Death by Marriage Read Online Free PDF Page B

matter how little.”
    Every detail . I had a horrible feeling last night would be etched in my mind forever. Rainbow’s End , dead in the water about fifty feet south of where Martin Kellerman went into the water. His beloved boy toy—engines off, anchor out, the Christmas Tree on the bow now as dark as the surrounding water. Roped to the yacht’s port side—the side toward the deep-water center of the broad canal—was the Golden Beach police boat, its flashing blue and white lights seeming more dirge-like by the moment. Nowhere could anyone in the crowd, now pressed tight to the banks on both sides of the canal, see flailing hands, churning feet, or any sign of a human being in the water, alive or dead.
    The now incongruously festive arrays of lights on the other boats helped illuminate the scene of the disaster. But nothing moved out there, not so much as a ripple. Nothing but Scott, a member of Golden Beach’s volunteer dive team, as he searched for Martin Kellerman. Or what was left of him. Scott hadn’t join the rescue team for the extra money. He truly loved saving people.
    But not this time, I thought, as minutes dragged by without a sign of Martin. Screaming ambulances arrived, forced to park a block away, while the EMS teams used the bike path along the Waterway to roll two stretcher units into place. Giant mobile spotlights, the size of satellite dishes, came next, their harsh glare illuminating what was looking more and more like the scene of a tragedy. Other divers joined Scott’s efforts, but the minutes turned into hours with no sign of a body, alive or dead.
    On the Chief’s orders, the boats on the north side of the canal began a series of tight U-turns, slinking back toward the Golden Beach Yacht Club at a snail’s pace, their lights winking out one by one as the captains acknowledged the possible tragedy they were leaving behind. The boats to the south, however, were trapped for the duration of Search and Rescue. Which was, of course, what we still hoped it was.
    If you’re wondering why they were trapped, the next outlet to the Gulf of Mexico was twenty miles south. Any boat choosing to go home that way would be caught in a forty-mile round trip, including trekking back to Golden Beach Harbor at night via a choppy gulf. Having set out for a happy event of less than four miles round trip, most boats probably weren’t even carrying that much fuel. So the boat captains switched off their music and powered down to idle. After the huge spotlights sprang into life, the captains turned off their now forlorn Christmas lights, threw out anchors, and shut down their engines.
    As the low throb of motors dwindled to nothing, I realized the truth of the old saying that silence is deafening. Hushed conversations from the many spectators still lining the banks ceased as abruptly as the boat engines. With the eerie sound of silence, hope faded.
    Minutes turned to hours, the crowd dwindled, and the divers began to show fatigue as they heaved the mselves back onto Scott’s dive platform for a rest. Search and Rescue had become Recovery. We all knew it. But I stayed. I told myself I wanted to be sure Scott didn’t stay down too long and have to be rescued himself, but truthfully there were so many police and EMS experts present, the chances of a second disaster were slim.
    I was caught in the moment, like the others who didn’t have to be there. Part respect for a man I’d known and liked and part—inwardly, I groaned. Never would I admit to ghoulish curiosity. But I wondered . . . was there some atavistic urge, born in us all—or maybe just in some of us—that made us want to know , to somehow comprehend how and why tragedies happen. There were people who would condemn me as a voyeur, but this was high drama, and I couldn’t turn away.
    Until Scott found what was left of Martin Kellerman. And the horror of it made cowards of us all. Except the police, who had no choice. And Scott, who had to deal with the