Shark Beach

by Chris Jameson

Somehow, when the rain kicked up this time and he flicked on his windshield wipers, Broaddus did not think it would abate again. Not until the story of this storm had been written and the only question left was how much the cleanup would cost.

  Of course, by then, Broaddus would have risked his job. He had been thinking all night about how to put his plan into action, and if there was a way to do it without anyone knowing he had been involved. If he could avoid being fired—more important, if he could avoid going to jail—he’d prefer that option.

  The hurricane might provide some cover. If the island lost power, even with the Institute’s generators, he thought he could figure out some lie that would explain it all, then just play stupid and hope the assumptions people like Dr. Tremblay made about people like him would make them less likely to suspect that it had been more than an accident.

  Broaddus knew the layout of the Institute very well. He’d been in the lab, seen the work in progress. Some of the researchers were desperate to talk to people about their projects, and he had often shown enough interest that when something happened to excite them, they would share. The graduate students who spent semesters on Sanibel were the most likely to tell him things that were meant to be confidential. But he worked there, after all … and he was only a security guard.

  Broaddus was kind to them all, never let on how much the shark research bothered him. All that pain for nothing, playing God, cutting living creatures open and messing about in their brains.… It horrified and haunted him.

  The rain pounded his windshield, the wipers unable to keep up. He slowed down, watching the road in front of him. As he drove, the wind gusted hard enough to rock the car, but he didn’t have far to go. Once he reached the Institute, he wouldn’t be going home again until the storm had passed.

  By then, the sharks would be free.

  * * *

  Matti lay in bed, staring at the swirl of the ceiling fan and listening to the creaking and moaning of the house. The wind gusted and subsided, gusted and subsided, and the whole structure seemed to sway with that rhythm. Most of the houses out here were built on stilts, so in the event of a tidal surge the water would flow in and flow out without damaging the homes above it, so it felt to him as if the whole thing might just topple over if the wind blew hard enough. Such thoughts were the price he paid for a vivid imagination.

  The other price involved insomnia. Sleeplessness had plagued Matti since college. Unlike other insomniacs he knew, Matti never had trouble falling asleep, but he often woke during the night and found it virtually impossible to drift off again. Tonight, he had risen to relieve his bladder a little after three a.m., which had become a familiar time for him, his personal witching hour. Back in bed, he had tossed and turned a bit, trying to get comfortable, but eventually surrendered and just listened to the noises of the house. The air-conditioner clicked on and blew chilly air into the room. With the wind and the light rain falling, a look out the window might imply that AC was unnecessary, but the storm sat out in the Gulf, where the air hung hot and thick and the humidity could suffocate.

  The beams creaked and the fan whirred and the rain pattered the glass. Matti glanced over at his wife and felt a surge of love and envy. The woman could sleep through anything, not to mention fall asleep just by closing her eyes. He leaned over, the soft, torturously uncomfortable bed creaking beneath him, and kissed her forehead. Then he climbed out of bed, snatched the mystery novel he’d been reading from the bedside table, and slipped out into the hallway. There had been hundreds of times in his life when he’d done this, padded quietly to some unoccupied space hours before dawn, clicked on a light, and read until he either nodded off or the sun came up. This would be no different, but it saddened him just the same.

  This morning, he knew there would be no falling back to sleep. As he started down the carpeted stairs, he had already surrendered. The upside of this self-knowledge would be a very hot, very black cup of coffee. He could practically smell it already as he reached the living room. A small lamp on a corner table illuminated the peach-colored walls and the various island-and-maritime-themed wall decorations. So many shells, which made sense given Captiva was so well known for the volume and variety of seashells on its shores.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  Matti jumped a couple of feet, bumped the back of the sofa, and clamped a hand to his chest as he stared at Corinne Scully. She sat at the kitchen table with one hand wrapped around a mug of tea and her cell phone in the other. The phone screen glowed—she’d been on social media or something—but she looked pale and drawn and rumpled, just as he knew he must look. In her Villanova T-shirt and a pair of thin pajama pants, she reminded him of his college days, and for a moment he envied the spring-breakers next door.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” he said quietly, his heart beginning to return to its regular rhythm. “What are you doing down here?”

