A CRY FROM THE DEEP Read online

  As if the elements were aware of her thoughts, they did their best to soothe her. The wind played with her hair and the smell of the ocean calmed her. She could now see Carrigan Head, a rugged coastline with towering hills of rock jutting up from the shore.

  “It’s something, huh?” said Joy, joining Catherine on the deck. She was wearing an apron with a dusting of flour over it and her black unruly hair was pushed off her face by a hot pink elasticized hair band. Her ebony skin shone from working over a hot stove.

  “It sure is,” said Catherine. “I understand now why the Irish are known for their blarney. The whole place looks unreal. I can’t believe all the greens. They say there are forty shades of green in Ireland. I didn’t think that was possible until I got here. Pictures don’t do this place justice.”

  “You got that right.” After a few moments of drinking in the scenery, Joy said, “I keep forgettin’ to ask you. How’s that little munchkin of yours?”

  “She’s visiting my ex-mother-in-law in the country.”

  “Are you cool with that?”

  Catherine made a face. “Sybil’s not an easy grandmother. Her standards are so high I don’t know if anyone can please that woman.”

  Joy snorted, “One of those, huh? Don’t worry. From what I’ve seen of Alex, I’m sure she’ll give the old lady a run for her money.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Catherine knew she had a tendency to be over protective but that knowledge didn’t stop her from worrying. If there were any problems, she hoped Richard would intervene.

  When Catherine had phoned him the evening before to talk about Alex, he was out for dinner with Monique something or other, who kept interrupting and saying they were going to be late for the theatre. The cow. Catherine had never been jealous of the women in Richard’s life, whether they were his patients, friends, or colleagues, but this was different. For some reason she didn’t like the sound of this woman’s voice. She sounded too territorial for Catherine’s liking. She’d have to ask Alex about her, find out whether she’d met Papa’s new girlfriend or not. She couldn’t imagine another woman being involved with Alex’s parenting, but she was getting ahead of herself. Why wouldn’t Richard date someone else? Of course, he would. It’d been three years since the divorce. He’d probably dated many women by now. So, why was she so surprised? She sighed. Maybe because his personal life hadn’t come up before. And maybe because she was now recognizing what she’d lost. He was handsome, intelligent, financially astute, and a man who dressed well. Who wouldn’t want to marry him?

  Joy nudged her. “Well, back to the salt mines. Hennesey hates it if I don’t get the meals out on time.”

