Mount Misery

by Angelo Peluso

  It didn’t take long for fish to respond, the way bluefish often feed. Jack watched as a pod of ravenous fish moved within casting distance. He once again lobbed the big plug into the mix and was instantaneously fast to a huge chopper bluefish. Now this is more like it, he thought. After decades of give and take with large bluefish, Jack could tell simply by feel that this fish would push sixteen pounds. When the bluefish jumped, he smiled. Jack knew he’d found the pot of gold. The fish was strong. Its time at sea fighting currents had built muscle mass like that of a well-conditioned athlete. And Lord knows, it ate well. Once bluefish attained this size, little else would threaten them save big sharks and tunas, some marine mammals . . . and man. The bluefish jumped again but this time a cavernous mouth followed it out of the water. In an instant, the line went slack. Jack watched as an enormous forked tail broke the surface. What remained was a huge black hole in the Sound. It was as if someone dropped a compact car into the water.

  “What the hell was that?” Jack said out loud. “Holy shit, that was a fucking sea monster.”

  As if with synchronized movement, the tips of both baited fishing rods slammed downward simultaneously; line screamed off the reels. But the bluefish that had taken Jack’s bait were not all that was on the end of the fishing lines. Jack was still in shock at what he had just seen, but ingrained habit and muscle memory caused him to reach for the portside rod and ensure the hook had set securely. His mind was still on the sight he had witnessed. Jack became distracted and did something he shouldn’t have done. Fighting two big fish at the same time was fine when he had another fisherman on board, but to play the game solo was asking for trouble. At minimum, you’d lose one of the fish; worst case, you’d lose them both. Jack hadn’t anticipated the third scenario.

  While tightly grasping one rod in his left hand, Jack took hold of the other with his right hand and waited for the line to come tight and for the hook’s barb to securely fasten into the jaw of the fish. Once he felt weight, Jack swiftly swept the rod tip up to remain in contact with his hooked quarry. As his right arm came back to set the hook, the other rod surged sharply downward in the water. Jack reacted by again pulling back sharply on that rod. The energy generated by both Jack’s rapid, awkward, and upward arm movements caused him to lose balance. Jack tried regaining equilibrium but he slipped on the fish vomit carelessly left on deck. He was pissed at himself for such an amateurish oversight. Jack’s momentum caused him to tumble forward. He knew instantly he was in trouble as he lost all footing and fell completely over the transom and into the water. Instinctively, Jack tried bracing for the fall and dropped the fishing rods so that his arms and not his head would lead the way as he plunged in to the water.

  Had Jack merely fallen overboard, all would have been well. He was a good swimmer and, putting the personal embarrassment aside, Jack would have been able to pull himself back over the corner of the transom and to the safety of his boat. But the situation deteriorated rapidly and things became much more complicated. Both fishing lines had entangled Jack’s feet, wrapping tightly around crisscrossed ankles. His feet were bound together tightly as if he were shackled. Jack’s first reaction was to cut the lines with the Leatherman, a multipurpose outdoor tool usually sheathed in holster on his belt. As Jack reached for the tool, he got a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had used the Leatherman when rigging the rods and had placed it on top of the center console. The sheath was empty. Jack was not one to panic. He’d come close to death many times during his tours in ‘Nam. On several of his scouting sessions, his position was almost compromised and he came close to being captured by the Viet Cong. That would have met with a fate much worse than falling overboard and being stuck in some fishing lines. His brain raced to process the details of his current dilemma. He had to hurry but he knew he would figure out a solution. There had to be a solution. Jack’s situation worsened rapidly. There was no time to think clearly because two very powerful fish pulled him across the surface of the water as they raced to the safety of their school. The super powerful fish stayed in the top portion of the water column, effortlessly pulling Jack along like a water skier, Jack bouncing across the small waves, his buttocks acting as a boogie board. Jack knew he was in trouble. He also knew what would come next.

