Beneath the Surface Read online

  Table of Contents

  Beneath the Surface

  Copyright

  Praise for Beneath the Surface

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication.

  Beneath

  the Surface

  by

  Joya Fields

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Beneath the Surface

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Joya Fields

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2012

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-004-6

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Beneath the Surface

  “BENEATH THE SURFACE starts with a bang and the pace doesn’t let up until the very last page. Heart-warming characters combined with an evil villain who makes your skin crawl add to the mix. Don’t plan to be doing much work the day after you pick this book up because you won’t be getting any sleep until you’re done!”

  ~Sharon Buchbinder, Author of

  Kiss of the Silver Wolf (TWRP)

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my own personal hero:

  my husband Joe,

  and my two amazing children, J.T. and Erica.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to my parents, John and Joy, for making me read books and limiting my T.V. time as a child, and to the best "first readers" ever: Loree Lough, Bea' Marie Altieri, Catherine Gaines, Des Smith, and Jill Fritsch.

  Hugs and kisses to my Lethal Ladies and MRW Critters critique groups.

  Thanks also to Mark Sherno for his help with SCUBA diving information, Steven Zito for his help with medical information and Flagler Beach Police Department for their help with law enforcement details.

  Special thanks to editor Ally Robertson for her support and encouragement.

  Chapter One

  A deafening roar ripped through the air and a gust of heat whirled from the ocean, shaking the wooden dock under Brooke’s feet, hurling her forward. She threw her arms out and grabbed the railing in time to break her fall. The acrid smell of burning oil filled her nostrils, making it hard to breathe. Specks of glowing red embers fluttered around her in slow motion.

  Her heart pumped hard against her ribs. What the hell just happened? She braced herself, not really wanting to turn around, but knowing she had to. Her hair whipped into her eyes, and she smelled fumes.

  Half of Linda and Jeff’s Yamaha jet boat glowed on the water. The other half was sinking. Fire licked the underside of the clouds. Had her friends escaped? Brooke’s breaths came in short pants.

  “No. No. No,” she screamed, but the words caught in her throat.

  She needed to get help. Where was her cell? Still in the car. Damn! Were those fishermen still by the deserted Bait Shack? Brooke swallowed hot tears and shouted as loudly as she could, “Call 911!”

  “They’re on the way,” someone from shore yelled.

  Her pulse raced, and she scanned the thick, black smoke on the water for signs of survival. She’d been laughing with Linda and Jeff just five minutes earlier, joking as she helped them load their gear. Could they have jumped off before the vessel exploded?

  On shaking legs, she ran to the end of the pier and snatched the emergency life preserver ring. She headed to the edge of the pier amidst a shower of tiny red embers and whispered a heartfelt prayer. Please be alive.

  “Whoa. Let’s take a skiff.” Running footsteps vibrated the dock and she turned as a gray-bearded fisherman grabbed her elbow and pulled her away from the ledge. “It’ll be faster. We can bring ’em back in it.”

  She inhaled sooty air and focused on the feel of his calloused hands and the smoke that swirled toward them. Anything to keep from looking at the wreck.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why did the boat explode?”

  The fisherman shook his head. “No tellin’. Coast Guard will be lookin’ into it.”

  Worry gnawed at her stomach. In spite of herself, she stared at the black smoke curling up from the burning wreck, painting the late-August Florida sky like a charcoal pencil. She hurried along next to the fisherman. There were no other boats around.

  Her body slowed her down, her legs like lead—heavy and plodding instead of moving fast like her brain screamed for them to do. Memories rushed back—the screaming, the dead bodies and the smell of death. The fisherman’s hand warmed her cold, clammy skin.

  He ushered her into an aluminum fishing skiff and fired up the outboard engine. Brooke held tight to the sides of the vessel for balance as he steered toward the burning wreck. She craned her neck and searched the still-flaming debris for signs of life, shielding her eyes from the ashy fragments that fluttered through the air.

  “I’m Gilly,” the old fisherman said. “What’s your name?”

  She blinked away tears, unable to distinguish between those that pooled in her eyes from the stinging black smoke and those of fear and anguish. Linda and Jeff’s boat burned only two hundred yards from the pier.

  “Brooke,” she answered, wondering why this old tub couldn’t go any faster. “There!” She pointed to a dark shape bobbing in the water. Linda? No. Couldn’t be. Because it floated motionless.

  Gilly steered the craft, slowing the motor as they neared the body. Puddles of oil and fuel floated on the water around them. The fiery embers could ignite the fuel at any moment. Brooke leaned out to get a better look. She gasped. She recognized Linda’s dark hair and the pink t-shirt and denim shorts she’d worn this morning. She was unconscious, but one of her arms was slung over a board and her head rested just above the surface.

