by Greig Beck
“I should have known better,” she said, too softly for them to hear over the engine noise. “I followed a legend, and also my grandfather, down into a dark hidden sea and met a monster.”
She rested her head on the seat. An old Shakespeare quote jumped into her head: ‘Fishes live in the sea, as men on land; the great ones eat up the little ones.’ She, Jack and Abby just came face to face with one of the great ones.
The pilot turned in his seat, lifting an ear cup, and yelling back at them, “First stop, Vancouver, Professor Granger, and then on home?”
Cate nodded. “Just got one stop on the way. Someone’s been waiting three quarters of a century for this.” She closed her eyes then, her hands resting on the crusted helmet of her grandfather.
* * *
Sonya Borashev watched Cate Granger’s helicopter leave. She felt happy for the woman, but inside Sonya was dead.
She turned to yell more instructions to clean the site, and then reseal the bottom of the Heceta Island cave. She tried to calm her breathing, but could not ease the surge of blood that rushed past her ears like the drums of war.
They thought they’d won, killed Valery, and condemned his body to the dark depths. She opened her eyes to slits. There is no action without an equal and opposite reaction.
She turned away to her waiting helicopter, pulling her phone to speak careful instructions to a waiting team she had hand picked. In another few hours she would be on route to Russia.
CHAPTER 23
Cate hugged her mother, and hung on tight – partly due to love and relief, but also because her legs were still weak. She had seen her mom’s face when she’d opened the door. Cate knew how bad she looked, and now was not the time for a parental scolding.
“I’m fine, Mom, really, just very tired.” She kissed her and stepped back. “Is Granma Violet awake?”
“She was before. I told her you were coming.” Rebecca Granger smiled sadly. “But be patient, she… forgets things. And don’t be alarmed if she doesn’t recognize you at first.”
“Are we losing her?” Cate asked.
Rebecca shrugged. “They’ve been saying she could go any day for the last ten years. But she’s a strong old bird. They certainly don’t make them like that anymore.”
“Not for years.” Cate turned to the stairs. “Okay to go up?”
Her mother nodded, and Cate headed up, walking almost reverentially, for some reason feeling the need to stay silent.
She approached the door and hesitated.
“Catherine; is that you?”
Cate smiled at the familiar voice. It was thinner now, and a little dry, but still held the recognizable Irish lilt in the vowels. She pushed inside.
It was twilight dark, and she smelled the usual lavender scent of her favorite perfume. But there was also an odor of medicine and antiseptic. The figure on the bed was even smaller than Cate remembered, child-like, with a halo of silver curls spread on the pillow. We all return to whence we came, she thought, as she sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
“Help me up a bit, dear.” Violet lifted a hand for Cate to take. The stick-thin fingers held no strength, but when Cate pulled her forward, the woman smiled and her eyes still shone with the intellect and energy that was always there.
Cate stuck another pillow behind her gran’s back, and the old woman eased into it, partially sitting now. She continued to watch Cate with love and interest.
Cate took her hand again. “We found something.” She reached down to open a small bag, and drew forth the helmet, now cleaned of much of its debris. Violet’s mouth dropped open and she held out her hands. Cate laid the metal hat in them.
The old woman turned it around and around, and then stopped when she came to the name. Cate waited for her to say something, but Violet just continued to stare at the engraved name, almost trance-like.
“Gran? Violet? Are you okay?” Cate reached across to touch her arm.
“I remember this – his.” She traced the letters with her fingers. “You found it in a cave, didn’t you? Deep in a cave?”
“Yes we did. In a hidden place all the way up in the Gulf of Alaska.”
She nodded. “My beautiful husband; I loved his hobby and his passion, but hated him doing it.” She turned watery eyes on Cate. “Why would a man of such light and warmth want to spend his time in dark caves?” Violet sighed, the air seeming to escape from her, making her shrink even more. She slumped in bed.
