Dangerous Depths by Kathy Brandt

the explosions, pulling Elyse out of
the water, and taking her to the hospital. I skipped the part about
being topless. Neville would have loved to hear about it.
    Dinner conversation revolved around politics,
tourism, and the charter boat industry. O’Brien was all for some
regulations on boating: requiring holding tanks on all boats, fines
for dumping waste or garbage, the building of pump-out stations. It
was a costly proposition for the islands and many of the locals
felt the big boating companies should foot the bill. O’Brien wasn’t
opposed to companies like his taking on some financial
responsibility but also felt that taxes should pay a part. Freeman
wasn’t committing one way or the other. I could tell O’Brien was
frustrated that Freeman wouldn’t take a clear stand.
    At some point, Sylvia lost interest and
pulled me into conversation about a women’s social group that I
really should consider joining. I was amazed she’d even mention it.
I’d fit in like a whore in church. She was going on about all the
wonderful things the group was doing for the children on the
island, while O’Brien, seemingly engaged in his own debate with
Freeman, discovered my foot under the table and wrapped his foot
around my ankle.
    Hours later, O’Brien followed me home.
Although he had a beautiful villa overlooking the harbor above the
marina, there were few places he’d rather sleep than on a sailboat,
especially mine.

Chapter
8
    The morning light was pink and muted, the Sea Bird absolutely still in the quiet water. I could hear a
gull complaining from its perch somewhere in the harbor and O’Brien
breathing softly beside me. I lay for a while, trying to absorb the
calm for the day ahead. I was determined to find the person
responsible for the explosion on Elyse’s boat. When Dunn found out
what I was up to—and I had little doubt the he would find out—he’d
be pissed and chewing me out in that damned level tone of his. Dunn
never raised his voice.
    Finally, I slipped out from under O’Brien’s
arm, careful not to awaken him. By the time I jumped onto the dock
the sun was blasting over the hills. Coconut palms were bathed in
rose-colored light and the water was a sheet of silver reflecting
gold. I stood on the dock filling my lungs with the scents of the
morning. For a moment I was confused by the open water where the Caribbe was supposed to be. Then I was angry.
    Ten minutes later, I pulled up in front of
the Society of Ocean Conservation office—Elyse’s office. I figured
a quick look around wouldn’t hurt. I wanted to know what Elyse had
been working on that might have gotten her into trouble. The front
door was locked. I walked around the side, peering into the window.
Through the slatted venetian blinds I could see little, but the
place had that empty feel. I tried the door in back. Unlocked.
Typical Elyse.
    The back room was filled with
supplies—chemicals, test tubes, one of those short boxy
refrigerators where Elyse kept her samples. A microscope was set up
in the corner on a table, a carton of glass slides opened nearby.
Elyse’s bike leaned against a wall. It was an old Schwinn: bulky
tires, wide fenders, a metal basket attached to the handlebars.
    Elyse’s office was in the front. It was way
too small to hold what it did—a desk, file cabinets, overflowing
bookshelves, studies and reports stacked on chairs. I started with
the desk. It was littered with another stack of reports, memos,
notes, and pages of data. I piled the folders that were strewn on
the desk chair onto the floor, sat, and began to look through the
material.
    There was a detailed report about sediment
runoff into Simpson’s Bay from the gravel pit near the airport. It
contained several pages of tables: GPS coordinates, with
corresponding data on water temperature, visibility, bottom
conditions, and sea life. Elyse’s written report followed. In it,
she discussed her findings: the smothering of nearshore reef
communities, an