With effort, he walked to the open door, watching through blurred vision as the car disappeared. He sagged against the doorway, resting his clawed-up back against the cool wood. A shiver of horror ran through him. He saw his mother’s face being slapped back and forth, battered, bruised and bleeding. He realized he’d done something he swore he never would.
He hit a woman.
A sickening sensation speared its way up his esophagus, like his guts were trying to escape his abdomen by spewing out of his mouth. He raced for the bathroom, bouncing off walls and barely making it. He spent the next fifteen minutes bear-hugging the toilet, the retching sounds he made as he vomited uncontrollably eventually fading into agonizing dry heaves.
He looped one arm over the sink, clinging to the cold porcelain like a long lost friend. He leaned heavily against it as he made it to his feet. He wrapped both hands around the sink’s lip, his shaking fingers gripping it tightly as he hung his weary head. When he finally looked up and saw his vomit-stained face, his eyes bulged.
John Braddock stared back at him.
He could see his dad plainly: his heavy jaw, cruel lips, and dark, intimidating stare. He studied Jake, then leaned his big head back and laughed uproariously. The unspoken message was simple: Like father like son . . .
Jake’s howl of denial sounded more like a mortally wounded beast’s than a man’s. He slammed his fist into the medicine cabinet’s mirror, shattering it. A thousand fragments of his father continued mocking him, their voices resonating inside his head. He screamed and grabbed the cabinet itself, ripping it loose from the drywall in a shower of wood and plaster, slamming it violently against the sink. The ceramic held for two blows, then broke into large pieces.
Jake staggered back, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he fell out of the bathroom. He crashed into a nearby wall, knocking his wedding pictures down and stepping on them. The glass cracked beneath his bare feet, its splintered edges cutting into him. He grunted in pain, hobbling toward the living room. His foot slipped on a puddle of blood and he pitched forward, striking his head hard against the coffee table. The last sound he heard was John Braddock’s sinister chuckling.
When Jake woke the next day, he wished he was dead. His head throbbed and his stomach felt like he’d swallowed broken glass mixed with acid. He had a deep puncture wound on his heel with the hunk of glass still buried inside, and there were dried bloodstains everywhere.
He sat up, leaning wearily against the broken coffee table. When his head finally cleared, he crawled on all fours into what remained of the bathroom. He sifted through the shattered medicine chest and found a dusty bottle of alcohol, tweezers, and some bandages. He spent the next fifteen minutes extracting the wedge-shaped shard and disinfecting the wound left behind. After he finished dressing it he grabbed a bottle of aspirin, choked down a handful, then put on a pair of rust-stained slippers.
Jake looked around the bungalow, his face systematically becoming an adamantine mask of determination. Moving as quickly as he was able, he limped through the house, searching out every single bottle of booze in the place. He gathered them by the armful, emptying them into the sink and tossing the spent bottles in the garbage. It took him the better part of an hour, but he finally found the last – a bottle of twenty-five-year-old scotch Sam’s father gave him as a wedding present. He headed back to the kitchen, yanked the top off, and watched the fiery liquid vanish down the drain. When it was done, he walked to the trash can, popped it open, and held the empty bottle at arm’s length, staring at it. His jaw tensed and his eyes grew hard. He opened his hand, listening to the clinking sound as the bottle shattered against its brethren.
Jake scrunched his eyes tightly closed.
“Go fuck yourself, Dad.”
When he opened his eyes, he was back aboard the Harbinger. His heart was beating like a trip hammer, his hands still gripping the washroom sink. He exhaled slowly, savoring the sensation of the air leaving his lungs, then straightened up.
He studied himself in the mirror, his arms folded across his chest. He checked his injured side and shook his head. Amara was wrong. She had no idea what a loser was. His father was a loser.
And Jake was not his father.
Miles offshore, the pliosaur drifted across the darkened waters. The night sky swaddled it like a shimmering black cloak, its folds emblazoned with the glitter of a thousand stars. The pinpricks of celestial light shone down, reflecting back like fireflies in the creature’s ruby eyes.
