“Stay where you are,” said Dominic. The man did not move. Dominic turned to flee but stopped. Ten more men, their features similar to the first, stood waist-deep in the water and glowered at him.
“Who are you?” Dominic said. “What do you want?”
“Can you see them now, too?” Francisco’s voice came from behind. “Behold, commander, my invisible army.”
Francisco waded up to the man who had captured the snake. Their eyes met. Francisco said something, his words jolting out with firm consonants and monotone vowels, and the man replied. Dominic could not understand either of them, but he knew that countless languages existed among the tribes of the Spanish Main. It had, after all, been his job to ensure they would all be replaced by one.
“Come, commander.” Francisco motioned for Dominic to follow him, which he did without hesitation. He looked back and saw the natives watching them leave.
“You must forgive their caution,” Francisco said. “They know all too well that an ordinary malady in a white man could be a deadly one for them. They will travel with us, but they will keep their distance.”
“What did you say to the tall one?” asked Dominic.
“I asked him if he could see the fire in your eyes. He said yes, more than he’d ever seen in any man, and that I had done very well to find you.”
Chapter Six
Debris swirled all around Zane and the sharp taste of gasoline burned foul in his mouth. The silence, at first, terrified him, but in the short time he had been treading water, a comforting rhythm had developed—the undulating swell would lift him high enough to glimpse the dark shoreline in the distance and then gently lower him into the trough where all he could see were the backs of waves and flotsam.
Each time he rose up he hoped he would see a boat coming to rescue him, but he soon realized there were no other boats on the water that night. It was a weekday, after all, and the conditions for night-fishing were clearly not ideal. Even if any fishermen had ventured out, it would have been a miracle for them to spot Zane amid such darkness.
Something bumped the back of his head and he whipped around—the bale, stained pink by fish blood, had drifted up behind him. It looked like the perfect flotation device so he grabbed hold and slid the upper part of his body onto it. The plastic still felt cold from being inside the icebox. In contrast, the ocean water was balmy.
All around him artifacts of his boat bobbed in the sea: chunks of foam, shattered fiberglass, bits of wood, an empty tackle box. To Zane, it was like seeing a loved one beaten beyond repair. He had worked hard to buy his boat and establish his charter business but now it all lay in pieces. He saw no signs of life in the area. Where was Miguel? And the two officers? He was afraid to look too thoroughly for fear of seeing something he could never delete, like a mangled body or, worse still, only part of one.
“Can anyone hear me?” he called out, but his words were met with silence.
He pounded his fist on the bale. What a terrible captain he had turned out to be. His maneuver was reckless and he should have seen the wave coming or at least been ready for it. Now, several men were probably dead and he was adrift somewhere off a desolate coast. The twinge in his gut felt familiar; this was not the first time he had felt responsible for a tragedy. He knew he stood a good chance of dying as well, but he had no one to blame but himself.
“Hello?” he hollered. But, again, no one answered.
A glare caught his eye and he looked to the west where he saw the full moon sinking toward the horizon. It appeared to be quaking, but Zane realized it was his own trembling that made it seem so. He watched the moon change from yellow to red in an instant. What was happening? He rubbed his eyes and, when he pulled his hand away, he saw blood on it. He touched the top of his head and discovered a hot, fleshy wound on his scalp.
Shark attack capital of the world, thought Zane. And I’m bleeding.
The coast north of Canaveral had earned that title not from man-eaters like whites and tigers but from the hordes of small sharks that swarmed there. The seawater in the area stayed persistently murky from the churning silt of the shoals and it teemed with baitfish; on many days one could see immense schools of menhaden stretching to the horizon. Naturally, the baitfish attracted large numbers of sharks, and fishermen often saw them leaping from the water or charging across the surface as they fed. Most beachgoers who entered the water had no idea that sharks lurked all around them. In the brown obscurity of the surf zone, the palm of a swimmer’s hand or the sole of a flailing foot mimicked the flash of a baitfish, and a feeding shark had no way of telling them apart from its prey. As a result, more shark attacks happened in the area than anywhere else in the world.
