May those who curse days, curse that day

Those who are ready to rouse

LEVIATHAN

Kept hidden from mankind forever, it is about to surface.

When it rises up, the mighty are terrified.

After a rash of violent attacks throughout the Caribbean, marine biologist Kelly Andrews captures evidence of an unidentified predator in the Atlantic. Something unknown to science, something altogether new . . . or else something very old.

It makes the depths churn like a boiling caldron and stirs up the sea.

Billionaire Oscar Wright also learns of the sea monster’s existence, which he considers to be the Biblical Leviathan. Driven mad by grief, the old man devotes his vast fortune to kill the beast for a personal vendetta and harvest its hide as a trophy.

Nothing on earth is its equal — a creature without fear.

Two separate expeditions race across the ocean to find the animal. And when it’s finally discovered, one thing becomes clear: humanity no longer tops the food chain.

Leviathan

――― • ―――

Jared Sandman

LEVIATHAN

Copyright © 2010 by Jared Sandmann

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Ruth Taylor. Visit http://ruth-tay.deviantart.com to view more of her artwork.

FIRST EDITION

CHAPTER ONE

IN CUBA MIGUEL Espinoza had been a respected doctor. Now he was nothing. Out on the ocean, he’d left behind that part of his life. He was still a father and a husband, but he’d given up his medical practice for what he preferred to think as early retirement, jubilación temprana. He’d saved two years’ worth of government paychecks for this trip; little remained of that amount. The physician wondered if he could pull off their escape, especially with his family expanding once again.

His wife, Maria Garcia Espinoza, was eight months pregnant. Despite Miguel’s healthcare connections, they chose not to learn the baby’s gender. For all Miguel knew, José soon could have either a younger sister or brother to babysit.

The boy sat in the backseat of the car. He had little to occupy his time, so he watched the clouds drift by and imagined his new life in the United States. Only ten years old, he had the ambitions of someone more than twice his age. He’d already decided to be a journalist. El Presidente allowed one government-run newspaper to circulate the island, Granma Internacional, which José didn’t enjoy reading. He often made up stories and played alone in the mountains behind his village, picturing himself anywhere but Cuba. He wasn’t familiar with geografía; therefore, he didn’t know much about the world beyond his homeland. His mother had taken him once to Havana to hear one of Castro’s marathon speeches. The crowd had cheered and rejoiced at el Presidente’s fiery words — there were so many people in attendance, he could barely move in the dense throng — but the applause rang hollow in José’s ears. There had to be more, and for that the boy looked to his abuelo.

Maria’s father, Juan Garcia, was asleep in the back next to José. His face was peaceful, his white hair mussed. Deep grooves cut into his cheeks, and there were crow’s-feet around his eyes from years squinting at the sun. He’d become a professional fisherman after dropping out of school at age fifteen. That had been in 1950, and now Juan was an old man. Although hard and filled with his share of disappointment, time had snuck up on him as it did all men. He’d once been able to tie any necessary knot with ease; now his hands shook so badly he couldn’t sip soup with a spoon. It was more aggravating to him than a day spent fishing with no catch to show for it. Lacking formal education, he’d always prided himself on exquisite penmanship. That too had been destroyed by the palsy.

The family had left Cuba from Puerto Escondido, thirty kilometers east of Havana. They stole away in the night, watched the town’s lights disappear into the distance. That had been two days ago; they expected to reach American soil within twenty-four hours, sometime tomorrow morning. It was a ninety-mile trek north through the Straits of Florida to the southernmost tip of the Keys, nicknamed The Puddle by former defectors. Farther out was the Dry Tortugas, nothing there other than the remnants of a Civil War prison, Fort Jefferson.

Miguel’s brother had made a similar trip four years ago and urged the doctor to move his family to America as well. Ricardo played up the United States to be a seductive siren. And though Miguel didn’t buy into the theory the U.S. was as good as claimed to be, it had to be better than Cuba. He was tired of el Presidente’s policies. America held promise and hope, something the Cuban people desperately craved.

If they did make it to America, they planned to stay with Ricardo until they could afford to live on their own. He resided in a town named Miami and maintained it was a wonderful place for new immigrants. There were entire city blocks where no one spoke English, so the language barrier needn’t be a problem. His English nowhere near fluent, Miguel understood enough rudimentary sentences to get by.

Miami seemed far away at the moment. Right now Miguel had to focus on getting his family safely to America. As long as they touched U.S. soil, they’d be granted political asylum. For anything less than that, the Coast Guard would send them back to Cuba.

This trip was the product of meticulous plotting. He’d spent months fitting their only vehicle, a 1948 four-door Nash, onto an aluminum frame. Welding together the hull late at nights, he constructed a floating craft that incorporated the car. He purchased a stripped small-craft engine from a black-market dealer that he attached to the stern. Without a sail they’d need some way to steer toward America; otherwise they might drift for days or never find land.

That same dealer had offered to transport them to the U.S. by cigarette boat; however, the cost was too great. The quoted price was nine thousand dollars per person, regardless of age. Miguel didn’t have that kind of money, so he turned down the proposal with regrets.

The Espinozas left their house, the only home José had known, without informing the neighbors. They couldn’t risk having one of them tip off la policía. If Miguel were caught trying to flee the country, he’d be sent to a repatriotization camp. And most people exiled there never returned. Miguel wondered if he would ever see his home again. Part of him wished to, perhaps after the Castro regime had been interred.

Much as they wanted a better life, it was hard to abandon their property. Everyone had to make sacrifices, including the boy. José was crushed to leave behind his dog, Feo. The pet was as much a family member as any of them, albeit a four-legged mutt. He’d loved that dog since it showed up on their porch three years ago. If the boy had said a tearful goodbye to Feo, Miguel had not seen. He brought up his son to be a man and had yet to be disappointed.

They took what little money was left over from their expenses. Beyond that each member was allowed one suitcase of belongings. The government would confiscate everything else when it was discovered they had left. Miguel packed food and water for the trip, along with two changes of clothing. Maria had taken clothes as well, including a handmade baby outfit her deceased mother had sewn for José. Juan selected clothes and his dog-eared copy of the Bible that rested on his lap. He read it often, particularly on this trip. José took a deck of cards, as many clothes as could fit in his duffle bag, and a picture of him with Feo. It broke his heart to look at the photograph, yet his gaze wandered to it many times.

The move was difficult for the Espinozas, but difficulty wasn’t new to them. There were many motivations driving them from Cuba, the foremost being José. Miguel didn’t want his son and future child growing up under Communist rule. It was bad enough the doctor had to; he didn’t want the same for his kids.

Communism itself wasn’t the problem, for theoretically it was a workable system. If everyone received as much as anyone else, there were no great disparages of wealth like in America. The only people in Cuba who made more than its citizenry were members of government or drug-runners who paid the corrupt policía to look the other way.

The trouble with Communism laid in politics. Any socialist state under a dictatorship could not flourish. Left to its own devices, Communism would not buckle under itself. Most of the island’s financial setbacks came at the hands of the United States. Cuban schools were dilapidated yet allowed children a high level of education. Its colleges produced many of the best healthcare professionals in the world, Miguel among them, well trained with twice the work ethic of their American counterparts. The majority of economic strife could be traced to crippling trade sanctions, most notably from its neighbor to the north. If Cuba were permitted to engage in free trade, the quality of life for its people would rival any developed country. The prohibitions from Los Estados Unidos had damned the Cuban people to wallow in poverty, punishment for a government over which they wielded no control.

It was tough to bring needed supplies to the nation because of both its political affiliations and self-sustained geography. Cubans could not receive the food, medicine and tourist money they needed. Before Castro rose to power, the Cuban people had been generally content; after him, most of the international community shunned them. They clung to Castro as their savior because he was all they had. El Presidente was the one person who hadn’t turned his back on them when they were rebuked by the rest of the world.

Cuban children were taught in school that America was a terrible place headed by a capitalistic government run amok. In the United States, kids were told Communism was evil. In actuality neither was true. Cuba was a decent place filled with hardworking people. But Miguel was weary of strict political rule. No place could reach its potential when the general public feared its government. The doctor tired of being afraid of la policía, of being sent to prisión.

Miguel knew all too well the repercussions of insubordination. His father had spoken out against Castro shortly after el Presidente’s coup from Batista. Men arrived at their house that night, dragged the elder Espinoza into the street and took him into custody. He was never seen again. Miguel had been twelve at the time and hadn’t the opportunity to tell his father goodbye.

Miguel reached into his supply chest for a bottle of water. He twisted off the cap, drank deep and long. But not too long, as provisions had to last another day or so. He passed the bottle to Maria, which she pushed away. She had stayed relatively cool by fanning herself with a piece of cardboard.

Today wasn’t as hot as it had been. Yesterday the heat had been unbearable. Afternoon clouds masked the sky, bringing with them a stiff breeze from the west. It would likely rain later, which would further drop temperatures. Any bit helped.

Miguel had packed five days’ worth of food and a week’s worth of water, in addition to extra motor fuel if they got lost. Miguel had a good sense of direction, and Maria’s father was an expert maritime navigator. The doctor also made sure to include a package of salt cubes to help replenish the sodium they lost through copious amounts of perspiration. Most of their sustenance consisted of beef jerky and bread. They’d eaten the last of the fruit that morning, and José wished they’d taken more bananas.

No one said much, their minds preoccupied with the future. On the first day, José had asked if he could leave the car to go swimming. Miguel forbade the idea because the trip was dangerous enough. He didn’t need the added stress from worrying about his son potentially drowning.

Juan barely said anything, kept busy with his Spanish version of the King James’ Bible. He didn’t want to come on the trek but eventually succumbed to Maria’s insistence. She had pleaded for him to join them, considering they already lived together. He believed himself too old for such an adventure and felt like a drain on the family, as though he’d outlived his usefulness.

The elderly man had been born in Cuba, wanted to die with dignity in his homeland. Juan remembered when Americans roamed the island with impunity, driving their expensive cars to attend lavish parties. He had even met Ernesto Hemingway once. On his way home from the harbor one evening, he struck up conversation with a grizzled boat captain fishing off the dock. It wasn’t until later he learned the bearded gentleman had been the infamous gringo writer. Cuba revered the Nobel Prize winner as a national treasure, surpassed only by Castro in popularity.

The engine droned behind the car, pushing their craft toward redemption. The Espinozas had listened to it for so long, only when the noise stopped did it register with them. They weren’t aware anything was wrong until the motor started coughing like an asthmatic and cut out.

Miguel glanced to his wife. Her features were wrought with fret.

Because the sides of the craft were not wide enough for the doors to open, Miguel had to climb out the driver’s window. He inched to the back of the boat along a slim ledge. He had been told the motor was brand new, an assertion he stupidly accepted as fact. What a fool, Miguel la bufón. They were adrift, the weather was poised to turn ominous, and the waves grew by the hour. This was the last thing the physician wanted to happen.

Until the engine caught fire.

Thick black smoke billowed from the engine block. “Maldígala,” he cursed under his breath. From the car his family watched. He didn’t want the others to pick up on his growing anxiety. The outboard’s whirling rotorblades ground to a halt. He grabbed the engine to pull it from the water and withdrew his hand. It was too hot to touch. Miguel took off his sweat-stained camisa and used it to wrest away the motor. The bulkiness proved too heavy, searing and unwieldy. It slipped from the doctor’s grip and crashed onto the deck.

With smoke rising to the clouds, one of the blades chipped off and gouged the aluminum hull. Saltwater poured through the gash. “Ayúdeme,” he yelled: Help me. Miguel dropped to his knees and began bailing out water with his cupped hands. It was a losing battle.

In spite of his advanced age, Juan was quite agile. He was the first out of the car to aid his son-in-law. The old man took over as Miguel manhandled the engine. By now it was shot; there was no way to fix it. Even if they figured out what was broken, they had no tools available to repair the issue. The outboard was a lost cause.

It had stopped smoldering by the time Miguel positioned it to the gunwale. With a great heave, he cast it into the Atlantic. It sank into oblivion and took the Espinoza’s aspirations with it.

Juan’s hand touched the doctor’s shoulder. Miguel fought back tears when the old man handed him a flare gun. They’d packed it in case of emergency, a situation exactly like this. Miguel took it, heart laden with disappointment. Using it signified a failed mission. He didn’t want his family to see him defeated, as broken as the outboard.

The doctor took aim at the heavens. “Uno. Dos. Tres.” He fired the gun directly overhead, a flare trailing high into the clouds. It left a streak of smoke behind and burned almost two hundred meters straight up. He prayed someone saw the distress signal soon, or else rescuers would discover them treading water. If they were found at all.

* * * * *

Chad McKenzie and Mikey Wilbanks were eight miles offshore when they spotted a flare shoot across the sky. Both were First Class Privates in the United States Coast Guard. Mikey was the older of the pair by a few years, both of them in their twenties. He’d joined the service at age eighteen and wanted to make a career out of it. Chad had been assigned to the Marathon Key post right out of specialized training. He was the model cadet and had been appointed to the Keys ahead of several others because of his exemplary linguistic skills.

Chad radioed to base. “McKenzie here. We have a distress signal approximately ten miles out. Wilbanks and I are going to investigate. We’ll report back, over.”

Their orders came immediately. “Roger that. Finish your sweep and head home. Over and out.”

“Over and out.”

“Whaddya think it is?” Mikey asked. Chad steered the eighty-seven-foot Coastal Patrol Boat on a south-by-southwest route, the distinct craft recognizable by the diagonal orange band painted on its hull.

“Probably yachters who got in over their heads. Or refugees.”

“Let’s go rescue some wetbacks.”

Chad rolled his eyes. “Those are Mexicans,” he said. “If you’re gonna be racist, have the decency to use the proper slur.”

Waters off southern Florida had the highest criminal activity in the country, from illegal immigration to drug smuggling mostly. Narco-trafficking, aliens and terrorists were the top three priorities of the Coast Guard. The USCG was a legitimate branch of the Armed Forces yet caught the most flak from other military personnel.

Going a steady thirty knots toward the smoke trail, they arrived on scene within ten minutes. They were greeted by the Espinozas, four persons standing on the roof of a half-submerged car that was sinking by the moment. The immigrants’ faces expressed overwhelming sadness. They prayed for help from anyone but the Coast Guard, the very people who would turn them away.

“I’ll give ‘em credit, they pimped out their ride pretty sweet,” Mikey said. “I couldn’t turn my car into an amphibious vehicle.”

“Neither could they,” Chad said as he grabbed a megaphone underneath the front seat. “THIS IS THE UNITED STATES COAST GUARD. RETURN TO YOUR COUNTRY OF ORIGIN. GO BACK NOW.” Working alongside the U.S. Border Patrol, the Coast Guard estimated an average of one hundred successful landings or interceptions each week.

“Should we hit ‘em with the water cannon?” Mikey asked with sadistic delight. “Com’on, it’d be funny.”

“Lay off,” Chad said. “Nobody wants to deal with your bullshit.” It hurt him to see the hope dim in these folks’ eyes. They were trying to better their lives, a noble cause. It was against U.S. policy however, part of the 1966 Cuban Adjustment Act.

Chad idled beside the sinking car. “Qué está equivocado?” he asked: What’s wrong? Immediately he understood how rhetorical the question sounded. There were four individuals: a pregnant woman, an older gentleman, a boy and a man. Chad asked them, “Habla ingles?”

“Hablo poquito inglés,” Miguel said. I speak little English.

Mikey, impatient as ever, pushed aside Chad. Hanging over the gunwale, he stuck out his arm. “Grab my hand,” he said. The family stared at him. He thought how to rephrase the command in Spanish. “Uh . . . el grabbo.”

“El grabbo?” Chad said. “Try asga la manò.”

Mikey shook his arm. “Asga la manò.”

The woman reached out first. She stepped onto the Coast Guard boat, using Mikey and Chad’s outstretched hands to steady herself.

Mikey turned to the rest of the Espinozas, elbowed his partner in the ribs and pointed. “Check it out.” About a hundred yards from the car it seemed to be raining. But only in a specific spot, as if the clouds had opened for a very localized shower.

Chad squinted for a better look at the phenomenon. No, it wasn’t pouring after all. Fat raindrops didn’t pelt the water; rather, water droplets vibrated upward like jumping beans. Odder still, the patch was moving . . . right toward them.

“Prisa,” Chad said. Hurry. Then with more force: “Prisa, prisa, prisa!” He kept an eye on the advancing spot. The boy appeared transfixed by it. The elderly man grabbed the youngster and hefted him up to the Americans. Juan then started tossing their belongings onto the cutter.

Lightning flashed overhead, and the accompanying thunderclap sounded like a head of lettuce being rent asunder. The shadowy patch in the water was almost on them now. Chad held out his hand to the old man —

— at the moment they were attacked.

The only visible part of the creature was its head, which made it hard to gauge its total size. The tip of its bulbous snout to its eyes measured a solid six feet. The beast snapped at the floating vehicle, teeth piercing the hull. The attack was violent enough to catapult Juan into the water.

“Mi Dios,” the doctor said. As the car slipped under the waves, Miguel dived as far from the animal as possible. A large balloon of air bubbles escaped from the interior of the Nash.

“Get them outta the water,” Chad ordered Mikey.

“Whaddya want me to do?”

“I dunno, jump in?”

“Huh-uh, screw that. Ain’t no way I’m going in. What the hell is that thing, a shark or something?”

“Quick, grab a life ring.”

José saw the beast beside the cutter. The boy whispered to his mother and hugged her tight. Mikey heaved a floatation device to the treading men. It landed near the elderly gentleman, who passed it on to the younger man. Miguel shook his head and pushed it back. Juan took the ring and offered it to the doctor again. “Pase,” he told his son-in-law: Go on.

Miguel needn’t say anything because his face expressed his gratitude. He accepted the ring and half-swam to the cutter, the coastguardsmen together pulling him.

Juan continued to float behind the physician. The water vibrations began anew, and Juan was close enough to hear a rumbling noise the creature made under the waves. It sounded akin to the busted outboard. The beast’s head bobbed up near him, its eye staring laterally above the waterline. Its gaze absorbed Juan, for there was such beauty in something so powerful and lethal. When their eyes met, the old man understood the end of his life had come. The Bible preached that he’d live forever, which he honestly believed. Right now his copy of the Good Book rested at the bottom of the sea, one hundred and fifty meters below. Juan thought it fitting this creature should kill him. As a fisherman his greatest fear was having the ocean swallow him one day. He was afraid to never see his beloved Marta again. Since she had already passed away, the old man was honored to proffer himself on the altar of the Atlantic.

The beast dispatched him with a flick of its jaws.

“Vaya con Dios,” Maria whispered as she crossed herself. Go with God, she told her father. José gasped at the grisly display, buried his head in Maria’s bosom. So long as he lived, the boy would never forget witnessing his grandfather’s death. In two bites the old man was gone.

Miguel glanced backward then rushed to the cutter in a burst of speed. Chad hung over the side, his arm dangling near the water as Mikey reeled in the doctor. The beast focused on its next meal. With a final kick, Miguel latched onto the guardsman’s hand. Chad tried to pull him up and said, “Little help here.” Mikey joined in, and they dragged the doctor halfway onboard before the monster struck again.

Its head snapped up and rotated as it ripped away Miguel, both of them disappearing into the depths. Maria screamed and José collapsed to his knees. Water around the boat churned pink with blood.

Chad fell onto the deck, still gripping Miguel’s severed stump.

Mikey’s hands trembled as he reached for the marine radio. “Mayday. Mayday, this is Wilbanks. We’re under siege. Repeat, under siege. Does anyone read, over?”

“Don’t bother,” Chad told him. “We need to get the hell outta here.” He dropped the limb and revved the boat engine. Everyone grasped onto something solid as he pulled a sharp U-turn and gunned it toward land. After a minute he asked his partner, “Is it following us?”

Mikey shook his head. “I don’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean it ain’t there.”

Ocean spray coated them as they blasted through the waves. Chad noticed the Cubans were staring at the amputated arm, tears streaking their faces. “Get that outta sight,” he said.

“I don’t wanna touch it,” Mikey replied. Chad glared at him. “Okay, I’m on it.” Mikey scurried up to the pair and pointed at the water. Maria knew what he was doing, and she played along to keep José from noticing too.

When they turned to look away, Mikey scooped up the appendage. It was still warm. Returning to his partner, he found a storage carton filled with lifejackets stowed under the main console. He dumped the vests and placed the arm inside. “What are we gonna do with them?” he asked Chad.

“Not up to us. I’ll stop offshore and radio for further instructions. Chances are, we’ll have to send them back.”

“Even after what happened? Hell, I’m traumatized — and I didn’t even know those guys. I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”

Chad nodded in agreement and glanced at the container. Everything that remained of Miguel Espinoza and his dreams about a better life for his family fit inside a bloody cardboard box.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO KAYACKERS CUT a W in their wake as they paddled side by side. The water was still, the weather calm and beautiful: a typical late afternoon in Florida. It was standard in summertime for early evening thunderstorms to blossom over the Atlantic Ocean and push onto land. They didn’t last long, fifteen to twenty minutes of steady rain, and weren’t violent for the most part. Just enough to cool down the harsh temperatures and dispel the thick humidity in the air. Today there were a few cumulus clouds near the horizon and a cirrus wisp high in the atmosphere.

“How much farther?” Amber asked. Her shoulderblades ached, and she felt restricted by the bright yellow life vest chaffing her armpits. Her boyfriend insisted she wear it for safety.

“Not a lot,” Brad said. “I can see it up ahead.” Last month they’d celebrated two years together. Both were in law school, a semester shy of graduation. They’d met at a singles’ get-together organized by their local church and embarked on a relationship soon thereafter.

The kayaking excursion had been Brad’s idea. He thought it would be nice to plan a romantic dinner on one of the small sandbars off the coast. They’d been rowing for half an hour when he spied the cay. It was the top of a dead coral reef, covered with shifting sand from the undercurrent. Only above the waterline at low tide, it rose and fell from view twice a day.

“There,” he said. Brad took the lead and paddled to the tiny island. He pushed hard to run the kayak aground. Amber hung back while her boyfriend struggled out. Grabbing the craft with one arm, he hauled it completely ashore then waded into the lukewarm water to guide her boat onto dry land.

Amber stepped out and asked, “How’d you find this place?”

“Saw it last week when I was riding out here on the Sea-Doo. Isn’t it a great hideaway?”

An adventurous couple, they were always on the search for the next great expedition. During the school year they didn’t get out of the apartment often, which led to frayed nerves and cabin fever, so in the summer months they planned at least two mini-vacations. Last year they traveled to Peru, eager to explore the lost Incan city of Machu Picchu. Believing it would hold the same allure and tranquility as when Hiram Bingham discovered it in 1909, they instead found the area trampled by tourists and locals hawking gaudy souvenirs. It had upset them to see the ruins further ruined by greed and pollution.

This time they decided to stay home, disenchanted from their last venture. Florida had a lot to offer, and they opted to stay in state rather than journey abroad. Despite being been born and raised in the Sunshine State, Amber had never visited such destinations as the Kennedy Space Center or Disney World. There was much Brad had yet to experience as well, having moved from Michigan for college.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said. The length of the cay ran about twenty-five feet, with a fifteen-foot width. There was no vegetation, just a blanket of sand peeking up from the ocean.

Brad agreed with his girlfriend’s assessment. It was gorgeous, though it paled in comparison to Amber’s natural beauty. She stripped off her lifejacket and tossed it beside the kayaks. “Gimme a hand,” he said.

Amber clapped. “Bravo, Mister Miller.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “On the count of three, tip it upside-down.” After casting aside his own life preserver, he crouched by the kayak. “Remember to lift with your legs. One. Two. Three.” They picked up the craft on both ends and rolled it with ease.

“The other one too?” she asked.

“Lemme grab something first.” He rummaged in the footwell of his kayak, produced a picnic basket and a blanket. “Ta-da,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Dinner.”

Amber flashed a coy smile. “You sneaky devil.” He had smuggled the contraband when she hadn’t been paying attention. “I’m so glad we had this opportunity.”

“Me too.” They almost had to abandon their plans. Both of them held full-time jobs, and while the school-free summer months afforded more leisure time, it was still a chore to juggle their separate work schedules. Amber originally had to work, but Brad persuaded her to trade shifts with a co-worker at the restaurant.

They moved to the second kayak. She counted, “One, two, three.” It went over smooth like the first.

“Let’s get this set up.” Daylight was fading, as was the island. He grabbed the basket and spread about a red blanket before laying out turkey sandwiches, grapes and a warm bottle of Merlot.

His girlfriend seemed preoccupied. “What do you think we should name it?” she asked.

“Name what?”

“This place. We discovered it, so we reserve the right to name it like any other explorers.” He sat on the cover and motioned for her to join him. When she did, he draped his arm over her shoulders and thought about the answer. Marathon Key was glimpsed a quarter-mile in the distance. They faced away from land though, as they didn’t want any reminders of civilization.

“How ‘bout the Isle of Ambergris, in your honor?”

“I love it,” she said. “I claim this land in my name. It sounds so regal.”

“It’s also the main ingredient in fine perfume.” Brad neglected to mention the product was derived from the intestinal secretions of sperm whales, a reference that would’ve spoiled the mood.

Brad and Amber snacked on sandwiches and handfed each other green grapes. (Amber hated the purple ones, and while he tried to explain there was no difference between the two, she was adamant they were sourer than the green.) Afterward they popped open the wine and took turns drinking from the bottle. The Merlot wasn’t chilled but still tasted good.

“Wish I’d brought more,” he admitted. “Cups at the very least.”

“No worries,” she said and took another sip. She was already a bit buzzed. Holding her liquor wasn’t one of Amber’s strong suits, another quirk that made Brad love her more. “It doesn’t need to be lavish. You know I’m not that kinda girl.” Amber would rather wear hiking boots than high heels. “Being together makes it special. The food, the island, all this is a bonus.”

“I want you to feel like a princess.”

“Why should I settle for that when I’m already a queen? Queen of Ambergris.”

“Here-here, your Majesty.” He stood and said, “I’ll get this stuff packed away.”

“I can help.”

“No, I got it.” He collected the remnants of dinner and tucked their trash in the basket.

“I’ll go take a dip then. Call me when you’re done.”

Amber trekked out to the water. It felt good, especially in the baking heat. Four feet off the isle’s edge and already wet to her slender hips, she took a dive. When she came up for air, she was out far enough that her feet didn’t touch the sandy bottom.

She did the breaststroke for a while and later switched to the sidestroke before her right calf muscle seized up in a cramp. Treading water, she massaged her leg with one hand. Once she worked out the knot, she looked up and saw . . .

What was it?

Something several yards away glinted like a half-dollar in the sun. A second later it was obscured in the trough of two waves. Amber bobbed around to find it again, but it was gone. She stayed a minute longer before feeling violated. There was something in her space, and she didn’t want to share with anything else. Probably nothing more than a floating beer bottle. The Florida Keys had gotten more polluted in the last decade, despite a push for conservation by environmentalists.

She swam back to an area where she could stand and walked to shore.

That’s when something touched her leg.

She almost yelled since she thought it was a fish or stingray. It clung to her knee though, so she reached under the water and pulled it away. A piece of harmless seaweed dripped in her hand. Amber hurled the vegetation into the sea and emerged on the beach. The sand here was wet enough to leave the footprints of her sandals. The young woman never traveled in the ocean without her flip-flops, a lesson learned after she sliced open the sole of her right foot on a piece of jagged coral as a teen.

“How goes it?” she asked her boyfriend. Brad sat on the sand with his back to her.

“Pretty well now that you’re here.”

She moved to sit on the picnic blanket. Brad patted the ground next to him. “Come here,” he said. He handed her a blue towel to dry herself.

“Did you see that?” she asked, taking her place beside him.

“Your magnificent breasts?”

“No, you horndog, that thing out there.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“It was . . . a shimmer,” Amber said. She didn’t know how else to describe it. “Like a dark shimmer.”

“Could’ve been anything, more than likely your overactive imagination.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I’m sure it was a mirage.” Amber picked up on Brad’s distracted attitude. There was something off; he’d been acting weird all afternoon. She didn’t say anything, afraid to upset him. Amber stared into the water, gentle waves lapping a couple feet away. “I thought we were heading out?” she said.

“Don’t you wanna see the sun set? That was the reason I wanted us to come out here.” His heart beat hard in his chest, hands shaking so badly he dug them into the sand so she wouldn’t notice.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard today.” She snuggled next to him and kissed his cheek.

They were good for each other, an air of competition between them that stemmed from sexual attraction. One tried to top the other for bragging rights, whether in athletics or academics, though their energies were best spent working together. They kept one another honest, which was of utmost importance since both sought careers in law.

He swept back a stray strand of dark hair (its dampness belied her natural blond roots) and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” she said.

They sat silent for fifteen minutes as they watched the sun sink beneath the horizon. The sky went from dusky orange to a rich pink, casting the region in soft pastel colors. It was hard for Amber to believe the sun was a second-rate star ninety-three million miles away. It seemed so close she could pluck it from the heavens as she would a grapefruit from a citrus tree.

While they hadn’t moved at all, the water now licked their toes. The Isle of Ambergris would be gone by midnight, only to reappear again around noon. The cay had been reduced by half its size since they landed. Brad noticed his girlfriend had her towel wrapped tight to fend off the encroaching breeze. Goosebumps covered her upper arms. “I wish we had the blanket,” he said.

“It’s around here somewhere. I’ll grab it.” She left him to find the coverlet. He’d sprawled it out in the middle of the sand, leaving her to gather it alone. The young man was nervous enough to vomit.

Amber retrieved the blanket. She turned to head back when she stopped. Her head cocked and she saw something so powerful, so terrifying, it rendered her speechless.

Written in the compressed sand underneath the cover was a single question: WILL YOU MARRY ME? Tears beaded in her eyes. She took a minute to compose herself, after which she returned to her boyfriend as if nothing happened.

Brad didn’t glance at her, maintained his gaze on the ocean. “So whaddya say?” he asked.

“What about?” Amber knew very well what about.

He shot her a bewildered look. “You didn’t see?” he asked. “I-I left a message for you.” He hoped the wind hadn’t swept it away.

“Oh . . . oh, that.” She feigned disinterest. “Yeah, I saw it.”

“And?”

Amber furrowed her eyebrows, deep in thought. She’d already made her decision. After several lingering seconds she couldn’t hold back a grin. “I’d say you got yourself a wife, Mister Miller.”

Brad rushed from his sitting position and lifted her in a bear hug. They kissed, and he tasted the saltwater on her lips. He took an engagement ring from the zippered pocket of his swim trunks. He’d checked his shorts over a dozen times that afternoon to make sure the valuable hadn’t been lost.

The ring sparkled in what was left of the twilight. The carat sapphire gleamed as he slid it on her finger. It was her birthstone, a gem for which she held an affinity. “Perfect fit,” he said.

“How’d you know what size to get?”

“I went to the jeweler with one of your other rings. Remember when you couldn’t find that emerald one? That was me.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she kissed him again.

The afterglow of dusk transformed into the afterglow of sex as they made love on the cover. They’d done the same on vacation in Aruba; it had been romantic then, even more so now. They’d neglected to use a sheet last time and each had spent a week afterward digging sand out of unmentionable places.

Later they lied together as future husband and wife, enjoying the comfortable silence between them. The smell of musk and brine drifted on the air. The temperatures had cooled, forcing them to conserve heat by wrapping the cover around themselves.

Both of them stared at the stars. The moon was full tonight and cast the waves as dark shadows. There was no cloud cover, so they had a panoramic view of the constellations. Above them Polaris sparkled as part of the Big Dipper.

A meteor burned through the atmosphere, ripped a bright trail across the sky. “Look, a shooting star,” Brad said. His finger traced the arc of its path. “You have to make a wish,” he told her.

“Already got one.”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Amber shook her head. “Not only wouldn’t it be a secret then, it wouldn’t come true.”

“I promise not to tell a soul,” he said. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“I wished to freeze this moment forever.” It sounded naïve, like when she was a young girl and thought she really would marry some charming prince from a faraway land.

“That’s what I wished for too,” Brad said.

“Really?”

“Nah,” he admitted, “I asked for a convertible. But yours sounds pretty good, so I’ll change mine.”

She poked him in the side. “You can’t take it back. It’s too late.”

“Oh well.” He sat up and stretched. She knew what he was about to say, and she wasn’t ready to hear those words. “We should be pushing off.”

“Do we have to go now?” Amber wanted to stay here, on this magical spit of an island. The Isle of Ambergris was special to her, a kingdom she wasn’t prepared to relinquish.

“I got work tomorrow,” he said. “And it’ll take another half hour to row back to shore.” Brad stole a look at his watch, estimated they’d be back at the apartment around eleven.

“Can’t we stay and celebrate a little longer?”

“I’d love to but we’re out of booze, babe. Party’s over.” He stood and collected the blanket and picnic items, including the half-empty bottle of Merlot. Amber sighed and joined him, wiping the sand from her knees and bikini bottom.

They refitted their lifejackets and packed their belongings. Amber helped her boyfriend — fiancé now, that would take some getting used to — overturn the kayaks again. He handed her an oar then dragged one boat to the water’s edge. Brad assisted her to get situated in the kayak’s tight space, and he pushed the craft into the water. He turned to his own while Amber drifted nearby.

It took a bit more skill to maneuver himself into the kayak. It was easier launching from a ramp than shore. He almost tipped once but regained his balance. “Careful hon,” she said. Amber peered at the city lights on the coast. “How do you know where we parked?” she asked.

He pointed. “You see that cluster of orange lights? That’s the harbor.”

There was a surreal quality in the air that came from seeing a town in the distance yet being far enough away not to hear the city noises. It felt like a dream, one from which Amber didn’t want to waken. She gave a prolonged glance at what was left of Ambergris, then she set her paddle in the water and started toward land.

They rowed for twenty minutes before she saw something familiar, a shimmer in the water like before. “There it is again,” she said.

“What?”

“A spark.” It reflected off the moonlight. “Over there.” She motioned to the south but didn’t see it again.

“Dunno what it is,” he said. Marathon Key was close, the sounds from land faint on the wind. The sky had started to cloud, though that didn’t worry Brad. The rain wouldn’t reach them until they arrived home. After a while Brad turned and said, “I’ll race you.”

Amber smiled. “You’re dust.”

“I’ll even give you a head start.”

“I don’t need charity to kick your butt. I can do it fair and square.”

“Loser has to cook breakfast. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“And just so you know, I’ll be hungry for bacon and eggs.”

“Tough talk,” she said, “especially from a man who’ll be serving me pancakes in bed.”

Sea spray splashed them as they rocketed toward shore. Pumping arms kept the crafts moving at a swift pace. The harbor wasn’t too far out, no more than five hundred yards. Amber gritted her teeth, ignored the growing stitch in her side. Brad’s kayak was beside hers. She didn’t focus on it for fear of losing her concentration and the edge. In time the pain in her ribs grew too great, so she slowed for a second to catch her breath. In that moment Brad took the lead, and now she permitted herself to look at him.

She eyed the kayak and it eyed her back.

A saucer-sized obsidian pupil stared at her, the moon mirrored in its dark abyss. Amber realized that had been what caught her attention twice before, the shimmer. Now she spied the monstrosity to which it belonged. The beast rose from the water with the stealth of a U-boat. Its massive jaws sprang wide, its head tilted backward.

Brad was oblivious to the creature as it swam behind him with gaping maw. Once he recognized the gravity of the situation — when he saw six-inch teeth closing around him like the entrance to a bottomless cavern — it was too late. Amber didn’t have time to warn him before the mouth snapped shut like a bear trap. Because its snout ran the length of a canoe, it had no difficulty devouring Brad and the kayak whole.

Amber stifled a scream. There was no thinking on her part, only instinct. The beast that had eaten her fiancé slipped underneath the black water. Amber pushed her alcohol-numbed body beyond its limits as she paddled for shore. The marina was close enough she heard the rumbling of ship engines and discerned lovers having dinner on the outback terrace of La Noche Café.

“Help,” she yelled. “Help me.” The diners were unaware of her presence, too wrapped up in their meals and conversations. Despite her side feeling ready to rupture, Amber worked through the searing agony. Her arms seemed heavy, so heavy, yet she willed herself onward. She would make it to land. “Somebody help,” she hollered, her voice already hoarse. Fearful of the creature that took Brad to a watery grave, she thought of nothing except the safety of the pier.

Jaws suddenly opened ahead of her, dripping saltwater and bits of shredded flesh.