It appeared lifeless. Yet every so often it raised its muzzle out of the water and emitted the doleful summons of its kind. It might have been seeking a potential mate, or just the reassurance that there were still others of its kind and it was not alone. Its calls went unanswered.
With its appetite temporarily satiated, the predator was able to rest, conserving its strength for the endless hunts that plagued its existence. The jagged lacerations it sustained on its back, and the scorching burns on its muzzle, were healing at an astonishing rate. The prop wounds had already closed over, and new scales were forming where charred tissue had been. Even the dozen teeth it lost during its rampage were being systematically replaced. The tips of newly generated ones were already beginning to emerge from its wrinkled gums.
An anatomical miracle, and one of the gifts evolution bestowed upon the pliosaurs during their sixty-five million years of imprisonment, was that of accelerated regeneration. Amplified powers of healing were an absolute must for a race of isolated mega-predators that fed upon anything they could overcome, including the injured or infirm of their own kind. Only the strongest of the colossal reptiles – and the ones that recuperated the fastest – survived to grow to adulthood. Over time, the race’s regenerative abilities, as well as their resistance to disease and bacteria, reached unheard of capabilities.
By morning it would be back at full strength. Then it would seek out viable sources of protein to fuel the rapacious furnace that burned within its belly. A high-speed metabolism was the price the scaly titan was forced to pay for its accelerated healing prowess.
Though content to wait until first light, the creature had already identified a potential food source passing along the periphery of its sensory field. It was a school of fast-moving mammals, similar to the rival predator it routed in the darkness of the abyss. There was a score of the swift creatures, cruising in the distance. It could hear their high-pitched whistles and squeals across the water. The mammals were a fraction of its size, many no larger than its immense head. They would make nutritious, blubber-enriched meals when the need arose.
Ignoring the school as it moved farther away, the marine reptile continued to float along, reflexively scanning the seas every now and then for potential threats. There were none. Even the annoying boats had all vanished.
Weary from its earlier exertions, and waiting for the rising sun to stimulate it into motion, the pliosaur closed its eyes and slept. As it slumbered, its savage brain dreamed, as it always did, of swimming and hunting. And killing.
TWENTY
Tense and tired, Jake made his way through the Harbinger’s narrow hallways, hoping to find the ship’s galley and a much needed cup of coffee. He’d come to terms with the self righteous indignation that continued to tear at his pride. Although he was still aggravated by his confrontation with Amara, he was angrier at himself. He sorely regretted the argument. He knew he should not have allowed himself to be baited the way he had, and he should have been more disciplined than to retaliate in kind. Stupid. I should’ve expected the girl to freak, once I made my intentions known. I knew she had a thing for protecting endangered animals.
Of course, he mused, when it came to the pliosaur, odds were it’d be Amara who ended up endangered.
Jake uttered a low groan as he ducked down to pass through a narrow doorway. He was stiff and groggy, and the measly few hours of rest he’d managed were hardly sufficient to recover from his ordeal. His struggle to save the young swimmer had left his body patch-work
ed with darkening bruises, and the laceration on his ribs ached non-stop.
He touched the dressing covering the injured area with nervous fingertips and winced. The butterfly bandages were holding it closed, but the thin red line seeping through his white undershirt would undoubtedly become visible through his uniform as well. The tenderness of the surrounding area indicated the wound was infected and would soon require medical treatment.
Unable to find whatever passed for a kitchen onboard the Harbinger, he made his way toward the main deck. It was 7 a.m., and after last night, he figured it would be another hour before Amara and her crew were up and about.
As he shielded his eyes against the early morning sun, the bleary-eyed sheriff was surprised to find the cetaceanist and her colleagues gathered against the ship’s portside railing. They were distracted by something going on below, and caught completely off guard when their sleep deprived guest unexpectedly appeared beside them.
“Oh, Jake!” Amara jumped, her black mane whipping wildly and her hand clutching at her chest. “Jesus, try and make some noise when you move around, will you? You scared me half to death!”
