by Steve Alten
“The results from the last blood tests seem to indicate the cancer is gone.”
“Yes, but at what cost? Instead of passing in peace, your actions have left your wife in a coma.”
“People awaken from comas. Terry’s breathing on her own; isn’t that a positive sign?”
“Mr. Taylor, your wife is in a persistent vegetative state … a state of severe unconsciousness. With a persistent vegetative state, there is breathing, circulation, and sleep-wake cycles, but she is unaware of her surroundings and incapable of voluntary movement. While there is a slight chance of her one day progressing to wakefulness, she’ll never recoup her higher brain functions, meaning she’ll remain in a permanent vegetative state until the day her organs finally shut down and she dies.”
“For better or worse, that was the deal.” Jonas pinched away tears. “Whatever it costs to take care of her, I’ll pay it. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”
Dr. Calvert shook her head. “Not here, you won’t. My assistant is putting together a list of facilities where she can be remanded.”
“That won’t be necessary. Tell your staff to get her ready to travel. We’re taking my wife home where she belongs.”
* * *
The knock on the open bedroom door snapped Jonas back into the moment. He turned to Dani, who was standing in the hallway.
“Dad, the medical team is here; they need to bring in mom’s stuff.”
“Thanks, Dani. Have them set up her bed so she’s facing the ocean.”
Two men entered, wheeling in a hospital bed. Three more trips yielded medical monitors, IV stands, a small refrigerator, and a supply cabinet.
The EMTs arrived twenty minutes later. They wheeled Terry in on a gurney through the second story entrance―the end of a harrowing 3,000-mile journey. Jonas had hired two private nurses for during the week and one for weekends, along with a rehab specialist who would move her limbs.
“Mr. Taylor, your wife is all set. The medical supplies and nutrition bags are being delivered this afternoon and we changed her diaper about an hour ago, so you should be good until tonight. We just need your signature on a few forms and then we’ll be on our way.”
“Thank you, fellas.” He scribbled his name without reading the legalese and led them out, handing each man two folded hundred dollar bills.
He re-entered the house to find Dani on her cell phone.
“That was Kelly Rollyson, the first weekday nurse. She’ll be here in an hour. Do you want me to wait?”
“That’s not necessary. Besides, you need to get back to school; Mom and I will be fine.”
She gave her father a long hug, then left.
Jonas carried his wife’s wicker rocking chair from the other side of the bedroom and positioned it on the left side of the hospital bed. Sitting down, he took Terry’s right hand in his, comforted by her pulse.
“Take your time and heal, babe. When you’re ready to come back to me, I’ll be here.”
PART 3
Sunrise
“All you need is love.”
―Paul McCartney
15 months later …
CHAPTER 20
Quatsino Sound
Vancouver Island, B.C.
THE WATERWAY KNOWN AS QUATSINO SOUND lies at the mouth of an inlet located along the northwest coast of Vancouver Island. As it moves inland, it branches off into several bays and harbors, with sparsely populated hamlets nestled along shorelines accessible only by boat and gravel-covered backroads.
The Canadian government’s decision to ban fisheries from the area had revitalized the salmon stocks. There was a healthy abundance of coho, sockeye, humpies, as well as offshore species like halibut and lingcod, making the destination one of the most popular among sports fishermen.
* * *
This was Peter Traxler’s first fishing trip to Quatsino Sound and he quickly realized that driving to Winter Harbour had been a mistake. It took him three hours and twenty minutes to negotiate the forty-two miles of bad road, he broke a shock on his boat trailer, and a brief encounter with two Black bear cubs went sour when mama bear charged his car. Upon arriving at his destination, he discovered the boat launch was literally a hole bulldozed into the bank which could only be used during high tide.
Naturally, it was low tide.
With three hours to kill, he decided to check in at the Outpost, which served as a marina, general store, and lodge. Confirming his reservation, the desk manager proceeded to run the charges on his credit card―
―as two attractive women entered the facility. Both were blondes, decked out in fishing vests and tight jean shorts, and they were heading his way.
