“You have some nerve, calling me after what you wrote.”
“You didn’t happen to notice that there was no byline, did you?” Wood said, not a hint of guilt or remorse in his voice. “I didn’t write the article. Comes over the wire practically ready to print—from a PR agency. That kind of crap is ruining my profession.”
“So why are you calling me?”
“I did some investigating about who was behind the article, and I’m thinking maybe there’s a story here after all. I thought you might have some leads for me.”
Elizabeth was walking toward the car. Can I trust him? she wondered, glancing over at Frank. He was always telling her to trust her instincts. Something deep in the pit of her stomach told her she could. “I think I might have a file full of them.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
7:05 P.M.
“DOCUMENTS WERE TAKEN from the council.” Amanda Hanson’s usually calm voice sounded worried. “They were given to the husband of that marine biologist,” she continued. “They’ve both seen its contents, and she’s going to give it to a reporter.” The firmware patch downloaded into Elizabeth’s cell had turned it into a bug that was transmitting Elizabeth’s conversations even when she was not on the phone.
“What are you doing about it?”
“I’m calling you,” Hanson replied.
“Why me?”
“Your name is all over that file.”
“There must be someone who usually deals with this.”
“We’re not the mob. I’ve taken care of the one who gave them the documents, but you need to get the documents back and make sure they don’t tell anyone what they’ve seen—ever.”
REGGIE GATES STOOD across the street, watching silently as his three-car garage burned. The bright orange and yellow flames had consumed most of his sprawling gray neocolonial house, and the garage was the last to burn. The fire had spread fast, unnaturally fast. He heard something explode inside as firemen rushed around him, trying desperately to keep the fire from igniting the trees and the neighboring houses.
Gates didn’t notice his wife walk up to him until she was standing right beside him, Justine in her arms. The fire fascinated the girl, and her delicate mouth hung open.
Gates took Justine into his arms and hugged her as his wife rested her head on his broad shoulder.
FRANK HELD ELIZABETH TIGHT as they stood outside the lab. Neither one wanted to separate. Amid all the shocking events of the day, Elizabeth felt a deep sense of relief and calm in his arms.
Frank’s beeper squawked at his waist.
“Oh, Christ, it’s the ER,” Frank said as he looked at the number. His voice was weary and disappointed. “I’m supposed to be off, but I’m at the top of the ‘go-to’ list, and Bill is home throwing up.”
Elizabeth’s shoulders dropped in familiar resignation.
“Let me walk you to your car,” Frank said.
“You don’t have to,” Elizabeth said, not wanting to have to explain her accident. Frank would just worry.
“I want to,” Frank insisted, and put his arm around her shoulder protectively. The sky was overcast. The forecast had said a storm was coming, but so far, there had only been on-and-off light rain.
Elizabeth’s stomach clenched as they walked under the bright fluorescent streetlights. Parking lots always seemed to be menacing at night with no one around. She was glad that Frank was there after all.
“Oh my God, what happened?” he exclaimed.
“Just a little fender bender.”
“Fender bender? There’s no longer a fender to bend. Were you hurt?”
“It was nothing, really. A little scare.” Elizabeth opened the door, which squeaked even more than before. As she stuffed the file into her already overstuffed bag, the newspaper picture fell out and into an oily puddle.
Frank crouched to take a closer look. “Who did this?”
Elizabeth shivered as she looked down at the burned-out eyes floating in the water. “I don’t know,” she said.
“I’m going to call the hospital and tell them I can’t come.”
“Don’t be silly. They’re just trying to scare us.”
“They succeeded.”
“I’ll be fine until you come back.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Frank, who’s the hospital going to call? Who’s going to take care of those mothers and their babies?”
“What about this mother and her baby?”
“We’ll be fine until you come home.”
“I don’t want you going home,” Frank said. “Go to Connie’s.”
“Frank, I just—”
“Elizabeth, I love you. I need to know that you’re safe.”
“But—”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what I said. I need to know that you heard me.”
“You love me. You need me to be safe.”
“That’s right.”
“I love you, too, Frank.” She curled in close, and Frank held her tight.
“I almost forgot,” Frank said, pulling a ring box out of his pocket. “I found your ring.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Uh…around,” Frank said. “Look, I traded it in.”
Elizabeth opened the ring box. Her jaw dropped. Inside the box was a white gold ring with small diamonds set into the band. It was beautiful, practical, and unostentatious.
He said, “My father was wrong. A man doesn’t show his love to a woman by—”
Elizabeth’s lips were pressed against Frank’s. He clenched her hard to his chest, and they kissed passionately. It had been a long time since they had shared a kiss like this, a kiss that could cut away their loneliness, like a scalpel wielded with exquisite skill.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
7:30 P.M.
Davis
“LIEUTENANT JAMES has been ordered to kill Apollo.”
Elizabeth started to panic and almost dropped her cell phone. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. “Connie, where are you?”
“I’m at the slough with Teo. Lieutenant James says he’s out of time. They’re going to harpoon Apollo by 6:00 A.M. tomorrow.”
“This is Skilling. He’s convinced them that the whale is dying.”
