Shark Island

by Chris Jameson

  “Tony? Is that you? Oh my God, help me! Tony!”

  Ashleigh.

  He called out for her, shouted her name, more grateful than he’d ever been in his entire life just to know that he was not alone.

  But when she cried out again, it was not to him. It was to God.

  Feole considered it a blessing that he could not see her, that he could only listen to her ragged shrieks as the sharks came for her. Perhaps she was beyond the sinking boat, hidden by its diminishing shape on the water. That didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he did not have to watch her being torn apart.

  Worse than her shrieks, though, was the silence that came after.

  Breathless, floating, Feole watched as one of the sharks came around the sinking boat, that single fin gliding so calmly through the rolling sea. He had no screams left inside him. Numb and cold, he watched the shark approach, but that wasn’t the shark that killed him. He felt the impact from behind, down on his left thigh, like a car had struck him under the water. Flailing, he went under. Dragged under. The sea around him turned strangely warm, and in the last seconds of his life he understood that warmth came from the fading heat of his own blood.

  By the time the shark came again, dragging him under, Feole barely felt a thing.

  And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  Just about every fisherman Jamie knew drove a pickup or a van. Pickup was better, of course, because the bed was open to the air. His own nose might have long since quit being able to smell the stink of dead fish and their innards, but most people didn’t have that advantage. A fisherman’s van reeked—no two ways about it. Just riding back and forth to the harbor wearing his work clothes could get that stink into the seats, not to mention leaving his gear in the back or taking home some of the spoils of the day. So a pickup was better, but even that started to smell after a while, which was why Jamie had a different vehicle for his days off.

  Walter called it the shit box, to which Jamie always replied that at least it was a classic shit box, but in reality he considered his spare vehicle a beauty of American engineering. The 1979 two-tone Cutlass Calais W-30 coupe had aluminum wheels trimmed with gold and a gold-over-white body hiding an Oldsmobile 350 V-8 engine. Just under 2,500 of them had been made, and of those only 537 had the T-top. Jamie had painstakingly restored the car to the point where it looked nearly new. Classic shit box indeed.

  The smell of coffee filled the Cutlass as he pulled into the rutted, overgrown harbor lot. Not a lot of vehicles there this morning. The wind had howled all night and the rain had pounded his roof. When he’d turned in, the woman on NECN who always did the weather in cocktail dresses had still been saying the storm was going to turn eastward, but now morning had come and, if anything, it had grown stronger. It wasn’t a hurricane or anything, no need to start battening down the hatches, but the guys who could afford a day off had stayed in bed. Jamie and Walter had planned to work today. High seas and high winds were part of the job.

  Jamie parked facing the water and killed the engine. With the wind rocking the car, the interior grew cold quickly. It sure as hell didn’t feel like summer. The rain sluiced down the windshield as he picked up his massive travel mug and sipped gratefully at his coffee. His thoughts drifted to Alice, though considering how often he’d been thinking of her since she’d kissed his cheek the night before, perhaps drifted was a poor word choice. It felt absurd, the idea that just thinking about someone could lift his spirits. But it also felt good.

  The coffee mug stayed warm in his hands while he waited, but he didn’t have to wait long. A familiar rumble drew his gaze to the rearview mirror and he saw Walter’s red-and-white Chevy Silverado prowling across the lot. The dent on the driver’s door hadn’t been repaired yet. It had been plowed into by a high school girl back in December, the same day the girl had gotten her license. Walter knew plenty of auto body guys and didn’t have the heart to jam the girl up with her parents or her insurance company. Jamie wondered if he regretted that on a daily basis, considering Walter had to slide over and use the passenger door any time he wanted to get into or out of the truck.

  He climbed out of the car and yanked up the hood of his black-and-orange Grundens jacket. The rain gear included bib overalls, which might have seemed like overkill to anyone who hadn’t been at sea on a day like today. It felt heavy, but he was warm and dry on the inside. He stood and watched Walter skid himself over to the pickup’s working door and climb out. Walter reached back inside and pulled out a stained green backpack and a coffee mug even bigger than Jamie’s.