  Jack tried in vain to undo his feet from the braided lines. He even tried pulling on the lines to gain some slack and wiggle his feet free. But each time he did so, the fish pulled harder and the unforgiving braid line cut through his fingers and hands. Had the line been lighter weight monofilament, Jack might have been able to break it with a few tricks his father had taught him many years ago. Without his Leatherman, the combined strength of the two eighty-pound braid lines was more than Jack could handle with his bare hands.

  The two fish headed out over deep water. It was what Jack had feared. The school was sounding and Jack’s two captors would follow with him in tow. Think, man, think. I can’t have my life end with two fucking fish drowning me like this. Jack had only one option. He had to pull back on the line as violently as the fish were pulling him forward. He would apply pure leg strength against the force of the fish. If he knew where the fishing rods were, he might use one or both to somehow twist the lines and break them. But Jack guessed that the rods were somewhere far behind him with the remaining line paying out from the reels. Jack was still being towed along the surface as he pulled both legs back up into his body in rapid and repeated motions as if performing some diabolical abdominal muscle exercise. His hope was that he might either pull the hooks free from the jaws of the fish or uncover some weakness in the lines that would cause them to break. Jack knew he was down to minutes if not seconds before the inevitable happened. He marshaled all the strength that remained in his tiring body and pulled his legs up aggressively in succession. The line did not part nor did the hooks pull free. Jack felt his legs involuntarily move from a horizontal position along the surface to an almost vertical downward facing angle. The fish were diving. Jack knew he was about to go under. He took several deep breaths, holding the last precious gulp of air as his head submerged. These demons would show no mercy. Jack stopped all leg movement to conserve oxygen. Without a means to disentangle from the death grip of the fishing lines, he would have no more than two minutes to live.

  Both fish pulled in unison and dragged Jack into deeper water. Their collective strength overpowered him. He strained to look up but when he did he could faintly see daylight above the surface. So this is how it ends, he thought. He always kidded with his fishing buddies that when his time came, he wanted a big fish to be on the other end of the line. But this . . . Jack had to be thinking, be careful what you wish. This was not at all what he had in mind. Jack was down about twenty feet when the pulling stopped. For a moment, he felt free. Could this be? Had the line finally broken? He used his arms as a bird flaps its wings in flight. He thought he could propel himself upward toward the surface and toward a life-saving breath of air. He had only moved himself up a few feet when the slack lines once again became taught. The pulling had stopped but his adversaries were still there. Jack could feel their presence. He could feel their vibrations through the throbbing line. He also had a feeling these fish were now playing with him.

  Jack had less than a minute to live. His lungs were burning as he started to surrender to the sea. That last minute would seem like an eternity as his mind processed many events of his life. Jack closed his eyes and saw Stella and his daughters. And he saw his grandmother holding out her hand welcoming him to the other side. I love you, Grandma, but fuck the other side. I’m not ready for this. Jack tried valiantly to fend off death but as he did his mind revealed others in the background. He could vaguely make out the faces of his father and grandfather smiling. Jack pointed at his father and shook his head as if saying, I’m not ready to die, Dad. But Jack’s mind and body were surrendering. He was losing control. Oddly, he now felt at ease, a sense of liberation. Perhaps stored memories eased the pain of Jack’s final moments.
With but seconds of his life remaining, Jack sensed an abnormal presence and he opened his eyes. With fins erect and snapping monster-like jaws, they moved with deliberate and erratic motions. They swarmed around Jack and waited to strike.