Zane felt certain that his blood would eventually draw something in. He had used chum enough times to know that it usually did not take long. Would it make any difference if it were ten small sharks or one large shark? Both seemed horrible, and he knew he had to decide whether to stay with the wreckage or try to swim to shore. If he started swimming, he might make it to the beach within a few hours, but if the current proved too strong, it could push him out into the deep blue desert where no one would ever find him. Under normal circumstances, staying with the wreckage was the smartest option; large objects, after all, were easier for searchers to find than a single person. But blood in the water was another issue, and waiting around for the sharks to hone in on its source did not seem rational. He stared at the distant shoreline. The shimmering path cast by the moon beckoned him. He held tight to the bale and kicked toward the moonlight.
“More craters than the moon, I swear it,” said Samantha, peering into the mirror. “Just look at my awful skin.”
Zane, sixteen years old, stood behind her. “I can’t see them, mom. I think you’re beautiful.”
“Aw, Zane.” She turned and looked at him. “Do you mean that?”
“I do. You look really good for your age.”
Anger painted her face pink. “My age? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Zane fidgeted. “Nothing. I just meant, I don’t know. I just—”
She spun back to the mirror, fresh tears in her eyes. “Go away.”
Zane heard the rattle of a pill bottle as he walked out of the room. Samantha’s personality had turned volatile in the years after Skip left. Neither parent had claimed custody of Zane so he spent his time alternating between Samantha’s house and Skip’s houseboat, although he rarely felt welcome at either place. When he stayed with Skip, he often found himself sharing breakfast with strange women. Staying with his mother, on the other hand, exhausted him. She often interrogated him about his father’s relationships. Who’s the latest? How old is she? Is she pretty?
“You should forget about dad and go meet someone,” Zane urged her.
“Please. No one wants an old woman like me. I’m used goods.”
“A lot of men think you’re great.”
“Maybe after I get some work done. When I look pretty again.”
Samantha had undergone her first of many facelifts at 36 years old. When the bandages came off, Zane assured her that he could see a big difference. In reality, though, her new face troubled him greatly. After Samantha recovered, she put a deposit down on a tummy tuck. In the days leading up to that surgery, she constantly reminded Zane that it was he who had ruined her figure by the mere act of growing inside her. Where was his gratitude for the sacrifice she had made in giving him life? The damage he had done to her body had destroyed her marriage and instigated her depression, she claimed, and it was only the mound of prescription pills she took daily that enabled her to face the world.
Still, Samantha never dated or spent time with friends. She hardly even left the house except to go to her job as a department store saleswoman for age-defying skin creams and wrinkle-removers. She used most of her days off and vacation time to lie in bed and do nothing. “Beauty rest,” she called it, but Zane saw nothing beautiful about a pallid, middle-aged woman stewing in her pajamas for
days.
After they had become “an item,” Lucia insisted on meeting Zane’s mother. He avoided it for as long as he could but Lucia was persistent—how can I know you if I don’t know her?—so, one day, Zane allowed her to come over. Earlier that morning, Samantha had spent too much time in the tanning booth and her skin shone the color of a carrot when Zane brought Lucia through the door. Lucia smiled, shook Samantha’s hand, and congratulated her on raising a gentleman.
“Oh, honey, he might seem like one now,” said Samantha, “just like they all do when they’re young and stupid. But take it from me, men change, and not for the better.”
Lucia did not even flinch. “Well, your son’s been nothing but good to me. Probably too good.” She laughed.
Samantha scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that he’s the nicest boy I’ve ever met.”
Zane, nervous, picked up his Florida Sportsman fishing magazine and pretended to peruse it. He turned the page to an article about catching sharks at night. One photograph showed a close-up view of a mako’s menacing jaws.