“We’re doing everything we can to slow them down, but we need to convince Apollo we’ve heard his message and he can go.”
“Connie, I told you. It’s not like that. Apollo is not trying to communicate with us, he’s—Wait a second. He may not be communicating with us, but he is communicating.” Hadn’t Frank just needed to know that I heard him? Maybe whales were no different. There was no whale to respond to Apollo, but she could. Elizabeth made a loud, tire-scraping U-turn. “I have to get something at my house, but I’ll be right there.”
ELIZABETH PULLED INTO her reserved space in the parking lot closest to her house. The other seven spaces were empty. The wind was blowing hard, swirling leaves into spirals that seemed to take shape as if they were scarecrows coming to life. Their town house was on a greenbelt, away from the rest of the development. She had always appreciated this seclusion, but tonight the lot felt dark and frightening. We have legal and extralegal means to keep you quiet. The anonymous woman’s voice echoed in her head.
The door of the station wagon creaked again as she opened it. After the accident, the car really was about ready to die. Who will hear me if I scream? Certainly not the crazy woman who lived in the one-bedroom next door and never left her house. Elizabeth had not met her or even heard her in all the time they had lived next to each other.
She walked quickly down the narrow path to her unit. The fluorescent lampposts glared down at her like glowing white eyes, but there were no lights in any of the windows she passed.
Elizabeth started to get the creeps, as if she were being watched, as if she were being stalked. She put the key in the lock and looked over her shoulder, then tucked the thick file under her ar
m, needing both hands to open the door. The hair on her neck was standing on end. She looked into the dark house and flipped on the light. Just get in, get the audio disk, and get out.
She put the file down on the round butcher-block table and ran into the back room, where she rummaged through a box full of her backup field data. There it was. She grabbed it and took a deep breath as she opened the door.
A bolt of electricity flooded through her body, knocking her backward into the house. She felt like she had been struck by lightning. Severe pain shot down her spine and through her limbs as she collapsed to the ground, convulsing and shaking. She was being electrocuted. All the neurotransmitters in her muscles were being disrupted, and she lost any ability to move. Bursts of white light like fireworks exploded in front of her eyes. She knew she must be dying. Her limbs were stiff, and she flopped on the floor like a caught fish. All she could manage to utter were the stifled words “Oh my God…Oh my God…”
As quickly as it had started, it stopped. Her eyes began to focus. She saw two barbed electrodes, like those from a Taser, still attached to her shirt. A sharp pain pierced her arm. Dr. Skilling was kneeling over her, injecting her with a large syringe.
She tried to resist, but Skilling held her down. A wave of terror filled her body as completely as the charge had. What is he injecting me with? Please don’t let him kill my baby! She struggled, but it only made the needle stick hurt more. Through the fog in her head, she groped for a plan. Go for the eyes, go for the eyes…
Skilling grabbed her wrists and held them away from his face. His eyes looked black and disklike, predatory and empty. Elizabeth felt as if her brain and her body were separating, going in different directions, snapped apart by the grip of the drug. Her arms were useless, pinned above her head by his hands. She looked down and saw her legs flailing, lashing out instinctively, like those of a wild animal trying to fight him off.
Her knee hit its target, right between his legs. Skilling let go of her arms as he clutched himself. She rolled away and began scrambling toward the door on her hands and knees, feeling a sudden burst of hope. She was getting there. Keep going. Don’t look back. The door began to retreat, to move away from her. Desperately, she lunged for the door handle and felt its cold metal in her hand. She turned it. It opened. I’m free. I’m safe.
The whole door began to turn. Like Alice in the rabbit hole, she fell down and down through the door.
ELIZABETH’S CHEEK hit the ground hard. Skilling turned her over. Her eyes were wide open, vibrating slightly, saliva dripping from her mouth, her breathing noisy but regular. She was completely immobilized. He could do what was, unfortunately, now necessary.
SEVENTY-NINE
9:00 P.M.
Sacramento
FRANK TRIED CALLING Connie’s house again, but there was no answer. Connie wasn’t picking up her cell phone, either. Maybe they are at the slough. Maybe there’s no cell reception. Frank knew that all of Elizabeth’s best intentions to rest might not allow her to stay put. She was a force of nature. Such forces were not always easy to live with, but they were a privilege to experience up close. Why did he almost have to lose her before he realized what she meant to him?
“This is Connie Kato. If you want to overthrow the status quo, leave a message. Otherwise, don’t call back.” Beep.
“Connie, this is Frank. I’m worried about Elizabeth. She was supposed to go to your house. She’s not picking up her cell, and there’s no answer at home. I hope you are together somewhere. Please call me on my cell. Thanks.”
“Dorothy,” Frank said as he walked toward the door, “I’ve got to go find Elizabeth. I’ve got my pager if you need anything.”
“Glad you two are back together. It’s about time you came to your senses.”
EIGHTY
10:00 P.M.
THE NIGHT was velvet black, and the layer of marine fog enveloped what little light was shed by the headlights of Skilling’s BMW Z3 Roadster. The car’s fabric top did not keep out the winter chill, but it did conceal the unconscious body in the passenger seat next to him.