“Hi. I’m Katey Robinson and this is my friend, Sasha Moulder. Are you here for the fishing?”
“Of course, he’s here for the fishing,” Sasha chided, her British accent easy on the ears. “What else is there to do out here?”
Sasha’s wink caught Peter off guard. “Yes, fishing … I love fishing. I have an 18-foot Bayliner out in the parking lot, only I can’t launch it for another three hours.”
“Then you’re free to join us,” Katey said. “We rented a charter that accommodates four, but one of our girlfriends didn’t show and we need the fourth to split the costs.”
“How much are we talking?”
“Three hundred … dollars, not pounds.” Sasha smiled, turning on the charm.
“You can pay here,” the manager said. “I can add it to your bill.”
The two blondes nodded.
“Okay, what the hell.”
The women clapped.
The manager ran his credit card and printed his receipt. Peter signed it and took his room key. “I want to stow my stuff and change. How about I meet you ladies outside in fifteen minutes?”
“That’s perfect. It’s the second to last boat on the right dock. We’re stocked with food and beer, so don’t worry about a thing.”
They waved and hurried off.
The manager directed him to his room, which had a kitchenette and small living area. He took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, and changed into a fresh T-shirt and his favorite fishing shorts with the Velcro pockets. Checking his breath one more time, he left the room and exited the building to the docks.
He located the ladies standing aboard a 24-foot aluminum center-consoled boat, powered by twin 90-horsepower Yamaha 4-stroke engines. As Peter approached, he saw a bearded male in his thirties wearing a captain’s hat passing down supplies to another man standing in the boat.
Sasha waved him over. “Sorry, I can’t remember your name.”
“Peter.”
“Peter, this is Kenny Powell, the best charter boat captain on Vancouver Island.”
“Thank you, babe.” Kenny wiped the sweat from his palm on his pant leg and reached out to shake Peter’s hand. “Fish have been biting all week; we’ll hit our allotment in a few quick hours.”
Katey led the other man over. “Peter, this is my fiancé, Sam Ramer.”
“Sup, dude?”
What’s up? How about your fiancée and her friend, the illegal immigrant, set me up …
“Good … I guess. You know, maybe I’ll just rest for a few hours until the tide comes in and go out myself.”
“Suit yourself,” the captain said. “But you’ve already spent the money; why not come out with us?”
“Well, you haven’t left yet … I figured I could get my money back.”
“Sorry Pete, there’s no refunds. I actually turned down someone a few minutes ago while the ladies were inside talking to you.”
“Where’d they go? I’ll sell them my seat.”
“Too late, the guy caught another charter.” Kenny climbed down into the boat and then reached up to help Sasha down. “So, what’s it gonna be?”
Gritting his teeth, Peter stepped down into the vessel and took a seat next to the cooler, helping himself to a beer.
* * *
Four 30-pound Chinook, a 45-pound halibut, and t
hree more beers later found Peter feeling much better about life. A fading July sun drenched the pine-covered hills before them in orange as they trolled east on their return trip at ten knots, the boat’s bow wake rippling across a glass-like surface, their four fishing poles secured in small outriggers.
Seated across from the control console, Peter leaned over to speak with the captain. “So, be honest … did you send the ladies to recruit me?”
Kenny reached out and clinked his beer bottle with Peter’s. “You paid for the fuel and bait. But we’ll make it worth your while. I’ll have everything you caught filleted, packed in ice and stored at the Outpost for when you check out. And tonight, you’ll join us back at my place for fresh halibut and a Quatsino version of a luau.”
“I like it … whoa!” Peter pointed to starboard where dozens of salmon were leaping out of the water, the school of Chinook keeping pace with the boat. “I’ve never seen that before. What could be―”
He looked at Kenny. The guide’s face had gone pale, his laid-back attitude instantly gone.
Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out a Swiss Army knife. “Peter, we need to cut bait and run. Take this knife and cut the lines. Do not reel them in.”
