The boy stared at the floor. “I figured she told you about what happened. That’s why you hired me, isn’t it? ’Cause she thinks I’m screwed up somehow and acting strange. You felt sorry for me.”
“I did it as a favor to Hannah, yeah,” Doc admitted. “At first, but not now. You’ve proven yourself, as far as I’m concerned. I mean it. You show up on time and you’re a hard worker. So far I’ve yet to hear you complain about anything, and you don’t make excuses—that’s a biggie with me. Another biggie is, when something needs to be done, you do it without having to be told. That’s rare in kids your age”—the man’s face showed amusement—“and just as rare when it comes to a lot of adults. Seriously, I want to keep working with you, Luke. You’ve been a big help around here.”
Luke, who hadn’t cried since his mother’s funeral, felt dangerously close to tears. He continued to gaze at the floor.
Doc asked, “Do you think you’ve changed since it happened?”
“The storm? Maybe. I’m lucky to be alive, I guess.”
“Very lucky. I did a little research and printed it out.” The man opened a drawer. He pushed a manila envelope across the desk. “Getting struck by lightning could’ve crippled you for life or messed up your brain forever. The results are usually worse than people can imagine. But there are a few exceptions—like you … maybe.”
The boy sensed what the biologist suspected, but said, “I don’t get what you mean.”
“I think you do. It’s rare—one out of a hundred million, maybe. But lightning-strike victims occasionally notice positive changes. Changes that are mysterious in a way that doctors still don’t understand.”
“Even you?”
The biologist found that funny. “Especially me. There are case histories in there.” He touched the manila envelope. There was a woman—you can read about her yourself—who survived a lightning strike. This woman, she was in her early twenties when it happened. Her whole life, she’d been convinced that she was terrible at mathematics because she’d failed algebra in high school. Then, for reasons no one can explain, she became fascinated by geometry while she was recovering in the hospital. Now she’s going to night school, getting her college degree.”
“Because she was struck by lightning,” Luke said.
The man pressed his lips together—thoughtful or skeptical, the boy couldn’t tell—then answered carefully. “The woman probably believes that lightning caused the change. I’m sure there are a lot of people who want to believe it’s true. But personally”—he shook his head—“I think it’s unlikely. Stick with me here. There’s another case history for you to read.”
The biologist opened the envelope. “A man in his forties, he’d been playing golf in a thunderstorm—which suggests the guy wasn’t too smart to begin with. This guy loved music his entire life, but he’d been told as a kid that he had zero musical talent. I forget the details—they’re in there.” Again, he indicated the envelope. “Anyway, this guy, who had never played the piano, suddenly began composing music when he got out of the hospital. I printed several other case histories for you. Those are just two examples of normal people who woke up with what some might think are superhuman gifts. There’s a term for that sort of abrupt change—savant syndrome.”
“Say-vant what?” Luke asked.
The biologist explained. “A savant is a sort of genius at certain things but has no formal training. Ever heard the term before?”
“I’m no genius,” the boy said, as if the idea were ridiculous. “I’m smart enough to know that.”
Doc found that remark funny, too. “Genius is just another word for talent,” he replied gently. “Or an unusual gift. Everyone has a genius of some type. I’m not trying to be nice. There’re studies that prove it. Most people have talents they don’t know they have for one reason or another. A lack of confidence, usually. Laziness, sometimes. Or fear.”
“Fear?”
“Oh yeah. There are all kinds of fear—fear of failure. Fear of the hard work it takes to accomplish something great. Fear of not being smart enough or not being good enough.” In a wry tone, the biologist added, “Our brains are brilliant when it comes to inventing reasons to be afraid. It’s even better at avoiding anything that seems difficult.”
“I used to be scared of a lot of things,” Luke admitted. “I don’t know why, but now I don’t feel so scared—except maybe what’ll happen if I change back to normal.”