  “Same thing you’re doing, I guess,” she replied. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Yeah, but that’s the norm for me.” The house around them groaned, probably just the wind but it reminded him that everyone else was still in slumberland. “I’m going to make a coffee. Want to go sit on the screen porch?”

  Corinne frowned and stared out through the sliding glass door, looking at the rain spatter on the floor or the palms bending behind the house.

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  While she went outside and found a dry chair, far enough back from the screen, Matti made himself a quick Keurig coffee and joined her. He slid the door closed behind him.

  “Now we won’t wake anyone up,” he said.

  But when he sat in the chair beside her, Corinne remained silent. She gazed out at the darkness and so he did the same, just listening to the storm and watching the night. He sipped his coffee, enjoying the burn.

  “I can go back inside, if you want,” he said after a minute or two of quiet. “Or upstairs. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  She smiled and sipped her tea. “On my moping, you mean? My brooding session?”

  “Call it soul-searching.”

  “We can call it whatever we like.”

  Matti studied her over the rim of his mug as he took another long sip. “You’re worried about Rick?”

  “It feels like he’s unraveling,” Corinne said quietly, even though nobody else was there to overhear.

  “He lost his temper yesterday,” Matti admitted. “He’s unhappy with himself, I think, and doesn’t know how to fix that. He was jealous.”

  “He was a prick.”

  Matti smiled and toasted her words with his mug. “True. He was that.”

  Corinne fixed him with a hard look. “It’s not my job to make him happy, Matti. He has to find that for himself. Figure it out, because in the meantime, it’s doing a lot of damage. It’s not just him that’s unraveling. The whole family’s starting to fray. I think we’re unraveling—Rick and I—and I just…”

  She sighed and looked out at the dark again, maybe regretting what she’d said. How honest she’d been. Her mug quivered a bit when she lifted it to her lips.

  “I was surprised he called the police,” Matti admitted.

  “For something he started.”

  Matti nodded. “You want me to talk to him?”

  The question hung between them for a long while, and this time he didn’t interrupt her silence. Instead he joined her in listening to the storm and watching the darkness as the rain continued to spritz through the screen. Maybe the hurricane wouldn’t turn their way after all. The storm didn’t seem to have gotten any worse over night, though the wind had picked up a little.

  “We should enjoy ourselves,” Corinne said at last. “This might be the last vacation we all take together.”

  Matti glanced down at his coffee. “Well, that’s fucking depressing. Now I wish this was whiskey.”

  “We do have whiskey,” Corinne replied with forced brightness.

  “Too close to breakfast.”

 
“I’m sorry this is all so awkward, because of all the tension between me and Rick.”

  Inside, Matti squirmed, but he didn’t want Corinne to see his discomfort so he fell back on humor, as he so often had. “Hey, if you want to have sex with one of our college neighbors, I won’t stop you. I want to be supportive of your needs.”

  Corinne pushed her hands through her short, unkempt hair. “Well, at least there’s one man in this house interested in my needs.”

  Matti laughed, threw his hands up and leaned back in the chair. “Okay, now that was awkward.”

  She pushed back her chair, picking up her mug. “Which is my cue to go back upstairs. Maybe I can steal a couple more hours of sleep before morning … if morning ever comes, given the wonderful weather we’re having.”

  “You’ve got to love the tropics.”

  Corinne arched an eyebrow, giving him a salacious look. “I know you love the tropics. You tease me about college boys, but I saw you checking out those girls.”

  “Purely concerned for their dermal health. There were exposed parts of them that needed sunscreen.”

