21. Meridian
Meridian
TWENTY ONE
I secure our latest find on the deck, a bronze ship's bell from some old merchant vessel. Two months working with Cyreus, and we've hit our stride - taking turns deciding between salvage days and exploration, depending on weather and how wiped I am from the last dive.
"Not bad for a morning's work," Cyreus says as he surfaces beside the boat. He's in human form, though he switches back and forth more these days now that he knows I don't care either way. "That bell should bring decent cash."
"Especially with that engraving still clear." I help him aboard, watching water pour off his dark hair. "Fergus has a collector who's nuts about maritime instruments."
Cyreus settles next to me but keeps glancing toward the horizon where another boat's appeared. Some fishing vessel, too far to make out details but definitely heading our direction.
"Looks like we've got company," he says casually, though I catch the way his shoulders tense .
I shield my eyes against the glare. "Pretty sure that's old Pete Miller's trawler. He fishes these waters all the time. Probably just checking his lines."
"Should we leave?"
"Nah. Pete's half deaf and cares more about his catch than what we're up to." I keep stowing gear at my normal pace. "Besides, we're in open water. Nothing illegal about what we're doing."
Cyreus stays on alert, tracking the fishing boat. "Legality isn't what worries me."
I get it. His hundred years of hiding wasn't a lifestyle choice but survival strategy. One solid sighting and he goes from local legend to lab specimen.
"He's changing course," Cyreus says suddenly. "Coming straight for us."
I look up and sure enough, Pete's boat has veered toward us, cutting through water with a purpose that feels off.
"That's weird. Pete usually sticks to the shallower grounds.
" I grab my binoculars for a better look.
Through the lenses, I can make out Pete at the helm with his perpetual slouch, but there's someone else with him - taller, younger, holding what looks like a fancy camera with a massive telephoto lens. "Shit. He's got company."
Cyreus starts edging toward the water. "I should go."
"Wait." I grab his arm before he can slip away. "If you disappear now, it'll look suspicious as hell. They might have already spotted you. "
"What's your suggestion?"
"Act normal. You're just some guy helping me with salvage work." I squeeze his arm. "Keep half-submerged on the platform if you're worried. People usually see what they expect to see."
He nods, though every line in his body screams tension. We keep securing our equipment as Pete's boat gets close enough that I can hear its cranky old engine.
"Mornin', Meri!" Pete hollers across the water. "Thought that was you! Got someone here wants to meet ya!"
I wave back with a casualness I definitely don't feel. "Morning, Pete! Fish biting today?"
His trawler pulls up alongside, and I get my first good look at his passenger - some guy in his thirties with a camera that probably cost more than my boat and a fancy waterproof notebook. Something about his eager expression sets off every alarm bell I've got.
"This here's Brian Donovan," Pete says. "Writes for that nature magazine—"
"Oceanic Quarterly," the guy jumps in, reaching his hand across the gap between our boats. "I'm doing a feature on independent salvage operators along the coast. Captain Miller says you're one of the best around."
I shake his hand quickly, keeping things friendly but not too friendly. "Just trying to make a living like everyone else. Nothing special about what I do."
Donovan's eyes shift to Cyreus, who's positioned himself perfectly on the dive platform with just his upper body visible above water. "And you must be the diving partner locals have mentioned. I heard Meri Montgomery started working with someone after years of solo operation."
Cyreus nods without offering his hand. "I provide assistance with deeper dives."
His voice is all wrong - that overly careful, formal English he uses when he's on high alert, none of the warmth or those weird harmonic undertones that slip in when he's relaxed.
"Fascinating." Donovan's eyes narrow like he's found something interesting under a microscope. "I'd love to interview you both for my article. The economics of small-scale salvage, the challenges of working without institutional backing. Would make a great sidebar to my main feature."
"We're not big on publicity," I say, trying to deflect without seeming like I'm hiding something. "Most of our work's pretty routine anyway."
"Those aren't routine finds," Donovan counters, nodding toward the bronze bell. "That level of preservation suggests deep-water recovery. Most independent operators can't safely access those depths."
His assessment is too spot-on, too informed. This isn't some journalist's casual interest. Something about how focused he is, the way his eyes keep coming back to Cyreus, makes my skin crawl.
"Just got lucky with the currents," I say, keeping it vague. "Listen, we need to head back to harbor. Tide's turning, and I've got people waiting on me. "
"Of course." Donovan pulls a business card from his pocket. "Maybe we could schedule something later? I'll be in the area for another week or so researching my article."
I take the card, noting the official magazine logo. "I'll think about it."
Pete, sensing the weird tension, starts backing his boat away. "We should get back to the fishing grounds anyway. Tide's bringing in the stripers this morning."
"Good luck with the catch," I call, already moving to start my engine.
As they pull away, I notice Donovan lift his camera, snapping several photos of us before they get too far. Cyreus has been unnaturally still throughout the whole exchange, but now he moves closer to me, speaking low where his voice won't carry across the water.
"He knows something."
"Or suspects something," I agree, keeping my expression neutral in case we're still being watched. "Either way, I don't like it."
"Did you recognize the publication he mentioned?"
