FRANK WENT UPSTAIRS and picked up his dirty clothes off the floor and threw them in the closet. Wrinkling his nose from the odor of his own sweat, he opened the window and turned on the fan above the bed. Downstairs, he took out a package of small white tea candles and placed them strategically around the living room. “Con te Partiro,” sung by Andrea Bocelli, was now flooding through the house with all its operatic emotion.
ELIZABETH’S BODY felt heavy with exhaustion. The six weeks of fieldwork and sleep deprivation were catching up with her. She never slept very well when she was away from Frank. She looked down at the last page of the forms. There was still time to get home to the party—if she didn’t crash. I better put my head down for a minute, and then I’ll be safe to drive, and awake for Frank.
NINE
10:30 P.M.
FRANK SAT at the round wooden table, which was cluttered with the remains of dinner. Three of the wineglasses were still half filled with red wine; the other was empty. The picked-at pasta lay next to the scattered remains of salad and broccoli rabe. No one had had much of an appetite. The roses in the center of the table seemed to be wilting already.
Frank stared at the one empty plate on the table. Elizabeth’s voicemail had said that she would be back by seven at the latest—she had discovered papers that she needed to fill out at her office. At first he had worried that maybe something had happened, but this wasn’t the first time she had lost track of time or fallen asleep at her desk. He had thought of calling her but kept telling himself she would walk in at any moment. Tom and his wife, Jenny, had encouraged him to call, but Frank kept saying, “She’ll be here.” It became a test for him, some kind of final exam of her love—and she had failed.
What had he done wrong? What hadn’t he done to make Elizabeth love him or want to be with him as much as she wanted to be with her whales? He had known that she would never be like his mother; he had purposefully married her because she was strong and independent. His mother had never taken care of herself or her health, giving everything to her husband and children. He knew he didn’t want a wife who was committing such slow suicide under the guise of love. He wanted a woman who would challenge him and be a true equal, but something had gone wrong. Their careers, certainly his as well as hers, had dragged them out of each other’s arms, and now they could not find their way back. But maybe he had to face the truth—perhaps Elizabeth did not want a family or a marriage like he did. Maybe her science and her whales really were more important to her.
He looked at the box of brightly colored birthday candles languishing on the table. Pulling out a red one, he took up the lighter that had been waiting expectantly on the table. The wick ignited and glowed gold, the red wax starting to drip onto his finger. The burn cut through his numbness and his grief. After another few moments and a few more drops of sharp hot wax, he threw the snub candle into his wineglass. It hissed as it drowned, and gray smoke spiraled out of the glass.
He lit a green candle, watched it burn and drip onto his fingers, and then flicked it into the wineglass. The smoke snaked up, folding over itself until it was gone.
He lit another and drowned it, too. And another. And another.
Frank pushed his chair back and walked to the phone in the kitchen. He started to dial the number for Elizabeth’s office. Then he hung up. He really did not want to know what the excuse was this time. Instead, he called the back line of the neonatal intensive care unit.
“NICU.” Dorothy’s voice made him smile, even in its brusqueness and impatience. There was always work to be done for Dorothy—and for him. There was no time to waste when babies were sick.
“How’s the Bradley baby?” Frank asked. He was relieved to remember that there was so much greater suffering in the world than his—suffering he knew how to treat.
TEN
11:55 P.M.
Semple Cay, Bequia
THE MOON HUNG like a searchlight in the sky, its glare rippling a path across the water. The fishing boat kept its engines quiet and slow. The factory ship could not get close enough to the cay, so Kazumi had dispatched one of the small catcher boats.
The rocks were treacherous and the currents around the island unpredictable. Kazumi had chosen a captain he could trust not only to steer clear of the shore but also to leave the expedition out of the ship’s log.
There were still four hours of darkness in which to operate before the first fishermen would start to go out. They needed to accomplish their goal before they were seen. This would not be easy. Semple Cay was close to the island, and there might be curious eyes stumbling back from one of the rum shops. They would need to work without the benefit of floodlights. But nothing could be done about the full moon.
Pirates had once hidden among these islands and their innumerable cays because they were hard to patrol. Kazumi knew that the whole country had only two or three Coast Guard boats, and these would be docked back in St. Vincent at this hour. He had heard that drug dealers sometimes dropped shipments into the water at night near here, but what he needed to retrieve was more valuable to them than any cocaine shipment.
As they approached the cay, they saw the shine of an oily slick on the surface. Even at night, birds were feeding and fighting for pieces of the decomposing carcass. Small scraps of blubber and flesh were floating to the surface, dislodged by the fish that had come to feast. He could hear the birds squawking and flapping their wings at one another. The noise would hide the sound of the winch.
Kazumi raised his hand, and two divers jumped into the water, their faces hidden by their hoods, masks, and regulators. One was Nilsen and the other was a Japanese fisherman.
