Read Chapter 27: Jake's Helmet

The deck of the *Sea Serpent* groaned under the heat of the midday sun. Mack knelt beside the aft winch, a socket wrench in his hand, coaxing a seized bearing back to life with oil and patience he didn't feel. His shirt was off, sweat slicking his back, and the black coat lay folded on the companionway steps where he'd thrown it. It still radiated a faint warmth, like an animal pretending to sleep.

Pete was in the engine room, and Rosa was up on the bridge, plotting a course for the nearest Navy port. Mack had insisted. Nobody had argued, not even Jake—the real Jake, who had spent most of the last two days on the far side of the boat, coiling lines and avoiding eye contact.

"You're gonna strip that thread."

Mack looked up. Jake stood at the rail, arms crossed, a tin cup of coffee in one hand. He looked better than he had when they'd pulled him from the dinghy—more color in his face, steadier on his feet—but there was still something haunted in his eyes.

"Thread's already stripped," Mack said, tossing the wrench onto the deck. "I'm just making it worse. Like most things."

Jake didn't smile. He took a sip of coffee and stared out at the flat, empty sea. "You ever think about what you'd do different?"

"Every day."

"Not the Navy stuff." Jake turned to face him. "The diving. The partnership. If you'd known what was down there—what was waiting—would you have still gone?"

Mack stood up slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. "That's a stupid question."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. Because I didn't go down there for the treasure. I went down there for you." Mack's voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat. "I went down there because you were gone, and I thought—"

"I know what you thought." Jake set the cup down and walked closer, lowering his voice. "And I thought you'd given up on me. I was down there, Mack. In the dark. In that cave. I heard the water moving, and I heard voices. Ghosts. And I knew if you were above, you'd come. You'd find me. But weeks passed. Months."

"I never stopped looking."

"I know that now." Jake put a hand on his shoulder. "The ghosts told me."

Mack's chest tightened. "What do you mean, they told you?"

Jake glanced at the bridge, where Rosa's silhouette moved behind the glass. Then he turned back to Mack, his face pale beneath its sunburn. "I was trapped in a limestone pocket off the main wreck—a cave that had been sealed by a rockfall. I had a small air pocket, enough to survive if I rationed. And I had a cache of canned food from an old salvage crew that had found the site years ago. They'd stashed provisions and never came back."

"How long were you in there?"

"Nearly four months."

Mack felt the words land like a punch to the sternum. "Four months. In the dark."

"There was a crack. A small fissure that let in light during the day, but not enough to see by. I mostly felt my way around. And I heard them." Jake's voice dropped to a whisper. "The crew of the *Santa Catalina*. They walked through the cave walls. Talked to me. Told me about the captain. About the curse. About you."

Mack's mouth was dry. "What did they say?"

"They said you had the coat. That you were trying to put things right." Jake paused, his eyes searching Mack's face. "They said you were changed. That you'd stopped running."

Mack looked down at his hands. The knuckles were scraped raw from the repair work. "I'm still running, Jake. I'm headed to port to surrender to the Navy. Dishonorable discharge. Probably prison time."

"They know." Jake nodded. "The ghosts know everything. They said you'd do that. They said it was the right thing." He stepped closer. "But there's unfinished business. More than the gold."

"What do you mean?"

Jake reached into the canvas bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out something wrapped in oilcloth. He unfolded it carefully, revealing a battered brass diving helmet—the old standard, with its round faceplate and riveted neck ring, the glass cracked and the metal dented in a dozen places.

Mack's breath caught. "That's—"

"The helmet from the salvage shop. The one your father used to own." Jake held it out to him. "I didn't take it. The ghosts brought it to me. They said it was part of the bargain. An anchor."

Mack didn't reach for it. "Anchor for what?"

"For Blackwood. His soul is still bound to the gold, even now. You gave up the treasure, but you kept a few coins. And he kept something too." Jake turned the helmet over, and Mack saw the name etched into the brass backplate: *E. Blackwood*.

"He was wearing this when he died," Jake said. "When Pimm faked his death, Blackwood took the helmet off and left it behind. It's the only piece of his that never made it to the wreck. He's incomplete. His soul's scattered—some in the gold, some in the coat, some in the sea. But the helmet is the key. Put it back, and you can finish the ritual."

Mack stared at the helmet. Its single eye—the empty socket where the glass had shattered—seemed to stare back. His coat pulsed with warmth on the companionway steps.

"Why you?" Mack asked. "Why did they bring it to you?"

Jake's jaw tightened. "Because they knew I'd understand. I've been down there, in the dark, with them. I know what it's like to be trapped. To be forgotten." He pushed the helmet into Mack's hands. "You have to go back. Not to the wreck—to the cave. The entrance to the cave is the same one I crawled into. It leads to the heart of the ship. That's where you have to put it."

"A cave in a wreck that's half buried in a trench?" Mack shook his head. "Jake, that's suicide. The structure's unstable. The storm shifted everything. I barely made it out last time."

"You made it out. That's the point." Jake grabbed Mack by the shoulders, his grip surprisingly strong for a man who'd nearly starved in a hole. "The ghosts chose you, Mack. Not because you were the best diver or the smartest or the richest. But because you came back. You came back for me. And you're still coming back."

Mack looked at the helmet again. A piece of glass fell from the frame and tinkled on the deck. The coat on the steps pulsed again, stronger now, almost impatient.

From the bridge, Rosa's voice rang out. "Mack! Come up here. We're picking up a distress signal—a fishing boat with engine trouble. They're about three miles out."

Mack tucked the helmet under his arm. "We'll head over. But after that—"

"After that, you make a decision," Jake finished. "And I'll be right there with you. This time, you don't go down alone."

Mack felt a crack in something—the wall he'd built since his discharge, the armor he'd worn through every sea, every dive, every sleepless night. His eyes burned. He blinked hard and looked away.

"Get the engine back online," he said, voice rough. "We've got a fishing boat to help."

Jake nodded and headed below. Mack watched him go, then looked down at the helmet in his hands. Captain Blackwood's name was scratched there, and beneath it, faint but legible, another etching. A single word.

*Return.*

His coat was on the steps, still warm. He picked it up and pulled it on, and for the first time, the weight of it felt less like a shroud and more like a promise.