Free Below by Ryan Lockwood Page A

twenties. The old pirate never had a chance.
    Steve had been unaffected by the rejection. He had bought Sturman a few more beers before wandering off to hit on some younger tourists. Left to brood on his own, Sturman had started to think about Maria. He told himself that he was saving his friend from being shot down again when he suggested that if they hurried, they could get in a few hours of fishing.
    They’d left the bar, grabbed some fried chicken and beer at the store, and walked to the harbor and Sturman’s floating refuge. He didn’t like being around other people when his mood grew sour, especially women, and the boat that served as his home and office was where he went to think. And get drunk.
     
     
    Sturman dove down several more times and played with the shrimp, but the water was less than seventy degrees and he quickly cooled. He swam around to the stern of the boat and climbed the swim ladder, then stood dripping on the transom, goose bumps covering his wet skin. As he wrung the seawater out of his T-shirt in the moonlight, Steve Black looked down at him from the flying bridge. He was reclined in the padded swivel chair, his long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, listening to music softly playing over the boat’s built-in speakers.
    Sturman listened with him for a moment and began to feel a familiar lump creep into his throat. Brooks and Dunn’s rendition of “My Maria” was wafting into the cool night air.
    “Mind changing the station, Pop?”
    Steve reached to turn the radio dial to a local classic rock station. “Sorry, Will.”
    “It’s all right.”
    Growing up landlocked, Sturman had always wanted a boat. He had once pictured himself traveling the Caribbean and Mexico in a boat like this one. He had modified the thirty-six-foot fishing boat into a bachelor pad and home business, designed for diving. He had affixed tank holders in the stern and removed the dining table just inside the cabin to offer paying divers plenty of room to sit on the bench seats as he shuttled them to and from dive sites. Maria was a great vessel for a small dive operation that catered to groups of four or five divers, but she wasn’t big enough to live on comfortably. Sure, she had a galley, a head, and decent sleeping quarters in the bow, but she was a lady designed only to spend a weekend with, not for the commitment of moving in together.
    Sturman’s needs were simple. He ate out often and worked as much as possible. He could always be seen wearing his old cowboy hat, cargo shorts or old jeans, and a worn T-shirt. Off the boat, when he had to wear shoes, he opted for flip-flops or an old pair of shitkickers.
    Sturman looked up at Steve. His friend was out cold.
    “We better head in, Pop. I’m not lonely enough yet to sleep with you.”
    As Sturman dried off, his friend began to snore, but “My Maria” kept playing in his head and soon he was again melancholy. He climbed the ladder to the flying bridge, now feeling thoroughly chilled and a little more sober in the ocean breeze. As they motored slowly back toward the harbor, he allowed himself to think about her.
    When he neared the no-wake zone of the harbor, Sturman eased back on the throttle and climbed down the ladder. He stepped around Steve, who had moved down to the stern and curled up near Bud, out of the wind, and headed into the cabin to find his bottle of rum.

C HAPTER 14
     
Two Presumed Dead After Fishing Trip
O CEAN “G LOWING ” W HERE F ATHER , D AUGHTER V ANISHED
     
    I t was a smaller headline, tucked away in the local section of the Sunday edition of the San Diego daily paper. Slouched on his brown leather couch, Joe sat up as he reread the subhead, focusing on one word in particular:
    Glowing .
    The kid running immigrants had said something about the water glowing for a moment near his boat, but Joe and the other interrogators had laughed it off. The kid had been drinking, and was probably a liar. They figured he had simply seen the