Tomlinson said, “Your cousin could do a lot worse than me.”
I said, “Agreed. But you’re not going to put me in the middle again.”
As we pulled away, I glanced over my shoulder. In the mangrove distance, the marina was a cluster of lights. To the east, the yellow windows of my lab were a solitary constellation, set apart by distance and a darkened space.
I turned toward the cut through the western shoal. It’s a propeller track no wider than a ditch. I lowered the bow, and allowed bottom pressure to funnel us into the trough, engine kicking a rooster tail until we were in deeper water. Tomlinson gripped the rail in silence.
Boats communicate efficiency through the hull. I experimented with trim until I felt the illusion that speed and buoyancy increased in the same silken instant. But the wind was northeast and a heavy chop slammed us. My skiff is among the smoothest and driest ever built—a twenty-one-foot Maverick. Even so, the bay was miserable.
I had to raise my voice to be heard. “I’m heading for the gulf. It’s a couple of miles extra, but calmer.”
Tomlinson replied, “Rough water’s trouble—beer gets foamy, and I could chip a tooth. But is it faster? Getting to those whales is all I care about.”
I said, “Then hold on,” and turned so we were running with the wind.
Ahead was the bridge Shay and I had crossed an hour earlier. It was a strange juxtaposition. In a car, even while discussing blackmail, the world seemed safer for the linkage of asphalt. Not in a boat. Beneath the bridge, in darkness, even as cars passed overhead, stars illustrated the emptiness of space. The safe world ended on the horizon where navigation markers blinked.
When we rounded Lighthouse Point, I found calm water outside the shoal, and asked Tomlinson to break out the MUMs night-vision system because it was so damn dark. It is not a gadget found in boating catalogs. The monocular is fourth-generation technology, a present to me from military pals who specialized in coming ashore quietly after long night swims. It is waterproof to sixty feet, and worn on a headband like a surgical optic. Slip it on, hit the switch, and the blackest night becomes high noon as if seen through a Heineken bottle. A starless sky turns fiery with meteors and stars.
As I removed my glasses and got the monocular locked and focused, Tomlinson muttered, “I love wearing the green-eye. All the fun of van Gogh skies and no risk of losing an ear. Or doing something really stupid.”
The green-eye. His pet name for the thing.
I told him, “It’s yours on the trip back,” as I nudged the tach up to 4200 rpm.
In eerie jade light, we flew along the beach as Sanibel slept, past condos, hotels, and sea grape estates. The sky was animated with meteors that were invisible to the few insomniacs roaming the tide line. They turned toward the sound of our engine, unaware that I could see them clearly— probably wondering why a small boat was gulfside on a night so empty.
HALF MILE OFF North Captiva Island, we spotted whales. Spotted the spume from their blowholes first because the spray was backlit by a campfire on the beach. The fire turned each geyser into a mist of sparks that liquefied upon descent. The whales appeared as areas of unsettled darkness, but their skin glowed like wet clay.
As I slowed to approach the beach, Tomlinson surprised me, saying, “Doc, I forgot to ask. Did you see your mail?”
"What?”
“Your mail—I couldn’t help noticing the return address on that envelope. I just now remembered—”
“Later. I don’t want to miss this. This is a pretty spectacular scene, if you haven’t noticed.”
“But I’m curious. I know you’ve been waiting to find out.”
I said patiently, “I saw the envelope. I didn’t open it.”
“Seriously?”
“A few hours isn’t going to change anything.” I pointed as a whale spouted. “Isn’t this more important?”
Tomlinson gave me a brotherly nudge. “A very kendo attitude, man. Death has everyone’s number—but we don’t have to answer when the bastard dials. Spiritually, you just keep getting hipper. The whales know it. When we hit the water, watch how they react. Then follow my lead.”
I said, “Hold on. These whales have teeth the size of my fist, and they aren’t your friends. I haven’t read of any attacks on people, but—”
“Don’t worry, we’re simpatico.”
“No doubt. But I called experts for a reason. There are written protocols when it comes to strandings.”
“But the whales aren’t talking to your experts.”
“Maybe not. But we are.”
Tomlinson mumbled a reply as I turned into the sea. When I gave the word, he dropped anchor and began feeding out scope. Even with the engine idling, I could hear the sonar chirps and clicks of whales communicating.
“They’re all around. At least a dozen.”
I told him, “More. Twenty . . . maybe thirty.” Through the green-eye, I could see whales hobbyhorsing close to the boat, and pods of whales a quarter mile offshore. Their heads were streamlined, not bulbous, so they were false killer whales. They were moving toward the beach where people surrounded two animals that lay stranded inside a sandbar. One fluke tail moved oddly, like a broken windup toy. The other whale rocked motionless in the waves.
I was getting a stern anchor ready as Tomlinson said, “You gotta believe me, man. I’ve been channeling for the last half hour.”
“Channeling.”
“Communicating. They’re panicked from the distress calls. They rush to help, but they can’t help. There’s an emotional meltdown. They freak, then charge the beach. That’s why I have to do this.”
"Do what?”
He was stripping off his shirt and baseball socks. “What I was called to do. Universal Mind’s calling the shots, not me. I’m just a conduit. I have no control.”
“No argument here. But wait until we get the boat secured before you go talk to the fish, okay? We’re still in fifteen feet of water.”
Instead of replying, Tomlinson rolled off the boat, wearing only his baseball pants. He submerged, then surprised me by coming up on the other side, already explaining as he combed water from his hair. “They want us here. Not just me—you, too. That envelope popped into my mind for a reason. You’ll see.”
I realized I didn’t know which envelope he was talking about. The letter from Merlin Starkey, or the results of my brain scan?
“Come on, doctor. We’ve got to hurry— Whoa!”
I ducked away as a whale surfaced, showering the boat with spray. Tomlinson reached to touch the animal as two more whales broached in tandem.
“How’s that for a welcome? Believe me now?”
“No.”
“You will. Follow me!”
I expected Tomlinson to turn toward shore. Instead, he began swimming toward open sea. What the hell was he doing? I yelled his name. Yelled it again and ordered him back—“We’ve got another anchor to set!”—but he kept going.
“I know you hear me! Tomlinson? Tomlinson! You . . . hippie flake.”
Now there were four whales alongside him. He wasn’t a good swimmer, but his long arms milled the water steadily as he climbed waves seaward. The animals used their fluke tails, maneuvering to stay close.
I watched for several seconds, surprised, and thinking, I’ll be damned. They really are following him. But then I realized the linkage was fanciful, not rational. A more likely explanation was that the pursuit instinct is common in sea creatures, mammals included. The whales weren’t following him, they were shadowing him. I had to stop the man. I got busy.
Going after him in the boat was risky. He was sandwiched between animals that weighed a ton or more. If the engine spooked them, he’d be crushed.
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 c
atch 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 quirks. 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 cliché 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.
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