“He was very brave, a true pioneer explorer. And someone who was searching for answers.” Cate shrugged. “Some go looking for them.”
Violet had turned away. “I told him, if you go looking for the devil, one day you’ll find him.” She seemed to vanish into the folds of the blankets, the helmet still clasped to her chest. “Thank you for finding him for me, Catherine.” She turned to stare deep into Cate’s eyes, holding them for several more seconds, until finally her eyes closed. “I’m tired now. Goodbye, my dear.”
Cate waited for several minutes and then pulled the blanket up around her chin. Don’t worry, Violet, she thought. We’ve got that devil trapped.
She leant forward to kiss her grandmother’s cheek. Violet wasn’t breathing.
CHAPTER 24
Khamovniki District, Moscow
Brogidan Yusoff, head of the Russian Ministry of Resources and Agriculture, poured two large glasses of Kors vodka. At one thousand Euros a bottle, the vodka was one of the country’s most luxurious brands. Its pure liquid was filtered through a blend of crushed charcoal and diamond powder; drinking it was like imbibing water from one of heaven’s lakes that when swallowed, turned to fire as it went down the throat.
He turned away to gaze out over the Moskva River. His apartment traversed the top floor of the building that sat just on the bend of the river that overlooked the Bolshoi Kamenny Bridge. It was known as the Golden Mile, and one of Moscow’s most expensive housing areas.
It was early evening and the lights were just going on – golden-white gems popping on all over the cityscape. There were leafy trees, high-end shops, and tonight, a darkening blue velvet sky that all added to his glorious mood.
His doorbell rang, and he crossed to admit Uli Stroyev into the downstairs foyer, where his expected official would take the lift to his front door. He unlocked it, ready for him, and walked back to the small antique table with the glasses waiting. His lifted one and saluted the winding river.
“To you, Valery; may your bones never find peace.” He grinned. “Wherever they lay scattered.”
Behind him the door squeaked open and then closed softly. He reached down for the second crystal glass of perfectly clear liquid, and lifted it, turning to his friend.
“A job well done, my friend…”
He froze, tiny crystal glass suspended in the air. Stroyev was being held by two large figures, all in black with balaclavas pulled down, and just showing merciless eyes. His colleague was pale as milk, and his eyes were so round they threatened to pop right from his head.
Two more figures stepped closer, dressed exactly the same as the others. Both held guns, pointed at his chest. One motioned towards his outstretched hand.
“Drink it.” The voice was feminine.
Yusoff began to smirk. “Do you know who I…”
The gun lowered to point at his groin. “Drink it, or lose your balls… comrade.”
He licked his lips. What the hell, he needed the drink, and he would play for time. He downed the expensive liquid in a gulp.
“Delicious. Can I offer you—”
“Pour another. Drink it.”
The voice was far too cold for his liking. He tried to think who it could be, and what they wanted. He poured slowly, lifted the glass again, his mind working.
“Keep going. Faster. Finish the bottle.” She motioned with the gun.
“You have no idea, what you’re getting yourself into. Who are you?”
The woman ignored him, turning to one of her partners, and speaking quietly
to him. The man nodded, and raced away to one of Yusoff’s back rooms. One of the other two men holding onto Stroyev began to unbuckle the man’s trouser belt, and then roughly pulled down Stroyev’s pants, then the same with his underwear.
Yusoff saw that Stroyev’s genitals were so shrunken from fear they were almost completely lost in amongst his graying pubic hair. Stroyev whimpered, the sound reminding Yusoff of a fox with its paw caught in a trap. Coward, he thought.
“I demand to know what’s happening.” They ignored him, and Yusoff ground his teeth, standing straighter, but couldn’t stop the sick feeling in his gut, from both the vodka and an ice-cold fear.
The figure that had entered his rear rooms now reappeared holding Yusoff’s laptop, that was open, and his codes obviously broken into. He set it on the table, typing furiously, and then finding the pages he wanted, turned to nod to the woman before standing back.