"Yeah, it's legit. Oceanic Quarterly does cover marine conservation, underwater exploration, that kind of thing." I start the engine, steering us away at a normal, unhurried pace. "But that doesn't mean his interest is just about writing an article."
Once we've put enough distance between us and Pete's boat, Cyreus pulls himself up from the platform, water streaming off him as he joins me at the helm .
"Someone might have spotted us working together," he says. "Your diving abilities have jumped way beyond normal human limits since we partnered up. Deeper dives, longer bottom times, better finds. Was bound to catch somebody's attention eventually."
We fall quiet, both thinking through what this means.
For months we've been careful - diving in remote spots, working during off-hours, keeping an eye out for other boats.
But it only takes one sighting. One fisherman glimpsing something weird through murky water.
One diver spotting movement that doesn't match any known fish.
"We should probably stop operations for a while," Cyreus suggests as we approach the harbor. "Until this blows over."
"That might make things worse. Suddenly disappearing right after being approached would just confirm whatever he suspects." I shake my head, running through our options. "Better to keep normal patterns but be more careful. Fewer deep dives, more conventional salvage."
"And if he keeps digging?"
"Then we give him something that satisfies his curiosity without revealing the truth." I'm already forming a plan. "A limited interview about normal salvage methods, some basic finds to photograph. Nothing extraordinary, nothing that suggests I can do things other divers can't."
** *
The harbor's packed when I arrive - weekend boat traffic creating a traffic jam at the main dock. I navigate to my slip carefully, noticing how conversations stop as I pass, several people watching me with more interest than usual.
Fergus is waiting when I tie up, his weathered face tight with tension I rarely see. He helps secure my lines without his usual jokes, then leans in close to talk privately.
"Brian Donovan's been asking questions all over the harbor," he says without wasting time. "Specific questions about you and your mysterious diving partner that nobody's actually met."
"I know. He found me out on the water this morning with Pete." I study Fergus's face. "What kind of questions?"
Fergus glances around to make sure nobody's within earshot. "About your suddenly improved salvage hauls. About 'unusual marine activity' in areas where you dive. About your boat being spotted in places where normal diving would be impossible without specialized equipment you don't have registered."
My stomach knots up. "What did you tell him?"
"That you've always had a knack for finding what others miss.
That fishermen see all kinds of crazy shit after twelve hours on the water with a flask for company.
That you upgraded your equipment after that insurance settlement last year.
" Fergus meets my eyes directly. "I didn't mention that no such settlement exists, or that the equipment he's describing would cost more than your entire boat. "
Relief and gratitude hit me in a wave. Fergus has been covering for me without even knowing what he's covering up .
"Thank you," I squeeze his arm. "I owe you an explanation."
"You don't owe me anything." His voice has that gruff affection that's kept our friendship solid through years of business and personal crises.
"But I'm worried, Meri. This guy isn't just writing some fluff piece.
He's digging, and he's got backing from people who take 'unusual marine activity' seriously. "
"What kind of backing?"
"The kind that comes with university grants and research vessel access.
" Fergus nods toward the far end of the harbor, where an unfamiliar boat is docked - bigger than a pleasure craft but smaller than commercial vessels, its deck loaded with what looks like sophisticated sonar equipment and a small submersible launch system.
"That's the research vessel Horizon. Connected to Coastal Marine Biology Institute.
Arrived yesterday, scheduled for two weeks of 'habitat mapping' in our waters. "
The timing's too perfect to be coincidence. "And Donovan?"
"Been on board since they arrived. Only came ashore this morning to find Pete, who's famous for telling wild stories about strange things he's seen while fishing these waters for fifty years."
The pieces connect into a pattern I don't like at all. Whatever Donovan is investigating, it goes way beyond a magazine article. He's got institutional support, equipment, and clearly some information that led him specifically to these waters, to Pete Miller, and eventually to me .
"I need to unload some finds and get back out there," I decide quickly. "Can you handle the bell and the other artifacts? Standard commission arrangement?"
"Of course." Fergus helps me transfer the items to his cart. "But Meri? Whatever you're mixed up in... be careful. This Donovan character isn't just asking questions. He's recording answers, taking notes, building a case for something."
"I will be." I finish securing Deep Pockets, then hesitate, making another decision.
"Fergus, what I'm about to ask might sound weird, but I need you to trust me.
If anything happens - if I don't come back to harbor as expected, if authorities start asking more pointed questions - there's a cove about five miles east of Whaler's Point.
Small inlet, not on most charts. Can you remember that? "
His eyes widen slightly, but he nods. "Five miles east of Whaler's Point. Small inlet."
"If something goes wrong, go there at sunset. Wait an hour. You might... see something unexpected."
"Meri?"
"I can't explain now. Just promise me you'll remember."
"I promise." His expression is troubled but determined. "But you make me a promise in return - don't do anything reckless. Whatever's going on, it's not worth your safety."
If only he knew how much was actually at stake. Not just my safety or livelihood, but Cyreus's freedom, possibly his life. The revelation of his existence could change human understanding of the universe - and destroy the one being who's given my life new purpose and meaning.
"I'll be careful," I assure him. "Just need to warn my diving partner about our nosy journalist friend."