Sea Raptor: A Deep Sea Thriller

by John J. Rust

  The author went by the name MonsterMaster491.

  “Is this guy for real?” asked Geek.

  Rastun drummed his fingers on the table. This MonsterMaster491 hadn’t given a location, the name of the vessel or the date when this occurred. Considering the other stories on this site, it was likely another crazy-ass conspiracy theory with no basis in reality.

  That’s what he would think if there wasn’t another Point Pleasant Monster out there.

  “Geek. Let’s search for any stories about boating accidents where someone lost a leg going back two years.”

  “Way ahead of you, Cap’n. Check this one out.”

  Geek showed him the site for a newspaper called The Daily Advance from Elizabeth, North Carolina. It featured an article titled, “Fisherman Survives Shark Attack.” The story identified the victim as 52-year-old Gabe Monroe, who’d been trying to untangle some nets on a boat called the Bountiful Betty when the shark appeared and bit off part of his leg. There were quotes from Monroe about the suddenness of the attack and the pain and shock of losing his leg.

  It sounded like a legitimate story.

  Unless someone forced him to lie.

  “Are there any other boating accidents where someone lost a leg?” asked Rastun.

  Geek checked his smartphone and found quite a few. Many, though, occurred on lakes or rivers known for recreational opportunities. There would have been plenty of witnesses around. It would be impossible to cover up a monster attack.

  Rastun told Geek to go back to the article about Gabe Monroe and check the date. It was three months prior to MonsterMaster491’s story.

  Rastun pulled out his cell phone.

  “Sherlock. We may have something for you.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Sherlock took another slug of coffee from his travel mug as he drove down a rural road lined with shade trees, weeds and old wooden houses, some in dire need of repair. Despite the caffeine, the heavy feeling of fatigue clung to his eyes.

  He didn’t get back to Washington until after 0330. He managed about two hours of sleep before dropping off the gun kit and sunscreen tube at the USMS lab. Next, he did some research on the information Rastun gave him. Sherlock had to give the former captain credit for turning up this lead. Rastun had the tools to be a good cop. Not that he thought he could convince him to join the Marshals Service or any other agency. Knowing Rastun like he did, the man probably found his true calling with the FUBI.

  Locating Gabe Monroe was easy. The ex-fisherman lived in an apartment in Buxton Landing, a small town on Hatteras Island in North Carolina. Sherlock traced Monroe’s former boat, the Bountiful Betty, to the Kearny/Ryan Fishing Company in Manns Harbor. The place had been in business since 1946. A few years ago, it was on the verge of bankruptcy when a corporation called Coast to Coast Fish, Inc. bought them.

  The only issue Sherlock found with Kearny/Ryan was an OSHA violation from ten years ago concerning one of their storage freezers. That violation had been promptly fixed. Coast to Coast Fish, meanwhile, owned several fishing companies and fish farms throughout the country and looked legitimate.

  But looks could be deceiving.

  Sherlock went to the forensic accounting office to have them dig deeper into Kearny/Ryan, Coast to Coast Fish and the Kobel Trust. While they did that, he headed to Buxton Landing.

  “You have reached your destination,” announced the GPS’s monotone, female voice.

  Sherlock pulled along the curb, which was dirt and grass. No sidewalk. He scanned the neighborhood. All the houses were wooden, one story and looked like they might have been built in the 1930s. Most were in desperate need of a new paint job.

  A couple were in desperate need of a wrecking ball.

  He stepped out into the muggy summer air. An elderly couple sitting on the porch of one house turned to him. He spotted a woman peeking out the window of another house.

  All three were white.

  He stuck out like a sore thumb here.

  Then again, in his collared white shirt, tie and dark pants, and driving a two-year-old Chrysler 200, he’d stick out here whether he was black or white.

  Sherlock looked across the street at a narrow brown house converted to small apartment units. A man with a scruffy brown-gray beard, hairy arms and an enormous gut sat in a lawn chair. He had his left pant leg rolled up, revealing a prosthetic leg. A six-pack, minus two cans, rested beside the chair. It wasn’t even two in the afternoon yet.

