“Does it involve you sleeping on the street?” Splinter was getting frustrated.
“Son, find God and all will become clear.”
Splinter nodded and headed back to his beer.
When he arrived, Kyle said, “What are you doing? You probably got fleas from being so close.”
Splinter passed his stool, his beer dripping perspiration on the bar, and stood before Kyle. “Listen you moron, don’t talk to me again or I’ll…” The TV had caught Splinter’s attention. “Turn that up,” he said to Jessie, who was helping a customer.
On screen the baseball game had been interrupted for a special news bulletin from the local affiliate. The tagline at the bottom of the screen said ‘Teen Missing in Indian River’. Splinter went behind the bar and turned up the volume.
“Just minutes ago the Coast Guard informed local police that Adam Darnald, a local ten-year-old boy, is missing, and was swimming in the shallows off Dynamite Point. He was last seen riding his boogie board in the light surf.”
The picture shifted to a live image of two coastie boats and three smaller police cruisers moving back-and-forth across the inlet, searching. “The child’s board was found broken in two, and a small scrap of his blue rash guard was found floating in the water. Investigators don’t expect foul play and aren’t ruling out a gator or shark attack. Great whites have been seen recently entering the bay, and with the sea still littered with corpses it may be that the bigger fish are coming in to feed. More tonight on the six o’clock news. Back to you Linda.”
Splinter went back to his stool. The bar had gone silent, and the distant sound of waves lapping on the shore and the push of the wind filled the silence.
He finished his beer and tossed a five-dollar bill on the bar. He got up and hung his backpack over a shoulder.
Jessie said, “Don’t go yet. Let me buy you one.” The bartender took the glass and placed it under the tap.
Splinter took a seat at the end of the bar, away from Kyle.
Jesse came with the beer, and in a low tone said, “Whatcha think? A shark get that kid?”
Splinter’s stomach turned to ice, the giant shark head filling his mind. “Don’t know. What are the fishermen really saying?” Splinter looked down the bar at Kyle. He stared at the Marlin’s game.
Jessie slid the chilly pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon across the bar to him. “They’re mighty pissed. Something’s scaring away the fish and they think it’s all the dredging and clean-up work that’s being done, but I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is I’ve been running this dive for fourteen years, and they dredge parts of the inner bay and the inlet regularly. Maybe five times in the last ten years, and it’s never had any impact on the fish.”
“It doesn’t make sense anyway. Fish patterns are what the sea throws at them. I don’t think it has anything to do with the clean-up. But if it isn’t that, what then?” Splinter said.
“Got to be a shark. With the kid, the whale. Got to be a shark,” Jessie said.
6
Poseidon hissed at Galatia, and Nereus whimpered like an infant.
Splinter sat with his feet dangling off the bow of his half-sunken home, his cane pole draped over the railing. Nereus was a midsized mutt with curly salt-and-pepper hair. Splinter had found him swimming in the flotsam after the tsunami, and the dog was still afraid of his own shadow.
Sunning themselves on the forward deck was Galatia and Poseidon. Poseidon was a gray and black tabby bitch who constantly bullied the calmer and more intelligent Galatia. The stray cats had smelled his cooking fish and sought him out. The animals cost minimal money, and Splinter liked having them around. They made him feel like he wasn’t alone, especially in the deep of night when the sweats came on, and memories of Kabul sucked him toward the abyss.
Splinter’s love of the sea had prompted his new friends’ names. Nereus was the old man of the sea, and the Greek god of the sea's rich bounty of fish. Seemed right to Splinter. Poseidon was the leader of the gods of the sea, and that fit the gray-black tabby perfectly, as did Galatia’s. She was the god of calm seas. The animals had their own cabin next to his, and they usually lounged there during the hottest part of the day.
Splinter had become a man of the sea despite both of his parents disliking the water and barely being able to swim. His mom, who was still alive and lived on her teacher’s pension in California, despised the ocean and only went in pools when she needed to cool off. Splinter never recalled his father in the water. His seafaring genes came from further back. He was a distant relative of legendary Navy Captain Johnston Blakeley, the captain of the famous Wasp, which disappeared in the mid-Atlantic in 1814.
