Devil's Claw

by Valerie Davisson

  “Hi, Ms. McKenna!” Brandon yelled.

  “Hello, Mrs. McKenna,” Jeff said.

  Brandon reached into the back seat of his Kia to lift out a beat-up guitar case. Plastered in travel and surf stickers, it was a hand-me-down from his dad, a local musician and former member of a semi-famous rock group, Bone Temple. They broke up in the ’80s over girls and drugs. Qu’est surprise.

  “Hi, guys,” Logan said, pulling a key out of her pocket.

  Unlocking a small door, she entered the cool interior of her former garage and switched on a light. The door to the sound studio was straight ahead. Directly to her left, narrow, steep stairs led up to the large, open office area from which she ran her music/math program, Fractals. They still hadn’t installed a safety railing. It was on the list. As she learned when fixing up her house, remodels were never finished.

  The boys followed her inside, everyone’s eyes taking a minute to adjust to the darker interior.

  “You get any surf time in?” Logan asked, opening the studio door with her free hand.

  “Yeah, waves were a little flat, but we got in some good rides,” Brandon said, coming in behind her, taking his guitar out of its case on a small table just inside the door. Jeff nodded. A part-time lifeguard, Brandon could always be found in or near the ocean. Friends since the third grade, Jeff went where Brandon went, and Ben’s nephews thought both boys were cool.

  Although best friends, in every other way, they were a study in contrasts. Brandon’s wavy hair, bleached white and stiff with saltwater, stuck out from a friendly, sunburned face. The sun had no effect on Jeff’s hair. It remained completely black, shiny and stick straight, no matter how much time he spent in the water. As always, his bangs needed to be cut. Jeff was the quiet one.

  The first two student leaders Logan selected, both boys worked hard and really helped get the program off the ground its first year. The boys’ pick for the program’s new name, Fractals, was inspired by one of Logan’s math lessons. Even though it wasn't part of the regular geometry curriculum, Logan hadn’t exactly been a regular teacher. The students had been awed by how fractals not only created beautiful, kaleidoscope graphics, but were patterns underlying everything in the universe, including math and music, on any scale, and were created with a very simple equation.

  “I love it!” Mrs. Houser said when told of the new name, just before writing a check, so Fractals it was.

  Logan didn’t know where the woman got her money, but she was just happy Mrs. Houser was willing to part with some of it.

  Even with her benefactor’s generous checkbook, Logan was always searching for ways to pay for instruments, equipment, software licenses, and just office supplies. Today’s pizza was coming out of her pocket. These guys could easily put away a large meat lover’s each.

  Since Logan had loaned her fiddling efforts to the first recordings, they begged her to play on their current project. She agreed only if they kept the profits for themselves. College was only two short years away for these boys, and she knew they’d need every penny, no matter who got into the White House. Campaign promises of free tuition for every child were just that . . . promises.

  Although finding time in her schedule was tough, Logan loved these sessions. Getting away from the mound of paperwork on her desk and putting off dealing with district pencil pushers whose only vocabulary word seemed to be no, even for a few hours, was glorious.

  As musicians, Brandon and Jeff were developing in skill and range, but it was Jeff’s voice and songwriting that really set him apart. His strong vocals and tongue-in-cheek lyrics captured your attention. The resulting sound reminded Logan of a cross between Keb’ Mo’ and Ben Harper. The boy was truly talented.

  Though 4:00 p.m. came all too soon, they got a few good tracks down before they wrapped it up. Jeff’s shift at Athena’s, one of the food court restaurants in the Otter Festival, started at four thirty. He only worked three days a week. To avoid paying benefits, most places didn’t give kids more than twenty hours. Brandon was going home to watch a Star Wars marathon. His lifeguard hours were usually early in the morning.

