Black Widow df-15

by Randy Wayne White

  Instead, I threw the engine into reverse, swinging shoreward on the bow anchor, as I pulled off shirt and shoes. When the boat was positioned, I dropped the second anchor, then slid over the side, still wearing the waterproof monocular. Tomlinson hadn’t gotten far, only about fifty yards. He’d be easy to catch as long as I could see him.

  I bulled my way through the surf line, doing the lifeguard’s crawl stroke. Whenever I lost visual contact, I stopped and sculled on roller-coaster waves until I spotted him floundering among whales, then I set off again.

  Soon, I was close enough to grab one of his ankles and yank him to a stop. I felt like smacking him. I might have been tempted, if he hadn’t been so pleased with himself.

  He was laughing. “Isn’t this incredible! They’re following me!”

  I yelled back, “Why not? They’re bored shitless. How can they resist watching a crazy man drown?”

  “But you’re a witness. The whales and I are communicating.”

  “Great. Tell your buddies that King Neptune can’t play anymore. Then do me a favor and-” A whale startled me, spouting so close that I was rocked by displaced water, and I could smell the protein soup of its breath. I whirled to look, and saw the whale’s dorsal in the green fluorescence of the night-vision monocular. For an instant, as I crested a wave, I thought I saw other fins, too. The fins appeared to be angling toward us.

  I continued to stare through the green-eye, waiting for another wave to lift me as I spoke slowly. “Do us both a favor. Let’s swim to shore and ask the experts how we can help with the stranding-” I stopped.

  Yes… there were more dorsal fins-two fins vectoring from the north, cutting green wakes. They were triangular fins, three feet high- as large as whale dorsals… but the fins weren’t rounded at the tips. I am not an expert on whales. But I could identify these fins expertly.

  It was tarpon season, as Tomlinson had said. The oceangoing meat eaters had come shallow to feed.

  Sharks.

  I grabbed Tomlinson’s shoulder, turned him, and said, “Out there. Hammerheads. Two, and they’re coming this way. Twelve- or thirteen-footers, maybe a thousand pounds. Get your knees up, pull your arms in tight.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No. But they’ll shit both of us if they’re feeding.”

  “Tell me you’re joking.”

  He knew from my tone I wasn’t.

  “How close?” He thrashed the water, straining to get a look.

  I grabbed him again. “Quit splashing. Arms in tight, like you’re a chunk of wood. They’re thirty yards out, closing fast.”

  “You can see them?” His voice was shaking.

  Yes, I could see them. Each time I crested a wave, the dorsal fins were closer. Their zigzag trajectory was a froth of green. They had locked on to their targets. Us.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But sharks don’t feed on people! You always say that.”

  “They were attracted by the whales’ distress calls. We’re not people out here. We’re the smallest mammals on the menu.”

  “Damn, Doc! I was just starting to get my groove back!”

  I said, “Maybe they’ll just bump us and move on.”

  “Bump us. I’ll piss my damn pants dry. Hey, wait-” He managed to laugh. “-my pants… I’m wearing Yankee pinstripes. Unless the bastards eat their own, I’m sharkproof.”

  I replied, “Just to use that line, we’ve got to make it back.” I took a few strokes to consolidate our profile… but it was too late. “Don’t move. They’re here.”

  I threw my hands out to fend off as two submarine shapes surfaced within reach, both dorsals higher than my head. Their skin was an armor-work of denticles. I banged one with my fist, kicked at the other. They brushed past with feline indifference, throwing a wake. The sharks arched away, then submerged. Their sensors had identified us. Meat.

  “Where’d they go? You see ’em?”

  “No,” I said. A few seconds later, though, I said, “Yes.”

  The hammerheads were circling back.

  The only weapon I had was a folding knife, single blade. I fished the knife out of my pocket and opened it, aware on some internal level of a chemical burn moving through my circulatory system. It was as familiar as the roaring in my ears. It signaled an adrenal overload that keys the fight-or-flight instinct. In some, it also keys rage.

  Knife out, I began to sidestroke toward the sharks, charging them as they charged me. Irrational-rage often is.