  “About time you showed up,” Jamie said, wiping rain off his face.

  Walter shot him a murderous side-eye and glanced out at the ocean. “You shitting me? Be happy I showed up at all.”

  “Hey, asshole, this was your idea, remember? The righteous fury of a fisherman scorned? Any of that ringing a bell?”

  Walter took a gulp of his coffee and scowled, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah, it rings a bell. But it is a goddamn miserable day. Happy-go-lucky Disney sidekicks would slit their wrists on a day like today.”

  Jamie looked at the sky, the clouds so thick and black that it was impossible to tell if dawn had arrived. The line between night and day had been effectively erased.

  “If you wanna call it off, I’m pretty sure my bed would be happy to take me back.”

  Walter held his coffee in both hands like a priest about to offer up the cup of Christ’s blood for a blessing. He took another long gulp and sighed.

  “Nah, fuck that. I kicked Micah out of bed and sent him home. I’m already up and half-caffeinated. And now that that caffeine is kicking in and I’ve started thinking about those pricks out there leading seal herds up here to eat fish we oughta be catching to earn our living I’m getting pissed off all over again.”

  “So we’re going?”

  “So we’re going,” Walter replied.

  Neither of them was happy about it, but they started toward the dock.

  CHAPTER 19

  The only way Naomi could tell morning had arrived was from the number of seals she could make out in the water. The sharks were still with them, and in greater numbers. Fins zipped across their wake, and her stump ached inside her prosthetic leg as if trying to remind her that sharks were the enemy. As if she needed a reminder. Still, as the first hour after dawn wore on she found herself growing numb to their presence. They were just there, following their instincts, doing what sharks did. As long as they stayed in the water and she stayed on the boat, all was well. And unless they sprouted wings, there was no chances she and the sharks would meet.

  She’d propped herself against the crane, not trusting her legs—the real one or the replacement part—to hold her up as the boat rose and fell. The rain meant she had to keep the camera hooded, but since the storm showed no sign of letting up, she wasn’t going to wait for better weather. Captain N’Dour had given her a spare coat from his locker and Naomi had been stunned by how much warmer and drier it kept her than the thing she’d brought. She huddled gratefully inside the coat and snapped a couple of pictures of the captain, catching his dark features in profile against the bleached background of the storm. N’Dour had been kind to her, and welcoming, but these images would cast him as grim and austere. A man determined to do his job. They would be great photos, but she wondered if they did him justice.

  The thought troubled her, but she reminded herself that the paper would want the best story, the most striking images. They weren’t paying her for personality profiles.

  “Is there a chance you could not be in my way?”

  Naomi took her eye away from the camera, but she didn’t have to look to know the voice belonged to Rosalie. The woman had a camera of her own—to take video for their research, Naomi figured—but there was plenty of room for her to go around. Rosalie shook her head in exasperation, but Naomi said nothing. Just stood a bit straighter and pressed herself against the crane to give the other woman more room to pass
by.

  “Thanks,” Rosalie muttered as she moved past, scuttling carefully toward the aft railing as the boat tilted.

  Naomi didn’t know what Rosalie’s problem was. For half a second she wondered if there might be some weird attraction there, if Rosalie had been putting up a front to avoid anyone figuring her out, but Naomi shook the idea out of her head. She’d had her heart broken, but she didn’t think she’d lost all ability to tell the difference between a girl who was interested in her and one who was just a total bitch. Though to be fair, there had been times when the two were one and the same.

  Bergting had the wheel while Captain N’Dour made a circuit of the boat, doing what Naomi assumed was some kind of inspection, to make sure the storm hadn’t taken any serious toll. Kat and Wolchko were in the wheelhouse, going over data or something. She’d have to learn more about all of that on the return trip, make sure that whatever she wrote for The Globe didn’t come off as woefully unscientific.