  Sherlock walked across the street, stepping around a couple of potholes. The man clutched his beer and eyed him with suspicion. He probably hadn’t seen many well-dressed black men in this neighborhood before.

  He probably hadn’t seen many well-dressed men around here period.

  “You lost, buddy?” the man asked.

  “No. Are you Gabe Monroe?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sherlock pulled out his badge. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Arthur Dunmore.”

  “U.S. Marshal?” Monroe took a closer look at the badge. “What’d you want with me? I didn’t do nothin’.”

  “You can relax, sir. I’m not here about you. It’s your former employer I’m interested in.”

  “The fishing company?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you mind if we go inside and talk?”

  Monroe’s face crinkled, as though mulling it over.

  “Sure.” He grabbed his six-pack and stood. “You want one?” He held it up to Sherlock.

  “No, thank you. I’m on duty.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Monroe opened the front door and hobbled inside. Sherlock followed. The living room was small with plain furniture, all of it with tears and loose stuffing. Empty beer cans rested on a coffee table covered by dust. Garbage overflowed from the can by the kitchenette. More dust and empty beer cans sat on the counter. Monroe was definitely single. No wife or girlfriend would tolerate this mess.

  “Have a seat.” Monroe flopped down on his sofa and gulped his beer.

  Sherlock sat in a sagging cushioned chair.

  “So why are you interested in Kearny/Ryan?” Monroe took another gulp from his beer.

  “It’s part of a case I’m working on.”

  Monroe stared at him in silence, then muttered, “Uh-huh.”

  Sherlock noted the response. Most people would have reacted with some level of surprise, especially if they worked for a place as clean as Kearny/Ryan.

  He pulled out a notebook and pen. “How long did you work for Kearny/Ryan?”

  “Just over thirty years. Started right when I got outta high school.”

  “In that time, did you notice any suspicious activity or behavior there?”

  “Um, no.” Monroe shifted to the right and drank his beer.

  “Did you ever see any people at the company who you felt didn’t belong there?”

  “No.” Monroe lowered his gaze and took another swig from his beer.

  “Did you enjoy working for Kearny/Ryan?”

  Monroe shrugged. “Don’t know about enjoy. It was work, you know? Work is work. But the bosses were all right, even when the company got sold. They paid for my new leg here.” He raised his prosthetic.

  “How did that happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Shark.”

  Sherlock nodded. He didn’t say a word.

  Monroe shifted on the couch again. The veins in his neck stuck out. “It came up in our net, with a bunch of Yellowfin we caught. Yellowfin, that’s a tuna. Anyway, I got too close to the net. It started snapping and it got my leg. The rest of crew were pressing towels and shirts against my leg. The docs said that probably saved my life.”

  “What happened to the shark?”

  Monroe’s eyes darted left, then right. “Um, uh, we killed it. Dumped it overboard.”

  Again, Sherlock just nodded. He took note of Monroe’s nervous movements, his pauses and stutters, his discomfort during moments of silence, all the unnecessary information he put into his story
.

  Gabe Monroe was definitely lying.

  “How far away were you from Manns Harbor when you were attacked?”

  “Um, I don’t know. A few miles, I guess.”

  “What kind of shark was it?”

  Monroe didn’t answer. His thumb rubbed the side of his beer can. “Um, uh… I don’t know. It was a shark.”

  “There are all different kinds of sharks. So what kind was it?”

  Monroe shifted on the sofa. “Um… uh…”

  “Sorry,” said Sherlock. “I just find it curious that you remember the kind of tuna you caught that day, but not the kind of shark that cost you your leg.”

  “Um…it was a…a Tiger Shark. Yeah, a Tiger Shark. What does this have to do with your investigation, anyway?”

  “Sorry. I guess I got sidetracked. Actually, my investigation concerns a former crewmate of yours, a person by the online name of MonsterMaster491.”

