And then he looks directly at me. Only me.
My gaze connects with Cortés’s. It’s nothing, really. A fleeting glance, if that. But the effect is like the brandy-laced tea I drank earlier, a hot infusion of something unfamiliar but intriguing.
Rattled, I look away and try to tune in to the developing conversation nearby.
“I thank you for saving our sorry butts,” Murphy says gruffly to the captain.
“My honor,” says Captain Romero solemnly, bowing his head. “Absolutely my honor.”
“Where are we?” Murphy asks.
“Northeast of Eleuthera.”
Having not studied my geography like I should, this doesn’t mean much to me, but Murphy mutters a low curse and Sammy inhales sharply.
“Eleuthera?” Sammy repeats. “How’d we get east of where we started?”
The captain frowns. “I don’t know. Where were you headed?”
“Atlanta,” Murphy says. “And last time I checked a map, that was a straight shot northwest from the Bahamas.”
“I . . . see.” The captain’s expression darkens and he exchanges a quick sidelong glance with Dr. Baer. But then he waves a hand at the table, gesturing for us to sit. “But where are my manners? Forgive me! Eat, everyone, eat!”
We gratefully resume our seats and dig into the risotto again. No one speaks. Captain Romero sits at the head of the table and signals for the server to pour him a glass of red wine. Murphy refuses wine. The captain sips while we eat, regarding all of us thoughtfully. Dr. Baer and Cortés receive plates and eat with the rest of us.
After a while, Captain Romero addresses Murphy. “I wonder: did you have any . . . weather issues?”
Murphy swallows a mouthful of food, gulps down most of his iced tea and swipes his mouth with the tail end of the napkin that he’s tucked into his collar. “You better believe we did. We hit cruising altitude and the bleeding sky went black as a tax collector’s heart. It’s been that way ever since. Never seen the like.”
The captain shoots another look at Dr. Baer, whose dimpling cheeks make him seem pleased with this information. Then Captain Romero nods to the server and signals for him to do something, and the server walks over to some wall control and hits a switch. With a motorized hum, panels on the long wall opposite the table begin to retract to one side, and the other kids and I gasp.
Sunshine streams into the dining room from floor-to-ceiling windows, and the natural white light is brutal compared to the ship’s muted artificial lighting.
It fills the room, sparkles off the ocean’s calm indigo waters, makes my pupils contract with pain, singes my retinas and makes me cry out and cover my eyes.
Enough of us have the same violent reaction that the captain gets the idea. “Close them again,” he orders, waving a hand at the crewman, and the panels reverse, plunging us back into the soothing, dimmer lighting.
Looking stunned, Murphy slowly lowers the arm he’s used to shield his face and checks his watch. He’s got one of those huge stainless steel sport models that has about ten dials and can be used for diving.
“Why on God’s green earth is the sun shining like that when it’s nine-thirty in the evening?” he demands.
The captain stares at him. “It is five in the afternoon. Eastern. No later.”
A ripple of alarm circles the table as the other kids and I try to process this information. The captain is mistaken. He has to be mistaken. Our plane left at three, and the crash and ensuing nightmare lasted way longer than a couple hours.
Murphy scrubs a hand over his chin and recovers first. “Five o’clock? On Sunday, you mean?”
“No,” Captain Romero says slowly. “On Saturday.”
This is more than I can stand, and Murphy isn’t firing off the questions quickly enough to suit me. “It can’t be five on Saturday afternoon,” I interject. “Our plane left the Bahamas at around three and hours have passed since then.”
The captain rests his elbows on the table, steeples his hands and runs his index fingers over his lips for a beat or two. His heavy brows have contracted into a frown, and I can feel him choosing his words one by one, very carefully.
“I’m sure all of you have heard that . . . travelers through the Bermuda Triangle have experienced some . . . strange phenomena.”
Murphy flashes a crooked, humorless smile. “Absolutely, man. We’ve also heard about leprechauns, banshees, yetis and kelpies, but that doesn’t mean that any of the nonsense is true, now, does it?”