  Richard always hated lateness, too. So, he was going out with Monique. French. He’d always had a thing for French women.

  ~~~

  Hennesey was making good time. They’d been out almost an hour and were close to their destination. Catherine was on deck when they rounded Carrigan Point with its majestic view of Slieve League Cliffs. Rising sharply from the sea to flat bluffs, the cliffs were mountain high and uninhabitable. Waves crashed on the rocks below, sending plumes of water several stories high, but out where they were, the sea was relatively calm.

  With the boat slowing down, Catherine went to the bridge, where the excitement was palpable. Hennesey, Daniel, Jerry, Olaf, and Gabe were discussing their survey plans.

  Frank had told Catherine that Gabe De Vries was one of the best magnetometer operators in his field. He’d been instrumental in finding a few ancient Egyptian vessels in the Mediterranean, ones that had kept antiquity collectors around the world awake at night lusting after its potential treasures. Now, the people behind National Geographic were gambling on Hennesey’s skills in salvaging and Gabe’s reading of the data to find the vessel that had escaped detection for centuries.

  Hennesey passed the steering wheel to Olaf and then huddled with the others around the computer. The screen, with its visual grid, showed the boat’s position.

  The boat was moving in a methodical fashion—at five to eight knots parallel to the shore—much like someone cutting grass. It was slow enough for the men at the computer to identify any anomalies. They were all looking for those dark images on the screen that could mean some part of a wreck.

  Hennesey rolled his chair closer to a map on a side table. He pointed to two spots, north of their current position. “Mullaghderg and Rinn a’Chaislean. This is where I think those two galleons went down. They could’ve been travelling with the Girona. There were sightings, but nothing’s ever been found to identify either ship. But with all the storms and tides, one of them could’ve ended up in these waters.”

  Daniel said, “Wrecks are always shifting. That could explain why no one’s found anything.”

  Hennesey nodded and scratched his chest. “With Gabe here, we should be able to detect a brass cannon or an iron anchor within two to three hundred feet. They had a lot of cannons on board, so hopefully a lot of that metal is in one place.”

  “And if it isn’t?” asked Catherine.

  Gabe said, “It means the ferrous articles are broadcast over a larger area. We won’t have the same range of detection.”

  Catherine knew this search could take days, weeks, even months. She remembered the stories of Mel Fisher, the famous treasure hunter who’d found the Atocha. He’d gone up and down the coast of Florida for a year before he’d found anything from that wreck. Changing tides, seasonal storms, and years of erosion or decay had affected their game.

  But one thing all salvagers took comfort in, was the fact that heavy gold objects like goblets stayed intact. Gold retained its properties and shine, unlike silver that corroded with time. It would be as brilliant today as it was hundreds of years earlier. They remained buried near a ship’s final resting place, even if that ship had broken apart. That was the part that intrigued Catherine. How something that old could endure for centuries under the sea.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The team’s first outing had ended with disappointment. No iron was detected. And with the following day socked in, it didn’t look like they’d find anything anytime soon. Hennesey told everyone they had the morning free, on the stipulation he could reach them in an hour’s notice if the weather improved.

  Catherine decided to use the time to do more sleuthing. Though dismissing the psychic’s reading, she hadn’t entirely given up on finding the old man on the road. She checked the local phone book and made a few calls. Of the six O’Donnells listed, none of them answered to Martin nor any other elderly gentlemen that fit her description.

  Then she remembered what Adam had said when she’d talked to him on the pretext of searching for her family roots. He’d suggested parish records. There were three churches under the Churches’ heading in the yellow pages. She phoned each one hoping to find someone with access to the records of the diocese, but it being a weekday, two of the three were closed. She had always wondered about the logic of closing a church for part of the week. Not that she was interested in going at some random time, it was just nice to know that God’s house was always open.

  When she finally tracked down the Protestant minister and the two Catholic priests of the three local parishes, not one of them knew the man in question. But then she thought, what if Martin wasn’t a God-fearing man? What if he’d never attended church? But how likely was that? In Ireland, especially in his generation, the majority were church-going Christians.

  Striking out on the religious connection, she decided to use the rest of the morning to explore the area. On a whim, she drove north along the sea. The mystery of Martin O’Donnell was underlined by the dense fog covering the land. It made for eerie driving. After passing what seemed to be the northern edge of the village, she was about to turn back when she spotted a monument. When she got closer, she read that it was Catherine’s Well, a heritage site commemorating the memory of St. Catherine of Alexandria, the patron saint of Killybegs. She smiled to herself, as she could almost hear Lindsey
saying, “See, they even have a saint named after you. Doesn’t that tell you something?” Yeah, it tells me that weird just got weirder.

  Catherine parked her car in the lot nearby and took out her guidebook on Ireland. Finding the section on Killybegs, she read that some monks had sailed along the coast and had run into a vicious storm. Afraid they’d never make it to land, they prayed to St. Catherine and promised her they’d do something in her honor if she saved them. When they reached the shores of what was now Killybegs, they built a well in her name. She also read that Killybegs was a Celtic word, meaning little cells or little churches having to do with this early monastic settlement. She thought it was curious that she’d come upon this shrine. She’d been religious for the early part of her life, but after her divorce, she’d pulled away from God. Now, it appeared she was on His doorstep once more.

  She walked up the paved path to the shrine with its short white walls forming a horseshoe-shaped entrance. A few yards in, a glass case enclosed a white figure of St. Catherine with artificial red roses at her feet. Although Catherine didn’t go to church anymore, seeing the sculpture of the saint humbled her into reflection and prayer. The cynic in her said she was hedging her bets by praying, but the little girl in her, who still believed, said otherwise.

  The plaque to the left of the well stated the saint was the patron saint of apologists, archivists, barristers, potters, dying people, educators, knife grinders, librarians, maidens, mechanics, millers, nurses, philosophers, preachers, schoolchildren, scribes, spinners, spinsters, stenographers, students, tanners, theologians, and wheelwrights. It was a list that covered nearly everyone. With all those occupations under her wing, Catherine figured this saint had to include scuba divers as well.

  She turned right to a path leading to the remains of a four hundred year old church and graveyard. Its entrance bore the sign:

  Built by Roger Jones post 1615, used as Burial Grounds for Protestants and Catholics.

  Last Parish Internment 1902. Some World War II War Victims buried here.

  Considering the ongoing battles between the Irish Protestants and Catholics, it was heartening to see a place in Ireland where they were at peace side by side.

  She walked further into the grounds, overgrown with wild plants. Of the graves spanning hundreds of years, there were many that had gone unattended, perhaps forgotten, their markers broken, fallen, or sunken. She strained to see the writing on some of them, but time had erased the names etched on the stones and the ones that remained were largely illegible. To think there was no longer a mark showing the deceased was an invitation to sorrow.

  A sudden breeze ruffled her shirt and she turned towards the sea. A young woman in a white gown stood about fifty yards away, by one of the old headstones. Her long auburn hair danced in the air as the wind picked up and rustled the trees overhead. She looked eerily like the woman in her dreams. Catherine was about to call out when a speck of dirt flew into her right eye. By the time she blinked a few times to expel the speck, the woman was nowhere to be seen. Catherine glanced in all directions and then hurried back to the entrance, thinking she might catch the stranger, but whoever had been there had vanished.

  Shaken, Catherine turned back to where she’d last seen her standing. The path there was so crooked she had to step around some headstones that had fallen to the ground. Reaching the spot where the young woman had stood, Catherine looked down at a sandstone slab. Some dried mud hid the name on the tablet, and she bent down to brush it away with her hand. Her heart quickened as she read the inscription:

  Here Lieth the body of

  Elizabeth Mary O’Donnell,

  Who departed this life the 3rd day of May, 1869, aged 28 years

  Also the body of her daughter Hannah O’Donnell

  Who departed this life on the 3rd day of May, 1869, aged 2 days

  Also the body of her husband, Martin Thomas O’Donnell

  Who departed this life on August 15 1916, aged 81 years.

  Catherine gasped. Martin O’Donnell was a ghost.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Catherine read the inscription again. Elizabeth Mary O’Donnell. Was she the young woman who’d just stood at the gravesite? With the wind picking up, Catherine untied the sweater around her shoulders and put it on. The chill she experienced wasn’t from the cool air; it was from the realization she was being guided by people she didn’t know, people who were already dead, at least one of them for sure. What did they want from her?

  She studied her Claddagh ring. Was this ring somehow connected? It was made in 1858. That put the ring in the same ballpark as Martin O’Donnell’s life. His wife, Elizabeth, had died in 1869. If it was hers at the time of her death, she would’ve been married to Martin for eleven years. That is, if he’d bought the band in 1858.

  She stared at Martin’s grave marker. She half expected him to show up to explain what was going on, but all she heard was the sound of the wind rustling some leaves. After jotting down the names and dates in her notebook, she tucked it in her bag, pulled her sweater tighter, and walked out of the cemetery.

  She told herself to use logic. As she had little to go on, she shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Richard did say the girl in her dreams could be a manifestation of her fears of going underwater again. That was probably why the young woman resembled her and the man was there to rescue the young woman, or maybe he was there to rescue Catherine. A father figure, was that what he was? Her own father had favored her brother and perhaps she’d conjured up the old guy as someone to save her.

  But what if Richard was wrong? How could she have made up a man called Martin O’Donnell? He was real. His marker was right there and he had died before she was born.

