Authors: Douglas Carlton Abrams
“It’s not a carcass yet,” Elizabeth said before she realized she had said it.
The large black television cameras turned to face her. One of the reporters pushed a microphone into Elizabeth’s face, eager for controversy—and for more encouraging news.
“What do you think is wrong with the whale?”
“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said, “but it is making unusual sounds that have been recorded in several other locations around the world.”
Before Elizabeth could explain, a female reporter assaulted her with more questions. “What kind of unusual sounds? What do you think the whale is trying to say? Is the whale giving us some kind of message?”
Every ounce of Elizabeth’s scientific body recoiled at the conclusions that this reporter was drawing so quickly. “We really do not have any evidence to suggest that the whale is communicating with us. Like Professor Skilling—”
The television reporters, realizing that they were not going to get anything more controversial from Elizabeth, quickly turned away to wrap up their stories. She overheard the credulous reporter conclude by saying, “Is the whale lost, or here for a reason? Stay tuned as we discover what this whale might want us to know.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
“That’s one way to get the whole world—not just your colleagues—to think you are crazy,” Skilling said from behind Elizabeth.
She turned around sheepishly. “I didn’t mean it to be taken that way.”
“Welcome to the media. Subtlety is not their business.”
“Sorry about cutting in like that. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay. How are you doing?” There was genuine concern in Skilling’s voice.
“I’m going to deliver the dissertation on Monday.”
Professor Skilling’s eyes went wide with surprise. “I’m glad to hear it, but I meant with your husband.”
“I didn’t know my personal life was world news.”
“There are no secrets in our department—at least not personal ones.”
“Okay, I guess…” Elizabeth was eager to change the subject. “Dr. Skilling, that whale is singing the same song as the whale I was recording in Bequia. The song seems to be migrating around the world, which I’m sure you know is highly unusual. I want to study this whale.”
“You’ll have to get a permit from NOAA,” he said, referring to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which had the jurisdiction to protect the whale.
“That could take weeks.”
“Yes, it probably will.”
“Dr. Skilling,” one of the newscasters said, “could we do a retake? The light was not as good as we’d like.”
“Sure,” Skilling said, quite familiar with the media’s needs. He turned to Elizabeth. “Let me know if I can do anything.”
“You can accept my dissertation,” she said as he started to walk away.
“Just make it acceptable,” he said without turning around.
Elizabeth saw that Connie had arrived with a group of protesters who were holding up
SAVE THE WHALES
signs. Connie seemed to be involved in almost every issue that dealt with the health of the oceans, but she was particularly devoted to stopping the return of commercial whaling. Elizabeth wondered how the protesters had gotten through. Then she noticed that crowds were arriving to see the whale.
Connie and Elizabeth met on the bridge that crossed the slough. They both looked down at the whale’s dorsal fin, which was all that was visible in the muddy water. A rigid-hulled Coast Guard boat was patrolling the waters nearby.
Elizabeth felt the bridge vibrating from the whale’s song. “I’ve got to record this whale,” she said, knowing that it would be impossible with the protection zone the Coast Guard had set up.
“How are you going to do that?” Connie asked.
“I’m going to come back after dark.”
TWENTY-SIX
7:30
P.M.
Davis
F
RANK STARED DOWN
at the menu in front of him. Tom had recommended the lobster and the restaurant and the whole idea of going out with Kim. The lights in the seafood restaurant were dim, and a candle flickered in a red globe between them. Nets and nautical gear hung from the ceiling and walls. The restaurant reminded Frank of Elizabeth and their time diving together. The restaurant was a mistake, as was the whole idea of going out on a date.
Tom seemed certain that Frank needed a wife like his. Jenny had been a nurse, and they seemed to have a perfect family, but Frank still wasn’t sure what he needed.
“You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?” Kim smiled with understanding. Her short blond hair framed her attractive face. She wore a red dress that clung to her slender body quite differently than her scrubs.
