by Tracy Sharp
He handed one to Chris, and sat in a chair in front of the fire. All the chairs were placed for maximum view, in a kind of semi-circle. We were quiet for a long moment, watching the flames and sipping our coffee. Fatigue was setting in, and I really wanted just to crawl in between the blankets and sleep.
The dark rings under the eyes of the drawn faces of Chris and Jackson told the same story.
“Look, I don’t know if the guy is involved in these killings,” Jackson said. “But the fact is he’s not running on all four cylinders. I think bringing in someone with some perspective might be of some help. Someone off the books. Even if nobody knows about it except us. We need information and I really don’t want to have to rely on Logan.”
Chris grinned. “I know someone who might be perfect.”
***
Chris had a cousin who worked at the Splash aquarium in Densworth, a town thirty-five miles north of Bass Bay. She’d been studying sharks for ten years.
I stood on the deck as I waited for Jackson. It was early. Just after six, and the sun was rising steadily out of the sea. I saw surfers on the water, even though this part of the beach was closed. The pull of addiction is a powerful thing. The euphoric thrill of riding the waves was stronger than the fear of attack by a shark. The very real possibility dying.
Maybe they really didn’t think anything would happen to them. Yet, even surfers who have lost a limb between the jaws of a shark often went back into the water soon after healing.
Vaguely, I heard the whisper of the glass door sliding open as Jackson stepped through it. “You ready?”
I injected fierceness into my voice that I didn’t feel. “I was born ready, baby.”
A strange sound cut through the air. A kind of panicked cry, not quite earthly. Then another. And another.
“What is that?” I searched the beach for the source of the sound.
“Look.” Jackson pointed out at the water. “Seals. Weird that they’re on this beach.”
There were five little black, shiny heads bobbing in the water, moving steadily toward shore. Their movements were frantic as they swam forward. I quickly went down the stairs, walking toward the water.
“Don’t scare them, Kicks,” Jackson said behind me. “Don’t make them go back. They’re frightened of something.”
I froze. Watching. The seals made it to the sand, still crying out, a couple of them growling, their movements urgent.
“Terrified.” I looked beyond them, back at the waves. I saw nothing. But there was something in that water.
Shark. “Oh, shit.”
Jackson gave voice to my fear. “There’s got to be a shark close by.”
There were surfers in the water. “We need to warn those surfers.”
We ran toward the main beach, both of us shouting at the surfers, hoping someone on the beach would hear us and shout to them. “Shark! Shark!”
The surfers, there were seven now, sat on their boards, floating only a few feet from each other. They were talking, their voices floating over the water. Laughter spilled out to us, sounding like an echo.
Waving our arms frantically, we screamed at the top of our lungs as we ran down the beach.
The surfers turned toward our voices. One lifted a hand to wave.
Two of them lay on their bellies, paddling back. Three shouted at the one who remained, looking out at the waves, waiting for a good one. The other boys shouted at him, waving him forward, toward the beach.
The other looked around, confused. Alarm growing on his face. He knew it was there but he couldn’t see it.
I remembered something Logan had said. Sharks are designed to be nearly invisible in color under the waves. Camouflage aids them in hunting prey.
Then a huge, grey head rose out of the ocean behind the surfer, and the shark launched out of the water, breaching. It’s powerful body turning, graceful and unstoppable. The jaws opened wide, clamping down around the arms and torso of the surfer, lifting him up for a long moment, lifting higher and higher into the air.
I stood, watching in horror; completely helpless as the surfer’s scream cut through the cries of the other surfers. Time seemed to stop as the shark held the surfer suspended, the horror on his face plain even from this distance. Blood ran down the belly of the surfer, and he screamed again; long, high and shrill. Then water splashed around the shark and the young man as the shark dove down into the blackness, the man still gripped between its razor sharp teeth.
The water around the surfboard turned red and the waves foamed and bubbled.
“Oh, my God,” I breathed.
Jackson stumbled away, leaned over and emptied his stomach onto the sand. He placed his hands on his thighs, taking deep breaths. Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, he choked out, “That’s the worst fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Jesus Christ.”
“Somebody help him!” A teenage girl screamed. She ran back and forth, across about ten feet of sand, and then ran a few steps into the water. “Help him! Oh, my God!”
Logan’s voice whispered in my mind again, telling me that most people are attacked by sharks in three feet of water. I ran toward her, yelling, “Stay back from the water!”
She didn’t hear me. Kept moving into the water. She stood, chest deep now, sobbing. “Matt!”
Matt bobbed back up to the surface, waving his arm in a futile attempt to swim. Blood poured from his mouth.
The girl swam out farther. “Matt!”
I jumped into the water, going after her.
“Leah!” Jackson splashed into the water behind me.
I reached the girl, grabbed her around the waist and began swimming back.
“NO!” she screamed. “That’s my brother!”
Jackson took over, lifting her out of the water and backing out. His strength and height making it impossible for her to get away. She kicked and screamed, her sobs becoming soul shattering wails. “MATT!”
Jackson pulled her onto the beach.
