The Stone Monkey

serious points over Percoset and anti-inflammatories.
    On the bridge the improbably young-looking captain, Fred Ransom, greeted her with a smile and a handshake. He welcomed her to the ship and led her to the chart table. “Now, here’s a picture of the vessel and where she’s lying.”
    Sachs concentrated on the image of the ship. Ransom told her where the bridge was and where the cabins were located—on the same deck but down a lengthy corridor toward the stern.
    “Now, one thing, Officer, just to warn you,” he said delicately. “We understand there are about fifteen bodies inside and there’ll be some sea-life activity regarding them. It could be pretty grim. Some of my crew have sort of a tough time . . .”
    But his voice faded as he looked into her eyes.
    Sachs said, “Appreciate the warning, Captain. But I do run crime scenes for a living.”
    “Sure, Officer, understood. All right, let’s get you into your gear.”
    Another trek outside into the rain and wind. They made their way to the stern of the ship. In a small shed, open to the rear, she was introduced to two other officers, a man and a woman, both wearing yellow and black wet suits and boots. They were the chief dive officer on board the ship and his second in command.
    “Understand you did PADI?” the man asked. “How many dives?”
    “I’d guess twenty-five or so.”
    This relieved them somewhat.
    “And the last time was?”
    “Make it a few years.”
    This response had the opposite effect.
    “Well, we’re going to walk you through all the steps again,” the male officer said, “like you’re a novice.”
    “I was hoping you would.”
    “Your deepest?” the woman dive officer asked.
    “Eighty feet.”
    “That’s about the same as here. The only difference is that it’ll be murkier. The currents’re stirring up the bottom.”
    The water wasn’t that cold, they explained, still retaining much of the summer’s heat, but to be under for any length of time would deplete her body heat quickly and so she needed to wear a wetsuit, which insulated her not only with the rubber but, as the name suggested, a thin layer of water between her skin and the shell of the suit.
    Behind a screen she stripped and then struggled to put the suit on.
    “Are you sure this isn’t a child’s size?” she called, gasping from the effort of pulling the tight rubber over her hips and shoulders.
    “We hear that a lot,” the woman dive officer responded.
    Then they suited her up with the rest of the equipment: weights, mask and the air tank attached to the BCD—buoyancy control device, a vest that you inflated or deflated with a control near your left hand, which made you rise or sink in the water.
    Also attached to the air tank was a primary regulator—the one that she’d breathe through—and then a secondary one, nicknamed the octopus, that could be used by a fellow diver to breathe off her tank if the buddy’s air supply was cut off. They also fitted a head-mounted spotlight to her hood.
    They ran through the basic hand signals for communicating with dive partners.
    A lot of information, important information, and she struggled to keep it in her mind.
    “How ’bout a knife?” she asked.
    “You’ve got one,” the dive chief said, pointing to her BCD. She drew the weapon only to find that it didn’t have a point.
    “You’re not going to be stabbing anything,” the woman said, seeing Sachs’s concern. “Only cutting. You know, wire or something that entangles you.”
    “Thinking more about sharks, actually,” she said.
    “Rarely see sharks in these waters.”
    “Hardly ever,” the other officer echoed. “Not big ones anyway.”
    “I’ll take your word for it,” Sachs said, replacing the knife. Wasn’t the movie Jaws set here?
    The dive chief handed Sachs a large mesh bag for stowing any evidence she found. Into these she placed what she’d brought for evidence collection—plastic bags. Then he and his assistant donned their equipment and, carrying their flippers, all three walked unsteadily to the very stern of the heaving ship.
    Shouting over the noise of the wind the dive chief said, “Too choppy to go off the deck. We’ll get into the raft, put our flippers on and then fall backward into the water. Hold your mask and regulator to your face. Other hand on your weight-belt release.”
    She tapped the top of her head—the hand signal for okay.
    He did the same.
    They climbed into the yellow raft, which was