Elizabeth glanced down at the map spread out on her steering wheel as she tried to navigate the back roads. The wood-paneled Country Squire was barreling too fast. She slammed on the brakes and just missed sliding into an irrigation ditch. The screech of her tires sent a clutch of red-winged blackbirds darting overhead, their red epaulets like bloody badges on otherwise jet-black wings. A snowy egret that had been hunting nearby sailed away to safer ground.
This was pristine and remote delta farmland. Although it was only two hours from downtown San Francisco and an hour from Sacramento, the area still looked wild and desolate. The only sign of modernity was the electrical cables, held up by what looked like long-legged steel giants that grasped the wires in their hands and marched in an endless row. In the distance, Elizabeth saw some factories belching smoke, but they were quite far away.
Unlike humpbacks that had entered the river in years past, this whale had not meandered but had sped up the Sacramento River in a day, entrapping himself in a muddy dead-end slough only a half hour from the university.
Elizabeth had called Connie on the cell phone, and Connie had been able to get her the location of the whale. Elizabeth had not bothered to ask whether Connie had gotten the information from the police radio, which she said she had listened to avidly since she was a child, or from Skilling, who apparently had been called in as a local expert. He knows nothing about humpbacks, Elizabeth thought, but if there were television cameras, she had a feeling Skilling would be there.
As Elizabeth turned on to the levee road, she saw a sign warning her that she was entering private property. Although surrounded by fallow brown fields, the slough itself was lined with green trees and grass, an oasis of water in the dry agricultural land. The oaks, cypress, and native grasses around the slough were all bent by the wind that blew constantly across the flat delta. The muddy brown water rippled and shimmered in the low afternoon sun. It was hard to imagine that a whale could be swimming in the small and no doubt shallow slough, which was no more than five hundred feet long and two hundred feet across. The whale would be lucky if it was fifty feet deep.
A black-and-white California Highway Patrol car blocked the road, and behind it she could see white news vans with tall transmitting antennas spiraling toward the orange sky. A helicopter circled above, trying to get close-up footage of the whale. The constant drumming of its rotors and its downdraft were probably frightening the whale and keeping it submerged.
Elizabeth pulled over and got out. The gray gravel crunched under her sneakers. Up ahead was a concrete bridge. How, she wondered, had the whale squeezed through the narrowly spaced pilings? Across the slough, the land opened up into a brown grassy expanse, like the Okavango Delta in southern Africa, which she had visited as a biology student in college to study lions and elephants. On the opposite bank, she also saw a burned-out, overturned car that had been stripped of its parts. As the helicopter took off, she saw the whale start to lobtail, beating its tail against the surface. She scrambled to get the lens cap off her digital camera and pointed it at the whale’s flukes.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” said an officer, dressed in a beige uniform with a six-pointed star on his chest, like some old-fashioned sheriff in a lawless town.
“I’m a marine biologist at the University of California, Davis. I’m here for the whale.”
“Let me call Incident Command and see if we can get you clearance. What is your name?”
Incident Command, what is that? Elizabeth wondered after having been allowed to pass. Who authorized my entry? Was it Skilling? she wondered as she saw him being interviewed by half a dozen television reporters.
“Why do you think the whale swam here?” she heard one of the reporters ask.
“There are three possibilities we’re exploring,” Skilling replied. “It could be confused. Whales swim against the northern currents, and it could have been confused by the outgoing tide from the bay. It also appears to have fresh wounds and could have been fleeing killer whales.”
“But why would it swim so far upriver?” another reporter asked.
“The third and most likely possibility is that the whale is simply sick. My hunch is that it has some kind of parasitic infection of the inner ear or of the brain that has caused it to become confused and disoriented.”
“Do you think you can save it?” another interviewer asked.
“Probably not.” Skilling paused to let the full force of his conclusion sink in. “Our main concern is that it might run aground, and then we’re going to have a big smelly carcass to deal with.”
“It’s not a carcass yet,” Elizabeth said before she realized she had said it.
The large black television cameras turned to face her. One of the reporters pushed a microphone into Elizabeth’s face, eager for controversy—and for more encouraging news.
“What do you think is wrong with the whale?”
“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said, “but it is making unusual sounds that have been recorded in several other locations around the world.”
Before Elizabeth could explain, a female reporter assaulted her with more questions. “What kind of unusual sounds? What do you think the whale is trying to say? Is the whale giving us some kind of message?”
Every ounce of Elizabeth’s scientific body recoiled at the conclusions that this reporter was drawing so quickly. “We really do not have any evidence to suggest that the whale is communicating with us. Like Professor Skilling—”
The television reporters, realizing that they were not going to get anything more controversial from Elizabeth, quickly turned away to wrap up their stories. She overheard the credulous reporter conclude by saying, “Is the whale lost, or here for a reason? Stay tuned as we discover what this whale might want us to know.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
“That’s one way to get the whole world—not just your colleagues—to think you are crazy,” Skilling said from behind Elizabeth.
She turned around sheepishly. “I didn’t mean it to be taken that way.”
