Skeleton Sea

by Dwiggins, Toni

  Flynn shrugged.

  “The science-y bits,” Tolliver said. “Right up your alley, Oscar.”

  “Just because I understand it, doesn't mean it has anything to do with me.”

  “Oh indeed,” Walter said, “you'll see that it does. Let me explain. Let us back up in story-time to that morning last week on the beach. The rescue of the sea lion sickened by toxins from an algal bloom. Quite noble. And I'll remind you that Dr. Violet Russell told us of your interest in algal blooms. And then let us come to yesterday's encounter at sea. You and Jake Keasling, sampling the bloom, as part of the Marine Mammal monitoring program. Again, noble.” Walter rubbed his chin. “All of that is what brings us to you, with a question. Did you deploy that red float? Did you create that algal bloom?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  I said, “We wondered about that, ourselves.”

  Flynn shrugged.

  Walter said, “The iron-seeding strategy has been largely abandoned. It never really panned out.”

  “Is there a question in there?”

  “The question is why you chose to do it. Especially given the potential of nasty side effects. Stimulating phytoplankton growth can backfire, creating a bloom of the harmful variety. As we all saw out there.”

  Flynn shrugged.

  “And further,” Walter continued, “there is the problem of how to end a harmful bloom, once it gets started. So you see, I have to wonder if you know what you're doing.”

  Flynn's expression hardened. “You're baiting me.”

  “Answer the damn question,” Tolliver snapped.

  “There isn't a question, there's an accusation.”

  “Then answer it.”

  Flynn straightened, abandoning his slouched perch against the railing. He loomed, big man towering over us, now looking down at us. “You're telling your story, Dr. Shaws. I am unenlightened. So I am going to tell my story.”

  Walter stepped back, just enough so that he did not have to lift his chin to meet Flynn's look. “I'm all ears.”

  “Yes, I created that bloom. And I know precisely what I'm doing.”

  “That's good to hear.”

  “To start with, your runaway bloom is preposterous. You saw the bloom—it's starting to dissipate. That's because I stopped the seeding.”

  “Why?”

  “Phase one of the experiment had run its course.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tolliver said, “who authorized this experiment?”

  Flynn waved a hand. “I have the paperwork. I'm doing a good thing.”

  “Good, my ass. What we saw out there is a goddamn mess.”

  “You're just looking at this bloom. Don't worry about it—it's less than ideal because I made it with the old method, dispersing the iron in the propeller wash of a boat. But I'm developing something new. It's a different dispersal method. That's the story of the red float—a slow and continuous release of particles.”

  “About those particles,” I said. “Funny thing, your float seems to have transferred some grains into the rub rails of two boats. The Outcast and the Sea Spray.”

  Flynn said, after a long moment, “First I've heard of it.”

  “Really? Small town gossip and all that? But now that you've heard, any idea how it could have happened?”

  “Floats float.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I towed the seeding floats behind my boat. Experimenting with phase two.”

  “Floats, plural?”

  “A bouquet of floats, Ms. Oldfield.” He gave me a sly smile.

  Was he mocking our azalea breakthrough? Didn't matter, he creeped me out.

  “One float could have broken loose,” he continued. “Your boats could have come along at a later time and impacted the detached float.”

  “Up at the rub rails?”

  Flynn shrugged.

  “And why would those boats be there, at your bloom, in the first place?”

  “It's a free ocean.”

  I shook my head. “So your detached float somehow impacted two boats, and then it was found by Joao Silva?”

  “Floats float. People find and collect them. Marine stores sell them as curios. Maybe your Mr. Silva was doing a recreational dive and found the float.”

  “This is the diver who was found poisoned at the Keasling beach.”

  “So I understand.”

  “It's a bit of a coincidence, don't you think? He was poisoned by eating anchovies contaminated with domoic acid. Which is, coincidentally, produced by your algal bloom.”

  “It's a big ocean. There are other blooms.”

  “But this diver found your red float. From your bloom. Maybe you wanted to prevent him from telling people about your project.”

  “I just told you all about it.”

  Tolliver said, “We just pressured you into telling us.”

  “I'm a savior. Not a poisoner.”

