Ryan Lockwood - Below

“Stop it, Dad!”

“You winning, mija ?”

“You don’t win this game, Dad. I’m building my army.”

“Why play if you can’t win?”

“You win later. I need to build my army first.”

“Of course you do.”

The thought of losing Gabby kept forcing its way into Joe’s mind. He couldn’t even begin to think about what it would be like. He put his arm around his baby girl.

“Get off me, Dad! You just made me go in the wrong door…. Now I’ve got to go all the way back around again. Thanks a lot.”

“Anytime, baby.”

Joe thought for a moment about the case with the missing immigrants. He could leave that for now; he would look into the fishing accident first.

The next time Sturman got drunk, he wouldn’t do it the night before a rough day at sea. Although it was a beautiful Sunday morning, the heaving Pacific swells were much larger than they had been recently. Some storm in the southern hemisphere had sent them up overnight. Well, at least the surfers would be happy.

Sturman made the promise to himself—a promise he had broken many times before—as he gripped the helm of his boat to keep his balance. He swallowed hard, forcing back the bitter bile rising in his throat.

Maria was out in the open ocean, idling over a small area. The boat bobbed up and down, her flying bridge swaying from side to side as Sturman followed his search route. The bright sunlight glinting off the waves made scanning the water very difficult, and amplified his headache and nausea.

Sturman sometimes volunteered with the county sheriff’s office on their large-scale marine search-and-rescue operations. One drawback was the lack of early notification. The night before, he had polished off most of a bottle of rum and passed out on his flying bridge.

At dawn, his cell’s ringtone had woken him with a request from Joe Montoya to join the search this morning. His head pounding and his mouth dry and tasting of stale alcohol, he had called Joe back and reluctantly agreed to help.

He wasn’t very optimistic about today’s search, and wished he had asked for more information before he agreed to assist. This looked like it was going to be more of a search for bodies than a rescue. Probably a homicide, based on the witness’s story. During the briefing, Sturman had learned that this guy had claimed his brother and niece had fallen off his boat last night. The man had said both of them had gone under, although the sea had been much calmer yesterday.

Not a very good story. Sturman figured if you were going to kill someone, you should probably use a little more imagination.

He felt another wave of nausea as the boat pitched to one side. He looked at the Asian man sitting next to him in the flying bridge, a small, animated guy about Sturman’s age who had been talking for the past several minutes. Sturman wished he could get some solitude today.

When you went out with the county on SAR operations, you never went alone. Today, he had been forced to take Mike Phan on board. Mike, another volunteer, was an amicable guy and normally good company. He wasn’t the best passenger when you didn’t feel like conversation, though. The guy never quit talking.

“…her swimsuit bottom on the sand, and then I look up and realize she’s standing right there. Buck-naked! Holy shit, man, it was funny. Sturman? Hey, man? Are you hearing anything I’m saying?”

“What’s that?”

“You’re not hearing a word out of my mouth, you big prick.”

“Watch it, you little bastard. For a minute, I thought I saw something over there.”

“Nothing?”

“Guess not.”

“This is what you get for getting smashed again.”

“Are you my mother, you little Oriental bastard?”

“Asian, not Oriental, you fuckin’ redneck. Seriously, Sturman. You need to slow down on that shit.”

“Mike, watch our heading for a minute.” Sturman moved past the small Vietnamese man to the ladder, then hustled down and made for the stern. He reached it just in time to lean out and vomit into the churning wake of his boat. He finished with a few dry heaves, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up and tipped his cowboy hat at Mike. He felt better.

Mike was at the helm of Sturman’s boat in the flying bridge. He shook his head. “Joe know you’re still drunk when you head out on these searches?”

Mike was usually assigned to Sturman’s boat when they went out on SAR operations. He didn’t have his own boat, but he was a certified rescue diver like Sturman, could drive a boat pretty well, and was happy to have an excuse for a free day at sea. He managed a call center in La Mesa, and Sturman knew he didn’t get to spend a lot of time on the water.

The pair had been out for several hours now, cruising in their designated search pattern off the coast of La Jolla. Sturman didn’t think they’d find anything. If the uncle had dumped his victims in the ocean, he probably wouldn’t hand over the exact coordinates to the search team. The SAR team had estimated the ocean’s currents at the location the uncle had given, then sent the volunteers off to search different areas based on predicted drift patterns. Volunteers were assigned to the perimeter of the larger search area, with Coast Guard and other official vessels nearer the center. The operation was focusing on a patch of open water northeast of the location where the two had gone into the ocean, much closer to shore, though still well off the coast. The ocean had been relatively empty all morning, save for the other rescue boats nearby and a few weekend fishing vessels visible from the tops of each swell.

Sturman stood at the bottom of the boat, facing south. Down here, closer to the water, the boat rocked less violently. He looked at the surface of the ocean, trying to see past the sunlight glinting off the millions of angles on the waves, thankful for his polarized aviator sunglasses. Searching right now was probably a waste of time. The sun was almost to its zenith, and it was practically impossible to spot anything on the glinting surface. He turned away from the sun and looked toward the northern horizon, focusing where there was slightly less sun glare. He was looking into the waves and thinking about sleep when something nearby caught his eye.

Something orange.

He was sure he had seen a small flash of orange at the crest of the wave, but moments later it had disappeared. Not much out here was that color. Unless a dead garibaldi had floated up, he had seen a man-made object. Possibly a life vest.

Hunters, road crews, and rescue teams wore fluorescent orange or green for a reason: they were the most visible colors to the human eye. They also stood out in dim light, unlike the color red. Sturman, once a hunter and aspiring fireman, knew this was the reason many fire trucks and hunting vests had decades ago been switched from red to fluorescent green and bright orange.

“Hey, Mike, slow up a minute.”

“You see something, man?”

“Maybe. Off our port side, maybe fifty yards. Something orange.”

Mike slowed the boat, turning the helm to the left. Both men stared off to where Sturman had seen the flash of color. For thirty seconds, both men were quiet, focusing on the waves.

“I don’t see anything. Where did you see it again?”

“There! We just passed it.” Sturman was pointing aft of the boat, over the port side. “I’ll keep my eye on it, Mike. Bring the boat around.”

“Got it.”

As Mike steered the Wellcraft toward the floating object, Sturman grabbed a net and walked to the starboard side, just behind and below Mike. It would be easier for Mike to drive right alongside the object if he kept it to his side of the boat. They failed to retrieve the object on the first pass in the rough seas, but it gave the men a good look at the object. Something white and orange, about the size of a beer bottle. When Mike came around the second time, he brought the boat within a few feet of it. Sturman scooped it into his fishing net.