Seduced by the Screenwriter

Chapter 16, Loving Someone Deeply Gives you Courage, Part 16

Chapter 16

Loving someone deeply gives you courage-Lao Tzu, philosopher

Catrina dropped backward off the edge of the ice into black water, letting the heavy oxygen tank pull her down. She welcomed the familiar shock that iced her neoprened body. In the early stage of a winter dive, the cold sharpened her senses and her focus. She somersaulted, flicked her fins, and followed Roger Smith's safety line the short distance to lake bottom.

The dull metal hood of a skidoo on its side reflected in the beam of her headlamp. Its handlebars and front skis were twisted skyward as if the driver had made a last-ditch attempt to gun the engine and speed away from the fatally weak ice. Under a starless night sky, with heavy snow falling, they'd stood no chance to detect the danger in time.

The other diver's light illuminated the victim laying face up. Her flippers stilled, halting her descent. She recognized Bob's round face, now plaster-hard with ice-chip, sightless eyes. A gloved hand hovered beside her safety line, anticipating the onset of out-of-control panic, preparing to signal an end to the dive. I'm such a mess. Why did I think I could do this?

To her astonishment, the only emotion she experienced was compassion. Poor Bob. Her mind filled with the image of his devastated loved ones attending on the surface, of their faith in the divers to return Bob to them. The pressure of Chett's kiss clung to her lips. Confiding in him had helped. Desolate, dead eyes-or at least, Bob's eyes-had lost their power to destroy her composure. Her breaths in and out maintained a steady rhythm, the familiar air hose hiss and bubbles reassuring.

She went to work.

The victim's legs and feet were already inserted into the body bag. His upper body wore a bulky, waterlogged parka. No life vest. With hand signals, Smith indicated that he'd lift the victim while she pulled the bag under the torso. Catrina swam into position and released some air from her flotation jacket. The belt weights anchored her to the sand.

In a minute the victim was zipped and secured. Stationed at each end, holding the handles, the divers inflated their flotation jackets and easily kicked to the rectangular opening in the ice, and daylight. Underwater, even a large body weighed no more than thirty-five pounds.

At the hole's edge, the male OPP constable, clad in an orange flotation jacket, pulled the black body bag by a handle onto the waiting sled while Smith pushed. Icy water streamed from the mesh. The uniform backtracked to shore holding an attached rope.

Catrina and Smith hovered, heads above water, while the uniforms and two paramedics hauled the heavy sled to shore. Catrina then pulled herself up over the ice edge, rolled away from the opening to distribute her weight before standing, and walked to shore in her ungainly flippers. Smith followed ten feet behind.

Tara unzipped the bag, peered quickly inside, then zipped it closed. Shoulders hunched, head bent, she trudged through the snow to Muriel and the girl. A murmur from the crowd swelled as she lifted the tape and motioned the women to step aside for a private conversation. The locals knew the cops bought their coffees and lunches at Tims. Even if Tara's demeanor hadn't broadcast the confirmation, it was a given that Tara was acquainted with Bob. Catrina's eyes misted. Tara had taken upon herself the most difficult of a cop's duties-to break the tragic news to family, compounded by probable private grief.

The trio of women clustered around one of the Muskoka chairs left at the shore for the winter. Nearby, the officers, the paramedics, the divers-all stopped whatever they were doing and stood respectfully in thick, falling snow, heads bowed. Several men removed their toques. A cellphone rang and was quickly silenced.