by Steve Alten
“Dad, the medical team is here; they need to bring in mom’s stuff.”
“Thanks, Dani. Have them set up her bed so she’s facing the ocean.”
Two men entered, wheeling in a hospital bed. Three more trips yielded medical monitors, IV stands, a small refrigerator, and a supply cabinet.
The EMTs arrived twenty minutes later. They wheeled Terry in on a gurney through the second-story entrance—the end of a harrowing three-thousand-mile journey. Jonas had hired two private nurses for during the week and one for weekends, along with a rehab specialist who would move her limbs.
“Mr. Taylor, your wife is all set. The medical supplies and nutrition bags are being delivered this afternoon and we changed her diaper about an hour ago, so you should be good until tonight. We just need your signature on a few forms and then we’ll be on our way.”
“Thank you, fellas.” He scribbled his name without reading the legalese and led them out, handing each man two folded hundred-dollar bills.
He reentered the house to find Dani on her cell phone.
“That was Kelly Rollyson, the first weekday nurse. She’ll be here in an hour. Do you want me to wait?”
“That’s not necessary. Besides, you need to get back to school. Mom and I will be fine.”
She gave her father a long hug, then left.
Jonas carried his wife’s wicker rocking chair from the other side of the bedroom and positioned it on the left side of the hospital bed. Sitting down, he took Terry’s right hand in his, comforted by her pulse.
“Take your time and heal, babe. When you’re ready to come back to me, I’ll be here.”
PART THREE
SUNRISE
All you need is love.
—John Lennon/Lennon-McCartney
15 months later …
Quatsino Sound
Vancouver Island, B.C.
The waterway known as Quatsino Sound lies at the mouth of an inlet located along the northwest coast of Vancouver Island. As it moves inland, it branches off into several bays and harbors, with sparsely populated hamlets nestled along shorelines accessible only by boat and gravel-covered backroads.
The Canadian government’s decision to ban fisheries from the area had revitalized the salmon stocks. There was a healthy abundance of coho, sockeye, and humpies, as well as offshore species like halibut and lingcod, making the destination one of the most popular among sports fishermen.
* * *
This was Peter Traxler’s first fishing trip to Quatsino Sound, and he quickly realized that driving to Winter Harbour had been a mistake. It took him three hours and twenty minutes to negotiate the forty-two miles of bad road, he broke a shock on his boat trailer, and a brief encounter with two black bear cubs went sour when mama bear charged his car. Upon arriving at his destination, he discovered the boat launch was literally a hole bulldozed into the bank that could be used only during high tide.
Naturally, it was low tide.
With three hours to kill, he decided to check in at the Outpost, which served as a marina, general store, and lodge. Confirming his reservation, the desk manager proceeded to run the charges on his credit card—
—as two attractive women entered the facility. Both were blondes, decked out in fishing vests and tight jean shorts, and they were heading his way.
“Hi. I’m Katey Robinson and this is my friend Sasha Moulder. Are you here for the fishing?”
“Of course he’s here for the fishing,” Sasha chided, her British accent easy on the ears. “What else is there to do out here?”
Sasha’s wink caught Peter off guard. “Yes, fishing … I love fishing. I have an eighteen-foot Bayliner out in the parking lot, only I can’t launch it for another three hours.”
“Then you’re free to join us,” Katey said. “We rented a charter that accommodates four, but one of our girlfriends didn’t show and we need the fourth to split the costs.”
“How much are we talking?”
“Three hundred … dollars, not pounds.” Sasha smiled, turning on the charm.
“You can pay here,” the manager said. “I can add it to your bill.”
The two blondes nodded.
“Okay, what the hell.”
The women clapped.
The manager ran his credit card and printed his receipt. Peter signed it and took his room key. “I want to stow my stuff and change. How about I meet you ladies outside in fifteen minutes?”
“That’s perfect. It’s the second-to-last boat on the right dock. We’re stocked with food and beer, so don’t worry about a thing.”