  There was still enough oxygen in Jack’s brain to keep his mind functioning and aware. He closed his eyes and then reopened them to make certain his brain wasn’t playing tricks. When his eyes opened a second time, much to his amazement, he saw not the horrifying assassins but the vision of a mermaid. I must be dead, Jack thought, and she must be leading me to paradise. Jack felt her gently caress him and he sensed his body floating upward toward the surface. I’m on my way toward heaven. Jack saw the light. It was an unmistakable bright white light, and he floated, closer toward the illuminated orb. The last thing Jack’s mind processed before he lost all consciousness were words from his favorite Willie Nelson song, “Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Ted Gunther walked to the podium and called the press conference to order. He was surprised at the number of people who’d gathered in the main lecture hall of the Marine Sciences Building at the State University. Reporters from all local media were in attendance, from small community tabloids to the omnipresent Long Island Newsweek and the New York Daily News. The session had also gotten the attention of the New York Times. A reporter from the Wall Street Journal was also present; he occasionally would cover fishing and fisheries-related stories. But what troubled Ted even more were the TV cameras. He hadn’t expected that much visibility. As his eyes scanned the room, he saw cameras with network logos from across the region: Local News 21, ABC, CBS, and Fox. And way in the back of the room he spotted a camera from SFN, the Sport Fishing Network. He had to chuckle at that one thinking, Those guys will go anywhere for a fish story. With all this TV coverage, Ted also thought that if he was to go down in flames over these incidents at least it would be in full color and high definition.

  Ted’s boss, William Charles III, was standing behind him, flanked by Katie DiNardo and Nick Tanner. Ted tapped his pen on the podium and tapped his toes on the carpet, sure signs he was ill at ease. He took a quick sip of water and began. “I’d like to thank you all for attending.” The room instantly quieted. “I’ll try to keep this short and then take your questions.” Ted glanced over at Katie, put on his game face, and continued.

  “Four days ago, a body washed up on a beach in Smith’s Bay. The Division of Marine Sciences has been working with county police in an attempt to identify the victim and the cause of death. While there are no concrete leads to the case, there is considerable evidence to suggest that some form of marine life may have been involved in the incident, either as the direct cause of the death or as part of a postmortem episode. Subsequent to that event, there have been several other local incidents of similar nature that have yet to be explained. We are not certain if all events are related in any way or if they are simply random and coincidental. The Division’s two most experienced marine researchers, Dr. Katie DiNardo and Dr. Nick Tanner, have been assigned as lead investigators on the Smith’s Bay case as well as to the other incidents. Their role is to assist local authorities in determining what contributed to the deaths and disappearances. In that role both, Dr. DiNardo and Dr. Tanner have thoroughly analyzed all available evidence. At this point in the investigation, we can unequivocally rule out the outlandish rumors that have been spread of alligators, crocodiles, komodo dragons, and monster snakeheads. None of those creatures have had anything to do with this case.”

  Ted Gunther noticed many heads in the audience nodding in apparent approval of his comments and he felt like he was on a roll. But just when he sensed that he had gained somewhat of an early advantage with this crowd, a voice rang out from the back of the room:

  “Yeah, then what did? We don’t want to know what’s not involved in these incidents, we want to know what’s killing people in the Long Island Sound.”

  Ted remained composed and responded firmly. “Please, we will respond to all your questions after our statement.”

  The voice shot back. “Why wait? Answer the question now. No need to rehash what we already know.”

  As best as Ted could tell, the heckler was barking his questions from behind one of the cameramen. Rather than challenge the questioner and risk more of an outcry from other media members, Ted choose to acknowledge the question. It was a good move on his part since other reporters were beginning to move toward the heckler.

  “If you identify yourself, sir, I will answer your question.”

  After a brief moment of silence, a young man walked out into view from his position behind the News 21 camera. All eyes in the room turned toward him. “My name is Jake Dodd and I was a friend of who you referred to as the Smith’s Bay victim. I think you may have grossly understated his condition when he was found. It was more like body pieces than a body.”

  Gunther interrupted. “No name has yet been officially released of any victim, Mr. Dodd.”

  “Yeah, I know. But his family and friends know it was him. He went fishing that night and never returned. The cops told his family that a print was recovered from a severed hand and they had a positive ID. Everything else is bullshit. In case you are not sure, his name was Jimmy McVee, one of the best surf fishermen on Long Island. Been fishing all his life and knew the local waters and its fish better than anyone. What got him had to have been something very strange. Jimmy was too good to make foolish mistakes on the water or to take unnecessary chances. I fished with him for years and I know.”

  Others in the room now stirred and a few shouted questions at Jake. Ted needed to regain control.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dodd, for your input but since this an active crime investigation. I will leave the specific issues pertaining to the victim to the police.”