The fish weren’t biting, but he had nothing else to eat and didn’t feel like traveling into town. A week had passed, but the dead right whale and the missing child still clogged his head. His mind drifted as his red and white bobber floated away with the current. A seagull tore overhead, screeching and wailing at him. It perched itself on the roof of the cabin and stared at Splinter like he didn’t belong.
In the distance the sound of a boat tearing through the inlet echoed over the water, a steady whine that rose and fell as the boat cut through the light chop. He pulled his line from the water and leaned the pole against the gunnel. He got up, went to the stern, and stuck his nose into the air, sniffing. Gas, rot, and sea salt filled his nostrils… and something else. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Baking meat? The seagull jerked its head toward the inlet, then dropped off the cabin’s roof and took flight, soaring above the water and disappearing into the mangroves.
The outboard’s whine faltered, and there was a crash, and then screams of panic, fear, and pain. The crunch of twisting metal and grinding gears made Splinter grip the handrail that ran around the gunnel. There was a tiny pop, like the backfire of a car, then more cries.
Splinter jumped through the access hatch into the cabin. He needed his binoculars. Where the hell were those things? He searched the half-flooded galley and found nothing. He eased over a pile of fishing net he’d found, and made his way aft to his living quarters.
The gun locker he’d found in an attic of a flooded mansion stared at him as he went by, its black metal door appraising him, asking where the “real” Splinter was. When he’d found the cabinet, its key hung from the lock, and what was inside brought on the rage. He hadn’t fired a gun since Kabul, but the case of guns and ammo was worth too much money to leave behind. So he’d taken the gun locker, bought a new combo lock, and tossed the combination in the sea.
He found his old military field glasses stowed with his meager clothing, and he grabbed them and darted back topside.
“Anyone coming with?” Splinter said.
Nereus cried and scuttled below deck to his room. Galatia looked up from where she lay, then laid her head back down. Only Poseidon appeared interested. The cat moseyed along the deck, watching him, as if weighing her options. Cats were supposed to hate the water, but Poseidon hadn’t gotten the memo. That cat swam in the ocean and the bay, something Splinter had never seen in all his travels. He guessed it had something to do with the trauma the cat suffered at the hands of the tsunami.
Poseidon finally reached him, and Splinter said, “Well let’s go. I’m in a hurry.”
The cat looked at him the way cats do, with an air of superiority and nonchalance. She jumped in the boat, sat on the forward seat, and curled her tail around her back. When Splinter didn’t start the engine right away, the cat turned its head and looked back at him and Splinter was certain he saw impatience there.
On this day his old 15HP beater started on the first pull. Splinter dropped the lead line and set course for the inlet. The inner bay was a blown-out mess, steep two-foot whitecaps that sent splashes of water into the Zodiac. Three inches of water already sloshed in the bottom of the boat, and Splinter was only halfway to the inlet.
Poseidon had her nose pushed out, head thrust into the spray, a
light coating of mist covering the cat’s sleek hair. She barely moved with the bump and jerks of the boat and sat like a statue.
Fort Pierce inlet opened to his right, and the deep channel was blocked by a large fishing trawler that was going down. The ship’s alarm bellowed, and sirens pierced the day. Splinter checked the throttle. He was going as fast as he could. What could he do anyway?
Poseidon hissed, and the damp hair on the cat’s back and tail rose as if with static electricity. The cat hissed again, and Splinter slowed.
The sun emerged from behind a cloud and something dark and huge passed beneath the dinghy. Splinter killed the engine, trying not to draw attention to himself as he searched the water. His disposable camera hung from the dinghy’s gunnel, and he grabbed it, pointing it at the sea, but the large dark shape was gone.
A Coast Guard SAFE boat arrived, orange pontoons pounding the water, white pilothouse glistening in the sunlight. Splinter restarted the outboard and pushed on toward the sinking fishing boat. It was hard to see what was happening, but the trawler was going down fast.