  Suddenly and inexplicably calm, Tomlinson called, “It’s okay, I’ve been warning the whales. I’m ready. If it gives them time to run, I don’t mind sacrificing myself.”

  Over my shoulder, I hollered, “Send a message for me. If your whales run instead of attack, they deserve to die,” venting anxiety by voicing what I expected of myself because the hammerheads were on us again.

  I could see their fins sculpting the weight of the waves. I could see their eyes set apart on stalks as flexible as glider wings. The hammerheads looked like alien spacecrafts tipped with bright black lights. Their dragon tails made a keening sound as they ruddered water.

  One of the sharks submerged. I realized that it would probably hit me first. Maybe the second shark would cruise past and take Tomlinson. It was an observation-objective, unemotional, like the sea, like sharks. If it happened, it happened.

  Knife extended, I lunged forward and downward toward the shark. The night-vision monocular was waterproof, but not designed to focus underwater. Black water became green. There were vague images beneath me, like moons adrift. There were glowing shapes the size of boats. Shapes moved, creating swirling contrails. I used the knife to stab and stab again, but connected with nothing.

  Then the sea exploded.

  Twice, the sea exploded.

  I got my head above water, confused because the sky was exploding, too. I watched a whale arc across the stars, jaws locked on to the midsection of a hammerhead shark. The animals cartwheeled, then crashed back to sea. The shock wave was seismic.

  To my right, there was a depth charge percussion of similar magnitude. The whales had nailed the second shark.

  Tomlinson was beside me as twin shock waves lifted us. “Holy mother of God! Did you feel that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you see that?”

  “Yes.”

  Adrenaline was draining from my system. I felt weak, nauseous. I lay back and allowed the buoyancy of saltwater to support me, aware that whales were now moving away, pointing out to sea.

  “Let’s get back to the boat. I could use a beer.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  On the ride back to Dinkin’s Bay, Tomlinson couldn’t stop repeating himself: “You told the whales to attack, and they attacked. You doubt you have mojo? Doc-they got your message!”

  6

  FRIDAY, JUNE 21ST

  Half an hour later, as Tomlinson climbed aboard his sailboat, I said to him, “Use your psychic powers and tell me who turned off the lights in the lab.”

  It was 4 a.m., still dark, but the marina’s boat basin was streaked with reflections of mast lights and Japanese lanterns strung for Dinkin’s Bay’s weekly party.

  The party was tonight, I realized. Friday-June 21st, the summer solstice.

  The cruisers, trawlers, and sailboats were buttoned up tight, air conditioners laboring on this black June morning as owners slept.

  “You’re sure you left the lights on?”

  I remembered glancing over my shoulder as we crossed the bay, my windows distinctive because of the yellow bulbs.

  “I’m sure. And if the power goes off, I’ve got a propane generator. It’s automatic.”

  Once again, my eyes scanned the mangrove shoreline, from the marina to my lab. The windows were the same flat gray as the lab’s tin roof.

  “Maybe Shay changed her mind and came back. Or it could be the lady biologist you’re dating. You said she had some interesting quir
ks. There’s the explanation, Doc. That’s not darkness, it’s an invitation. Personally, a dark window is something I’ve never been able to resist.”

  I said, “You’re probably right,” willing to agree because Tomlinson was eager for me to be gone. I knew the signs.

  On the return trip, he’d decompressed by swallowing something he didn’t want me to see-a pill? A sliver of mushroom? He confided that he had an ounce of sinsemilla, a potent, seedless variety of marijuana, and I broke an old rule and gave him permission to light up. He smoked the joint and finished the six-pack-a bizarre-looking, stringy-haired Cyclops as he focused the night-vision monocular, crooning, “Ooohh…” and “Ahhhhhh…” watching meteors blaze.

  “Want a hit?” he asked several times, cupping the joint. “This shit’s so strong, you won’t have another headache until your next incarnation- then only if some quack grabs you by the head with forceps.”

  The drugs were beginning to do their work.