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“I’ve been out with enough men to recognize the symptoms of ‘I’m not over her yet’ syndrome.”
“Incurable?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll need to conduct a history…and a physical.” Kim was being playful, and Frank smiled at her use of medical terminology. He decided to play along.
“I’m ready for the examination.”
“Why did you leave her?”
Frank played with his silverware. “I guess I felt alone in my marriage. When you’ve worked thirty-six hours straight, you want to come home to someone who’s happy to see you. Elizabeth was never there.”
“What do you want?”
“I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to choose between having children and the woman I love—”
“The woman you love?” Kim said, looking surprised and disappointed.
Frank heard his words echoed from Kim’s lips. She put her gold napkin down on the table, pushed her chair back, and said, “I think we can skip the physical exam. I already have my prognosis.”
Frank knew it, too. He shook his head with recognition. “Incurable.”
“Good night, Dr. Lombardi.”
Frank looked at his empty plate. Children or no children, he wanted Elizabeth.
“Do you know what you want?”
Frank looked up and saw the waitress. “Excuse me?”
“Do you know what you want?”
Frank smiled and said, “Yes…I think I finally do.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Midnight
E
LIZABETH STOOD
in her kitchen, dressed in her black wetsuit, with her video camera bag over her shoulder. She looked down at her wedding ring, shining brightly under the fluorescent light. Her hands were swelling for some bizarre reason, and the ring felt tight and uncomfortable. It would be safer for the whale and for her ring if she took it off. She moistened her finger in her mouth and tried to pull the ring over her plump knuckle. The metal dug into her skin but would not budge.
Olive oil,
she thought, and then smeared the cooking oil on her finger. This time it slipped right off, and she placed the ring in a small dish by the side of the sink.
E
LIZABETH PARKED THE CAR
far away from the levee, where the police car still blocked the way. The wind was blowing hard, rustling the grass and making the trees at the edge of the water sway like ghosts.
In one hand she had her mask, snorkel, and fins, and in the other she carried the heavy video hydrophone in its plastic housing. The night was moonless, and she knew she wouldn’t see anything on her video camera, but Teo still had her DAT recorder. The video camera would record a digital audio signal that she could work with.
Elizabeth felt like a frogman as she sneaked along the irrigation ditch and over the levee that rose like an ancient American Indian burial
mound. Even with her wetsuit on, she could feel that the air was cold, and she knew the water would be even colder. The fog was rolling in, and Elizabeth shivered as she carefully walked down the steep slope to the water. The crickets were so loud they sounded like an alarm.
Halfway down the hillside, the rocky ground gave way, and Elizabeth fell hard on her hip. She saved the video hydrophone by sacrificing her elbow and, dropping her fins and mask, caught herself with her other hand. She kept sliding—right into a blackberry bramble. The long, thorny vines scraped across her face and pierced her wetsuit, but it was her palm that stung the most from the sharp rocks and broken glass.
A police flashlight swept across the area. “Protesters?” she heard one of the officers say as she held her breath, both to stay silent and to try to endure the pain. “Or rats?”
The thought of rats made her cringe. She stayed perfectly still, looking for anything that might be moving.
After a few minutes, the police officers gave up their search. Carefully, she tried detaching herself from the thorns that only grudgingly let go.
Not willing to risk slipping again or being spotted, Elizabeth crawled to the water’s edge. She listened for blows, but all she heard was the water lapping against the rocks.
Then all other sensations—the pain, the cold—disappeared as she heard the exhalation like a dragon’s blast not far from the bank. By the starlight, she could see the high back of the humpback slipping under the water. The damp air fell against her face like a fisherman’s kiss, filled with the salty smell of the sea. She and the whale were breathing the same air. This was not just a fact but an intimacy.
Elizabeth sucked the blood trickling from the palm of her right hand and pulled on her mask and flippers.
She slid into the water, which was even colder than she’d expected. Pulling the mask over her eyes, she stared into the black
depths. A tremor of fear snaked up her spine as she swam out into the slough. What the hell am I doing in this dark, deserted water with a forty-ton animal?
