The Reef

stepped into view, each with rifles shouldered and aimed.
    “I believe in guarding my possessions,” VanDyke explained. “A man in my position learns that security isn’t merely a luxury, but a vital business tool. Raymond, I’m sure you’re a sensible man, sensible enough to keep young Matthew from getting himself hurt over a few trinkets.” Well satisfied with the situation, he took another drag on his cigarette as the pelicans plopped gleefully into the water between them. “And I would be devastated if a stray bullet happened to strike you, or either of those precious jewels beside you.” His smile spread. “Matthew would be the first to tell you that accidents, tragic accidents, happen.”
    Matthew’s fingers were bone white on the rail. Everything inside him screamed to take his chances, to dive in. “Get them inside.”
    “If he shoots you, what happens to Buck?”
    Matthew shook his head, riding on the rush of blood to his head. “I only need ten seconds. Ten goddamn seconds.” And a knife across VanDyke’s throat.
    “What happens to Buck?” Ray insisted.
    “You’re not going to ask me to walk away from this.”
    “No, I’m telling you.” Fear and fury helped Raymuscle Matthew back from the rail. “This isn’t worth your life. And it sure as hell isn’t worth the lives of my wife and daughter. Take the wheel, Matthew. We’re heading back to Saint Kitts.”
    Even the thought of retreat made him ill. If he’d been alone . . . But he wasn’t. Saying nothing, he turned on his heels and headed for the bridge.
    “Very wise, Raymond,” VanDyke commented with a glint of admiration in his voice. “Very wise. The boy is a tad reckless, I’m afraid, not as mature and sensible as men like us. It was a pleasure to meet you all. Mrs. Beaumont, Tate.” He tipped the brim of his hat again. “Good sailing.”
    “Oh, Ray.” As the boat circled around, Marla crossed to her husband on jellied knees. “They would have killed us.”
    Feeling unmanned, helpless, Ray stroked her hair and watched the dashing figure of VanDyke grow smaller with distance. “We’ll go to the authorities,” he said quietly.
    Tate left them, rushed to the bridge. There Matthew gripped the wheel, the course set.
    “There was nothing we could do,” she began. Something about his stance warned her against touching him in any way. When he said nothing, she stepped closer, but kept her hands locked together. “He would have had them shoot you, Matthew. He wanted to. We’ll report him as soon as we dock.”
    “And what the fuck do you think that will do?” There was something mixed with the bitterness in his voice. Something she didn’t recognize as shame. “Money talks.”
    “We went through all the proper channels,” she insisted. “The records—”
    He cut her off with one flaming look. “Don’t be stupid. There won’t be any records. There won’t be anything he doesn’t want there to be. He’ll take the wreck. He’ll strip her, take it all. And I let him. I stood there, just the way I did nine years ago, and I did nothing.”
    “There was nothing you could do.” Ignoring her own instincts, she laid a hand on his back. “Matthew . . .”
    “Leave me alone.”
    “But, Matthew—”
    “Leave me the hell alone.”
    Hurt and helpless, she did what he asked.
     
    That evening, she sat alone in her room. She imagined this was what was meant by being shell-shocked. The day had been a series of hard slaps, ending with her father’s shaken announcement that there was no record of their claim. None of the paperwork they had so meticulously filed existed, and the clerk Ray had worked with personally denied ever having seen him before.
    There was no longer any doubt that Silas VanDyke had won. Again.
    Everything they had done, all the work, the suffering Buck had endured was for nothing. For the first time in her life, she was faced with the fact that being right, and doing right, didn’t always matter.
    She thought of all the beautiful things she had held in her hands. The emerald cross, the porcelain, the bits and pieces of history she had lifted out of its blanket of sand and brought into the light.
    She would never touch them again, or study them, see them winking behind glass at a museum. There would be no discreet card heralding them as pieces of the Beaumont-Lassiter collection. She would not see her father’s name in National Geographic, or pore over photographs she’d taken herself on