“Hey sheriff, you got a minute?”
Jake turned to see who it was. Lenny Fitzpatrick, a local charter captain who took clients out for snook and tarpon. A nice enough guy if you didn’t mind all the beer cans, but he was always complaining about something; if it wasn’t about the fishing, it was the ever-increasing price of gasoline.
Jake nodded, staring past the out of breath fisherman, toward the foreboding hulk of the distant Harbinger. His curiosity concerning the mysterious whale killer anchored next to the old fishing pier was going to have to wait.
“Good morning, Lenny. What can I do for you today?”
“I tell you, sheriff, I’ve about had it with this shit. Did you see what just happened?”
Jake shook his head, following the man’s gaze down toward his boat, which was tied off to a piling some twenty-five yards away. Lenny was red-faced and angrier than he’d ever seen. God, have they raised gas that much?
“Sorry, Lenny. I’m afraid not. What’s bothering–”
Jake paused in mid-sentence, his eyes shifting to his left. A young Asian woman with a determined expression on her face was fast approaching him. She was tall – taller than Lenny in fact – with angular cheekbones, long black hair, and wearing sunglasses. Clothing-wise, she was dressed plain-Jane style, with no jewelry or makeup to speak of, and wore simple khaki shorts and a tied off t-shirt. Even so, he couldn’t help notice she was a real head-turner.
Momentarily oblivious to Lenny, Jake focused his attention on the woman as she walked purposefully up to him. She’d come from the direction of the Harbinger. As he stared at her, Chris’s words came back to him in a rush. ‘Maybe she’s Russian . . . they still hunt whales and the Japanese do, too . . .’ He blinked at the sudden realization. Hmm, maybe they are after one of our blues . . .
Lenny Fitzpatrick interrupted Jake’s thoughts, “Hey, are you listening to me?”
“Sorry, one second,” Jake said. His gaze intense, he took a step forward. “Yes, miss, what can I do for you?”
“Excuse me, officer.” She smiled at him, extending her hand. “I’m Doctor Amara Takagi.”
Wow. Jake felt his jaw drop. Her smile was dazzling, like the sun peeking through on a cold, overcast day.
“Sheriff Jake Braddock,” he managed, shaking hands with her and trying hard to cover up the deer-in-headlights-look he feared he was wearing. She had one helluva grip, he thought. “And this is . . . uh, Captain Lenny Fitzpatrick, one of our finest resident charter captains, in case you’re looking for one.”
Also taken by Amara, Lenny had forgotten about his griping. At least for the moment. He blushed at the compliment.
“Nice to meet you, doctor,” he said.
“You too.” Amara nodded. Her eyes shifted quickly back, boring into Jake’s. “Sheriff Braddock, eh? Well then, sheriff, would you be able to tell me who’s in charge around here?”
“You’re looking at him, Doctor . . . Takagi, you said?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“You’re Japanese?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. At least part.” She tipped down her sunglasses and peered over them, scrutinizing Jake from head to toe before removing them altogether. “Is that a problem?”
She was definitely a bold one, Jake thought. He sucked in a quick breath as Amara cleared a few wisps of hair from her face and locked gazes with him. Her eyes were blue. Not a normal shade of blue, like his. They were light blue, like a wolf’s or huskies’ – almost scary. Her moistened lips were naturally red and pouty and stood invitingly out from a background of pale, silky smooth skin.
As the wind shifted in Jake’s direction, her scent washed over him; her smell was perfume-free and clean, a distracting blend of flowers and honey that only nature could create.
“Not at all, doc,” he managed on an exhale. “You’re, um, from that whaler docked over by the channel?”
“You mean the Harbinger?”
“Yes. Are you their medical doctor?”
“Wrong on both accounts, sheriff.” She smirked, flicking open her sunglasses and putting them on her head.
“Oh, really?” Jake arched one eyebrow. “How so?”