Amber paddled hard to the left, sideswiping the beast. Its head twisted sideways and crushed the front end of the kayak with pointed, bloodstained teeth. It pulled the craft under the waves, trapping Amber inside.

The sudden change of environment shocked her system. She became disoriented as the boat sank. Amber kicked free of the kayak and thrashed upward, the lifejacket helping propel her.

Air flooded her lungs when she hit the surface. Arms and legs worked in tandem as she stormed toward the wharf. Whatever was after her, she prayed the craft kept it occupied.

Her prayers went unanswered.

The eye peered out from between her and land, between her and sanctuary. When its head lifted above the waterline, she spotted it clear in the moonlight for the first time. Here she recognized what it truly was, a monster from the deep.

She tried to call for attention but her vocal cords wouldn’t cooperate, frozen in fear. The scream died in Amber’s throat, and a moment later she did the same in the beast’s.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS A perfect day to explore the world’s mysteries. There was much humanity had yet to discover, the oceans topping that list. Modern society largely ignored the planet. Governments had more interest in sending men to Mars and weaponizing the atom than protecting the environment. People gazed into the universe for answers to mankind’s existence, instead of investigating the earth’s seas. Untold species yearned to be indexed, untold cures extracted. The most important answers scientists sought were in those depths, a fact Kelly Andrews was certain would be proven true.

And she was the one to do it.

She stood on the dock, her research vessel moored in port. The Aurora was a beautiful ship to the casual onlooker, let alone a professional seafarer. Named for the Roman goddess of dawn, a being who personified eternal progress, it had been built in 1990 by the Florida Aquatic Foundation. Driven to bankruptcy from several factors — the Aurora’s expensive construction among them — the FAF was forced to sell its prized possession. Kelly’s corporate employer, the Siesta Key Research Institute, bought it at auction for the tidy sum of seven million dollars. It was a bargain.

Its length extended one hundred and sixty feet from bow to stern, fifty feet across the beam, with a draft of seven feet. Attached to the stern was an observation platform that rested ten feet above water. While the ship didn’t compare to the luxury cruise liners anchored in Fort Lauderdale, it was twice as large as the average research vessel. The Aurora also came equipped with a photo lab, a Yumbo crane, a decompression chamber and other amenities.

A man approached her from behind. His boots echoed like gunshots on the wooden pier. “Miss Andrews? They’re about ready,” he said.

She did not turn to him. “I’ll be right up.” She took off her sunglasses, wiped them with her untucked shirt. The early morning sun burned her sensitive blue eyes. Kelly made her way across the gangway. Though the plank swayed from the gentle waves, she didn’t use the handrail. Her balance was used to such discrepancies, and she had a svelte pair of sea legs.

Having spent more of the last two decades on water than land, little fazed her. The last time she remembered being frightened was five years ago, during Hurricane Evette. She’d been on the Aurora at the time and instructed Captain Bart to chart a course north to avoid the storm. It was headed west toward Hialeah when a ridge of high pressure settled on southern Florida. During the middle of the night, the tempest switched direction to due north. The Aurora had been caught between fifty-foot ocean swells and over one-hundred-mile-an-hour winds. Around two in the morning the engines flooded. The ship was batted about like a tennis ball for ten hours until the clouds dissipated, the winds downgraded from fatal to merely dangerous. She never wanted to go through that experience again if she could help it.

A black man greeted her on deck. He wore a greasy, pale blue jumpsuit and headphones that blared rap lyrics. The mechanic, Rafe Maliki, had eclectic tastes and listened to everything from heavy metal to jazz to audio books. “I got that pipe replaced,” he told her.

“That’s what I heard. Glad you decided to get around to it.”

“Hey, I said I was gonna do it. It’s just a matter of when.” He smiled, a crooked front tooth poking from between his lips, a contagious grin.

“I appreciate that.” The Coast Guard had suspended their maritime license until a rusty steam pipe in the engine room was repaired. That was the hold up, the reason they had to leave today instead of yesterday as scheduled. Upon re-inspection, the USCG reinstated all privileges.

She had known Rafe since he took the job as Aurora’s mechanic when the previous engineer, Joseph Kincaid, transferred to work in Palau. The young man had apprenticed for the vocation since moving from Jamaica. At twenty-four years old, Rafe already had a high level of experience. He was an expert in anything mechanical. More valuable was his knack for fixing complicated problems with simple solutions, a keen sense of improvisation.

She took the main stairs to the pilothouse. Inside she found Captain Bart hard at work. Napping. She spied him through the window and quietly opened the door. Kelly waited a few seconds before slamming it and bellowing, “Coast Guard inspection.”

Bartholomew Michaels almost fell out of his chair as his eyes snapped open. “Christ, Kel, you scared the shit outta me.”

“Good,” she said.

“I don’t need a third heart attack, y’know.”

“Are those the maps?” she asked. On the table behind him were several navigational charts. “You got everything plotted out?”

He stood and joined her. “Don’t worry, I followed your instructions. Same place as before, right?”

“Give or take,” she said. Before them lay a rainbow-colored bathymetric map. Whereas topographical charts depicted elevation above sea level, bathymetry represented deviations below. The diagram here recorded an elliptical crack near the seventy-five-degree latitude shown in bright yellow. The Aurora was headed to a valley two hundred miles offshore, where the ocean floor plummeted to a depth of almost fifteen thousand feet. The fissure was a half-mile wide, its original formation unknown since there were no major tectonic plates in the Atlantic basin to cause such a rift. It had been named the Sylvian Trench after Doctor Conrad Sylvian, the marine geophysicist who first mapped the flat-bottomed area in the ‘80s.

They’d been to the same spot a week ago and had performed the exact routine they planned to execute today. The first leg had been the controlled portion of the experiment. This new trip would hopefully produce better evidence for her research. “Are we ready to head out?”

“That we are.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road.”

Bart took the intercom at his captain’s post. “Make preparations for departure and secure the hatches. Repeat: ready to depart, secure the hatches.” Workers scrambled to pull up the gangway. The turbines in the engine room whirred slowly to life like giants woken from a restless slumber. Bart next contacted the harbormaster by marine radio, a handheld walkie-talkie set to VHF channels. “This is the Aurora. Permission to leave port, over.”

The line hissed static for several seconds until a voice responded. “Permission granted. Aurora is logged out. Have a safe voyage, over.”

“Copy that, over and out.” It took another ten minutes before the Aurora pulled slowly out of harbor.

Kelly watched as the ship coasted from mainland. After a while she said, “If everything’s under control here, I’m gonna check the equipment one last time.”

Bart took off an orange and teal Miami Dolphins ballcap, ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Little late for that, but suit yourself.”

Kelly left the pilothouse and took a starboard ladder to the observation deck. Under the sun and on the water, she felt better. Kelly often experienced severe headaches that disappeared in the ocean air, her body’s way of telling her to get back to work.

She spotted Rafe on deck and called out, “Everything up to snuff?” He was turned from her, listening to music again. She tapped his shoulder and startled him.

“You say something?”

“I asked if everything’s ready for use.”

The man nodded, dreadlocks bouncing around his head. “Checked it meself.”

“No offense, but I wanna go over it too.”

A company that specialized in nautical instruments for the military and scientific community had manufactured the camera itself. The size and shape of a large beachball, it had clear Plexiglas on the anterior side so one could visually inspect its internal gears. The lens had a three-inch-diameter aperture, which Kelly triple-checked for stability. Also included were two florescent spotlights. A cube of titanium rods had been constructed around the device to give it a form more suitable to rest on the seafloor.

“Fancy a bit of trivia?” he asked.

“Sock it to me.”

Rafe regularly questioned anyone within earshot on tidbits from American history. He was still on a work visa while living in the United States and had been studying for his naturalization exam, learning information about America’s past and government. His research was thorough, far surpassing the requirements needed to become a U.S. citizen. He routinely brought up facts and figures that Kelly herself didn’t know.

“John Adams was the second president, after Washington and before Jefferson. But as coincidence both he and Jefferson died on the same day. Guess when that was.” Kelly thought about it, failed to come up with a date. “I’ll give you a hint,” Rafe said, “it’s the nation’s birthday.”

She wouldn’t have guessed the right answer without his clue. “The Fourth of July?”

The mechanic nodded. “They both died on July fourth, 1826, the fiftieth anniversary for the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Weird, huh?”

“Yeah, weird.” She wasn’t paying much attention, more engrossed with the camera at the moment. To her the machine looked like an eyeball suspended in a box.

Kelly humored Rafe because she liked him. With few exceptions, people on the crew didn’t socialize with the Jamaican. He was a loner by nature, like herself, so they bonded out of their shared love of solitude. She didn’t mind his company and understood he needed to talk sometimes. “You hear the one about Lincoln and Kennedy?” she asked.

“What about it?”

“I forget the specifics, but apparently there’s a lot of similarities between their presidencies. Both were assassinated, both succeeded by a man named Johnson. Buncha stuff like that. You might want to look into it.”

“Sounds cool,” Rafe said.

“Thought you might be interested.” Everything looked in order with regard to the gear. “All right, I’ll be around. Tell Bart to call me when we get there.”

“You got it,” Rafe said and replaced his earbuds.

* * * * *

At a maximum speed of twenty knots, the Aurora arrived at the desired coordinates ten hours later. The Florida Keys were two hundred and twenty-four miles west of them, the coast of Africa a sizable four thousand, one hundred forty-seven miles to the east.

Bart paged Kelly over the ship’s intercom. She left the photo lab where she’d been going over video footage and rejoined the crew on the observation deck. Bart dropped anchor on the shallower bottom shelf, and the Aurora floated an eighth of a mile over the deeper chasm of the Sylvian Trench.

“We got five hours ‘til sunset, people, so let’s get this in the water ASAP.” Being the sole woman on the crew, Kelly was in a precarious position. She didn’t feel awkward giving commands to the other men because she’d always been a natural leader. Kelly was meticulous and surrounded herself with individuals she trusted, not those who sought to undermine her through sexism or personal animosity.

Bart moved the ship’s crane over the camera. A crewman climbed the side, careful not to damage the mechanism. If he broke anything, he feared Miss Andrews’ wrath. He wasn’t afraid she’d fire him, rather that she’d dropkick him into the Atlantic. He hooked the latch on the crane’s dangling chain to an oversized industrial screw atop the camera. After the man descended, Bart hoisted the entire contraption over the water and dropped it slowly into the waves.

Kelly returned to the lab. The space held the ship’s darkroom, its red lights turned off at present. Along the far wall were three closed-circuit televisions. Two of them were off, the other still playing videotape of her last expedition. Rafe sat in front of the screen, editing together the best footage to show their employers.

“How goes it?” she asked.

“Gimme a minute.”

“Is the camera on yet?”

“I gotta get everything set on my end first, before I worry about what’s going on down there.” He plugged a computer adapter into the outlet and turned on a second monitor. “Nothing’s coming up,” he said a few moments later. “Your piece of shit ain’t working.”

Kelly’s eyes went wide, her pulse quickened. No, that couldn’t be right. She’d inspected everything herself several times.

“I’m joking,” he said. “We’re live.”

She took a joke as well as anyone; she just didn’t like to be the butt of one. “Very funny,” she said. “Why can’t we see anything?”

“Wait for the silt to die down, then visibility should improve.”

The controlled portion of their research was finished. The previous week they sent a regular underwater camera to the bottom of the Trench. Scientists long wondered what type of creatures dwelled there, and Kelly felt prior testing methods were flawed and outdated. To prove her point, the last time she dropped normal underwater lights as standard operating procedure for other research teams. They tried to catch sea life in a natural environment by taping whatever swam in front of the camera. What they didn’t understand is that most marine animals — especially those that spent their lives in the darkest crevices of the ocean — were frightened away by bright halogens. Lighting the depths like Times Square was the last way to get accurate data.

To combat this oversight, Kelly rigged her latest camera with infrared technology. It was costly, but the superior results would pay off the investment.

She’d spent five years after graduate school in the Pacific Rim, studying volcanic vents and the giant tubeworms that occupied them. It was there she first encountered the strange array of animals suited for a deep-sea habitat. The fish down there were like nothing else on earth, deformed grotesqueries warped to fit their bleak environment. Beings such as the glowing anglerfish and the viperfish were hideous yet held an air of subtle beauty. It fascinated her how they accommodated to extreme surroundings. They’d adapted against cold, lack of sunlight, and overwhelming pressures that would kill any human. Many had even evolved individual bioluminescence. She realized then she wanted to investigate those creatures shunned by the animal kingdom. They were rejects, something with which Kelly identified.

“Are we recording?” she asked.

Rafe said, “It’s a go.”

The infrared went undetected by the fish since it emitted a beam unseen in the normal light spectrum and didn’t interfere with the ecosystem. A second thermal imager registered body heat from any life form that passed by the camera, whether hot- or cold-blooded.

This was the reason Kelly Andrews had devoted two hundred, fifty thousand dollars and two years of her life to build. This was her moment of truth.

* * * * *

Within three hours the pair of them verified two species of undiscovered fish and a new type of eel. The images captured on film were amazing: a rare, astonishing glimpse into life three miles below sea level. The murky world she and Rafe watched was one few had the pleasure of experiencing. She was part of the elite ranks to have explored such depths, alongside such researchers as Robert Ballard and Sylvia Earle. Based on the information they accumulated, marine science could take another step forward into the realm of —

Something swam by the camera. Something large and obscured.

“You see that?” Rafe asked. The water was cloudy with sediment. Anything beyond ten feet couldn’t be viewed clearly, and over fifteen was pitch black since water absorbed infrared beams faster than air. While visibility was better the last time they came, there was but a fraction of animals to document.

Kelly’s heart beat harder than before. “Move the camera. Stay on that thing.”

Rafe took what looked to be a videogame joystick from underneath the computer console. Kelly had noticed a distinct lack of wildlife on scene over the past several minutes. All other sea life had left the area, as though sensing a predator in the vicinity.

When Rafe moved the joystick to the left, fifteen thousand feet below the camera followed suit. It shifted around and glimpsed a fleeting, muscular figure that appeared to be a quadruped. The thermal imaging couldn’t discern its entire mass, though the form was at least thirty feet long. A tail the size of a tree trunk swept behind the creature in S-shaped undulations. Its body was dark blue on the screen, nearly the same temperature as the ambient water. The bones of its snout and eye sockets gave off a soothing yellow hue. Its skull was very long, almost like a meaty beak, topped with a rounded protuberance. Its movements exerted the self-assured authority that only came from a beast with no natural enemies.

“What is that?” Rafe asked.

Kelly knew what it was: her ticket to the cover of National Geographic.

The beast opened its maw at the camera. Seconds later a brilliant white blast exploded from its mouth, ringed red around the edges. The blooming cloud of color engulfed the camera. The last moment of live feed showed the beast approaching close enough to block the entire frame. Then the camera went dead.

“Get it back online,” Kelly said. Desperation crept into her voice.

Rafe rooted through a bundle of wires beneath the computer. “I’m tryin’.”

Thirty seconds passed without progress, and that’s when Kelly decided to pull the plug on the project. She ran from the photo lab, darted to the observation deck and called down to the crewmembers. “Bring it up. Bring it up.”

Kelly turned to the pilothouse. “Raise the camera. Raise it now.” She made an upward-swooping motion with her arms.

The captain heard her pleas, and the Yumbo crane soon began winching up the device. The thick links of chain clinked together, dripping seawater as they emerged from the depths. Kelly climbed down to the weather deck during the six minutes it took the camera to ascend. When the gear finally reached the surface, she didn’t like what she saw.

The quarter-million-dollar piece of equipment had been reduced to a pile of mangled metal and twisted titanium. Kelly said nothing as the apparatus swung over to rest on deck.

Upon closer inspection she noted several gashes in the metal frame. She touched one of the bars and felt the warmth it radiated. The entire camera was warm to the touch, odd for the cold depth at which it had been. Puncture marks riddled the camera, pierced the Plexiglas and flooded its insides. Water dribbled out of a few holes and onto Kelly’s sandals.

She turned to Rafe, sickened by the spectacle. “See what you can salvage of the software. The hardware’s FUBAR.” She had learned the term from her father: Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.

Her eyes returned to the deep grooves running along the machine’s lateral side. Although the camera was busted, the mission itself wasn’t a complete bust. The equipment’s destruction hadn’t ruined any of the information that’d been transmitted over the last couple hours, all of which was stored on the Aurora’s mainframe.

Kelly spied a white shard jutting out from one of the perforations. She dug it out of the rut for further investigation. The object was the same length as a piece of chalk and had a rounded tip. At first it looked like dead coral. She’d studied several dried reef samples over the years, and this had the same ossified texture.

Rafe stared at the item from over her shoulder. “And that is?”

“I dunno,” she said. This was a lie, of course. She understood exactly what she held, the mere thought of which excited her.

It was a tooth.

CHAPTER FOUR

KELLY HAD HIGH hopes for the expedition, only to have them literally chewed up and spit out. Whatever had done that damage was still out there, teasing her to find it. The Aurora arrived in port ten hours later, at six in the morning. What a difference twenty-four hours made. At sunrise yesterday she’d been anxious to test her new toy; now the camera was forgotten in favor of more thrilling prospects.

Captain Bart steered the ship into dock, a tricky maneuver he handled with expert care. After shutting off the engines, he turned to Kelly in the pilothouse. “Sorry ‘bout your luck.” It was the first thing he’d said to her since the previous afternoon, when she’d locked herself away in her berth. Kelly slept a few troubled hours before joining the captain around four and had derailed his every attempt to make conversation since then.

“Me too,” she said.

She’d told the crew there had been an underwater earthquake, which must have shaken loose a rocky shelf above the camera and smashed the equipment. No one questioned her, though everyone understood she was lying for some reason. The only other person who knew the truth was Rafe, and he’d been sworn to secrecy.

An urgent knock came at the wheelhouse door, after which a young intern popped in his head. Kelly identified him as one of the local college students. Billy was his name, or possibly Bobby. “There’s someone waiting on the dock for you,” he told her.

“Who?”

Billy or possibly Bobby shrugged. “Never saw him before. Short guy, big ears.”

Kelly sighed because she knew who it was. “I’m on my way.” The intern nodded and closed the door. She walked over to Bart and clapped him on the shoulder. “Tell your guys they’re free to go, then get a warm meal and a cold beer.”

“Aye-aye. We’re heading out again, right? Sometime soon, I mean.”

She didn’t respond, unsure whether she’d even have a job waiting for her after this fiasco. “I’ll see you when I see you,” she said as she left for shore.

A man greeted Kelly on the pier, a jacket wrapped around him despite the warm temperature. Already at six it was a pleasant seventy-three degrees. His name was Edgar Wallis, the Institute’s legal counsel and lapdog to Lucas Hamilton, Kelly’s employer. “Hello Edgar,” she said.

He turned to acknowledge her. “How nice to see you, Miss Andrews.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say the same about him. “Whaddya want?” she asked.

“It’s not so much what I want as Mister Hamilton. He wishes to meet with you. Immediately.”

Who’d told Hamilton about the mission’s mishap? She hoped to break the bad news herself, put a positive spin on the story before he issued her the inevitable pink slip. “He couldn’t pick up the phone?”

“He wanted me to retrieve you personally. I have a car waiting.”

“So do I,” she said. “I’d rather drive myself, thanks.”

“Suit yourself. Just know I’ll be tailing you the whole time.”

“For future reference, I don’t appreciate having tabs kept on me like some parolee.”

Edgar smiled, rodent teeth exposed through thin lips. “The Institute is worried more about its property than you.” He motioned to the Aurora. “That ship will be around long after you’re gone,” he said. “Mister Hamilton expects you for an eight-o-clock appointment, so don’t dawdle.” He headed across the parking lot and left her to fume.

Kelly mused on the best way to tell her boss about what had happened. She was as energized about the meeting as she was nervous. After all she had something important to show him. It was burning a hole in her pocket, and it wasn’t money.

* * * * *

The Siesta Key Research Institute was a state-of-the-art complex located sixty miles south of Miami, outside Florida’s Biscayne National Park. Established in 1965 on land leased from the state, it stayed open due to generous benefactors and government grants. It was overseen by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Organization to help protect the Florida Reef Tract, the third largest coral body in the world, which stretched from Miami to the Dry Tortugas.

Studies occurred continually at the facility, from testing the medicinal properties of shark cartilage to training dolphins for covert military use. The estate extended across three hundred acres, two-thirds of which was part of the Atlantic Ocean, quarantined by underwater nets. Fishing was prohibited, as was recreational diving. The only people allowed inside the center were employees and schoolchildren who came on field trips from the local elementary schools.

She arrived at the Institute shortly before eight and went straight to Hamilton’s office. Edgar was seated at a desk outside the door. He flashed a fake, unfaltering smile that irked the hell out of her.

“Is Hamilton in?” she asked.

Edgar shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“That’s private information.”

“Edgar,” she warned.

“If you must know, he’s with Lucy and Desi.”

Kelly smirked. “Was that so hard?”

With time to spare, she stopped at her office to change. She’d worn the same outfit for two days, her clothes rumpled with a hint of brine and sweat. A placard on the door read KELLY ANDREWS, PH.D. Although she had earned her doctorate in Marine Science at U.C. Santa Barbara, she refused to use the doctoral title. Doctors treated patients and diagnosed diseases; she considered herself a scientist. Her employees knew this as well and understood if they called her Doctor (or Missus for that matter), they’d get an earful.

The room wasn’t spacious, which didn’t bother her because she spent so little time there. Her desk overflowed with graphs and charts spread helter-skelter. Thumbtacked to corkboard beside it were the schematics for the infrared camera and blueprints for the Simon, a scientific submersible.

The far wall was plastered with various accolades she’d received over the years, including her college diploma, a plaque from NOAA for outstanding community service, and a PADI certificate for divemaster. The most prized honor was a hand-drawn picture given to her by the students of Miss Carlin’s third grade class. It showed a woman (herself presumably) standing atop a green submarine. In the background was a rainbow and dolphins leaping from the ocean. She was so touched by the gift she had it laminated then later decided to frame it.

A bookshelf lined the same area, filled with an array of scuba manuals and fish identification textbooks. Among her collection was a signed copy of Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, a present from her father upon high school graduation. She treasured the book, knowing full well he paid a handsome sum for it. Kelly had since added another pricey volume, a first edition of Charles Darwin’s The Origin of Species.

A knapsack underneath her desk stored an extra outfit. She stripped out of her used clothes and felt refreshed after changing. She left the office and traveled outside along the sidewalk that circled the compound. Kelly passed the labs and loading dock, heading to the saltwater tanks on the south end of the complex. An artificial reef had been built off the beach, comprised of a section of Tampa’s Sunshine Skyway that had collapsed in 1980. The Institute had contractors dump the construction debris offshore to give shelter to fish and other sea life. The plan worked, creating a unique mini-ecosystem for the researchers to study.

She found Hamilton with Lucy and Desi, two of the Institute’s most beloved specimens. He wore a blue wetsuit and had a bucket of sardines in hand. Lucas Hamilton was the acting director of the Siesta Key Research Institute, the only individual to whom Kelly reported.

“Just the person I wanted to see,” he said. Hamilton stood on a platform overlooking the hundred-and-fifty-thousand-gallon porpoise tank. Inside both Lucy and Desi frolicked together. Once a day Hamilton took them out of their regular tank for a two-hour training session.

“So I’ve been told,” she said.

“We’re finishing up here. Gimme a couple minutes.” He held a stack of flashcards the size of paper grocery bags. He selected one for the dolphins, both of which sat attentively at the edge of the tank. On the card was a drawing of a blue triangle.

“Take your time.” Kelly leaned against the aboveground pool and watched. Personally she preferred to study animals in a natural habitat rather than trapped in a pool. It was remarkable to witness the creatures’ intelligence.

The female reacted first. Lucy dived to the bottom of the tank where there were several oversized replicas of the items illustrated on the cards. The top of the objects had circular handles so the animals could move them with their snouts. Lucy hooked the blue triangle with her bottlenose and swam back to Hamilton with it.

The Institute had bought Lucy after Sea World of Ohio closed in 2001. The biologists soon discovered that without a companion, the dolphin didn’t enjoy life. The creature, much like humans, needed interaction with others of its species. It suffered depression for three weeks, refusing to eat and eschewing exercise until a male was introduced.

Desi was harder to acquire than his female counterpart. The Institute traded three manta rays and a nurse shark to the Mote Aquarium in Sarasota, in addition to incurring the brunt of relocation costs. At once the two mammals bonded and became inseparable.

It interested Kelly to note how some species were monogamous to the point of dying from heartbreak when a mate passed away, while others had no proclivity toward fidelity whatsoever. She had yet to decide in which group humans belonged.

Hamilton knelt to rub Lucy’s belly. It turned supine, exposing its white underside for scratching. Dolphins loved having people stroke their snouts and massage their stomachs. Touching them reminded Kelly of petting a wet sponge. He reached for a dead fish, held it flat on his palm. Lucy swallowed the treat without flinching. “You and I need to talk,” he said to Kelly.

“What about?” she asked.

He looked incredulously at her. “How’d your trip go?” He chose another flashcard, this one with a red ball on it. Desi dived to the tank bottom to retrieve the object using echolocation.

“It went well. We got a lot of solid data. I still have to sift through it all.”

“And?” he pressed. He took the red ball from the dolphin and showered the animal with affection, like a boy with his first puppy.

“And . . . there was a bit of an incident,” she admitted.

“You think the Board of Trustees won’t frown on the destruction of more than two hundred thousand dollars in equipment?”

“I had no control over what happened, you know that. I’m cautious to a fault with the Institute’s property.”

“I know, I know.” He collected the items lying around, replaced them in a plastic bin. The director dumped the rest of his fish bucket in the pool and jumped off the platform. “Sounds like you didn’t have any control out there.”

“That’s not true. I — ”

“Do you wanna go back to trawling? Because that’s the direction we’re headed if your experiment fails.”

Trawling was a brutal technique wherein research vessels scraped the ocean floor with giant nets to collect whatever animals became ensnared in it. Scientists thought it was skewed because it didn’t represent all the ocean’s species. More often than not, the specimens were harmed or killed in the process, not to mention the detrimental aftereffects on the fragile local environment.

“We allow you certain freedoms we don’t extend to other researchers because you get results. The Trustees phoned me in the middle of night, and they — ”

“How the hell did they find out?” she demanded.

“We have people working to ensure our equipment’s used properly and no laws are broken.”

She felt somewhat violated by the revelation. “I wasn’t aware.” Who could be a mole working for the Institute? Not Captain Bart, he wasn’t smart enough to play both sides. And Rafe was too naïve. It had to be one of the interns. She didn’t want them on her expeditions to begin with, and now she planned to redouble her efforts to ban them from all future trips. If she ever led one again.

“The Trustees chewed me a new asshole about chewing you a new one. They can’t believe you let this happen.”

“I didn’t let anything happen. It would’ve happened anyway. Thanks to me, we recovered the data and the camera may be salvageable. If I hadn’t been there, it would’ve been a complete loss.”

“That’s what I told them,” Hamilton said. “They’re not gonna let this slide. The Trustees ordered a layoff, and I negotiated like hell on your behalf.”

“I appreciate that,” Kelly said. The sincerity in her voice was rare for the marine biologist.

“In the end they settled for a formal reprimand, as well as demanding a written apology and report on the accident. If I were you, I’d get on my knees and grovel. You dodged the bullet on this one.”

Hamilton and Kelly started across the Institute’s commons. “What went down out there, really?” he asked. “Somebody said you told the crew there’d been an earthquake? I checked with the Geological Service this morning; there has been no reports of significant seismic activity from the Sylvian Trench since 1973.”

“They didn’t need to know the truth. The video footage will be ready later this week. We found three new fish species, in addition to an eel that looks like a two-foot tadpole. It has forearms and hind legs.”

“I somehow doubt an eel wrecked that camera,” he said. Normally he would be impressed. Not today, not right now.

“We were assaulted,” she confessed.

Hamilton didn’t understand. “By what, pirates? Don’t jerk me around, what ruined the equipment?”

“Whatever left this.” She took the incisor from her pocket, displayed it in an open palm. It reached from the base of her fingers to her wrist, four-and-a-half inches in length.

“A rock?” he said.

“A tooth.”

“Belonging to what?” They stopped walking so he could closer inspect the item closer.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I found nothing like it in my research. There are a few other texts I want to consult first.” Hamilton picked up the tooth and molested it between his fingers. “We found something new,” Kelly said.

“Let’s not be hasty.”

“What type of animal would leave behind something like this?”

He thought about it. “I can’t tell you what this is from; however, I can say for certain what it’s not from. It’s not a shark, not the tentacle hook from any cephalopod. Barracuda maybe?”

Kelly shook her head. “It’d have to be record size,” she said. “Besides, their teeth aren’t dull like this. Theirs are sharp like piranha.”

“It’s obviously from a predator, carnivore of some kind.” He handed it back. “Bottom line, we haven’t a clue. Until the lab goes over it, I’ll reserve judgment. Could be a tooth — probably is now that I look at it — but it could also be a tooth-shaped rock.”

“Please,” she said. “It’s white. This is fresh.” If it had been a fossil, it would have been black from carbonization. As bone matrix decomposed over millions of years, minerals slowly leeched in to render a perfect imprint in stone.

Kelly and Hamilton started walking again. They stopped in the foyer of the main building. “Unzip me,” he said. The director turned, trying to reach the thick plastic zipper on the back of his wetsuit. She helped him with it.

Hamilton struggled out of the suit, which clung to his clammy skin. The front desk receptionist often reminded him to please take off his dripping clothes outside, as not to leave slippery puddles in the lobby.

Kelly slipped the object into her pocket when he asked, “Where on the ocean floor did you find that?”

“That’s the best part,” she said. “It was embedded in the camera. You have to see the damage for yourself.”

“I’m stopping by the Aurora tomorrow.”

“This creature, whatever it was, didn’t just break the equipment — it obliterated the camera, tried to eat it.”

They went down a corridor and he unlocked his office door. Kelly followed him inside and said, “Let me go locate that thing.”

“So you propose to find this specimen and, what, bring it back to civilization? Show it off to the world like King Kong? Because that didn’t end so well for the people or the ape.”

“I’m proposing a scientific expedition to track the animal. What I saw out there was at least thirty feet long. Aren’t you tired of insignificant discoveries?”

“No discovery’s insignificant,” Hamilton said.

“Picture a beast weighing several tons. It’ll thrust the Institute into the international spotlight. More media attention means more public awareness,” she said, “which equals more donations.” That was an important point to make for the always-strapped institution. “This could be like catching the Loch Ness Monster.”

“You know what Peter Scott thought of that.” Sir Peter Scott had been a leading conservationist. In the United Kingdom, a creature couldn’t be sheltered under the country’s animal protection laws unless it had a scientific name. Scott christened the elusive beast Nessiteras rhombopteryx, or ‘rhombus-winged Ness monster’. It was later pointed out to the gullible that the words spelled an anagram of MONSTER HOAX BY SIR PETER S.

“We don’t have to keep it,” she said. “Find it, tag it, let it go.” The Institute stood to learn more about the animal by releasing it back to the wild. Feeding and mating habits could be better ascertained, as well as any migratory patterns. There was also the possibility it could lead them to its place of origin, of valuable interest to the scientists.

“I’d love to,” Hamilton said, “but the sad fact is you’re out of money. Your grant’s up. You blew everything to build that damn camera, and now there’s nothing left for the research itself.” The director hung up the wetsuit and took a seat behind his desk.

“So I’ll get another grant,” Kelly said. It was a doable proposition, though it may take several months. She couldn’t wait that long; she needed cash for a journey now.

He looked across the room at her. This was the closest he’d known Kelly to beg. She wasn’t one who normally asked for help (or needed it), but she could use his at the moment. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises though. The Trustees aren’t pleased with either of us right now, and you’re already asking them for more money. The odds aren’t stacked in our favor. How much are we talking about?”

Kelly tallied a rough estimate of expenses in her head. “Hundred grand?” She quickly amended that figure based on Hamilton’s scowl. “Fifty?”

“They might be able to free up that amount if — and I do mean if — they go for the idea. If not, I don’t wanna hear any complaints from you.”

“When have I ever complained?” she joked.

“They still won’t forgive this mess with the camera. I’ll have to give them some guarantee there will be no more mistakes, a safety net.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I got a friend of mine upstate. He may be interested in a trip like this. Assuming I can convince him to go, the Trustees might sign off on the voyage. His name’s Evan Hale. We’ve used him before as a consultant in herpetology and ichthyology. Sound fair?”

“Fair enough,” Kelly said, “for a babysitter.”

“He’s a professional. You go with him or not at all.”

“Will we have the opportunity to meet first?”

“That can be arranged.”

Kelly made her way to the door. “I wasn’t scheduled to work today, so if it’s all the same to you I’m gonna head home and get some sleep.”

“By all means,” Hamilton said. “And expect a call after I speak with Evan.”

“Looking forward to it,” Kelly said as she exited the office.

The marine biologist wasn’t thrilled with the circumstances, but if having a chaperone on the trip were a necessary evil, she’d go along with it. To find this new creature, Kelly Andrews was willing to jump through whatever hoops the Institute wanted.

CHAPTER FIVE

SWEAT STUNG EVAN Hale’s eyes. He didn’t bother wiping it away, let the droplets travel down his forehead and behind his sunglasses. He was used to the heat and humidity. Thirty-one years living in the Sunshine State prepared him for any type of weather conditions Mother Nature could muster. He wore two sets of shirts: his gray Florida Park Service uniform and a t-shirt underneath it to soak up perspiration. In spite of this, dark sweat stains blossomed under his arms and across his back and chest.

The deafening roar of the giant fan engine rattled his bones. Even with earplugs and headphones, he felt all one hundred and fifteen decibels through his teeth. It sounded like a swarm of killer bees in his head. Traveling south down the Kissimmee River, he scanned the water ahead of the fanboat for any obstructions. The state was in the midst of its worst drought in fifteen years. Water levels were down to record lows, making the waterways shallow and dangerous in parts that were normally easy to navigate.

His assistant Sara pointed to the left as a blue heron took flight from its roost high in a dead cypress tree. He nodded at her observation, guessed the bird was a juvenile. Its wingspan was only four feet across, still an adolescent.

The river teemed with life yet reeked of death. The air was thick with rot, and it permeated like a mildewed rag. This was a place of continual decay. He watched nature’s cycles during the last nine years on the swamp, life and death and all parts betwixt. The sulfuric tinge of plant decomposition was stronger than usual due to the dry spell. The Kissimmee River and Lake Okeechobee were down almost three feet, leaving vegetation previously submerged underwater to now putrefy in the open. The smell stuck to his clothes like campfire smoke.

The vessel he piloted was a flat-bottomed five-by-ten-foot fanboat. Going downstream at twelve knots and fighting a moderate breeze, he sat on a cushioned seat at the rear while Sara used the bench in front of him. The Florida Park Service had purchased several of the boats cheap from an out-of-business tourist outfit, Swampland Cruises, and had modified them for new uses. Still stenciled at the bow of the craft was a faded message: IF YOU HAD FUN ON THE RIDE, DON’T FORGET TO TIP YOUR GUIDE.

He’d worked a decade for the park service, having gotten an early entry-level job while still an undergrad at the University of South Florida. He was one of a rare breed, someone who’d been born and raised in the state.

Natural Floridians were hard to come by. They were far outnumbered by permanent or temporary out-of-staters, many of them Northerners who migrated south for the winter season (which earned them the nickname snowbirds). Retired New Yorkers and Midwesterners dominated the population in the colder months, like rowdy college students who descended on the beaches during Spring Break. Most residents came from somewhere else, making Florida a true transient state.

It was the second Saturday of the month, time for one of Evan’s unscheduled twice-monthly trips to check on the lake’s residents. Life on the lake was abnormal even by Florida standards. It took a special type of deviant who wanted to spend his or her days living alone in the Everglades. Evan called them Lakers. Like living in a log cabin, it wasn’t for everyone. Lakers seemed to fall into one of two categories: those with severe antisocial personalities, and others who wanted privacy to indulge in certain illicit behaviors. The next residence on his mental checklist belonged to John and Jonas Tucker, twin brothers who lived together. The Tuckers belonged in both groups. They weren’t the friendliest folks around, and each had an extensive criminal record.