  Monroe took a loud breath. He looked away, then pushed himself off the sofa.

  “Mister Monroe?” Sherlock stood.

  “I think you better leave.”

  “Why?”

  “I just… I can’t talk about it.”

  Sherlock stepped closer to Monroe. “Did this MonsterMaster491 threaten you?”

  “He didn’t. But…”

  “Mister Monroe, all I need to know is the identity of MonsterMaster491. After that, I’ll be out of your hair. If you could just give me his name.”

  “I can’t! They’ll…” Monroe’s mouth hung open for a few moments, then closed.

  “Who are they?”

  Monroe looked left, then right. The fear on his face was evident. “They told me to shut up about what happened. The company, they paid for my leg, they still pay for my therapy. If I tell anyone what happened, they said they’d take back my artificial leg, cut off my other leg and dump me in a swamp.”

  “No one has to know. Just tell me who this MonsterMaster491 is. I won’t mention your name to anyone.”

  “I… I…”

  “I can arrange protection if you’re scared. These people from Kearny/Ryan have no right to threaten you. Help me and we can put them all in jail.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  “Just tell me his name. He’s the one I really want to talk to.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Mister Monroe, please. I need to—”

  “He’s dead! They killed him.”

  “Who are they?”

  Monroe’s mouth hung open wordlessly. He turned and retreated into the kitchenette.

  Sherlock walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I saw MonsterMaster491’s story on The Unexplained Files. I know it wasn’t a shark that bit off your leg. It was a sea monster. In fact, I think it was similar to the Point Pleasant Monster. Someone from your company took it. They killed MonsterMaster491, your crewmate… your friend.”

  Monroe pressed his hands against the counter. His head and shoulders slumped.

  “Who was he? Who was MonsterMaster491?”

  Monroe didn’t answer.

  “Did he have a family? Parents? Wife? Girlfriend? Kids? He had to have people who miss him. People who’d want whoever killed him brought to justice.”

  Monroe’s body trembled. “Leo. Leo Fallon was his name.”

  Sherlock nodded. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He was nice kid.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Twenty-one. He was only twenty-one. He was a hard worker, wasn’t cocky like a lot of kids his age. Smart, too. Talked about going to college. He was only working the sea to make enough money for school. But…”

  “But what?”

  “He believed in all these crazy conspiracy theories. Thought the moon landings were fake, that the government kept crashed UFOs, that they used some big antenna to control the weather. Then when this happened…”

  “What exactly happened?”

  “It wasn’t a shark that did this.” Monroe pointed to his leg. “It was a sea monster, just like the one in New Jersey. I remember when we caught it, we were all excited. Thought this would make us rich and famous. Then…”

  “Then what?” asked Sherlock.

  “That’s when things got weird. After the captain radioed our bosses about it, he ordered all of us to hand over our phones, cameras, computers. When we asked why, he said it was company policy. Leo started arguing with him, accused him of suppressing a big-time discovery. I mean, they were really going at it. The captain even threatened to fire Leo if he didn’t shut up. But he kept going, I had to pull the kid away before he got himself in any more trouble.”

  “Did Leo cause any more trouble on your ship?”

  “No. He grumbled a lot, said he was going to expose it, but he didn’t raise another stink until we got back to Manns Harbor.”

  “What happened then?”

  “We were just a couple miles from shore when that thing bit me. The crew carried me off the boat. I thought there’d be an ambulance there for me, but there wasn’t. There were a couple corporate guys in suits and some other guys. Big guys. Real gorillas, you know? One of ‘em told me to say a shark bit my leg, otherwise no one would call an ambulance.” Monroe bit his lip. “So I did. Shit, my leg was gone and I was bleedin’ all over the place, and I was scared, man. What else could I do?”

  “I understand.”

  “Anyway, the corporate guys made everyone sign non-disclosure forms, said anyone who broke them would be fired and sued. I also heard from a couple buddies of mine that they sent the gorillas around to the rest of the crew. They threatened them, threatened their families, if they talked.”