They waved and hurried off.
The manager directed Peter to his room, which had a kitchenette and small living area. He took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, and changed into a fresh T-shirt and his favorite fishing shorts, one with Velcro pockets. Checking his breath one more time, he left the room and exited the building to the docks.
He located the ladies standing aboard a twenty-four-foot, aluminum, center-consoled boat, powered by twin ninety-horsepower, Yamaha four-stroke engines. As Peter approached, he saw a bearded male in his thirties wearing a captain’s hat passing down supplies to another man standing in the boat.
Sasha waved him over. “Sorry, I can’t remember your name.”
“Peter.”
“Peter, this is Kenny Powell, the best charter boat captain on Vancouver Island.”
“Thank you, babe.” Kenny wiped the sweat from his palm on his pant leg and playfully swatted Sasha on her rump. “Fish have been biting all week—we’ll hit our allotment in a few quick hours.”
Before he could react, Katey was introducing a second fellow passenger. “Peter, this is my fiancé, Sam Ramer.”
“Sup, dude?”
“Yeah, you know what—I think maybe I’ll just rest for a few hours until the tide comes in and go out myself.”
“Suit yourself,” the captain said. “But you’ve already spent the money; why not come out with us.”
“What are you talking about? You haven’t left yet—just refund my money.”
“Sorry, Pete, there’s no refunds. I actually turned down an older couple while you were paying Sasha.”
“Really? Where’d they go? I’ll sell them my seat.”
“Too late—they caught another charter.” Kenny climbed down into the boat and then reached up to help Sasha down. “So, what’s it gonna be?”
Gritting his teeth, Peter stepped down into the vessel and took a seat next to the cooler, helping himself to the first of what he suspected would be many beers to come.
* * *
Four thirty-pound Chinook, a forty-five-pound halibut, and three more beers later found Peter feeling much better about life. A fading July sun drenched the pine-covered hills before them in orange as they trolled east on their return trip at 10 knots, the boat’s bow wake rippling across a glass-like surface, their four fishing poles secured in small outriggers.
Seated across from the control console, Peter leaned over to speak with the captain. “So, be honest: Did you send the ladies inside as bait?”
“Hook, line, and sinker.” Kenny reached out and clinked his beer bottle with Peter’s. “You paid for the fuel and bait. But we’ll make it worth your while. I’ll have everything you caught filleted, packed in ice, and stored at the Outpost for when you check out. And tonight, you’ll join us back at my place for fresh halibut and a Quatsino version of a luau.”
“I like it—whoa!” Peter pointed to starboard, where dozens of salmon were leaping out of the water, the school of Chinook keeping pace with the boat. “I’ve never seen that before. What could be—”
He looked at Kenny. The guide’s face had gone pale, his laid-back attitude instantly gone.
Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out a Swiss Army knife. “Peter, we need to cut bait and run. Take this knife and cut the lines. Do not reel them in.”
The fear in the man’s eyes eliminated all questions. Peter took the knife, used his thumbnail t
o release a blade, and moved to the nearest of the four outriggers, which was situated on the portside by his seat. It took some effort to slice through the thirty-pound super braid, which quickly disappeared when the heavy line finally snapped, dragged overboard by the leader and bait.
Kenny glanced at Sasha, who was curled in a ball in the bow. “Sasha, wake up.” He buckled his seat belt and pressed down on the throttle, edging ahead of the leaping salmon.
Peter made quick work of the two starboard lines. The last outrigger was situated in the stern along the port gunwale. Sam was seated on a padded bench, his back to the sheathed fishing pole. Katey was asleep in his lap.
Peter stumbled toward him, knife drawn as the boat accelerated.
“Easy there, boss. What are you doing with that knife?”
“Cutting the line, as ordered.”
“The hell you are. That’s my rig.” He turned to inspect the fishing pole, the top half of the fiberglass rod nearly bent in half. “There we go! Hey, Kenny, I got a hook in something big—ease up while I bring it in.”
