Ryan Lockwood - Below

He paused, fixing Sturman with an accusing stare. “She’s lucky to be alive, Mr. Sturman.”

Sturman’s face flushed. “And you think it’s my fault, right?” The doctor didn’t reply. Sturman looked down for a moment, then back at the doctor. “Will there be any permanent damage?”

“It’s hard to say right now. You should be all right, since you made it here so quickly. It’s likely you’ll make a full recovery. As for Mrs. Buckner, we’ll need to keep a closer eye on her. And run more tests once she’s finished in the chamber.”

“So how long ’til we can get out of this contraption?” Sturman asked.

“You’ll need to be in the recompression chamber for twelve hours to be safe. If the symptoms return later, we’ll need to have you come back.”

Sturman watched the doctor leave the room, then sat back down on one of the benches running alongside the chamber. He sighed. The dive charter business had been bad enough lately, because of the lousy economy and the lack of disposable income. And Sturman was getting tired of babysitting people who took too many chances underwater, putting his business at risk.

Maybe it was time to find something new. But diving was all he had.

The Lighthouse, a brick-walled pub on a side street two blocks up from the Capistrano Bay harbor, was a favorite haunt of the men who worked on the water. The Lighthouse drew fishermen, sailors, beachside vendors, and divers, who could all be found playing darts, shooting pool, or drinking too much inside the low-ceilinged one-story hangout. Tourists who walked in usually turned around and walked right back out.

This evening it was fairly slow as usual. Sturman was sitting inside the joint on a wooden bar stool, brooding over a beer. He listened to Jimmy Buffett singing “Come Monday” over the speakers on the walls and watched Jill move around behind the bar, halfheartedly focusing on her long, tanned legs and bare midriff.

Jill noticed him looking and smiled. “What you looking at, cowboy?”

Sturman looked away. He knew Jill was interested in him, but he liked things how they were. He didn’t want to complicate his life.

The Lighthouse was the one place besides his boat where he spent a lot of his free time. Too much of his free time, he knew. But what the hell.

He peeled at the wet label on the beer bottle as he thought about the accident that morning and the long day at the hospital. That woman had really screwed up wandering off and leaving her dive buddy like that. She could have gotten herself killed. But Sturman couldn’t let it go; after all, she was the one unconscious, spitting up blood in the hospital.

“She’s lucky to be alive,” the doctor had said.

Sturman set down his beer and covered his face with his hands, rubbing the stubble on his chin, then took off his well-worn cowboy hat and ran his hand back over the matching stubble on his closely shaved head.

Sturman and the sick woman had spent ten full hours in the recompression chamber together, her mostly sleeping off painkillers and sedatives. She had awoken briefly once, asked where she was, then drifted back to sleep. Sturman had stayed awake, fighting off guilt. He knew he’d let her wander too far off in the wreck; he’d given the divers too much freedom to explore. He knew better. When you bring out divers you don’t know well, you always keep them on a short leash. Now he was drinking off some of the guilt, when he knew he should have been headed home for a good night’s sleep.

“Hey, buddy. How you feeling?” A handsome Latino with a dark goatee had just come through the heavy wooden front door and was approaching Sturman, smiling broadly. Joe Montoya wasn’t in uniform, so Sturman knew he was off duty as a sergeant for the county sheriff.

Sturman smiled weakly back at Joe and, replacing the hat on his head, tipped it to his friend. Joe sat down on the stool next to Sturman and spun on it to face him.

Sturman sipped his beer and didn’t answer Joe’s question right away, pausing for effect. “One time right after I moved here we drove down to Tijuana, stayed up all night drinking cheap tequila, and then you took a beatin’ in an alley outside that bar when you tried to leave with some guy’s girlfriend. Remember that?”

Joe nodded and laughed, a loud, contagious laugh. “Yeah, man. You saved my ass.”

“Remember how we felt on the drive home up the Five the next morning?”

Joe smiled.

“Well, that’s about how I’m feeling,” Sturman said. “Hey, amigo, thanks for bringing her back, and for taking care of the dog.”

Wincing, he raised his arm to shake Joe’s hand. His buddy had been there to take care of his two most prized possessions—his boat and his dog. Joe had a family and long hours with the sheriff’s department, but Sturman could always count on his help when he needed him. Joe shook his head. “Man, so you’re really all messed up? You don’t look any shittier than normal. Is that lady gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know. Her husband will probably sue me, even though he’s the one who lost her.”

“No shit. You should’ve just left her ass down there.” Joe raised his hand to the bartender, pointing at himself. “I’ll have what our cowboy’s having.”

“Put everything on my tab, Jill.”

Joe was always making fun of Sturman’s cowboy hat and slight country-boy drawl. Sturman didn’t wear boots much anymore, but he would always be a cowboy.

Joe tried to get the story out of his friend. Sturman knew Joe wanted more details, but he wasn’t much of a talker. When Sturman explained how he had freed the woman from the ship hatchway, Joe said, “Too bad you can’t talk underwater. You could’ve gotten that chick to agree to anything for an escort to the surface.”

“Hell. I’da been happy to just get a tip.”

As was his way, Joe kept up the bad jokes. Beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol, Sturman laughed despite himself. That was Joe Montoya. When he wasn’t working, the man was never serious. Sturman had always figured that was a cop’s way of dealing with seeing gang-war victims and four-year-olds dismembered along highways.

After another round of Dos Equis, the conversation died off. On the other side of the pub, someone struck a cue ball and the racked billiard balls separated with a loud smack a moment later.

“Hey, man, you’ve dove and fished in this area for a long time. You know anything about a big fish called ‘the devil’ or a devil fish or something?”

Sturman was silent for a moment. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Some guy got attacked by a shark or something a few days ago, and the kid we’re holding now claims the guy said something about the devil before he died. Looks like a shark laid into him.”

Sturman sipped his beer. “Some people call mantas ‘devils’ because of the shape of their head. I’ve never heard of a ‘devil fish,’ though.”

“Mantas don’t attack people, right?”

Sturman grinned. “You sure don’t know shit for a cop with a boat. Mantas are sure as hell big enough, but they don’t even have any teeth.”

“Huh. Anyway, this was another one of them coyotes smuggling immigrants by boat. The kid we arrested says he was supposed to pick up a bunch of them and shuttle them back. Can you believe that shit? Some Mexican just dumped them in the ocean, and this other guy was supposed to pick them up.”

“You fuckin’ Mexicans.”

“Fuck you, Sturman. Anyway, kid says only this one dying guy was there when he showed up. Coast Guard went out, but never found anyone else.”

“Not many shark attacks around here. Not many dangerous sharks.”

“True, but not many people float around in the ocean offshore at night. I don’t know. I figure the kid’s probably full of shit anyway.”