  Locking the studio behind them, Logan walked the boys out to their truck. The sun was still out, but lower in the sky and not as strong. Logan’s large tortoiseshell cat, Dimebox, emerged from the long shadow of the hedge separating her property from the next house down the hill. It was a fixer-upper like hers, and the young couple who bought it were racing to finish the remodel before their baby arrived, which, by the look of the wife, could be any day now. Winding around the boys’ feet, rubbing against their legs, Dimebox pressed for a scratch behind the ears. Jeff was happy to oblige. His mom was allergic, so they didn’t have pets.

  Named after a small town in Texas “no bigger’n a dime box worth of snuff,” Dimebox weighed in at fourteen pounds and was the king of all he surveyed. He didn’t start out that way. When Logan first scooped up the flea-infested, scrawny kitten, he fit into the crook of her arm.

  “What time do you want us back on Monday?” Brandon asked.

  “Same time works for me,” Logan said. “If I don’t hear you when you get here, yell up at the window. I’ll be in the office.”

  Jeff said that worked for him, too.

  Violin tucked under her arm, she waved at their taillights and Brandon’s outstretched arm and checked her watch.

  Almost Ben time!

  Deciding to catch the sunset while she waited for Ben on the rooftop deck, Logan went inside and quickly assembled her supplies into a canvas bag. Bottle of pinot noir. Two glasses. Some crackers and cheese. Adjusting it onto her shoulder, she left the doors open and went up the outside stairs.

  The rooftop deck had been one of the major selling points of this house.

  After paying off the debts she didn’t know Jack had accumulated, the cash purchase and remodel of the house took every cent she had. But she’d been determined to own her own home. A lifelong renter, she still got a thrill from coming home to her house. And she loved not having a house payment.

  The deck was Logan’s escape hatch, a place where she could close her eyes and just listen to the waves or marvel at the many changing colors of the Pacific. She tried to name them once, but Mother Nature’s palette quickly outran her vocabulary.

  Dimebox trotted up behind her. Ever loyal to her for rescuing him from the pound, he guarded his mistress and faithfully brought her presents of mice, small birds, and moles.

  She found another one of his grisly gifts this morning on the back porch.

  Well, like her father always said, it was the thought that counted.

  2

  Thursday, July 2, 2015, 3:17 a.m.

  Inky black, the satin surface of the Pacific stretched west, away from the solitary swimmer, toward an empty horizon. A few miles east, to her right, lay the barely visible outline of the ghostly gray shore. Libra, faint through the coastal clouds, held the scales of justice and harmony overhead.

  Floating on her back, she seemed unconcerned about being separated from her colony, alone and without protection. The ocean was her home. For a few hours, she continued to float in the open water, drifting in and out of sleep. She needed her rest; she had just given birth.

  A three-pound ball of fluff lay on the mother’s chest. Eyes not yet open, she knew only the warmth and security of her mother’s body and its steady stream of nourishing milk.

  Neither of them saw the fin. Approaching silently from the open sea, the shark lunged. Sharp, serrated teeth easily pierced the mother’s thick fur, just missing her spine. Powerful jaws lifted her out of the water, then, just as quickly, realizing she wasn’t a fat, juicy seal, spit her back out.

  It was over in less than a minute.

  Incredibly, the pup managed to hang on during the attack, and as the shark swam away, she got back to the business of living. For all she knew, this was a normal event. Maybe the next
second would bring death. But for now, the water, which, seconds ago, had been a froth of bloody violence, lay calm, so she again latched on to her mother’s breast.

  While her pup nursed contentedly, the new mother weakly paddled. Using the last of her energy, she nuzzled her baby’s head, holding it between her paws to keep her from falling into the sea.

  An hour later, left leg useless now, she couldn’t paddle at all. A thin ribbon of warm blood trailed behind her as the current carried them closer to the shore.

  3

  Thursday, July 2, 2015, 6:15 a.m.

  Logan knew Amy would probably still be in bed. Although she was normally an early riser, the medicine made her sleepy.

  Home from Africa after a bout of malaria, she was staying with Liam in a rental cottage he found only a few blocks away. The doctor said she’d be OK, just needed lots of rest and a regular schedule to regain her strength. Logan was impressed with the way Liam took care of everything seamlessly.