He had chosen the car because its long wheelbase and fluted side vents reminded him unmistakably of his streamlined sharks. But tonight, with the top up, the Roadster felt cramped, like the cabin of a small boat. He had bought it—thanks to the money from the consortium—as a sports car, not as a hearse. The sooner he got rid of Elizabeth’s body, the better.
As he continued to drive, he lit a cigarette. He needed to calm his nerves. He had tried to quit for years, had pretty much succeeded, but when he got nervous, he craved nicotine. The pack of cigarettes he kept in his car had come in handy in preparing the newspaper photo for Elizabeth. If only she had listened to his warning, none of this would have been necessary.
Skilling inhaled, breathing in the scent of cigarette smoke mixed with that of the car’s leather interior, then exhaled in a long, slow breath. Everything was going to work out. Animals killed other animals. It was the law of nature. Some were predators and some were prey. He felt a cascade of endorphins pumping through his blood. Not since he was in the water trying to tag Mother had he felt so alive.
Skilling pulled into the dock where his boat was moored. As the clouds parted he saw the moon, just past full. The dock was empty, as he knew it would be. The active fishermen would be home asleep for another few hours. Many of the boats were all but abandoned, their owners unable to turn a profit from the dwindling fish stocks. The owner of the boat next to him had neglected to take down its ragged flag. Red and white stripes and a blue sea of stars flapped angrily in the wind. There was a “For Sale” sign in the window.
Just to be certain, Skilling wrapped Elizabeth in a blanket and carried her over his shoulder like a long carpet. A seagull flew onto the dock and cocked its head to eye him closely. Seagulls always knew. They could smell death long before it happened. They were the vultures of the sea and would appear at a shark attack almost before the shark.
He set Elizabeth down in the open cabin. His twenty-five-foot sport fishing boat had yellow-and-black trim and was perfectly designed for his work studying big marine animals. The walk-through transom at the stern made access in and out of the water easy and allowed him to pull seal carcasses onboard to dissect. He fastened the microphone-shaped satellite tag to a heavy wooden tagging pole, which he would have to use until he could get another aluminum one. Tagging Mother was all he could think about, what he dreamed about every night. He would not miss the chance again, should his little excursion present the opportunity.
Skilling cast off the lines. Sitting in the cushioned white captain’s seat, he turned on the twin Honda 150s. They jumped to life eagerly, like racehorses. These brand-new four-stroke engines had been paid for by his research stipend from the Japanese whalers for his services on the IWC Scientific Committee. There were so many funding sources, if researchers were willing to open their eyes. The engines hummed as he quietly backed out of the slip. He passed the pleasure yachts, their unrigged masts looking like lonely crosses.
He clutched the rubberized steering wheel, in the middle of which was glued a gold doubloon. One of his colleagues had given it to him: a not totally flattering allusion to Moby Dick’s peg-legged whaler. A curious sea otter poked its head above the water, and the red light blinked on the piling that marked the end of the harbor.
He headed into the blanket of gray. The radar was set to a four-mile radius, but even in the bay, the waters were rough, and there was a lot of interference. This scatter was hard to distinguish from the actual targets, the rocks and boats he was trying hard to avoid.
Skilling set his waypoints for a course to the Emperor’s Bathtub, on the windward side of Southeast Farallon Island. The Bathtub, a narrow but deep eddy in Maintop Bay, had the perfect geography to make it a feeding trough for white sharks. The drain of the Bathtub was just wide enough for the graceful turns of the sharks, so they could strike unseen and exit quickly. It was practically like a fast-food drive-through.
>
The actual coordinates he entered were not just of the cove but were even better. They came from the three radio acoustic positioning sonobuoys that he had installed a few months back with the help of the sea urchin fisherman—the only person who was brave enough or fool enough to dive with the Farallon whites. The RAPS data allowed him to track individual sharks with pinpoint accuracy to study their small-scale movements. The most recent transmission had indicated that a shark named Scar Eye was out there in Maintop Bay. He hoped Mother might be as well.
When he’d gotten the call from the consortium about Elizabeth, he’d known immediately where he would take her. It had not been a rational thought, but it had struck him as having a certain amusing poetic justice—the whale researcher eaten by a shark.
ELIZABETH STARTED TO GROAN, and he glanced down into the cabin. The drug was wearing off. Ketamine had been a convenient and effective drug for his purposes. The anesthetic had shut down Elizabeth’s cerebral cortex and all conscious thought while allowing her to continue breathing. White sharks much preferred live prey.
“Jesus,” Skilling said as he saw the walls of Alcatraz towering in front of him. He slammed the throttle astern just in time to avoid running aground on the rocks of the island prison. As he swung the boat around, he heard one of the propellers grind on an underwater rock. Christ, Richie, can’t you drive a goddamn boat?
Skilling started on his course again, a little shaken and more careful to keep his eye on the radar. He changed the screen to a wider view as the foghorn from Alcatraz wailed behind him—a little late. They really got the best of you, didn’t they, Richie? It was that same voice. He wasn’t going crazy. Everyone heard voices. Sane people, like him, just realized they were the workings of their own mind.
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