Then the whale began to sing. In the narrow waterway, the sounds were amplified. They penetrated her body, deeply piercing her ears and skin. As with Echo in Bequia, she felt a pressure wave against her chest that made it difficult to breathe. She turned on the camera, knowing that its audio would capture each and every sound the whale produced. In the darkness, it felt as if the sounds had shape and form. There it was again—that social sound in the song that occurred together with the contact calls:
EEh-EEh-EEh.
Unlike the continuous tone of distress calls, this sound was shorter and more abrupt. It reverberated through her, making her body shake and tremble. It was the same sound Sliver had made after her baby had died, but what did it mean?
One of the law enforcement agencies turned on a floodlight. She took a gulp of air and dove below the surface. The whale stopped vocalizing and swam past her. In the light spilling in from the surface, she saw the whale’s outstretched fin, as if he were extending it to her. She released a gasp of air and slowly stretched her hand back to him. She thought of the X-ray photos she had seen of a whale’s flipper, revealing a bone structure that was startlingly similar to a human hand. Then they both surfaced to breathe.
Forty-five minutes of swimming and recording passed in what seemed like moments. When she checked her camera, she discovered that she was out of memory. The floodlight swept across the water, and she had to duck beneath the surface yet again. There was no more she could do tonight, so she swam toward the shore, landing as far from the authorities as she could.
Dragging herself onto the muddy bank, she pulled off her fins. She now had a deeper understanding of the sounds and fresh ideas for ways to test their meaning.
As Elizabeth turned around to climb back up the levee, the bright beam of a police flashlight blinded her.
“I’m going to have to arrest you for trespassing and for violation of the Marine Mammal Protection Act.”
C
ONNIE KEPT A CLOSE WATCH
on Elizabeth from the bridge where she and the other protesters were holding a candlelight vigil. Her organization, the Ocean Warriors, worked to spread the word that over a thousand whales were still being killed each year from whaling and from Navy sonar.
“Oh, no!” Connie said as she saw the police officer approaching Elizabeth.
Not good. Not good. Be strategic.
Connie looked around and saw a group of college guys whose main goal seemed to be to drink beer and heckle the protesters. She knew the activists were spoiling for a fight.
Connie slipped away from the others and walked behind the college students, who were watching the arrest taking place across the slough with keen interest. She picked up one of the beer bottles they had not broken on the rocks along the shore and launched it at the activists, careful to hit the concrete bridge rather than her friends. The reaction was immediate. First there was shouting, and then several of the protesters ran at the college students, who weren’t quite sure what was going on.
Connie shouted from the bridge to a police officer, who hurried toward the brawl. Connie ran along the levee road, trying to watch her steps on the dark and uneven surface. She called down to where the police officer was trying to reach Elizabeth without slipping.
“Aren’t you Professor—McKay—the world-famous—marine biologist?” Connie said, trying to catch her breath. “I hear they’ve put you—in charge—of the research—team.”
The young police officer looked back and forth between Elizabeth below him and Connie above. In the floodlight, Connie could see his young, fresh face and short-cropped red hair. At that moment the police officer’s shoulder microphone began to crackle. “I need Code Two backup.”
The police officer glanced at Connie and Elizabeth another time and then spoke into the shoulder mike. “Ten-four. Sacramento Fifteen thirty-five en route.”
“I know who the hell you are. Just get your ass over here,” the other police officer shouted back through the shoulder mike.
The young police officer cringed. “I’m sorry, Professor,” he said over his shoulder as he hurried up the hill. “I was told to arrest anyone who—I’m really sorry.”
The police officer had clawed his way up the steep levee, and Connie gave him a hand up. “Don’t worry about it,” she said with a smile. “You were just doing your job, Officer Clark.” She was shining her flashlight at his ID tag.
“Thanks,” he said abashedly. He ran off to help his partner, who was trying to break up the fistfight that had broken out between the protesters and the college students.