  Locking the door behind her, Logan zipped her hoodie halfway up and started walking down the hill. Cool mornings were one of the perks of living at the beach.

  Might as well pick up some breakfast. Tava’e’s was on the way, at the bottom of her street. Named for its homicidal effect on manual transmissions, Killer Hill kept most cars and bikes to streets with lesser inclines. Another benefit of living here, as far as Logan was concerned.

  Amy was as addicted to cinnamon rolls as Logan was. She wondered if Liam was a health-food nut or if he would enjoy one, too. When Logan walked into the bakery, a booming voice greeted her from the back.

  “Talofa!”

  Tava’e, as always this time of day, was holding court in her booth, beating someone at chess.

  Without interrupting her game but still acknowledging her greeting, Logan made her way over to the booth to say a quick hello before ordering Amy’s breakfast to go. By the time she got there, though, the graceful monolith was already up, crushing her in a hug. Being enveloped in a Tava’e hug made you feel safe from all harm.

  “It is good to see you,” Tava’e said as she sat back down. “How is your daughter?” she added, indicating Logan should take her companion’s place.

  “She was just about to beat me, anyway,” Tava’e’s former competitor said, graciously giving up his seat.

  “Epiphany! Two cinnamon rolls, one to go . . . ,” Tava’e said.

  A much-pierced barista with indigo octopus tentacles caressing her neck materialized at her side. Logan noticed she’d removed her eyebrow ring since she last saw her but had added ebony earplugs.

  Epiphany placed a huge cinnamon roll slathered in vanilla-bean frosting on a plain white plate in front of Logan, along with a large cup of black coffee, then handed her a small but bulging paper sack. The coffee came in a thick, wide mug, complete with saucer. No paper cups inside. Those were only available in the to-go line.

  “Hi, Logan. Here are your rolls. I put an extra one in for Amy’s Scottish guy.”

  As if Amy kept a collection of foreign men, making it necessary to specify nationality.

  “How does she do that?” Logan asked. “I didn’t even order yet!”

  Tava’e laughed. “I just hope she never quits. I couldn’t find anyone half as good at this job, and Danny would be lost without her.”

  A few minutes later, sated and caffeinated, outside on the sidewalk, Logan pushed the “Walk” button at the intersection.

  Hopefully Amy was up, They needed to get going while it was still cool. The morning haze was already burning off, and the doctor said she shouldn’t overdo it.

  7:27 a.m.

  “Mom! Mom!”

  Amy ran down the beach. Against doctor’s orders, of course. She was only supposed to start with mild exercise, which is what this morning’s walk was supposed to be—a short stroll down to Devil’s Claw to explore the tide pools.

  Logan ran to catch up.

  Amy was pointing to a large, tangled clump of seaweed. The retreating tide threatened to carry it back out.

  “Get that end!” Amy shouted.

  Logan grabbed one of the slippery dark-green strands at the top and helped pull the heavy bundle farther up on the sand. Whatever was caught in the seaweed wasn’t moving and was attracting flies. It couldn’t have been there long, or the crabs would have been all over it.

  She hoped Amy wouldn’t be too upset when it turned out to be one of the dead seals that sometimes washed up on the beach overnight. It was upsetting to see one, but as Logan had learned growing up in a beach town, not that uncommon. She’d seen dead seals before, even a baby gray whale once.

  “Don’t touch it, hon,” Logan said, pulling out her phone with her other hand. They’d have to call animal control.

  “Mom! It’s moving! There are two of them. Look! It’s a baby! A baby sea otter!”

  Amy was right. On closer inspection, Logan saw the telltale thick brown pelt identifying the larger, obviously dead, animal as a sea otter. The sodden bump of light-brown fur lying on top must be her pup.

  Logan remembered reading someplace that unlike seals, protected by layers of blubber, sea otters only had their fur to keep them warm. Mothers had to constantly groom the babies and teach them to roll frequently in the water in order to help hold insulating air bubbles in their coats.

