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“Yes!” Bubbles burst from my breather with my cheer.
My heart pounded in my ears as I tried to wriggle the china from the rigid cauliflower-like coral. It wouldn’t budge. I pulled my dive knife from the sheath on my thigh, and hating myself for damaging the precious reef, I hacked the robust coral to release its clutches on my prized relic.
The broken plate was a nearly perfect semicircle with a delicate feint blue filigree pattern around the edges and a gold trim. The decoration would have been an exquisite design. The kind that was only seen at fancy restaurants, like the one that had been at the Kangaroo Island luxury resort before it went broke.
This plate had to be from the Siren’s Lure.
I knew it. I fucking knew it.
A massive sense of achievement washed through me as I swept my gaze across the underwater landscape, searching for more debris. Decades of coral had camouflaged every existence of the shipwreck.
Although I desperately wanted to keep searching, I was at the end of my energy resources.
I carefully slotted the plate into the net bag attached to my hip, pulled my GPS surface buoy from my kit, and wedged the anchor between a massive brain coral and a rock about the size of Rhino’s engine.
Pushing off from the sand, I threaded the weighted line out from the GPS, noting the location of the giant clam which would serve as my marker for my next dive after an hour or so rest.
I began my return to the surface, careful not to exceed the speed of my ascending bubbles so I didn’t risk getting the bends. My mind was all over the place as I imagined every lump of coral below me was hiding a piece of the ancient wreck or its priceless cargo.
Did I just find a clue to a massive fortune?
If so, then I needed to get back down here ASAP. I only had two days before the weather turned crap again and made this reef too deadly to explore.
Pausing eighteen feet below the surface, I locked the anchor line and turned on the GPS. The signal synced with satellites to determine the precise location and transmitted that info back to Rhino. Keeping the GPS this deep ensured it wouldn’t get tangled in boat propellors if they were stupid enough to venture into this area, and it also kept my GPS hidden from prying eyes.
With that done, I checked my surface level and continued my slow ascent.
A deep drone thumped through the serenity, and I scoured the twinkling surface above me.
Fifty yards away, a boat carved through the water, aiming straight for Rhino.
Son of a bitch!
CHAPTER 2
Tyler
At the end of the crumbling concrete driveway, I parked my cop car parallel to the three other cars near the front entrance to the abandoned Angelson Orphanage main building. One of the cars belonged to Captain Watts, but I didn’t recognize any of the other vehicles. With my photographic memory, I would know if they’d crossed my path before.
I grabbed my phone, then scribbled on my pocketbook to confirm my pen worked before I shoved both into my vest top pocket, climbed out of my vehicle, and locked the door. Centered over the doorway to the main building was an angel statue that had been decapitated. Given the rotten crimes committed here, somebody probably hacked off the head.
The vandalism would be justified.
I crossed the gravel to the six stone steps that led up to the grand entrance which was flanked with two large stone pillars. The building would have been impressive when it opened one hundred and twelve years ago.
The orphanage had been abandoned for the last forty-one years. Many windows were cracked or missing altogether. Dead vines riddled the outer walls and looked like cancerous veins crisscrossing the red bricks.
At the top of the steps, as I pressed the button on my remote to confirm my car was locked, I scanned the dense foliage around the building. Angelsong had been built on fifty hectares of remote land that was at least two hours away from the nearest major town.
On the drive out here, I’d pondered whether the orphanage’s remote location had been part of the problem behind the systematic child abuse carried out here. The authorities probably couldn’t be bothered to make the journey, and when they did, the assholes committing the crimes would have had plenty of notice of such arrival, allowing them time to hide any incriminating evidence.
The property owner at that time, who had inherited this land from his father, died twenty-two years ago, aged eighty-four. He had bequeathed his entire estate to his sister, his only living relative. Muriel Cunningham was seventy-one when she inherited this property which was plagued with a shocking history, and, according to my research, the spinster had never even set foot on the land. She was now ninety-three and living with full-time care in an elderly home, so she was unlikely to ever visit.
Given the size of the property and the Edwardian architecture of the grand building, which was rare in this part of Australia, the property would be worth a small fortune . . . if it wasn’t for the gruesome atrocities committed here, that was.
Forty-one years ago, the abused kids were whisked away and farmed out to foster families dotted all over Australia. The only crime I had concrete evidence of was the serial numbers that had been tattooed onto the kids’ wrists when they first arrived here. The discovery of the tattooing was the abuse that officially shut down the orphanage.
I had a rotten feeling we were about to uncover more proof of the brutal crimes that had evaded justice for forty years.