“Please stay away. Do not interfere.” The Coast Guard boat gave orders over their enunciation system.
They were right. If he was too close to the trawler when it went down, his little craft would be sucked under. He killed the motor again and pulled out his binoculars.
The old fiberglass hull had a huge hole just above the waterline, as if it had hit a rock or been torpedoed. Seawater poured through the main rip, and Splinter saw several other, smaller holes.
Fishermen and deckhands jumped from the vessel, splashing into the sea all around the sinking ship, and frantically swimming away from the doomed boat. The sight of the people in the water made Splinter think of the shadow.
He was floating dangerously close to the wreck when the Coast Guard vessel said, “You are interfering with a rescue. Leave the area at once.” The wind and current were taking him into the inlet, and toward the fracas. Birds circled overhead, but no shiners jumped from the water. Apparently, they were smarter than him.
Splinter cranked the Johnson but it only sputtered. The current pulled him into the inlet, toward the sinking fishing vessel. He rewound the pull cord and pulled again. Nothing. Third time was the charm, and Splinter spun the boat around, racing from the coastie boat.
He looked back as he sped away. The tip of the fishing boat’s bow disappeared beneath the green sea. The people in the water were being collected by the Coast Guard. Harbor Patrol cruised through the inlet from the ocean, but to Splinter it looked like they weren’t moving fast enough. They’d move a lot faster if they knew what he did.
Shit was getting real.
7
Splinter sat alone in the dark, a bottle of vodka between his legs. The galley reeked of the sea and dead fish, but he barely noticed. Outside the wind whispered and sighed, and the mangrove leaves rattled. He took a pull off the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Stray beams of moonlight cut across the compartment, the small porthole on the starboard bulkhead providing the only light.
He heard screaming in the depths of his mind. Men yelling and children crying. He smelt gun powder, felt the pounding of the concussion bombs decimating Kabul. Strobes of light flashed, and to Splinter the porthole filled with orange-white light. If only he’d waited. Not tried to push the issue. But he had to be the big man. The hero that had to save the day.
Pale moonlight filled the porthole again. Splinter shook his head, trying to shake himself from the fog. He knew his PTSD was working on him, trying to drag him into a pit of self-pity and never let him out. What happened was his fault. No one else. The docs had said not to fight this realization. Don’t let it dominate your destiny, but that wasn’t easy advice to follow when your brain wouldn’t cooperate.
The moon went behind a cloud and the cabin grew dark. He took a pull of vodka, the sharp bite and sweet tang soothing his jumping nerves. He savored the burn as the booze slid down his throat, momentarily easing the pain. The shifting memories. The changing scene. Where was he? Why was he here?
His hands shook, and he held them out and tried to steady them. He gripped the vodka bottle so tight his knuckles hurt. Nereus whined and started to cry. Splinter dropped his hand onto the animal’s back and stroked his curly hair. Poseidon took a seat on the bench beside the galley table and rested her head on her paws.
Crickets chirped, seagulls cried, frogs bleated, and occasionally Poseidon would hiss as her dreams tormented her. Nereus sat beside him, his head on Splinter’s foot, eyes wide open. The dog always had trouble sleeping when Splinter was in the fog, like the two were connected. The dog knew how he felt, shared his depression, his anger, and his rare moments of joy. Splinter knew that with a certainty he couldn’t explain. Galatia was nowhere to be seen and was mostly likely already curled up on her bundle of rags that served as her bed.
Poseidon’s head snapped up, the cat’s green eyes glowing in the darkness. The feline turned its head aft, staring into the blackness. Nereus started to cry, halting bursts like he was spooked. Poseidon stood up, still staring into the darkness.
The fog over Splinter’s mind thinned, a ray of reality breaking through. He took a pull of vodka. Then he heard it. The distant sound of an approaching boat. Splinter shifted in his seat. His back ached, and his right knee where he’d taken shrapnel nine years prior stung like the damage was new. There were still flecks of metal in the cartilage around the knee, but the Navy docs said it wasn’t worth risking further damage to remove them. Splinter lived with the pain every day, but it was nothing compared to the pain he inflicted on himself.