“Ah, back to normal, huh?” Doc said. “I thought so. So you really are convinced that getting struck by lightning has changed you for the better.”
Luke was unsure. “Maybe. Do you think the changes will go away?”
Doc waited until the boy looked up from the floor. “Lightning isn’t magic, Luke. Electricity can’t give you something you didn’t have to begin with. The woman who suddenly liked geometry—she probably had a talent for math before she was struck. Just didn’t realize because she’d never really tried. The same with the guy who’s now composing music on a piano. That’s what I think. It’s possible they’d been told so often they didn’t have any talent, they ignored their own gifts. That might be true of you.”
Luke sensed he was being lectured. That was typical of adults, but it somehow seemed different coming from the biologist, who seldom spoke unless there was a good reason. The boy was starting to feel comfortable talking, just the two of them, him and Doc, alone in a laboratory with only fish around to hear.
“I don’t care anything about being special,” Luke said. “I hate the idea of people thinking I’m, you know, weird or something. And they will—kids at school, especially—if they see the burn scars on my”—he motioned with his hand—“and on my shoulder. I hope those do go away. I suppose my aunt told you about the scars, too.”
“They’re called fractal patterns,” Doc said.
“Frack—you mean like freckle patterns?” the boy asked.
“Fractal, as in fragments. They’re partial patterns found in nature. I did a little research on those, too.” He reached into the envelope and spread out several photographs. “Have a look—pictures of people who’ve been struck by lightning and survived. You have to admit they’re not typical scars.” He spread the photos across the desk. “Hannah says the burns on your hand and shoulder are more like tattoos. Beautiful tattoos—those were her exact words. Mind if I examine them?”
Luke wasn’t wild about the idea. But okay. He pulled off his right glove, opened his hand, and held it up as if stopping traffic. The burn mark on his palm was a complex pattern of swirls, straight lines, and loops.
The biologist adjusted his glasses. “Hmm … the scar is fainter than I expected. Is it okay if I—” He reached for a magnifying glass and used it for a closer look. Satisfied, he placed the glass on the desk. “You know what that scar is, don’t you? It’s a perfect diagram of the nerves under the skin of your hand—probably where the lightning entered or exited.” Fascinated, the man nodded. “Remarkable. This is absolutely exact in every detail. Is the one on your shoulder similar?”
The boy pulled his sleeve up.
“Interesting … yeah. Extraordinary, even. Hannah was right.” The man sat back, impressed. “Your so-called scars are better than any tattoos I’ve ever seen. Know why? Because they’re real. They’re part of who you are—not something dreamed up by some guy in a tattoo shop. And certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Luke, I wouldn’t try to hide what happened to you from Maribel and Sabina. They’re already curious, and they’re smart. They’ll figure it out.”
“It’s none of their business,” Luke said, and pulled his sleeve down.
“It is now,” Doc replied. He was smiling. “You’re working together, and they’re curious about … well, think about it. This is Florida. You can’t wear gloves all the time.”
The boy didn’t like being the center of attention, so he said he’d think about it. It took a while to shift the subject to the dead sharks the biologist had mentioned.
“That
’s what I was upset about,” Doc said. “I was reading an e-mail from a friend who’s a fish and wildlife officer. Around here they used to be called the marine patrol—like police officers. That’s who I went outside to call. Here, I’ll show you.”
He turned the computer screen for the boy to see. “Yesterday fifty-three sharks washed ashore on Woodring’s Point—that’s only a few miles from here. A dozen of them were still alive. The rest were dead. I get alerts about criminal activity if it concerns anything that swims or lives in the ocean.”
“Blacktip sharks?” Luke asked.
“They haven’t been positively identified,” the biologist said. “The police knew the twelve sharks that were still alive couldn’t be saved. So they put them on ice for me to examine. They needed an expert opinion because the fins on all fifty-three sharks had been cut off. You know what that means when it comes to positively identifying a shark.”
Yes, the boy knew. Many sharks were nearly identical in appearance except for the color and shape of their fins.
