"Some TV producer, probably," Chase answered from the helm.
"Well, they better hope to hell they don't raise that critter."
A single boat was anchored in the deep channel southwest of Block Island; though it was still a quarter of a mile away, Chase recognized it instantly. "That's Sammy's boat," he said. "White with a blue stripe... tuna tower... outriggers."
The sun was behind them, lowering in the western sky. Tall Man shaded his eyes and squinted. "They got two ass-kicker marlin rigs off the stern," he said. "Wire lines. Only a couple guys in the cockpit."
"Is one of them Puckett?"
"Yeah." Tall Man paused, looking. "The other's a big dude, big as me. Looks like he's cradling an AK-47."
"Cradling," Chase said, "not aiming."
"Not yet."
Chase kept a hundred yards from the bigger boat as he passed it. He saw no other crewmen, no cameras, no sound gear. "They're not making a movie," he said. "They're hunting." He swung the Mako around, took it out of gear and let it drift up alongside the fishing boat.
Puckett leaned over the side and shouted, "Beat it, Chase! Every time I get a break, you find a way to fuck it up. A man's got a right to earn a living."
"Not by slaughtering dolphins, he doesn't," Chase said. "You're looking to spend a lot of years in a little room all by your lonesome."
"You don't know shit." Puckett reached into his pocket, brought out a paper and waved it. "These dolphins died of a virus, them and a dozen others. We bought ‘em from a lab in Mystic."
Chase hesitated. What Puckett said was possible, it even made sense. Over the past few years, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of dolphins of several species had washed up on shores of the eastern seaboard, dead from viruses whose origins remained a mystery. Pollution was presumed to be the catalyst, but what kind of pollution — sewage, agricultural runoff, oil or chemical waste — no one seemed to know.
"So what're you doing, then, you and Rambo?" Chase gestured at the huge man holding the assault rifle across his chest. Before Puckett could answer, Chase felt Tall Man nudge him and look up, and he saw a video camera mounted on the lip of the fishing boat's flying bridge. It was moving, tracking them as they slid by in the Mako.
"Fishing for great whites, what else?" said Puckett. "A good white-shark jaw can fetch five grand, easy."
'Don't bullshit me, Rusty, I know what—"
The man with the rifle said, "We have broken no law. That is all that need concern you."
"No, what concerns me is, I know what you think you're looking for, but you don't have the faintest idea what—"
Suddenly, from a loudspeaker mounted somewhere above the cockpit came a disembodied voice, gravelly, unnatural — almost mechanical sounding — heavily accented and shouting, "Rudi! Get in here!"
The man passed the rifle to Puckett, turned and entered the cabin.
Chase's Mako had drifted past the anchored boat, and Chase reversed the motor and backed up until the two boats were once again side by side.
Puckett held the rifle at his waist, pointed at them.
"Put the gun away, Rusty," Tall Man said. "You're up to your eyeballs in shit already."
"Stuff a cork in it, Geronimo," said Puckett.
The man returned from the cabin. "Throw me a line," he said. "Come aboard."
"Why?" said Chase.
The loudspeaker boomed, "You!"
Chase looked up at the video camera and pointed to himself.
"Yes, you. You say you know what we are doing?"
"I'm afraid so," said Chase.
"Come inside... please... you and your friend. I think we need each other, you and I."
42
The cabin was dark; the glass in the doors was tinted, and curtains had been pulled across the windows. It was chilly, too, air-conditioned and dehumidified.
As their pupils adjusted to the dark, Chase and Tall Man saw that all the furniture had been removed from the cabin and replaced with what looked like a portable intensive-care unit. In the center of the room was a motorized wheelchair, and in it sat a man. A rubber tube led from a digital monitor through a hanging bottle and into the veins in the crook of one of the man's elbows. His other hand held the end of a hose attached to a tank of oxygen. Behind him were more machines, including an electrocardiograph and a sphygmomanometer, and on the overhead in front of him was a television monitor showing a color image of the stern of the boat.