Evan used to do rounds once a month, until last summer when he found the corpse of Willy Topper. The hermit had died from a massive heart attack while doing dishes, collapsed dead at the kitchen sink. The coroner told Evan that Topper had been deceased for almost two weeks before being discovered. By that time rats had gotten to him and ate away most of the pliable tissues of the body like the ears, nose, eyes and fingertips. The odor was unbearable, nauseating at thirty feet. It stayed with the ranger for days afterward, forcing him to habitually blow his nose in vain to rid himself of the stench. It clung to the inside of his nostrils and ruined his appetite for days.

Since then Evan doubled his visits and tried not to duplicate his schedule from month to month, as not to become predictable. If anyone on the lake did engage in illegal activities, Evan wanted a fair shot at catching him or her. He also saw it as an opportunity to help anybody who may need assistance, especially since most of the Lakers were elderly. They were too old, poor and ornery to live anyplace else. There was something about their stubbornness Evan admired.

No one lived in houseboats actually on the water; it would be dangerous and stupid to do so. These people grew up around the swamp, and they understood Mother Nature was in control. Their dilapidated homes fringed the lake’s outlying areas. Citizens could reach the nearest town — Rumford, twelve miles to the west — by vehicle in case of emergency; however, the preferred form of transportation was fanboat.

Most of the houses weren’t more than two- or three-room shanties with corrugated tin roofs. Some were built on stilts for added protection from floods, although the river hadn’t overflowed its banks in over twenty years. A few of the owners didn’t have such luxuries as indoor plumbing or working electricity. These folks had been pushed aside by society and saw the swamp as their only sanctuary. Every year land developers encroached further into marshland; the Lakers yearned for total refuge, as did the wildlife with which they shared the territory.

The homesteads reminded Evan of his great-grandmother’s place in the Louisiana bayou. He spent every summer with her until she died at the spry age of ninety-seven, when he was fifteen years old. Even then he’d been drawn to the allure of the swamp, to its endless beauty and mystery. Despite the severe poverty here, five miles away millionaire retirees congregated on private golf courses inside their gated communities.

The Tuckers lived near the mouth of the Kissimmee River, where it drained into Lake Okeechobee. The local Seminole tribe originally named the lake, translated from their language as Big Water. To the Lakers it was known as the Big O, the second-largest freshwater body in the United States. It stretched thirty-three miles from north to south, thirty miles across and covered almost 470,000 square acres.

At the turn of the twentieth century, a campaign was launched to drain the surrounding stagnant swampland into the lake. In 1905 Governor Napoleon Bonaparte Broward ordered the Miami Canal be built to cultivate farmland west of the lake. Four years later the Everglades Drainage District finished the operation. Misfortune struck in 1926 and ’28 in the form of intense hurricanes that swept through the state and flooded the lake. Thousands perished in the ensuing deluges, which prompted the Army Corps of Engineers to erect the Hoover Dike. Channels and locks — some of which were twenty feet deep in places — guaranteed security from subsequent weather calamities.

The river ahead curved right around a gentle bend. Evan guided the craft along the left edge of the river, where erosion had carved the riverbed deeper. The river’s right side was shallower, a dumping ground for sediment. There two sandbars peered above the waterline.

Sara turned to him and motioned at her wristwatch, pantomiming whether they were almost at their destination. Evan nodded, no expression on his features. He didn’t smile or answer her question aloud. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut whilst on the river unless he wanted to choke on noseeums. Dense clouds of the gnats billowed together in the darker recesses of the swamp.

His gaze lingered on her tan legs. They were strong, the thighs of a long-distance runner. Evan felt no remorse for ogling the co-ed since he had no one waiting at home to reprimand him for such behavior. No girlfriend to chide him, no wife to berate him.

The craft passed an expanding field of cattails. The nutrient-rich black soil was perfect for their explosive growth. Mile after mile of cattails clogged the waterways, growing four acres each day in some areas. He slowed the fanboat here, for the Tucker place wasn’t much farther. Within moments the ramshackle shack came into view, partially obscured by saw palmettos.

Evan tied off to the rickety dock that jutted from shore. “You want some company?” Sara asked. She batted away a mosquito on her shoulder.

“Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. You sit tight.”

He didn’t mind her tagging along for the day. Sara had begun a semester internship from Florida State University and had been assigned to shadow Evan for graduate credit. But as bright as she was — and attractive, God was she attractive — he didn’t want her to meet the Tucker brothers. They were rambunctious enough without having a pretty blonde around to get them riled up.

He stepped off the fanboat and sneezed twice. Even with sunglasses his eyes were sensitive. From the corner of his vision he spotted a copperhead snake undulating in the water. It was about six inches long and had a telltale flat, bronzed skull. Like much of the flora and fauna in Florida, it was beautiful and harmful to humans. The subtropical environment was so harsh that wildlife and plants had evolved additional defense mechanisms.

The pier ended onto a mulch walkway that led to the cottage twenty yards away. The house was located on what used to be a delta between two tributaries, on the western side of the lake in Glades County. A WPA program in the 1930s had redirected the flow of water from the river to feed into Okeechobee. Here the ground was fertile for vegetation, especially the outlawed type the Tuckers liked to harvest.

Empty Budweiser cans littered the porch when the ranger approached. He knocked on the door and waited several seconds. No answer. He knocked again, harder and punctuated by impatience. “I know you’re home, the Jeep’s in the driveway. Somebody come to the door.”

“Evan, is that you?” a muffled voice asked. “We’re in the back.”

The ranger trekked around the shack and found a smaller building, a smokehouse. His nose wrinkled at a sudden pungent odor, which smelled like the basement of a funeral parlor. He’d taken enough biology courses to recognize the aroma as formaldehyde.

One of the brothers stood next to a fifty-five-gallon steel drum. He wore a rubber smock and gloves, a pair of rusty metal tongs gripped in his hand. “That’s some godawful chili you’re cooking,” Evan said. The ranger knew what the Tuckers were up to, wondered whether it fell within the parameters of the law.

“It ain’t chili,” the man said.

“John is it?” he asked. He could never tell the twins apart.

“I’m Jonas. John’s in the can.” The hulking man stared at Evan with his good eye; the other one wandered like Moses in the desert. “You don’t notice the smell after awhile.”

“How’re things with you two?”

“Can’t complain. Well I could, but you ain’t interested in nobody’s sob story.”

“I’m really not,” Evan agreed. “Just making my rounds today and wanted to drop by.”

“I wondered when you’d come,” another voice said, identical to the first. John appeared from the back door of the shack, wiping his hands on stained overalls. “Thought you’d be here last week, actually.”

“What’ve you boys been up to? Not getting yourselves into any trouble, I hope.”

“Nope,” John said. “Not anymore. We’re strictly legit now.”

“I’d like to believe that,” Evan said. “Except the Tucker brothers as God-fearing, law-abiding citizens strikes me as oxymoronic.”

“You calling us stupid?” Jonas asked.

“It’s a figure of speech.”

Jonas’ arm dipped into the barrel and appeared a second later with a skull clenched between the tongs, still steaming from its acid bath. He dunked it into a bucket of cool water then hung the object on a nail pounded into the outside wall of the smokehouse. The bleached skull had the unmistakable shape of an alligator snout.

Evan said, “That better be from a nuisance gator.”

“Only type we hunt,” John said.

“I got a call from Mister Bombeck the other day, said he’s heard gunshots out this way. Wouldn’t know anything about that?”

“Wasn’t us,” Jonas said.

“That’s good to hear. Because hunting gators without a state license carries some pretty hefty penalties. It’s a third-degree felony that can put away someone for up to five years.”

John said, “We got all our paperwork in order. Our permit don’t expire ‘til next June.”

“And for your information, we were shooting nutria. Goddamn oversized rats are everywhere.”

Evan couldn’t argue with that. Rodents the size of domestic cats, nutria mated constantly; their population had grown exponentially in the last decade, forcing drastic actions from Wildlife Control. The county resorted to hiring sharpshooters to rein in the problem, with mixed results. “Leave that to the professionals from now on.”

“The state pays us to trap and kill nuisance gators. We’re providing a service to the community.”

“I don’t care about the nuisance ones. Just make sure those are the only gators you’re going after, none of the peaceable ones. Mind if I look at your cache?”

There was a moment of silence, and Evan wasn’t certain his entreaty would be granted. Then Jonas said, “Don’t matter to us. Take a peek around.” He set down the tongs and opened the smokehouse door. The small room inside smelled like a barbeque pit. The walls were lined with cured gator skulls, and on the floor was a pile of dead alligators. Evan glanced over the bodies, his eyes probing for any hint of gunshot wounds. There was none. All of them had the necessary identification tags on their hindquarters and met legal requirements.

In 1972 Florida sanctioned the hunting of gators. It was an error of judgment, because within two years the reptiles’ numbers dwindled almost to extinction. The federal government then enacted the Endangered Species Act, which prohibited further killing of the animals. The state’s Nuisance Alligator Control Program employed poachers to catch only those creatures that posed a direct risk to the general public. After they were put down, the hides were sold; seventy percent of the proceeds went to the hunters and the rest to fund the program. If anyone else caught a troublesome gator, the hide was marked so poachers couldn’t unduly claim it.

“How long it take you to collect these?” Evan asked.

“Three weeks or so. We take a new batch to auction every month. Next Tuesday in fact, if you wanna tag along.”

“I have paperwork piled up as it is.” Evan wiped his brow with a handkerchief. It had to be at least ninety-five today, several degrees higher with the heat index factored in. Evan shoved the bandana in his back pocket. “I don’t want any more reports of disturbances, y’hear.”

“Yessir,” Jonas said. John said nothing, merely watched the ranger with a suspicious gaze. He stood behind a workbench next to the smokehouse. The table was covered in dried blood and slivers of reptile meat.

“Otherwise I’d have to send out the Sheriff’s Office,” Evan said. He spotted a garden to the side of the shack, down a pathway and hidden by a thicket of tall grass. “Is that your raise bed?”

“Why, you wanna snoop over there too?” John said.

“Depends on what you’re growing.” Five years ago the brothers had been arrested for cultivating marijuana in the swamp. Glades County law enforcement still flew a helicopter over the Tucker place on occasion to check for signs of recidivism.

“Only tomatoes,” John said. “And we’re seeing if pineapples will take. So far no luck. Feel free to take a look.”

“I believe you.” The ranger didn’t want to invade their privacy any more than he already had. It was none of his business if they liked to grow pot, so long as they didn’t sell it.

John took a small gator from an ice chest, slapped it down on the workbench. The dead reptile was two and a half feet long and weighed no more than ten pounds. Using a sharpened cleaver and using a butcher’s precision, he lopped off the animal’s appendages with single blows. Then he proceeded to carve off the creature’s tail and head. The skull took several tries and required a grinding motion before the head rolled off the table. Without skipping a beat, John scooped it up and tossed it in the barrel of formaldehyde.

“During the Civil War, the Union cut off leather supplies to the Confederate Army,” John said. He didn’t look up from the work, his hands working with the speed of experience. “It didn’t bother the Rebels none. We made due without, thanks to these fearsome beasts here. Belts, boots, horse saddles, you name it.”

John took a pair of pipe cutters to slice through the skin of the gator’s underbelly, scissoring from its severed hind legs to the neck stump. He peeled away the precious scales like an orange rind and set aside the hide before hanging the naked carcass in the smokehouse. “Too bad the South lost the war,” he said as he moved on to the next body. “Country would be a whole lot different. A whole lot better off, you ask me.”

“It’d be more colorful, that’s for sure,” Evan said. “I should let you get back to work.”

“Like I said, we’re on the straight and narrow now,” Jonas promised.

Evan nodded and held back a smile. “Just make sure it stays that way.”

* * * * *

The ranger had company waiting when he returned to his office that afternoon. Lucas Hamilton sat flipping through an old fishing magazine when Evan came through the door.

“Can I help — ” The words stopped on his lips as he recognized the figure in his refurbished trailer. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “When did you get in?”

“I expected a two-hour drive with traffic, but I made it here in record time. I pulled in fifteen minutes ago.” It had been more like half an hour. Hamilton stood to shake hands. Evan and Hamilton had known each other for many years. Both of them belonged to the Epsilon Zeta chapter of the Sigma Nu fraternity at the University of South Florida.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Evan said. “I can’t say how excited I was to hear from you. What brings you my way?”

“A bit of fishing. You know if they’re biting?”

“Try around dusk. There’s a great spot north of here, Stanley Hole. I’ve heard the fish will jump into your boat. Never seen it myself, but that’s what they say.”

“What kinds are out there?”

“Crappie and tilapia mostly. If you’re lucky, you’ll snag a bass.”

“Sounds like I got my work cut out for me.”

“So how’re things? You’ve been a ghost lately. I haven’t seen you since — God, when was it? — that golf tournament last summer.”

The Siesta Key Research Institute held an annual competition for local scuba divers. One weekend each year the park was open to outside divers. Contests were held in a mock Olympics, and one of the games involved golfers hitting neon-colored balls into the ocean and having the divers retrieve them for prizes. At the end of the second day, medals were awarded and alcohol consumed. Divers came from across the state and the festivities gained in notoriety every year. It proved to be a lucrative fundraiser for the Institute and an innovative way to drum up media attention, in addition to being genuinely fun.

“That long? Didn’t realize I’d dropped out of sight. It hasn’t felt that way. The Institute’s runnin’ me ragged.”

“How’s the place treated you?” Evan leaned against his desk, arms crossed.

“Between us, I’d like less office bullshit and more fieldwork.”

“You’re preaching to the converted here. Since I work for Uncle Sam, I can’t take a piss without filling out forms in triplicate.”

Hamilton sighed and put down the magazine. “Most days all I do is beg people for money.”

“You want something to drink?” Evan asked.

“No thanks.”

Evan went to a counter on the other end of the trailer. It was cluttered with various charts and a coffeemaker. “I’m a bit parched myself.” He took a mug from an overhead cabinet and poured himself a cup. “Nothing like a cold cup of java on a hot day.” He took a sip and grimaced. “Those coffee grounds must be a week old.” He opened the trailer door and emptied out the beverage.

“Speaking of fishing, you hook yourself a wife yet?” Hamilton asked.

The ranger grabbed the coffeepot and poured it out the door too. “Ocean’s full of fish, just haven’t found a keeper yet. After Julie I’m leery, y’know. Guess I let her dangle on the line a bit too long.”

“That was for the better. I can’t really imagine you tied down.”

“The wife and the two-point-five kids and the white picket fence sounds nice, but I don’t think it’s in the cards for me. What about you, any prospective Missus Hamiltons out there?”

“I was seeing someone ‘til last month. A year and a half down the drain.”

“Did I meet her, the brunette with the big teeth?”

“Krystal, yeah. She was offered a job as manager of the San Diego SeaWorld.”

“That’s a bitch,” Evan said.

“So was she. The relationship wasn’t going anywhere anyway. The decision was mutual.”

“At least it was a clean break.”

“Even if I wanted to stay with her, I couldn’t leave my post now. Two years as director is too short a term. Paperwork aside, I do like certain aspects of the job. We always conduct intriguing studies, and the pay isn’t bad.”

Evan returned to his desk and took a seat, hands laced behind his head. “What kind of programs you got?”

“Right now I’m working on a paper about dolphin intelligence. We purchased a couple bottlenoses that I’ve been training, testing their memories. I think they may be as smart as pigs. They can recognize themselves in a mirror and are able to memorize complex routines. Now we’re testing their capacity to perform tasks using creativity and logical reasoning.” Hamilton shifted in his chair. “What about you?”

“This time of year I’m busy with poachers. People sneak onto the preserve and will tangle with an angry mama gator to get her eggs.”

“How valuable are they?”

“They’ll fetch five, six bucks apiece from a gator farm. It’s reckless and stupid. Thing is, my hands are tied. All I can do is fine them. We need every one of those eggs too. The gator population’s been steadily declining for ten years, and the juveniles are important to us.”

“What’s caused the drop off?”

“I did a water analysis last fall and found heavy mercury levels in the lake. Pollution and chemical runoff is making the females sterile. We don’t need that, especially since only five percent of the total gator population are fertile females anyway.”

“Have you seen the domino effect?”

“I’ve noticed fewer birds, herons and egrets in particular. That’ll be my next project. I have a theory their numbers are depleted as well, after eating all that contaminated fish.” Evan scratched his elbow and asked, “What’s this venture you mentioned over the phone?”

“Seems one of my researchers stumbled on something interesting,” Hamilton said.

“What?”

“We don’t really know.”

Evan folded his hands in his lap. “You have my attention.”

“We sent an expedition into the Sylvian Trench to assess some equipment, namely a new type of infrared camera. Within five years we plan to compress the technology for commercial use, mostly other researchers and documentarists. Within ten years I predict it’ll be available to the private sector.”

“So you recorded an unknown fish you want me to verify?”

“Not quite,” Hamilton said. “It’s a bit more than that, at least from what Kelly told me. I didn’t see the creature firsthand.”

Evan arched an eyebrow. “Kelly?”

“Doctor Andrews. She heads our marine biology department.”

“I don’t see why you need my help. The Institute hires only the best.”

Hamilton fidgeted again in his chair. “It’s the Board of Trustees. They want an independent consultant on our next voyage. Kelly’s very bright, but the Trustees feel this discovery may be so vital to the scientific community that we need a second, impartial opinion.”

Evan thought a moment. “Kelly Andrews. The name sounds familiar. I may have read an abstract of hers about the destruction of the Great Barrier Reef. Was that her, or am I thinking of Heather Maynard?”

“That was Kelly,” Hamilton said. “She worked two years in Australia on that project.”

Evan asked, “So where’s the tape?” Hamilton didn’t answer. “Tell me you have the animal on video?”

“There was an incident with our gear.”

“What type of incident?”

“The creature ate it.”

“I see. Then we’re talking about something larger than your average fish. What other evidence do you have for its existence?”

“This is all she brought me.” Hamilton reached in his pocket and produced the tooth, which he’d procured over Kelly’s staunch objections. He placed it on the ranger’s desk. “She found it stuck in the equipment. I had the lab run some tests, and it appears legitimate. It’s definitely bone matrix, and it matches nothing in our records. I compared it against everything found in the Atlantic database, then moved to every other ocean when that yielded no results. What can you tell me about it?”

“Well, it’s a premaxillary incisor. At least I think it is. I’ve never seen one this large. Jesus, this could blow everything else outta the water. It had to have come from something that weighs at least ten tons.”

“Like some sort of cetacean?”

“Funny you should bring that up. I’ll show you something.” Evan crossed the room to a specimen case on the far wall. He removed an object from the drawer and presented it to Hamilton. “This belongs to an odontocete, Orcinus orca.”

“A killer whale?”

Evan nodded. “This is one of its bottom teeth. They all look alike because orcas don’t have molars.” Evan held the two teeth side by side for comparison. “Both are from very powerful animals. Each is clearly for tearing and not cutting, standard for large predators. I’m unable to sketch a whole profile from one tooth, obviously. I can’t even tell the creature’s age. You can learn how old a whale is by counting the rings on the roots of its teeth, like you would a tree trunk.”

“But you think this could be from a species of whale?”

“Potentially,” Evan said. He replaced the orca tooth and handed Hamilton the other one.

“Would you be interested in joining on?”

“What kind of timeframe are we looking at?”

“Kelly wants to get on the water as soon as possible,” Hamilton said. “Every day we wait erodes our chances of finding the creature. She’s looking to leave port Monday morning. Are you available on short notice?”

“I have some vacation days coming my way,” Evan said. He consulted an appointment calendar hanging on the wall. There was nothing written on it. “I’m a very busy man, y’know. I’ll have to shift around several important meetings and cancel some other stuff.” When he turned to Hamilton, he wore a wide grin. “Of course I’m in. I can’t pass up an opportunity like this.”

Hamilton clapped his hands together. “Beautiful. I’ll set up a get-together this weekend so you and Kelly can discuss the details. When will you be able to make it down to the Keys?”

“Tomorrow evening at the earliest.”

“That sounds great. I’ll make dinner reservations, and the Institute will put you up in a motel for the night.”

“You’re coming along, aren’t you?”

Hamilton shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’m committed to speak at a symposium in Vancouver. I’d rather go on the expedition, except this has been planned for months. And I already spent the money they paid me.”

“That’s too bad,” Evan said. “Maybe next time.”

“Indeed,” Hamilton agreed. “You set sail on Monday. Bring whatever research materials you need. And I have to warn you about Kelly. She’s a bit of a firecracker. She’s resistant to the idea of bringing in an outside specialist, but I’m sure you’ll win her over.”

Evan’s dimples flashed as he smiled. “Trust me, five minutes alone with that girl and she’ll be eating out of my hand.”

To which Hamilton replied, “I somehow doubt that.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE CORPORATE HEADQUARTERS of Wright Enterprises was located in Manhattan at the corner of Columbus Avenue and West Fifty-Seventh Street. The company’s CEO sat in a near-empty boardroom on the thirtieth floor. An oaken table stretched the length of the room, all the chairs vacant except for three.

Jeremy Anderson squirmed under Oscar Wright’s piercing stare. The accountant had a portfolio spread before him, various papers categorized into separate piles.

Wright said, “I’m waiting.”

Jeremy’s dry throat clicked as he swallowed hard. “Is it possible to get a drink?” he asked.

“Of course,” Wright said. An attractive redhead sat at his side, a personal assistant. She’d worked for him a week now, after his previous aide abruptly resigned. He couldn’t remember her name, had a notion it started with A. “Vodka on the rocks.” As she stood, he touched her wrist. “Three fingers’ worth.”

The woman had one specific finger in mind for the billionaire. Instead of telling him off, she smiled politely and went to the wet bar to pour the stiff drink.

“About last quarter,” Wright pressed.

The accountant didn’t want to upset his boss. The news he bore wouldn’t bode well for anyone, least of all someone with an infamous temper like Oscar Wright. Jeremy cleared his throat again. “The economy’s taken a downturn in the last nine months. Companies across the board have posted losses.”

“And this is when you tell me Wright Enterprises has bucked that trend.”

Jeremy’s face flushed hot. “Global markets are depressed at the moment. The Fed Chairman is predicted to cut interest rates again next week, so that should send the Dow rallying.”

“I’m a bottom line guy,” Wright said. His assistant handed him the drink, which he swallowed in two gulps. “Refill.”

“Bottom line, the last quarter wasn’t kind to us. We need to gain two hundred million dollars to justify operations.”

“Two hundred million,” Wright repeated. He rolled the words around his tongue, contemplating the number. Two followed by eight zeros. “That’s, what, roughly seven thousand jobs?”

“Cutbacks are inevitable,” Jeremy said. “If we buckle down in all sectors, we may be able to salvage half that amount in a year’s time.”

“No need,” Wright said. His gaze wandered to the window. The morning fog hadn’t yet dissipated, and a dense cloud blanketed the area below. From this high perch Wright couldn’t see the streets, a wall of gray at the twentieth story. Other skyscrapers in the city panorama stabbed through the fog like architectural daggers. “How many employees do we have at the factory in Trenton?”

The accountant consulted his files while the woman brought Wright another drink. This one the old man sipped. “Eight thousand.”

Wright nodded, still staring out the window. “Shut it down,” he said. “It’s a drag on the books anyway. Ship those jobs overseas.”

“Just like that?”

“It’s not my fault someone in Indonesia’s willing to do the same job for one-tenth the pay.”

“At least two thousand of those hardworking folks don’t have to lose their positions. If we implement a series of stringent policies, we can — ”

“What’s next on the agenda?” Wright interrupted. He was already bored with the accountant’s petitions.

Jeremy loosened his tie a bit. The room seemed very hot. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that Wright had ordered the room’s thermostat be increased for the appointment. The old man himself wore shorts and a Georgetown t-shirt, as opposed to Jeremy’s six-hundred-dollar suit. “Wright Enterprises is prepared to dole out forty million dollars over the next twelve months for employee pensions. We have five thousand people poised to retire during the next fiscal year.”

Wright’s steel gaze returned to the accountant. “Freeze the accounts and convert them to stock options.”

“But our stock’s lost nearly half its value since the last shareholder meeting.”

“It’ll bounce back,” Wright justified. “The investors will come around.”

The woman poured Jeremy a glass of water and placed it next to him. “Thank you,” he told her. Wright appeared perturbed by the gesture but said nothing.

She took her seat next to the billionaire. Jeremy couldn’t bring himself to look in the old man’s hateful eyes, so he focused on Wright’s splotchy red nose instead. A few of the braver employees called the billionaire Rudolph behind his back, yet even the most fearless dare not deride him in person.

“Aren’t you worried about the market’s volatility?”

“They’ll still have Social Security as a safety net. Maybe.” Wright suppressed a grin.

“When you hire someone, it’s in their contract that they’ll have a company pension upon retirement. You can’t switch the program for thousands of people and their families on a whim.”

Wright kept his anger in check. “I’ll still have my fortune, correct?”

“Your net worth can only grow.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I think it’s unscrupulous to — ”

“Next,” Wright barked.

Jeremy took a moment to compose himself before speaking. “There is one more thing.” Since he didn’t know how to break the news gently, he was straightforward and hoped the old man would respect his forthrightness. “When my department tallied the books, they found some . . . discrepancies. I checked the figures myself.”

“And?”

“We’re missing one and a half million dollars. The numbers don’t add up.”

Jeremy braced for the old man’s ire. It never came.

“I know where every cent of that went. It’s up on the roof, if you’d like to see.”

“See what?”

“My helicopter, the new one. Haven’t decided what to do with the other one yet.”

“You realize the Board of Directors needs to be consulted before making such a large purchase with company funds.”

“The Board can blow me,” the old man spat. “I founded this company with my own two hands and ingenuity. Wright Enterprises started in my goddamned garage forty years ago. I’m not their kept pet.”

Oscar Wright’s parents emigrated from Norway to the United States in 1925. Their only child was born fifteen years later. Oscar showed an early aptitude for machines, an interest that was fostered during a stint in the Navy. He was the first in his family to attend college: New York University, class of 1962.

After graduating with an engineering degree, he worked for Chrysler for five years before saving enough to construct a prototype for one of his own inventions. It took a year to build and another six months to polish; when he finished he had the first working model of a portable desalination device. Another two years’ time brought capital from business partners to finance a full-scale version.

The Wright Corporation was founded that same year. Oscar made a fortune selling the appliances to third-world nations where clean drinking water wasn’t readily available. His company lost money its maiden year, as well as the next one. The third year broke even, and the fourth posted a modest profit of forty thousand dollars.

The entrepreneur had a knack for investing in the right market at the right time. In the early eighties Oscar sank twenty million dollars of his personal wealth into a fledgling computer software company and reaped a tenfold return. Eventually his interests turned elsewhere. Within ten years the business re-branded as Wright Enterprises and branched into areas of energy research, like solar power plants and alternative fuel sources.

Wright Enterprises joined the pantheon of Fortune 500 companies in 1993 and grew into a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate that replaced General Motors on the DOW Jones Stock Index shortly into the twenty-first century.

The accountant licked his lips. “I understand your thinking, Mister Wright. However, they still need to be notified in cases like this.”

The old man sighed. “So fudge the numbers. It’s a couple million, a drop in the bucket. You’re good with money, free it up somewhere.”

Jeremy went to take another sip and realized the glass was empty. He said, “I wouldn’t feel right doing that,” hastily adding, “with all due respect, sir.”

“Then find someone who will and give him your job,” Wright said.

The color drained from Jeremy’s face. “Am I fired?”

“Not if there’s miraculously one-point-five million more in the corporate account by Monday morning.” The old man stood, handed his empty tumbler to the woman. “We’re done here.”

Jeremy gathered his papers and slinked from the boardroom.

Wright turned to his assistant once they were alone. “Make sure he follows up on that. The last thing I need is a whistleblower. And if the little shit doesn’t cooperate, freeze his assets and ruin his credit. If he doesn’t want to work for me, I’ll make it impossible for him to find employment anywhere.”

The woman made a note in her day planner. “There’s one other thing,” she said as she followed Wright into the lobby.

“Out with it.”

“Your three o’clock is waiting for you. Sir Penfold’s here about your acquisition of Manchester United. Apparently the Brits are chaffed about an American buying up controlling interest in their soccer team.”

“Cancel it,” Wright said. “Reschedule for next week. I feel like a swim and a nap right now.”

“But he traveled from London.”

“Are you deaf, woman? Reschedule it.” The old man spoke to her as though she were a Special Olympics entrant rather than a Harvard graduate.

“Right, okay. There’s also a late addition here for an Ian Thorpe. Said you’d contacted him personally about something. He should be here within the next half hour.”

“Send him up when he arrives.”

“Yessir.”

A young man at the reception desk waved at Wright, a telephone cradled in the crook of his shoulder. On the wall behind him was the trademarked company logo in gold stamping (Wright Enterprises: WE Take Care of YOU). “Lorne Michaels on line one. He wants to know if you’re free this Saturday night for a sketch cameo on SNL.”

The old man bellowed across the room loud enough for Michaels to hear over the phone. “Tell him if he wants a shill for his show, I’m sure Trump’s available.”

“That’s it,” the woman said. “I’ve stood by for the past week, watching you treat everyone like dog shit on your shoe. I’ve seen you screw over thousands of people so you can add a few digits to your precious bottom line.” She jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Do you even have a heart?”

“Not anymore” the billionaire admitted. He leaned in close enough that she smelled the vodka on his breath. “What’s your name again?”

“Alice,” she said.

“Alice. Where’s the one you replaced, the chick with the huge rack? I mean, look at you — you’re a flapjack.”

He stormed across the foyer to a private elevator while Alice snapped at his heels like an angry Chihuahua. “I’ve never been treated with such disrespect, especially in the workplace. I’m going to file a lawsuit against this company for cultivating a hostile environment.”

“Don’t forget sexual harassment.” Oscar pressed the UP button and the brass doors slid open. “Have you seen our legal department?” he asked. “If you wanna serve me with a subpoena, take a number and stand in line.” He stepped inside the lift.

“This isn’t the last you’ve heard from me,” she warned.

As the doors closed, he muttered one last comment. Wright made certain to have the last word of any conversation. He winked at Alice and said, “You got a great ass though.” Then he was gone.

And for the first time that morning, Oscar Wright smiled.

* * * * *

The skyscraper’s penthouse suite served as one of the billionaire’s residences. He held deeds for a couple mansions in Los Angeles and Honolulu, as well as a château outside Paris. This was the one room in the building where he found a place of solitude in otherwise-hectic New York City.

The top deck had a Jacuzzi and forty-thousand-gallon swimming pool. He handpicked a team of landscapers to construct brick dirt beds and plant a variety of flowers for color and aroma. A row of purple chrysanthemums was currently in bloom, and thick privacy bushes of verbena outlined the rooftop perimeter. A helipad overlooked the sundeck, Wright’s latest toy parked there: a McDonnell-Douglas 500.

The temperature was a pleasant seventy-one degrees. Local meteorologists forecasted a peak high of eighty-seven before the day was through. The air was a bit chilly, but the thermometer in his pool always hovered at ninety. The outside floor tiles were heated too, so snowfall never accumulated in winter, and the pool had underwater lights installed for nighttime swimming.

Wright changed into a pair of black swim trunks, placed his sandals and towel on a nearby deckchair. He didn’t bother using suntan lotion because it stung his eyes. Besides, he wasn’t scared of melanoma. There were worse ways to die.

A diving board jutted from one end of the pool, four feet above the water. Wright climbed up and lingered on the tip for a moment to admire the panoramic view over the hedges. From here he glimpsed the southwest corner of Central Park. He bounced three times before taking a leap. In one breath he swam the length of the pool and stood up when he reached the stairs on the shallow end. He stepped out of the water when a buzzer rang him from an outside callbox. Wright pressed a button and said, “What?”

A voice echoed over the intercom. “Ian Thorpe is here to see you. He’s a bit early.”

“Let him up. I’m outside by the pool.” Wright retrieved the maroon towel he’d draped over the back of his chair.

As he dried off his hair and chest, a man joined him on the penthouse terrace. Wright sized up the figure, unimpressed. “I thought you’d be bigger.”

“It doesn’t take a bodybuilder to shoot a gun,” the man said. “A bullet’s the same size no matter who fires it.”

“I suppose that’s right,” the billionaire said. “I’m Oscar Wright.”

“Ian Thorpe,” the stocky man said. His head was as square as his jaw, his face a latticework of scars from various brawls in barrooms and back alleys. Wright guessed he’d been a career military man, probably special operations. Thorpe wore a perpetual poker face and aviator sunglasses. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“You can disregard the pleasantries. Chitchat is shit chat.” Wright continued to wipe himself down, a puddle pooling at his feet.

“What’s so important it couldn’t be taken care of over the phone?”

“I only deal with people I trust, and I can’t gauge a person’s trustworthiness ‘til I look him in the eye.”

Thorpe removed his glasses. “What do you see?”

The billionaire ignored Thorpe’s question. He never let anyone else control a conversation. “You came highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

“A mutual friend.” Wright took a seat on the deckchair and motioned to the empty one beside him. Thorpe remained standing. “Tell me about yourself. I like to know my business associates.”

“I was born in South Africa, grew up on the Serengeti.”

“Where in Africa?”

“Tanzania.”

The old man went into a coughing fit for several moments. Hacking and wheezing, he struggled to his feet. Wright worked up a wad of phlegm, parted the chrysanthemums and spat a bloody gob off the ledge. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and asked, “What did your parents do?”

“My mother was a nurse, and my father died when I was seven.”

“Then you’ve been around exotic wildlife since your childhood?”

“Yessir. Elephant, lion, croc, hippo: I’ve hunted it all.”

“That’s what I wanna hear.”

“I’ve been approached by your type before, wealthy clients looking for the excitement of a private safari. Last year I took Richard Branson to Zaire for a month.”

Wright took umbrage at the comment. “My type? You’ve never met anyone like me.”

“Apologies, sir, I meant no disrespect.”

“Somebody got you whipped good. Marines?”

“British SAS.”

“You conveniently omitted the grayer aspects of your resume: poaching, drug smuggling, extraordinary rendition. Any job for the right price.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, of course not, I understand. Everyone’s done things for which they’re not proud. Hell, I have enough skeletons in my closet it should be zoned as a graveyard.” Wright threw his towel on the chair and slipped into his sandals. “Are you a religious man?”

“God doesn’t check in on my line of work.”

“Perfect. You and I will get along splendidly.” Wright motioned to the pool. “Tell me what you see.”

Thorpe took a moment. “It’s shaped like a fist.”

“Look closer.”

“A middle finger.”

Wright clapped him on the back. “That’s right. Anyone who flies overhead gets flipped the bird.” Thorpe didn’t crack a smile. “But mostly it’s for Him.” Wright pointed to the heavens, gestured obscenely at the sky. “Y’see, God and I aren’t on speaking terms.”

“That’s between you two.”

Wright moved to the glass door and opened it for his new partner. “Step into my office. We have some financial matters to pound out.”

Thorpe walked inside and took off his sunglasses. He saw a grand piano situated in the corner. The floor was comprised of black marble tiles overlapped with authentic Persian rugs. An enormous fish tank lined one entire wall. The two-thousand-gallon container was filled with coral and assorted tropical angelfish, giant gourami and severum. “That was specially made,” Wright said. “And the Asian arowana there cost me two grand.” Thorpe watched the regal, striped fish as the old man disappeared into an adjacent bedroom. “You have a family?” the billionaire called out.

“No sir,” Thorpe said. “Never been married.”

“Don’t fall in love. It’ll only come back to bite you in the ass.” Several moments later Wright reappeared in Bermuda shorts and an open-collar shirt.

“If you want my services as an expert marksman, you must be interested in big-game hunting,” Thorpe said.

“The biggest.” The old man waved him over to a polished maple desk. Wright took his place in a leather chair, motioned to the seat across from him. “Cigar?”

Thorpe sat and said, “Please.”

Wright opened a humidor to remove two stogies. He snipped off the ends, handed one to the hunter. “Best you’ll ever have, guaran-fucking-teed. Castro had them express shipped, so they’re fresh too.” The old man produced a silver lighter and lit both cigars. The sweet, cherry tinge of tobacco smoke wafted through the air. He took a deep drag and said, “Alfred Lord Tennyson posited that it was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” He paused, considering. “What a crock of shit.”

Thorpe’s gaze drifted to the room’s centerpiece, a three-by-five-foot portrait of the Wright family that hung over the billionaire’s desk. “Are those your loved ones?”

The old man regarded the stogie in his hand. “A portrait I had commissioned.”