  With a laugh, she rolled her eyes, opened the slider, and went back into the house, closing it behind her. Matti drank his coffee while he watched her head back upstairs to join her husband in bed, and he felt sadder than ever, thinking about the tension their room must hold, and more grateful than ever that he and Jenn were at peace with each other. It felt to him like an era was coming to an end, and he knew he would always mourn its passing.

  He thought about heading back up to bed himself, but he knew there would be no point. Sometimes, in the middle of the night like this, he would have lit up a cigar out there on the porch, but tonight he could not muster the proper motivation. Instead he sat in the chair and stared out at the dark. The wind had really begun to kick up, even since he had come out to the porch. Now, as it blasted through the trees, it sounded almost as if it were screaming.

  CHAPTER 4

  Morning arrived under a blanket of silence. The wind managed a powerful gust here and there, but the rain had ceased for the moment and the clouds had thinned enough that columns of sunlight shone down as if Heaven itself were peeking through. The calm before the arrival of the real storm.

  Rashad laced up his running shoes and hit the beach, desperate to clear his head. He’d had too much to drink the night before and his thoughts had cobwebs on them. The weird passive-aggressive dynamic amongst the girls had started to grind on him, and the visit from that sheriff’s deputy had left a sour taste in his mouth.

  When the storm passes, he told himself, it’ll all change. With the sun out, the threat of a hurricane gone, he would persuade the others to go parasailing or biking—anything to get them off the beach and away from the jackass next door. The group in the neighboring house seemed very nice and relaxed, except for Rick Scully. All Rashad had done was make a couple of wiseass comments and give his wife a charming smile—a smile she’d returned—and the guy had gone off the rails.

  How many days did they have left? Four, or was it three? Either way, he wanted to make the most of them.

  Sand flew up behind him as he ran. Though the weather had momentarily subsided, the waves were still huge, crashing onto the shore. He had seen a few people out picking up shells, but only a few. So many had left the island the previous day that there were several massive conch shells on the sand, along with thousands and thousands of smaller shells, the majority of them shattered by the violent waves. He had seen a lot of sand dollars and been tempted to pick one up, but instead kept running.

  Now, as he drew near the Mucky Duck restaurant—where the enormous plate glass windows had been boarded up in preparation—he saw the Scullys’ daughters walking along the beach with a bucket, stooped over and sifting through broken seashells in search of keepers. When the older one glanced up, she froze on the sand. The younger one kept walking, and Rashad shifted to the left, farther up on the beach, planning to run right past them.

  The younger sister lifted her head and spotted him. She smiled and gave him a wave, and as Rashad lifted his hand to return it, he found himself slowing down and walking toward them. The older sister glanced around, looking like she wanted to hide.

  “Morning,” he said. “Find any good ones?”

  The younger sister held up an enormous, gleaming conch shell, maybe the biggest Rashad had ever seen outside of a shop.

  “Nice, right?” the younger girl said.

  “More than nice,” he replied. “That’s amazing. You could probably sell that for a ton of money.”

  “It’s beautiful,” the older sister said, frowning. “Why would we sell it?”

  Rashad shifted uncomfortably. His left hamstring felt tight and he started to stretch it, glancing away from them.

  “Listen,” he said, focusing on the girls again. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened yesterday. I was just being nice, trying to be funny. I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”

  The little girl was solemn. “We know. Our dad’s just been in a crappy mood lately.” She held out her hand to shake. “I’m Kelsey.”

  Surprised, he took her hand. “Rashad.”

  The older sister looked as if she wanted to crawl inside her own sweatshirt and hide forever. He reached to shake her hand as well.

  “How about you?”

  When she shook his hand, she blushed deeply, and Rashad tried not to smile. There were teenage girls in his neighborhood at home who reacted the same way when he was around. However old she was—fifteen, maybe?—she was still just a kid, and if she felt shy or had been crushing on him at all, he would not do anything to make her feel embarrassed.

  “Emma,” she said.

  “Right. I remember now. I heard your parents saying your name.”