Jake shrugged. “Sorry. Maybe next time you can find a bell for me to wear around my neck?”
“Good idea, mon!” Willie rested a big hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Maybe Joe can rig someting up for ya in his workshop?”
Joe Calabrese smirked and raised an eyebrow.
“Sounds good,” Jake replied amiably. He moved next to his three comrades and glanced down at the pier below. “So . . . what’s up?”
Amara studied him, then nodded approvingly. “Well, for starters, you might want to know Rosalinda made it.” She turned away, then leaned her forearms once more on the ship’s railing and pursed her lips.
“Rosalinda?”
Joe spoke up. “The young girl you rescued. Amara called the hospital a little while ago and spoke to her mom.”
Jake turned to her. “Why’d you do that?”
Amara’s expression softened. “Well, with everything that’s happened, I thought you could use some good news.” She turned back to the railing and smiled, her eyes gleaming with ill-concealed mirth. “Besides, Mrs. Lopez was all over the news, trying to find out about her missing son and the name of the ‘superhero’ who saved her daughter. I think she’s baking you a cake or something.”
“Well, that’s . . . very nice of her.” Jake closed his eyes and swore silently; he’d forgotten to report what became of the boy.
“Yeah, super hombre.” Amara chuckled softly. She nodded toward the far end of the pier. “Right now, we’re focusing on what’s developing downstairs.”
As if by magic, a police barricade had materialized at the pier’s starting point. It was manned by a half-dozen state troopers, and was keeping a score of reporters at bay; all were chafing to make their way onto the Harbinger in the hope of following up on the region’s sensational storyline.
Jake was hardly surprised by the presence of the media. Paradise Cove’s woes had literally exploded onto the news. It was one of those impossible-but-true tales that transcends any and all barriers.
“So, Jake mon,” Willie clapped him on the back. “Is it ya we have ta tank for dat lovely bunch of cops down dere?”
“Not at all,” Jake said, as perplexed as the rest of them. “Not that I’m going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Really, mon? Dat’s a surprise. We taught for certain it was ya.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Willie.” His voice dropped and he turned to Amara. “So, doc, how are you holding up?”
She avoided eye contact by looking down at her shoes. Her lower lip disappeared and she cleared her throat noisily. “Listen . . . can I talk to you for a minute, in private?”
Jake cocked his head to one side. “Sure.”
Amara excused herself and headed away from Joe and Willie. The early morning sun’s golden beams illuminated her from the back, giving her exposed skin a radiant glow and causing her sleek legs to cast crane-like shadows across the Harbinger’s decks. She gestured for Jake to follow, stopping only after she rounded a nearby corner and placed the ship’s forecastle between them and her shipmates.
“Forgive the Bugs Bunny routine,” Jake said as he caught up to her. “But . . . what’s up, doc?”
Amara smiled nervously, but her eyes remained focused on melting a hole through the ship’s deck plates. “Listen, about last night . . .”
Jake felt his lips part. “Oh. Yeah . . . don’t even worry about it. Honestly. It’s no big deal. I was probably out of–”
“Look, just let me get this off my chest, okay?”
Jake’s expression went from awkwardness to pure befuddlement. “Okay, doc.” He glanced back around the corner to make sure they were alone. “So, what’s eating you?”
“An unfortunate, but hopefully not prophetic, choice of words,” Amara replied. Her eyes elevated, locking onto his. “Look, over the last few days we’ve both seen and experienced the most horrifying things imaginable. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been up all night. Actually . . .” She paused thoughtfully. “Make that the last two nights. So, in the tact department, it’s safe to assume I’m not exactly firing on all cylinders.”
“Don’t sweat it, doc.” Jake folded his arms and leaned against a nearby bulkhead.
“I’m not finished.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Amara nibbled her upper lip. “I want to apologize to you for earlier.”
“Listen, it’s fine–”
“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have . . . denigrated you like that.” She shook her head and gave a sigh of regret. “I realized later why I lashed out at you, and that makes me feel even worse.”