Thorpe noticed the brunette woman in the painting. “Your wife?”

Wright nodded. “Brenda.”

“How did you two meet?”

Nostalgia rushed back to the billionaire in a flood of memories. “We went to college together. I majored in engineering and she studied British literature, two people with different passions who met completely by chance. I didn’t think it was chance at the time. Damned fool that I was, it seemed more like destiny. There was a time I believed in predestination,” Wright said. “Not anymore.”

“Was she born in the States?”

“She was raised in Liverpool and came to the country for school.” A faint smile spread on his lips. “University, she called it. I fell for her because I empathized with her. Being European, she wasn’t used to American customs and often felt like an outsider. I recognized that same sense of alienation in myself.”

“When did you get married?”

“June seventh is our anniversary. We eloped to Toronto, spent our honeymoon there. I would’ve rather taken her to Rome or Paris, but Canada was the most lavish getaway we could afford at the time. Both of us were busted-ass broke, deep in debt from student loans.” Oscar Wright raised his arms to the skyscraper around him, to the kingdom he’d single-handedly built. “Now I can buy anything I want, yet nothing I need.”

“How long have you been together?” Thorpe asked.

“We knew each other nine years before she was snatched away.”

The hunter didn’t want to pry. He’d hit on a sore spot for the old man and didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.

Wright pressed onward through the emotional trauma. “She died giving birth to our only child. It’s a rarity nowadays, wasn’t so uncommon thirty years ago. Brenda forfeited her life to give Joseph his. It was simultaneously the happiest and saddest day of my life.” The old man grew quiet. “Then the diagnosis came.” Wright’s eyes refocused on Thorpe. “Have you heard of osteogenesis imperfecta?”

“Not really.”

“Also called Brittle Bone Syndrome. The bones are so soft, they snap like chalk at the slightest blow.” Wright glanced to the portrait above him. “Joseph would’ve looked like that had he not been born with certain . . . disadvantages.” The old man couldn’t bring himself to say disabilities.

Wright rasped for several seconds then succumbed to another coughing spasm. The sounds echoed through the vaulted room, spittle flying from his cracked lips. He took a bottle from the desk drawer, tamped a couple large pills into his palm before downing them with a shot of scotch. “My boy never had a chance at normalcy,” the old man said uninterrupted. Oscar Wright was an expert at ignoring problems. “He lived his life like a China doll. He couldn’t go to a regular school, had to attend a physical therapy center instead. It was called Eastgate. The teachers there did an outstanding job with all the handicapped kids.

“Joseph was a fighter from the beginning. Most children with O.I. are stillborns. Because their bones are so pliable, their bodies can’t survive the powerful contractions of the birth canal. The skulls are crushed during delivery, their heads turned into sacks of marbles.”

Wright took a long puff on the cigar and blew smoke out his nostrils. “That was the ironic, final nail in my wife’s coffin. The physicians told me he wouldn’t live beyond infancy. But he made me proud. Despite being deaf, he had no mental incapacities. A tutor taught me sign language so I could communicate with him. I was fluent for a while; sadly, memory fades with time. Joseph comprehended his dire predicament, accepted it with a dignity no child should be forced to bear.

“My boy endured so much: a parade of surgeries in his early years, the constant doctor visits, the special diets and extra precautions. He couldn’t play outside because a jungle gym was like a deathtrap to him. Poor kid couldn’t even have his own bed. He slept on a mattress on the floor, surrounded by mounds of pillows.

“It was overwhelming in the beginning, so stressful I hired a nurse to help take care of him, Maggie. For the first few years of his life, Joseph thought Maggie was his mom. And I let him believe that. I didn’t have the heart to tell him his real mother was rotting in the ground.”

The billionaire reached for a framed picture on the corner of his desk, handed it to Thorpe. “That’s my Joseph.” The photograph showed a smiling Wright with his son.

Joseph was a dwarf whose arms and legs were twisted at unnatural angles due to countless fractures that hadn’t properly healed. His limbs were like a snowman’s, as if his extremities had been substituted with misshapen sticks. The boy grinned in the photo, happy to spend time with his father. His skin was translucent, bluish from the underlying network of veins. Joseph was barrel-chested too, his sternum poking out at a fifteen-degree slant.

Thorpe gave back the frame and said, “Seems like a happy kid.”

“He had the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. It was the very thing that killed him.”

“Pardon?” Thorpe asked.

“He was also born with an enlarged heart, a congenital defect. One morning he had a massive heart infarction after breakfast. Both Maggie and I tried to revive him. He died in my arms, a week before his eighth birthday.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorrier to have lived it.” Wright trailed off for a moment, his eyes glazed over as he stared into space. “Sorry, I don’t usually talk this much. You got me on a roll about my family.”

“The business,” Thorpe prodded.

“Yes, the business.” The old man’s fingers drummed on the maple desk. “Regardless how it may appear, I do believe in God. Before I started this company, Brenda and I were destitute. We lived in a trailer in Virginia, and every spare cent that didn’t go to bills went to develop my first invention. We prayed a lot in those days. And He let me down. I may have several billion in the bank, but at what price — my loved ones? That’s too steep a payment. I’d return every dime I ever made to get back my wife and son. Everyday I see successful men trudge down Wall Street, and I envy them. Because they go home each night to their families, while I have this empty empire.” The sadness in Wright’s eyes was replaced with anger. “I want Him to pay.”

Thorpe felt uncomfortable. The old man had been dealt a bad hand, no doubt, but the hunter didn’t see what he could do to fix that. “I’m not sure what you have in mind.”

The old man passed him a manila folder. “I have dozens of people in my employ who collect data for me.”

“That has to be expensive.”

“Money buys a lot of eyes and ears.” He walked around the desk to observe the fish tank. “Over the last twenty years, I’ve invested millions to find proof of God, any shred of evidence to confirm His existence.”

“Like what exactly?” the hunter asked.

“Five years ago I had the Shroud of Turin tested for authenticity.” He turned his back to Thorpe, watched the hunter’s reflection in the tank’s polished glass.

“The Shroud of Turin?”

“Christ’s death cloth. Jesus’ face is supposedly imprinted on the fabric itself.”

“What was the result?”

“Extensive experiments proved it was a forgery. Of course the Vatican doesn’t want anyone to know,” the old man said. “Two years ago I was excited when news came out of Turkey. Archeologists claimed to have uncovered the remains of Noah’s Ark. They found the hull of a ship imbedded in the permafrost of Mount Ararat, where religious scholars believe the Ark landed. I sent a team there to found out for sure.”

“What happened?”

“Hell if I know,” Wright said. “Never heard from any of them again. They took my money and ran.”

“Well, I won’t do that,” Thorpe noted.

“I know God exists because He screwed me over. And I finally got Him cornered.”

Thorpe thumbed through the dossier. “Cornered how?”

“There’s been a series of attacks around the Caribbean during the last month, missing persons and the like. Not notable by themselves, except there have been twice as many as normal. And it appears a research expedition in the Atlantic found the culprit.”

“Culprit?”

“An enormous sea monster, a new species entirely.”

“Species of what?”

The billionaire walked to a bookshelf along the far wall and selected a volume, opening it to a bookmarked page. “Are you familiar with the Book of Job?”

“You mean the Bible?” Thorpe shook his head. “I don’t know much beyond Sunday School stories.”

“I’ll read it to you then. This is Chapter Forty-One:

“Can you pull in the Leviathan with a fishhook or tie down his tongue with a rope?

“Can you put a cord through his nose or pierce his jaw with a hook?

“Will he keep begging you for mercy? Will he speak to you with gentle words?

“Will he make an agreement with you for you to take him as your slave for life?

“Can you make a pet of him like a bird or put him on a leash for your girls?

“Will traders barter for him? Will they divide him up among the merchants?

“Can you fill his hide with harpoons or his head with fishing spears?

“If you lay a hand on him, you will remember the struggle and never do it again!

“No one is fierce enough to rouse him. Who then is able to stand against me?

“Who has a claim against me that I must pay? Everything under heaven belongs to me.

“I will not fail to speak of his limbs, his strength and graceful form.

“Who can strip off his outer coat? Who would approach him with a bridle?

“Who dares open the doors of his mouth, ringed about with his fearsome teeth?

“His back has rows of shield tightly sealed together; each so close to the next that no air can pass between.

“They are joined fast to one another; they cling together and cannot be parted.

“His snorting throws out flashes of light; his eyes are like the rays of dawn.

“Firebrands stream from his mouth; sparks of fire shoot out.

“Smoke pours from his nostrils as from a boiling pot over a fire of reeds.

“His breath sets coals ablaze, and flames dart from his mouth.

“Strength resides in his neck; dismay goes before him.

“The folds of his flesh are tightly joined; they are firm and immoveable.

“His chest is hard as rock, hard as a lower millstone.

“When he rises up, the mighty are terrified; they retreat before his thrashing.

“The sword that reaches him has no effect, nor does the spear or the dart or the javelin.

“Iron he treats like straw and bronze like rotten wood.

“Arrows do not make him flee; slingstones are like chaff to him.

“A club seems to him but a piece of straw; he laughs at the rattling of the lance.

“His undersides are jagged potsherds, leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing sledge.

“He makes the depths churn like a boiling caldron and stirs up the sea like a pot of ointment.

“Behind him he leaves a glistening wake; one would think the deep had white hair.

“Nothing on earth is his equal — a creature without fear.

“He looks down on all that are haughty; he is king over all that are proud.”

Wright surveyed the hunter. “Care to guess which animal’s being described?”

Thorpe ran through a mental menagerie of beasts he’d tracked over the years. There wasn’t an exact match to anything he knew. “It sounds like . . . well, a dragon.” It was an absurd notion, especially when he heard the word aloud.

“Precisely.” Excitement infused the old man. “An underwater dragon has surfaced, roused from the ocean’s depths.”

“And you want me to kill it?”

Wright set the Bible on the desk and shook his head. “Absolutely not. I want you to find this creature. I have every intention of killing it myself.”

“Wouldn’t it be worth more if captured alive?”

“This isn’t about money. It’s about getting the opportunity to smite the Lord with my bare hands. If the Bible’s true — which it claims to be, from the very mouth of God Himself — then this being must exist. Why then are there no accounts of it?”

“Maybe no one’s survived any such encounter.” It sounded like a plausible explanation to him.

“This is the proof I’ve been searching for.”

It struck Thorpe as a quixotic mission but also held the promise of a profitable paycheck. If the old man wanted him to sail around Florida for a week, he had nothing against it. Let the crazy bastard try to console his broken spirit. Thorpe knew there was nothing in the Atlantic. No creature like that could’ve existed thus far without scientific documentation. Wright wanted to chase windmills, and Thorpe was happy to oblige so long as he got paid.

The hunter snuffed out his cigar in the ashtray on Wright’s desk. “Let’s get on the water,” he said. “Assuming my fee isn’t too rich for you.”

“Anything you request will be at your disposal: the latest equipment, the newest technology. Name your price.”

“My retainer is fifty thousand, plus ten grand a day.”

“Good. Fine. Whatever.”

“And I ask to be paid upfront. Cash only.”

The old man turned to the portrait above him, which swung out on a hinge to reveal a secret vault. He punched in a four-digit code on the keypad to unlock it. Wright opened the door, pulled out a wad of crisp Federal Reserve Notes and counted off several. He handed the bills to the hunter.

Thorpe counted the money. “This is only twenty-five.”

“You get half now and the rest when that monster’s gutted and hanging on my wall. After the Ararat debacle, I’m leery of so-called specialists. I won’t be burned again.”

Thorpe decided the terms were acceptable. “Fair enough. I look forward to working with you.”

“For me,” the old man corrected. “My secretary will be in touch with the specifics. We’ll be leaving after the weekend.”

“Very well.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me . . . ” Wright buried his nose in some paperwork.

Thorpe stood and said, “Of course.” He took the old man’s cue and exited, closing the penthouse doors behind him.

Wright’s vision drifted back to the Bible. He reread the Job passage twice more before getting up. His attention focused on the painting that overlooked him, to the family he couldn’t have. The billionaire remained like a statue for several minutes, engrossed in recollections and lost chances.

The butt of his cigar hung loosely from slack lips. He finally took it from his mouth with one hand, wiped away a tear with the other. The cigar hovered above the ashtray and beside the open-faced Bible. He extinguished the stogie on the book, its heated tip burning through several onionskin pages.

The lonely billionaire dried his eyes and activated the intercom. A voice chirped from the lobby: “Yes, Mister Wright?”

“Have the jet prepped. I’ll be traveling to Florida.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

A SINGLE THOROUGHFARE, Highway One, joined the disparate Florida Keys and stretched north to south. The sole entrance and exit to the islands, it served as the only route to safety from approaching tropical storms. Driving south from Miami, the first islet was Key Largo, followed by Islamorada, Marathon, Big Pine and Key West at the very tip. Seven Mile Bridge connected them together, traveling parallel to an abandoned railway bridge built by tycoon Henry Flagler.

During hurricane season — the second half of the year, from June through November — the highway was prone to traffic jams. To help ease congestion, Monroe County implemented an evacuation strategy that allowed mass departure in shifts, starting with the southernmost part of the Keys and moving north. Although tourists took the hurricane warnings seriously and were the first to leave, only sixty percent of the eighty thousand permanent residents did the same.

Most of them were jaded about the storms, refusing to abandon their fortified homes for anything less than a Category Three. Even those who lived in the trailer parks that littered the Keys chose to stay, opting to keep plywood boards on their windows year-round. The islands suffered from severe flooding in even minor storms, since their highest point of elevation was Windley Key, eighteen feet above sea level. As a storm surge swept in, the Gulf of Mexico swallowed the isles.

The Keys weren’t the cleanliest part of the state. Garbage and leftover hurricane debris was strewn about any time of year, stray animals picking at trash piles. Keys’ residents were Americans and Floridians, but not in the traditional sense. They prided themselves on being different from the continental U.S., much like Hawaiians and Alaskans. Life went at a slower pace — what locals called Keys’ time — and everyone lived by the motto that it was too damn hot to work hard.

Kelly Andrews rented a small place on Islamorada. There were no houses available for fewer than two hundred thousand dollars, and those were fixer-uppers. The home she found was no different, in need of heavy repairs that she kept putting off. The front door was rotted around the edges. The roof should be re-shingled. It wasn’t leaking yet but had an embarrassing amount of black moss growing on it. The driveway was cracked, the living room required re-carpeting, and the bathroom shower sprayed only cold water. All these tasks she would’ve forced her husband to tackle; because she was single, they went unfinished.

The neighborhood itself was less than ideal. All the houses on the block were identical, only their garish paintjobs setting them apart. Yellow, tan, lime green and salmon were common hues. They’d been constructed in the 1950s as low-priced incentives to lure new teachers to the Keys.

There were two messages on Kelly’s answering machine when she returned from the supermarket. She unloaded three bags of groceries before listening to them.

“Hey Kelly,” a raspy voice said. “This is your father.” Any time they spoke on the phone, he prefaced their conversation with This is your father, as if she wouldn’t otherwise recognize the sound of his voice. “It’s been awhile since I heard from you, and I wanted to check in. How did your trip go? Call me back when you get a chance. And use the home number — I still haven’t figured out how to use that goddamn cell phone you bought me. Talk to you later.”

She felt bad about not calling her father. Paul Andrews made an effort to be in her life nowadays, and sometimes she wanted to be more receptive to him. Kelly erased the message, and the machine clicked over to the second voicemail.

“Hi Kel, it’s Lucas. I talked to my friend, Evan. He agreed to join the expedition. I also spoke with the Trustees and persuaded them to write a check for forty thousand. I know you think that’s a bit thin, but it’s the best I could do.

“I made reservations at Blue Haven for Sunday at six. Evan will meet you there, and I’m sending your tooth down with him. He’s a good guy, so play nice. I’ll see you next week.”

Kelly glanced at the clock over the kitchen counter. It was twenty minutes to six. She cursed and darted into the bedroom. Rifling through the closet, she found a couple respectable outfits. The red dress was too revealing. She didn’t want Mister Hale to think their meeting was anything less than professional. The green one wasn’t bad, except it didn’t have straps and she wasn’t about to go braless. At last she uncovered a suitable ensemble. When in doubt, go with the little black dress. It was simple, elegant and didn’t show off her breasts.

Ten minutes later she’d applied her makeup and done something halfway decent with her hair before dashing out the door. The restaurant was a fifteen-minute drive away and her favorite place to eat, no doubt the reason Hamilton chose it. She arrived five minutes after six: not bad for time, considering.

A waitress welcomed her with a smile. “Thank you for dining at Blue Haven, how many in your party?”

“I’m looking for someone actually,” Kelly said. “His last name’s Hale.”

The young lady checked a roster and frowned. “No one here by that name.” Kelly mentioned Lucas Hamilton, in case the director had accidentally put the reservation under his own name. The woman shook her head. “No one under that name either. I’m sure he just hasn’t shown yet. Do you still want seated?”

“I’ll wait in the bar, if it’s all the same. Send him over when he shows up, okay?”

“Sure, absolutely.”

Kelly thanked her and made a beeline for the bar. Half a dozen television sets were tuned to various sporting events. The largest, a sixty-inch screen positioned on the rear wall, played a baseball game between the Tampa Bay Rays and Cleveland Indians.

The bartender looked barely old enough to drink the alcohol he served. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“House draft is fine.”

A few moments later he returned with a bottle of Michelob. She reached for her purse and stopped when he said, “Ladies’ night tonight. It’s free.”

“Awesome,” she said. “Much appreciated.”

She spent the next five minutes feigning interest in the baseball game before boredom set in and she reached for her mobile phone. She replayed some old voicemail messages in a lame attempt to look busy.

Hamilton wanted her to be fair, not biased toward the stranger. But if that bastard Hale planned to stand her up —

A hand touched her shoulder and she flinched.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” a voice said. Kelly turned to face the man behind her. He was tan, about six feet tall and had sun-bleached hair. “Doctor Andrews, right?”

“It’s Kelly,” she said.

“I’m Evan.”

“No, you’re fifteen minutes late.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. I just got into town and checked in at the motel. Didn’t even have time to unpack before driving over here.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “You want to pick a table somewhere?”

Evan spotted a door leading to an outside terrace. “How about some fresh air?”

They found a table outdoors kept shaded by a canopy. Cigarette smoke wafted in the gentle breeze. “Are you a smoker?” Kelly asked.

“Not anymore. Still like the smell though.”

A waiter approached them for drink orders, handed each a menu.

She read over the entrée choices and asked, “How do you know Lucas?”

“We were frat brothers in college. He originally wanted to major in economics, and I urged him to switch to the sciences.”

“No wonder he runs the Institute like a business,” Kelly said.

“Did you first meet him at work then?”

Kelly shook her head as she took a sip of beer. “I knew him before. He offered me a job when he was put in charge. I’d just finished a project in Australia at the time.”

“The Great Barrier Reef, right?”

“Coral stagnation, yes. You read it?”

“I saw it in one of the academic journals, can’t remember which,” he said. “Lucas said you need my help labeling an animal you encountered.”

Kelly balked at the man’s arrogance. “I can identity it myself. The fact is the Board of Trustees wants a third party to tag along.”

“Lucas said he didn’t see it himself. Did you get a clear look at the thing?”

“Only through thermal imaging and infrared.”

“And it wrecked your gear?”

“Thoroughly.”

“That’s too bad.” Evan set Kelly’s prized tooth sample on the table. “He showed me this too.”

“What do you think of it?” she asked.

“It’s hard to form any theories on evidence so subjective. It could belong to almost anything.”

“So much for your expert opinion.”

“Don’t get defensive,” Evan said. “We need more data is all. I assume that’s what this other trip is for?” Kelly nodded. “What did it look like on infrared?”

“I didn’t see much, but it definitely had a tail and no discernable fins.”

“How long would you guess it was?”

“I’d say thirty feet. The trunk itself was probably half that.”

“Do you really believe this is something undocumented? Or are we going back to Hamilton with another story like the Saint Augustine blob?”

In 1896 a decomposing “sea monster” washed ashore outside America’s oldest city. Spectators and researchers thought the massive glob was a significant marine discovery. After thorough examination, it was determined the specimen was actually the rotting carcass of a giant octopus. While larger than anything on record at the time, it was hardly a new species. Since then the scientific community had been cautious of anyone claiming new zoological finds.

“I keep telling myself not to get excited,” Kelly said. “It could turn out to be nothing. If I’m right though — ”

“We’d be set for life,” Evan said. “Book deals, the lecture circuit, professional adoration, you name it.”

“Who’s we?” she asked. “I discovered the thing.”

“And you need me to verify it.”

“I don’t need anyone,” Kelly shot back. “Lucas only asked you to come aboard ‘cause the Trustees want a babysitter for me.”

“Then you should stop acting like a child.” Evan intended the comment to be lighthearted. A glowering Kelly hadn’t interpreted it that way. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean — ”

“Of course you did,” Kelly said. “Don’t sweat it. I put my foot in my mouth all the time.”

The waiter returned and asked for their orders. Evan had the steak with asparagus spears and Kelly wanted the tilapia.

“Figured a marine biologist never ate fish,” Evan said.

“I prefer to think of it as a delicious autopsy on my plate.”

“Oh, she does have a sense of humor,” he said. “When do we leave port?”

“Tomorrow morning at ten. I can’t risk having this creature disappear. Hopefully it’s still somewhere in the same location.”

“That’s like finding a needle in a haystack the size of Vermont.”

“I have to try. The ship’s sonar should help. I’ve been charting water currents to get an idea what direction it might head. The Coast Guard supplied me with information about missing boaters and whatnot. It appears there is a loose connection to a few of them, moving up from south of the Keys. Couple of their guys even allege to have seen the thing.” She finished her beer and set it aside.

“What did they say it looked like?”

“They claimed it was a dinosaur.”

“A dinosaur?” The ranger was more than a little skeptical.

Kelly shrugged. “They said it, not me. I wanted to leave yesterday, but Hamilton made me wait for you. The Aurora’s gassed up and ready.”

“We’re taking the Aurora? I thought that vessel was decommissioned. It’s been around forever.”

“Forever and a day. I’ve been using it the last several years. It’s still seaworthy, though not the prettiest thing to look at.”

“I did a stint on the Aurora as an undergrad. Spent about three months there, the summer of ’92.”

“So you know the place inside and out.”

“If nothing’s changed.”

“In 2000 the Institute had some extra riggings put in and replaced the photo lab after a fire. Other than that, everything’s the same.”

Their meals came ten minutes later, and they dined in relative peace. The sky turned from blue to a shifting indigo as the sun set. They chatted about their childhoods — Evan grew up in Florida, while Kelly originally came from Southern California.

After they finished Evan reached for the check. Kelly snatched it away first. “It’s on me,” Evan protested.

“No, it’s on the Institute. Hamilton will reimburse me.”

When they walked inside to pay, they noticed the restaurant was abnormally quiet. Until a voice boomed, “Goddammit, I said medium well.” Kelly and Evan saw an old man in a corner booth scolding a red-faced server. “Take it back to the kitchen and prepare it like I ordered. Otherwise I’ll buy this whole fucking place and fire every last incompetent dipshit who works here. Starting with you.”

“Is that who I think it is?” Evan whispered.

“He looks younger on TV.” Kelly passed through and paid the bill. Before leaving she said, “I wanna say something to Mister Wright.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“He doesn’t scare me. I bet he’s all bark and no bite.” The researchers approached the billionaire’s booth. Oscar Wright sat by himself, his back toward the other patrons so he didn’t have to look at anyone else.

“Mister Wright?” Kelly asked.

“Whaddya want? I don’t sign autographs.”

“No, I’d like to thank you.”

“For what?”

“My name’s Kelly Andrews. I work for the Siesta Key Research Institute.”

“That sounds familiar. How do I know it?”

“About fifteen years ago you were our first generous benefactor. You donated the five million dollars we needed to operate after our government subsidies fell through. We managed to stay open because of you.”

“You paid back the money, right? Because I don’t so much give to charity as loan cash from the Wright Foundation, most of which comes from other wealthy donors.”

“Yessir, the Institute has paid you in full.”

“Then why are we talking?” Wright asked.

“I’d like to offer you a tour of our facilities, considering you helped pay for them. We’re in the midst of exciting porpoise research, and we’re devising new ways to fabricate artificial reefs. There’s evidence we can speed coral growth by — ”

Oscar Wright waved her away. “Not interested, Miss. Peddle your wares elsewhere.”

Kelly’s face flushed with indignation, and Evan interceded on her behalf. “Forgive us for interrupting your meal. I’m certain you’re a busy man.”

“I’m in the Keys for the next few days on vacation. Got a bit of deep-sea fishing lined up.”

Evan tugged at Kelly’s arm. “Good luck with that.”

The old man mumbled under his breath and turned back to the table. As Kelly and Evan left the bistro, they heard him shout at another waitress for some minor infraction. On their way out the door Kelly commented, “What an asshole.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

IAN THORPE GREETED the old man when Oscar Wright arrived at the dock the next morning. A limousine drove the billionaire to Longboat Harbor, and he walked to where his yacht was moored at Pier Six. Half an hour after sunrise, the sky was a milky pink. The weather radio called for a cold front to blow through at midday, bringing strong winds and moderate sea chop. A small-craft advisory had been issued in advance of the front. Luckily for Mister Wright, his ship was no small craft.

The Naglfar was named in honor of Wright’s Norwegian heritage. As an aficionado of world mythology, he had an affinity to Scandinavian folklore, one of the more violent dead religions. According to Norse legend, the Naglfar was the ship of the damned, assembled from the fingernails of dead men and helmed by a vengeful god. At the time of the apocalypse, Ragnarok, the trickster Loki was to gather the elemental giants and lay siege to Asgard, kingdom of the gods. The ensuing war ended in the near-obliteration of both humanity and the immortals.

Thorpe walked across the gangplank to meet the old man. “Nice to see you again, Mister Wright. May I call you Oscar?”

“Mister Wright is fine.” The billionaire wore a short-sleeved polo shirt, a few strands of gray chest hair poking from the open collar. The last locks of the old man’s dark hair had turned white ages ago, except for his bushy eyebrows. “Tell me we’re on schedule.”

“A little ahead, actually.”

“Excellent news.”

The Naglfar was a massive vessel, its length almost two hundred and forty feet. In the age of the opulent and super wealthy, the Naglfar was more than a mere yacht or megayacht. It was a level of conspicuous consumption reserved for the richest individuals in the world. The Naglfar was a gigayacht.

Its amenities were extensive and numerous. A helipad with Wright’s other chopper was on the uppermost deck. Inside was a living space with plasma-screen television, wet bar and Jacuzzi, in addition to three bedroom suites. Wright hadn’t utilized most of the luxuries and had no intention of using them on this trip.

“Step aboard and I’ll show you a few tools I brought along,” Thorpe said.

The old man followed the hunter inside to the dining area. “You certainly have fine taste,” Wright remarked when he saw the weapons. An assortment of artillery was laid out on the table. Firearms, knives and gas bombs were included in the arsenal. “What kind of goodies do we have here?”

Thorpe motioned to the guns. “Two M4s, a machete, three MP5s, and a baker’s dozen of RGD-5s I got cheap after the Soviet Union collapsed.”

Wright said, “Impressive as this is, don’t you think it’s a bit light?”

“This is the same equipment I bring on any safari,” Thorpe said. “Feel free to try anything here yourself. For this particular expedition, I packed an added surprise.”

The hunter turned to a luggage trunk on the floor. Inside were the separate parts of another firearm. He set the pieces on the table then proceeded to assemble the weapon. “This is an M16, my personal favorite.” He handed the full piece to the old man.

“Damn. With this you could take down a pachyderm in one shot.”

“Not quite. The Asian elephant I hunted with this took two rounds. The first to slow it down, and the second as a killshot.”

“Where was that?”

“Laos, about three years ago.”

“Even with all these, do you think we can stop our prey?”

“If we get close enough, I can pump it full of tranquilizer.”

“I don’t wanna put the goddamn thing asleep. I want it dead.”

“Until we know exactly what your Leviathan is, this is our best bet. Then you can finish it off yourself. That’s what I’ve done for past clients. I sedate the game, and you go in for the kill. May not seem sporting or fair, but it’s the only way to level the playing field against such skillful predators.”

“I don’t care about sporting or fair,” the old man said. “What God did to my family was neither.” Wright handed back the weapon. “Is my special delivery here yet?”

“It arrived yesterday,” Thorpe said. “Took four of us all night to get it in place.”

“I want to see.”

“It’s topside,” Thorpe said. They walked from below deck and went to the bow to check out Wright’s newest plaything, a ten-foot-long harpoon cannon.

“It’s beautiful,” the billionaire said. “How much does it weigh?”

“Half a ton, give or take. It comes with a dozen serrated harpoons and has a lifetime warranty on all the parts.”

Wright looked like a boy who’d received his first bike for Christmas. “Hope it lasts longer than my lifetime,” the old man mused. “See, this is more like it. I can picture this taking down our sea monster.” It was custom built to Wright’s specifications, complete with a telescopic lens and cushioned chair. It swiveled on an axis and could be fired in any direction. “I never thought it’d look like I imagined in my head.” It had been welded together in four major pieces then bolted to the deck by massive anchor plates.

A voice said, “I hope you like it, sir. We put in a lot of hard work to make sure it was ready when you got here.”

The old man turned and spied two gentlemen standing behind him. The tall one he vaguely recognized, but the other was a total stranger.

“Compliments all around.” Both men realized how infrequently Oscar Wright meted out praise, so they reveled in the moment.

“Thank you, Mister Wright,” the shorter man said.

“You are?”

“Douglas Hatfield. I’m first mate.” The old man shrugged. “You hired me personally. I’ve worked here two years now.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Don’t take offense though. If I don’t know your name, it doesn’t imply I don’t care. On the contrary, it means that . . . ” Wright failed to conjure a lie on the spot. “Ah, fuck it. People come and go through my life so quickly, it’s not worth learning anyone’s name.”

“Not a problem, sir. I don’t expect you to remember me.”

Wright turned to the taller man. “Captain, how have you been?”

“Pretty well, sir. Yourself?”

“We’ll see what transpires over the next few days. So far I’m in high spirits.”

Captain Tim Jenkins had helmed the Naglfar for seven years. He lived on the yacht, and it was his responsibility to keep the vessel in pristine working order in case the old man spontaneously called and wanted whisked off to the Caribbean or elsewhere. This only happened twice a year — sometimes only once — and Captain Jenkins was paid handsomely for his time and services.

“I assume we’re getting ready to ship off?”

“A few last-minute things are being tended.”

“Good, I want to leave soon.”

“Not a problem, sir.”

“What exactly do you need that for?” Hatfield asked, gesturing to the harpoon.

“A little hunting.”

“What will you do with your catch?” the captain asked.

Wright hadn’t given thought to the prospect. What would he do with the slain Leviathan? “Figure I’ll get the best taxidermist on the East Coast to mount it as a trophy.”

“Mister Thorpe has been kind enough to chart our course, so we’ll have an idea where we’re headed.”

“Good,” the old man said. He wandered away, normal behavior for billionaire when a conversation grew stale. Captain Jenkins and the first mate resumed work, and the hunter joined Wright at the gunwale.

The old man’s gaze was fixed on the Atlantic expanse beyond the harbor. “I have to draft up some papers in my study and don’t want disturbed ‘til we set sail.”

“Yessir,” Thorpe said.

The old man sighed. It was a full-body exhale filled with ennui for life. He coughed then, throaty and wet, before spitting over the side rail. “That thing is out there,” he said. “I feel it in my soul. And I’m going to destroy it.”

* * * * *

“We have a problem.”

That was the voicemail in its entirety from Captain Bart to Kelly Andrews. After she received the message, she called him back and didn’t get a reply. That morning she drove to the Aurora expecting bad news.

It was worse than she thought.

She imagined the worst-case scenarios. The ship’s motor had broken, the navigational system was on the fritz, or any number of electrical or plumbing problems that could land the ship in dry dock for a week or more.

Bart was in the pilothouse when she arrived. “What’s up?” she asked.

The captain did not look pleased. “We have company.”

“Coast Guard? Harbormaster?”

He shook his head. “Hamilton sent someone.”

Kelly breathed relief. “Oh, him. That’s nothing. His name’s Evan. I had dinner with him last night. Seems like an okay guy, but I want him on a short leash.”

“No, somebody else.”

“Who?”

“Take a guess. He’s demanding a room of his own.”

Kelly clenched her jaw. “That weasely little shit.”

“I only learned about it this morning.”

She paced a few times, thinking. “I’ll take care of it.”

Evan entered the bridge, noticed the worry on their faces. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re unexpectedly staffing one extra.” Kelly stormed out of the wheelhouse and descended three levels to the sleeping quarters. “Where are you?” she yelled.

“There’s no need to get upset,” Edgar Wallis said. The attorney was the most frustrating, annoying individual Kelly had the displeasure to know. “The Trustees cut a check for this voyage under a couple conditions. They want an independent expert — ”

“Which we already have, Evan Hale, a notable ichthyologist.”

“And they also wanted Mister Hamilton to personally attend. As his services were predisposed, he asked me to fill in for him.”

“He asked you?”

“Actually I offered. The way I see it, you need my manpower.”

“That presumes you’re a man,” Kelly said. “I have to turn down your kind proposal.” She turned and started down the corridor.

“The Trustees aren’t kidding. They’re mighty pissed at you. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”

Despite her aggravation, Kelly realized Edgar was right. “I’ll see if we can squeeze you in somewhere, maybe the head.”

Captain Bart and Evan were chatting when she returned to the pilothouse. Rafe was there too, laughing along with the other men.

Kelly said, “What’s so funny?”

Bart pointed to Evan. “He’s telling us some war stories.”

“Like what?”

“How I once set a trap to catch poachers who were fishing with dynamite.”

Kelly turned to Rafe and told him, “You have a roommate now.”

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Got any more tales?” Bart asked the ranger.

Evan tried to remember another anecdote. “Oh, this one’s good. I was scuba diving in Belize, which is an island off the coast of Venezuela. And that country has a nasty reputation for drug trafficking. Dealers use low-flying planes to drop shipments of cocaine in the ocean at night. They mark the deliveries with a GPS tracer, then have associates dive down to retrieve them the next morning.

“So I go wreck diving and see all these white bricks littering the nearby reef. It takes me awhile to realize what they are, and I collected as many as I could. Every day law enforcement patrols the beaches to confiscate as many kilos as possible before the dealers come back for their dope.

“I got about ten that I left onshore before I called a taxi to pick me up. The driver took me back to the hotel, and when I went to pay for the fare he says, ‘This one’s on me. You already gave me a generous tip.’

“I didn’t understand what he meant ‘til I opened the trunk to fetch my gear and saw a load of coke bricks stashed there.”

The four of them broke into laughter. Although the others seemed to like Evan, Kelly reserved judgment.

“How are we on time?” she asked Bart.

“On schedule. Final preparations are underway.”

Rafe looked out the window and motioned to the pile of wires and metal framework that had once been Kelly’s camera. “Whaddya want done with that, take it to the scrap yard?”

“I’ll salvage what can be saved. I already promised the Institute it wouldn’t go to waste.”

Bart moved toward the door. “You two were the last here, so everyone’s accounted for. May as well get the ceremony outta the way now.”

“I agree,” Kelly said. She went to the captain’s console and turned on the intercom. “Attention, all hands to the observation deck. Repeat, all hands to the observation deck.”

Within minutes the entire crew had assembled, ten members in all. Like many seafarers, the captain was a superstitious man. Before each voyage he gathered everyone together for a short ritual to bless the trip.

“What’s going on?” Evan asked. “Employee meeting?”

Kelly whispered, “Bart’s an old tar who clings to certain sailing rites. Just indulge him; it doesn’t take long.” Across the deck she spied Edgar Wallis and pointed out the attorney to Evan. “That guy there is Hamilton’s pet. No doubt he’ll make himself a pain in your ass too.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Okay people,” Bart bellowed, “you know how this works. Hold hands — com’on, don’t be shy.” Bart flinched when Edgar gripped his hand. “Not you, Jonah. Hold hands with someone else.”

“My name’s Edgar,” the lawyer said.

“To me you’re Jonah. That’s what we call a person who bears a cloud of bad mojo.”

Edgar took another hand to complete the interlocking chain, the captain on one end and Evan on the other.

“You there, Ethan, touch the mainmast.”

“It’s Evan.”