The man was old, certainly, but how old was impossible to tell, for his head was shaved and he wore sunglasses. The breadth of his shoulders suggested that he had once been large but had shriveled; a blanket covered him from knees to chest.
The man raised the hand holding the oxygen hose, nudged aside the folds of a yellow ascot and pressed the hose to his throat. His chest expanded as he filled his lungs.
Then he spoke, and Chase was startled to hear the words come not from him but from a box behind him, an amplifier of some kind.
"Where is he?"
"He," Chase thought, what ‘he?’ "I don't know," he said. "Now you tell me: what is... it?"
Again the man touched the hose to his throat, and again he spoke. Once he was a man. He became a great experiment. By now, there is no way to know. A mutant, perhaps. A predator, definitely. He will not stop killing; that is what he was made to do."
"By who? And what makes you think you—"
"I know what he needs. If I can deceive him into..." The man slumped, he had run out of breath; he waited, as if to regain the strength to breathe.
"What d’you mean he was an experiment?" Tall Man said. "What kind of experiment?"
The man took a breath. "Sit down," he said, and he gestured at the open deck by the door.
Chase glanced up at the television monitor and saw Puckett ladling fish guts and blood into the sea. The other man, Rudi, was sitting on the stern with the rifle in his lap.
The old man said, "If he comes, Rudi will shoot him."
"You can kill it, then," said Chase. "That's a relief."
"No, it is a question." There was a slight change in the tone of the man's words, almost as if he were smiling. "A good question: can you kill what is not really alive?"
Chase and Tall Man sat while the man gathered strength, and after a moment's silence, began to speak. At first, the words came in short bursts, but gradually he developed a rhythm of inhaling and exhaling that allowed him to express complete thoughts.
Chase closed his eyes — it was distracting to see the tube touch the throat and withdraw, to watch the chest expand and contract — and let the words wash over him and become pictures.
"My name is Jacob Franks," the man said. "I was born in Munich, and in the years before the war I worked as an apprentice in my father's pharmacy. We could have left, we were urged to leave, but my father refused, he was a man with an unfortunate belief in the basic decency of mankind. He could not believe the rumors about the Nazis' intentions for us Jews... until, one night, it was suddenly too late to get out.
"I last saw my parents and my two sisters as they were led away from a cattle car on a siding near a town no one had ever heard of.
"I was kept alive — I was young and strong and healthy — and put to work as a laborer. I could not know that what I was building were crematoria... essentially I was digging my own grave. My health began to fail, of course, from malnutrition, and in hindsight it is clear that I was only a few weeks or months away from being rendered into ashes, when one day a new doctor arrived at the camp. Because my papers indicated that I had some experience in pharmacology, I was sent to work for him.
"His name was Ernst Kruger, and he was a protégé, a friend, and later, a rival of Josef Mengele." He paused. "You know who Mengele was, I assume."
"Sure," Chase said. "Who doesn't?"
"I don't," said Tall Man.
"They called Mengele the Angel of Death," Franks said. "He was a doctor at Auschwitz; his joy came not from saving lives but from taking them, and in the most hideo
us ways possible. He enjoyed experimenting on prisoners, torturing them for no other purpose than to see how much pain they could endure, slicing open twins only to see how similar they really were, transplanting eyes to see if they would function, freezing or boiling women and children solely to see how long it took them to die. He escaped at the end of the war and lived in Paraguay and Brazil."
"They never caught him?" Tall Man asked.
"No. He drowned, or so they say, a few years ago off a beach in Brazil. There is said to be forensic proof, but for me, Mengele will never die. The fact that such a man could exist, that God would permit it, means that a little bit of Mengele must exist in the darkest parts of each of us."
"And your doctor," Chase said, "this Kruger... was he like Mengele?"
"He was vicious like Mengele," said Franks, "and as brutal. But Kruger was smarter, and he had a stronger vision, warped as it was."
"Which was?"
"To usurp the power of God. He truly wanted to create a new species."
Tall Man said, "What the hell for?"
