign of Dr. Ying anywhere. She walked the entire length of the maritime wing a second time.
I’ll give him ten more minutes,
she told herself.

Glancing around, she tapped her hand in a steady rhythm against her thigh. Just then, her attention caught on the new display before her: an enormous photograph of recovery operations in the shallow waters of Abu Qir Bay. The underwater view of divers at work pulled her closer. She leaned in to skim the detailed description.

Fire had ignited gunpowder kegs in the hull of the
Akron
during a battle with the British fleet. Part of the stern had been found completely intact. Also six bronze cannons and two casts brimming with glistening jewels. A dispute broke out between Egypt and France after evidence on board confirmed that Napoleon’s flagship,
The Orient
, was involved in a renewed salvage attempt by the Quebec Maritime Development Company.

"Don’t let the Canadian reference fool you."

Rachel’s spine stretched.
Finally.
She spun around to face Dr. Ying.

"Local divers were instrumental in that world-renowned project," he added. "And the photograph over there…" He gestured with the black attaché case in his grip. “That’s a bronze breach loader from a Spanish galleon off the Florida Keys, another remarkable find."

Fascinating, if she were in the mood for a tour. Which she wasn’t. But at least her apprehension was alleviated. In the midst of speeding through traffic to get there, her mind had played out all kinds of scenarios, including the possibility of a break-in.

"Professor," she prompted. "Your call…was there something – "

"As you can see, this museum celebrates worldwide explorations. That’s why a local landmark opportunity of this magnitude shouldn’t be ignored." His tone, coupled with his stiff posture, was that of an attorney defending his case. And that’s when she noticed the wall of images behind him – as if he had strategically positioned himself before a mounted assault. Every photograph featured a salvage crew with their arsenal of toys: tugs, cranes, pulleys, winches.

Anger simmered as she realized why he had chosen this particular spot to meet. Perhaps even why he’d given her plenty of time to explore. But the emotions she struggled to hold in check reached a boiling point when her eyes latched onto Chase’s unmistakable profile, camouflaged in nearly every frame.

"So
this
is the reason I’m here," she fumed. She wanted to storm out of the museum, leaving the professor in her wake. But not before clarifying that another manipulative stunt like this would result in recommending the foundation’s complete disassociation with the museum. "In the future, Dr. Ying, I would appreciate –”

"Rachel, please…" The professor stepped toward her. "I understand how unprofessional this all seems. If I’ve demonstrated any impropriety on my part, I do apologize."

"Duly noted, but I really don’t have time for this today." She stepped around Dr. Ying and headed for the closest exit, immune to his persistent appeal.

"Under usual circumstances, my actions would seem irrational," he called out. "But since your father died while working on this project, I thought it only right I come straight out and tell you the truth."

She froze, stunned by his words. She twisted around and glared at him. Desperation was obviously making the man crazy. He’d use any tactic to get his own way. “My father died while salvaging the
Griffin
wreck,” she shouted back. “He didn’t know anything about your ship. How could he? Chase just found it."

"Well, that’s not entirely true."

What wasn’t true?

Rachel stormed back to confront him. "My father’s crew told the police they’d been working the same grid for six months. They were pulling up cables, machinery…shell casings. Are you telling me they all
lied
?"

"Not technically," he corrected. “You see, after the
Griffin
had been abandoned by other diving operations, they acquired exclusive salvage rights for that site. They sat on it for six months to validate their claim. But even though Sam’s salvage rights were legal, they weren’t the same as ownership rights. He was going to face multiple claims on the ship’s contents and would have been lucky to end up with ten percent at best.”

Doc wasn’t telling her anything new. His recap was only adding weight to her discontent.

“
With his funds running out, Sam was planning to call it quits,” he said. “Then he came across two remarkable discoveries: the anchor chain belonging to an ancient ship and a passage in the ocean floor.”

Passage?
What the hell was he talking about?

“
Sam was convinced it lead to the
Wanli.
But even Chase wasn’t fully aware of his suspicions. He was going to be Sam’s eyewitness…someone to validate his findings. But then we lost Sam and the investigation brought everything to a screeching halt.” Dr. Ying glanced at Chase’s photograph on the wall. “After I authenticated the lacquered piece he’d found, your father fully intended to share everything with you. He just wanted to wait until he was absolutely certain. Until he could substantiate his claim and prove himself a credible explorer."

No…until I believed in him.

Even after four years, the final argument she'd had with her father tore at her conscience. They'd been at it for days, avoiding each other, speaking only when necessary. He was packing his bag for a weeklong trip when the morning mail arrived. A past-due phone bill was all it took to break the silence and send Rachel over the edge.

"Why don't you go back to chartering?" she'd said, glowering in the hallway. "They're cutting back my hours at the institute. I can't keep bailing you out."

"So don't. I never asked for your help in the first place," he'd snapped.

"Then how are you going to keep the lights on? Who’s going to pay for your fuel? I don't understand why you insist on deluding yourself. You’re never going to come out ahead."

He zipped up his bag then faced her. "It's a good thing Chase has faith in me. That’s more than I can say for you."

"Maybe you never gave me a reason.” She held her mug in both hands, anticipating his verbal assault, but it never came. He picked up his duffle bag and swept past her. Still feeling the fight, she followed him outside. She watched him climb into Chase’s black truck. As they pulled out of the driveway, her father leaned forward in his seat.

“
One day you’ll regret those words,” he called out. Then he was gone.

Dr. Ying opened his briefcase, pulling Rachel back into the museum – back into the treasure hunters’ sanctum. He extracted a file and showed her drawings of the
Wanli II’s
figurehead: a fierce dragon covered in gold leaf and preserved in resin for all posterity.

“
Somewhere on board the ship is the gift Mai Le intended for her lover,” he said. “According to ancient scrolls handed down by my grandfather, it was hidden in a handcrafted box – disguised as a Chinese betrothal chest. After a thorough examination of the wood fibers and inscribed markings, there’s no doubt in my mind. The lid your father found belongs to this box. The heart of the dragon must be hidden in the wreckage or buried somewhere close by.”