“I don’t understand.” Jake hoped he didn’t look as confused as he felt.
“Occasionally, you remind me of my ex, so I treated you like an asshole, even though you’re not.”
“So, I remind you of an asshole? What kind of apology is this?”
Amara drew close to him. “A real one, mister. Look at me, and you’ll see I’m not playing.”
“Oh.” As their gazes locked it was Jake’s turn to lower his eyes. He found himself as engrossed with the ship’s decks as she’d been a moment before. “Well, since we’re being so blatantly honest and apologetic with each other, there’s something I’d like to say, too.”
Amara tucked her hair behind her ears and gave him an encouraging smile. “Okay, shoot.”
“I think you were fairly accurate when you described how obsessively focused I am on hunting down and killing your pliosaur.”
Amara’s head angled slightly. “Really? But, I was sure you–”
“It’s not for the reason you said,” Jake interjected. He ground his molars and looked around the ship’s sprawling deck. “You see, knowing your background, not to mention your borderline obsession on protecting and preserving marine life–”
Amara’s eyebrows rose dramatically. “Borderline?”
Jake chuckled. “Exactly. Anyway, I figured you’d plan some quick-draw search and retrieval operation, hoping to take the damn thing alive.”
“But you want to stop me because . . .”
Jake interlaced his fingers around the back of his neck and leaned back, pressing the back of his head against his makeshift headrest as he exhaled through bowed lips. “Because I knew, after that stunt you pulled yesterday, that you’d be reckless enough to do something like that again.”
Amara wore a puzzled look. “Well, Jake, I certainly appreciate your concern, but I don’t see why you feel like it’s your job to protect me. You’ve got a whole town to look after.”
His blue eyes latched onto hers. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to just sit back and let something happen to you. The way I see it, if the creature’s dead, then I don’t have to worry.”
“But why would you worry in the first place? This is what I do, remember? I protect whales from factory ships, sometimes risking life and limb
in the process. Hell, I’ve had a harpoon grenade explode right over my–”
“That thing you’re looking to play hide and seek with is no factory ship, doc.” Jake remarked. He felt a cold wave of fear settle in the pit of his stomach and shook his head, blowing out hard to relieve tension. “It’s an eating machine designed to hunt and kill dinosaurs. You said so yourself. And if I allow you to go after it, you’re going to die. I can feel it in my bones, and I . . .”
“You what?”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you. Not like . . .”
Amara’s jaw dropped and goose bumps popped up on her exposed arms and legs. “But, I thought . . . Jake, what are you saying?”
“I’m really not sure. It’s been so long since I–”
“Amara, ya better come back here, straight away!”
“Geez, Willie, can it wait a minute?” she yelled back.
“I don’t tink so, mon.”
Jake gave a gentle nod. “I guess we better go.”
“Yeah . . .” Amara reluctantly agreed. She turned and started back toward Willie and Joe. “Can we continue this later?”
“Sure.”
As they reached the Harbinger’s railing, Willie and Joe were both pointing at the far end of the pier.
“We been wondering where that barricade came from,” Joe said. “I think the answer is headed this way.”
Backlit by the sun, a group of vehicles approached in caravan formation. The front one was a dark colored SUV. After the lead truck was waved through, a big limousine and a second four-wheel drive came into view.
“Damn. It’s Dean Harcourt,” Jake said. Displeasure rough-edged his normally smooth voice.
“Dean Harcourt?” Amara looked confused. “The father of the kid that got eaten off his Jet Ski? What does he want?”
“Whatever it is, it can’t be good,” Jake said. He made his way to the Harbinger’s nearby gangplank. “He’s brought a lot of backup with him.”
Ignoring his throbbing ribs, Jake moved toward the surface of the pier, with Amara and her colleagues falling in behind him. He reached the gull-stained concrete of the dock right as the procession ground to a halt. He stood his ground, waiting for the unpleasantness to unfold as usual whenever Harcourt was around.
KRONOS RISING: After 65 million years, the world's greatest predator is back. Page 38