“Just put your free hand on it.”

The ranger pressed his palm against the cold metal. “What are we doing?” he asked Kelly.

“This supposedly draws out any negative energy in the ship and crew, transfers it all to the captain.”

“For what purpose?”

“See that rotten boot he’s wearing?” Bart’s left foot was clad in a soggy, cracked leather boot. “He fished that outta the water last week. All the bad luck goes into that boot.”

Evan looked to the captain, whose eyes were closed and whose lips moved soundlessly in an inaudible prayer. The captain finished, removed the now-cursed shoe from his foot and cast over the bulwark and into the harbor.

“Thanks for humoring me,” he told everybody afterward. “You can go back to your tasks now. Remember, we set sail within the hour.” There were a few grumbles of acknowledgement as folks dispersed, leaving the captain with the two researchers.

“Do you believe in Santa Claus too?” Evan asked Bart.

“It makes me look gullible, but these are things I’ve picked up over the years. Mother Nature can be a cruel mistress sometimes, and any bit to guard against her fury is welcomed. Lord knows I had enough qualms taking helm of this vessel at all.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because of the namesake. Any ship whose title ends in A has bad fortune.”

Kelly added, “He only agreed to be captain after I explained that the Aurora is exempt from that rule since it also starts with A. She was christened in honor of the sister ship that helped Sir Ernest Shackleton’s Endurance on the first transcontinental crossing of Antarctica.”

Bart leaned against the side rail and asked her, “What’s the rush? We’ve never done two expeditions back-to-back like this.”

“I wanted to get on the water as a follow-up excursion.”

“You’ve been awful tightlipped. I’m entitled to know what I’m getting my crew into.”

“This doesn’t leave between us,” Kelly said.

Bart nodded. “Loose lips sink ships. If I had to guess, I’d say it has something to do with your little incident.” He nodded toward the crumbled mass that had been the infrared camera.

“That’s the camera?” Evan asked. He walked off to inspect the broken equipment.

Bart knew more than he led on. “It’s about that tooth you found, isn’t it?”

“That’s exactly why we’re here,” Kelly admitted.

“I’ll be damned, this is exciting.”

“The Board of Trustees made me bring Mister Hale for liability reasons. His expertise should come in handy if we find the creature.”

“When we find it,” Bart corrected. “With the Aurora we have a decent shot at tracking it. Too bad it’s not Thursday.”

“Why?”

“In the Book of Genesis, God created the sea creatures on Thursday. If we waited a few days, it could be a good omen.”

“I appreciate the sentiment but we have to leave today,” she said. “Though I’ll take all the luck I can get.”

CHAPTER NINE

THREE SHARP RAPS on the door roused the billionaire from a nap. After rewriting some business proposals, Oscar Wright had fallen asleep on the sofa in his study. It took a moment to reorient himself and remember he was on the yacht.

“Coming,” he called. The old man got to his feet after a couple false starts. Every joint in his body throbbed in agony. Rheumatoid arthritis was one of the minor ailments from which he suffered. Wright didn’t let it bother him, except on days when the pain was so great it turned his hands into aching talons.

He shuffled to the door and opened it a crack. “What is it?”

The first mate said, “We’re about to leave the marina. You wanted to be informed when we were ready.”

“Yes, right, of course.”

Hatfield added, “Mister Thorpe wants to speak with you too.”

“I’ll be up shortly.” The old man closed the door and took a few moments to wrestle on some footwear. Long ago he gave up on shoes that required laces, as limited dexterity didn’t allow him to tie them.

Five minutes later he went to the weather deck to watch as the Naglfar left dock. The engines caused a slight vibration through the ship’s floorboards. He listened to their revving and viewed the yacht slowly moving from the pier. The harbor water was brown with sediment, eddies swirling around the rotors as the chasm between ship and shore widened. The Naglfar navigated to a deeper channel, marked by colored telephone poles to denote varying water depths.

Captain Jenkins waited his turn to leave the manmade breach, like planes queuing to share a runway. Soon the idle throttle was released and the gigayacht made its way into the open Atlantic.

The air was tinged with ocean brine. Wright forgot how much he enjoyed spending time on the sea. It took him back to his time in the Navy. If he stayed in the office too long, it began to feel like a cramped jail cell. The old man stood on the stern and observed the mainland disappear into the hazy distance. Other ships were the first to vanish into the horizon, followed by the buildings and then the land itself. After twenty minutes it had faded completely, and Oscar Wright was able to convince himself that the Naglfar was the last refuge in the world, society’s sole citadel.

He admired the expanse of waves for a length of time. A voice eventually told him, “We’re out of territorial waters now.”

The old man turned to see the captain behind him. “I like the concept of mare liberum. A mere twelve miles from land there are no rules, no laws. Anyone can do as he pleases. It’s the only true freedom that remains,” Wright said. “Did you know if you discover something, say a shipwreck or buried treasure, you have the right to salvage it? No country can lay claim if it’s found in international waters. A single individual can defy entire nations. Think how many boats were destroyed over the centuries. From the conquering Spaniards to the European settlers headed to the New World, they all came through these very waters. How many ships rest beneath our feet, how much gold yet to be recovered?”

“Is that what this trip is about, treasure hunting?”

The billionaire shook his head. “I have something more important in mind. I’ve too much money as it is.”

“No such thing as too much money,” the captain replied.

“There is if it’s been paid in blood.”

After a short silence Jenkins said, “Your friend wanted you, the safari hunter. I didn’t catch his name.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“In the galley last I saw him.”

Wright returned inside and went to the kitchen where he spotted the hunter hunched over a map.

“Just the man I needed to see,” he told Wright. “I plotted a course that gives us the best opportunity to find our prey.”

Laid out on the table was a diagram of the Atlantic. Mostly blue, it had green splashes of land representing the Bahamian and Caribbean islands; a solid portion of the Florida peninsula was also visible. Several spots were marked in red ink.

“I analyzed the information you provided, the reports you gathered from your sources. When I outlined the incident locales, a pattern developed.”

“What kind of pattern?”

“A general chain of events. It took some time to weed out the misleading accounts. After all not every story of a sinking vessel or missing boater can be attributed to your . . . dragon, for lack of a better term. But I’ve found ample evidence to make a couple hypotheses.”

“I’m listening.”

“Without knowing a lot about the creature, a few things can be ventured because they’re absolutes throughout the animal kingdom. Of course this is assuming it exists.”

“Assuming it exists?”

“We don’t have any corroboration such an animal is real. The thing you described — dragon, water serpent, whatever — doesn’t fit perfectly with any zoological records. Have you seen it yourself? Do you have any proof?”

“I gave you a whole damn file of proof.”

“What you gave me were sketchy reports and speculation about a sea monster with no clear identity or verification.”

“You’re saying all those people lied?”

“Not necessarily,” Thorpe said. “In stressful situations the mind can play tricks. The brain triggers optical illusions as a defense mechanism. I believe that they believe what they saw.”

The old man folded his arms and glared at the seasoned hunter. “You don’t think there’s anything out here, do you? I’m just some paycheck, a crazy coot with more money than common sense.”

“I don’t reckon that at all,” the hunter lied.

“Fine then, tell me your theories.”

Thorpe turned once more to the map. “The earliest stories I was able to authenticate surfaced about three weeks ago. Here.” His finger jabbed a spot on the chart. “This is Turks and Caicos, a group of small islands about fifty miles north of Haiti and the Dominican Republic. A couple fishermen disappeared outside Grand Turk while on a routine trip.

“Another civilian went missing the following day to the west, off Mayaguana Island. Two days later three scuba divers failed to return from a wreck site on Dead Men’s Cay.”

“It keeps moving west.”

“Absolutely,” the hunter said. “That holds true for the rest of the attacks too. Through the Exumas to Grand Bahama Island, and over to Cuba.”

“And now in Florida.”

“More than a dozen victims in all, natives and tourists alike.”

“What kind of creature would have an appetite that voracious?”

“Something large and very dangerous. The average carnivore eats one-third of its body mass in protein each day, depending on many factors: the environment, whether it hibernates or its general level of activity. Something with a hunger this ravenous has to weigh several tons.”

“But why here and now? Where could such a thing have been hiding all this time?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I’m sure it originated someplace east of the Bahamas, in the westernmost tip of the Bermuda Triangle.”

“The Devil’s Triangle,” the old man said. The notion stimulated his imagination. “Do you suppose the Leviathan’s responsible for the rumors about the Triangle, sunken ships and the like?”

“That’s maritime myth,” Thorpe said, “pure sailing superstition. There’s no validity to crackpot claims of secret government installations or the lost city of Atlantis. I’ve been through the Triangle many times before and never encountered anything stranger than spotty radio reception. Besides, the legends purport vanishing airplanes too. Unless your sea serpent can also fly, I’m certain there’s no connection.”

“So why’s it on the move?”

“Again, could be a number of reasons. Might be searching for a fresh food supply. Polar bears have been known to swim miles in frigid waters to reach areas where their prey hasn’t been depleted.”

“And humans are its food source.”

“Not on purpose,” Thorpe noted. “This dragon is merely an animal operating on instinct. People may be mistaken for the creature’s regular diet, but it isn’t specifically hunting people. It’s after whatever it can catch. If it’s as massive as I think, it should have no problem pursuing other large predators.”

“What else could have forced it into our world?”

“It might be mating season, and it’s on the prowl for a partner. Most animals in heat will be uncharacteristically aggressive, especially females.

“Or maybe man encroached on its natural environment, and it’s fled to a better habitat. Hell, it may even be wounded and lashing out. Until I’ve seen your Leviathan for myself, I don’t feel comfortable speculating too much.”

“Do you have any notion where it’s headed?”

“I’ve an idea.”

“Well, where are we going?”

The hunter leaned over the table, stabbed his finger at a spot on the map circled in marker. “Straight to the middle of its feeding grounds.”

* * * * *

The Aurora left Longboat Harbor half an hour after the Naglfar. When the gigayacht had become a faraway speck, Captain Bart piloted the vessel out of the shallow bay. Neither Kelly nor Evan was on deck to witness the departure, as both were sequestered in the photo lab.

The only source of illumination in the darkroom came from a television monitor. The scientists were huddled in front of the screen to watch the video feed from Kelly’s previous expedition.

“So the camera did work?” Evan asked.

“Until that creature came along. I’ll speed it up a bit.” Kelly fast-forwarded the footage, and Evan paused the tape when something caught his attention.

He said, “What’s that?”

“I thought you might be interested in that. We think it’s a new species of eel.”

“Look at those prehensile legs. That’s amazing,” he remarked.

“That’s not even the good part.” They sat for several minutes, neither speaking as the tape progressed. Kelly eventually told him, “Watch close.”

The camera panned to the left . . . any . . . second . . . now . . . There.

“Holy shit,” Evan said.

The animal glided into frame, the camera glimpsing its enormous mass as it swam by. It wasn’t in a hurry, floating gracefully along. The shot captured its form from mid-thorax to the lower appendages and tail.

“Pause it,” Evan said. “See how muscular the legs are.” There was a giddy quality to his tone. Kelly too shared his enthusiasm. “Do you realize what that means?”

“It can walk on land.”

The marine biologist replayed the same moment from both the infrared and thermal imaging equipment.

“Without seeing the entire body, I’d deduce it’s a quadruped.”

“Take a look at this,” Kelly said.

He watched the thermal tape over her shoulder. The water appeared light blue, while the animal itself was nearly the same color, slightly warmer green on its underside.

“Check the water temperature,” she said. “It’s sixty-one degrees. The animal’s body heat is about sixty-three.”

“It’s cold-blooded,” Evan said. “And the way it moves is reptilian. Having seen this, I know now my whale theory is off the mark. This actually reminds me of a Komodo lizard.”

“The ones found in the Galapagos? Are those even marine creatures?”

“You’d be surprised,” Evan said. “I studied them for six months as part of my graduate work. I would capture one, tag it and release it back in the wild to chart its movements. Turns out several I caught on the main island I’d trap again two weeks later on one of the smaller islets. They traveled from one cay to the next for food, and there was a sizeable distance between some of the places.”

“But something that size — ”

“ — has to be at least thirty feet, if not more. The longest Komodos I tracked were half that length.”

“It gets better,” Kelly told him as the tape resumed. The creature went out of frame for several seconds before it sped from the darkness straight toward the camera. Its giant mouth opened to reveal a gaping jaw; an instant later the screen turned red and the footage died.

“What do you think?”

Evan continued staring at the TV after the picture went blank. He didn’t know how to process what he just witnessed. “It’s cold-blooded yet is able to manufacture a tremendous amount of heat.”

“Did we find a fire-breathing dragon or what?”

“No such thing.”

“Maybe not,” Kelly said. “At least it got our attention.”

“I’d like a better view of the skull,” he said. “The front-end angle doesn’t offer a lot of clues. Go back a few frames and pause it.”

She replayed the footage backward frame by frame until Evan stopped her. He inspected every inch of the monitor, searching for any hint of the creature’s anatomy.

“This isn’t a Komodo,” he said at last.

“How do you know?”

“This has a snout. Komodo dragons have a different facial structure, more like an iguana. And look at the eyes.” He pointed to the black sockets peering over the teeth. “They’re positioned high atop the cranium so the creature can see both ahead and to the sides with equal vision. No wonder it’s an expert predator.”

Kelly ejected the tapes and stored them in a safe place. She didn’t want anything happening to them. Knowing the Institute had a mole on board didn’t calm her anxieties either. If the footage were copied or stolen, she wouldn’t be able to keep the news story from the press. And whosoever controlled the media controlled the masses.

“Now the hard part begins. How do we find it?” Evan asked.

“Shouldn’t be as difficult as you think. Check this out,” she said. Kelly rooted through a stack of navigational maps, spread one out smooth on the table. The edges were curled so she used a coffee cup to hold them in place. “The Caribbean Sea,” she said, although that was self-evident to Evan. “My friends at the Coast Guard fed me all the information they had on animal attacks or missing persons over the last six weeks. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary ‘til late last month. There were assaults here, here and here.” She scored three Xs on the map with a pencil. “Clearly it’s moving in a northwestern direction. Because I figured it was cold-blooded, I checked ocean temperatures for this season.”

She grabbed a clear plastic chart, and overlaid it atop the first map. “Normally a reptile can’t survive average ocean waters because it’s too cold. But this year el Niňo in the Pacific has warmed the Atlantic basin four degrees higher than normal. I expect we’ll also have a volatile hurricane season because of that.” The colorful diagram showed the ocean temperature as mostly green, lower seventies in the north and a dark red patch of almost ninety in the Gulf. A single path of warmer water stretched from the Caribbean to outside the South Carolina coast. “The Gulf Stream typically brings moist air and a heated current from the equator,” Kelly said. Evan noticed the attacks coincided directly with the Gulf Stream. “This stretch is ninety miles wide at its thickest point. I don’t think the creature will wander outside this area, so that narrows our search field. It should stay on a northerly route too, and based on the general rate of speed between the prior attacks” — she traced her finger along the map — “I’d say it’s probably in this area.” Kelly pointed to a spot east of the Florida Keys.

“I hope you’re right,” Evan said.

“So do I.”

* * * * *

Four hours later Bart’s gruff voice blared over the intercom. “Kelly to the pilothouse at your convenience.”

She took Evan and met the captain. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Got a hit on the sonar.”

“How fast have we been going?”

“Fifteen knots, give or take.”

“So we’re over the Gulf Stream.”

“By all rights and accounts,” he said.

BEEP. The sonar signaled again on the main console.

Kelly watched the green screen. A transponder on the Aurora’s keel sent pulses to the ocean floor. They refracted off the bottom and returned to the research vessel, bouncing off any objects for acoustic location.

“Things were calm ‘til a few minutes ago,” Bart said.

“Do we know if it’s organic?” Evan asked.

“Can’t tell from this. It’s at least twenty feet long though.”

“And on the move?”

“I don’t think so,” Kelly said. “It isn’t in motion at all.”

“Maybe it’s asleep?” Bart offered.

Evan wasn’t convinced. “Do you think this is our creature?”

“We won’t know if we don’t put a camera down there.”

Bart shut off the engines and let the ship drift.

Evan asked, “How far down is it?”

“About six hundred feet.” Kelly asked the captain, “Do you want to come with us?”

Bart shook his head. “I’m good right where I am. Take Rafe if you need company.”

“Suit yourself.” Over the intercom she said, “Rafe to the observation deck. Rafe to the observation deck, thank you.” Then she took Evan and exited the pilothouse, leaving the captain to peruse a magazine.

“You wanted to see me?” Rafe said as the researchers appeared. The air was muggy and the sun no longer penetrated through thickening cloud cover. The wind had picked up too, since there were no natural landscapes or buildings out here to hinder its force.

“I have a job for you,” Kelly said.

“As if I don’t already have enough on my plate.”

“I need the rover. Evan will give you a hand with it.”

“What are you photographing?” the Jamaican asked.

“Not sure yet,” she said. And it wasn’t a lie.

“How much chain do we need?”

“At least seven hundred feet.”

Rafe nodded and the men left to retrieve the equipment.

Kelly walked to port, leaned over the rail to view the water. Somewhere down there was the creature she was after, a slumbering giant she intended to waken.

CHAPTER TEN

A MARINE ENTOURAGE accompanied the Naglfar. Half a dozen spinner dolphins kept at the yacht’s prow, riding lazily on the pressure waves the vessel pressed ahead of itself. A few dived into the water, only to emerge moments later twisting like corkscrews as they leapt from the sea.

Thorpe mentioned their presence to the billionaire. Wright now watched the mammals from the deck. “They’re playful, sociable animals,” the hunter said. Then without a hint of irony or malice: “Would you like to kill one?”

“They’re harmless.”

“We need a large quantity of bait. Only fresh meat will do.”

“Aren’t they endangered?” The old man held genuine concern for the dolphins. While he was filled with seething vengeance, his animosity extended to the Leviathan alone and not these gentle creatures.

“We only need one.” He gestured to the harpoon cannon. “Care to test your new toy?”

Wright thought a moment. It would be a good opportunity to try his latest gadget. His moral ambivalence vanished as he took a seat at the oversized spear gun.

The hunter loaded a harpoon that was connected to a length of wire. “Have you fired a gun before?” he asked.

“At a shooting range, never at a living thing.”

“This is a lot like the shooting range. Line the end of the barrel with the sight here. When you have a good shot, take it. Then use the crank to reel in your catch.”

Thorpe pointed to the mammals off port. “The key is patience. Pick a specific mark and go after it. You’ll have one chance to fire, maybe two, before they’re scared away.” The old man paid attention to his impromptu hunting lesson. “Be sure to shoot it through the heart. It’s located a third of the way down from the back of its head, that meaty area above the front flippers. Are you ready?”

“Let’s do this,” Wright said.

“I’ll be right here if you have any questions.”

The billionaire got comfortable in the chair and stared through the telescopic lens to target one particular porpoise. His finger rested on the trigger . . . waiting . . . waiting for the right shot. So long as the animal made no jerky movements, he would be —

NOW.

Wright squeezed hard and fired the harpoon. The discharged spear pierced the dolphin a second later. The creature made a pained series of chirps, which slowed in both intensity and tone as the billionaire reeled in the animal.

“Not bad for your first time,” Thorpe said. “Caught it a bit below the heart though.” He helped the old man pull the heavy quarry on deck with a series of pulleys. It was eight feet long, weighed around nine hundred pounds. They wrestled it aboard as the dolphin continued mewling, its blowhole opening and closing in sync with its gasping mouth. While it wasn’t dead yet, it was well on its way. “See how you punctured it farther down the thorax? All you did was collapse one of the lungs. It’s drowning.”

“But it’s out of the water.”

“Fluid’s building in the pleural cavities.”

“Is it in pain?” the old man asked.

“Not for long,” Thorpe said. He yanked out the spear and impaled it higher into the creature’s flank, like a conquistador planting his nation’s flag on a newly discovered continent.

The porpoise let out a final wounded squeal, its tail thrashing in a convulsive fit. Then it fell silent and still. “There,” the hunter said. Death was his trade, and Ian Thorpe was an expert tradesman.

Wright stared at the animal’s lifeless glass eyes. “What now?”

“It has to be gutted.”

The hunter went inside and came back a few minutes later with a machete from the galley. He thrust the blade into the dolphin’s underside, split it open with a sawing motion. The internal organs slid across deck and pooled in a scarlet puddle. The meat was so fresh it emitted no odor. “I brought a limited amount of chum for the trip,” Thorpe said. “It’ll draw any predators in the area to the surface. To catch our dragon, we need something better.” He handed the knife to Wright. “It’s your job to chop it into offal.”

“Offal?”

“Hunks of flesh for bait. We won’t use any stuff ‘til we spot the Leviathan. Cut it into ten-pound cubes. It’ll be easier to work your way from the tail section. And only do half the carcass. We’ll save the rest for when we need it. I’ll grab the chum and be right back.”

The billionaire took the large blade and hacked at the mammal’s corpse. “Isn’t this what I paid you for?” he grumbled.

Thorpe soon returned with two five-gallon buckets. “This is everything, so use it sparingly.” He set down the containers, pried open the lids with a buck-knife. “Watch the smell,” he warned.

The foul stench hit Wright like a punch, the rancid aroma of death. It had an odd hint of sweetness that stuck in his nostrils, made him gag. “That’s disgusting,” he said.

“It’s a slurry of pulverized fish.” Thorpe produced a plastic scoop, dug into the bucket and tossed some over the bulwark. “This leaves a trail in our wake that will attract nearby animals and funnel them toward us. Eventually we’ll need to cut the engines, but not quite yet.” Thorpe threw out another batch and continued until the first container was empty. When the hunter was done, he took over Wright’s job disassembling the porpoise.

Wright watched the ensuing commotion over the rail. It was obvious the chum was tempting, because within minutes the first fish — blenny and snapper mostly, as well as cardinalfish and a few grouper — surfaced to nibble at the bloody bits. After a short time larger predators such as barracudas and lemon sharks followed. The aggressive carnivores feasted on both the chum and the smaller fish.

“This nasty goop must be delicious,” the old man commented.

“It’s like a magnet.”

“Especially for the sharks, it seems.”

Thorpe sliced another piece from the carcass. “Sharks have dots on their snouts called ampullae of Lorenzini that sense extremely fine electrical impulses from prey. It’s one reason they’re such excellent hunters.”

“That’s amazing,” Wright said. He gazed at the spectacle: a writhing mass of fins and tails that stirred the sea into pink foam. “Do you think one of my harpoons could kill a shark?”

“Depends on the proximity. If you got close enough, I suppose.” Thorpe brought down the machete several times to sever the dolphin’s spinal cord. “A shark’s skin is unique because it’s covered in denticles. It’s like natural chainmail that makes the flesh damn near impossible to pierce.”

The hunter began skewering pieces of meat onto one of the harpoons, as if it were an oversized shish kebab. “If the Leviathan goes for this bait, it’ll wind up stabbed in the mouth. No matter how protected or armored outside, every animal has vulnerable insides. Puncture the mouth or eyes and you’ll be able to slow it down enough to capture.”

The billionaire turned to the ocean, surprised to find the sea had calmed to normal. All the fish were gone.

The pager on Wright’s belt went off. He’d instructed Captain Jenkins to contact him if the sonar equipment detected anything out of the ordinary.

“We’re being summoned,” he told Thorpe.

They headed to the bridge to meet with Jenkins. “What is it?” Wright asked the captain.

“You mentioned there’d be an influx of objects in the area because you’re feeding them. However, I noticed this.” The captain gestured to the sonar console. Several dots appeared on the green viewfinder, at least a dozen.

On the next loop there were fewer than ten, and the one after that discerned half a dozen.

“Everything’s leaving the area,” Thorpe said.

“Is that a good sign?” the captain asked. The hunter ordered him to cut the engines.

Wright became excited. “This is it, isn’t it?”

Thorpe wasn’t as willing to believe. “All the others have been chased off, even the sharks.”

Another glance at the sonar showed nothing in the immediate vicinity.

“I thought you were deep-sea fishing,” the captain said. “Is there something I don’t know about?” The old man didn’t answer him. “Because I refuse to take part in anything illegal or unethical. I saw what you did to that poor dolphin. If you’re hunting whales or something — ”

“That’s none of your concern,” the billionaire said.

The captain glared hard at Wright. The tone in his voice was steadfast. “What are you hunting?” he asked again.

The old man’s anger burst like a flooded dam. “You work for me, you nosy sonofabitch. I sign your paychecks so you’ll do as I say, goddammit.”

BEEP.

The equipment alerted them again. A single, massive object entered the sonar field.

Thorpe said, “That has to be at least twenty feet long.”

“Make sure the spear gun’s ready,” Wright told him, his spat with the captain already forgotten.

BEEP. Another signal.

BEEP. Followed by another.

BEEP. Followed by three more.

For a full minute the men watched as sonar picked up several immense forms headed directly toward the Naglfar.

“How many are there?” the captain asked.

The old man counted and said, “Thirteen. Get ready ‘cause they’ll be here any moment.”

* * * * *

Rafe and Evan returned to the weather deck with the robotic “rover”, a Remote-Operated Vehicle for Exploration and Research. It was a small camera, slightly larger than a beachball, complete with a self-sustaining battery pack and propulsion system. From the research vessel, Kelly could control the robot’s movements by a complex joystick.

It reminded Evan of the R/C car he received for his tenth birthday. The rover worked by the same principles, except it cost thirty thousand dollars. Included with the 360-degree camera were a pressure gauge, thermometer, and an instrument to judge the speed of ambient water currents.

“Aren’t you worried about destroying this too?” Evan asked the marine biologist as they set it on the aft deck.

Kelly said, “I’m already in hot shit with the Trustees. If they wanna fire me over this, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I also grabbed this,” Rafe said and produced a mannequin head. “Please?”

“Make sure it’s tied on tight,” she said.

Rather than succumb to boredom on the high seas, the researchers often devised ways to pass the time. One of the favorites included a foam dummy head, the type used by hairdressers to practice styling techniques.

The scientists sank the head to such depths that it was crushed to a fraction of its regular size. The deeper it went, the greater the pressure it was subjected to and the more compact it became. The end result appeared like a shrunken tribal skull, usually bestowed to a greenhorn on his or her first voyage. Kelly still kept the mannequin she’d been given as an intern.

Rafe took a black marker and wrote EDGAR on the foam base before drawing glasses around the eyes and adding a pair of buckteeth. He admired his work and said, “A spitting image.”

“An uncanny resemblance,” Evan agreed.

“All right,” Kelly said, “let’s get this camera in the water. I want to see what’s down there before it swims off.”

With a length of nylon rope, they attached the foam head to the rover and shifted the camera on the lowest edge of the ship before letting it drop a few feet into the ocean. The Aurora’s stern had a hydraulic platform that could be raised and lowered into the water. It acted as a stabilizer for the vessel and allowed easy access to the waterline for scuba divers and heavy machinery.

Convinced the robot was in working condition, Kelly took Evan and Rafe to the photo lab to watch the live video feed on a television monitor. “How does this work?” Evan asked. “I’ve never used a rover before.”

“It’s magic,” Rafe said.

“The images are relayed back through an overhead satellite.” Kelly held up the joystick. “And I can steer it anywhere with this.”

Using the remote control, she kept the camera descending at one hundred feet per minute. Within five minutes the robot reached the continental shelf. “Check the sonar,” she told Evan. “How far out am I?”

“About fifty meters, give or take. Keep going north.”

The screen was mostly black. White flakes drifted by the camera in slow motion, sea snow consisting of fine silt particulates and necrotic animal bits. At a depth of one hundred meters most sunlight was filtered out, dispersed by the water. By three hundred meters, so little light penetrated that photosynthesis ceased to occur.

Evan pointed and said, “Wait, is that something? Go to the right a little.” Kelly guided the camera with her joystick. “There. What’s that?”

“Sonar says we’re almost on top of it,” Rafe added.

Kelly maneuvered the rover closer. “That has to be what we’re looking for,” she said.

From the darkness a form took shape, surrounded by a flurry of lesser creatures.

“Turn on the lights. I want a good look,” Evan said.

Kelly activated the halogen bulbs on either side of the camera. The sudden brightness scared off the other fish within seconds. Soon all that remained was the enormous beast itself.

“Have any idea what that is?” Rafe asked.

Both researchers squinted at the screen to analyze the creature’s anatomy. “Whatever it is, the thing sure as hell ain’t alive,” Kelly said.

Evan concurred. “It’s a cetacean, I reckon, very possibly a sperm whale or even a wayward right whale. I can’t tell from this distance.”

“You’re probably right,” Kelly said.

Rafe asked, “How long has it been down there?”

“Not more than a couple days.”

“I would’ve guessed at least a month,” the Jamaican said.

“People don’t realize that decomposition is a quick process,” Kelly said. “It starts with large predators ripping off chunks of flesh: sharks, barracuda and the like. Then the smaller fish come to feast, often times becoming the main course for something bigger. Finally when there’s little more than gristle left, the sea urchins and parasites pick the bones ‘til only the skeleton remains. A whale this size can be stripped clean within six to eight weeks.”

“Sometimes their skeletons get mistaken for shipwrecks,” Evan added. “To sonar equipment the bones read like the hull of a vessel. Only after excavators send down a probe, do they find out they’ve been misled.”

“What is this here?” Kelly asked. She pointed to a black mass that obscured a third of the whale’s body. “Is that an overhang?”

“I think it is.”

“You think maybe the current brought it to rest here?” She consulted the computer data. “The rover records no perceivable current at this depth.”

Evan said, “Look at the bite marks. That diameter’s about four feet wide. It’s hard to tell since other fish have marred the body with their own teeth. That first attack is clearly what killed this whale.”

“And the edges are dull.”

“Meaning?” Rafe asked.

“Meaning the predator had pointed teeth for gripping and ripping, not serrated ones for cutting,” Kelly said. “Which is consistent with the tooth I found.”

“Then whatever killed this whale is your culprit?” Rafe said.

“Theoretically,” Evan mused. “And if the current didn’t deposit the body here — ”

“ — then our creature did.” Kelly’s pulse quickened. “Which leads us to believe it’s intelligent.”

Rafe asked how come.

“Because it stores excess food,” Evan said. “It killed the whale to eat and left the corpse here to gorge on later. Very few creatures are smart enough to do that. It shows reasoning and foresight.”

“Food is the single most essential object in any society, whether man’s civilized world or the animal kingdom. Food sustains life. Food dictates population growth and control. Food can even be used as a fundamental unit of currency. If this being stores food for future use, it’s a significant development.”

“I don’t like the notion of a smart monster,” Rafe said.

“That’s the wrong way to think,” Evan told the mechanic. “I wouldn’t consider it a monster at all. It’s an animal, same as any other creature you’ve come across before. Monsters don’t exist; this thing does. Dogs and cats, eagles and lobsters — everything is an animal, including Homo sapiens. People tend to overlook that. We’re also part of Mother Nature. Humans have this intrinsic need to mold other beasts in our image.”

“Anthropomorphism,” Kelly explained.

“I blame Disney,” Evan went on. “Their films are overrun with talking pets and woodland creatures, so now every kid expects that animals conform to human stereotypes. The truth is the other way around. We act like them. To call it a monster is a misnomer.”

The Jamaican understood the crux of Evan’s argument. “It’s not a killing machine then.”

Kelly said, “Precisely. There’s no such thing. If an animal kills or maims, it’s usually out of territoriality or because it feels threatened. Animals lash out only as survival instinct. Killing for the sake of bloodthirstiness is a misconception.”

“And the best example is sharks,” Evan said.

“There’s an average of sixteen shark attacks each year in the U.S., resulting in about ten deaths. More people are killed annually by lightning strikes. And yet hatred for sharks spans the globe, in large part because of Jaws.”

“The fledgling dive industry took a major hit when that movie came out, because people were afraid to go in the ocean. It took decades for the business to recover. In fact the book’s author spent the rest of his life advocating for the protection of sharks. By then it was too late; the damage was done.”

Rafe said, “That’s a lot to glean from a dead body.”

“Oh, it’s better than that,” Evan noted.

“How so?”

The three of them peered at the monitor. Several scavenger fish braved the rover’s lights and continued devouring the whale’s remains. Kelly navigated the camera for a closer inspection and said, “It means our creature is still in the area and will return to this place, probably sometime soon.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I NEED TO see them,” the old man said. He glared at the sonar in frustration. “Goddamn dots on a screen don’t help. Everyone to the deck.”

“Yessir,” Captain Jenkins said.

“I want you with me at all times,” Wright told Thorpe. “These things are gonna strike fast, so I need you at hand.”

“How do you know they’re going to attack?”

The billionaire laughed. “Because I’m about to piss them off.”

The environment on deck was calm. The wind had strengthened and the sea grew to five-foot swells. Somewhere far from this place the sun beamed brightly and people went about their daily lives. Here it was different, muted, and the experienced hunter didn’t like how that felt.

“Something’s wrong,” Thorpe said.

“Whaddya mean wrong?” Wright walked to port, scanned the surroundings with a pair of binoculars.

“This isn’t right. Hunting is about patience, about waiting for that moment of providence. It’s almost spiritual when you sync up with nature and tap into its primal energy. My gut tells me this isn’t our moment.”

“Fuck your gut. I’m telling you it is.” Wright pointed to an object just beneath the water, approaching the Naglfar like a wave. “Look.”

Thorpe noticed a second form and said, “There’s another one.”

“And a third.” The old man rushed across the bow to the harpoon cannon. The hunter stopped him before the billionaire became too eager.

“What are you doing?”

“What I was put on this earth for,” Wright said.

Thorpe got so close to the old man’s face that Wright saw his own reflection in the hunter’s polarized sunglasses. “You asked me to help you. Let me do that. I don’t need you butting heads with me every time I give orders. If you want to go home with anything more than shattered hopes and a sunburn, we do this my way. Do I make myself clear?”

The billionaire swallowed his pride and nodded.

“I count at least ten,” Captain Jenkins said from starboard. “What’s down there?” he asked the hunter.

One of the figures crested the surface, followed in short succession by several others. A loud burst of water spewed from the waves, sending salt spray into the air and onto the deck.

“Sperm whales,” Thorpe said. He turned back to Wright, the old man still seated at the cannon. “Y’hear that, whales.”

Three more blasts came from the mammals’ blowholes. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, not this close,” the captain said.

“They’re pretty majestic,” Thorpe agreed. “Masterful hunters too, the only creatures willing to fight the Kraken.”

“Kraken?”

“A giant squid of sailing myth so large it sank entire armadas. Whalers used to pray never to encounter the beast.” The hunter motioned to the largest whale. Along its flank were mottled, circular bruises the size of saucer plates. “Looks like that one already got in a tussle with a squid. These are the only animals known to eat giant squid. I’m actually surprised to see them here. They usually keep to the colder waters up north.”

“Maybe that’s where they’re headed,” Wright said as he walked to the gunwale. “Clearly they’re racing somewhere.”

The hunter shook his head. “No, it looks like they’re trying to escape from something.”

“My something?” the old man said.

“It’s possible. They’re frightened, that much is apparent. See how the bigger ones have corralled the adolescents in the center? The adults are in a protective formation circling the juveniles.”

“But why are they around the boat?” the captain asked.

“We’re the biggest thing on the water out here. They must think it’s safer near the yacht.”

“Isn’t this what you’re after?” the captain asked Wright. “I thought this is what you wanted to hunt.”

“Are you kidding? What kind of idiot chases after a whale?”

“Then what are you looking for?”

“The mightiest of beasts.”

“What’s that mean?” the captain asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to keep alive? I’m sure someplace like SeaWorld would love to get such an animal. Killing it sounds a bit . . . barbaric.”

The billionaire shot him so hateful a glance the captain regretted opening his mouth. “You’re telling me what SeaWorld does to those damn orcas isn’t humiliating and barbaric?”

“It’s educational.”

“My ass,” Wright said.

The hunter gestured and said, “Lookit that. About ten o’clock, twenty yards off the stern.” Neither the captain nor Oscar Wright saw what Thorpe found exciting. “That dark shape there, it’s incoming fast.”

“I see it now,” Jenkins said.

“Com’on, show yourself,” the old man muttered.

“Let’s get the bait,” Thorpe said. He sprang to the main deck in a single lithe motion.

The old man moved as quickly as his arthritic bones allowed, hurrying to the buckets of slurry. “Do you want me to dump the chum?” he asked.