Captain Romero’s expression cools by several degrees. “Only God knows what is true or not true. What if there is one creature that is responsible for a reign of terror that can now be broken?” He pauses, drumming his fingers on the table. Then excitement lights up his eyes and he hurries on, as though he has a secret that’s so thrilling he can’t quite keep it to himself. “What if we were in a position to discover, for once and for all, what is behind all of the troubles in this area? Imagine the glory. The riches.”
Gray and Carter make indistinct sounds of disagreement but otherwise keep their opinions to themselves. But I can’t. I’m not willing to hear any supernatural theories right now. I just cannot deal with that on top of everything else that’s gone on.
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” I say, painfully aware of both Cortés’s steady attention on my face and my own uncertainty. “I mean, no disrespect, Captain, but all the Bermuda Triangle theories were debunked a long time ago. They’re just urban legends. You know—like the aliens in Area Fifty-One.” I look to Sammy for support. “Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” he agrees quickly.
The pause that follows is long enough for me to regret being so outspoken, but oh well. I’m not exactly known for my manners. Mona always joked that my real birth family was a pack of wolves.
“Area Fifty-One is real.” The captain’s voice has a distinct edge of ice now. “It is a military proving ground for your own government, no?”
“That’s true,” Sammy says, “but it doesn’t mean they’ve got Martians on ice out there.”
An, whose ears have turned a fluorescent red with embarrassment, smacks Sammy on the arm, making him yelp. “Sammy!” An says. “You’re being rude!” Turning to the captain, she offers an apologetic smile. “My brother is Mr. Science. In case you didn’t notice. Sorry about that.”
The captain dimples at her. “Don’t worry yourself, lovely An. I’m always willing to engage in a lively discussion. Tell me,” he says, turning back to Sammy. “What is the explanation for so many disappearing ships and airplanes in the Bermuda Triangle? So many mysterious deaths and tragedies? I want to know.”
Sammy, as usual, is up for the challenge. “Nothing that complicated or interesting. Human error. Equipment failure. Rogue storms.”
One of the captain’s brows inches up his forehead. “Oh? And what caused the bad weather you experienced, eh? Or maybe you think pilot error caused the sky to go black all at once?”
“I . . . don’t know enough about meteorology to say,” Sammy admits.
The other kids and I exchange deflated looks and shift uncomfortably in our seats. We never like to hear Sammy say he doesn’t know something. It disrupts the natural order of things, like discovering that the earth is, in fact, flat.
“So,” the captain says. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a world of quiet triumph in his voice. “Perhaps we should all be more open-minded.” He turns to Murphy. “Now tell me. What happened?”
Murphy sighs and shrugs. Tugs at his earlobe. Wipes his nose on his napkin. Clears his throat. “We hit cruising altitude and then the sun goes out.” He pauses to cough and clear his throat again. And then he tells the story, sparing none of the harsh details. When he gets to the part about the sounds of the plane’s captain and Axel’s dad being bludgeoned to death, Murphy’s face twists up with emotion, and his mouth works as though he’s trying hard not to vomit. A few of us, including me, squirm in our seats, and I struggle w
ith the lingering horror that wants to clamp down on my throat and strangle me. I reach for the aquamarine around my neck and rub it between my fingers.
Everyone waits in rapt silence for the rest of the story.
“What kind of whale was it?” Dr. Baer asks sharply when Murphy finishes. “Did you see it?”
“Didn’t see a thing but for the size of it and the wake it made,” Murphy replies.
“How big was it?” Dr. Baer demands.
“The thing was huge,” Mike says, shuddering. “Twenty feet at least.”
“The wake was huge,” Murphy corrects, frowning thoughtfully. “I never saw hide nor hair of the beast itself. No one did, did they?”
“I got a quick look,” I admit. “Big eye. Black and white markings. Crazy sharp teeth.”
The other survivors look vaguely alarmed at this news.