  I said, “Or a throw-somebody-overboarder?”

  “A what?”

  “Robbie Donie. The fisherman.”

  “I didn't know him.”

  “Funny thing,” I said, “the fisherman you didn't know found a yellow float that appears to have come from a monitoring instrument array on the reef beneath your algal bloom.” I added, “I'm referring to the setup Doug told you about yesterday at sea. The setup you claimed to know nothing about.”

  “I wasn't prepared to tell my story yesterday.”

  “But now we've encouraged you.” I smiled. “So, the yellow float?”

  “Of course the bloom is monitored. As a matter of fact, we did lose a yellow float from the recovery package. A faulty attachment. So that fisherman found it? Floats float.”

  “We?”

  Flynn folded his arms again. “I see what you're doing. You think you're tricking me into telling you who I work with. You take me for a fool? Of course, we. It's not a one-man job. I do the development, the brain work. I hire people to do the grunt work. So when I say we I am referring to the hirelings, a company called Dive Solutions.”

  Walter and Tolliver and I exchanged a look. Two plus two equals four. Of course.

  Tolliver said, “We were just chatting with Fred Stavis about the red float. He claimed ignorance.”

  “He follows orders. He signed a confidentiality agreement. My work is proprietary. I've made a provisional patent application. If my invention gets leaked at this point, an opportunist could steal it.”

  “Lanny too? Did he sign?”

  “Lanny?”

  “Lanny Keasling, works for Fred Stavis.” Tolliver added, “The same Lanny Keasling you rescued five years ago when he hit his head and nearly drowned. You recall?”

  “Of course I recall. So does he.”

  Tolliver studied Flynn, as if he'd just met him. “How does that work with you, Oscar? You save his life, he owes you?”

  “He pays me back.”

  “Oh? You mean, working for you?”

  “I mean he makes me a hero.”

  Tolliver did not seem to know what to say. Nor did Walter. Nor did I. We stood there mired in wonder. I searched Flynn's face for a hint of a smile, for some sign that he was joking, but I realized that Oscar Flynn did not joke.

  “And no,” Flynn added, “the Keasling boy didn't need to sign—Fred's signature covered all the hirelings.”

  “All right, Oscar.” Tolliver raked his pompadour. “I still want to have a look at that paperwork you mentioned. Tie up loose ends. Why don't you bring it into the department tomorrow?”

  Flynn sighed. “What time?”

  “Let's say ten in the A.M. If that works for you. No earlier, for me. It's been one hell of a long day and I plan to sleep late.”

  “Ten,” Flynn agreed. “I never sleep late.”

  ***

  I planned to return to the lab and try to make sense out of Flynn's story—kick around some scenarios with Walter. Then grab dinner and get to bed early and, please, sleep until eight tomorrow morning, at the earli
est.

  I trailed Walter and Tolliver toward the glass doors. Along the way I skirted the balcony rail and glanced down into the water.

  “Flood tide.”

  Flynn's deep voice, way too close, almost in my ear. I would have jumped if I hadn't been weighted with fatigue.

  “Look there,” he said. “One's riding the incoming.”

  I saw it then, delicate little moon.

  He said, “No way to tell, is there? Could be a humdrum. Could be a bad boy.”

  CHAPTER 35

  “I'm not home!” Lanny's voice blared through the phone.

  Sandy Keasling threw back the covers and sat up straight and switched the cell phone to her other ear, the ear that wasn't ringing from Lanny's shout.

  “Pipe down,” she muttered into the phone. She was barely awake. What time was it? She glanced at her bedside clock. The glowing numerals said 6:05. Six in the friggin' morning.

  Lanny lowered his voice to a whisper.

  Wherever he was there was noise in the background and she couldn't make out what he'd whispered. “Where are you?” she said. “What's all that noise?” Engine noise, she thought. “Speak up.”

  “I want you not to worry,” he said, in a softer shout.

  She shook her head. She was up now, standing barefoot on the cold floor. She glanced out the window. Foggy morning. She shivered. She slept in the buff. Standing here now buck naked. “Hang on,” she said. She set the cell phone on the bed and fumbled into her fuzzy robe. She picked up the phone. “This better be good.”

  “I'm going to make you proud.”