“Dude, Kenny wants all the lines cut—”
Sam rolled out from under Katey and stood, removing the pole from the outrigger, the drag nearly pulling him overboard. “Oh baby, she’s gotta be seventy pounds. Hey, Kenny—”
Peter and Sam both turned to the captain for help—only Kenny couldn’t hear over the twin engines, and his gaze was focused on the fish leaping out of the sea to starboard.
“Screw it.” Placing one foot on the transom, Sam braced himself and leaned back, quickly leaning forward again to take in line. “God, what a brute. Katey, tell your buddy Kenny to slow down.”
Bracing herself, Katey moved up the center aisle to speak with the captain, who was seated sideways with his back to her so that he could see everything to starboard, from bow to stern.
“Kenny, Sam needs you to slow the boat down.”
“That’s too bad. Now go sit down.”
“But he caught a fish … he said it’s a brute.”
“What?” Kenny swung around to his left to find Sam engaged in battle, his effort causing a fifty-pound Chinook salmon to leap out of the water thirty yards behind the boat.
“Damn it!” He grabbed an empty beer bottle from a cup holder and tossed it at Sasha.
“Hey—”
“I need you to take the wheel.” He stood, allowing his girlfriend to slip behind him into his chair. “Keep us ahead of the salmon.”
“Salmon?” She looked to starboard. “Oh, wow…” She glanced back at Kenny. “You don’t think…?”
“Just watch the salmon.” Kenny pushed past Katey and made his way to the back of the boat. Taking the knife from Peter, he secured the fishing pole with his free hand as he pressed the business end of the blade beneath the line, the sharp edge snapping the twenty-five-pound test, sending Sam sprawling backward into an empty seat.
“What the hell, Kenny?” Sam was about to confront the captain when he saw a massive triangular white head surface thirty yards behind the boat’s diminishing wake, his fish flapping between the shark’s clenched four-and-a-half-inch serrated teeth.
Sam looked at Kenny. “Was that?”
“Bella-donna? Yeah.” Kenny hurried forward to take the controls from Sasha. He looked to starboard to check on the school of salmon, only to find a glass-like surface. “What happened to the damn fish?”
“I don’t know.”
“I asked you to stay ahead of them!”
“Well, they went deep—what am I supposed to do? And don’t yell at me!”
“Sorry.” He switched on the fish finder, his head on a swivel. “Watch the screen. Everyone else watch the water.”
Peter looked around nervously, his heart pounding in his chest. “What are we looking for?”
“There!” Sasha pointed behind the boat’s wake and to port, where a five-foot, lead-gray dorsal fin was cutting across the surface on an intercept course.
Peter balled his fists. “A Megalodon? Your governor or mayor or whatever he is announced you had killed them all. That was over a year ago—I remember watching it on TV!”
“Politicians lie; who knew?” Sasha turned to Kenny. “If the reports are true, she’ll never allow us to make it back to Winter Harbour.”
“We’re not going to try for Winter Harbour.” Cutting hard to port, he pushed down on the throttle, aiming for a cluster of rocks and uninhabited landmasses in the distance.
“The Gillams?”
“It’s our only shot.” He signaled everyone to gather around. “Guys, here’s the deal—that dorsal fin that’s chasing us … her owner doesn’t like boats, especially ones that enter her feeding grounds. Our only chance is to put ashore on one of the islands—”
“Islands?” Peter stared at the cluster of sheer rock formations jutting out of Quatsino Sound a quarter mile ahead. “All I see are tall, jagged rocks. There’s no beach—how do we climb out? Where will you land?”
“There are shoals shallow enough to abandon the boat … and let’s be clear—we need to abandon the—”
The sudden heave from below sent the boat caroming to starboard.
Kenny veered back to port. “Everybody buckle in. Sasha, get on the radio and report our position to the Coast Guard!”