“Well, firstly,” Amara said, “I’m not a medical doctor. I’m a cetaceanist, a marine biologist specializing in whales.” She extracted an ID from her shorts’ pocket. “I also hold a PhD in underwater robotics. And secondly, the Harbinger’s not a whaler. Not anymore, at least. My organization and I salvaged and refitted her. Nowadays, she’s a floating science laboratory and research vessel.” She pointed at the far off ship. “I’m sure you can see the harpoon cannon on her bow. It’s nonoperational, of course, but we purposely left it there as a reminder to all that board her of the horrors this ship once inflicted – that we’re seekers of knowledge – not death.”
“Research vessel, eh?” Jake handed back the ID. “And what exactly do you and your organization research?”
Amara’s eyes lit up at the question. “Two kinds of whales, specifically: sperm whales and orcas. To be exacting, we monitor orca predation on sperm whales. Unfortunately, there’s been a lot of that occurring around these parts lately,” she added glumly. “Three pods of killers in particular appear to be responsible. They’re unusually aggressive, even for transients. I’m determined to find out why.”
“Interesting,” Jake mused. “And what can I do for you?”
Lenny Fitzpatrick cleared his throat loudly, drawing Jake’s eye.
“Yes?”
“Sorry guys,” Lenny said, looking from Amara to Jake and wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of one hand. “This is fascinating stuff, but I’ve got a real problem on my hands that can’t wait any longer.”
“I’m sorry, doc.” Jake glanced back at Amara. “First thing’s first. Yes, Lenny. What were you saying?”
“I’ve got a big problem, Sheriff.”
“A problem with what?”
“Not what, who!”
Jake sighed, “Okay, Lenny. A problem with who?”
“Brad Harcourt.”
Wonderful. “Okay, Lenny. What did he do this time?”
“The son of a bitch parked his goddamn Jet Ski in my slip,” Lenny fumed, “and he won’t move it.” He turned away, spitting irritably on the ground. “Just because his old man owns the marina, the little bastard thinks he can leave his stupid water toy anywhere he damn well pleases, and the rest of us can go fuck ourselves. At the prices we pay? I don’t think so. This is bullshit.”
“Okay, Lenny. Calm down,” Jake said. “And watch the language.”
“Sorry, miss.” Lenny cast a quick glimpse over at Amara, nodding apologetically. “Look, Jake, I’ve got a charter coming in a few hours and I need to get some rest. I need that little you-know-what’s ski out of my slip. Now are you going to help me or not?”
Amara rested her hands on her hips. “You probably should do something, sheriff. I saw the whole thing, and Lenny’s right. In fact, just a few minutes ago, my friend and I had a confrontation with the exact same individual. His oratory capabilities appear limited to perversity and profanity, and not much more.”
Jake smirked. He could only imagine what came out of Brad’s mouth. For some reason, Amara’s deliberate avoidance at repeating his foul language made whatever he’d said seem even worse. “Interestingly put, doc. As for ‘doing something,’ I’ll take care of it. This is my town, and I look after my people. I know how to handle this type of situation.”
“Good,” Lenny added, “because the ‘situation’ we’re talking about is hanging out inside the ski shop, right over there.”
“Lenny, I said I’ll handle it,” Jake said. He could see Brad Harcourt through the shop’s main window, standing by the register. “Now, considering that this will probably get ugly, I think it would be better if you weren’t up here when I speak with him.”
“Uh . . . good point,” Lenny said. He turned to go. “Thanks, Jake.”
Amara watched him leave.
“So, what’s the story with this ‘Brad Harcourt’ kid?”
“The usual: spoiled rotten rich kid. His dad’s a politician who owns the marina, as well as half the town, so Brad thinks that means everyone and everything in it, too. We’ve had run-ins with him before. Anyway, doc, what can I do for you?”
“Actually, it’s Amara,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I’m not into titles.”
“So why introduce yourself as a doctor to people if you don’t intend to use the title?”
“Good point.” Amara pondered, “I’m interested in people’s reactions to what I do. People make immediate assumptions about me based on my appearance,” she said, tossing her hair back for emphasis. “And the rest get pretentious or intimidated when they hear my title.”
“I see,” Jake said. He was listening to her, but looking back toward the ski shop. “You still haven’t told me what you need.”