  Brooke willed herself to concentrate. Her mind raced, thinking the worst. Linda was too young to die. With shaking hands, she yanked a life preserver from under the seat, reached over and tugged Linda’s arms. But Linda’s flesh was oily and the choppy waves rocked the boat, causing Brooke to lose her grip. Linda slipped under the surface.

  “No!” Brooke leaned over and hooked Linda’s armpits with her own elbows, almost capsizing the skiff.

  “Here,” Gilly said. He held out a giant fish net attached to a long handle and scooped it under Linda’s legs. “We gotta get her onboard and get the water outta her.”

  Brooke prayed Linda’s injuries wouldn’t worsen by them moving her, but getting her out of the water, and finding Jeff, had to be top priority. Gilly threw down his net and grabbed Linda’s legs, and they pulled her on bo
ard.

  Gilly supported Linda’s head, then laid her down on the floor of the vessel. With little room between the seats, Brooke draped Linda’s legs over the side of the craft. Waves slapped the boat’s side, rocking them. Brooke rested her trembling fingers on Linda’s wrist, checking for a pulse. Gilly knelt next to Linda and laid his ear near her mouth to check for breathing.

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Linda’s long hair, a darker shade of black now because it was soaked, clung to her neck, making her usually pale skin look chalky. Brooke’s gut pinched at the sight of a gash on Linda’s head and burns on her arms. What she wouldn’t give at this moment to see some color in those cheeks, some indication of life.

  “Breathe, Linda,” she cried, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, as beads of sweat and tears coursed down her face.

  “Get her on her side,” Gilly barked. “Gotta get the water out.” He turned Linda as if he did things like this every day. “Prop her legs on the seat. Not the best place to revive a gal, but we gotta try.”

  He’d no sooner said it than water spurted from Linda’s mouth, gushing down her cheek into the bottom of the boat, but her chest didn’t move.

  Smoke shrouded them, stinging Brooke’s eyes. She coughed at the acrid taste.

  Gilly flipped Linda onto her stomach, and still more sea water oozed over her lips.

  “She still isn’t breathing,” Brooke said. Shivers ran down her spine.

  “You know CPR, right? I’ll do airway, you do compressions,” he hollered over the noise of an approaching siren further out in the water.

  Brooke nodded. She prayed she’d remember what to do. “Have you seen her boyfriend?”

  Gilly tilted Linda’s chin upward to start CPR. “Ain’t seen nobody but this li’l gal,” he said, frowning. “You just get to work there, getting her pulse going while I get her breathin’ and we’ll have a look-see for him.”

  Brooke steadied her shaking hands below Linda’s ribs and pushed. She felt her own knee snap, but ignored it. Sirens blared nearby. Silently, she begged them to hurry as she continued the compressions and Gilly breathed for Linda.

  Finally, blessedly, Linda’s body stiffened, and she coughed up still more water.

  Brooke checked Linda’s pulse. Thready, but there. “She’s got a pulse!”

  “There you go,” Gilly said, giving Linda’s head a grandfatherly pat. “That’s the way…in and out…in and out.” He winked at Brooke. “You did good, girl…she’s breathing again.”

  Gilly plopped onto his seat, revved the motor, and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Bucky, tell them paramedics we got a gal here, unconscious, but breathing. We’re coming back now.” He steered the vessel toward shore and fired a glance at Brooke. “How many more on the boat?”

  “One more,” Brooke answered. She reached for Linda’s hand and squeezed. “Her boyfriend.”

  Gilly nodded. “Coast Guard’s here now. They’ll fish him out.”

  Brooke shuddered at his words and stroked Linda’s hair. Emergency vehicles gathered in the small parking lot.

  Gilly guided the skiff to the beach, near the dock. Three fishermen pulled the boat onto the sand.

  Two paramedics sprinted toward them with a board, sat it down, and barked questions.

  “Is she breathing?” one of the medics asked, unlatching the metal clasps of his red case. He leaned directly over Linda’s face.

  “Yes,” Brooke answered.

  “Any allergies?” the other paramedic asked.

  “No.” Brooke clasped her hands together in a prayer-like pose between her knees.

  “Age? Any medications?”

  “She’s twenty-five. Uh…no medications. I don’t think so.” Brooke’s voice was hoarse and her throat burned.

  The breeze shifted, blowing in from the shore, sending some of the smoke back out to sea, and Brooke took a deep breath of salty air.

  Two uniformed sheriff’s deputies—a bald, stout man and a petite female—ran toward them.

  “How many on board?” the male deputy asked.

  “Two. This one and a male,” Gilly said. “Coast Guard’s out there now searchin’ for him.”

  They threw around familiar phrases. The same phrases she’d heard at another emergency scene. One of the men slipped an oxygen mask over Linda’s nose and mouth and another hooked a monitor on the tip of her finger.

  “Non-rebreather mask…”

  “Pulseoximeter…”

  “Pupils are unchanging...”