  ~~~

  When the mist dissipated by noon, Catherine was called back to the boat. Troubled by her discovery of Martin’s grave, she delayed boarding as long as she could. She kept telling herself there was no such thing as ghosts. But try as she might, she found it hard to give in to her rational side. The evidence to the contrary was too powerful.

  With her mind half on Martin and half on diving, Catherine joined the others in the wheelhouse—Hennesey, Olaf, Gabe, Daniel, and the two Cubans. All anxious for a sighting. But as the hours waned and no evidence of a wreck was found, the team grew restless.

  When the sun dropped further, and there was still no sign of any anomaly, Catherine wondered how much longer they’d be out. She’d missed talking to Alex the night before, and she didn’t want to go through another day without hearing her voice.

  She said to Hennesey, whose eyes were fixed on the computer screen, “Are you planning on calling it quits soon?”

  He looked up from his seat and scowled. “You shouldn’t have agreed to come if you wanted to work government hours.”

  “Easy,” said Daniel, who was standing nearby.

  Catherine put her hand up, indicating she could handle this herself. Glaring at the captain, she said, “Were you always an asshole or are you just acting like one for my benefit?”

  “Cute!” Hennesey’s eyes were dark horizontal slits. “You’re quite the prize. I bet your ex couldn’t stand you either.”

  Catherine blanched. “Whoever raised you didn’t teach you manners.”

  “You’d be better off if you kept your mouth shut,” snarled Hennesey. “You’re a photographer. All I need from you are some goddamn photos.”

  She seethed under the attack but before she could retort, Jerry intervened. “Hey, boss, lighten up.” And then, to Catherine, “He gets crabby when he can’t find what he thinks is there.”

  Catherine shook her head. “That’s no excuse.”

  “You’re right,” said Daniel.

  Hennesey clenched his jaw and stared at the screen.

  She would’ve liked an apology, but from a man like Hennesey, that would’ve been like asking for the moon.

  Jerry said to Hennesey, “Don’t worry, if she’s there, we’ll find ‘er.”

  “Hell, I know we’ll find
her, sooner or later. That’s not my fucking problem. My fucking problem is will we find her before the vultures arrive?”

  Jerry slyly exchanged glances with Catherine, letting her know she wasn’t alone in her frustration. There was always somebody on a project that was prickly. Unfortunately for all of them, it was their leader.

  But Hennesey did have a point. Their daily visit to this spot was bound to attract attention from other divers soon, and not the kind that was positive. So far, they’d been lucky. Maybe the story Hennesey had put out had registered. Maybe locals believed they were a group of recreational divers from the USA. Any boats hovering nearby hadn’t hung around for long. Not seeing anyone in the water, their captains might’ve assumed there wasn’t anything worth pursuing.

  Catherine needn’t have worried about getting back in time for her calls. Within the hour, the wind had picked up unexpectedly, making ocean-going treacherous. On their return to Killybegs, most of the crew stayed on deck, making sure everything that was in danger of flying into the rough seas was fastened down. With the rocking of the boat and the conflict on board, Catherine’s stomach had taken a turn. She did all she could to keep from throwing up before they docked.

  She was stepping off the boat when Joy came up from below and said, “Hey, one of the guys told me Hennesey took a bite out of you today. I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to do with you,” said Catherine, hiking her bag on her shoulder.

  Joy came over to the rail. “You feelin’ alright? You look green.”

  Catherine frowned. “I don’t usually get seasick.”