  She took photos of the team, but there were only so many shots of their faces and the herding seals that she could manage. They were off the coast of Maine now, and had begun to pass islands small and large. Some were thickly forested, almost primeval looking, while others were dotted with small homes and cottages and had small harbors with a few boats. They kept their distance, but her camera’s zoom lens saw it all. Naomi spotted a small island with several large homes poking up through the trees and thought it would make an excellent contrast to have some shots with the island as background. Kat and Wolchko were still at the bow, and she decided to join them there, get them in the foreground.

  The wind shifted direction for a moment and she heard Tye’s voice behind her.

  “This is fucking crazy.”

  He sounded worried. Naomi turned and raised her camera at the same time, zoomed in on Tye and Rosalie. Both were staring at the seal herd.

  “I count twenty-two,” Rosalie said, the wind carrying her words as it had Tye’s.

  She said something else, but the wind had shifted. Naomi snapped a couple of photos and frowned when she saw the way Rosalie put her hand on Tye’s arm. Not to keep herself balanced or to steady him. It was a reassuring touch, the sort of I’m right here reminder that suggested something more between them.

  “Twenty-two what?” Naomi asked.

  Rosalie turned, saw her taking photos, and pulled her hand away. “Did I say you could take my picture?”

  “It’s my job,” Naomi replied.

  “Bullshit. It’s a sick publicity stunt by a fading newspaper happy to pimp your mother’s image and your personal tragedy to get more clicks on their Web site, and you seem just as happy to whore it out, make a few bucks on almost dying.”

  Tye stared openmouthed. “Rosalie, Jesus.”

  The boat tipped and he stumbled a bit, so distracted that he’d forgotten his sea legs for a moment. Naomi snapped a picture. Her cheeks burned with shame and with anger that she had been made to feel guilt she hadn’t earned. She steadied her breath and said nothing, letting her heartbeat slow.

  “Stop taking my picture, for fuck’s sake!” Rosalie barked.

  This time Naomi did lower the camera. She turned to Tye, pretending Rosalie had vanished from her presence.

  “Twenty-two what?” she asked again.

  Tye blinked, as if trying to remember what she was talking about. He wiped rain from his face. “She was out of line,” he said. “I apologize for that, Naomi. I want you to know that you’re welcome here. Obviously Rosalie has her own issues to work out, but I don’t want you to think we all—”

  “I can speak for myself,” Rosalie snapped.

  “Maybe you’ve done enough of that,” Tye said coldly.

  “And maybe you should be careful who you take that tone with, Dr. Ashmore. I know where the bodies are buried, remember?”

  Rosalie shot him a death glare and then made her way forward. Naomi didn’t bother to turn and watch her go.

  “I guess you’re not likely to tell me what she meant by that crack?” she asked.

  Tye looked like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. He tried to brush it off, but Naomi could see that whatever Rosalie had been referring to, he really wished she hadn’t mentioned it in front of her.

  “No idea,” he said. Revealing himself to be a terrible liar.

  “Okay, then … back to my original question. Twenty-two what?”

  “Sharks,” Tye replied. “Which means there are, I’d guess, maybe forty strung back there with the seal herd. Possibly more.”

  Naomi felt the blood go out of her face. She’d been feeling safe, quite distant from the threat the sharks represented. Now they felt a bit closer than before.

  “And they’re behaving oddly,” Tye added.

  “Oddly how?”

  Something thudded against the hull. Naomi fumbled with her camera, managed to catch it, but not before her prosthetic leg slid out from under her and she fell hard on her ass. She saved the camera, but pain shot through her tailbone and she groaned, lying back on the deck.

  “Oddly like that,” Tye said.

  Naomi frowned, the pain fading. She propped herself up on one hand. “That was a shark?”

  Tye nodded, his brow creased. “This is not normal behavior.”

  Naomi reached for his hand. “Help me up. And then you and Kat can tell me what the hell is going on.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Jim Talbot felt the rain in every one of his joints. He groaned softly as he crawled out of the tent and into the storm, angry with himself and not at all looking forward to a long day of gritting his teeth behind a fake smile and trying to pretend everything was all right. He stood up straight, fists against the small of his back, and felt a series of pops rattle along his spine. Rotating his neck, he stretched and sighed, hating the rain but relieved to breathe fresh air. The inside of the tent had become claustrophobic overnight, the air too close, the atmosphere full of the tension between himself and Lorena. All he wanted was to get the hell off Deeley Island, but they had nowhere to go. Not yet.