  Gradually, his focus rotated inward, attuned to some gathering cerebral momentum that he hid outwardly with sly jokes and articulate sentences. But now he wanted to enjoy the drug-crest in private. Either that or he needed a booster. Because my disapproval would cause unease, he wanted to be alone. Or he would wander beachside-somewhere near the Mucky Duck or Jensen’s-and seek the sanction of bleary-eyed kindred.

  Another sign he wanted me gone was that he refused to let me look at the bite he kept scratching. Or discuss it-even when I told him he could lose his leg if he’d been bitten by something with venom that caused necrosis. A brown recluse spider, for instance.

  His decision. I didn’t argue. I was exhausted, hungry, and I still had work to do before my new supervisors arrived to evaluate my work. So I was going. But not yet.

  I had stowed the night-vision monocular, but took it out as Tomlinson said, “We could’ve bought the farm tonight, compadre.”

  He’d repeated that over and over, too, choosing a different cliche each time-kick the bucket, hit the high trail, pushin’ up daisies, like shit-through-a-goose. Maybe the homey idioms mitigated the terror of what had almost happened.

  Focusing the monocular, I replied, “We’re born lucky-maybe they wouldn’t have attacked. We’ll never know.”

  I was looking through the green-eye at my stilt house a hundred yards away. Supported by pilings, braced like a railroad bridge, the place looked like a nineteenth-century woodcut.

  “Everything hunky-dory? Or maybe there are a couple of fins circling?”

  He chuckled as he said it, but wasn’t joking. A few minutes earlier, idling toward No Mas, he’d startled me by breaking into my thoughts, saying, “Sharks are your totem. Predators attract.”

  At the same instant, I was brooding over two previous encounters with aggressive sharks, both recent. As a biologist, I knew they were statistical anomalies. But why were the statistics suddenly askew? Fact was, I’d had more close calls in the last few years than an entire lifetime at sea.

  Same was true of predators of a different sort.

  I’d replied, “I thought opposites attracted. But there I go again being linear, bringing up the laws of physics.”

  “Physics applies,” he countered. “Quantum physics. There’s a theory that whatever we envision becomes reality. I think those hammerheads zeroed in on a distress call. But it wasn’t the whales who were calling.”

  “Ahhh. So they were coming to rescue me.”

  “In a way. Maybe. You weren’t exactly turning cartwheels when you got the news from your neurologist.”

  I replied, “No, but it could’ve been worse.” Which was true. I’d been diagnosed with cerebral vasculitis, an unusual disorder with numerous possible causes. A life spent banging around the tropics had probably contributed. The disease can be treated with corticosteroids, which may delay the inevitable. Sooner or later, most of us will listen to a physician speak the name of our killer.

  I told Tomlinson, “Have I seemed upset? Truth is, I like the certainty of knowing.”

  “Then your distress signals are job-related. You’ve been restless as a cat since cutting your old ties. Free to hole up and live a safe little life? Definitely not you, man. Sharks are totemic. They recognize your scent.”

  Now he was joking about it, hoping I’d react. But the concept of animal totems was something I didn’t want to explore. Not now.

  “No sharks circling,” I said as I slid the monocular into its case. Then I added in a voice loud enough to be heard across the water, “I thought I left the lights on, but I was wrong. You ever do something stupid like that?”

  “Damn,” he said, recoiling. “What’s the deal? I’m not deaf.”

  He put his hands over his ears as I said even louder, “I’m not going straight home. I have things to do at the marina.”

  He looked at me like I was nuts. “Never raise your voice to a man who may or may not have recently eaten peyote. Jesus Christ! Especially out of the fucking blue. It’s like getting hit in the temple with ice balls.”

  He was suspicious when I waved him closer, but I spoke softly. "We’re being watched.”

  Someone was inside my stilt house, standing at the kitchen window. A man, not a woman.

  I came through the living room, switching on lights that didn’t work, swearing aloud as if I didn’t know someone was in the house. Whoever it was had found the breaker panel in the utility closet, and offed the master switch. Had to be, or the generator would be running.

  Maybe that’s where the man was hiding. Or men-in the utility closet.

  I had a brilliant little Triad LED flashlight in my pocket, but didn’t use it because I was wearing the green-eye. As long as the power was off, I had the advantage. No way my visitors could know.

