Authors: Douglas Carlton Abrams
9:00
P.M.
Sacramento
F
RANK TRIED CALLING Connie’s house again, but there was no answer. Connie wasn’t picking up her cell phone, either.
Maybe they are at the slough. Maybe there’s no cell reception.
Frank knew that all of Elizabeth’s best intentions to rest might not allow her to stay put. She was a force of nature. Such forces were not always easy to live with, but they were a privilege to experience up close. Why did he almost have to lose her before he realized what she meant to him?
“This is Connie Kato. If you want to overthrow the status quo, leave a message. Otherwise, don’t call back.”
Beep.
“Connie, this is Frank. I’m worried about Elizabeth. She was supposed to go to your house. She’s not picking up her cell, and there’s no answer at home. I hope you are together somewhere. Please call me on my cell. Thanks.”
“Dorothy,” Frank said as he walked toward the door, “I’ve got to go find Elizabeth. I’ve got my pager if you need anything.”
“Glad you two are back together. It’s about time you came to your senses.”
EIGHTY
10:00
P.M.
T
HE NIGHT
was velvet black, and the layer of marine fog enveloped what little light was shed by the headlights of Skilling’s BMW Z3 Roadster. The car’s fabric top did not keep out the winter chill, but it did conceal the unconscious body in the passenger seat next to him.
He had chosen the car because its long wheelbase and fluted side vents reminded him unmistakably of his streamlined sharks. But tonight, with the top up, the Roadster felt cramped, like the cabin of a small boat. He had bought it—thanks to the money from the consortium—as a sports car, not as a hearse. The sooner he got rid of Elizabeth’s body, the better.
As he continued to drive, he lit a cigarette. He needed to calm his nerves. He had tried to quit for years, had pretty much succeeded, but when he got nervous, he craved nicotine. The pack of cigarettes he kept in his car had come in handy in preparing the newspaper photo for Elizabeth. If only she had listened to his warning, none of this would have been necessary.
Skilling inhaled, breathing in the scent of cigarette smoke mixed with that of the car’s leather interior, then exhaled in a long, slow breath. Everything was going to work out. Animals killed other animals. It was the law of nature. Some were predators and some were prey. He felt a cascade of endorphins pumping through his blood. Not since he was in the water trying to tag Mother had he felt so alive.
Skilling pulled into the dock where his boat was moored. As the clouds parted he saw the moon, just past full. The dock was empty, as he knew it would be. The active fishermen would be home asleep for another few hours. Many of the boats were all but abandoned, their owners unable to turn a profit from the dwindling fish stocks. The owner of the boat next to him had neglected to take down its ragged flag. Red and white stripes and a blue sea of stars flapped angrily in the wind. There was a “For Sale” sign in the window.
Just to be certain, Skilling wrapped Elizabeth in a blanket and carried her over his shoulder like a long carpet. A seagull flew onto the dock and cocked its head to eye him closely. Seagulls always knew. They could smell death long before it happened. They were the vultures of the sea and would appear at a shark attack almost before the shark.
He set Elizabeth down in the open cabin. His twenty-five-foot sport fishing boat had yellow-and-black trim and was perfectly designed for his work studying big marine animals. The walk-through transom at the stern made access in and out of the water easy and allowed him to pull seal carcasses onboard to dissect. He fastened the microphone-shaped satellite tag to a heavy wooden tagging pole, which he would have to use until he could get another aluminum one. Tagging Mother was all he could think about, what he dreamed about every night. He would not miss the chance again, should his little excursion present the opportunity.
Skilling cast off the lines. Sitting in the cushioned white captain’s seat, he turned on the twin Honda 150s. They jumped to life eagerly, like racehorses. These brand-new four-stroke engines had been paid for by his research stipend from the Japanese whalers for his services on the IWC Scientific Committee. There were so many funding sources, if researchers were willing to open their eyes. The engines hummed as he quietly backed out of the slip. He passed the pleasure yachts, their unrigged masts looking like lonely crosses.