"To some extent, to see if it could be done. But then, as he did more and more work and the impossible began to seem possible, as success followed success, word reached high into the Nazi hierarchy. Money, encouragement flowed back down to him. Kruger's vision became true megalomania: he decided to try to create a race of amphibious warriors."
Tall Man began to say something, but Franks cut him off.
"This was the nineteen-forties, remember. There were no nuclear submarines with infinite bottom time, scuba diving had barely been invented, man was still a stranger to the sea. Imagine a creature with the intelligence, the knowledge, the training and the brutality of man, but combined with the capacities of an apex marine predator."
"Jesus," Chase said, "Nazi killer whales."
"Not quite. More versatile, even," said Franks. "Whales must breathe; Kruger's creatures would not. They would stay underwater indefinitely, dive to a thousand feet, set explosives, spy on shipping. His dream was for them to have the potential for unlimited mayhem."
"Meaning he was nuts," Tall Man said.
"Not necessarily," Chase put in. "I remember reading about a professor from Duke who tried the same thing during the sixties. He started with mice, got them to breathe liquids without drowning and found that liquid-breathing eliminates the possibility of getting the bends. One time he decompressed a mouse from thirty atmospheres to surface pressure in three seconds, which would be like a diver going from a thousand feet to the surface at seven hundred miles an hour. The mouse survived. He saw no reason the same thing couldn’t work for humans. He only stopped experimenting because of a lack of need: robots came on the scene, ROVs, submersibles; they could do a better job in deep water, with no risk to people. But he was convinced he could have created an amphibious human."
Franks nodded and said, "In theory, creating a water-breathing human being should not be very difficult. We come from water-breathers, after all; fetuses survive on liquid, and in various stages of development they show evidence of flippers and even gills. And we are all liquid-breathers already, in the sense that our lungs contain fluids without which they couldn’t function."
"So you're saying Kruger succeeded?" Chase said.
"Almost," said Franks. "If the war had gone on longer, he might actually have done it. What held him back was the quality of his subjects; they were weak, sick, malnourished — slaves. Many developed infections from the initial tracheotomy surgery, and because there were no antibiotics then, they died. Some failed to survive the flooding of their lungs with saline solution and fluorocarbons. But Kruger had an inexhaustible supply of patients, so he pressed on."
"And then, from somewhere high in the chain of command, perhaps Hitler himself, came a gift: a perfect subject. Heinrich Guenther was the Aryan physical ideal, six and a half feet tall, muscled like a Greek statue. He had won medals in the nineteen-thirty-six Olympics in the shot put, the javelin and the hammer throw, and he became something of a national hero. He joined the SS, secured a commission and, when the war came, seemed destined for a brilliant future. He was fearless and ruthless. He was utterly without conscience. He was a killer."
"He was also not quite sane, though that wasn't evident at the time. A solitary man, he lived alone, and apparently he had been murdering people — prostitutes, lowlifes for the most part — for years. That only came out after he went berserk in a beer hall one night and killed three people. Today I suppose he would be diagnosed as a sexual psychopath or a paranoid schizophrenic; in nineteen forty-four he was labeled a homicidal maniac. He was sentenced to be shot, and was about to be, when someone decided that he could perform one last service for the Reich. They sent him down to us."
"You worked for the guy?" Chase asked.
"Worked on him. With Kruger. For months. He was treated like a tiger. He was caged between surgeries, fed raw meat and vitamin injections, anesthetized and programmed in ways that are sophisticated even for today: biofeedback, subliminal conditioning. He was almost finished, Kruger had only one last step to go, when the Allies closed in on the camp. But Kruger was obsessed; he refused to abandon the experiment. He took Guenther with him when he fled... like most of the Nazis who knew they would be branded war criminals, Kruger had been given an escape route to South America."
"So we flooded Guenther one final time, packed him in a bronze box full of concentrated fluorocarbons and enriched saline solution and loaded him onto a truck. Kruger left on foot, he headed north toward the sea. I never saw either of them again."
