The Reef

conglomerate, the chunk of material formed by centuries of chemical reactions under the sea. The sound of her squeal, then the bray of delighted laughter when Marla Beaumont had unearthed a gold ring.
    The occasional luck allowed the Beaumonts to spend several months a year hunting for more. For more luck, and more treasure.
    As they swam side by side, Raymond Beaumont tapped his daughter’s arm, pointed. Together they watched a sea turtle paddle lazily.
    The laugh in her father’s eyes said everything. He had worked hard all of his life, and was now reaping the rewards. For Tate, a moment like this was as good as gold.
    They swam together, bonded by a love of the sea, the silence, the colors. A school of sergeant majors streaked by, their black and gold stripes gleaming. For no more than the joy of it, Tate did a slow roll and watched the sunlight strike the surface overhead. The freedom of it had a laugh gurgling out in a spray of bubbles that startled a curious grouper.
    She dived deeper, following her father’s strong kicks. The sand could hold secrets. Any mound could be a plank of worm-eaten wood from a Spanish galleon. That dark patch could blanket a pirate’s cache of silver. She reminded herself to pay attention, not to the sea fans or hunks of coral, but to the signs of sunken treasure.
    They were here in the balmy waters of the West Indies, searching for every treasure hunter’s dream. A virgin wreck reputed to hold a king’s treasure. This, their first dive, was to acquaint themselves with the territory they had so meticulously researched through books, maps and charts. They would test the currents, gauge the tides. And maybe—just maybe—get lucky.
    Aiming toward a hillock of sand, she began to fan briskly. Her father had taught her this simple method of excavating sand when Tate had delighted him by her boundless interest in his new hobby of scuba diving.
    Over the years, he’d taught her many other things. A respect for the sea and what lived there. And what lay there, hidden. Her fondest hope was to one day discover something, for him.
    She glanced toward him now, watched the way he examined a low ridge of coral. However much he dreamed of treasure made by man, Raymond Beaumont loved the treasures made by the sea.
    Finding nothing in the hillock, Tate moved off in pursuit of a pretty striped shell. Out of the corner of her eyes, she caught the blur of a dark shape coming toward her, swift and silent. Tate’s first and frozen thought was shark, and her heart stumbled. She turned, as she had been taught, one hand reaching for her diver’s knife, and prepared to defend herself and her father.
    The shape became a diver. Sleek and fast as a shark, perhaps, but a man. Her breath whooshed out in a stream of bubbles before she remembered to regulate it. The diver signaled to her, then to the man swimming in his wake.
    Tate found herself face mask to face mask with a recklessly grinning face, eyes as blue as the sea around them. Dark hair streamed in the current. She could see he was laughing at her, undoubtedly having guessed her reaction to the unexpected company. He held his hands up, a gesture of peace, until she sheathed her knife. Then he winked and sent a fluid salute toward Ray.
    As silent greetings were exchanged, Tate studied the newcomers. Their equipment was good, and included those necessary items of the treasure seeker. The goody bag, the knife, the wrist compass and diver’s watch. The first man was young, lean in his black wet suit. His gesturing hands were wide-palmed, long-fingered, and carried the nicks and scars of a veteran hunter.
    The second man was bald, thick in the middle, but as agile as a fish in his undersea movements. Tate could see he was reaching some sort of tacit agreement with her father. She wanted to protest. This was their spot. After all, they’d been there first.
    But she could do no more than frown as her fathercurled his fingers into an “okay” sign. The four of them spread out to explore.
    Tate went back to another mound to fan. Her father’s research indicated that four ships of the Spanish fleet had gone down north of Nevis and St. Kitts during the hurricane of July 11, 1733. Two, the San Cristobal and the Vaca, had been discovered and salvaged years earlier, broken on the reefs near Dieppe Bay. This left, undiscovered and untouched, the Santa Marguerite and the Isabella.
    Documents and manifests boasted that these ships carried much more than