  Matted and out of water, this little pup was in trouble.

  After instructing Amy to shelter the tiny survivor from the searing rays of the sun, Logan pulled out her phone and dialed 411. The sun, of course, had decided to make its appearance early today. There wasn’t a shred of marine layer left to shelter the little guy.

  She remembered the name of a facility from a fund-raising brochure near the register at Tava’e’s, stacked next to some real estate flyers: Southern Sea Otter Sanctuary and Education Center. When 411 found the number, they connected her call. She waited impatiently while the phone rang.

  Someone answered, but she couldn’t hear them clearly over the sound of the waves. She walked a little farther up the sand.

  “Hello, is this the sea otter center?”

  “Yes, this is the Southern Sea Otter Sanctuary and Education Center,” a woman replied. “We’re not open yet, but you have the right number. How can I help you?

  “I’m not sure if you can help if you’re not open yet, but my daughter and I found a dead sea otter, and . . .”

  “A sea otter? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, pretty sure. It’s definitely not a seal. I’ve seen those. And this animal has what looks like a newborn pup on her. It’s breathing, but just barely,” Logan said, adding, “Open or not, I think you’ve got your first customer.”

  After giving the woman, who turned out to be the director of the center, their location, all Logan and Amy could do was wait for the cavalry to arrive. Their main job, per the director’s strict instructions, was to keep aggressive seagulls, dogs, and curious beachgoers at bay.

  Logan looked again. So far, the pup was still alive. She hoped it stayed that way.

  Crouching down, Logan attempted to clear some of the seaweed away without disturbing the pup. Lifting one of the larger strands, she could see the mother’s side had a big gash in it. Not good.

  Although still rare, there’d been more otter sightings lately: one in Huntington Beach and one off Catalina Island. But they had all been solitary males. She wondered what made this otter, a female and a new mother, venture this far south alone.

  4

  Thursday, July 2, 2015, 8:14 a.m.

  Only three miles south as the crow flies, the rocky fingers of Devil’s Claw reached across the beach toward Bird Island and prevented Gina Richards from driving directly from the center to the injured sea otter. The Wrangler could handle sand but wasn’t up to climbing rocks. She’d have to take the highway up and around, then double back.

  Every second she lo
st in traffic was agonizing. Previously employed by the Monterey Bay Aquarium, she had been called out to many of these otter strandings before and knew time was of the essence.

  As she pulled onto the highway, she reached under the front seat and pressed the bar to adjust the seat position to long and tall. Much better. Dennis drove it last.

  At five seven, her new assistant, twenty-seven-year-old Dennis Radmore, usually drove his own vehicle, but right now, he was driving on bald tires, so she insisted he take the Jeep to do errands during work hours. He was one of her best citizen scientists up in Monterey, so she brought Dennis down as soon as possible after she took the job here. Dedicated, knowledgeable, and easy to work with, he was the first and, for now, the only hire until the rest of the certification process was complete.

  Due to her expertise and experience, most of the approvals had been granted, but there were a few more desks to clear before they were deemed prepared to accept injured sea otters and could officially open.

  Adjusting the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself: short dark curls, shot with silver, blew up against the rim of a floppy canvas hat. She was fair skinned and apple cheeked, and the tip of her small nose was perpetually pink and in some stage of peeling.

  Hoping she had everything else she needed, Gina picked up speed. The Jeep responded nicely. Solange wanted her to buy the Land Rover. Electric everything, leather, GPS, and back-up viewer. But Gina insisted on the stripped-down Wrangler.

  “Marine-mammal vets don’t need a leather interior to haul injured animals and equipment,” she had explained.

  Fewer features also meant fewer things to break, and the fifteen thousand dollars they saved on the work vehicle bought them otter food for a year and a large training pool on the ground floor. After a few more of these arguments, in which Gina demonstrated financial wisdom while remaining true to the project’s vision, Solange put her in charge of the budget. She’d also turned over much of the PR tasks to Gina, including public speaking.