I turned toward the water. Ripples gently moved over the surface of the ocean.
Only the bright white surfboard bobbed steadily, peacefully, in the water.
Matt was gone.
Chapter 7
Chris McCool stood on the beach with us, looking ill. His face was a sickly shade of grayish white, like the belly of a dead fish. Police, media and crime scene people had filled the area. I barely noticed what was going on around me. The image of the kid, and he had been a kid of fifteen years old, according to Chris, being pulled down into the sea remained, as did all the blood spreading through the water.
“There was another attack minutes after Matt Orso was pulled under,” Chris said. “A stubborn old man. Sixty-two years old.” He shook his head. “He was snorkeling by himself. Made it onto the rocks over there.” Chris pointed to a jagged outcropping of rocks about thirty meters away from where we stood. “Wife was sitting on the beach. She ran over to help him. Said she saw three dorsal fins in the water. What the hell is going on around here?”
“Something is attracting them,” Jackson said. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
“No. I’ve read about sharks moving in large groups off the coast in Florida, really close to the beach. They were migrating or something. But I’ve never seen it happen here.”
“Doesn’t mean that it won’t,” I said. “Was the man badly injured?”
“He’s on his way to St. Anne’s now. They stopped the blood. He was bitten on the buttocks, so he had use of both arms and legs.”
“Good thing he could climb up on the rocks,” Jackson said. “With that many sharks in the water, he never would’ve made it to the beach.”
“I’m no shark expert. But like I said, Molly is.” Molly was the name of his cousin. Molly LeBray. “Just got off the phone with her. She’s expecting your visit. I’d go with you, but I’m a bit tied up here.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, looking at the media circus around us. “I guess you are.”
“Maybe
she can shed a little light on what’s going on here,” I said.
“She’s got a few ideas,” Chris said.
“Good. We need them,” I said.
***
Molly LeBray offered her left hand, as her right arm was missing. She had a prosthetic replacing the right.
“Glad to meet you,” she said. She had a bright smile and a sunny disposition. Her red hair curled in a mountain of ringlets around her head, and I was hard pressed to find a noticeable space on her face that wasn’t covered in freckles. She was beautiful, in an Irish, girl-next-door way. “I don’t shake with my right anymore, for obvious reasons.”
Jackson and I both smiled, not sure how to respond. I wanted to know how it had happened, but didn’t want to be rude by asking.
She answered my question for me. “Shark took it.”
I lifted my brows. “You’re kidding.”
She began walking and we followed her through a corridor in which the walls and ceiling were Plexiglas, showcasing swimming fish and sharks. They were much smaller than the Great White I’d encountered.
“Nope,” she said. “I was a stupid seventeen year old, out on a boat with my friends on the night after high school graduation. We’d rented a boat, and we’d gone over to see Spooky Sally. We were feeding the seals. Throwing fish overboard to them. I love seals.”
“Yeah, they’re cute,” Jackson said.
I glanced at him, noticing the engaging smile and the way his face lit up, listening to Molly.
“I decided to slip into the water and swim with them. They’re really friendly, especially when you feed them. I was having a great time. But then they started freaking out, trying to swim back to Sally.”
Just like this morning just before Matt and the old man were attacked.
“In the time it took me to register that there had to be a shark around, a Bull shark came up and chomped down on my hand.” She lifted the prosthetic to illustrate the point. “He was confused. Thought I was a seal.”
“Tough deal,” Jackson said. “But it hasn’t seemed to have slowed you down.”
“Nope. It’s just made me more stubborn and tenacious than I was before.” She turned and smiled at Jackson, her eyes twinkling.
“You wear it well,” Jackson said.
“The prosthetic or the tenacity?” Molly asked.
“Both,” Jackson said.
She turned to me. “Is he always such a sweet talker?”
“Just with the really cool chicks.” I grinned
“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” I said.
We came to a small, cluttered office with a desk piled with paper. “Have a seat.”
Jackson and I took seats in front of her desk. She had a shark screensaver on a giant computer monitor, and a few dolphin knick-knacks. A few framed prints of various sea life hung around on the walls. A giant one of a Great White leaping out of the water hung behind her. An image of Matt Orso being pulled into the water not two hours ago flashed through my mind, and I shivered.
“So, you like sharks, huh?” Jackson said, looking around her office.
“I respect sharks for the awesome predators they are. And I don’t mean the word awesome as most people use it today. Like, oh, this beer is awesome. I mean as in awe inspiring.”
“The damage a couple of sharks did this morning was pretty awe inspiring,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “We were pretty awed.”
Molly grimaced. “Terrible about the boy. A life lost. And the man. I hope he pulls through.”
She caught me looking at the desktop behind her. “I bet you’re wondering how I type with this fake hand.”
I grinned. “The question did cross my mind.”
“I can type pretty well one handed, but I also have a great voice recognition program that types for me.”
“Cool,” I said. Suddenly I wanted one of those jobbies, too. Sounded like fun.
“I bet you want one now, don’t you? Voice recognition program, that is. Not a fake hand.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “A fake hand might be kind of neat, too.”