“I’m sorry,” Amara said, holding up the clipboard she held in her left hand. “I’ve got a flatbed coming in with some heavy duty equipment later, and I wanted to show you our manifest so you know everything is in order.”
“No problem.” Jake took it and flipped through the papers.
A gruff voice suddenly emanated from Amara’s radio. “Base to Amara. Come in, please.”
“Yeah Joe, I read you.”
“I think you should come back, right away,” he said.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Joe could be heard clearing his throat. “It’s about that crate that was delivered.”
The faintest of frowns marred Amara’s brow. “What’s the problem?”
There were a few seconds of hesitation before Joe radioed back. “To be honest, boss, I don’t think we should talk about this on the air. And frankly, I don’t even think I could.”
Amara’s impatience began to show. “What are you talking about? What’s going on?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself,” Joe said. “Come back to the ship as fast as you can.”
Amara looked over at Jake. Her expression was blank as she took back the clipboard.
Jake gave her a contemplative look, gauging her expression and body language. “Something going on onboard your ship I should be concerned about, doc?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t believe so, just some supply delivery snafu. Happens all the time. Anyway, I’m sorry, sheriff, but duty calls. I guess the paperwork will have to wait for a bit. Can I catch up with you later?”
“No problem. From what I’ve seen so far, everything looks to be in order,” Jake said distractedly. He could see a certain troublemaking teenager near the exit door of the ski shop. Brad was still standing by the register, but his movements were growing animated.
“Okay, Joe. I’m on my way,” Amara radioed. “And this better not be one of your practical jokes, mister.”
“Believe me, it’s not. Joe out.”
Amara turned to leave. “I’ll see you later, sheriff.”
“It’s Jake,” he said, matter-of-factly, and then added, “I’m not into titles.”
She chuckled. “It was nice meeting you, Jake Braddock.”
“Same here. Oh, by the way,” Jake called after her, “who’s your helmsman, in case the harbormaster needs to speak to him?”
“You’re looking at him.”
“Okay . . .” he drawled. “And if I have any questions regarding either your shipment or your manifest, who’s the man in charge of that heap?”
“Still looking at him!” Amara yelled back.
Grinning as he watched her walk away, Jake turned back just in time to see Brad Harcourt bursting out the door of the ski shop with the infuriated shop owner right behind him. Even from seventy-five feet away he could see and hear the fierce argument going back and forth between the two.
Jake was halfway there when he saw Brad turn his back and glance from left to right. He started fumbling with the front of his shorts and his shoulders took on an uncomfortably familiar hunch. A moment later, a dark stain streamed down the shop’s nearby wall.
Jake’s jaw dropped as he did a double-take.
Why, that little son of a bitch!
Teeth clenched, he moved in Brad’s direction.
FOUR
Amara panted hard as she trudged up her vessel’s worn gangplank. It was hot. So hot, even the air was starting to sweat. She wiped her brow and jutted out her chin, blowing a breath straight up to push her hair away from her eyes. “Okay, guys. I was wrapping things up when you interrupted me, so this better be good!”
“Oh, it is, boss,” Joe Calabrese said.
“We’ll see.” Amara scanned the Harbinger’s decks, impatient to see what all the mystery was about. “Well, where’s the crate?”
“We used the portside crane to lower it into the hold.”
“The crane? Just how big is this thing?”
“It’s pretty big, maybe six by four feet. Weighs a ton,” Joe said, clomping along behind her as she made her way expertly down a set of winding metal stairs. “I’m not risking my back.”
Amara shook her head. “Okay, whatever. So, what’s in it?”
“I’m not really sure.”
Amara stopped short in the middle of a dimly lit corridor. She wheeled on him, pointing an accusatory finger. “What do you mean you’re not sure? You mean you didn’t even look inside? I warned you about joking–”
“Hey, it’s no joke,” Joe replied defensively. “I saw what’s in there. It’s a specimen of some kind. I just don’t know what it is.”
“And Adam doesn’t know either?”
“Nope.”
“That’s curious. Adam knows everything. He’s a living, breathing search engine.”
“Maybe his servers are down?”