  The last thing Brooke heard before the men lowered the yellow board to the vessel was “spinal or neck injury” and chills ran down her back. What if she’d hurt Linda in her hurry to pull her to safety? What if Linda was paralyzed? Or brain-damaged?

  The paramedics made quick work out of strapping Linda to the board, lifting her out of the boat, and then running to the waiting gurney.

  In spite of her shaking legs, Brooke stood, intending to ride in the ambulance with Linda. She swayed, suddenly dizzy from the onslaught of memories the scene brought crashing back. No. Not again. Not now. With a shake of her head, she forced herself to concentrate on helping Linda.

  She glanced at the shore—the red, blue and yellow emergency lights flashing—and pictured the way her mother’s body looked as it was covered and carried through a similar scene. Gritting her teeth, she forced the memory to the recesses of her mind. But she’d broken her concentration just long enough to lose her balance and felt herself falling. Gilly stepped beside her, catching her just in time.

  “Oh, holy shit, what is that?” the bald deputy asked as he pointed under the seat Brooke had just vacated.

  Brooke followed his gaze. “That’s my leg.”

  Chapter Two

  Garrett Ciavello steered his Harley along A1A, Florida’s scenic highway that ran along the Atlantic Ocean. He spotted a candy-apple red classic Mustang on the opposite shoulder. He slowed his bike, made a U-turn, and pulled up behind it, letting out a low whistle as he ogled the restored 1968 convertible.

  A woman—gray curls banded with a sheer red scarf and wearing a red and white polka-dot sundress—kicked the back tire with her red high-heels.

  Garrett swallowed hard to keep from letting a chuckle escape.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.”

  She turned to face him with wide eyes and raised brows, apparently surprised by his presence. As loud as his Harley was, he hadn’t expected to startle her. Was she hard of hearing? She propped her hands on her hips and stared at him, a cross between Ma Kettle and Annie Oakley.

  With a raised brow, she looked him up and down, then brought her gaze back to his face. She must have figured he looked harmless enough because she kicked the tire again. “Flat as a pancake, probably ’cause we just got back in town. Car hasn’t been driven for two months.”

  “Can I lend a hand?”

  “You’re not gonna kill me and stuff me in the trunk are you? You’re a big strapping man and have nice eyes, but a girl can never be too careful.” Her tanned and weathered skin crinkled when she smiled.

  His mouth twitched as he fought back a smile. “I’m an off-duty cop, if that makes you feel safer,” he said, flashing his badge. “If you’ve got a spare in the trunk, I can have it on in less than fifteen minutes,” he added, praying she had a good spare tire and a jack. No room for a jack on his motorcycle.

  She popped the trunk and stood back so he could take a look.

  Garrett breathed a sigh a relief when he spotted a jack and a decent spare. “Time me.” He threw the woman a wink as he squatted next to the rear tire and slid the jack under the car frame.

  She took off her red scarf and waved it as if starting a drag race. “Go!”

  He cranked the car up and found himself wondering if she raced this car. God, he hoped not. This vehicle had a powerful engine, even if it was an antique.

  By the time he finished screwing the last lug nut in place, sweat beaded his brow and neck. He stood an
d brushed his dirty hands on his jeans.

  “Twelve minutes!” the woman said, eyes wide. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  She pulled a shiny red pocketbook from the passenger seat and took out her wallet. “Let me give you a little something for your help.” She held a few bills toward him.

  “No…no,” he said. He ran his hand through his hair, stretched his cramped back and glanced around, squinting against the glare. It didn’t matter that summer was ending, the sun shone as steady as if it would stay hot for the rest of the year.

  “Well, how about a nice home-cooked meal? Come join my husband and me for steak and twice-baked potatoes.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but—” his cell phone chirped, saving him the need to answer her. “Ciavello,” he said, not bothering to check the caller ID. The woman put her wallet back in her purse.

  “Garrett. Remember those tourist divers?” Diego asked.

  Garrett stiffened. “The ones we were gonna talk to later?”

  “Yeah.”

  Garrett’s gut twisted at the thought of the metal box the graduate students had discovered on the ocean floor a few days ago. They’d run out of oxygen before they could retrieve it and then the tropical storm hit.

  The sheriff had sent divers, but they’d been unable to locate the box, so they’d ended the search. The divers had said there was something red—like human hair—sticking out of it. The mention of red hair was the only potential lead about his cousin’s disappearance that the police had received in two months. Garrett would pursue the search on his own if the police and sheriff gave up.

  “They were allegedly heading out to search again, but half of their boat exploded. They’re taking the girl to the hospital, still searching the water for her boyfriend,” Diego said.

  “Do you think it’s more than a coincidence that their craft exploded right when they were resuming their search?”

  “Don’t know. First responders can’t tell if the explosion was an accident or not.”

  Garrett needed to talk to the students. From the police report, he knew one of the two divers had been convinced the red hair was human. Red hair like his missing cousin’s. Garrett’s pulse raced. “Flagler Hospital?”