The hunter shook his head. “Think bigger.” He nudged the dolphin chunks with his boot. “Bring me that grappling hook coiled yonder.”

Wright brought the tool to the hunter while Jenkins wondered what type of person used the word yonder. “Don’t let it out of your sight,” Thorpe told the captain. “Holler if it vanishes.”

“Do you think this is our moment of providence?” the old man asked.

“Either way, we have to be ready.” He took the hook and tossed it over a crossbeam above the water. The grappling dangled down and he leaned out to retrieve it, never losing sight of the mass off port. The whales circled to the opposite side of the Naglfar, the ocean transformed to white froth from their thrashing tails.

Thorpe took the hook and punctured it through the porpoise meat. The old man helped Thorpe heft the fifty-pound piece of flesh until it swung freely over the gunwale, six feet above water and flush to the main deck.

“Now use the chum,” Thorpe instructed. Wright took a bucket to the side and scooped the red offal overboard. “We have to tempt it with food more appetizing than the whales. Hopefully it’ll see this as an easy meal and leave the others alone.”

“It disappeared,” the captain shouted. “Just went out of sight. It was there one moment and gone the next.”

Around them the ocean calmed. “Our friends left too,” the hunter noted. “They all took a dive.”

The old man asked, “Is that bad?”

“They must’ve deemed it too dangerous up here after all, went down to a deeper depth.”

“How long can they stay under?” said the captain.

“Whales are resilient. Their bodies are adapted to withstand enormous strain from water pressure. They can easily swim to fourteen atmospheres and stay there for over an hour.”

“Will we have to wait that long?” Wright asked. He hadn’t amassed a fortune by being patient, and the thought of delaying gratification any longer irritated him.

“Assuming your creature has similar anatomy. The key about diving is that air volume compresses with depth. If the Leviathan swims to fourteen atmospheres with the whales, its lungs only contain one-fourteenth the oxygen they did at the surface. The deeper it goes, the less time it can stay under.”

“The same goes for the whales,” Jenkins added.

“They have air cavities stored in their foreheads so they can sustain being down there for long periods.”

“But our thing isn’t a whale,” the old man said.

“I don’t think so. Maybe an amphibian or perhaps — ”

A wall of water suddenly erupted over the side of the Naglfar. A mass of scales and teeth came with it, tearing at the dolphin carcass with enough force to make the gigayacht list to port.

Wright lost his footing and toppled on deck. The captain and Thorpe gripped the side railing for balance.

The beast dived into the water and took the meat with it. The rope attached to the bait went taut as the creature swam off with the hook in its jaws. Thorpe was the first to guess the chain would fail under such tremendous exertion.

“Down. Everybody get down,” he shouted. “It’s gonna snap.”

A moment later the line cracked like a whip and snaked across deck, slamming into the captain’s shoulder. Jenkins cried out and dropped to his knees.

Then the chain vanished into the waves along with the Leviathan.

Without the added strain, the ship instantly righted itself. Within seconds the sea becalmed to normal and there was no evidence the beast had been there at all.

Thorpe tended to the wounded captain. “I’m okay,” Jenkins said. “It only grazed me.” His right sleeve had been ripped away to reveal a nasty slice deep in the deltoid muscle.

“That chain was rusty. This wound needs to be cleaned and dressed before it gets infected.”

The old man paid no attention to his injured captain, still searching the dark water for any hint of the creature’s re-emergence. There was none.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Thorpe asked.

Jenkins waved him away. “Bring me a first-aid kit and I’ll be fine.” The hunter set off to scrounge up some medical supplies.

The captain stood and took a few steps toward the old man. “I wouldn’t stand too close to the edge if I were you,” he said. “Christ, what the hell was that thing?”

Oscar Wright answered, “My destiny.”

* * * * *

Kelly Andrews overlooked the Atlantic Ocean from the Aurora, lost in contemplation. The temperature had dipped during the past hour; in spite of the chill, she hadn’t notice.

The marine biologist knew mankind was insatiable. If God wanted humans to explore the ocean, He would’ve given people congenital gills. If He wanted folks to fly, He would’ve given them wings. Except man wasn’t content with the temperate environment he was given and soon canvassed the harshest places in the world. The endless deserts, the polar tundras, the highest mountaintops: no locale was beyond man’s reach.

That wasn’t enough though, never enough for humanity’s twin lusts of knowledge and adventure. Man’s curiosity caused him to seek out greater voyages, to the skies and to the seas.

There was but one problem, God had created Homo sapiens to be tethered to the earth by a vital need for oxygen. That proved to be a temporary hindrance; as soon as technology allowed, people discovered ways to transport air to the darkest depths of the ocean and the limitless void of space.

Over a scant ten-thousand-year reign, mankind had gone from being defenseless against nature’s cruelty to shaping the world to his whims. Kelly understood Mother Nature couldn’t be controlled, only mollified.

Man had been granted a veritable paradise but threw it away in hopes of finding something better.

Kelly often wondered whether humanity had angered God by breaking out of its cage. In bleaker times she questioned God’s existence altogether.

She’d been raised Methodist by her mother and spent time with her atheist father after her parents divorced. The conflicting belief systems caused her not to resent faith itself but organized religion. Kelly considered herself an agnostic. She suspected there was something beyond death. The marine biologist also felt any Creator had long ago abandoned humanity, steering clear of people as an act of omnipotent arrogance. If God existed, He had no interest in His creations.

That’s how she pictured Him, an aloof figurehead on the outskirts of the cosmos, completely unengaged with the events of the universe. Other times she thought Him so needy and insecure, He had to invent an entire species merely to praise His name and kiss His ass. She considered humanity to be God’s science fair project, and thought Him as interested in the affairs of human beings as a child who studied the colony life of an ant farm.

Years of scientific training beat out much of her paltry faith. She understood the universe was a chain of random coincidence. It was by luck alone that civilization formed at all. If an intelligent designer existed, Kelly was sure He had a sense of humor. Any supreme being would have to with so many sardonic contradictions in the world. God made man dependent on water, then covered three-fourths of the earth with the same liquid that would kill him if ingested.

“What’cha doing?”

Kelly turned to find Edgar standing behind her. She didn’t know how long he’d been there, felt like he’d violated her solitude. She hadn’t heard him approach since he moved with a rodent’s agility.

“Do I need to put a bell on you?” she asked.

“Evan wanted me to ask if he can bring up the rover.”

“Tell him to start reeling it up. Have Rafe help him get it out of the water. It’s always easier putting it in than taking it out.”

A burst of wind swirled around them. Edgar glanced at the darkening skies. On the horizon the clouds were ominous and sparked off heat lightning. “Looks like a storm’s blowing in.”

“All the more reason to hurry.”

He nodded and left. She lingered on the aft deck a few moments longer before making her way to the stabilizer platform on the stern. It took a few minutes for reinforcements to appear, Evan and the Jamaican.

“Where’d you disappear to?” the ranger asked.

“Came out here to clear my head. Did I miss anything?” She started the Yumbo crane that pulled the rover to the surface.

“Nothing much,” Rafe said.

A rhythmic chik-chik-chik-chik sounded as the windlass coiled the stainless steel thread. It took five minutes before the robot crested the waves.

Edgar watched from the railing as the others maneuvered the heavy contraption with a massive hook, situating the camera on the platform.

The two scientists jumped to the lowest deck and repositioned the machine while struggling to keep balance against the growing waves. “Looks good on my end,” Evan said. “How’s it over there?”

Kelly checked the camera. It was safely secured. “Hooked on this side too.”

Rafe helped the researchers back on deck, then Kelly used the crane to raise the rover and bring it to rest on a gurney. As it dangled over the weather deck, everyone was careful not to step underneath it for fear the chain might slip.

Their other present emerged from the water as well, still tied to the rover. “That’s the smallest I’ve seen,” the Jamaican said. The foam mannequin head was a quarter of its original size. It had been slightly smaller than a volleyball at first; now it had the circumference of a softball.

“How far down did it go?” Rafe asked.

“A hundred and fifty meters.”

Kelly was unimpressed by the head. “That’s hardly worth bragging about.”

Edgar pressed past the others and spied the object, recognizing the caricature of himself. “That’s not funny,” he said sharply. “Mister Hamilton will hear about this,” he said.

“Go ahead, tell him,” Kelly said. She untied the shrunken head and tossed it to him. “Have a souvenir.” The lawyer caught it by reflex then dropped it as though it were a real severed skull.

Laughter exploded from the intercom as Bart watched the scene from the pilothouse. “You got him good,” the captain remarked.

The nervous tension between them released at that instant and everybody joined in the jollity. Even Edgar smiled in spite of himself.

Bart added, “Get up here, guys. You’ll wanna see this.” He needn’t say anything else to grab their attentions. The four of them filed onto the bridge.

“What’s going on?” Kelly asked. The captain started the engines. “Do we have new coordinates?”

“I assume you’ll want to follow these.” He gestured to the sonar viewfinder where several forms had been detected.

“When did this start?”

“A couple minutes ago.”

Evan watched over the marine biologist’s shoulder. “Good Lord, how many are there?”

“At least half a dozen,” Bart said. “That’s not all of them either. They’re still swimming into range.”

“At the rate they’re moving from the east, they should be in the area within ten minutes.”

Bart navigated the Aurora toward the figures.

“What do you suppose they are?” Edgar said.

“Probably a pod of whales, based on the size,” Evan supposed.

“What’s that?” Rafe asked. He looked at a different screen for the ship’s radar. It pictured a secondary object ahead of the others, four times their mass.

“I’d say it’s another vessel.”

Bart altered course headings as they sped to the next location. “ETA seven minutes.”

Larger than the others, another form lagged behind the rest.

“What’s that,” Edgar asked, “a slacker?”

Evan shook his head. “If it were one of them, something that large would be in the lead. No, I think it’s chasing them.”

“That may be our creature,” Kelly said. Although Evan said nothing, the look on his face told her that he agreed.

“See for yourself,” Bart said. He handed Kelly a telescope from beneath the console.

She used the instrument to scan the water for abnormalities. The sky had turned a slate color against the coal hue of the waves, a world of gray. The telescope saw seven miles into the horizon, before the curvature of the earth hid everything else from view.

She spotted a white speck in the distance. “Look twenty degrees off true north,” she said. As the Aurora grew closer, the speck became a discernable object. “You’re right, it’s another ship,” she said. “A big damn yacht by the look of it.”

“And everything’s headed straight for it,” Evan said.

With the telescope, a minute later she made out the vessel’s name. “What the hell’s a Naglfar?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE BILLIONAIRE’S GRUFF voice boomed over the yacht’s intercom. “All hands on deck.” Wright stood in the pilothouse and kept an eye on the sonar. Although there were still several forms in the area, he couldn’t differentiate between the whales and his Leviathan.

He barked a second order into the microphone. “Claude, report to the wheelhouse.”

The chef soon appeared in the doorway. “What do you need, sir?”

“Stay here and watch the sonar.” He showed Claude the equipment. “This shows what all is swimming around the boat. I want to know whether they’re coming or going, and how many there are at any given time. Is that clear?” The chef nodded as Wright handed him the intercom mike. “Use this to communicate. Press to talk, release to listen. I’ll be on deck; keep me informed of any developments.”

The billionaire returned to the weather deck where Thorpe, Captain Jenkins and the first mate were gathered.

Wright said, “Each of us should be posted on a separate side of the ship. If you spot anything out of the ordinary, I want to hear about it. Captain, you take the bow.” He pointed to the first mate. “And you — ”

“It’s Hatfield,” the man said.

“I know that,” the billionaire lied. “You’re on starboard. I’ll keep to port, and Mister Thorpe can have the stern.”

The men drifted to their assigned sections of the ship. “What do you expect will happen?” the hunter asked Wright.

“I have Claude checking sonar. I’m not about to let that thing dine and dash.”

Wright aimed high-powered binoculars at the horizon. If anything showed itself, he would see it.

After ten minutes his strained vision needed a break. He wandered over to the hunter. “Find anything?” he asked.

“Not so far.”

“Tell me, what did you see when the creature attacked?”

“I saw exactly what you did.”

“You have a different perspective than me. What kind of animal was it?”

“I only saw the underbelly from the corner of my eye. A flash of white and black, then it was gone. I did see scales though. Teeth and scales.”

“So it is a reptile?”

“I’d say so,” Thorpe said.

“Do you think it could be a dragon?”

“Like a komodo dragon? Nasty buggers, those. Even their bite is poisonous.”

“I mean like in fairy tales.”

“I don’t believe in magical animals,” the hunter said.

“Have you heard the term polygenesis?” Thorpe stared blankly at the old man. “It translates as many births. It’s when a single idea comes about simultaneously in disparate locations, usually as folklore or urban legend. Dragons appear in mythologies around the world, particularly in tales from the Orient. They may not look or behave the same in all accounts — some of them bring luck while others portend destruction — but there’s a common thread. Dragons are part of our collective unconscious.”

“Are you gonna pay me to hunt unicorns too?”

The billionaire ignored Thorpe’s pale humor. “It’s possible dragons did exist at some point and remain nowadays through oral storytelling. They could’ve become extinct before the advent of the written word, and all we’re left with are bastardized versions of their existence. Literally Chinese whispers.”

“They were a reality,” Thorpe said. “The dinosaurs. And they all died out millions of years ago.”

“Are you certain about that?”

“If they still existed, we would’ve discovered them by now. There are very few places in the world, if any, left untouched by cartographers or satellite maps.”

“I’m not convinced such places haven’t survived.”

“Then what accounts for the total lack of knowledge about your Leviathan?”

“Maybe God kept it hidden.”

“Your Bible again,” the hunter mumbled.

“The Talmud also mentions the creature. It explains how God originally created two Leviathans, a male and female, and killed one of them when He realized the fearsome beasts would overrun the earth.”

“What about the Koran?”

“Supposedly Muhammad thought that a monster — ”

The yacht rocked violently to the side.

“It’s back,” the old man said.

The hunter dashed to starboard and looked at the mass swimming beneath the vessel. “It’s the whales,” he said. “They’re getting aggressive.”

“The Leviathan must’ve driven them back to the surface,” Wright said.

“If that’s true, it probably breathes air.”

“Lends credence to the reptile theory.”

“I count eleven around the ship,” Claude reported from the bridge.

“They’re circling pretty fast,” the billionaire said. “Something has ‘em spooked.”

The captain asked, “Can I borrow those binoculars?”

The old man handed them to Jenkins. “What do you see?”

“Ten degrees east of here. It keeps slipping between the waves.” He peered at the vast stretch of water. “About fifty yards out.” He gave the binoculars back to Wright.

The old man saw nothing.

Until there came a brief glint in the distance, a flash instantly obscured by the rolling waves. The Leviathan waited for them, biding time for its own moment of providence.

Wright again espied a softball-sized knot above the waterline. “Thorpe, get over here.”

The water around the Naglfar churned with activity. The whales regrouped and now crisscrossed paths to fend off the encroaching beast.

The hunter stepped beside the old man and took the binoculars. He pinpointed the creature, a mere sliver of scales bobbing on the sea. “Stealthy,” he said. “Stealthy and patient, a dangerous combination.”

“Patience was a virtue I was born without,” Wright said. “When can I kill it?”

Thorpe was about to chastise Wright for his haste when the beast moved. At least the hunter thought it had. It was difficult to tell without a stationary point of reference.

It shifted again soon thereafter, traveling silently through the waves like a snake crossing a vegetable garden. That time he was certain it had moved. “It’s coming our way,” he said. The skilled hunter kept a watchful gaze on the creature, and the Leviathan stared back with as much interest in turn. A single yellow eye surveyed him, its black pupil perpendicular to the horizon like a feline’s.

Off the prow something else caught Thorpe’s attention, a sizeable chunk of meat. It was the remnants of the dolphin chum, an ample piece bitten from the flank. “It left the rest,” Thorpe said.

“Does that mean something?”

“It prefers live prey.

“For the thrill of the hunt,” Wright said.

The ship rocked again as another whale brushed the hull. Their blowholes hissed at regular intervals to scare away the Leviathan. It wasn’t working.

“Look at that one,” the first mate said. One of the smaller forms separated from the gam and headed west away from the creature.

“A juvenile,” Thorpe said. “It best get back with the others if it wants to survive.”

At the same time, no one noticed the Leviathan sink from view.

One of the adult sperm whales followed after the wandering adolescent. That’s when the captain spotted another figure closing in fast from the east.

“I see it,” Jenkins said.

The juvenile surfaced for a breath of air, giving the ferocious Leviathan opportunity to attack. With a massive snap of its jaws, the beast tore into the whale. The larger adult realized the lost cause and returned to the pod while the creature feasted.

The men on the yacht listened to the juvenile’s pained screams. None of them had heard a whale’s wail before; it sounded like an off-key string solo.

The Leviathan took one bite and held onto the thrashing whale like a rodeo champion atop a bucking bronco. The creature arched its ridged back and dived into the ocean, taking the whale underwater as it spun. The motion reminded Thorpe of a tree trunk rolling downhill. He had seen similar behavior before from only one type of predator.

He turned to the old man and found Wright no longer next to him. “Where’d he go?” Thorpe asked the captain. Jenkins pointed at the billionaire on the bow.

Oscar Wright sat behind the harpoon cannon, grinning so wide it hurt his saggy jowls.

The others rushed to the old man while the Leviathan finished rending its meal to shreds.

“What are you doing?” the captain asked Wright.

“It’s now or never,” he said.

“Let’s not be reckless.”

The old man glowered at the captain. “I’m not about to let it get away. God’s already stolen too much from me. I won’t have Him take this too.”

“If that’s what you want,” Thorpe said. The enormous size of the creature surprised even the hunter. It had to be upward of forty feet long and weigh about ten tons. Thorpe didn’t feel safe with that beast anywhere near the Naglfar. He wanted it dead too, and if the old man preferred to do the wetwork, that was Wright’s prerogative. He twisted the contraption on its axis so the billionaire faced starboard.

“Clear the area,” Thorpe told the crewmen. “Step back and don’t make a sound.” Jenkins and Hatfield went to the stern.

The old man’s face was sweaty and pale. He looked like a reanimated corpse sitting on the prow of the yacht. “Are you all right?” Thorpe asked.

The billionaire waved him away. “I’m fine, mother.”

“Remember the moment of providence,” Thorpe advised.

“I’ve waited my whole life for this.”

The hunter selected one of the harpoons and loaded the projectile into the cannon before taking his place behind the old man.

Heart racing, Wright sighted the Leviathan through the scope. His finger rested on the trigger.

The creature was twenty yards from the Naglfar, chomping on the remains of the whale. Only its bulbous snout and the pink of its mouth were visible.

Wait. Wright’s head filled with memories of his wife and child.

Wait. Joseph was supposed to take control of Wright Enterprises when he retired. Except that would never happen, and the company would likely fall to competitors after his death.

Wait. Brenda had wanted to move to Italy. He took her there for their fifth wedding anniversary where both of them fell in love with the country.

No more. Those fantasies had been worn away. Not shattered by tragedy so much as eroded by unjust fate.

The creature stopped feeding and looked at the Naglfar.

No, not the yacht.

At Oscar Wright.

NOW!

The billionaire targeted the fleshy area inferior to the creature’s snout, submerged just below the waterline. The harpoon fired from the barrel like a horizontal lightning bolt.

The Leviathan reacted in that same second, diving beneath the waves. It had time enough to half-turn before the spear pierced its back.

And bounced off.

The projectile bent from the tremendous velocity yet failed to puncture its mark.

“Goddammit,” the old man said. “Reload.”

When he rises up, the mighty are terrified. They retreat before his thrashing. The sword that reaches him has no effect, nor does the spear or the dart or the javelin.

Verses from the Book of Job rattled through Wright’s mind. “Closer,” he said. “I need to get closer.”

Thorpe placed another harpoon in the cannon. “Make this one count,” he said. “This may be your last shot.”

Wright nodded and fought off a dizzy spell.

Then the coughing began. Only a couple chest spasms at first, quickly followed by violent hitches that wracked his elderly frame. The captain and first mate rushed to their employer’s side. Wright slumped out of the chair and dropped to his knees as the strength ran from his legs.

“Sir, are you okay?” Hatfield asked.

The old man pushed them away and struggled to his feet. He spoke between forceful fits. “Is . . . is it . . . still . . . around?”

Ian Thorpe searched the area for any sign of the Leviathan. While he saw none, he knew the beast may be lurking under the water.

“You need to rest,” the first mate said.

“Stay . . . back.” The old man reached a trembling hand into his pocket and produced a bottle of pills.

“What are those?” the hunter asked Captain Jenkins.

“I can’t tell you,” he said, “medical confidentiality.”

Wright dropped the vial by accident and it slid across deck.

“I’ll get it,” Hatfield said.

Another ferocious coughing spell hit the billionaire. It felt as though his insides were worming their way up his throat.

The wet hacking worsened as he spewed a spray of bright blood onto Thorpe’s shirt. The hunter recoiled in surprise.

Hatfield scrambled to retrieve the pill bottle and brought it back to the captain.

“It’s too late for those,” Jenkins said. “He’s too far gone. I’ll need the kit.”

The first mate ran inside the superstructure to recover emergency supplies.

Thorpe wiped the red droplets from his cheek. “I demand to know what’s happening,” he said.

“Don’t worry, I’m trained to treat him. Sometimes he gets like this.” Jenkins assisted Wright to lay supine on the deck. “Take it easy . . . Breathe deep . . . Breathe . . . Breathe . . .”

It became the captain’s mantra until Hatfield returned with a medical bag. “We need Doctor Lehman,” the first mate said.

“He’s on vacation in Fiji,” Jenkins said. “Usually Mister Wright’s private physician travels with him,” he explained to the hunter.

The billionaire’s bloodshot eyes rolled back in his head. He started to convulse, a thin line of spit dribbling from his lower lip.

The captain said, “He’s seizing. Get the phenobarbital.”

Hatfield opened the kit, found the proper medication and a syringe. “How much?”

The old man didn’t shake violently, only enough to send tremors throughout his body. “Hold down his legs,” the captain told Thorpe. The hunter lent a hand, surprised by the old man’s wiry strength. “I’ll need sixty milligrams.”

“Should I radio for help?” Claude asked over the intercom. He watched the commotion from the bridge. Captain Jenkins made an X with his arms to signify No.

The first mate unloosened Wright’s belt, folded it over and placed the leather strap between the old man’s chattering teeth. Then he offered the needle to Jenkins, who pinned down Wright’s arm with his knee to inject the medicine. The captain winced as the pain in his injured shoulder returned.

Thorpe had witnessed many traumatic incidents in his professional life — a man mauled by lions in Malawi, a woman attacked by a shark off the Australian coast, a mountain climber who accidentally hanged himself with his own rappelling equipment — but this was the first time he’d responded to this type of health crisis.

Jenkins read the ambivalence on Thorpe’s face. “This has happened before. It’s been awhile since the last bout though.”

The phenobarbital took immediate effect. Within minutes the tremors subsided and color flooded the old man’s ashen face. His eyes refocused while his breathing returned to normal.

“You still with us?” the captain asked. “You had another fit.” Jenkins’ tone was calm and measured, as if he spoke to a child and not a seventy-three-year-old man.

Wright had a pounding headache, pain stabbing behind his eyes. “You used the phenobarb?”

The captain nodded.

Wright sat up with a grimace. His appendages were tense and drained of energy, as though he’d competed in a grueling triathlon.

The captain checked him over with a penlight. The billionaire’s pupils dilated properly and his heart palpitations had ceased. “You should be fine. You need to get in bed at once.”

The old man was resolute against the idea. “Absolutely not. I won’t be confined on my own boat.”

“Sir, your health — ”

“ — is fine for now,” he finished. “This too shall pass.” He got to his legs using Thorpe and Hatfield for support, then he stomped his feet a few times to work the tingling paresthesia out of his limbs. Wright turned to the hunter. “Can you fly?”

“I have a pilot license, yes.”

“Good, fire up the chopper.” He motioned to the helicopter on the top deck.

“To travel for help?” Hatfield asked.

“No,” Wright snapped. “Not so long as that Leviathan’s still alive.”

“I’m not certain it’s around anymore,” Jenkins said. No one had spotted the creature since Wright’s health scare.

“I agree that turning back is our best option,” the captain said.

“I won’t step on dry land ‘til I have the stripped hide of that hellish beast with me.”

Thorpe realized there’d be no convincing the ornery old man, so he started toward the heliport.

“I’ll toss overboard anyone who mentions retreat again, use you as bait for the Leviathan.”

The two employees understood the old man wasn’t joking. They left as Wright followed Thorpe to the helipad.

The deck vibrated as the helicopter powered up. The rotorblades spun slowly, increased intensity until they blended together in a slow-motion blur. Thorpe helped the old man into the rear cargo area before buckling himself into the cockpit. “I want a view of the whole region,” Wright shouted over the din. “Fly in a spiral pattern until we spot the Leviathan.”

Thorpe handed Wright earphones to protect his hearing from the roar of the rotors. The hunter was able to pilot almost any machine if it could get off the ground, including the billionaire’s Augusta A119 Koala.

The chopper was soon ready for liftoff. It left the yacht, Wright watching out the open door as the Naglfar sank below them. They hovered a hundred feet above the ocean while examining the vicinity. The whales were nowhere to be found, having fled to safety elsewhere.

And there was no evidence of the Leviathan.

“Take us higher,” Wright shouted.

At three hundred feet, the gigayacht appeared the size of a football. Wright searched in all directions and saw only waves into the horizon.

He twirled his finger and said, “Let’s circle ‘round.”

Thorpe arced around the Naglfar in a counterclockwise loop. The yacht shrank into the distance until it became no bigger than a matchbox car.

That’s when Wright spotted his prey.

The creature was a massive black shadow just under the water, racing east at twenty knots. “One of the whales?” He motioned wildly until Thorpe spied the animal too.

Thorpe shook his head. “That’s your dragon,” he said.

“Get us closer.”

The chopper dipped toward the water. It hovered fifty feet above the waves, whipped the water directly beneath it into a circular frenzy. The form dived out of sight.

“The noise is scaring it off.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that,” the hunter told him.

“Take us to one hundred feet and keep it level.”

Thorpe raised the helicopter to a higher altitude. Wright hoped the sounds might diminish enough to coax the beast back to the surface. He needed something more effective, something to force it topside and send it toward the yacht.

The old man unbuckled his harness. “You need to stay seated,” Thorpe pleaded.

“Just do your job. I can take care of myself.”

Thorpe was hesitant to bring the old man along, and he didn’t want Wright taking unnecessary risks. He also realized the billionaire wouldn’t heed any orders from him. Thorpe worked for Wright, not the other way around.

The old man stood and swiveled around to the rear seats. Air blasting into the cabin nearly knocked him down. Thorpe told him, “Close that door right now.” The old man ignored the request. “What the hell are you doing?” Ian Thorpe expected the billionaire to be eccentric; the longer he spent with Oscar Wright, the more he believed the old man was downright unstable.

Wright opened a floor compartment reserved for extra luggage. Straining with the rest of his strength, he lifted a metal container from the space and set it on the floor.

Stenciled on the side was one word: DANGER!

“Please reconsider,” Thorpe said.

Wright paid him no attention, focused on the thing in the water. The thing that had ruined his life. “MK 40s,” he said with a grin. “Underwater explosives.”

“Where did you get grenades? I will land this helicopter,” Thorpe warned like a reproachful father.

“No you won’t,” Wright said and tossed one of the bombs out of the chopper. He threw it in the Leviathan’s direction. It landed in the water, and the old man waited. He thought to use a second one, perhaps throw out two at once to drive the creature —

BOOM!

The detonation sent a wall of seawater into the air. Leaning over the chopper skids, Wright got drenched by the splash.

“Are you crazy?” Thorpe asked. The answer was clear to him.

Wright hurled another grenade out the door. A moment later the earth rumbled with a second blast — BOOM! — yet the Leviathan was nowhere to be seen.

Slowly other animals floated to the surface, killed by the violent shockwaves. Fish and loggerhead turtles rose into view, motionless on the undulating waves.

Somewhere nearby came another outburst. Wright registered the sound as thunder. The storm front had reached them in a dark rage.

Thorpe would be forced to land soon because of deteriorating weather conditions. Since it’d be impossible to persuade him to fly again, Wright needed to deal with the Leviathan now.

The old man scanned the wreckage below. From this height the carcasses on the surface looked like pale specks on a vast cobalt canvas. He saw something from the corner of his vision, that same shadowy mass lingering below the waterline. It measured twenty-five feet from snout to hind legs, not including the lengthy tail.

Wright realized Thorpe was right — this was crazy. It wouldn’t be honorable to slaughter the beast with explosives. There was no intimacy in that. Wright needed to stare into the Leviathan’s merciless eyes as the creature gasped its final breath. He planned to coerce the animal back to the yacht and finish it off there.

He motioned for Thorpe to fly around the monster, then he dropped two more bombs in quick succession. They landed far enough apart as not to kill the Leviathan but drive it toward the Naglfar.

BOOM! — BOOM!

Pressure waves from the dual explosions rocked the helicopter.

“That’s enough,” Thorpe said. “I’ve had enough.”

The Leviathan fled the blast zone, swimming swiftly to the yacht. At last it dived under the waves and vanished altogether.

“Sonofabitch, I lost it again.”

Between the explosives and thunder, the noise around them would’ve been deafening without headphones. As they circled the Naglfar, Wright spotted a large vessel stopped alongside his ship. He’d been so focused on the Leviathan, he hadn’t noticed the other boat at all.

“Who’s that?” Thorpe asked.

“Beats me.”

Several people had congregated on the main deck of the second vessel and were waving at the chopper. One of them, a woman, held a bullhorn and shouted at the helicopter. Wright took off his earphones to better hear what she had to say.

“CEASE ALL ACTIVITIES AND RETURN TO YOUR VESSEL IMMEDIATELY.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“LAND AT ONCE,” Kelly repeated through the megaphone. She’d been yelling at the helicopter since the first explosions sounded.

BOOM!

Another mushroom of water rocketed into the air, showering the area with seawater and fish particles.

The marine biologist turned to Evan and asked, “What’s he think he’s doing?” Then at the chopper: “I DEMAND YOU STOP!”

Kelly finally got the awareness of the individual leaning out the bay door. She wildly gesticulated for them to land the craft. Her face was flush from screaming.

“Get the flare gun,” she told Rafe. He went to the pilothouse and returned with the object.

“I thought this was only for emergencies,” he said.

“This seems like a good excuse to me.” She checked to see if it was loaded then took careful aim toward the aircraft. Kelly didn’t want to strike the chopper, merely garner the pilot’s attention.

Kelly fired the shot, a flare streaking across the ocean on a low arc thirty feet above the water. It whizzed fifteen feet in front of the helicopter’s windshield, burning a smoke trail parallel to the waves before it landed two hundred yards out.

“I think they heard you that time,” Evan said.

The chopper hovered above the two ships before parking on the Naglfar’s heliport. Kelly handed the megaphone to Evan, ready to tear into whomever —

She stopped on the spot, noticing movement in the water as it passed under the Aurora.

“What’s that?” She raced to port, waited for the form to re-emerge. It didn’t. “What was that thing?” she asked Evan.

“I didn’t see anything.”

“That giant black shadow in the water? It didn’t move like a whale.”

“Every living creature within a mile has left this area. Explosives aren’t exactly the most subtle form of fishing.”

In the wheelhouse Captain Bart was on the marine radio with Captain Jenkins. “Permission to board,” Bart asked.

“What’s your purpose on our vessel?” came the reply.

“I have one angry woman who’s champing at the bit to meet that pilot of yours, and she’s not one to piss off. Trust me.”

A long pause, thirty seconds of silence on the channel. “Copy that. Permission granted to the Aurora. But keep your lady friend over there. Over and out.”

Bart docked the research vessel alongside the Naglfar. The captain switched to the ship’s intercom. “Evan, you’ll want to take charge of this. We’re allowed to board, but they don’t wanna speak to Kelly.” From the bridge he saw the marine biologist ranting and raving. “Release the gangplank, prepare to debark.”

Evan lowered an eight-foot section of metal from starboard and attached it to the Naglfar’s port. He went to Kelly and said, “I’m headed over there now. Alone. If you promise to play well with others, I’ll send for you later.”

She crossed her arms and made no further protests. Evan traveled across the gangway and stepped onto the yacht. First Mate Hatfield was there to receive him. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you. I’m Evan Hale.”

The first mate asked, “Are you a cargo ship?”

“No, the Aurora’s a scientific vessel.”

“You work for the government then?”

“Not exclusively.”

Jenkins approached and said, “I got off the horn with Captain Michaels. He said you wanted to meet with us.”

The roaring helicopter settled once the engine was cut and the rotors slowed to a stop. “We need to speak about the dangerous activity we witnessed.” Evan didn’t fail to notice the giant harpoon on the bow.

The two crewmen looked at one another, each feeling Wright had crossed a line if not legally, at least ethically. “We can’t control our employer’s regrettable behavior.”

“Who’s your boss?”

“That would be me,” Oscar Wright said as he descended from the heliport.

“Mister Wright?” Evan said, less than shocked.

“My reputation precedes me.”

“We met yesterday in the Keys.”

The old man remembered now. “Ah, yes, the restaurant. Forgive me if I don’t recall your name.”

“Evan Hale.” Neither man extended a hand to the other.

“I assume you’re here on account of the fireworks display. It was a bit loud, I know.”

“I don’t care about the noise level.” The ranger didn’t know where to begin criticizing the old man. “Y’know, most people use a rod and tackle to catch fish.”

“I wasn’t fishing.”

Another man stepped from the top deck, towering over them.

“This your bodyguard?” Evan asked of the stocky hunter.

“The only body I guard is my own,” Thorpe said.

“Mister Thorpe here is a tracker. Best in the business.”

“What are you tracking?”

“I don’t see what concern that is of yours. Who allowed you on my ship anyway?”

Jenkins answered, “I did.”

“Your foolish actions have endangered numerous species protected by the federal government.”

“Uncle Sam has no legal reach in these waters,” Wright pointed out.

“The widespread damage and disregard for this fragile ecosystem isn’t only prohibited, it’s unconscionable.”

“I never claimed to have a conscience.”

The old man’s flippancy irked Evan. The billionaire was a masterful manipulator who knew how to keep opponents off kilter in a confrontation.

Evan was about to respond when he heard the sharp blasts of footsteps to his rear. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Kelly asked as she crossed the gangway to the Naglfar.

She addressed the hunter directly; when Thorpe stepped aside to reveal Oscar Wright standing behind him, her anger faltered for an instant.

The billionaire smiled at her. “I have ten fingers and just as many toes. I can feed myself and wipe my own ass. And while I may not be as sharp as I once was, all my marbles are intact. Which begs the question, Miss — what the fuck is your problem?”

“How do you justify your conduct?” Kelly said. Former benefactor or not, she wasn’t about to be lenient on the old man.

“I don’t have to,” Wright said. “Every decision I make is reasonable and informed.”

“Don’t give me that slick boardroom bullshit.”

Jenkins tried to douse flaring tempers. “Allow me to extend an olive branch. I’m sure Mister Wright would be willing to discuss matters over dinner. Sir, would it be acceptable for our guests to join us tonight? Nothing calms the nerves better than a fine meal and stimulating conversation.”

Wright wasn’t pleased by the proposition but ultimately relented. “You invited them, not me.”

“Good then. I’ll inform the chef that we’re having company. It was a pleasure meeting you both,” Jenkins told the researchers before taking leave.

The old man heard a particular noise from the yacht’s engine, a peculiar whur-whur-whur he hadn’t noticed before. “Anyone else hear that?”

“Our engineer can take a look for you,” Evan said.

Kelly agreed. “Rafe’s saved my hide more than once. The guy’s a genius with his hands.”

Without warning the old man turned and headed below deck. His crew learned to cope around their employer’s antisocial disposition.

“I’ll see if he’s feeling okay,” Thorpe said as he followed the billionaire.

The first mate remained with Evan and Kelly. “That sounds lovely. Feel free to bring a couple crewmembers this evening, along with your engineer. And please forgive Mister Wright.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kelly said.

“No, my sincere apologies. Sometimes he doesn’t act the way a man of his stature ought to.”

* * * * *

Captain Jenkins informed Bart that dinner would be served at seven o’clock sharp. A quartet from the Aurora arrived fifteen minutes before then. Joining Evan and Kelly were Rafe and (despite personal objections to his presence) Edgar Wallis. While the researchers didn’t want him around, Evan thought it shrewd to bring along a lawyer.