“And we heard the eerie shriek it makes,” Murphy adds after a second or two. “Like nothing I’ve ever heard on an animal show, let me tell you. Enough to make a grown man piss on himself—excuse me, ladies,” he says quickly.
The whale’s cry echoes inside me, and I know exactly what Murphy means. I repress a shiver and finger my aquamarine.
The captain and Dr. Baer exchange significant looks. Excited looks.
Murphy also notices. “And if you don’t mind me saying so,” he continues, scowling, “I don’t see why the two of you look like the cat that ate the canary dipped in cream. What do you know of the foul creature?”
Captain Romero hesitates and does something with his hands in his lap. For the first time, I notice that he’s wearing a huge gold signet ring on his right hand. He twists it around his pinky, frowning as he arranges his words. “It’s . . . a complicated story. The . . . company I work for—”
“Burke and Company,” I supply, remembering the lettering on the side of the ship.
Captain Romero winks at me. “You see, Cortés? Bria Hunter is as clever as she is beautiful. Watch out for this one.”
“I plan to,” Cortés answers.
I ignore this portion of the conversation and also the heavy burn of Gray’s gaze on the side of my face. “Anyway, the company you work for . . .” I prompt, blushing furiously.
“Burke and Company? Never heard of ‘em,” Murphy says flatly.
“That does not surprise me,” the captain says. “It’s a privately owned corporation out of Rio de Janeiro, but my crew is international. We specialize in, ah, asset acquisition and development. The company has awarded a research grant to Dr. Baer so he can study wildlife in the area.”
Maggie perks up. “Wildlife? So you’re a . . . what?”
“Marine biologist,” Dr. Baer says.
Maggie beams at him. “Cool.”
“No, Maggie, not cool,” I interject, annoyed with my friend’s ongoing mania for all things animal, despite what we’ve just endured. “He’s not out here trying to save fluffy baby seals from being clubbed for fur coats. They’re after that monster whale.” I stare at Captain Romero. “Aren’t you?”
Captain Romero’s lips curl with amusement as he nods at me. “I repeat: clever as well as beautiful.”
“So that’s why you’ve got that weapons room, isn’t it?” I say. “You’ve got enough firepower to blow the whole Bermuda Triangle to smithereens.”
“I would be foolish indeed if I did not prepare my ship for any contingency,” Captain Romero says. “There are whales in these waters, yes, but there are also drug smugglers and pirates.” His gaze hardens. “I do not like to be vulnerable, nor do I take risks with my employer’s investments.”
“So it’s definitely a whale, then?” I ask.
“The details are on a need-to-know basis only.” The captain gives me a rueful smile to soften his words. “I will say only that Dr. Baer has some theories about the creature, which may be an entirely new species.”
“New species?” Sammy asks, leaning forward in full science geek mode. “How could there be a species that size that no one’s ever encountered before?”
“I don’t think it is impossible at all, Mr. Lewis.” The captain smirks. “After all, it’s not so very long since a live giant squid was recorded for the very first time, is it?”
“Well, yeah,” Sammy says, “but we knew it existed before that, because dead giant squid wash ashore all the—”
Murphy is apparently out of patience and reaches out an arm to keep Sammy quiet.
“Never mind,” Murphy says. “We don’t have time for discussions about giant squid and new species and everyone’s feckin’ life story back to birth. I’ve heard enough about your theories, Captain”—he makes quotation marks with his fingers—“to know that I don’t care to hear any more.”
Captain Romero’s lips thin into a tight line.
Maggie and I raise our brows at each other. Now that the immediate crisis is over, Murphy’s normal personality, cranky old guy, seems to be making a comeback.
“I want to hear that you’ve notified the authorities,” Murphy continues. “I want to hear that the Coast Guard is sending a cutter to pick us up or that you’re going to do a swing-by at Eleuthera and drop us off. Once these children are out of the area, you can study that demon spawn of Moby-Dick to your heart’s content. Knock yourselves out putting those radio tags on his fins, and good luck to you. I hope you live to tell the tale, but I think there’s a better chance of Uncle Sam opening up Area Fifty-One and making it an amusement park where you can ride the UFOs and eat cotton candy, so I’ll not count on it. All I ask is that you leave us out of your suicidal nonsense. We just want to go home.”