“Ha. Well, I’m telling you right now, it better not be another half-eaten oarfish.” Shaking her head, Amara led them to the ship’s hold. “Okay, where is it?” She gazed up at the sunlight streaming through the open hole above her, then at the surrounding archways that led in four different directions.
“We put it in the freezer,” Joe said. “Adam said it was very important that whatever-it-is be kept frozen. He’s standing guard, waiting for you outside.”
“Standing guard, eh?” Amara snickered at the mental image of her diminutive videographer sporting military fatigues and combat boots. Well, whatever it is, if Adam’s taking things to such extremes, it has to be interesting.
The two entered a cramped corridor that wound a dozen yards before opening into the main hallway. Up ahead, Amara could see Adam Spencer standing outside the freezer room. There was a cardboard box marked “dissection” at his feet, and a stack of thick coats piled on a metal bench to his right.
“Hey, boss,” Adam called out.
He was stamping his feet up and down, his hands in his pockets. His eyes had an excited look, visible even through the coke bottle-thick glasses that were the astute little naturalist’s stock and trade.
“What’s with the cold weather gear?” Amara pointed at the bench.
“I figure we might be in there for a while.” Adam reached down and grabbed two coats, handing them each one.
Amara nodded her approval of his foresight and accepted the bulky parka.
Joe chuckled as he donned his. “Arctic clothing in Florida, and in June no less! Who’d have thought?”
Amara grinned as she zipped up the front of her coat, “Say, where’s Willie? Has he seen this mysterious thing yet?”
“Not yet,” Adam said. “He’s watching for the flatbed.”
That’s Willie, Amara thought. Poor guy probably hasn’t slept all night, checking and rechecking preparations in anticipation of our pending delivery. “I see.” She motioned for Joe, “Alright fellas, let’s see what all the excitement is about.”
Stepping to the freezer’s oversized door, Joe removed the chained locking pin and gave its shiny steel handle a yank with both hands. The door protested noisily, then flew open wide, releasing
a wall of frozen air that enveloped them and spewed into the hallway.
Amara made a face, waving a hand to clear her view. Beside her, Adam frowned as he removed his glasses and wiped them on his parka’s shearling collar.
As the frosty air cleared, the three made their way inside. The old freezer room was a fairly good size, measuring twelve feet square. Amara noticed that the usual food the room held – boxes of frozen fish, meats and vegetables – had all been pushed to the back and piled high, making way for the yard-high wooden crate. She moved into the room, squeezing between the crate and stacks of food. Its weighty lid was already freed and sitting loosely on top. “Joe, if you wouldn’t mind?”
Joe nodded and stepped forward, grasping the lid’s edge. “You got your little camcorder ready, Adam?”
“Absolutely,” Adam said, extracting it from his coat pocket and pressing it to one eye.
“Okay then, here we go.” Together, Joe and Amara removed the lid, lifting it to one side and resting it against a nearby wall.
For a moment, Amara stared confusedly at what was inside. She blinked rapidly, unsure at first of what she was looking at. A tingle swept through her, growing more and more intense, until she reached down on impulse and yanked away the clear plastic tarp that partially obscured the crate’s contents.
“What the . . . hell?”
“Maybe that’s where it came from,” Adam said, grinning as his recorder focused on her bewildered face. “Might be, because I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Oh . . . my . . . God!” Amara’s hand trembled as it inched hesitantly forward. Before her, lay the head of some kind of fish. It was huge, at least four feet long and three feet high, with an immense, undershot jaw, lined with dagger-like teeth, six inches in length. The upward curve of the corners of its mouth gave it a malevolent smile, and its lidless eyes, each bigger than a grown man’s palm, glared mockingly up at them.
“See, now you know why we called you,” Joe said, grinning ear to ear.
Off to one side, Adam continued filming. “So, you’re the marine biologist. Any ideas, Amara? At first I thought it was some kind of monster tarpon, based on the silver color of the scales and the general shape of its head, but with those teeth, I knew it was something entirely different.”
KRONOS RISING: After 65 million years, the world's greatest predator is back. Page 6