The captain met them at the gangway as they crossed to the Naglfar. “Permission to board?” Evan asked. It was common courtesy to ask for consent when boarding any vessel.

“Granted,” said Jenkins.

First Mate Hatfield arrived a moment later. Neither the old man nor the hunter was in sight. “This is Edgar and Rafe,” Evan said. “Edgar serves as legal counsel for our company and Rafe’s the mechanic we were telling you about.”

“Beautiful. I could use your help,” Hatfield told the Jamaican. “I can’t seem to figure what’s out of place in the engine room.” The pair wandered off, leaving the captain with the scientists and Edgar.

“Follow me to the dining room,” Jenkins said.

The inside of Oscar Wright’s yacht was more luxurious than any house the others had ever lived in. Classic paintings adorned the main corridor, the floor tiled in jade marble. It made the Aurora’s amenities seem sparse by comparison, even though the scientific vessel was well stocked. Jenkins ushered them to a large dining room above the bilge. “Please have a seat. Mister Wright will join you momentarily.”

Kelly sat next to Evan, with Edgar across from them. Three bouquets of flowers — multicolored roses, tulips and lilies — decorated a polished oaken table that seated twelve. As Wright preferred to eat in solitude, tonight would be the most number of guests the billionaire had entertained on the Naglfar.

Meanwhile their host tried his best to ignore the visitors. The old man had taken a nap to recuperate from the excitement of that afternoon. He was reading in the master suite when First Mate Hatfield knocked on the door and informed him company had arrived.

That had been twenty minutes ago.

Claude refused to serve the main course until Wright appeared. The billionaire wanted the others to wait for him. It had nothing to do with being fashionably late (he cared about fashion as much as the opinions of others); rather, he wanted them to stew in their rage. No doubt the researchers had come to complain about his exploits. The longer they sat unaccompanied, the angrier they’d become. That in turn would fuel a passionate dialog, the type on which the old man thrived.

Wright eventually made his way to the dining area, clad in pajamas and slippers. Three people were seated, one of whom the old man didn’t recognize. Kelly was the first to speak. “Good evening, Mister Wright.” The billionaire didn’t answer, took a chair at the head of the table. Claude followed close behind with several dishes in his arms. He set one in front of each diner.

Edgar stared at the food, a brownish muck sprinkled with an unidentified spice. “Looks delicious,” he lied.

“What is this?” Evan asked. It smelled good, despite the unseemly appearance.

“Siberian sturgeon,” Claude said, “simmered in a calamari sauce and served on a bed of wild rice pilaf with a touch of oregano. It’s Mister Wright’s favorite.”

The old man nodded in agreement. “If you don’t want it, I’ll have it for leftovers.” The chef watched everyone take a bite. Satisfied they all found it palatable, he exited the dining room.

“It is good,” Edgar said.

“Siberian sturgeon, aren’t those endangered?” Evan asked.

“Only for poor people. Internationally, they’re a delicacy.”

Kelly said nothing, perturbed by the notion of eating a nearly extinct species.

Under the table Evan kicked Edgar in the leg. He wanted the lawyer to say anything that the old man couldn’t construe negatively. “I noticed the name of your vessel,” Edgar said. “You must be a fan of Norse mythology.”

“Of all the religious versions of Armageddon, Norse is the best. Leave it to the Vikings to come up with the fiercest, bloodiest massacre for the end of days. I’m surprised you got the reference, not many people do.”

“I took a course in world mythology at NYU many years ago.”

“I’m a New York University alum too, graduated in ’61 — no, ’62.” The billionaire became markedly more animated when talking to Wallis. It shocked neither of the researchers to see Wright getting along best with someone as furtive and conceited as Edgar Wallis.

“Mister Wright, about this afternoon,” Kelly prodded.

The billionaire ignored her, continued conversing with Edgar.

Evan leaned over to the marine biologist. “Careful now,” he whispered. “Just because he’s a prick doesn’t mean you need to reciprocate. Don’t turn this into a pissing contest.”

“Mister Wright?”

“What?” he said.

She said, “I wondered what you were up to today. Not to be critical, just curious.”

“Deep-sea fishing. I admit the explosives may have been a little over the top. I only wanted to scare up some prey.”

“More like scare away. Didn’t you realize the shockwaves would likely kill everything in the vicinity?” Evan asked.

“The thing I’m after wouldn’t die so easily.” As the words left his lips, he regretted uttering them.

No one added anything, the weight of his remark hanging in the air like cigar smoke.

The thing I’m after. What thing?

“Fishing for what?” Evan said. “Marlin? Shark?”

“Not quite.” The old man didn’t elaborate.

“I saw that spear gun you installed on the bow. You must be hunting huge game to use harpoons those size.”

Wright remained silent.

“Is it whale you’re after?” Kelly said.

“I don’t divulge my private affairs,” Wright said and switched subjects. “So what kind of tracking equipment does your ship have? I imagine you have a variety of research devices at your disposal.”

It occurred to the old man that perhaps it would be more effective to befriend the scientists than antagonize them.

“The Institute provides us the best technology available to aid in our investigations.”

Wright raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Out here in the middle of nowhere, what type of investigations are you advancing?”

Kelly glanced to Evan, who struck an uneasy look. It wouldn’t be wise to tell the truth. “We’re testing a new underwater camera. It allows us to study animals living at great depths without disrupting their natural habitat.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Wright said. For the first time that night, he seemed genuinely intrigued by what the pair had to say. “Would you let me see this camera? Wright Enterprises is always on the lookout for new investment opportunities. Even an old man like myself has to keep an eye toward the future. Maybe after dinner?”

Kelly froze, didn’t know what to tell him. “Actually that isn’t possible. We’re still working out the kinks on the prototype.” She remained vague and hoped the billionaire chose not to further pursue the topic.

Wright set down his silverware and reclined in the chair, a dubious look on his face. “What really happened to it?”

“It’s not operational at the moment. Which projects the Institute funds is up to — ”

“Wasn’t it destroyed?” Wright said. “Eaten, if I’m not mistaken.”

Both Evan and Kelly were stunned. Neither of them comprehended how the old man could know about their business. “That — that’s one way to describe it,” she said. “How did you hear about that? It happened only recently.”

“Interesting how tightlipped you were a few moments ago, yet how quick to query you are now.”

“Don’t sidestep the question,” she said.

“The same goes for you,” Wright countered. “Y’see, money buys a lot of friends around the world. And because news travels across the globe at the click of a mouse, no secrets are safe anymore.”

Across the table Evan detected a slight smile on Edgar’s lips.

“I suppose honesty’s the best policy,” Evan said. “In the spirit of openness, we’d like to know the real reason you’re out here too.”

Oscar Wright wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “We needn’t be rivals. In fact I’m willing to make a generous contribution to your organization,” he said, “if you agree to help me.”

“Help you do what?” Kelly asked.

He didn’t answer her question. “What’s the annual operating budget for your facility?”

“Ten million, give or take.” The marine biologist was wary of the billionaire’s newfound interest in her affairs.

“I can have that amount wired to your corporate account by noon tomorrow. How’s that sound? I’ll personally finance your Institute for the next year, and all you have to do is work for me this week.”

“I’m not clear how we could be of assistance,” Evan said.

“I believe we have the same goal in mind.”

“What would that be?” Edgar asked. None of this conversation made sense to him.

“We each want the thing that ate your equipment, the same thing I had cornered this afternoon before you let it escape.”

Kelly said, “What do you know about the creature?”

“That I almost had it as a trophy. Working together, your knowledge paired with my financial backing, we’ll be certain to trap the beast.”

“What are you planning to do with it? Those explosives — ”

“Weren’t meant to kill, only ambush it.”

“Is that what I saw today?” Kelly asked. “That black mass in the water.”

“The very same,” the old man said.

“Once it’s in your possession, then what?”

“I’m going to slay it,” he said. The frankness in his tone frightened her.

“No deal,” she said through gritted teeth. Kelly wouldn’t support such actions, regardless of monetary gain.

“Well, what do you propose?” Wright said. “I’m sure you want to analyze the animal. Once I’m done with it, I’ll donate the carcass to the Institute so you can perform an autopsy. Science has much to learn about this being.”

“It has more to benefit by keeping it alive,” Evan said. “A tag-and-release approach is the most valuable tactic.”

“We won’t allow you to kill this specimen. We don’t even know what it is yet,” Kelly said.

“I do,” Wright said nonchalantly. “Are you familiar with the Leviathan?”

Evan said, “From the Bible?”

“Yes, the Book of Job.”

“You can’t take that literally. Biblical scholars will tell you the Leviathan’s a metaphor for chaos in the universe. Not a tangible, living creature.”

“This is an undocumented life form. To discover something that size these days is unprecedented,” Kelly said. “Why murder it?”

“Miss Andrews, do you have any children?” It was an innocent enough question.

“What business is that of yours?” she said.

“Don’t doubt my motives.” The old man pushed away his half-eaten dinner. He’d suddenly lost his appetite, having to deal with these insufferable scientists. “It’s a complicated subject. Many years ago I had everything I could wish for.”

“You don’t now?” Edgar asked.

“I had a beautiful wife, Brenda. She was the type of woman who made life bearable simply because she was at my side.”

“Did you chase her away too?” Kelly asked. The shrillness in her voice made the remark sound harsher than she intended.

Wright shook his head. “She died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“What does this have to do with the Leviathan?” Evan tried tactfully to breach the touchy topic.

“God took something from me, and I aim to pay Him back.”

“By killing the creature? How is that fair?” Kelly said.

Oscar Wright pounded a fist on the wooden table. “How is life fair?”

Evan cleared his throat and said, “May those who curse days curse that day, those who are ready to rouse Leviathan.”

“This animal’s far too valuable to science,” Kelly said. “I won’t let you get away with it. We’ll report you to the authorities.”

“With my level of wealth, I do as I please. The law can’t touch me.”

“We’ll take it back to the Institute then,” she said, “instead of releasing it. That’ll keep you from getting at it.”

“Assuming you catch it first.”

Evan said, “It’s no longer in the area?”

“Not anymore, thanks to your meddling,” the old man said.

“You’re out of your depth here.”

“That’s where my associate Mister Thorpe comes in. He’s an expert in these matters.”

“This is the only time I’ll say this,” Evan warned, “turn back now. We’re the ones best capable of dealing with this creature.”

The old man wasn’t impressed. “That’s a point on which we’ll agree to disagree.”

Kelly had enough. She stood and said, “Tell Rafe we’re leaving.”

Edgar set aside his meal. “It was nice meeting you, Mister — ”

“Edgar,” she said. The attorney pushed away from the table and the three of them quietly filed out of the dining room.

Oscar Wright returned to his dinner. Claude entered soon thereafter, not surprised to find the old man supping alone. Wright took a bite of the sturgeon and remarked to the chef, “What a bunch of assholes.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

KELLY STORMED ACROSS the gangway and disengaged the boardwalk after her group boarded the Aurora. None of the men spoke, for fear of drawing her ire. “I cannot believe the nerve of that man. ‘I’m so rich I can get away with anything.’ How narcissistic is that?”

“Calm down,” Evan told her. “Push Oscar Wright out of your head.”

“Did you hear what he said?”

“I heard, I heard. There’s no excuse for his etiquette.”

“That animal is the most significant biological discovery of our time — and he wants to kill it.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong,” Edgar said. “He offered to donate the body. You can still get a lot of information from that.”

The marine biologist glared at the lawyer. “Of course you’d agree with him,” she said. The venom in her voice could’ve poisoned a pit viper.

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s fascinating how well you two got along. Especially since Wright apparently has a mole working at the Institute.”

“What are you implying, that I’m a spy?”

“Not implying,” she said, “I’m outright saying it.”

Edgar took offense to the accusation. “I never met Wright before tonight.”

“People don’t have to meet these days. A simple phone call, an innocent email — ”

“Mister Hamilton would love to hear about this.”

“Sure, run to Daddy and tattle on me. He should write you up for being a total — ”

“You best watch your words,” Edgar cautioned. “It’s a slippery slope between anger and slander.”

Evan intervened before passions spun out of control. “There’s no need for name calling or lawsuits,” he said. Then to the attorney: “You don’t want to be here right now.”

Edgar nodded and took Rafe with him as they retired to their shared sleeping quarters.

“Don’t start with me,” Kelly said once they were alone. “I don’t need lectured.”

Bart started the ship’s engines, and the research vessel pulled away from the yacht.

Evan said, “I’m not here to lecture, but you’re out of line. Get your emotions in check. If you wanna beat Oscar Wright, you need to be as detached and calculated as he is.” The advice was solid, and the ranger knew he too should heed it. “Let your feelings get in the way, and he’ll steal the Leviathan from us.”

* * * * *

Night on the open ocean reminded Kelly of the dark vacuum of space. She sat on a lawn chair atop the Aurora’s weather deck, an ice chest filled with chilled beer cans between her feet. She had one beverage in hand now, two crushed empties beside the lounger. It was after one in the morning, and she’d come outside for fresh air after being unable to sleep.

The lack of moonlight brought total darkness to the sea, cast it in impenetrable blackness. Even the stars hid behind a thick layer of clouds. The deck lights above her were the sole source of illumination; beyond the bulwark was abject nothingness. She couldn’t differentiate between the black water and the sable sky. Out here she felt like the only person in the universe.

“Penny for your thoughts,” a voice said. Kelly glanced over to see Evan standing beside her.

“You’ll have to pay me more than that.”

He took a penny from his pocket, flipped the coin into her lap. “Then here’s your change from my two cents earlier.”

She wanted to be alone and hoped he would leave. Evan wasn’t going anywhere.

“I don’t have another seat,” she said.

“Don’t need one.” He leaned against the side rail and said, “I suppose you couldn’t sleep either.”

“Too hot in my bunk. Your excuse?”

“Lumpy mattress. What’s on your mind?”

“Wright.”

“Wrong,” he said. “Try again.”

She dug around the cooler for another beer, tossed one to him. “I’ve been thinking about my father too. I need to give him a call. He would’ve loved a voyage like this.”

“Is he a scientist?”

She nodded. “Retired now.”

“You should’ve brought him along,” Evan said. “Father and daughter working side by side.”

“Dunno whether we’d make a great team or end up strangling each other,” she said. “He worked on the Calypso with Cousteau.”

“Really? He must have some stories to tell.”

“Not much anymore. He had an embolism a couple years back.”

“I’m sorry,” Evan said.

“His rehabilitation was rough, and the physical therapy nearly finished what the stroke started. But he worked his way back from the brink. He uses a cane to get around nowadays, and he does well enough to live by himself. I try to check on him when I can.”

“Though not as often as you’d like.” Evan picked up on the guilt in her voice.

“Not as often as I should.”

Evan sensed her unease and shifted subjects. “Did he also work on Marathon?”

“That damn project,” Kelly said. “It took him away from his family for years when I was a kid. By the time he returned from overseas, I was a teenager and wanted nothing to do with him.”

Marathon II had been conceived by Jacques Cousteau to be the world’s first underwater biosphere, an oceanic laboratory and training ground for deep-sea divers. The mission was plagued by misfortune and financial constraints from the onset. It never became the success Cousteau envisioned, a failure that haunted him for the rest of his career.

“I didn’t get along with my parents when I was that age either.”

“Are they still alive?” she asked.

“They both live in Phoenix. Neither of them took an interest in my life. After a point I stopped pretending that I cared about theirs. I haven’t spoken to my mother in . . . five years? Six? Talked with my father on his most recent birthday though.”

“Do you and your mom not get along?”

“She never approved of the women I brought home.”

“I see,” Kelly said. She finished her third beer, decided against opening a fourth. “And what type of woman is that?” she asked. At once she regretted the phrasing, as it made her sound like she was flirting with him.

“Apparently the wrong type,” Evan said. “I used to figure I’d get married eventually. The older I get, the less likely that seems. People call that a ‘normal’ life, but I think it’s boring. A life of normalcy is what my parents had. I never wanted that, and I suspect it’s one of the reasons why we avoid each other.”

“This way of life isn’t for everyone,” Kelly agreed. It took a special kind of person who was willing to forsake civilization for weeks or months at a stretch.

“What about you?” Evan asked. “Is your husband a regular guy?” He nodded at the ring on her right hand.

“Oh, I’m not married. This just keeps the wolves at bay. I was engaged once, many moons ago,” she said. “At least I got to keep the diamond.”

“I haven’t even made it that far yet.”

Kelly giggled at the remark. She wouldn’t have otherwise, but the alcohol had dulled her own senses while sharpening the humor of anyone around her. She inadvertently snorted, an embarrassing habit that occurred when she laughed too hard.

Evan broke a smile. The marine biologist was clearly tipsy, and he might have taken advantage of that fact if she’d been any other woman. Their work here was too important to jeopardize in an effort to get laid. He changed the topic again before poor judgment bested his libido. “What are we gonna do about Wright?” he asked. “I doubt he’ll back down.”

“We’ll have to catch whatever’s out there before he gets to it.”

“The Leviathan.”

“Call it what you want. I’m not ready to name it yet.”

“We have no clue where it is, let alone how to trap it.”

“Leave that to me.”

“Why, what are you hiding?”

“I got something to show you,” she said.

Evan followed her to the aft deck. “It’s on loan to the Institute from NOAA.” The scientists walked to an oversized, sun-faded tarpaulin. Kelly untied the ends of the tarp, then she threw back the canvas to reveal what was concealed underneath.

“Alvin?” Evan said.

“Not quite.”

The craft was a miniature submarine, eight feet high and fourteen feet long, a robotic arm on the prow. “This is the Simon. There’s a third one the government built after Alvin, the Theodore.” Evan stared blankly at her. “Named after the cartoon chipmunks.”

He had no idea what she was talking about. “How much does it weigh?”

“Five tons, excluding personnel.”

“Does it seat two?” he asked. Evan walked around the contraption, struck by its craftsmanship.

“Very snugly.”

“Have you used it before?”

“Once with Hamilton. It has a depth limit of fifteen hundred meters.”

“Lucas is letting you use this even after the incident with the camera?”

“What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” she said.

“Except it can hurt his career. Not to mention yours. You don’t think Edgar will tell the Board of Trustees when he finds out?”

“I can handle Edgar.”

The gravity of Kelly’s plan hit the ranger. “You want to get in the water with that thing?”

“I don’t want to, but what choice do I have?”

“You saw what it did to your equipment. You’re willing to risk that happening to the sub, especially if you’re inside?”

Kelly rapped her knuckles on the Simon’s titanium hull. “This is built like a tank.”

“The creature’s at least twice as big as this. You saw the size of its teeth alone, and you still believe this is the best idea?”

“You got anything better?” she asked. “This is a helluva lot safer than getting in the water with regular dive gear.”

“How ‘bout not getting in. At all. We can tempt the Leviathan to the surface and capture it here.”

“How?”

“We’ll figure out something.”

“That’s exactly why I need to get down there. We don’t know anything about this animal. Don’t you want to study it in its natural environment? Once we have more information, we’ll be able to formulate an informed plan. Think of it as a fact-finding mission.”

The notion didn’t thrill Evan. It seemed too precarious and foolish. “What if the Leviathan decides you look pretty tasty?”

“You know better than that,” she said. “Animals don’t attack unless provoked.”

“Theoretically. Look, this is a serious predator that’s exhibited aggressive behavior in the past. We don’t know how it’ll react to a given situation.”

“Well it’s too late to head back to shore.”

“So instead you wanna go in its domain, where it has every advantage? Do you realize how insane that sounds? You’ve had too much to drink.”

“If we don’t take risks, we may lose it forever. That rich bastard’s plotting at this very moment. Do you want him to get it first?”

“I don’t feel comfortable getting into the water yet.”

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Kelly said.

“Who else is there?”

“The Simon can be piloted solo.”

“That’s even more ridiculous. There’s no way you’re going down alone. It’s a two-person sub, for chrissakes.” Evan was adamant against letting the marine biologist embark on such a perilous trip. Yet in the short time he’d known Kelly Andrews, he realized it would be futile to dissuade her.

“How ‘bout we get a second opinion? Third person acts as a tiebreaker. Deal?”

“Who else is awake at this hour?”

Kelly pointed to the wheelhouse where a single lightbulb shone in the darkness. “Bart usually stays up through dawn.” She led the ranger to the pilothouse.

A Willie Nelson song played inside the small bridge. Bart switched off the radio as the scientists entered. The Aurora was too far out to receive terrestrial radio signals, so Bart had subscribed to digital channels since he couldn’t live without country music. “What do I owe the honor?”

“We need your opinion.”

Bart said, “Hit me.”

“You know why we’re out here, right?” Kelly asked.

“You’re looking for some new kinda fish or something.”

“That’s right, or something. I think it’d be a smart idea to use the mini-sub to track this animal and learn about it.”

“Ignoring the fact it’s unnecessary,” Evan added. “It’s ill-conceived and could get her killed. The whole operation could be botched by a single wrong move.”

Bart listened to both researchers, weighed each argument in his mind.

“So whaddya think?” Kelly said. “Be honest.”

The captain took a moment to mull the options. Both sides had compelling claims. At last he reached a decision. “I think it’s crazy.” Kelly was disheartened by the captain’s choice. “That said,” Bart continued, “history favors the crazy. I say go for it.”

The marine biologist clapped her hands together. “Fabulous,” she said.

Evan honored the captain’s verdict even though he didn’t agree with it. He told her, “The only way I’ll allow you to go is if I tag along. It’s both of us or neither of us.”

Those terms were acceptable to her. Kelly wasn’t able to drive the submersible by herself anyway. That had been a bluff to mess with Evan. “It’s settled then. We’ll head down tomorrow.”

* * * * *

Oscar Wright had his share of medical problems. Anyone in his or her golden years suffered from the same general ailments: high blood pressure, failing vision, bad hearing. He didn’t understand why people called them golden years anyway; there was nothing golden about them. If anything, he was living through the waning years. One of the sporadic infirmities he endured was insomnia.

Many nights he dreamed of Brenda and Joseph. Invariably he’d jerk awake, covered in a cold sweat. Sometimes the fantasies were so intense he feared going to bed, knowing the ghosts of his loved ones awaited him behind heavy eyelids. Tonight was no different. He lay awake in his suite well after midnight.

Eventually he abandoned sleep altogether, made his way to the galley where he found Ian Thorpe again scouring navigational maps. Wright thought the hunter may be an android, having never seen Thorpe eat, drink or do anything remotely human. The clock on the microwave told him it was half past one. “Do you sleep at all?” he asked.

The hunter looked up from his charts. “Usually not more than four or five hours a day. Too many nights on the open savannah programmed me to sleep lightly.”

“I had the same problem after the war,” the old man said.

“Did you fight in Europe or the Pacific?”

“Pacific, but not the Second World War. I was part of the Forgotten War, stationed two years in Korea.” Wright sat across from Thorpe and said, “Did you see a crossword puzzle around here? I can’t remember where I put it.”

Thorpe moved one of the maps, under which hid the billionaire’s half-finished puzzle. He handed it to Wright.

“What are you up to?” the old man asked.

“Planning our next move,” he said. “The Leviathan has been chased off from its feeding grounds, at least for now. I doubt it’ll be back for a week or more, if ever.”

“Then we have to stay one step ahead. Where’s it going next?”

“That’s what I’m trying to pinpoint. Based on its history, I’d say it’ll continue its path along a northwesterly route. It should keep to the warmer water.”

The hunter pointed to a sizeable swath of the Atlantic near the East Coast. “You can’t narrow it down from there?” Wright asked.

“I’m afraid not. I have a feeling it’ll trace the ridge of the continental shelf. I don’t think it likes the deep waters because it’s not as safe.”

“Safe from what? The Leviathan doesn’t have any natural enemies. It’s the ultimate predator.”

“That may be true. And that’s also part of its motivation. There’s less prey in the deepest parts of the Atlantic. The shallow water brims with prey. That’s what it needs, food. A lot of it.”

Wright glanced up from his puzzle. “What’s a four-letter word for serendipity?”

“Luck?” Thorpe said.

The old man scowled. “No, it ends in E.” Then it dawned on him. “Fate,” he said as he filled in the blocks. “Fate, of course. I mustn’t be thinking straight. I’m sorry, you were saying it has to eat.”

“Yes,” Thorpe said. “How long do you suppose it was — thirty, forty feet? Probably weighed north of ten tons. A creature of that magnitude expends an enormous amount of energy on a daily basis. That means it must devote nearly every waking moment to hunting.”

“We can’t wait for the Leviathan to return. Time is a luxury, especially with those meddlesome researchers around. We’ll have to take a proactive approach. You think a northern trek is a sure bet?”

“Northwestern, yessir.”

“I’ll inform the captain of that.”

“There’s not much else we can do except wait ‘til it attacks again. And it will, I’m certain of that. We have to make sure we’re nearby when it happens, so we can beat the Aurora to the scene.”

The old man was fully engrossed in the puzzle, half listening to the hunter.

“Do you have any suggestions? You seem a bit preoccupied.”

“I’m surprised how many of these I can answer after setting it aside. Coming back with fresh eyes makes all the difference.”

“Aren’t you worried about the others?” Thorpe asked. It bothered him how disengaged the billionaire appeared.

Wright leaned across the table, his gaze narrowing on the hunter. “Do whatever you like,” he said. “I have a plan of my own.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I HOPE IT’S good news,” Kelly told Bart. The captain had called her and Evan to the bridge the next morning because of irregularities with the Aurora’s sonar.

“You’ll want to see this,” he said. The viewfinder chirped with so many visible dots that it looked like a starlit sky. “I got to fifty before losing count.”

“What is it?” Evan asked.

“A school of something,” she said.

“Dolphins?”

“Perhaps.” For a moment she expected Bart had caught the Leviathan on sonar. Without a tracking device on the creature, there was no accurate way to approximate where it had gone. The Atlantic was an immense area to cover, more than forty-one million square miles. If the researchers weren’t able to focus their search, they had little chance of finding the animal.

Kelly realized she could use the situation to her advantage. “I can make this work.”

“Work for what?” the captain asked.

Evan echoed her line of thought. “If you can’t track the hunter, track its prey.”

“Exactly,” she said. “That school’s four miles to the east. Set coordinates and put us directly atop those fish.” She turned to Evan. “And you’re coming with me.”

The scientists left the pilothouse and descended three levels to the bowels of the ship. On portside near the stern was a storage compartment. Evan asked, “What are we after?”

“Ammo,” she said as she opened a gun cabinet. Four rifles were mounted on the wall; she took one for herself, gave another to Evan.

They next walked across the corridor to the laboratory. It took a couple minutes to locate half a dozen LS-350 trackers. They were three-inch gray capsules that could be inserted into hollow-tipped darts and loaded into the rifles. The corkscrew end bore into the flesh and made it difficult for any prey to free itself from the device. In the same drawer were the darts themselves, the tips soaked with local anesthetic. Kelly took ten of them and then fiddled with an elaborate sound system on the other side of the room.

“That must have some wicked bass,” Evan said.

“It’s not for music.” She cued up the proper track on the machine. “This will start in five minutes. It’s connected to underwater speakers on the ship’s keel. Most of these frequencies are too low for us to hear, but anything swimming in the vicinity will be alerted.”

“Alerted to what?”

“It’s a looped orca recording.”

They returned to the weather deck and waited a few moments before Bart shut off the engines. “If our beast is anywhere nearby, it’ll be drawn to this spot.”

“From the noise?”

She fit the trackers into several of the darts then loaded some into each rifle. “No, the banquet. It can’t refuse an open buffet like this.” Kelly handed one of the firearms back to Evan. “Are you a good shot?”

“I’ve bagged my share of critters in the swamp.”

“You only have a few shots, so make ‘em count.” She turned to the wheelhouse, hands cupped around her mouth. “Keep on the shoal no matter what,” she called to the captain.

“Is there something specific we’re looking for?” Evan asked.

“Patience.”

It was two minutes before their first prey appeared. A speckled marlin jumped from the waves, cresting its entire body before plunging back into the water. Another fish emerged seconds later. It was followed by a third, then several more until at least ten of them vaulted at regular intervals.

“The whale calls are scaring them. They’re trying to get outta the water,” Kelly explained. Looking through the riflescope, she zeroed in on one to get a feel for its natural rhythm of rising and falling. Crest . . . dive . . . crest . . . dive . . . crest —

CRACK.

She fired off a shot. The loaded dart stuck into the marlin’s flank, near its tail.

The Aurora drifted along with the shoal. Evan took Kelly’s example and singled out a sailfish before firing. He missed at first but redeemed himself the next minute when he tagged one.

Over ten minutes they marked half a dozen of the fish before Kelly was satisfied with their progress. “That should be enough to track the whole school.”

“And now we wait?” Evan asked.

“Now we wait.”

* * * * *

Bart called them back to the bridge around noon for an update. “I’ve kept an eye on the marlins for the last couple hours.”

“Where are we?” Evan asked.

“About three hundred miles east of Miami.”

“And the trackers are working?”

“All six of them.”

Evan counted the dots on the GPS equipment. “This only shows four.”

“When did two of them disappear?” Kelly asked.

“I-I’m not sure. They were there when I last checked, not five minutes ago.”

“You think a couple tags stopped working?

“It’s possible,” Kelly said. “The disposable ones aren’t the most reliable.”

“It looks like someone’s lagging behind,” Evan said.

Bart shook his head. “No, it’s not moving at all.”

At once the other dots sped away, branching out in a fan shape.

Evan’s face lit up. “Two of the marlins vanished, one stopped dead and the others have been frightened off. Anyone wanna guess why?”

A large blip appeared on sonar, dwarfing the other objects.

“I’ll ready the Simon,” Kelly said.

With Rafe’s assistance at the Yumbo crane, the submersible was transported to the stabilizer platform. The engineer spot-checked the mini-sub for any defects as the researchers arrived. Captain Bart cut the Aurora’s engines.

Kelly said, “It’s now or never.”

“When should we expect you back?” the Jamaican asked.

“Forty-five minutes, an hour at most. There’s enough air for two people to last a full day. If we see this thing in action and snap a few pictures, I’ll be happy.”

“Based on that preliminary information, we’ll be better able to formulate a plan to capture it outright,” Evan said.

Kelly climbed the ladder on the Simon’s hull and uncapped the small conning tower. She waved for Evan to join her. “You’ll need to get in first.”

He ascended to the top and peered inside the cramped space. “Tight fit,” he said.

“Get in and face the rear viewport. You’ll have to lie on your stomach. If you’re claustrophobic, this is the time to speak up.”

“Never bothered me any,” he said and disappeared into the belly of the submersible. She heard him call out once, cursing as he banged his head on the low-hanging ceiling. Moments later he yelled, “Okay, come in.”

The engineer helped Kelly step inside the mini-sub. She turned to Rafe, only her head visible. “Are you sure you wanna do this?” he asked.

“What I want is irrelevant,” she said. “It has to be done.”

“Be careful and stay safe.” He replaced the hatch, tightened it in place from the outside.

Rafe then lowered the deck’s hydraulic system. The platform slowly descended into the water. To the Jamaican it appeared as though the dark, swirling waters of the Atlantic had swallowed the Simon whole.

* * * * *

Evan told the marine biologist, “If you need any help, just ask.” Kelly sat cross-legged at the prow while Evan’s feet prodded her in the butt. He lay prone behind her, watching out the back window.

“I’ll worry about navigation if you take care of the research. And I want good data,” she said.

The water around them rose as the Aurora vanished from view. Soon the waterline disappeared completely as the Simon sank beneath the waves. “Are we ready?” she asked.

Evan responded, “Ready as ever.”

She took the control joystick and revved the motorized, twin thrusters. The submersible jerked at first before Kelly became more confident in steering. The Simon left the stabilizer deck, teetering over the gaping Atlantic abyss. “And we’re off.”

Kelly turned on a small fan in the corner. It circulated warm, stale air that would only get hotter as time wore on. She placed an earpiece in her right ear, linked directly to the Aurora. “Testing, testing. Can you hear me, Bart?”

Static crackled through the line as the captain answered. “Loud and less than clear. We’ll make do.”

“How are the sensors?” she asked Evan.

“Depth gauge is at ten meters and dropping. Water current is four knots, ambient temperature eighty-five degrees.”

“I want you in constant contact,” Bart said over the intercom. “If anything happens — ”

“Don’t jinx us,” the marine biologist advised.

“Thirty meters,” Evan said.

By this point the world transformed to muted, bland colors. Hues in the light spectrum were scattered by water molecules. At ninety feet down, red was the first to fade. Evan’s scarlet shirt was now gray. Yellow and green were the next to disappear. By a hundred and fifty feet under the water, blue and purple finally ceased to exist.

Visibility was clear to thirty feet, and shapes could be discerned up to fifty feet out. “Spot anything?” she asked Evan.

“Not yet.” A stingray billowed around the Simon, gliding like an eagle on the ocean currents. “I see a manta ray.”

“Looks like a shoal of blenny ahead,” Kelly said. “I’ll get closer for a better view.” The Simon veered north and stopped, floating outside a wall of small fish. Their fluid movements impressed the marine biologist. They acted as a flock of birds, hundreds of creatures ebbing and flowing in a giant heartbeat. They formed a writhing mass of fins and scales that moved in total harmony, each member in sync with the next. “They’re agitated,” she said.

At once — as if thinking like a single entity — they began swirling in a vortex. Within seconds the throng morphed into a tornado of fish, a protective measure to thwart predator attack.

“I only see scavengers in the area. We must have just missed the feast.”

A dark mass passed in the distance, beyond the line of clear visibility. “Maybe not,” Kelly said. She nosed the Simon closer and the blennies compensated, shifted from the submarine. “There’s something about twenty meters out,” she reported to Bart.

“Roger that,” the captain replied.

Kelly maneuvered the submersible to skirt the group of blenny. She kept a lookout on the shadow ahead. Its outline grew more defined as the Simon bridged the span. “I think that’s it,” she said. Evan twisted around and peered over Kelly’s shoulder out the front viewport.

“Are you sure that’s our animal?” he asked.

The curtain of fish parted as the creature attacked. Enormous jaws snapped sideways at the blenny, instantly scattering them into smaller groups.

“Pretty damn sure.”

The researchers felt insignificant in the presence of the Leviathan.

In the hot mini-sub, a cold shiver ran down Kelly’s spine. To see the creature, witness its full glory . . . she didn’t know how to react. Her entire life had led to this moment, and now her body went numb.

“Jesus Christ,” she said. It wasn’t meant as a derogatory remark, rather was spoken with ostensible religious reverence. “The Leviathan . . . It’s an alligator.” This was the first time she’d referred to the animal by its Biblical name.

Evan shook his head, unable to take his gaze off the creature. “No, a crocodile.”

“Repeat that,” Bart said.

“We found it.”

Evan said, “It’s monstrous.”

“It’s beautiful,” she corrected.

A moment of awed silence before Bart said, “What’s going on?”

“It’s a crocodile,” Kelly relayed to the Aurora.

“Crocodile?” Bart shouted through a haze of static. “How’d a croc get in the Atlantic?”

Evan spoke into Kelly’s earpiece. “There are several species of saltwater crocs. While they usually stick to the marshes, it’s not unprecedented to find them in the ocean. I’ve never heard of any being this far from shore though.”

“How’d it get so big?” Kelly asked. Evan was the herpetologist, and she wisely deferred to his expertise with reptiles.

“The largest I’ve encountered had metabolism issues. Even those pale in comparison to this thing.”

She navigated the Simon in a circle as the creature passed through the periphery of their vision.

“We can’t allow it to get anywhere near the coast.”

“If people learn what’s hunting in the waters off Florida — ”

“Tourism would be crippled,” she said. “And every yahoo with a shotgun would want to kill it.”

“Luckily not every yahoo has billions of dollars at his disposal,” Evan said. Oscar Wright was a major concern — specifically, how to keep the Leviathan away from the old man. “It’s not solely a danger underwater. If it moved onto shore, it’d blaze a path of destruction through unsuspecting coastal towns.”

“The camera,” Kelly reminded him. “Get some pictures.” Both of them were so overwhelmed by the animal, they forgot about the actual research for a moment.

Evan snapped a few photos and wasn’t pleased with the results. “You’ll have to get closer if you want anything more than a blur.”

The blennies regrouped as a solitary mass. The creature took a second swipe through them, its jaws widened to an alarming degree as it scooped up slower fish.

Evan clicked several dozen images with the camera, over fifty in all.