Luke said, “Then it was done on purpose, you think?” He waited for the man to confirm it was true. “That really sucks. Shark-fin soup, just like you told us. Do you think someone cut them off to sell? No one could like soup enough to slaughter fifty-some sharks just for their fins.”
The biologist got up, messed with baby Izaak’s blankets for a while, and walked to a window with a view of the bay. “Maybe bait fishermen killed them. But more likely those sharks were caught in a net,” he said. “All fifty-three were caught in the same spot, or they wouldn’t have washed ashore together. Whoever did it knew they were breaking the law. So they were in a hurry. They cut the fins off while the sharks were still alive and dumped them. I don’t know how a dozen of those fish managed to stay alive until they washed ashore.”
“Cut their fins off while they were still—” The boy couldn’t finish the sentence. “That’s about the sickest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
Doc responded, “Well, it’s cruel, at the very least. A shark without fins can’t breathe for very long. It’s not a good way to die. I think someone is targeting the summer blacktip migration. If the poachers are still in the area, it’s likely they fish at night and hide out during the day. That’s what the police think, anyway. So far they don’t have a clue who’s doing it.”
Luke knew what poachers meant. In Ohio, they were hunters who trespassed and killed animals for sport or profit, not food. Like the biologist, Luke was slow to anger, but he felt his jaw clench. “Greedy criminals are what those creeps are. I hope the police put them in jail.”
“Or they’re people desperate for money,” Doc reasoned. “Either way, you’re right. What they did was cruel—and illegal. They know it, and they don’t want to get caught. That makes them dangerous. Keep that in mind if you happen to see net fishermen when you and the girls are out in a boat. Very few netters are criminals. Even so, it would be best to avoid them.”
“But you’d be there with us, right?” Luke replied. “Or Hannah?”
Doc thought for a moment, then spoke as if Luke was a trusted friend. “This is between you and me, okay? Hannah wanted to surprise you, but I’m going to tell you now. She’s turning you and the sisters loose to fish on your own tomorrow morning. Just you three as a team.”
“Really?”
“You’ve earned it,” Doc said. “Maribel will be named captain—let’s face it, that girl’s better than most adults when it comes to running a boat. But I’m appointing you to special lookout duty. Do you know what that means?”
Luke was eager to please this nice, easygoing man with thick wire-rimmed glasses. “Yeah, sure. Keep my eyes and ears open, and … what else? Stay away from the shark poachers if we see them, I guess.”
“No one is better qualified to see what most people can’t see,” the man replied wryly. Then he became serious. “Luke, uh … I want to ask you something else. You have really good eyesight. I mean, truly unusual. Have you ever had your eyes tested?”
“Like, test me to see if I need glasses?” Luke thought back to the fifth grade at the little farm school he had attended. “They brought in a nurse who took us into a room where there was an eye chart on the wall. I guess I did okay. Some of the kids had to get glasses. I didn’t.”
The man wanted to know more. “Did the nurse say your eyesight is twenty-twenty? That’s normal for most people. From twenty feet away, the letters on an eye chart appear the same to the average person. See how it works? Twenty-twenty. That’s normal eyesight.”
Unsure, the boy shook his head.
“A person with poor vision, someone like me,” Doc explained, “might score twenty-thirty. Or twenty-forty. Take off my glasses, I can only see letters that an average person can see from thirty or forty feet away. But someone with really good eyesight might score twenty-fifteen.”
Luke was starting to get it. “The lower the second number, the better their eyesight.”
“Exactly. Twenty-fifteen, for instance. What that means is they can see letters from twenty feet that an average person can only see from fifteen feet away. Back in Ohio, after you read the eye chart, do you remember the nurse assigning you a score?”
The boy had to search his memory. There were still some blank areas after being struck by lightning. “Maybe,” he said. “I remember this guy, this nurse, saying something, but it wasn’t two numbers. It was only one number.”