  “I assume one of these gorillas visited you.”

  Monroe nodded. “Yeah, he did.”

  “What did he look like?” asked Sherlock.

  “Big. Not tall, but big, muscular. The guy was a tank.”

  “Can you take a guess as to his height and weight?”

  Monroe looked to the ceiling in thought. “Maybe just under six foot. Maybe two hundred pounds.”

  Sherlock jotted it down in his notebook. “What else? Age? Race? Distinguishing marks?”

  “Maybe mid-thirties, looked Hispanic. I don’t remember any marks. I just remember he came off as a guy who’d kill you without a second thought.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  “Nope.”

  “When did he visit you?”

  “The day after it happened. I was still in the hospital.”

  Sherlock again wrote in his notebook. “What about Leo Fallon? I take it they visited him.”

  “Oh yeah. Actually, he visited me in the hospital a few days later. He had a black eye and a swollen lip. He mouthed off to the guy they sent and he messed him up.”

  “But I take it that beating didn’t deter him.”

  “No.” Monroe’s gaze fell to the floor. “He’d call or swing by every so often, told me he was looking into what happened with the monster. I told him to drop it, that it wasn’t worth it. But he didn’t listen.”

  “Did Leo find anything?” asked Sherlock.

  “I think so. Leo came by one night and told me he wrote a thing about the attack on this website. I told him he was nuts, that he was asking for serious trouble. I told him to stop, but he said he had an idea where they took the monster. Then about three days later, Leo came by again. This time he looked scared. Really scared. Said he found out where they were keeping the monster, but thought someone spotted him. He gave me his iPad, said he had all sorts of information on it about the monster. Told me to put it all on the internet if anything happened to him.”

  “And did you?”

  “No. I don’t even own a computer.”

  “Mister Monroe, do you still have Leo’s iPad?”

  “Hell no. I didn’t want any part of it. I smashed it with a hammer and threw it in the garbage.”

  Sherlock tried to hide his disappointment. All that had happened well over a year
ago. Whatever remained of Leo Fallon’s iPad was likely scattered throughout some landfill.

  “Sorry.” A crest-fallen look formed on Monroe’s face. “I guess I should’ve hung on to it. But these guys, they were fuckin’ scary.”

  “I understand, Mister Monroe.”

  “I guess I screwed up your investigation, huh, Marshal?”

  “Not necessarily. Did Leo mention where he thought they were keeping the sea monster?”

  “He just said it was in some old house in Virginia,” Monroe answered. “Just over the state line.”

  “Did he say exactly where?”

  “Nope. Just that it was over the state line.”

  Sherlock stifled a grunt. There were a lot of old houses in Virginia, some dating back to before the American Revolution, and probably quite a few along the border with North Carolina. Needle in a haystack came to mind.

  But at least it’s a smaller haystack than before.

  “How did Leo die?” he asked.

  “They said it was a drug overdose. That’s bullshit. Leo never messed with drugs.”

  Sherlock wrote in his notebook. “Thank you for your time, Mister Monroe. I think I’ve got what I need.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more. Really. Leo was a good kid. He didn’t deserve that.”

  “I know.”

  Monroe finished his beer and put it on the kitchen counter with all the other empties. “You really think you can get those guys?”

  “Yes I do. Whatever it takes, I’ll see that whoever killed Leo Fallon pays for it, and that you no longer have to live in fear.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Rastun caught sight of their new boat when he got out of Geek’s Escalade. Like Bold Fortune, it was another yacht converted into a research vessel. This one though, looked slightly larger with a sleeker bow.

  “Pretty nice,” said Karen as she stared at Epic Venture, which arrived at the Barnegat Light Marina an hour earlier.

  “Yeah, it is. At least now we can actually do something instead of being cooped up at our hotel.”

  “Hey, being cooped up there wasn’t all bad.” Karen flashed him a wry grin.