Tipped off by the birds, the divers found the carcass quickly. Its body was impossible to miss even in the dark water. The fish scattered as the divers approached, and then returned repeatedly, unwilling to give up the banquet.
Once the lift bags were in place, the divers used their regulators to fill them with air. Used for salvaging shipwrecks, these lift bags easily floated the calf. The divers then fastened a chain to the tail, and slowly, the winch pulled the body to the boat. Kazumi wanted to have the whale tested to know exactly what he was dealing with. He needed to know the truth, but it was equally important to ensure that others never did. As soon as samples were taken, the carcass would be destroyed.
ELEVEN
7:45 A.M.
Next morning
Tuesday
Davis
“WELCOME HOME.”
Elizabeth awoke with a start. “Connie?” she said.
A warm smile spread across Connie Kato’s face. Her best friend had black bangs that she used unsuccessfully to obscure her pretty face. Connie’s industrial-chic jacket and black-and-white-striped tights only seemed to accentuate the attractive body that was constantly getting her into trouble. Elizabeth and Connie had been best friends ever since Connie joined the evolutionary biology program two years ago, and they had been there for each other through all the inevitable dramas of love and life. Although they had very different politics—Connie’s bordered on the radical—they found common cause as the only two female graduate students in the department. “What time is it?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes still trying to adjust to being awake.
“Almost eight o’clock.”
“P.M.?”
“A.M.”
“Oh, my God, I fell asleep. I missed Frank’s birthday party!” As she spoke the words, she felt her throat constrict with dread. Elizabeth looked down at the papers. “These have to be at the department secretary’s by nine.”
“I can take them for you,” Connie said, quickly scooping up the papers as Elizabeth grabbed her coat and bag.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “I know we need to sort out all the men in your life, but I’ve got to get home to mine—if he’ll still have me.”
Connie followed Elizabeth out to her car. “Elizabeth, I know you just got back, but have you thought about the invitation?”
“Connie, I’m a sc
ientist, not an activist.”
“If the whaling ban is reversed, there won’t be any whales for scientists to study.”
“I’ll think about it,” Elizabeth said, although she doubted anyone at the International Whaling Commission meeting in Seattle would listen to her. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulled out a box lying on the passenger seat. “These are for you.”
Connie looked at the box of Mama’s Island fudge. “You remembered me…and my obsession.”
They hugged each other, and then Elizabeth opened the door of her station wagon.
“Think about the IWC,” Connie said.
“Who’s going to care what I have to say? I’m not even a Ph.D.—and the way things are going, I may never become one.” Elizabeth got into her station wagon.
“What are you talking about?”
“The department has cut off my funding.”
“I told you your work is threatening.”
“No, Connie, it’s not threatening. It’s just late. And now I’ve got three weeks to finish my dissertation.”
“You’ll show them all.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s taken me five years to write the first half.”
TWELVE
THE 1989 Ford Country Squire required several turns of the ignition before the engine turned over. The car had belonged to Frank’s parents, and its wood-paneled exterior screamed “family car.” All that was missing was the family. Why isn’t a marriage enough? Why does a couple only become a family when children are born? Elizabeth wanted a family, but she wanted to finish her Ph.D. first. I just need a little more time. She pulled the gearshift into reverse and hit the accelerator. The heavy car lurched backward.
Elizabeth raced home through yellow lights and slowed only partly at stop signs. Davis was in the middle of the Central Valley’s agricultural region, although its current crop was no longer corn and tomatoes but suburban children. As she passed a strip mall containing a coffee shop and a hair salon, she saw a ramshackle barn and an overgrown field across the street. The farms on the periphery of town always shocked her, like ghosts that still haunted the town, revealing the rich earth buried under the neatly paved streets and manicured lawns.
Pulling into the parking lot, she saw Frank carrying a worn cardboard box against his chest. T-shirts and a computer keyboard peeked out between the open flaps. She quickly rolled down the stiff window and shouted, “Frank—I’m so, so sorry.”
Frank stopped, looked at her, and then glanced back down at the box, which he dropped into the trunk of their other car, a beige Toyota Corolla. He turned away without saying a word. He was shaking his head. Elizabeth turned off the car and ran after him.
“Frank, please forgive me,” Elizabeth said as she followed him through the gate to the small courtyard. They walked past the overgrown lavender and into their small town house. “I fell asleep at my desk. I wanted to be rested for your party, for our reunion.”
Still no answer. He did not even turn around to talk to her.
“Dr. Skilling said I had to file some paperwork or I was going to lose my candidacy. Now he says I need to file my dissertation in three weeks or they’re going to kick me out of the program.”
Frank had picked up another box. This one also was not closed. She could see some of Frank’s medical books inside.
Frank turned to face her, his brow furrowed in a scowl. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what?”
Frank dropped the box on the ground. It landed with a thud. “Do this!” he said, his temper eclipsing his words with a cutting gesture.
Only then did the meaning of the boxes become clear. “You’re leaving?” she asked.