“Let’s cut the crap,” said Samantha. “What are your intentions with my son?”
Zane looked up from the magazine. “Mom.”
“No intentions,” said Lucia. “We’re just dating.”
“But in the future?”
“Mom.”
“Well, we’ve talked about college, Mrs. Fisher, but—”
“Mrs. Fisher? Mrs. Fisher?”
“I’m sorry. Miss—?”
“Get out.”
Lucia looked at Zane with hurt, questioning eyes.
“I said get out of my house! Go find some other boy to corrupt.”
Zane stepped toward his mother. “Stop it.”
Tears welled in Lucia’s eyes. “No, it’s ok, Zane. I should have listened. You warned me, right?” She hurried out of the house, leaving Zane and Samantha in an awkward standoff.
“Warned her?” said Samantha. “You warned her about your crazy mother?”
“Mom—”
“Next time you bring some little hussy into my house, you should warn me. I don’t like surprises, Zane. And I don’t like that girl one bit.”
By the time she turned 40, Samantha’s face was incapable of expression; she had undergone numerous cosmetic surgeries. Her swollen collagen-infused lips hardly moved when she talked, and her threadlike eyebrows seemed to have been removed and then reattached an inch too high. The tightness of her skin troubled Zane the most—stretched over rigid cheekbones, it seemed like it might perforate if a smile reached too high.
During one week toward the end of his senior year in high school, Zane came to Samantha’s house to check the mailbox every evening. One night, he found what he was waiting for—a manila envelope from Gainesville, addressed to him. His mother must have seen his excitement because, minutes later, she asked him to come inside and sit beside her on the bed. Her mood was as somber as a raincloud.
“You’re not still planning to waste your time at college, are you?” she asked.
“That’s our plan,” he replied, smiling. “Lucia’s already accepted. And guess what I just got?”
“Zane, your college money…”
“What about it?”
“It’s all gone, honey.”
“Gone? How could it be gone? I thought grandpa left me plenty.”
She sighed. “Oh, honey, there was plenty, but I had to use it. You wanted me to feel good about myself, right? To get over my depression?”
“Of course, but—”
“My medical bills were so high, Zane. Everything is really expensive, you know.”
“You, you spent it on—” he stuttered. The room spun around him.
“I spent it on our future.” She looked in the mirror and stroked her hair. Zane could hardly even recognize her any more. “Now that I look young again, I’m gonna meet someone.”
Zane put his hand over his mouth, then rushed into the street and let out a scream that cascaded down the block. Dogs howled. Porch lights burst on. He dropped to his knees in the cool grass and felt the acceptance letter from the University of Florida Marine Biology department crinkle in his pocket. He knelt there sobbing until a neighbor ran up and shined a flashlight in his face.
“Zane?” said the neighbor. “You okay, buddy?”
The beam flooded his head and he opened his eyes to find himself halfway to shore. The sky was filling with yellow light. Had he fallen asleep? Had morning already come? But then he felt a rumble in his chest and saw the water trembling around him and heard a deep, persistent growl. He looked toward the sound and saw an immense dome of white smoke curling around one of the launch pads. He followed the smoke upward and came to an Atlas rocket arcing across the sky. The glow from its fiery tail unfurled over the ocean and lit the night like day.
In the brightness Zane could see everything: the sandy beach and thick forest in the distance, the contours of the waves roiling around him, and the rapid flicks of menhaden on the water’s surface. A king mackerel—sleek and shining—shot out of the water with a menhaden in its jaws. Even the marine life thought it was daytime.
Zane spun around in the water and looked east. He could see only ocean as far as the light extended, but then he noticed something peculiar in the water, something out of place, about a hundred yards away. It flailed in an unnatural way. He squinted. Had a shark picked up his scent? Panic brimmed inside him.