Yusoff looked down to see the page that had been saved to his favorites held horrifying graphic images of child pornography. He looked up again. “What is this? Blackmail. When I find who you are, I’ll—”
“Finish the bottle.” The words cold as ice.
Yusoff downed the final glass, his hand shaking now, and the woman strode forward, taking the empty bottle from the table. She turned, took two steps and swung the heavy crystal decanter-style bottle in an arc that finished up against Stroyev’s temple. The man fell like a sack, his forehead massively dented. He twitched on the ground for a moment before she reached down to feel his neck, grunted approval, and then straightened.
“Anything… whatever you want. Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double… triple it.” Yusoff babbled, but the woman’s demeanor was rock solid. She looked down and shrugged.
“A lover’s tiff, perhaps.” She tilted her head. “At least that’s what the press will say.”
“Who – fucking – sent you?” Yusoff’s voice sounded shrill, even to himself.
The woman stepped closer to him. “Valery sends his regards… from the grave.” She shot him in the chest, once, twice. The big man fell heavily, and she then emptied the entire magazine into his jerking body.
Sonya Borashev then bent to place the gun in the dead hands of Uli Stroyev, and angle his body slightly. She wanted to spit on their corpses, but knew the evidence would corrupt their staged crime scene.
She clicked her fingers, and the team turned on their heels. In an hour, they were already in the air.
RETURN OF THE MONSTER
CHAPTER 25
The fishing trawler, Omaru, west of Vancouver Island
– two months later
The rain machine-gunned the deck from every direction at once. Even though the Omaru was a decent sized ship at a hundred and twenty-two feet, it still bucked up and down with each growing swell.
“Storm’ll be right over us in an hour, boss.” Brendan Cooper, his deck foreman, had to yell the words even though only standing a few feet away as the scream of the wind made everything seem like a whisper.
Still, Captain Will Harper’s trained ears heard every word. His stained slicker’s hood was pulled far down to keep the stinging rain from a face that was the texture of weathered teak, and he grabbed at its rim, looked up, and then nodded.
“Yup, get ‘em in, son. We’ll head in closer until it blows through.”
The Omaru was after the demeral fish – the bottom dwellers – like the Pacific cod and haddock. Ever since the ban on net fishing was lifted in 2015, the government had granted just a few precious licenses. Harper’s family had fished the area for two hundred years, and also had impeccable government connections, and so managed to secure one of the rare pieces of paper.
Right now they were on the edge of the continental shelf, eighty miles out from the Canadian-US border, with two nets still out. They’d need to be reeled in from deep water – fifteen hundred feet. They’d be partially full by now, so they could expect to take an hour to get them up and in.
Harper had no choice. Even though he knew they could ride out the storm, if the ship floundered and caused any sort of spill, he’d have a devil of a time trying to regain a license a hundred other boat owners would kill for. Better to play it safe and lose a few days, than lose the family business.
He checked his wristwatch, and then looked to the east. Though dawn was coming on, it was still as black as Hades out on the water. The bastard, boiling clouds above refused to let a dot of morning sunlight down for them.
The winches started up, and Harper felt the drag on the boat. They had two thousand horse power to call on and could get the high-powered vessel up to eight knots if need be, but for now, he’d keep the nose to the swell, and hold her steady while the bags were brought up from the deep.
He looked back down along the railing to the stern where the arc-spots threw huge pools of light down on the deck and surrounding water. The ship still rose and dipped, but his crew was experienced, sure-footed, and worked like the machines whining all around them. Looking briefly over the gunwale, he saw the water was a frothing iron-gray, and the super bright lights created a ball of illumination all around the Omaru.
As Harper watched, his hands snapped tight on the railing as a giant torpedo-shaped shadow passed underneath the boat. The reptilian part of his brain screamed a warning, automatically recognizing the primordial danger of a giant predator close by, and it formed a single thought: shark. But the logical part of his brain refuted it as being too fast and too big; it was something else entirely – had to be.