Frank looked around the living room in exasperation for the words that had escaped him.
“I wanted to make you the cream cake. I got the re—”
“I don’t need a cream cake. I need you. I need a family.”
“You have me.”
Frank stepped in close, wrapping his large hand around the nape of her neck, and pulled her face toward him. Elizabeth’s eyes went wide as his lips sealed against hers. Surprised, she inhaled the sweet and familiar scent of Frank, and leaned into his embrace.
Grabbing both her shoulders, Frank wrenched her away from him and glared into her eyes. “Remember that? If you’re not here, it dies.”
“It’s not dead. And we will have a family. I just need—”
“—more time,” Frank finished. He’d heard it all before. He picked up an old plaid suitcase and a pile of gear he had not had a chance to box up. It was his old well-loved wetsuit, diving mask, snorkel, and fins. They stuck out at every angle, threatening to fall to the ground. “That’s what you’ve been saying for five years!”
“Just until I finish.”
“If it made a difference, I’d wait another five years, but it won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re no closer to finishing than you were last year or the year before. Let’s face it, Elizabeth. We want different lives.”
“I want to have a family, Frank, I just don’t want to sacrifice—”
“Families make sacrifices for each other.” The plastic strap broke off the mask, and it dropped to the floor. They both looked at it.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have sacrificed what you loved,” Elizabeth said.
Frank did not answer as he walked out to the car. Elizabeth followed him. He threw everything into the trunk with the force of his anger. “Sometimes we sacrifice the things we love for the people we love.” The driver’s side door squeaked as he opened it and got in.
“Where are you going?” The words were out before she had thought them. The question seemed strange, but the answer made all the difference. Was he going to someone?
“I’m going to stay with Tom and his family.”
She sighed with relief. At least this was about them and not someone else.
Frank turned the ignition. Elizabeth wished his car did not start so dependably. “I’ve made sacrifices,” she said. He closed the door, but he rolled down the window. He was still willing to talk. “I moved to California for your residency—away from Professor Maddings and from my research subjects.”
Frank shifted into reverse. “They’re not your research subjects, Elizabeth. They’re your family.”
THIRTEEN
Three days later
Friday, February 16
Two hundred nautical miles off the Pacific coast of Mexico
APOLLO SWAM NORTHWEST toward the summer feeding grounds—his long flippers not far from those of his two companions—
The three whales moved their flukes rhythmically and forcefully—their grace belying the extraordinary thrust of the broad tails propelling them onward—
Apollo could feel his companions by the lift and fall of water and the low sounds of the contact calls that groaned from within their great bodies—
These long utterances also revealed the seamounts and canyons on the ocean floor far below—
Their course took them far west—past the continental shelf—the waters descending deeply to the abyssal depths where the sperm whales dove—
As Apollo and his companions surfaced—they let out great gusts of air—emptying their lungs and filling them with the breath of life—
A strange sound—like nothing Apollo had ever heard—pulsed through him—
He approached one of his companions—now held fast—unable to move—caught by some strange tentacle—
Apollo saw his bulging eye—
And then a shattering eruption—so close it was deafening—the force throwing Apollo to the side—the air knocked from his mouth—his body heavier now—beginning to descend.
Only then did he taste the astringent tinge of red—and feel the heat of his companion’s lifeblood—his companion’s body limp—dead so fast—
The killer’s tentacle began dragging his companion away—
Apollo saw the other whale fleeing—but the sound again was in the water—and the tentacle—and the eruption—
Blood closed in on both sides—like a red tide—
Apollo rotated his body to his second companion—touched him as he swam underneath—feeling for life—but there was none—
The great shadow of a ship hovered above, and his heart pounded in his chest—
Dive—
Dive—
Apollo stopped several lengths away—rolled his head to the side—and then saw the enormous gray ship looming out of the water to the sky—countless round eyes all along its body and its underbelly dark red like the blood that it drank.
KOJI ITO STOOD on the high bow of Catcher Boat #1, knowing what he needed to do, but unsure whether he could. Ito had the phone number and the test results—he just needed to make the call. But if he did, he would risk his job and possibly much more.
The gun smoke clung in a gray cloud around the harpooner, who wore a yellow plastic hard hat and an orange life vest like the other workers. The whales were pulled in, one on either side of the boat.
Ito knew they were somewhere off the coast of Mexico, a country that, unlike his own, seemed to think that whaling was wrong. The Ryukyu Maru whaling ship and its catcher boats needed to stay at least two hundred nautical miles off the coast, outside Mexico’s exclusive economic zone, and in the open seas that were owned by no one.
Catcher Boat #1 had been rewarded by the sight of three adult humpbacks swimming north by northwest at an extraordinary eighteen kilometers per hour. The catcher ship fired two exploding grenade harpoons in quick succession, using both of its lines to catch two of the three whales.
Eye of the Whale Page 7