The fear in the man’s eyes eliminated all questions. Peter took the knife, released a blade using his thumbnail, and moved to the nearest of the four outriggers which was situated on the port side by his seat. It took some effort to slice through the 30-pound super braid, which quickly disappeared when the heavy line finally snapped, dragged overboard by the leader and bait.
Kenny glanced at Sasha, who was curled in a ball in the bow. Then he buckled his seatbelt and pressed down on the throttle, edging ahead of the leaping salmon.
Peter made quick work of the two starboard lines. The last outrigger was situated in the stern along the port gunwale. Sam was seated on a padded bench, his back to the sheathed fishing pole, Katey in his lap.
Peter stumbled toward him, knife drawn as the boat accelerated.
“Easy there, boss. What are you doing with that knife?”
“Cutting the line, as ordered.”
“The hell you are. That’s my rig.” He turned to inspect the fishing pole, the top half of the fiberglass rod nearly bent in half. “There we go! Hey Kenny, I got a hook in something big, ease up while I bring it in.”
“Dude, Kenny wants all the lines cut―”
Sam rolled out from under Katey and stood, removing the pole from the outrigger―the drag nearly pulling him overboard. “Oh baby, she’s gotta be seventy pounds. Hey, Kenny―”
Peter and Sam both turned to the captain for help―only Kenny couldn’t hear over the twin engines, and his gaze was focused on the fish leaping out of the sea to starboard.
“Screw it.” Placing one foot on the transom, Sam braced himself and leaned back, quickly leaning forward again to take in line. “God, what a brute. Katey, tell your buddy driving the boat to slow down.”
Bracing herself, Katey moved up the center aisle to speak with the captain, who was seated sideways with his back to her so that he could see everything to starboard, from bow to stern.
“Kenny, Sam needs you to slow the boat down.”
“That’s too bad. Now go sit down.”
“But he caught a fish … he said it’s a brute.”
“What?” Kenny swung around to his left to find Sam engaged in battle, his effort causing a fifty-pound Chinook salmon to leap out of the water thirty yards behind the boat.
“Damn it!” He grabbed an empty beer bottle from a cupholder and tossed it at Sasha.
“Hey―”
“I need you to take the wheel.” He stood, allowing her to slip into his chair. “Keep us ahead of the salmon.”
“Salmon?” She looked to starboard. “Oh, wow …” She glanced back at her boyfriend. “Oh, no. You don’t think …?”
“Just watch the salmon.” Kenny pushed past Katey and made his way to the back of the boat. Taking the knife from Peter, he secured the fishing pole with his free hand as he pressed the business end of the blade beneath the line, the sharp edge snapping the 25-pound test, sending Sam sprawling backwards into an empty seat.
“What the hell, Kenny?” Sam was about to confront the captain when he saw a massive triangular white head surface thirty yards behind the boat’s diminishing wake, his fish flapping between its clenched four-and-a-half inch serrated teeth.
Sam looked at Kenny. “Was that?”
“Yeah.” Kenny hurried forward to take the controls from Sasha. He looked to starboard to check on the school of salmon, only to find a glass-like surface. “What happened to the damn fish?”
“I don’t know.”
“I asked you to stay ahead of them!”
“Well, they went deep―what am I supposed to do? And don’t yell at me!”
“Sorry.” He switched on the fish finder, his head on a swivel. “Watch the screen. Everyone else watch the water.”
Peter looked around nervously, his heart pounding in his chest. “What are we looking for?”
“There!” Sasha pointed behind the boat’s wake and to port where a five-foot, lead-gray dorsal fin was cutting across the surface on an intercept course.
Peter balled his fists. “A Megalodon? Your governor or mayor or whatever he is announced you had killed them all. That was over a year ago … I remember watching it on TV!”
“Politicians lie; who knew?” Sasha turned to Kenny. “If the reports are true, she’ll never allow us to make it back to Winter Harbour.”