He clutched the rubberized steering wheel, in the middle of which was glued a gold doubloon. One of his colleagues had given it to him: a not totally flattering allusion to Moby Dick’s peg-legged whaler. A curious sea otter poked its head above the water, and the red light blinked on the piling that marked the end of the harbor.
He headed into the blanket of gray. The radar was set to a four-mile radius, but even in the bay, the waters were rough, and there was a lot of interference. This scatter was hard to distinguish from the actual targets, the rocks and boats he was trying hard to avoid.
Skilling set his waypoints for a course to the Emperor’s Bathtub, on the windward side of Southeast Farallon Island. The Bathtub, a narrow but deep eddy in Maintop Bay, had the perfect geography to make it a feeding trough for white sharks. The drain of the Bathtub was just wide enough for the graceful turns of the sharks, so they could strike unseen and exit quickly. It was practically like a fast-food drive-through.
The actual coordinates he entered were not just of the cove but were even better. They came from the three radio acoustic positioning sonobuoys that he had installed a few months back with the help of the sea urchin fisherman—the only person who was brave enough or fool enough to dive with the Farallon whites. The RAPS data allowed him to track individual sharks with pinpoint accuracy to study their small-scale movements. The most recent transmission had indicated that a shark named Scar Eye was out there in Maintop Bay. He hoped Mother might be as well.
When he’d gotten the call from the consortium about Elizabeth, he’d known immediately where he would take her. It had not been a rational thought, but it had struck him as having a certain amusing poetic justice—the whale researcher eaten by a shark.
E
LIZABETH STARTED TO GROAN,
and he glanced down into the cabin. The drug was wearing off. Ketamine had been a convenient and effective drug for his purposes. The anesthetic had shut down Elizabeth’s cerebral cortex and all conscious thought while allowing her to continue breathing. White sharks much preferred live prey.
“Jesus,” Skilling said as he saw the walls of Alcatraz towering in front of him. He slammed the throttle astern just in time to avoid running aground on the rocks of the island prison. As he swung the boat around, he heard one of the propellers grind on an underwater rock.
Christ, Richie, can’t you drive a goddamn boat?
Skilling started on his course again, a little shaken and more careful to keep his eye on the radar. He changed the screen to a wider view as the foghorn from Alcatraz wailed behind him—a little late.
They really got the best of you, didn’t they, Richie?
It was that same voice. He wasn’t going crazy. Everyone heard voices. Sane people, like him, just realized they were the workings of their own mind.
The voice did what it always did. It got him thinking about how he was getting a raw deal. How his colleagues were keeping him down, preventing him from becoming the chair of the department, stopping him from serving on important scientific committees. They were just jealous that he was the famous Dr. Shark.
Why did he always have to fight for everything? He had made it to where he was by fighting harder than everyone else. He wasn’t going to let some stupid graduate student and her husband ruin his career by telling people he was “supplementing his salary.”
Jesus, how did they expect anyone to live on a professor’s salary? Did being a scientist mean he’d taken a vow of poverty? Hell,
no. Why should people who sold toilet paper and toothpaste make millions while people who were furthering human knowledge make practically nothing?
Above him, like the struts of a giant Erector Set, the Golden Gate Bridge emerged out of the fog. He could see only a small sec
tion of its enormous span, its two ends disappearing into the fog like a ghost bridge connecting one world with another.
Beyond the bridge, the swells were even bigger than usual. It was going to be a rough crossing and take longer than he had anticipated. Elizabeth started to move again down in the open galley. He checked the radar and saw no targets in front of him, then went down to check on her. She seemed to have passed out again. When he came up, he saw on the radar that a large boat was moving toward him—on an interception course.
Oh, shit. Who could it be? Who’s found out? How the hell did they find out?
Skilling knew what he needed to do. He would tie something to Elizabeth quickly and dump her over the side. He found his anchor and rope, but there was no time. The boat was moving fast, impossibly fast. When he saw the boat, he realized it was worse than he’d thought.
The diagonal stripe down the front of the forty-seven-foot motor lifeboat was drained of its red color in the night. But in the moonlight, he could read the words next to it:
U.S. COAST GUARD.