The boat was getting closer. A deep moan echoed over the water, and every few moments it would falter and fart. Splinter chuckled. He knew the sound of those motors. He knew it very well. Splinter drained the vodka and tossed the bottle across the cabin. He leaned forward, pulled open a Styrofoam cooler, grabbed a beer and opened it. Splinter downed the entire beer in one pull, crunched the can, and grabbed another.
The sound of the engines was all he could hear, then they ceased, and Lenah’s boat bumped against his half sunken home.
“Splinter? You there?” she shouted.
He said nothing. Anger rose in him, the fog returning, the alcohol telling him he had every right to be pissed-off at the world and who the hell was this bitch anyway? She’d tossed him aside like garbage because he was damaged.
“Splinter? I know you’re here. I see your boat,” she said.
Splinter sat in the dark, comfortable in the blackness where he couldn’t see the world and the world couldn’t see him. He opened his mouth to call out to her, but didn’t.
He heard her pick up her lead line, then faint scraping as she tied off on an aft cleat. “Splinter? Come on. I need to talk to you.”
Footfalls on the deck above, moving toward the hatch. The snap of a flashlight coming on. A beam of light cut the darkness from above. “Splinter?”
He grabbed his sixty-inch AB Biller Mahogany Special sling speargun that fired double-barbed stainless-steel arrows with such force they could take out the biggest of fish, or so he’d thought. He held the weapon across his chest and stared into the darkness.
She came down the ladder and panned the flashlight around the galley until it came to rest on his face. “Oh, Splinter.” She panned the light around. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Hello to you too,” she said. Then she noticed the spear gun and her eyes went wide. “What’s that for?”
“Trespassers.”
“This is private property?”
“What is it you want?” He shifted position and disengaged the silent safety on the spear gun, making a show of it, making sure she knew what he’d done. He pointed its tip at her, then rested the gun on his raised knee.
“Your help.”
She panned the light around, examining his life, pity splashing across her face. A plastic bin filled with cups,
dishes and bent silverware sat in a sink that Splinter had never seen run. The garbage was overflowing, and one corner waders, a tackle box, and two fishing poles rested against the bulkhead.
The flashlight settled on the locked gun cabinet. “What’s in there?”
“The last person who came here asking for help,” Splinter said.
“What’s the combo to the lock? In case you get hit by a bus.”
“I threw it in the ocean,” Splinter said.
“Stellar.”
“Why are you here?”
“You got plans?”
“Why are you here?” He yelled so loud he surprised himself.
Lenah jumped and took a step back. She had that look in her eyes. The look that said despite how well she knew him, he still scared her. It made Splinter feel shitty and powerful at the same time. His stomach ached, and somewhere in the back of his mind he felt shame, but the fog pushed it away. He pointed the spear gun at her. “What do you want?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Splinter knew the routine well. She’d moved on from fear to anger, but he said nothing.
“Whatever.”
Nereus got up and went to her, nudging her with his snout, as if to say, “Don’t mind this ass.”
“Nereus, get over here.”
The dog hesitated for an instant, but then went to Splinter, tail between his legs. Splinter’s eyes burned. He was losing it.
“Listen, you hear about the kid?”
Splinter laughed. “You mean what was the kid?”
“You heard?”
Splinter sat up, leaning forward and almost dropping the long spear gun. “What? I knew the kid was gone, but…”
“He’s still mostly gone.”
“Mostly?”
“Coast Guard found his right hand, severed clean at the wrist and missing three fingers,” she said. “They saw a mound of crabs ripping at something on the beach over at Hook Point.”
Splinter swayed in his seat, patches of black fading in and out with the moving flashlight beam. Pain lanced his back and perspiration dripped down his forehead. “Can you turn that light off?”
Shadow Of The Abyss Page 4