What about you?" Chase asked. "What happened when the Allies arrived?"
"They freed me... they freed all of us."
"And that was that?"
"Why should it not be?"
"Because you hadn’t just survived," Chase said. "You'd worked side by side with that monster while he killed people."
"Well..." said Franks, again with what sounded like a weary smile, "...perhaps they thought I had suffered enough."
He leaned forward in his wheelchair, and the glow from the television monitor fell on his face. He removed the sunglasses. One of his eyes was normal, but the other was a deep, egg-yolk yellow. The he touched the tube to his throat, but this time after he had inhaled he used his fingertips to pluck away the ascot around his neck.
There were three diagonal slashes on either side of Frank's neck, healed decades ago into ridged purple scars, and in the center of his throat was a black and ragged hole that led down into his gullet.
"My God..." Chase said. "Are they... you've got... gills?"
"I was an early experiment... and a failure," Franks said. He replaced the sunglasses. "And I am the only survivor. My lungs were too weak to absorb the fluorocarbons; over and over again, I drowned... to the brink of death. Kruger could have let me die, but he didn't; he would raise me upside down on a chain hoist and let gravity drain me, then restart my lungs with what passed in those days for CPR. He kept bringing me back to life because, he said, he needed me." Franks leaned back, out of the light. "I never recovered fully, I never will. But I don't want to meet God without one last act of penance. I want to kill this... this ultimate abomination."
"If that's what it is," said Tall Man.
"It is, I'm certain of it. We know that Kruger never reached South America. The Nazi-hunters who tracked down Mengele and Eichmann and the others never found a trace of him. The U-boat he was traveling on was listed as missing."
"How do you know he got on a U-boat?"
"There are records. The Nazis were fanatics about keeping records. Kruger's work had a code name, and it was mentioned in the archives as having been loaded aboard U-165. The boat sank, or was sunk, I assume somewhere in the mid-Atlantic."
"How could the thing travel across a couple thousand miles of ocean bottom," Tall Man asked, "and survive all this time?"
"Kruger had slowed Guenther's metabolism to the edge of clinical death, a state way beyond hibernation. The chemicals in his
box could sustain such basic life as there was, and his need for food would be nil, at least for a very long time. Eventually, like a bear woken by hunger in the spring, his body would have demanded food, and I guess he found something to eat."
Franks paused; Chase and Tall Man stared at each other.
"The answers are there," Franks said, "if you know what to look for. I stopped searching for Kruger long ago. All the evidence pointed to his having died. An uncle had brought me to America and put me to work in his chemical business; I built a new life, I had a son — Rudi — and I prospered."
"But I never forgot. A part of my mind was always looking for clues, hints that Kruger or Guenther had survived. And then I saw a newspaper item about a National Geographic photographer disappearing from a research vessel near Block Island."
"We heard about that," Chase said.
"The story said that a bronze box the size of a big casket had fallen overboard and disappeared... a box the researchers had brought up from the wreck of a submarine in the Kristof Trench... a German U-boat."
"You said Guenther's programming hadn't been finished, there was one step to go. What was that?"
"Kruger's ambition was to create a truly amphibious killer," Franks said. "A half-human weapon that could survive equally well in air or water, could go back and forth between the two. He conditioned Guenther to breathe water, then taught him how to drain his lungs and breathe air. What he had not had time to teach him was how to reverse the process when he wanted to return to the water. Once on land, Guenther would become what is called an obligate air-breather. He would be trapped there. So, you see, it is very urgent that we destroy him before—"
"Christ!" Chase said suddenly, and stood up. "Puckett didn't tell you? The thing's already been ashore! It killed a dog in Waterboro." He turned to Tall Man and said, "Get on the horn to Rollie Gibson, he keeps the radio in his office tuned to sixteen. Tell him what the thing is, and it may be loose in town, or maybe in the woods."
Tall Man climbed the steps to the wheelhouse while Chase opened the door and went out onto the stern. He ordered Rudi to cut away the baits and Puckett to start the engine, then he returned to the cabin.
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