“We’re not going to try for Winter Harbour.” Cutting hard to port, he pushed down on the throttle, aiming for a cluster of rocks and uninhabited land masses in the distance.
“The Gillams?”
“It’s our only shot.” He signaled everyone to gather around. “Guys, here’s the deal―that dorsal fin that’s chasing us … her owner doesn’t like boats, especially ones that enter her feeding grounds. Our only chance is to put ashore on one of the islands―”
“Islands?” Peter stared at the cluster of sheer rock formations jutting out of Quatsino Sound a quarter mile ahead. “All I see are tall, jagged rocks. There’s no beach―how do we climb out? Where will you land?”
“There are shoals shallow enough to abandon the boat … and let’s be clear―we need to abandon the―”
The sudden heave from below sent the boat caroming to starboard.
Kenny veered back to port. “Everybody buckle in. Sasha, get on the radio and report our position to the Coast Guard!”
She took the seat next to him where Peter had been sitting, strapped herself in and then leaned over and grabbed the handset, powering on the device. “Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is the fishing boat Sea Robin-III out of Winter Harbour, reporting a code-red BD encounter. Our position is 1.3 kilometers southwest of the Gillam Islands. We will attempt to land there …”
Peter held onto the bottom of his seat, the blood rushing from his face. This is insane … this isn’t happening …
The nearest island appeared ahead―a mound of gray rock three stories high, its sheer vertical sides impossible for anyone but a professional free-climber to negotiate.
Peter’s peripheral vision caught a white object torpedoing in from starboard a second before the boat’s hull was rolled beneath it. For a frightening moment the vessel teetered on its port gunwale―
―until the starboard’s engine’s rudder caught shark hide, purging blood before bending apart, the grinding outboard spewing thick black smoke.
The fishing boat slowed, its power cut in half, forcing Kenny to execute more radical turns in order to avoid another direct hit.
The towering gray rock loomed larger, its cliff face turning swells into whitewater.
Kenny never gave the landmass a second thought. Instead, he circled around the right side of the island―
―revealing a second cluster of rock formations situated in the shadow of a far larger island, its outcroppings offering whitewater
narrows, each a potential harbor.
Without slowing, he aimed for a twelve-foot-wide channel separating the big landmass and an eight-foot wall of basalt jutting out from the sea to its right.
“Hang on!”
The rocks appeared to leap at them, the incoming swells heaving them sideways―the boat’s bow somehow finding its way in before the rudder of its remaining outboard bit rock and then everything went silent, save for the sound of a heavy sea lapping against rock.
For a long moment the captain and his four passengers just held on as rolling waves battered the vessel from side to side like a cowboy strapped to a bull in its holding pen.
“We can’t stay here.” Sasha pointed behind them.
The Meg was spy-hopping, its ghost-white triangular head poised upright and free of the water, its right eye clearly watching them.
Katey’s lower lip quivered. “My God … it’s staring at us.”
“Not just us,” Sam said. “It’s studying the pattern of the swells, timing its next attack.”
“Well, I’m not waiting around for that.” Moving to the bow, Kenny scanned the small rock formation to starboard, comparing it to the sea-chiseled geography of the towering island on his left.
He saw the enticing horizontal perch ten feet above the channel and announced his plan.
“I’ll go first, then Sasha, Katey, Peter, and Sam you’re last. Time your jump so you’re in the water just before the next swell hits―it’ll lift you halfway up the rockface. Grab onto anything you can. The Coast Guard’s on the way, we just need to abandon the boat.”
Glancing back at the Megalodon, he watched as the next incoming swell lifted the stern … and jumped.
Kenny submerged, the frigid water stealing his breath―and then he was rising, the wave levitating him even as it slammed him chest-first against a wall of rock. His hands groped for something to grip as the water receded and for a moment he hung on, his fingertips clutching an outcropping, his feet searching and finding a narrow ledge to support his weight, only the surface was slick with algae and he quickly lost his balance, falling sideways back into the sea.