The thing stopped splashing, as if it knew someone was looking at it. Zane lost it in a trough but as he rose on the next wave he could see the two eyes and dark hair. It was clearly a man. Zane tried to pick out any features on the man’s face but the rocket penetrated the atmosphere and its light dimmed. It became nighttime again, even darker than before because the moon had since set. Zane grabbed hold of the bale and kicked vehemently toward land. He was sure he had seen it on the man’s face—that unmistakable glower, and that dark, crooked smile.
He would have preferred a shark.
Chapter Seven
Striding along the edge of a pungent mangrove swamp, Francisco and Dominic stopped and gazed at a mother raccoon scavenging with her two full-grown cubs. She pulled an oyster from the muck and bashed it against a coquina rock. Her offspring scurried over and licked the dripping meat out of the shell, cooing as they slurped. The animals either did not notice the men or simply did not care.
“Are you hungry?” whispered Francisco.
Dominic glared at him. “I have not eaten in days.”
“Let us dine, then.”
Francisco bolted toward the raccoons. The animals fled in three different directions but he followed the largest of the cubs. He stomped his bare foot onto its back and grabbed the tuft of fur behind its head. The raccoon hissed and thrashed and tried to bite but Francisco quickly snapped its neck. The animal fell limp in his hands and hung there like a rumpled pelt.
“Good God,” said Dominic, stunned. “I thought you meant oysters.”
“Glory to the most high.” Francisco made the sign of the cross over his body. “Why shuck a hundred oysters when we can make a meal with only one of these?”
He used the tip of the sword to skin and gut the raccoon and then he broke off a mangrove branch and impaled the carcass on it. As he did, the mother raccoon and her cub watched from the dark recesses of the swamp. They paced and grunted and upstretched their noses to sniff the air.
Francisco then prepared a fire and stuck two y-shaped sticks into the ground on both sides of the coals, above which he positioned the animal. Dominic watched, eager and ravenous. When the meat began to pop and ooze liquefied fat, he caught himself drooling. He had never eaten raccoon before but he had no concerns about how it might taste. At this point, any food would do. Trembling and lightheaded, he was even tempted to try some of it raw because he did not think his body could wait any longer for nourishment. He distracted himself by watching fiddler crabs scamper among the mangrove roots.
; While the raccoon roasted, Francisco walked along the edge of the woods and picked a handful of indigo-colored berries. He put a few in his mouth and then handed the rest to Dominic. As he did, Dominic noticed that the berries had dyed Francisco’s palms blue.
“We use these to color our tattoos,” said Francisco, “but they are edible as well.”
Dominic took a handful of the berries and scarfed them. Foul, bitter juices filled every crevice of his mouth and he spit them all out in a pulpy wad. “They’re awful.” He wiped his blue tongue with blue fingers.
Francisco grinned. “I said they were edible, not good.”
Once the carcass looked wholly charred, Francisco broke off a hind leg and served it to Dominic. Holding the leg by its curled, blackened claw, he bit into the meatiest part of it and, like a hungry dog, jerked his head to snap off a tough, sinewy chunk. Hot juices ran down his chin. The stringy meat tasted like a blend of smoke and saltwater and the smell of the mangroves, but it could have been rotten and he still would have eaten it. He gnawed it enough to swallow it and then took another bite. He stopped chewing, however, when Francisco snickered.
“What?” said Dominic.
“Nothing.” Francisco hesitated. “It’s just that you look like a giant squirrel eating an acorn right now.”
Dominic gazed down at himself. He was kneeling in the dirt and holding the meat up to his mouth with his bound hands. He did indeed look like a squirrel. Rage filled his gut and extinguished his appetite. “Then untie me and let me eat like a man,” he grumbled.
“Oh, commander,” Francisco sighed. “We both know what you would do if I did.”
“I would eat. Nothing else.”
“You are a killer, Dominic. It has not left your eyes.”
“I am who God made me. If I am bad, it is simply proof of his malice.”
The Sound of Many Waters Page 5
