Page 86 of Hard Luck (Blackstone House)

“Yes, but you’re almost four thousand miles away.”

“Are you trying to make me fire you?”

“They thought of that, and if you fire me, they’re going to hire me.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I understand why you might feel that way. But as I said, we’re making progress. You’re on vacation, and relaxation should be your number-one priority for now.”

“Don’t make me fuck with your life. Believe it or not, I like you.”

“Sorry, but I have my orders. Please don’t fly back and torture me.”

“You’re in luck—I’m in the middle of the sea with Cole, a scientist, and a bunch of fish. Just solve the damn case.”

I hung up and tossed my satellite phone onto thecushion beside me. Nobody else knew it was a satellite phone because it looked like a regular phone. There were some advantages to working for Uncle Sam—we got the best gadgets. Honestly, I loved my job—not the death and destruction parts, obviously, but the satisfaction of making a positive difference to more lives than I took. I also loved my team. I just didn’t like them very much at the moment.

And I couldn’t fly home to deal with them either. Not when I’d promised to help Cole on this trip. Apparently, Delroy had needed seventeen stitches, so fuck knew what he’d been trying to do to my leg. He’d practically sawed his palm in half.

Damn, I was bored. So freaking bored. On the plus side, my leg felt pretty good this afternoon, but on the minus side, I was stuck on this boat for another five days. First thing this morning, before we left for survey spot number two, I’d swum across to Penguin Rock to explore, which had taken roughly five minutes, and then I’d gotten chased by a platoon of pigs. Did you know pigs could swim? Neither did I until today.

Anyhow, I was sequestered on theCrosswind. Cole was sitting on the swim platform, waiting for Jon and Witt to come up from a dive, so I meandered down to the saloon, where there was a shelf full of books. But I got distracted by a map laid out on the table. It showed the islands of San Gallicano, even the tiny ones like Penguin Rock. The key was written in Dr. Blaylock’s hand, which figured. The boys were using laptops. Blaylock was old school.

The route for past survey areas was dotted in red, and new locations this year were in blue. Cole said the charter was a week longer this year as the project had been extended. The red line curved from Emerald Shores to Starlight Reef, then on to Spice Island, Malavilla, Valentine Cay, and Treasure Atoll, wiggling past minor islands on theway. Finally, the line turned blue and headed for the area around Skeleton Cay.

Last night at dinner, Dr. Blaylock had told me a little about the changes along the way, how some areas had turtles and some didn’t, how there was a strange dead spot near Sarita that nobody had yet been able to explain. Five years ago, the coral had bleached and the fish moved on.

This year, seven new stops had been added, one at Dreadhaven and the rest at smaller land masses. If I recalled correctly, Dreadhaven’s northernmost beach was home to a sunken pirate ship that reappeared every so often when a storm shifted the sands. How did they decide which islands to survey? Dr. Blaylock had given me copies of several of his research papers after dessert last night—printed and bound—so maybe I’d try reading them.

There was a notebook beside the map, handwritten in cursive. Dr. Blaylock’s? There was a drawing of a conch shell on one page, then a few notes.

Today was the first day since the hurricane that I returned. The island stood eerily silent, as if the creatures who survived nature’s fury were still taking in their fate. Palm trees lay on the sand, ripped out by the roots, a dead hawksbill beside them. A young adult, four or five years old. Beneath the surface, the conchs at the breeding ground were fewer in number, but the winds brought a new gift—the Spanish Dancer.

Poor turtle. A Spanish Dancer was a frilly sea slug, I knew that much. A nudibranch. I’d seen one years agowhen I took a vacation to Egypt with Bastian, and sea slugs were a hell of a lot prettier than their terrestrial counterparts.

She was shallower than I would have expected, and I caught just a brief glimpse of her, but there was no doubting her beauty. The seagrass rippled in?—

“Hey.”

I turned to see Witt dripping in the doorway. “Hi.”

“What’re you doing?” His tone was suspicious. Accusatory.

“Trying to see where we’re going next. How did you pick the places we’re stopping at?”

“Don’t ask me,” he said with a shrug. “Clint and Jon came up with the plan. I’m just the muscle.” Witt laughed and flexed, and okay, he did have biceps. Then he tried drying his hands on his wet shorts—didn’t work—and strode past me to pick up the journal. “Jon was looking for this earlier. Guess I should give it to him.”

“Careful, don’t show too much enthusiasm. You’re just here for the free vacation?”

“Yeah, but don’t tell Dr. Blaylock. You?”

“Same. Don’t tell Cole.”

He laughed again, this time conspiratorially, but there was something bugging me. Something not quite right.

“I heard you went to school with Clint?”

“Right, since we were kids.”

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