“Only one?” Doc was puzzled. “That can’t be right.”
“I’m pretty sure. The number the guy said was … twenty-eight, I think.”
The biologist cleared his throat. He found a pencil and wrote 28 on a notepad. “Is this what you heard the nurse say?”
“Just one number. Yeah.”
“Remarkable,” the man murmured. Then, in a normal voice, he said, “I think what the nurse told you is this.” He crossed out 28 and made one number into two numbers by writing 20/8. “Understand now?”
The boy stared at the paper. “It means I’ve got pretty good eyes, I guess.”
“Good?” Doc said, snorting the way people do when impressed. “Pal, you are one very unusual young man if I’m right about this. Eagles, certain predatory fish—like sharks, for instance— Well, researchers have set up tests, and a shark’s eyesight is only slightly better than yours if that’s what the nurse—”
Wild yelps of laughter from outside interrupted what the biologist was about to say. Luke was relieved. He got up and hurried to the screen door to see what all the commotion was about.
Doc remained at his desk. “Hannah’s got another surprise for you kids. Go on out and have a look. We’ll talk more later.” Then he stared at the paper where he’d scribbled 20/8 and muttered, “Truly remarkable.”
Luke was already out the door. He trotted down the steps to Maribel and Sabina. They wore brand-new navy-blue T-shirts and long-billed fishing caps. When he saw the bright gold letters on the fronts of the shirts, he grinned. “Sharks Incorporated. That’s pretty cool.”
The biologist had come out to the upper deck to watch. “Thanks, Doc,” Luke called to him. “You don’t have to worry about us. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
NINE
A FUNERAL OR A PARTY?
Maribel was very nervous. Aside from a part-time job babysitting—usually for Izaak—she’d never been in charge of anyone but herself. Now she had been appointed as the captain of a boat.
Hannah noticed Maribel’s unease and walked with her along the path toward the marina. “Are you worried about tomorrow?” she asked. “I was so nervous the night before my first fishing charter, I couldn’t sleep.”
“A little,” Maribel admitted. “Mostly about Sabina. What if I give an order and my sister just laughs at me? Or Luke, although I’ve yet to hear him laugh. It would ruin everything if I had to bring one of them back to the marina.”
“Easy answer,” the woman replied. “Good captains don’t give orders—unless it’s an emergency. They ask their crew for help. Be
ing in charge of a boat isn’t nearly as easy as most people think. It means you have to do all the boring, dirty little jobs that no one else wants. It means taking care of your passengers first and yourself last. Do that, and Sabina will want to help you.”
Maribel wasn’t so sure.
An official-looking truck with police lights was parked outside the marina store. Two officers in uniforms hefted a heavy box off the tailgate. They carried the box toward the docks, where boats floated in a listless row of watery blue and pelicans dozed in the heat.
“What’s going on?” the girl wondered.
“If it’s what I think, you won’t like it,” Hannah responded. “Last night someone killed a bunch of sharks for their fins. The police brought a few here for Doc to examine.”
* * *
Maribel was glad that it was Luke standing next to the cleaning table while the biologist cut open the first of a dozen sharks. The man had already identified them all as blacktips for the police.
In Cuba, Maribel had done her share of cutting and cleaning, too. Every Sunday her job was to choose one of the family chickens to kill for dinner. Or fillet a fish she’d bought for a few pesos at the wharf. She didn’t enjoy the chore, yet it was necessary.
Not until she visited a Florida supermarket had the girl seen rows of fish and meat neatly wrapped in plastic. It was as if the fare had come from a vending machine, not an animal that had lived and breathed a few days earlier.
Maribel was sensitive. People probably found it easier to eat what they had not seen die. Her, too. She preferred not to eat meat or fish, but sometimes there was no choice—like in Cuba after the hurricane. Or after the lightning storm that had burned down their house. Both she and Sabina knew what it was like to go to bed hungry.
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