  Now he was talking in a soft voice, his shy voice, and she could barely make it out but it was better than being shouted at. “Make me proud?” She headed out her door, down the hallway toward his room. “Where are you?”

  “I can't tell you.”

  She flung open his door. His room was empty. His bed was neatly made.

  “I have to go now.”

  “Wait.” Now she was shouting. “You can't call me at six in the friggin' morning and tell me don't worry you're going to make me proud and then go on your way. Where the hell are you?”

  There was only the engine noise. And his rapid breathing. His upset breathing.

  She recognized the engine noise now. Not cars. “Are you on the Sea Spray? Did you take my boat?”

  He said, using his shy voice again, “I'm on my boat.”

  She went to his window and peered out at the sea but the fog hung over the water and hid anything that rode it.

  She was fully awake now, shivering in her fuzzy robe, and her thoughts turned cold. Whatever he's doing, whatever boat he's on, let him do it. Let him screw it up—she'd lay odds that he would screw it up, whatever it was. Go back to bed, she told herself. She was beat, she hadn't slept well, she'd gone to sleep with the radio on, torturing herself listing to the news reports about the day's craziness, and then there was a tribute to Linda Bannock, a marathon swimmer in her sixties who Sandy couldn't believe was gone from the sting of a moon jellyfish. Next thing she knew she was jolted awake by some crappity late-night loudmouth show and it took her an hour to get back to sleep. She was owed another hour's sleep. Go back to bed, she ordered herself, and when you wake up just go about your business. You'll hear soon enough what Lanny's got into this time.

  “Sandy?” His voice rose. “Are you there? I called to tell you I want you not to worry.”

  She cursed. Would she never be able to get free? She said, “Listen to me, Lanny. You tell me where you are and what you're doing, and if you don't tell me with your next breath then I'm going to take the Sea Spray out and find you. Little brother.”

  He said, with his next breath, “I'll come and get you.”

  CHAPTER 36

  I woke, startled.

  The big alarm clock numerals said 6:20.

  I waited five minutes for sleep to resume but it was no use.

  Shit.

  I got up, used the bathroom, put on my robe and fuzzy socks, headed out to the kitchenette and like it was bred in the bone put the filter in the coffee maker and added water and a lavish measurement of Peet's French Roast and hit the start button.

  There was not a sound of life from Walter's room.

  There was not a vision of life outside the sliding glass door. Just fog. The curse of the coast.

  While waiting for the coffee to brew I looked at the poster hung on the kitchenette wall: Life in the Kelp Forest. I'd never given it more than a passing glance. Now, stupefied with fatigue but unable to sleep, I counted fish. Putting names to faces I'd seen while diving Cochrane Bank. Senorita wrasse, rock fish, pipefish—yep yep yep. I moved on to the anemones and sponges and tunicates. To the sea urchins. Damned Keaslings. I moved on to the kelp itself. Giant kelp, bull kelp, and there was the damn kelp in which I'd become entangled, feather boa kelp. I paused at elk kelp, Pelagophycus porra. Hadn't seen that one. It was at the bottom of the poster, poking up from the seafloor, a stem-like stalk with long tapering blades.

  Looking like a kelp bouquet.

  I froze.

  Flynn's words flooded into my mind: a bouquet of floats.

  Maybe it was the Pelagophycus on the poster or the wake-up aroma of brewing coffee or maybe I'd been wrestling in my dreams with the improbabilities in Oscar Flynn's story and that's what had awakened me with such a jolt—but I knew now.

  Flynn didn't tow his bouquet of floats behind a boat.

  His red floats lived on the seafloor, attached by ropes to his instrument cage, continuously seeding the water because they stayed in the water. And with their ropes like stems and their bodies like long-petaled flowers they flared like an undersea bouquet.

  We had found one plucked bloom from Flynn's red bouquet.

  So where were the rest of the red floats?

  We had seen the yellow floats, the yellow bouquet.

  What if that had been, previously, a mixed bouquet? Painted reds hiding among the unpainted yellows, hiding in plain sight.

  The floats sprouted from the cage, their ropes attached by snap hook. Easy on, easy off.

  Then one yellow float broke free and Robbie Donie found it.