“Great for Halloween pranks.” She winked.
Jackson and I both laughed. Which was strange. I didn’t think I’d be able to laugh for a while after what we’d seen earlier.
“So, you want to know about shark behavior,” Molly said.
“Yes, we do,” Jackson leaned forward.
“The shark expert the police department hired doesn’t have the healthy perspective needed,” I added.
“Nick Logan,” She snorted. “Tell me about it. What a freak.”
I smiled. So did Jackson. This woman rocked.
“His passion, when it comes to sharks, is honorable, and he’s right. We need sharks in our oceans. They are important Apex predators. But really, Nick’s a freak.”
“Let’s start with today. Why are so many sharks hunting close to the beach?” I asked her.
“Chris emailed me some crime scene photos he took with his cell phone. I think I know why the sharks are attacking the way they are.” She turned to her desktop, tapped on one of the tabs with her left hand. “I prepared these links earlier. I really wanted to show these to you.”
YouTube popped up, and a video called, “Swimming with Sharks,” appeared on the screen.
“Watch this,” she said. “These are Blue sharks.”
Jackson and I both watched her monitor intently. It was an underwater video of four divers; the person who was recording made five. A shark swam smoothly forward; two in the background were heading away, and then coming back around.
“Are those sharks circling them?” Jackson asked.
“It looks that way, but no. They are coming back around for their turn. Watch.”
The diver closest to the camera pulled something from a fanny pack attached to the back of her wetsuit. It was large and white, a chunk of something. She held her arm out, offering the chunk to a shark which swam fluidly toward her, gently taking the fish from her hand.
“Holy shit,” Jackson breathed. “They’re hand feeding them.”
“Yes,” Molly said. “Chunks of fish.”
“So the sharks are becoming conditioned to being fed by humans,” I murmured.
“Exactly. This is a diving group that feeds the sharks in an area not that far from the main beach. They drop anchor and then jump into the water in the area several times a day. It’s a tourist attraction. For only two grand, you, too, can learn to dive and as an added bonus, you get to feed the sharks. See how wonderful and tame they can be! You can train them to eat right out of your hand without biting it off. What a thrill.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said. “Until they follow the boat back to shore and start looking to swimmers for more fish.”
Molly pointed her prosthetic at Jackson. “Bingo.”
Jackson continued. “When the sharks don’t get the treat they’ve become accustomed to receiving from us, they figure they’ll take it themselves.” He snapped his fingers. “I bet that’s why the old man was bitten on the buttocks, where these divers are keeping their fanny pack full of tasty treats.”
“Exactly,” Molly said. “The divers feed the sharks from a fanny pack attached to their waist, which sits on their fanny. The shark that bit the elderly man was likely trying to feed itself from the place it knew the fish to be coming from.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “Smart fish.”
“Very,” Molly said. “They can be trained. They can be conditioned. They have excellent eyesight and memory.”
“Nice,” I said. “Meanwhile, these people are raking in the dough while people are being attacked on the beaches. So what’s the deal, does allowing diving students to feed the sharks give these outfits a competitive edge?”
“Yes. We’re trying to shut them down. This video just recently surfaced. We’re looking to issue a cease and desist order.”
“You’d hope that once it comes out that
their idiot behavior has resulted at least one death and some pretty bad injuries, they would want to stop, and feel pretty shitty about what they’ve caused.” I stared at the video.
“One would hope that. Doesn’t mean it’ll happen, though,” she said. “Watch this one.” She clicked open a different video called “Feeding the Seals.”
The video featured people on a boat stopped in front of the seal colony at Spooky Sally. People threw fish to the seals that were swimming up to the boat, catching the fish in their mouths. Many seals were being hand fed fish.
“Let me guess,” Jackson said. “The seals follow the boat back to the main beach.”
Molly nodded. “Right again. So you’ve got seals moving close to the main beach, which also attracts the sharks, just in case the divers missed a few sharks in their multiple hand feedings every day.”
“So the bottom line here is that the sharks and the seals are now conditioned to associate boats and people with food,” I said. “Awesome.”
“Awesome as in, wow, that’s so awesome, right?” Molly said. “But laced with sarcasm. Which means you really don’t think it’s awesome?”
“Right. And also being filled with awe by the incredible ignorance of people. We are such arrogant dumb asses. Truly. It’s astounding.” I shook my head.
“Add to that the rising population of seals. In 1972, congress passed the Maine Mammal Protection Act, designed to slow the decline of marine life due to the activities of dumb-ass people. The act prohibits the killing, harassment, or excessive disturbance of marine animals in the U.S.” Molly leaned back, crossing her arms. “Which is a good thing. But in New England, it’s resulted in an explosion in grey and harbor seals.”
“Enter the sharks,” Jackson said.
Molly pointed her prosthetic hand at Jackson. “Give the man a Klondike bar.”
Jackson tipped his head back and laughed.
Molly beamed at Jackson. Their obvious attraction was making me feel like an eavesdropper. I hoped he’d just ask her out already.