The Reef by Nora Roberts

show you what we have.” Then he grinned. “I’d say we’re going to put that nice new airlift of yours to use, Ray.”
    “Yeah.” Ray looked at Buck. His dazed expression began to clear. “I’d say you’re right.” With a whoop he grabbed Buck. The two men hugged, rocking like drunks.
     
    They needed a plan. It was Tate who, after the noisy celebration that night, offered the voice of reason. A system was required in order to salvage the wreck, and preserveit. Their claim had to be staked legally, and concretely. And the artifacts had to be precisely catalogued.
    They needed a good underwater camera to record the sight and the position of artifacts they uncovered, several good notebooks to use for cataloguing. Slates and graphite pencils for sketching under water.
    “Used to be,” Buck began as he helped himself to another beer, “a man found a wreck, and all it held was his—long as he could hold off pirates and claim jumpers. You had to be cagey, know how to keep your mouth shut, and be willing to fight for what was yours.”
    His words slurred a bit as he gestured with his bottle. “Now there’s rules and regulations, and every bloody body wants a piece of what you find with your own work and God-given luck. And there’s plenty who’re more worried about some planks of worm-eaten timber than about a mother lode of silver.”
    “The historical integrity of a wreck’s important, Buck.” Ray cruised on his own beer, and the possibilities. “It’s historical value, our responsibility to the past, and the future.”
    “Shit.” Buck lighted one of the ten cigarettes he permitted himself a day. “Time was we blew her to kingdom come if that’s what it took to get to the mother lode. Not saying it was smart.” He chuffed out smoke, and his eyes grew dim with memory. “But it sure as hell was fun.”
    “We haven’t any right to destroy something to get to something else,” Tate murmured.
    Buck glanced over at Tate, grinned. “Wait, girl, till you get a taste of gold fever. It does something to you. You see that glint come out of the sand. It’s shiny and bright, not like silver. Could be a coin, a chain, a medallion, some trinket a long-dead man gave his long-dead woman. There it is, in your hand, true as the day it was made. And all you can think about is more.”
    Curious, she tilted her head. “Is that why you keep going down? If you found all the treasure the Isabella and Santa Marguerite held—if you found it all and were rich, would you still go down for more?”
    “I’ll go down till I die. It’s all I know. All I need to.Your father was like that,” he added, gesturing to Matthew. “Whether he struck the mother lode or came back with nothing but a cannonball, he had to go down again. Dying stopped him. That was all that could.” His voice roughened as he looked down at his beer again. “He wanted the Isabella. Spent the last months he lived figuring how and where and when. Now we’ll harvest her for him. Angelique’s Curse.”
    “What?” Ray’s brows drew together. “Angelique’s Curse?”
    “Killed my brother,” Buck said blearily. “Damn witch’s spell.”
    Recognizing the signs, Matthew leaned forward, plucked the nearly empty beer from his uncle’s fingers. “A man killed him, Buck. A flesh-and-blood man. No curse, no spell.” Rising, he hauled Buck to his feet. “He gets maudlin when he drinks too much,” he explained. “Next he’ll be talking about Blackbeard’s ghost.”
    “Saw it,” Buck mumbled around a foolish smile. His glasses slid down his nose so that he peered myopically over them. “Thought I did. Off the coast of Ocracoke. Remember that, Matthew?”
    “Sure, I remember. We’ve got a long day ahead of us. Better get back to the boat.”
    “Want some help?” Ray rose, was surprised, and a little chagrined to discover he wasn’t entirely steady on his feet.
    “I can manage. I’ll just pour him into the inflatable, row him across. Thanks