“Welcome to the media. Subtlety is not their business.”
“Sorry about cutting in like that. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay. How are you doing?” There was genuine concern in Skilling’s voice.
“I’m going to deliver the dissertation on Monday.”
Professor Skilling’s eyes went wide with surprise. “I’m glad to hear it, but I meant with your husband.”
“I didn’t know my personal life was world news.”
“There are no secrets in our department—at least not personal ones.”
“Okay, I guess…” Elizabeth was eager to change the subject. “Dr. Skilling, that whale is singing the same song as the whale I was recording in Bequia. The song seems to be migrating around the world, which I’m sure you know is highly unusual. I want to study this whale.”
“You’ll have to get a permit from NOAA,” he said, referring to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which had the jurisdiction to protect the whale.
“That could take weeks.”
“Yes, it probably will.”
“Dr. Skilling,” one of the newscasters said, “could we do a retake? The light was not as good as we’d like.”
“Sure,” Skilling said, quite familiar with the media’s needs. He turned to Elizabeth. “Let me know if I can do anything.”
“You can accept my dissertation,” she said as he started to walk away.
“Just make it acceptable,” he said without turning around.
Elizabeth saw that Connie had arrived with a group of protesters who were holding up SAVE THE WHALES signs. Connie seemed to be involved in almost every issue that dealt with the health of the oceans, but she was particularly devoted to stopping the return of commercial whaling. Elizabeth wondered how the protesters had gotten through. Then she noticed that crowds were arriving to see the whale.
Connie and Elizabeth met on the bridge that crossed the slough. They both looked down
at the whale’s dorsal fin, which was all that was visible in the muddy water. A rigid-hulled Coast Guard boat was patrolling the waters nearby.
Elizabeth felt the bridge vibrating from the whale’s song. “I’ve got to record this whale,” she said, knowing that it would be impossible with the protection zone the Coast Guard had set up.
“How are you going to do that?” Connie asked.
“I’m going to come back after dark.”
TWENTY-SIX
7:30 P.M.
Davis
FRANK STARED DOWN at the menu in front of him. Tom had recommended the lobster and the restaurant and the whole idea of going out with Kim. The lights in the seafood restaurant were dim, and a candle flickered in a red globe between them. Nets and nautical gear hung from the ceiling and walls. The restaurant reminded Frank of Elizabeth and their time diving together. The restaurant was a mistake, as was the whole idea of going out on a date.
Tom seemed certain that Frank needed a wife like his. Jenny had been a nurse, and they seemed to have a perfect family, but Frank still wasn’t sure what he needed.
“You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?” Kim smiled with understanding. Her short blond hair framed her attractive face. She wore a red dress that clung to her slender body quite differently than her scrubs.
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“I’ve been out with enough men to recognize the symptoms of ‘I’m not over her yet’ syndrome.”
“Incurable?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll need to conduct a history…and a physical.” Kim was being playful, and Frank smiled at her use of medical terminology. He decided to play along.
“I’m ready for the examination.”
“Why did you leave her?”
Frank played with his silverware. “I guess I felt alone in my marriage. When you’ve worked thirty-six hours straight, you want to come home to someone who’s happy to see you. Elizabeth was never there.”
“What do you want?”
“I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to choose between having children and the woman I love—”
“The woman you love?” Kim said, looking surprised and disappointed.
Frank heard his words echoed from Kim’s lips. She put her gold napkin down on the table, pushed her chair back, and said, “I think we can skip the physical exam. I already have my prognosis.”
Frank knew it, too. He shook his head with recognition. “Incurable.”
“Good night, Dr. Lombardi.”
Frank looked at his empty plate. Children or no children, he wanted Elizabeth.
“Do you know what you want?”
Frank looked up and saw the waitress. “Excuse me?”
“Do you know what you want?”
Frank smiled and said, “Yes…I think I finally do.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Midnight
ELIZABETH STOOD in her kitchen, dressed in her black wetsuit, with her video camera bag over her shoulder. She looked down at her wedding ring, shining brightly under the fluorescent light. Her hands were swelling for some bizarre reason, and the ring felt tight and uncomfortable. It would be safer for the whale and for her ring if she took it off. She moistened her finger in her mouth and tried to pull the ring over her plump knuckle. The metal dug into her skin but would not budge. Olive oil, she thought, and then smeared the cooking oil on her finger. This time it slipped right off, and she placed the ring in a small dish by the side of the sink.
ELIZABETH PARKED THE CAR far away from the levee, where the police car still blocked the way. The wind was blowing hard, rustling the grass and making the trees at the edge of the water sway like ghosts.
In one hand she had her mask, snorkel, and fins, and in the other she carried the heavy video hydrophone in its plastic housing. The night was moonless, and she knew she wouldn’t see anything on her video camera, but Teo still had her DAT recorder. The video camera would record a digital audio signal that she could work with.