She took the seat next to him where Peter had been sitting, strapped herself in, and then leaned over and grabbed the handset, powering on the device. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is the fishing boat Sea Robin-III out of Winter Harbour, reporting a Code Red BD encounter. Our position is one-point-three kilometers southwest of the Gillam Islands. We will attempt to land there.…”
Peter held on to the bottom of his seat, the blood rushing from his face.
This is insane.… This isn’t happening.…
The nearest island appeared ahead—a mound of gray rock three stories high, its sheer vertical sides impossible for anyone but a professional free-climber to negotiate.
Peter’s peripheral vision caught a white object torpedoing in from starboard a second before the boat’s hull was rolled beneath it. For a frightening moment the vessel teetered on its port gunwale—
—until the starboard’s engine’s rudder caught shark hide, purging blood before bending apart, the damaged outboard grinding, spewing thick black smoke.
The fishing boat slowed, its power cut in half, forcing Kenny to execute more radical turns in order to avoid another direct hit.
The towering gray rock loomed larger, its cliff face turning swells into white water.
Kenny never gave the landmass a second thought. Instead, he circled around the right side of the island—
—revealing a second cluster of rock formations situated in the shadow of a far larger island, its outcroppings offering white-water narrows, each a potential harbor.
Without slowing, he aimed for a twelve-foot-wide channel separating the big landmass and an eight-foot wall of basalt jutting out from the sea to its right.
“Hang on!”
The rocks appeared to leap at them, the incoming swells heaving them sideways—the boat’s bow somehow finding its way in before the rudder of its remaining outboard bit rock and everything went silent, save for the sound of a heavy sea lapping against rock.
For a long moment the captain and his four passengers just held on as rolling waves battered the vessel from side to side like a cowboy strapped to a bull in its holding pen.
“We can’t stay here.” Sasha pointed behind them.
The Meg was spy-hopping, its ghost-white triangular head poised upright and free of the water, its right eye clearly watching them.
Katey’s lower lip quivered. “My God … it’s staring at us.”
“Not just us,” Sam said. “I think it’s actually studying the pattern of the swells, timing its next attack.”
“Well, I’m not waiting around for that.” Moving to the bow, Kenny scanned the ten-foot-high barrier of rock ahead of them, searching for a way to use it to reach the shallows of the
island towering on their left. “Okay, our target is the rock’s perch.
“I’ll go first, then Sasha, Katey, Peter, and Sam you’re last. Time your jump so you’re in the water just before the next swell hits—it’ll lift you halfway up the rock face. When that happens, grab on to anything you can and start climbing. The Coast Guard’s on the way, but like Sam said, we stay in the boat and we’re dead.”
Glancing back at the Megalodon, he watched the next incoming swell lift the boat’s stern as it rolled toward the rocks … and jumped.
Kenny submerged, the frigid water stealing his breath—and then he was rising, the wave levitating him even as it slammed him chest-first against the sheer wall of rock. His hands groped for something to grip as the water receded, and for a moment he hung on, his fingertips clutching an outcropping, his feet searching and finding a narrow ledge to support his weight, only the surface was slick with algae and he quickly lost his balance, falling sideways back into the sea.
Seeing her boyfriend tumble, Sasha looked back to check on the Meg.
The shark was gone.
“Oh God—Kenny, get back in the boat! Get out of the water—”
He attempted to grab on to to the bow—too late—as the next swell rolled beneath the vessel and suddenly he was back against the rock face, his hands and feet refusing to relinquish his frail grip. As the wave dropped away, he spotted a flat, dry perch three feet above his head. All he needed was a boost up … another foothold for his left shoe. He searched for one—
—and let out a scream as he stepped on something incredibly sharp that punctured the rubber sole of his sneaker straight up into the arch of his foot.
Looking down, he was shocked to find himself standing inside the Meg’s lower jaw. Crying out, he wrenched his left foot free and attempted to climb—
—only the creature’s upper teeth were puncturing his shoulders, the deadly points of its palm-size teeth just missing the top of his skull, pressing flat against his forehead as its mouth pried him from his perch and dragged him with it back into the sea.