  In my hand, I had a chunk of axe handle, wrapped with manila cord. My friend, Matthiessen, gave it to me years ago, nicely weighted for dispatching fish. I would’ve preferred to be carrying a handgun-the SIG Sauer, or the little Colt. 380-but they were in the hidden floor compartment beneath my bed.

  I hadn’t used the fishbilly in a long time. I was eager to use it now.

  My house had been ransacked. Books, drawers, clothes were scattered. Maybe he’d done the same in the lab-I hadn’t looked yet. Just the thought of it made my stomach turn, but I had to check the main house first. It was because of the smell.

  Kerosene.

  It had spilled somewhere. A lot of it. When you live in a house built of yellow pine-pine so dense with resin you can’t drive a nail-the smell of flammable liquids registers like an alarm. That’s why I’d rushed up the stairs instead of taking it slow, using my night vision to surprise the guy. I’d followed my nose, moving incrementally faster as the smell grew stronger.

  The petroleum stink had brought me here, to the kitchen, where the pilot light of my propane stove glittered like a sparkler. Not much risk of an explosion, but dangerous. On the counter was a kerosene can on its side, top off, near a heap of towels. The pine floor was stained black.

  I had to shove the reading chair out of the way to get into the kitchen where I stood for a moment, alert. There was a rustling sound, then a metallic clack. The lights came on, compressors started, ceiling fans began to rotate overhead. My telephone answering machine came on, too, its message light blinking rapid-fire. Lots and lots of messages-unusual.

  I focused on the utility closet as a man stepped out, holding a gun. Not one of mine-a shiny little derringer, so small that maybe it was a lighter instead.

  "you’re him, right? Ford. The one the girls call ’Doc.’ ”

  I’d taken off the monocular and was adjusting my glasses, looking at a man, late twenties, short, with bulked-up chest and forearms. He was wearing sweatpants and a crew-neck T, but expensive. A guy who spent time in malls, and in front of the mirror.

  It was Corey’s husband. I’d seen photos.

  He’d been a firefighter, I remembered, before he was canned for misconduct. Something about making a scene, losing his temper. One
steroid drama too many. But I was blanking on his name. Last name was Varigono, but his first name was… Vince? Lance?

  I said, “That’s right, Ford. The one who’s going to introduce you to the cops in a few minutes, then testify in court before they put you in jail for ten years.”

  “No way. Even if you suspected, you wouldn’t call the cops. Shay told us about you.” He was trying to be cool, but his face was twitching as he crossed the room toward the stove. “You never call the cops, ever, because you can’t. It’s because of what you do. Some kind of illegal shit-Shay never figured it out.”

  A strange time for personal revelation, but there it was: My travels created suspicion. The mysterious biologist, Shay often called me, as if kidding. But she’d meant it. I was expert at evasion, so she’d turned to outsiders to discuss it, a natural reaction. So why did I feel surprised- and betrayed?

  Whatever she’d told the guy about me, though, had scared him. I could see it in his face, the way he moved. This was the cocktail party brawler? Yell “boo,” he’d make a puddle on the floor. But he was also crazy enough to break into my house, trash the place, then wait with a gun because he couldn’t find the video.

  The video-there could be no other reason he was here.

  And he was right. I had not called the police.

  “What’s the problem… Vance?”

  “Drop that fucking club for starters.”

  “No, not until we talk.”

  “How ’bout I shoot you in the knee? Maybe then you’ll take me serious.” He extended the derringer, aiming.

  I held my hand out, stop, and turned sideways-not the brave image I wanted to maintain, but the response is involuntary when someone points a gun near your nuts.

  I said, “You don’t want to shoot me, Vance. I don’t want you to shoot me. That’s serious jail time, and you’ve got a wife to think about. So let’s discuss-”

  “Don’t mention that bitch! She’s done nothing but lie since she got back from that goddamn island. It’s her fault I have to do this.” He stepped closer. “And you’re helping them, motherfucker! Corey and those whores she calls her friends. You screwed with the wrong dude, man! Shay says you’ve been into some shit? Well, I’ve been into real shit, so you’d better listen!”