  “That’s not good enough, Mr. Gunther. The people in this room and the residents of Long Island have a right to know what the hell’s going on here. It’s time to come clean about all this.”

  All TV cameras were trained directly on Jake Dodd. Ted heard the rumblings of others in the audience and he needed to diffuse the situation fast, but before he could again take charge of the meeting, the reporter from Long Island Newsweek stood up. Dorothy Whitman had been part of an investigative reporting team that broke a blockbuster story on corruption in a number of Long Island school districts. It earned Ms. Whitman and her team a Pulitzer Prize. Her investigative reporting skills were as good as they come. She had an uncanny ability to quickly cut through the bull crap and get to the heart of a story.

  “Mr. Gunther, I realize you want to get through your prepared remarks but if you don’t mind, might I ask you a question?”

  Ted sensed trouble but he didn’t want to appear as if he was backing down.

  “I’ve read your columns, Ms. Whitman. I enjoy your work. Please, ask your question.”

  “We’ve obtained some firsthand information that all the incidents taking place in the Sound recently are linked through forensic bite mark evidence, making the deaths all part of apparent serial killings. Furthermore, we have reason to believe that your folks have a pretty good idea what’s behind these deaths. Are those two points accurate, Mr. Gunther?”

  Ted did not like where this questioning was headed. Ms. Whitman certainly could cut to the chase. No wonder she won a Pulitzer. He knew if he answered in the affirmative, he would create a media feeding frenzy that would rival that of the feeding killers, but if he hedged his answer, Ms. Whitman would be on it in a heartbeat.

  Just as Ted was about to answer, his boss leaned over to whisper in his ear. As William Charles III conveyed his message, Ted’s eyes moved to lock onto Katie DiNardo.

  Katie knew instantly where this was going. Damn, she thought. They are going to throw me into the breach.

  “I’d like to ask Dr. DiNardo to respond to that question. She is our most senior marine biologist and has been intimately involved in the incidents in question.”

  Katie to
ok a position in front of the microphone and did a once over of the crowd. All the cameras and reporters were focused on her. She was in the spotlight and she was uncertain what to say.

  Impatient, Whitman broke the silence. “Okay, Dr. DiNardo, you are the expert, so what do you have to say about all this?”

  Katie looked up again and spotted Rick standing in the far left-hand corner of the room. His presence gave her strength. “Yes, Ms. Whitman, we do have substantial bite evidence that is linked but as I have maintained throughout the entire course of this investigation, proving what actually caused the bites has not been an easy task, even for experts. And as I’ve said previously, we are not yet certain if the bites themselves were the actual cause of death or a by-product of postmortem assaults.”

  “That just doesn’t cut it, Dr. DiNardo. Human beings are dead, similar and bizarre bite marks are in evidence in each of the incidents, and the gurus haven’t a clue what’s involved? I was born in the morning but not yesterday morning. What if I told you that a source told me that you actually have some strong evidence of what these creatures are? Say a tooth? Now how would you respond to that?”

  Katie knew she couldn’t dodge this one, but she still had to be careful. She glanced quickly at Rick and addressed the questions directly on, but just a bit cagey. “I’d say your source is pretty good, Ms. Whitman. At each of the incident sites, we have tried to gather as much organic evidence as was possible. For the most part, there has been little or any meaningful evidence. Bite marks have been our strongest leads. But the other morning at Plover Dunes where all those striped bass were found, we took samples of the flesh that had been bitten to see if perhaps there might be some DNA present that would give us a clue to the attackers. And at one of the other scenes, we discovered something that appeared to be a tooth. From what, we really have no idea.” Katie hedged a bit with that answer but there was no way she was going to tell this crowd that her lover was almost eaten. “We are just following all possible evidence trails. But as you may know, organic material of that nature takes a long time to evaluate so no conclusions have been drawn yet. Without that DNA mapping, we cannot even begin to speculate as to what these unknown creatures are or aren’t, or if they at all had anything to do with the killings.”