He shook his head to clear it. During storms at sea, men had been seeing things for hundreds of years. It must have been a shoal of fish, wave-shadow, or a whale, or anything but what his gut told him it was. He shook it away; if he had the time or inclination, he’d have his team check the fish-finding sonar, if it didn’t mean he had to recalibrate it from looking down at the depths.
Harper licked salty wet lips, and turned back to the winches, urging them on. They’d been running for a good thirty minutes, the nets must be close by now, and—
The ship jerked and then sagged in the water as it was dragged hard to starboard. One of the cranes bent and screamed, and the sound of metal under enormous stress overshadowed that of his men frantically yelling to each other. There was a sound like singing, and it took the captain a few seconds to work out it was actually a cable attached to one of the nets that was now piano-wire tight, and was strummed like a guitar as spray was flicked away from it.
The Omaru groaned and turned sideways in the crashing surf. Harper exploded into action, racing back to the cabin where his crew was fighting controls, yelling and shaking their heads. As soon as he entered, he brought calm, but only for a few seconds before questions and guesses were flung around the small room.
“We’re snagged on something! The starboard net’s not budging. Brakes are now on.” Ethan Minnez looked from screen to screen, his face now sweat-slicked, even though the room was like an icebox.
“Well, fuck it then.” Harper wasn’t worried about the ship. To avoid the boat capsizing if the trawl snagged on the sea floor, the Omaru had winch brakes and auto-safety-release systems built into its boom stays. He was more pissed off about the potential of losing his catch. They were already heading in early; it’d be a goddamn sorry assed trip if they came in even more tons light.
“We’re not going anywhere, Captain.” Minnez turned to him, waiting.
Harper tore off his slicker and flung it to the corner. “Fucking wrecks, bottom is littered with too many of these bastard sunken shit buckets.”
Minnez grimaced, shaking his head. “We’re at five hundred feet; bottom is another thousand below that. This is no wreck.”
The ship jerked again, and the stability alarms sounded.
“Gonna lose it, Captain.”
Harper looked from the now flaring-red warning screens, and then to the faces of his control room crew; he saw fear. He knew there was only one order he could give – to release it. A sense of calm se
ttled over him, and just as he opened his mouth, the Omaru leapt forward, and immediately straightened in the water.
“What just happened?” Harper’s legs were planted.
“We’re free.” Minnez beamed. “The bag musta come lose.” He bent over a screen, but his expression immediately clouded. “Coming up too fast; must be empty, or gone.”
“Like I didn’t see that coming.” Harper began to turn. He’d check on the deck crew and also see what damage they had sustained.
Just then the ship jerked so hard that even Harper, with more than half a century sea-leg experience, was thrown from his feet. They were tilting at an angle he knew would mean water would come over the gunwale. He then heard the sound he feared the most: men screaming.
“Men overboard! Three men out!”
The deck foreman’s shout over the emergency comm was the worst thing you ever wanted to hear in a heavy storm swell – men overboard – even in life jackets, with personal signal beacons, a bobbing head was near impossible to find.
And then there was that big shadow, a small dark voice whispered in his mind.
“The damn second net’s now snagged.” Minnez’s voice was high and his face was screwed in both disbelief and fear.
The boat jerked again, and Harper knew that was no snag – they were now being tugged backwards. Ever since he was a small boy, fishing on a dock, he had known what a hooked fish felt like – it jerked a few times and then it ran as it tried to escape with its prize. And if whatever now had them was trying to make a run, it might just roll them over.
“Emergency drop, now!”
Minnez banged his hand down hard on the release button. And the sound of whipping cable reverberated inside the cabin. The Omaru rolled hard the other way, then righted and straightened. It still bucked and rode high on the heavy sea, but at least now they were back in control.