What the hell am I going to do now? Are they going to search for drugs?
Skilling quickly covered Elizabeth with a blanket, but he knew if anyone boarded his boat, they would see her in the open galley below. The boat was slowing, but its large hull was still spraying water and leaving an enormous wake in the rolling swell.
Skilling zipped up his black jacket and breathed deeply. The suspenders of his yellow foul-weather waders dug into his shoulders. He felt trapped. The muscles of his abdomen were tight as a knot, but Skilling smiled as the Coast Guard pulled alongside. The petty officer was dressed in a jumpsuit, covered by a parka, and crowned with a helmet. Everything had reflectors, and the helmet had a cross painted on top to ensure that anyone overboard had the greatest chance of being found and being found quickly. An hour in this fifty-four-degree water, and most people were as good as dead.
The voice came through a bullhorn: “Turn on—mari—rad—” The words were clipped in the hissing wind.
Skilling glanced down at Elizabeth and picked up the white plastic mouthpiece of his marine radio as he switched it on. “Go ahead.”
The words were punctuated by static. “There is a small-craft advisory in effect—sea conditions forty-knot winds—fifteen-foot swell—and growing—return to the nearest safe harbor.”
Skilling’s stomach and shoulders relaxed. Wind and waves he could handle. He had faced worse, and his boat was solid. In his most commanding voice, Skilling replied, “I’m a marine biologist. I have time-sensitive research out at the Farallon Islands. I will return to shore immediately after my research is complete.”
Just then Elizabeth moaned from below. Skilling’s heart stopped. Elizabeth moaned again.
“Roger. Proceed at your own risk.”
After the Coast Guard retreated, Skilling kicked the throttle forward to get some speed. He wanted to go as fast as he could with the rolling swell, but the left engine was not giving its normal thrust. Had he bent the blades of the prop when he hit the rock? He needed to redline the engine to get it even with the other. Skilling knew he had to get there and get out quick. Maintop Bay was not somewhere you wanted to be when a storm struck. Heading into the waves, he had his engines trimmed down so the boat could hit the waves and cut through them like a knife.
Yet in this water, the boat was still pitching fore and aft. He switched his GPS chart plotter to the “roadway” view. It was as easy as driving down the highway—granted, a highway rolling in eight-foot swells. He knew the Coast Guard hated to make this crossing, even in their aluminum-hull boats that could roll completely over and stay afloat. If they had to go, they preferred to fly out by helicopter.
On fair days, which were few, you could see several of the largest Farallon Islands from the Golden Gate Bridge. But even fair weather
could turn foul quickly out here, and the dozens, perhaps hundreds, of shipwrecks lying on the sea floor around the islands were silent testament to those who had misjudged the seas. The whole marine sanctuary was littered with the corroding hulls of boats, leaking oil. But the greatest dangers in the sanctuary were, as always, manmade.
Between 1946 and 1970, the military, in their postwar invincibility and shortsightedness, had dumped almost 50,000 drums of hazardous and radioactive waste near the Farallones. In another stroke of genius, a 10,000-ton aircraft carrier once used for nuclear target practice had also been dumped in these waters. It was amazing to Skilling that his sharks were not glowing. To him, it was all proof that humans would destroy themselves before long. The world was dying, so he might as well profit while it lasted. During a war, some people always made a killing.
Skilling checked his watch. Forty-five minutes to high tide, which was always the most active time for shark attacks at the Farallones. No one knew for sure why. He always assumed that it was when the most seals were flushed out of the coves by the rising water and left helpless, like floating sausages. Whatever the reason, the timing would be perfect. He’d arrive with Elizabeth just at feeding time.
EIGHTY-ONE
Midnight
Liberty Slough
L
IEUTENANT
J
AMES
still did not understand why there was such a rush to kill the whale, but he understood why they wanted to do it before sunrise, when it was too dark for the television cameras to get decent footage. Something did not smell right. But he had no evidence, and he could not disobey a direct order. He looked at the fax he had received, commanding him to harpoon the whale by 0600.