Captain Romero has gone very still, and there’s a pinched look around his mouth as he lifts his hands from his lap and places them, fingers laced, on the table. “Your wish is my command, Mr. Murphy, I assure you. As it happens, we have changed course and are headed back to Eleuthera as we speak. We should arrive by dawn if the weather conditions—”
“But what about the Coast Guard?” Carter interjects.
Captain Romero’s hands come apart and he studies his fingers as he twists his ring again. “That is the problem with American teenagers, is it not, Señor Murphy? They study the Constitution and believe that the rights they have not earned, but have been granted by virtue of their birth on U.S. soil, make them the equal of their elders. So they speak freely when they should be listening.” He waves a hand, sighs, and continues sadly while Carter’s jaw drops with outrage. “But what can you do? I struggle with this with my own son.”
Cortés, who’s been sitting quietly and listening this whole time, stretches his arms high overhead and yawns as though he’s just woken up. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing his eyes and blinking. “I dozed off for a minute. What’d I miss?”
Captain Romero does not look amused, especially when this performance sets off a round of snickering, quickly stifled, from the rest of us kids. Cortés’s warm gaze catches mine across the table, and since I can’t laugh and keep my guard up at the same time, I’m unprepared for the wild swoop in my belly.
I hastily look away.
“You see?” Captain Romero says to Murphy, jerking a thumb at his son. “What can I do?”
Murphy gives us a death glare and clicks his fingers. “Zip it.”
The sniggering trails off.
The captain waits an extra beat or two for complete silence. “As I was saying, we should arrive by morning. Your National Transportation Safety Board and Federal Aviation Administration will pinpoint the crash site and investigate. Your Coast Guard, which of course keeps a presence in the area, has been diverted by the remnants of the tropical storm last week and the gathering storm this week—it is to the west of French Guiana now and has been upgraded to Hurricane George. Did you know that? It is anyone’s guess where it will go next—so they are happy to let us bring you in.”
“We’re much obliged,” Murphy says. “And when will these children be able to phone their parents and let them know they’re not lying dead at the bottom of th
e sea?”
“As soon as you are all finished eating. And after that, everyone will be shown to their rooms and fresh clothes. That will work for you, no?”
My friends all nod eagerly, and the excitement level kicks up several notches.
“Can I ask a question, Captain?” Sammy plows ahead without waiting for an answer. “How did you find us? How did you even know we were out there needing to be rescued?”
“We heard your pilot’s distress call and realized we were the closest ship in the area,” the captain replies. “Luckily for all of you, the Venator is a good ship. She’s very good at finding things, and I’m very fortunate to be her captain. God has blessed me.”
This time, when the bell of recognition dings in my head, I’m able to translate easily:
Venator.
Hunter.
“Hey,” says a voice behind me. “Is this rail taken?”
I know it’s Cortés even before I turn and see him standing there. I might almost go so far as to say that I’ve been expecting him.
That doesn’t mean I’m ready to talk to him, though.
I’m clean and sweet-smelling now, thanks to a hot shower in the cabin I’m sharing with Maggie and An. I’m also dressed in warm and dry sweats courtesy of one of the crewmen. They’re way too big, but it’s only temporary while our sea-battered clothes are washed and dried, so I’m not complaining.
Bottom line? I feel like a new person.
I’ve been leaning against the rail and watching the sunset, which is spectacular. At the moment, the top half of the sun blazes orange against pink-streaked skies and sparkling sapphire waves that are beginning to pick up a little, probably due to Hurricane George somewhere to the south. The air is crisp and salty fresh, with no trace of the decaying rot that overwhelmed my poor nose when we evacuated the plane. Even the sargassum, which drifts lazily along in green patches, seems wondrous and peaceful.
I guess I’m experiencing the thrill of still being alive and well.
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