  Her smile burned away any shyness. “You mean yelling at me.”

  Rashad released her hand. “I’d have noticed anyway.” She beamed, and he turned to continue his run. “I’ll see you guys later. Be careful out here. I heard what happened with the waves last night. I’m sure the undertow is still a monster.”

  Kelsey made a tsking sound, glancing back and forth between them. “We’re not stupid.”

  Emma whacked her gently on the arm, and the sisters started giving each other dirty looks. Kelsey shook her head in disgust and stooped to look for shells again.

  Rashad started off down the beach, but when he heard a voice calling to the two girls he glanced over his shoulder. The other kid from their house, Jesse, came running off the boardwalk to Sunset Captiva and hustled toward the girls. Rashad would have kept running, but something about the kid’s facial expression and the tone of his voice when he called for them made him pause.

  Jesse reached them. He used his hands when he talked and he gestured back toward the house. Whatever was going on had obviously upset him, and Rashad wondered if something had happened, if maybe Rick Scully had lost his temper again.

  He started back toward the kids, first just a few tentative steps; and then he saw the girls’ faces, saw the fear there, and he picked up the pace.

  “Hey,” he called, hurrying back to them. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  Jesse scowled at him. “Not even close.”

  “You need to go, Rashad,” Emma said, pointing up toward the houses. “Get your friends packed up and get moving.”

  Confusion froze Rashad. Was this some more bullshit from the skirmish the day before, more cops on the way? But then Jesse took Kelsey’s hand, and the three of them started hurrying toward their rental house.

  Kelsey hung back, half-dragged by Jesse, to call out to Rashad.

  “We’re going, too. Everybody has to go.”

  A sick feeling settled into the pit of his stomach as he understood. The weather had improved this morning, but it wasn’t going to last. Hurricane Juliet was headed their way, and the evacuation order had just been made mandatory. They had to go.

  He swore under his breath as he broke into
a run, wondering if his friends already knew, how long it would take them to pack up. It had all seemed so impossible, even with the wind during the night, but now he could envision these houses tumbling off their stilts as waves washed down Andy Rosse Lane.

  He wondered how much time they had before the worst of the storm hit.

  Suddenly the mainland felt very, very far away.

  * * *

  When the power went out, Jim Lennox was ready. He had scouted the east side of Captiva early in the morning, before dawn, watching the most grotesquely expensive mansions on Pine Island Sound to see which ones had lights on in the windows. As the sun came up, he’d watched for activity, looked for any sign of vehicles in motion, people packing up. He knew the wealthiest residents of the island had probably been the earliest to leave. They could afford to have someone else come and look after their property, could afford a luxury hotel on the mainland, where they could ride out the storm with the finest whiskeys and a fifty-dollar porterhouse. He had seen a couple of families taking their leave, so he knew for sure those homes were empty.

  All he’d had to do was wait.

  He had taken some food, a case of water, and half a case of beer, and steered the boat over to Buck Key Preserve, at the heart of which the open span of Braynerd Bayou offered a spot shielded from the worst of the wind and storm surge to come. Several other fishermen had the same idea and had already chosen places to drop anchor where they would be far enough away from the trees that their boats wouldn’t be crushed if one came down. It was a fucking risk, no question, but for guys who sometimes lived on the razor edge of bankruptcy, there might not be a choice.

  Lennox had cruised around the circumference of the bayou, sorted out several spots where he thought his boat would be safe, close enough to the thick clusters of mangrove trees that he figured he could swim to shore if the boat went down. Then he had steered her back out into Roosevelt Channel and watched as the sky got darker, waiting for his moment.

  By the time the power went out, the wind had turned fierce. Lennox knew he didn’t have much time—a matter of hours—but he intended to make the most of it. The first house he drew up to belonged to Jonas Alvart, a German film financier who had been wintering on the island for close to twenty years. Lennox had never heard of him until some googling had given him the name the night before. All he knew was the Alvart family had left Captiva.