  Then one red float broke free and Joao Silva found it.

  Then things got dicey for Oscar Flynn. His experiment was proprietary and he did not want any more of his iron-seeding floats to be found. So he or one of his hirelings went diving and pruned the bouquet—replacing the remaining painted reds with unpainted standard no-puzzle yellow floats.

  The coffee was ready.

  I poured a mug and looked out at the invisible sea and sipped my coffee and the caffeine did its work and, buzzed, I thought of floats bobbing in the current, rubbing against the rock, and I thought of the first rule of forensic geology—whenever two objects come in contact, there is a transfer of material. The transferred material, down in the sea, might have been washed away.

  Or not.

  I went to Walter's door and pounded and when at last he peeked out, face bleary and hair all wild-man, I said, “We've got to call Doug, we've got to get out there.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Sandy waited on the Keasling dock, shivering in her fleece.

  She carried a bag with her slicker and gloves and rubber boots because he'd told her she might need them and that had got her curious. But he'd refused to tell her why and that got her mad.

  When the boat materialized out of the fog, she cursed. It was the Outcast.

  When Lanny pulled Robbie Donie's pathetic old fishing vessel up to her dock, she leapt aboard with another curse.

  But the look on her brother's face curdled her fury.

  He looked so nervous. And proud. He wore his usual Sea Spray fleece and red beanie but the way he stood the deck of the Outcast was not the usual. He stood like a captain. Exactly the way she stood.

  ***

  “What is this?” she said. She pointed to his slicker and gloves and boots on top of the gear locker, where she'd tossed her bag. “We going
anchovy fishing? Keasling family nostalgia day?”

  He gave a nervous grin and shook his head.

  In a way, she was sorry.

  ***

  Lanny piloted the old tub with surprising skill.

  Eh, she thought, not so surprising. She'd taught him well, on the Sea Spray. And the Outcast was a simpleton's vessel, the kind of boat made for a fisherman who doesn't want to be bothered with complicated equipment. Who can only afford a second-hand low-tech basic tub. It had suited Robbie Donie to a T, she thought.

  And, she thought with a twinge, it suited Lanny to a T.

  The Outcast plowed ahead through the fog.

  The wheelhouse was bare-bones, just basic nav screens and wheel and pilot's chair. She'd been reading the screens over Lanny's shoulder. She knew where they were, she knew these waters off the Morro Bay coast like she knew the way from her bedroom to her bathroom in the dark. What she didn't know was where they were headed or what 'the mission' was.

  Lanny called it The Mission.

  He told her he had a job to do and that job would make her proud.

  She'd tried blustering, threatening, but he wouldn't explain anything more. He wanted to show her. She'd finally decided it was easier to wait and see. No—the truth was that she'd seen that she couldn't make him tell her. She'd seen that something had changed between them. She no longer had the automatic upper hand. Maybe it was because they were aboard Lanny's boat. Didn't matter that he'd confessed to 'borrowing' it this morning, to using bolt cutters to cut the cable that secured it to the cop storage dock—and where had he learned that trick, she wondered? Didn't matter that he swore he was going to pay for the damaged cable and buy the boat from Robbie's aunt as soon as he could borrow five thousand from Sandy—and where did Lanny get the idea that she had five thousand to toss around? None of that mattered this morning. Lanny had claimed the boat. She saw that, in him. Pride of possession.

  That's what had changed.

  That's what made Sandy Keasling a passenger.

  She would bide her time.

  Meanwhile, she cast a buyer's eye over the vessel. Not that she was planning on financing Lanny's folly—she just couldn't help assessing. The tub showed its age but at least it was operable. She moved to the cabin doorway and examined the afterdeck. The wooden decking was still stained with squid ink. She'd heard about that but this was the first she'd seen it. Sure looked like somebody had hauled a Humboldt aboard. She shook her head. The whole damn deck would need scraping, sanding, re-coating. She moved to look at the anchovy setup. The small drum mounted amid-deck had a net rolled on it, and the winch seemed to have all its parts, and that was just about that. Robbie Donie was a small-time bait fisher making do. No wonder he'd had a go at squid jigging. All in all, the Outcast stank of failure.