Elizabeth felt like a frogman as she sneaked along the irrigation ditch and over the levee that rose like an ancient American Indian burial mound. Even with her wetsuit on, she could feel that the air was cold, and she knew the water would be even colder. The fog was rolling in, and Elizabeth shivered as she carefully walked down the steep slope to the water. The crickets were so loud they sounded like an alarm.
Halfway down the hillside, the rocky ground gave way, and Elizabeth fell hard on her hip. She saved the video hydrophone by sacrificing her elbow and, dropping her fins and mask, caught herself with her other hand. She kept sliding—right into a blackberry bramble. The long, thorny vines scraped across her face and pierced her wetsuit, but it was her palm that stung the most from the sharp rocks and broken glass.
A police flashlight swept across the area. “Protesters?” she heard one of the officers say as she held her breath, both to stay silent and to try to endure the pain. “Or rats?”
The thought of rats made her cringe. She stayed perfectly still, looking for anything that might be moving.
After a few minutes, the police officers gave up their search. Carefully, she tried detaching herself from the thorns that only grudgingly let go.
Not willing to risk slipping again or being spotted, Elizabeth crawled to the water’s edge. She listened for blows, but all she heard was the water lapping against the rocks.
Then all other sensations—the pain, the cold—disappeared as she heard the exhalation like a dragon’s blast not far from the bank. By the starlight, she could see the high back of the humpback slipping under the water. The damp air fell against her face like a fisherman’s kiss, filled with the salty smell of the sea. She and the whale were breathing the same air. This was not just a fact but an intimacy.
Elizabeth sucked the blood trickling from the palm of her right hand and pulled on her mask and flippers.
She slid into the water, which was even colder than she’d expected. Pulling the mask over her eyes, she stared into the black depths. A tremor of fear snaked up her spine as she swam out into the slough. What the hell am I doing in this dark, deserted water with a forty-ton animal?
Then the whale began to sing. In the narrow waterway, the sounds were amplified. They penetrated her body, deeply piercing her ears and skin. As with Echo in Bequia, she felt a pressure wave against her chest that made it difficult to breathe. She turned on the camera, knowing that its audio would capture each and every sound the whale produced. In the darkness, it felt as if the sounds had shape and form. There it was again—that social sound in the song that occurred together with the contact calls: EEh-EEh-EEh. Unlike the continuous tone of distress calls, this sound was shorter and more abrupt. It reverberated through her, making her body shake and tremble. It was the same sound Sliver had made after her baby had died, but what did it mean?
One of the law enforcement agencies turned on a floodlight. She took a gulp of air and dove below the surface. The whale stopped vocalizing and swam past her. In the light spilling in from the surface, she saw the whale’s outstretched fin, as if he were extending it to her. She released a gasp of air and slowly stretched her hand back to him. She thought of the X-ray photos she had seen of a whale’s flipper, revealing a bone structure that was startlingly similar to a human hand. Then they both surfaced to breathe.
Forty-five minutes of swimming and recording passed in what seemed like moments. When she checked her camera, she discovered that she was out of memory. The floodlight swept across the water, and she had to duck beneath the surface yet again. There was no more she could do tonight, so she swam toward the shore, landing as far from the authorities as she could.
Dragging herself onto the muddy bank, she pulled off her fins. She now had a deeper understanding of the sounds and fresh ideas for ways to test their meaning.
As Elizabeth turned around to climb back up the levee, the bright beam of a police flashlight blinded her.
“I’m going to have to arrest you for trespassing and for viola
tion of the Marine Mammal Protection Act.”
CONNIE KEPT A CLOSE WATCH on Elizabeth from the bridge where she and the other protesters were holding a candlelight vigil. Her organization, the Ocean Warriors, worked to spread the word that over a thousand whales were still being killed each year from whaling and from Navy sonar.
“Oh, no!” Connie said as she saw the police officer approaching Elizabeth. Not good. Not good. Be strategic. Connie looked around and saw a group of college guys whose main goal seemed to be to drink beer and heckle the protesters. She knew the activists were spoiling for a fight.
Connie slipped away from the others and walked behind the college students, who were watching the arrest taking place across the slough with keen interest. She picked up one of the beer bottles they had not broken on the rocks along the shore and launched it at the activists, careful to hit the concrete bridge rather than her friends. The reaction was immediate. First there was shouting, and then several of the protesters ran at the college students, who weren’t quite sure what was going on.
Connie shouted from the bridge to a police officer, who hurried toward the brawl. Connie ran along the levee road, trying to watch her steps on the dark and uneven surface. She called down to where the police officer was trying to reach Elizabeth without slipping.
“Aren’t you Professor—McKay—the world-famous—marine biologist?” Connie said, trying to catch her breath. “I hear they’ve put you—in charge—of the research—team.”
The young police officer looked back and forth between Elizabeth below him and Connie above. In the floodlight, Connie could see his young, fresh face and short-cropped red hair. At that moment the police officer’s shoulder microphone began to crackle. “I need Code Two backup.”
The police officer glanced at Connie and Elizabeth another time and then spoke into the shoulder mike. “Ten-four. Sacramento Fifteen thirty-five en route.”
Eye of the Whale Page 12
