The Reef

Brocade ripped like flesh, sounding like tiny screams as horsehair vomited out. The oval mirror on the wall reflected his face, wild and white, as he stabbed and tore.
    His fingers were cramped and aching when the lovely little seat was no more than rags. His breath heaved in and out, sobbing on the air over the sounds of Mozart from the recessed speakers.
    Shuddering once, he let the antique weapon drop onto the carpet, stumbled back from his latest work. It was only a chair, he thought as the sweat dried calmly on his skin. Only a thing, easily replaced. To help settle his uneasy stomach, he poured a soothing brandy.
    That was better, he assured himself. It was natural for a man to let his temper out, especially a strong man. Holding it in only caused ulcers and headaches and self-doubt.
    That’s what his father had done, VanDyke recalled. Rather than making him strong, it had weakened him. It seemed he was thinking of his father, and his mother, more and more lately. Remembering how flawed they were, finding comfort in the fact that he had escaped all their weaknesses. No, no, had triumphed over the weaknesses of mind and body.
    His mother’s brain had betrayed her; his father’s heart had killed him. But their son had learned to keep both strong.
    Yes, it was better, much better to vent. Sipping, he took a calming turn around his office aboard the Triumphant.
    Momentary physical release was sometimes necessary, he told himself, pursing his lips as he studied the rags ofsilken material that were scattered over the floor. It purged the blood.
    But a cool head was imperative. And, of course, he rarely lost his.
    Perhaps, just perhaps, he admitted, he had been a bit impulsive when he’d killed James Lassiter. But he’d been younger then, less mature. And he really had hated the bastard so.
    Yet now to know that even in death James had tricked him . . . Fury clawed through him again, so ferociously that VanDyke had to close his eyes, struggle through his deep-breathing exercises to prevent himself from hurling the snifter and shattering the lovely Baccarat.
    No, the Lassiters would cost him nothing more, he promised himself. Not even the price of a glass of brandy. Settled again, he walked out on deck to let the balm of the night air caress him.
    The yacht moved swiftly through the Pacific, Costa Rica to the east.
    He’d nearly taken his jet to the West Indies before he’d controlled the impatience. The time it would take to get there by sea would be put to very good use. His plans were already formulating, and with his own man part of Lassiter’s team, it was almost like being there himself.
    Of course, LaRue was a bit of a nuisance with his periodic demands for bonuses. VanDyke smiled to himself and swirled brandy. Then again, he, too, would be dealt with, after his usefulness had passed.
    The ultimate termination of an employee, he thought with a low, long chuckle. And that would be a small but sweet pleasure.
    The man had no ties, no family, just as VanDyke preferred his tools. No one would miss a middle-aged French Canadian ship’s cook.
    Ah, but that little diversion was for later. The real joy would come from disposing of the Lassiters, and their partners. He would use them first, let them dig and dive and work. The effort would give them a sense of satisfaction, the belief that they were deceiving him would delight them.
    Oh, he could imagine their laughter, their excited meetings discussing their cleverness. They would be so smug and self-congratulatory that they had had the patience to wait so long when they had known just where to strike.
    Matthew had worked eight years, VanDyke mused, in bone-chilling water, doing the kind of salvage work true treasure hunters scoffed at, certain his nemesis would lose interest. To be fair, VanDyke had to admire him for his efforts and long-range view of the prize.
    But the prize would never belong to anyone but Silas VanDyke. It was his legacy, his property, his triumph. The owning of it would shove every possession he’d ever had into the shadows.
    Once they had the amulet, held the prize in their trembling hands, were filled with the elation of success, it would be so much more satisfying to destroy them.
    Chuckling to himself, VanDyke polished off his brandy. In one sharp strike, he shattered the delicate crystal on the rail and let the shards tumble glittering into the water. Not because he was angry, not because he was violent, he mused.
    Simply because