Into the Deep. Virginia Smith
Ben pulled a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket. Then, with a slow movement, he extended it toward Nikki. “It read ‘Return the article and she will remain safe.’”
“She?” A wave of fear raised goose bumps along her arms. “Who is she?”
“There is only one she they could mean—you.”
“We haven’t seen each other in over two years, Ben. Until this afternoon, we’ve had no contact at all. And that was a coincidence. I don’t know what this is about, but they must mean someone else.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think our running into each other was a coincidence at all. I think someone arranged it.”
“What is this article they’re talking about, anyway? What’s going on, Ben? Why are you so worried?”
Nikki watched a struggle play across his face. Finally, he spoke in a low voice. “I don’t want to involve you any more than you already are. It’s safer if you don’t know.”
The memory of being watched crept over her like a wave on the beach. She glanced toward the closed patio curtains again. Was someone out there now? What had Ben done? Who had he run afoul of?
VIRGINIA SMITH
A lifelong lover of books, Virginia Smith has always enjoyed immersing herself in fiction. In her mid-twenties she wrote her first story and discovered that writing well is harder than it looks; it took many years to produce a book worthy of publication. During the daylight hours she steadily climbed the corporate ladder and stole time to write late at night after the kids were in bed. With the publication of her first novel, she left her twenty-year corporate profession to devote her energy to her passion—writing stories that honor God and bring a smile to the faces of her readers. When she isn’t writing, Ginny and her husband, Ted, enjoy exploring the extremes of nature—skiing in the mountains of Utah, motorcycle riding on the curvy roads of central Kentucky and scuba diving in the warm waters of the Caribbean. Visit her online at www.VirginiaSmith.org.
Into the Deep
Virginia Smith
Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
—Psalms 139:7–8
For Ted, my dive buddy and best friend
Acknowledgments
I owe a debt of gratitude to many people for helping me with this book. Thanks to author Elizabeth Ludwig (www.elizabethludwig.com) who helped me with the Spanish phrases. Gracias, amiga! The members of the Utah Christian Writers Fellowship are a constant source of encouragement, and never fail to suggest ways to improve the story. You guys are great! My mom, Amy Barkman, proofread the manuscript on short notice. Thanks, Mom! My editor, Tina James, made so many insightful suggestions that resulted in a much stronger book than the one I wrote initially. Thank you for making me a better writer, Tina. My agent, Wendy Lawton, is not only a terrific businesswoman, she’s the most encouraging agent in the industry. Thanks, Wendy. My husband not only helps me scout out new ideas for my books, he’s a terrific dive buddy as well. Ted, I appreciate you more than I can say.
And of course, the biggest thanks goes to my “heavenly Dad,” who has showed me the most incredible sights imaginable as I’ve donned scuba gear and traveled Into the Deep. How anyone can view His handiwork and still question His existence is beyond me.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
LETTER TO READER
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
PROLOGUE
October 13
Mexico
At the sight of the morning paper, a lump of ice dropped into Ben Dearinger’s stomach. His brain did a quick translation of the Spanish headline screaming across the front page.
LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD
DRUG CONNECTION SUSPECTED
Cesar Ramirez, the owner of Blue Waters Scuba Shop and Ben’s boss, tapped the newspaper on the sales counter with a sturdy finger. “I worry about you last night, amigo.” The trademark smile that normally split the man’s darkly tanned face was absent, replaced by a concerned frown. “You hear nothing? No guns?”
“No, nothing.” Ben swallowed against a dry throat. “Why? Did it happen nearby?”
“Sí. Two businesses were vandalized on this road last night.” Cesar pointed southward down the beach. “And the man was killed not a kilometer from here. That way.” His finger switched to point up the beach in the opposite direction.
Ben’s brain kicked into overdrive to translate as he scanned the article, searching for the victim’s name. Sergio Perez Rueda. Though bright Mexican sunlight flooded through the dive shop windows, the room darkened as Ben’s head started to spin. He took a backward step and slumped against the wall beside a rack of scuba tanks.
Cesar stepped toward Ben, hand outstretched. “What is it, amigo? He was a friend of yours, this Sergio?”
Ben scrubbed at his forehead, thoughts whirling. “No. I’ve seen him around, but I barely knew him. He…was here last night.” Ben jerked his head toward the rundown two-room apartment he rented from Cesar at the back of the scuba shop. “For less than five minutes. He came to the door and asked to use the baño.”
Ben had been sitting on the back porch, watching the sunset over the crystal blue waters when Sergio rounded the corner of the shop. He’d seen how jumpy the guy was, the way he kept glancing over his shoulder. His breath reeked of stale beer. Ben hadn’t wanted to grant the request to use his bathroom, but what could he do? Be rude and tell the guy no? Instead, he’d led him into the tiny apartment and kept a vigilant watch outside the door until he emerged.
Ben lowered his voice, hating the question he was about to ask, but knowing he had to. “Should I contact the police, Cesar?”
His boss didn’t answer at first. He ducked between the scuba regulator hoses dangling from overhead hooks like rows of rubber snakes. The whites of his eyes nearly disappeared