  It’ll be fine, he’d told her. The storm’s headed out to sea. It’ll blow over and we’ll start back the day after.

  “Moron,” he muttered now.

  In the rain.

  Jim glanced back at the tent he’d shared with his girlfriend, Lorena Santalarsci. Fiancée, he reminded himself. Although after this trip, he wasn’t quite sure if that would hold. She hadn’t slept well last night and, thanks to her tossing and turning, neither had he. Now either she had fallen into a deep sleep at last—just after dawn—or she was pretending to be sound asleep to avoid having to talk to him just yet. Either was fine with him. He wasn’t ready to face her, either.

  The second tent stood a dozen feet away. The wind billowed its sides, but nothing moved within. Jim’s sons were asleep inside that tent, but those two could sleep through anything. Kyle was seventeen and Dorian twenty-one. This trip had been intended as a way for them to get to know their future stepmother, and it had started out beautifully. The three Talbot men had plenty of experience sea kayaking, and Jim had taken Lorena out on shorter jaunts before. They had left Boothbay Harbor four days earlier, paddling out to Squirrel Island and then to the White Islands. They’d taken each stretch with care, but the day before yesterday they’d left Pumpkin Island and made for Deeley against Lorena’s wishes. She’d wanted to go back, at least get closer to the mainland before the storm arrived in earnest. Jim had insisted the storm would veer off, and Lorena—aware that her future stepsons were paying close attention—had gone along with it.

  Now they’d been on Deeley Island for a full twenty-four hours longer than they’d intended, with no sign that the storm had begun to abate. They had enough supplies to add an additional day or two to their return trip, so Jim wasn’t much worried about food. But if the storm kept them stranded here much beyond tomorrow morning, freshwater would be a problem, which meant he ought to find a way to capture as much of the rain as he could.

&nb
sp; But he had more pressing business to take care of first. The trees around their campsite bent a little in the wind, branches swaying as Jim weaved through them, moving toward the rocky shore of the island. Even at low tide, the waves were crashing on the rocks, the storm driving them above the usual waterline. In the distance, a buoy clanged. He pushed down the band of his rain pants and exhaled loudly as he pissed onto the pine needles matted onto the ground. The rain washed it away in seconds.

  Despite the storm, Jim took a moment to enjoy the peace as he covered himself up. He’d be apologizing for this decision for the rest of his life, but right now he was more concerned about making it through the day without getting into a real argument with Lorena. He knew there was also the possibility that she would see the absurdity in it, that she would see past the misery of these couple of days to a time in the future when they could joke about it, but if her frustration last night was any indication, that was a pipe dream.

  The rain had started to soak his hair and he tugged up his hood, feeling a bit claustrophobic even out there near the shore. If it warmed up at all, he thought he might strip down completely just to be out of the suffocating rain gear. The boys would shout at him and Lorena would be embarrassed, but the temptation was strong.

  He glanced around to make sure the kayaks were secure, spotted them under the trees, and went to check on them, just to give himself something to do.

  A throaty barking noise made him turn back toward the open ocean, and he spotted the seal immediately. The dark-gray beasts had slipped up onto the rocks and now laid its head back and barked again, this time a sort of ululating sound that reminded him of some kind of marine mammal battle cry. It made him smile, and some of the anxiety that had been clutching at his heart dispersed. Jim saw movement and took a step toward shore, realizing the seal wasn’t alone. There were three, four, five others there as well, and now two more joined in a chorus of that croaking bark.

  Jim frowned and took several more steps, wondering at the weird echo that seemed to accompany the voices of the seals. It seemed to come right off the water. He squinted against the rain, walking toward the rocks, and then stopped to stare at the crashing waves and the rough sea beyond. At the glistening gray bodies slipping through the water. Those answering barks had come from there, but only a few. Most of the seals swimming past Deeley Island were silent. Jim stared, openmouthed, as the churning mass of seals rippled by.