The Leviathan started out of the area, bearing north. “Keep on it,” the ranger said. The Simon trailed the crocodile at a safe distance. To their starboard was a wall of rock. “Fifty meters and descending.”

The only part of the beast they saw clearly from the rear was the tail, which swept back and forth to propel itself onward.

“How far out are the marlins?” Evan whispered into Kelly’s earpiece.

Bart said, “Twenty yards, give or take. You’re right behind them.”

“Copy that.”

“What are you gonna call it?” the captain asked. “Don’t scientists get to name their discoveries?”

“We need outside verification before anything like that happens,” Kelly said.

After a long pause Bart said, “You should name it after me.”

Kelly smiled. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

At once the beast raced from view, disappeared into the blue void and left them behind. The marine biologist increased the Simon’s speed to catch up. With engines topping out, the submersible had difficulty matching the Leviathan. “How fast does this go?” Evan asked.

“Fifteen knots, max. I can’t push it any harder than I am.”

In time they caught up to the Leviathan as it rested, devouring the remains of an unfortunate sailfish.

“How long have we been down?” Kelly asked.

Evan checked his wristwatch. “A little under forty minutes.”

“It hasn’t taken a single breath this entire time.”

“That’s not surprising. A normal croc can stay underwater for two hours in winter, when its metabolism is slower. Something that size shouldn’t need air but a handful of times each day.”

The Leviathan stopped eating — it didn’t chew so much as swallow large chunks of meat whole — and stared at the Simon.

“It’s looking at us,” Kelly said.

Out the porthole Evan spied a precipice of rock. “Get behind that sheer face. It may perceive us as a threat if we’re too close. Ease off a bit.”

The Simon traveled behind the cliff. “We probably appear like a slow-moving whale to it.”

“Let’s stay away from food analogies,” Evan said.

The creature resumed gorging, itself content any danger had subsided.

The scientists watched for several minutes, marveling at its body and feeding habits. The crocodile had a pale underside and ridges along its back. It was black and dark green on top, a distinct speckled band along its lateral sides.

“Status report,” the earpiece chirped.

“We’re doing fine,” she told the captain.

Evan said, “We should head back to the surface.”

“A bit longer,” she pleaded. Her tone was the same as a child who begged to stay up just ten more minutes past bedtime.

Evan filled the memory card of his digital camera before Kelly agreed to leave. They had been under forty-eight minutes exactly before she informed the Aurora they were returning.

“Roger that, we’ll keep an eye out for you,” Bart said.

To save fuel and energy, it was smarter to ascend first and then navigate back to the Aurora from the surface. Kelly pressed a button marked AIR, and the Simon slowly began to rise.

Evan checked the depth gauge. “Forty-five meters.”

The Leviathan twitched, coiled as if ready to strike.

“Forty meters.”

The gargantuan creature made swift progress toward the submersible. Its giant head passed the bow. Its eyes transfixed the marine biologist. The crocodile had an intelligent gaze, the kind normally reserved for animals with high-functioning brain activity. There was no maliciousness behind them, only instinct. Millions of years’ worth of instinct. Neither scientist moved or breathed as the Leviathan swam by.

When it disappeared both of them exhaled in relief.

Suddenly a four-fingered hand topped with nine-inch claws scratched the Simon’s starboard. Inside the confined spaced it sounded like a thousand fingernails scratching chalkboard.

“It doesn’t want us above it,” the ranger said. “It’s taking that as a sign of aggression. It thinks we’re trying to dominate it. Go down.”

“Descending,” Kelly said as she released excess oxygen from the air bladders. “Thirty meters . . . thirty-five . . . forty . . . ”

The submersible sank at a fast rate, yet the crocodile refused to leave it alone. “What should we do?” Kelly asked. The panic in her voice unnerved Evan.

“Stay calm,” he said for both their sakes.

The Leviathan again assaulted the submarine, its teeth grabbing hold of the robotic arm on the prow. It snapped the steel manipulator between its jaws.

Evan saw the diversion as an opportunity to escape. “Now. Up, up.”

“Forty meters . . . thirty-five.”

The submersible rocketed toward the surface. Realizing the metallic appendage wasn’t food, the Leviathan dropped the piece of wreckage and chased after the submersible. At fifteen knots the mini-sub was too slow for the beast.

“Faster — faster,” Evan said.

“It doesn’t go any faster,” she shouted.

“You’ll have to take defensive countermeasures.” Through the rear viewport Evan watched the creature rush toward them, its maw unhinged to reveal a white gullet. And sharp teeth. Ascending at a forty-five-degree angle, the only thing keeping the researchers alive was a titanium hull and five inches of Plexiglas.

Kelly veered the craft sharply right, before leveling off and going south toward the Aurora. The Leviathan stayed several lengths behind, toying with its quarry. “We can’t outrun it,” Evan said. “Stop, keep still.”

“Are you insane?”

“Just do it.”

She shut off the thrusters, gliding to a stop sixty feet beneath the waves. The giant crocodile passed the Simon before making another sweep around. Inside Kelly and Evan were covered in sweat, listening to their own heartbeats reverberating in their ears.

“What’s going on down there?” Bart said.

Kelly dug out her earbud and whispered, “End communication ‘til further notice.”

The captain said, “Please repeat.”

“Shut the hell up,” she said and threw down the microphone. “What’s the plan now?” Kelly asked the ranger.

“It’s pursuing us because we’re trying to escape, something only prey does. If we don’t make any quick motions, maybe it’ll move along.”

“I don’t like the sound of that maybe.”

Evan glanced out the porthole, saw the Leviathan circling like a vulture. “How much air do we have?”

“Suffocation is the least of our problems.”

“If it bites at us, it’s only to learn whether we’re food. Once it knows we’re nothing tasty, it should leave.”

“But it already ate the robotic arm,” she said.

Evan thought about the possibilities. “The arm.” He crawled over Kelly to look out the main window. Although most of the appendage had been torn away, a sharpened spike of twisted steel remained. “We can use it as a weapon.”

“How?” Kelly reminded herself that she needed to restrain her rampant fear if she wanted to remain clearheaded. Or alive.

“Every animal has certain points of weakness, no matter how powerful it is.”

She saw where he was going with this. “Uh-uh, don’t think I’m gonna — ”

“It’s our only option.”

The Leviathan stayed in the water around them, mouth agape. It was hard to judge its distance. The crocodile had moved toward the submersible in increments, making its way with a detached coolness afforded to the fiercest predators. Only five yards off, the beast dwarfed the mini-sub.

The tip of its snout was a few feet away, as if it smelled the craft. Suddenly the water between the two objects came to a roiling boil. The liquid instantly transformed into a frothy tempest. The Plexiglas didn’t shatter so much as crack with a popgun sound that jarred the researchers. “It’ll hold,” Evan said. “It’ll hold.”

He wasn’t sure it would hold.

The sub’s rising temperature had become intolerable, taking the breath from their lungs and choking them in a hot blanket of air.

“We need to make a last ditch effort to get to the surface,” Evan whispered. “Aim for the eyes and head to the top on the count of five. One . . . two . . . three . . . ”

The Leviathan’s jaws closed around the front end of the Simon with a bite pressure of eighteen thousand pounds per square inch. Its teeth ripped through the sides of the submersible.

“Five!” Evan yelled. “Five-five-five!”

The submarine began to rise. The noise inside was deafening as the titanium hull groaned under immense tension.

“The eyes,” he said.

“I’m trying, I’m trying.” The computer console was searing, almost too hot to touch. “I can’t maneuver the arm. It’s stuck.” She realized the problem was far worse than that. “We’re flying blind,” she said. The marine biologist frantically pressed toggles and levers — nothing responded. “Everything’s disabled.”

Keeping the Simon in its mouth, the Leviathan spun in concentric circles. Inside the sub Kelly and Evan tumbled about like clothes in a dryer.

And then it stopped.

The only sound that remained was Kelly’s shrill screams.

Neither of them heard the leaks until other noises ceased.

Water rivulets poured into the cabin where the Leviathan’s teeth had once penetrated the hull.

But not anymore. Because water seeped into the Simon, that meant the creature must’ve released the submersible.

The marine biologist had landed atop Evan.

“Do you see it anywhere?” he asked weakly.

Kelly looked out the window and saw only water. There was no way to tell their depth — whether they were rising to safety or sinking to their deaths — and she dimly thought if the Simon ascended upside-down at the surface, they’d be trapped.

The creature hadn’t pierced the air tanks, so the mini-sub drifted upward . . .

Upward . . .

Upward . . .

The submersible finally burst through the waves like a breached whale. It leveled out and stayed afloat, lower in the water than normal but buoyant nonetheless.

“You think Bart sees us?” Evan asked. “Do we have any flares?”

“None in here.” She searched around and retrieved the earpiece. “Bart? Come in, Bart. This is Kelly. Mayday — repeat, mayday.” Silence. The radio must’ve also broken during the chaos. “Get that hatch open,” she said. “We have maybe an hour before this place fills entirely and sinks like a rock.”

“I hope the Aurora’s out there,” Evan said. If the research vessel was within sight, it might spot the Simon. Better still, if it was within shouting distance they could call for rescue.

Kelly watched the murkiness outside the submersible. In the distance was a shifting shadow — growing, solidifying.

The Leviathan had returned for more.

“It’s coming back,” she said.

“Either we die in here or outside.” Evan pointed to the conning tower. “I’d rather take my chances out there. You with me?”

She nodded as he twisted the hatch loose. Flinging it open, sunlight flooded his vision with blinding brightness. The light hurt his eyes, but he’d never been so happy to see the sun.

The sound around them was loud and disorienting. It took a moment for Evan’s vision to adjust. When it did his gaze fell upon their rescuers.

“Thank God you’re here,” the ranger said.

“Don’t give Him the credit,” a voice replied. “I’m the one who showed up.”

It belonged to Oscar Wright.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

WRIGHT’S HELICOPTER HOVERED thirty feet above the Simon, so close the noise from the overhead rotors was uncomfortable.

“What’s that?” Kelly shouted behind Evan, unable to see for herself.

“We’re being airlifted out.” When he glanced at Kelly, he saw she was already ankle-deep in saltwater.

Evan shielded his eyes from the chopper’s stiff downdraft. A tuft of white hair peered from over the skids. The ranger cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Never thought we’d be glad to see you.”

Moments later a rope ladder dropped from the aircraft, dangling several feet away. Cautiously Evan scanned the surroundings for the creature.

While nothing was in sight, the Leviathan could be nearby. Evan thought he saw a flash in the water — a glint of sunshine off the waves maybe — then it was gone. If the creature were out there, the helicopter’s high decibels would keep it at bay. At least he hoped so.

“Climb aboard,” the billionaire said.

Evan gripped the ladder and ascended halfway before checking on Kelly. The marine biologist scrambled out of the submersible, a look of chagrin on her face when she realized who’d come to offer help.

Kelly crawled out of the mini-sub and stood atop the sinking vessel as she tightened the main hatch. “There’s no time for that,” the ranger said.

“If I don’t close up, it’ll sink a helluva lot faster.” She twisted it shut then grabbed the end of the rope. Through the windshield she spied Ian Thorpe at the controls. The hunter was stone-faced, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

“Com’on,” Evan urged. She scaled a few rungs before the chopper took off. Don’t look down, she told herself.

The researchers were suspended fifty feet in the air. Kelly had her arms and legs wrapped around the ladder for dear life. She wasn’t going to fall. She wasn’t going to fall. She was not going to fall.

Evan Hale enjoyed the ride more than his partner. From this high vantage point, he spotted the stranded sub two hundred yards south of the Aurora. Anchored nearby was the billionaire’s yacht.

Approximately six hundred feet separated the Aurora from the mini-sub. And in the midst of that gulf lurked the Leviathan.

Evan observed the creature as they soared overhead, a shadow in the water. The animal stared at the helicopter and headed toward them as it sped toward the Naglfar and the research vessel. Its snout protruded from the waves and snapped several times at the tempting meal just out of reach.

Oscar Wright peered out the door and saw the animal too. “I’ll be back for you,” he promised the Leviathan.

The helicopter hovered over the Aurora, slowly lowering until the bottom of the rope ladder touched the weather deck. Kelly climbed down and jumped off then watched Evan do the same. Both of them were surprised when the old man started down the rope himself.

A group had gathered on deck to watch the rescue mission. Bart, Rafe and several interns had amassed, brought together by the chopper’s commotion. Wright rushed to the scientists and called to the engineer. “Rafe, grab a couple dry towels and something for them to drink.”

“Sure ting,” the Jamaican said and headed to the galley.

“What happened down there?” the captain asked. “Your microphone cut out after it sounded like all hell broke loose.”

“That thing assaulted us,” Kelly said. “It nearly destroyed the Simon.”

The old man gripped Evan by the shoulder and spun around the ranger. “The creature out there, it was — ”

“Your Leviathan, yes.”

“I only saw it from the chopper, but you were in the water with it. Tell me something — ”

“We really appreciate your help,” Kelly told the billionaire. “Without you we could’ve been killed.”

“I expected to die too,” Evan confided.

The marine biologist elbowed him in the ribs. “I recall you saying we’d be fine.”

“I thought we would be. That attack was totally unprovoked.”

The old man waved to Thorpe then pointed at the Naglfar. The chopper returned to the yacht located alongside the Aurora.

Kelly couldn’t stop shaking from shock. Her nervous system hadn’t yet registered her safety. The excessive adrenaline made her queasy, that nausea exacerbated by the ocean’s rolling waves.

“What did the beast look like?” the old man asked. “I have to know.”

Kelly and Evan exchanged a glance. Neither wanted to tell Wright the truth. Grateful as they were for his intervention, they weren’t gullible. Oscar Wright had earned their gratitude, not their trust.

“We’re not entirely certain,” Evan said.

Kelly held up the camera that hung around her neck. “We took quite a few photos and need to analyze the data before we reach any conclusions.”

“But the creature,” Wright prodded, “it is something new, right?”

The ranger omitted pertinent information. “That’s fair to say.”

The old man was unconvinced. The pleasure drained from his face, replaced by a more familiar sneer. A grin looked unnatural on Oscar Wright’s features, as if his body itself resisted any inkling to smile. “I just saved your lives. I deserve to know what I saved you from.”

Kelly unbuttoned the breastpocket of her shirt and removed an item. She passed it to the billionaire: her sample tooth. The marine biologist was so scared of losing the piece that she kept it on her person at all times.

Rafe returned with blankets and bottled water, meting out one of each to the scientists.

Wright held the object in his hands with awe. This was his first tangible evidence of the creature, something to actually touch with his fingers. It stirred him to handle something which had been part of the beast. “A claw?” he said.

“It’s a tooth,” Kelly told him.

Inspired by its length, Wright imagined all the prey that had met a grisly end at the Leviathan’s teeth. Although the old man found it hard to hand over, he forced himself to give back the item. “It’s beautiful.”

“I have to make a cast replica of it.”

“Do you think the creature’s still around?” He nodded toward the Atlantic.

Kelly wrapped herself in the blanket. “I have no doubt.”

For an instant their eyes locked, each understanding the other was willing to risk everything to capture the sea monster.

“We can’t thank you enough for the assistance,” Evan said. “You have excellent timing.”

“My pleasure,” the old man said.

Evan shook the billionaire’s hand. “I feel we owe you more than our appreciation. Is there anything we can do for you?” Wright was about to answer when Evan had an idea. “I know, come over tonight for dessert. A celebration of sorts. Bring your associate too.”

“Associate?”

“The pilot, Thorne.”

“Oh, Thorpe,” he said. “When should we be over?”

Kelly said, “Eight o’clock.”

“Fine by me.” Wright crossed to the gangplank that bridged the two vessels. “Have those pictures ready. I’d like to look over them.”

Bart followed the old man, disengaging the walkway once the billionaire was safely aboard the yacht.

Edgar Wallis appeared from the Aurora’s forecastle. He arrived to the weather deck wondering why everyone had assembled. “What’s going on?” he asked the harried researchers.

“Nothing you gotta worry about,” Kelly said. The less Edgar knew about their business, the better. If he discovered Kelly had used the Simon without proper authorization, she could very well lose her job. The marine biologist shirked off her towel and handed it to one of the interns. “That goes for the rest of you too. Get inside and stay there ‘til I say otherwise.” She pointed to the captain and engineer. “I need you two to stick around a bit longer.”

She waited for the others to file below deck before elaborating. “We have to get the Simon out of the ocean. It’s taking on water, and I don’t know how long we have before it’s gone forever.” She looked at the captain. “Is that doable? The electrical system is shot, so I can’t steer it.”

“We might be able to maneuver ahead of it then use the rear platform as a scoop. It’ll be tricky, but it should work.”

She leaned close to the old tar and said, “Thanks for calling in help.”

“I did no such thing,” Bart admitted. “I maintained total radio silence after you told me to shut up.”

The marine biologist was puzzled. “Are you telling me Oscar Wright happened upon us by accident?”

The captain shrugged. “I never sent out any mayday.”

“I appreciate your candor,” she said. Her gaze shifted to Rafe. “Once the submersible’s aboard, will you be able to fix it?”

“No promises ‘til I see the damage myself. How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad,” Evan said.

The engineer looked skeptical. “I’ll do my best.”

“I don’t want your best; I want the Simon in working order again.” She asked the captain, “How long should it take you to get ready?”

“Gimme twenty minutes to set up everything.”

“You have ten,” Kelly said.

* * * * *

It took the captain fifteen minutes to reposition the Aurora’s stern to the submersible. Rafe operated the stabilizer deck, sliding it underneath the Simon and lifting the entire craft out of the water with the hydraulic system.

The sub was not in good shape.

The front end hadn’t been wholly demolished; the structural integrity remained intact. After rising from the ocean, it continued to leak from the perforated holes along the hull.

Evan and Kelly watched over the engineer’s shoulder. “How’s it look?” she asked.

Rafe was dubious. “Keep in mind I’m not a miracle worker. I can’t resurrect the dead.”

“You’ll have to try.” The scientists helped Rafe hook the mini-sub to the Yumbo crane by three chains long ago rusted from the saltwater. They used a winch to hoist up the craft and place it neatly on the observation deck. Only now was Rafe able to make a proper assessment of the Simon.

Damage to the exterior was extensive. Three large gashes marred starboard, none of which was deep enough to penetrate the bilge. “Scratch marks,” Evan told the engineer. He studied them as Rafe circled the mini-sub. Parts had been shredded as if by a cheese grater, thin flakes of titanium raked into curlicues. “I’d say the claws were about an inch wide, maybe eight inches long.” Evan understood how lucky they were to have survived such a harrowing experience.

“What happened here?” Rafe asked.

Kelly joined the Jamaican at the prow to inspect the front viewport. It was warped in places, the Plexiglas discolored like an oil slick on a mud puddle. The marine biologist touched the material and recoiled. It was warm and slightly sticky.

“Looks like someone took a blowtorch to this window,” Rafe remarked.

The comment intrigued Evan. “You think heat caused this?”

“Dat’s about the only ting I can think,” he said.

She remembered the hectic moment at which the glass cracked, after the creature had opened its mouth. At once the window splintered as though caused by a sound wave. But heat? That didn’t make sense.

The longer she thought about it, however, the more rational it did seem. The video from her prior voyage had captured the same anomaly. Seconds before the Leviathan destroyed her camera, the thermal imager picked up temperatures that were off the scale. The amount of heat it took for this kind of damage would be several times that. There was no creature in the animal kingdom capable of producing such an intense source of torridity.

Except the Leviathan existed beyond the normal realm of that kingdom, in fact redefined what it meant to be part of it. The beast may well be a crocodile, but it was also set apart from the rest of its reptilian kin.

“I can’t repair this,” Rafe said. He motioned to the ragged end of the robotic arm. “Even if we had the rest of it, I couldn’t get it to work again. Not with the limited tools I have on the boat.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kelly told him. “I just want it seaworthy again. All the bells and whistles don’t matter.”

Once the Simon stopped draining, Rafe climbed the side ladder and stood atop the submersible. He untwisted the top cap and peeked inside. The engineer grimaced. Although the damage was bad, it wasn’t to the degree he expected.

The Jamaican disappeared into the conning tower. The researchers paced outside, awaiting Rafe’s final report. The hull was easy enough to fix, the delicate machinery inside another matter altogether. The computers, the electronics — without those, the Simon was little more than a floating coffin. Kelly needed more protection than that if she planned to face the Leviathan again.

Several minutes later the mechanic’s head poked out. “You’re a lucky lady,” he said. “It appears the water didn’t do too much harm. Had you waited another hour to get it outta the ocean, everything would’ve been lost. A lot of the auxiliary equipment needs to be replaced; however, your vitals — the thrusters, data collections and whatnot — all appear to be in passable shape. I’ll have to work on them individually to make certain. I should have the rudimentary systems up and running at the very least.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Evan asked.

“Grab my tool kit. I’m gonna need my whole arsenal for this job.”

Evan started toward the superstructure where he saw Edgar Wallis outlined in the doorway. Even from afar he found the little man disturbing. There was a look of disapproval on the lawyer’s face. “What’s the matter?” Evan asked him.

Edgar shook his head in disappointment. “Mister Hamilton will not be pleased. The Simon — ”

“Lucas will hear about this from me alone,” Kelly shouted from across deck.

“You think you have him wrapped ‘round your finger.”

She said, “That’s not true.”

The attorney walked to the submersible. “No, I believe it is. He’s your lapdog, and the worst part is that he doesn’t realize it. But I do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” Edgar said. “Any time he’s about to go hard on you, out come the coy smiles and the cleavage. You don’t fool me. And you won’t fool the Institute. Not anymore. Mister Hamilton’s covered your ass too many times already. He’s put his own job on the line to save yours.”

That revelation was news to her. Perhaps she had flirted with Hamilton in the past, harmlessly enough and not beyond reason since he was an attractive man. But she’d never act on those carnal impulses because she didn’t want an air of impropriety between them. Kelly didn’t want to give fodder to scum like Edgar Wallis, whose cries of sexual harassment could ruin her career.

Evan returned with a greasy toolbox and handheld acetylene torch. He handed the equipment to the engineer.

“And now you’ve really screwed the pooch,” Edgar continued. “Look at the mess you caused. How much will this cost to repair?”

“More than a couple bucks,” she said. The government charged the Institute half a million dollars a year to lease the submersible; its basic operation alone cost five hundred dollars per day. As much as she wanted, Kelly couldn’t get too pissed at Edgar. He was right after all. For wrecking the Simon, the Institute would scream for no less than her head on a silver platter. Or at least her resignation letter on a paper plate.

“Go ahead, try to wriggle outta this one,” Edgar said. “The Trustees will crucify you for this. And your lapdog won’t be able to help. This goes higher than Hamilton even. I will personally inform the Board about the deception and fraud I’ve witnessed on this trip.”

“Fraud?”

“Research expeditions taken under false pretenses, the destruction of taxpayer property, unnecessary risks that nearly got crewmembers killed — do I need to continue?”

“I was one of those at risk,” she shouted. “I never asked a single person aboard to act without knowing what was at stake. Everybody here came by invitation. Everybody but you.”

“The Trustees will have your job for this,” Edgar said.

“You’re probably right,” she confessed. “But for right now I’m still employed, and there’s work to be done.”

Kelly looked to Evan and the engineer, both of whom were already busy toiling on the Simon. Evan was welding the puncture holes on the hull while the Jamaican went about repairing the electronics inside.

“I’m curious how interested you are in my affairs. And yet you keep your own secrets.”

The attorney was confused. “Secrets?”

“I know about you and Oscar Wright. I saw how buddy-buddy you were with him, thick as thieves.”

“Sure, I find Mister Wright to be charming. You’re sorely mistaken if you think anything more than that.”

“It’s hard to believe the Naglfar was nearby when we needed a helping hand. The Atlantic Ocean covers a mighty large area, and two ships being that close together has to be more than coincidence. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“You think I slipped Mister Wright our whereabouts? I already explained that I’m not a mole.”

“Yeah, that bullshit doesn’t pass the sniff test.” The marine biologist’s thin patience had run out and now she wanted a brawl.

“Your accusations are baseless. This is sad, Kelly. You’re swinging blind, hoping to take down anyone else around you.”

Kelly held up a white-knuckled fist. “You want me to add assault too? Tell me the truth.”

“I never met Mister Wright before last night. And I certainly didn’t leak our coordinates to him. Your suspicions are mislaid, I’m afraid. Perhaps you should look elsewhere.”

Edgar turned to exit the deck, leaving Kelly Andrews to ponder his words. It was ridiculous to think anyone else could be capable of working for the billionaire.

But what if Edgar was right? It was a notion she had to entertain, whether or not she wanted to believe it. If he wasn’t lying, the marine biologist didn’t know whom to trust. Anyone may have been spying for Oscar Wright, and that unsettling thought made her nervous.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

KELLY CHECKED ON the Simon’s progress several hours later as the sun flirted with the horizon. Local cloud cover had dissipated, allowing large streaks of orange and pink to color the heavens.

Red sky at night, sailors’ delight. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.

Should make for fair weather come tomorrow. Bart had heard the forecast on the radio. It would be pleasant in the morning, followed by afternoon thundershowers. She wanted the submersible back in the water before it started to storm.

Evan and the engineer worked so hard to mend the vessel that neither noticed the fading light. Eventually the overhead spotlights switched on from an automatic timer. “How goes it?” she asked Evan.

He finished welding the outer hull and had moved on to reinforce the cracked Plexiglas with a waterproof urethane sealant. The mini-sub didn’t need to be pretty; it just had to hold together. “Slow and steady,” he said.

“Need any extra hands?”

Evan shook his head. “Too many cooks in the kitchen. Anyone else would get in the way. Besides, Rafe and I have a good rhythm going and we don’t wanna jinx it.”

Rafe’s head appeared over the conning tower. “Hey there, Miz Andrews.”

“How’s it coming along inside?”

“She ain’t dead yet, but she’s on life support.”

“Can you have it ready and in the water by morning?” Kelly didn’t know how feasible that was. Both workers stared at her, their faces fraught with doubt.

“Mebbe in the afternoon,” Rafe said.

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” Her wristwatch said it was quarter to eight. She expected the old man at any minute. The Naglfar hadn’t strayed from view that day and had motored back alongside the Aurora within the last twenty minutes. “I’d say you guys have earned a break. Wright will be here soon, so come have some cake with us. Are either of you hungry?”

Evan nodded and the Jamaican said, “Sure ting.”

Sure ting.

An innocuous remark, something she’d heard him say numerous times before. Except now it triggered a latent memory, a moment from earlier in the afternoon that had been lost in the excitement.

Kelly vividly remembered when Oscar Wright descended the ladder from the helicopter, he’d called out for the Jamaican. “Rafe, grab a couple dry towels and something for them to drink.”

To which the engineer replied, “Sure ting.”

How had Wright known the Jamaican’s name? He hadn’t met Rafe when they boarded the Naglfar for dinner, because the mechanic had been with the first mate in the engine room that evening. That left one other alternative.

The marine biologist felt sick to her stomach. Not Rafe . . . poor, trustworthy Rafe.

“You head inside,” she told Evan. He set aside some tools and got to his feet, knees popping.

“I’ll go brew a strong pot of coffee. We’ll need it tonight if we’re working through the sunrise.”

Evan went to the orlop, giving Kelly the opportunity to speak privately with Rafe. “Come on down here,” she said. The Jamaican crawled out of the conning tower and climbed off the ladder. He walked up to her, wiping grimy hands on his overalls.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” she asked.

He thought hard before answering. “I’ve been going over the wiring and may be able to rig up a basic arrangement with the robotic arm.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Kelly said. “You must’ve heard that argument I had with Edgar earlier.” Rafe averted his eyes from her steel gaze. It would’ve be hard for the engineer not to have overheard the heated exchange.

“Yes ma’am,” he whispered quietly. It was the first time he’d ever referred to Kelly Andrews as ma’am.

She laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “You were the last person I expected, Rafe.”

He looked at her, not understanding at first. Then ripe tears collected in the corners of his eyes.

“How long has this been going on?” she asked.

His head hung downcast in embarrassment. “Two years ago,” he said. “Since Kincaid left. He was the one Mister Wright asked for help. And when he moved away” — Rafe choked back a sob — “I stepped in.” That was the part that shamed him most. Oscar Wright needn’t tempt the Jamaican to spy on his behalf, because Rafe willingly offered.

“I hope he at least paid you.”

Rafe nodded, a tear dripping off the tip of his nose. “Hundred bucks a week.” Four hundred dollars per month, roughly the modern equivalent to thirty pieces of silver. “I sent it all home, same as I do with every paycheck.”

Kelly was surprised by her lack of anger. There was a stinging in the bottom of her heart she couldn’t identify — disappointment? Pity? She wasn’t irate with him because she truly believed there had been no malice on his part.

Rafe’s background was sketchy. What she’d pieced together over the years was a patchwork of shattered dreams and bad luck. An extended family waited for him on his island home: parents, siblings and grandparents living together in a single cramped hacienda. Rafe kept part of his paycheck to spend on luxuries like food; the rest went to his loved ones. And an additional hundred dollars a week was a windfall for any cash-strapped household.

Kelly wasn’t livid because the Jamaican had betrayed her out of desperation. It was the type of stupid, misguided mistake everyone was entitled to make on occasion. And it was clear he deeply regretted his actions.

“I’m very sorry, Miz Andrews.”

“I know you are,” she said. As the waning sunlight hit his ebony face, she saw a few wiry whiskers on his chin. It was at that moment she realized Rafe couldn’t grow a beard. The engineer wasn’t fully yet a man . . . not more than a boy, really. A boy who was frightened of losing his job because it would jeopardize the family who depended on him financially.

“I’ll refund Wright’s money if you want, every last penny.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. His insolence couldn’t go unreported. Hamilton had a right to know about any spies in his employ. “What did he have you do?”

“I supplied information. Not all the time, just whenever something interesting came along. Abnormal stuff. After that ting ate your camera — ”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what he was after. Do you know if anyone else at the Institute works for him?”

“Not that I’m aware. Why would he need more than one person?” Rafe dried his eyes and composed himself.

“Look, I’ll cut you a deal,” Kelly said. “I have to tell Hamilton about this — ”

“But Miz Andrews — ”

“And your outcome depends on how I spin the story. The Board of Trustees already wants my ass.” Her hand swept to the abused submersible. “And this doesn’t help my case. The only way we’ll get out of this with our reputations intact is if we bring them something so grand they’ll be forced to forgive us.” She pointed to the ocean. “That something is out there as we speak. I have to catch it. And the only way that’s possible — ”

“Is with the Simon.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “That’s why it’s gotta be up and running ASAP. You help me now and I’ll help you later.”

The engineer realized he’d been given a second chance, an opportunity to redeem himself. “Yes ma’am, thankyou-thankyou-thankyou.” The dismay on his face was replaced with great relief.

“You’re welcome to join us for cake,” she said.

“I don’t deserve it.” Rafe saw the submersible as his salvation, wanted to get back to work and start the long journey toward regaining Miz Andrew’s trust.

* * * * *

Oscar Wright arrived promptly at eight that evening with Ian Thorpe in tow. The two were greeted by Captain Bart and led to the galley in the orlop. The smells wafting from the kitchen were divine. The chef — an amusing, lanky gentleman named Russell — had baked a chocolate cake slathered with a liberal dose of vanilla icing made from scratch.

“This is for you,” Wright said and placed a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka on the table.

Kelly said, “You shouldn’t have.”

“We’re supposed to be treating you,” Evan added.

The old man took a seat at the table, waited as Kelly cut the cake into moist squares and handed out the pieces.

Evan took a bite and said, “My compliments to the cook.” He was used to boat food over the years, and any sailor knew a crew’s morale was tied directly to the chef’s culinary skills. The better the food, the higher their spirits.

The four of them ate in uncomfortable silence. No one dared breach the topic that had brought them together.

Finally the old man said, “Have you had a chance to develop those photos yet?”

The marine biologist had spent time in the computer lab while Rafe and Evan were busy with the Simon. She’d processed the digital photographs, burned them onto a CD and stored them in the safety of her berth. The best shots she kept for herself; the rest she had printed for Oscar Wright.

She handed him a manila envelope, let the two men browse through the photos. The old man rifled through them like a boy reading his first comic book. “So what the hell happened down there?” he said.

“Your Leviathan almost killed us,” said Evan.

“You’re calling it the Leviathan too?”

“Until we can attach a proper name to it.”

“Any idea what name that might be?”

The reptile specialist had some thoughts but wasn’t willing to share them with the old man. He and Kelly had agreed to parcel out what little information they’d gathered, restricting it to nonessential facts. They’d have to share something with him, in hopes of placating the billionaire.

“We’re looking into that,” Evan said. “There’s a lot we have to go over, and I don’t really have the best resources for that here on the ship. Once we get back to the lab, we’ll be able to properly analyze what we collected.”

“These photos are shit,” Wright said abruptly. “You better not be holding out on us. A blind man could’ve snapped better pictures than these.” Most of them were blurry or out of focus, shots of the Leviathan hovering just beyond the line of visibility: a mass of shadows, a stray leg or piece of tail. The old man handed each one to Thorpe, who scrutinized them himself.

“We went down to survey its natural environment. It became agitated and attacked us. You saw the damage it inflicted on the sub.”

Wright nodded, lost in contemplation. “Well now, lookit this.”

Kelly had slipped in one of the better photographs as a token of thanks. It showed the Leviathan up close, its jaws wide and coming at the camera.

“It’s definitely a reptile,” Wright said. He looked at the scientists. “Is it a dragon? That’s what the Bible described.”

“Dragonish,” Evan said. Although no one was an authority on the Leviathan itself, Evan Hale’s herpetological experience made him the closest to an expert they had. “I actually think it’s a new kind of crocodile.”

“That’s gotta be the biggest goddamn gator in the world.”

“At least twice as large as anything on record,” Evan conceded. “And it’s not an alligator. There’s a difference between the two.”

“Six of one, half dozen of the other.”

“Not really. The main distinction is the shape of the snout. A gator’s is broad and flat, whereas a crocodile’s comes more to a point.”

“Then what the hell’s this thing?” Wright asked. He stared at the Leviathan’s prominent, bulbous proboscis.

“Still a croc,” Evan said. “There are twenty-three documented species of crocodile — well, I guess twenty-four now. Of those, two belong to a subspecies called the gharial. Their snouts are more defined and orbicular. The Leviathan is reminiscent of a gharial.”

Thorpe finished looking at the photos, returned them to the envelope.

“But gators and crocs are passive predators,” Kelly said. “This is far more active.”

“Its level of aggression concerns me, and not for obvious reasons. No one has encountered this creature before, so we can’t make presumptions about its behavior. This may be normal for it,” Evan said. “However I think it’s fair to guess it would generally act like other members of the crocodilian family.”

“A passive predator?” the old man said. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“Quite the contrary,” Kelly said. “There are passive carnivores — animals that let their food come to them — and there are active, animals that stalk their prey. Turtles are passive, for example. They float in the water with open mouths, waiting for something to swim by which they’ll snap up. On the other hand, tigers take a more traditional role in hunting.”

“Tell me you put a tracking device on it before it swam away,” Thorpe said. The look on Kelly’s face told him that wasn’t the case.

Evan said, “Anything shot at it would likely bounce off. A crocodile’s scales are like armor plating. Unless we shot the tracker in its mouth, there’s very little we could do. And I’m not willing to get that close to its teeth. The only other way a tracker will work is if it’s implanted, slipped beneath the creature’s skin. Once it’s inside, there’s no chance of coming out. A quick bit of surgery is all it takes.”

“Easier said than done,” Wright said.

“I never said it’d be easy.”

The hunter handed the photos back to Kelly. “My father was stationed in Egypt when I was a boy, and I remember being warned about those vicious crocs. They basked on the banks of the Nile, sunning themselves and lurking under the water. All you could see were their eyes peering just above the waterline.

“At age eight I witnessed a full-grown man snatched as he bathed in the river. My parents had taught me to slap the water with my sandals before wading in. The crocs were sneaky, sometimes working in pairs. That’s what happened to the sorry bastard. He had his eyes trained on one of them in the distance, completely oblivious to the second one that had slipped silently beside him. Only when he finished washing himself did the animal attack. It was a thirteen-footer, moved with the grace of a creature much smaller. It bounded out of the water and seized him as he got dressed on shore.”

The others in the room were captivated by Thorpe’s tale. “It happened so quickly, my brain hardly registered the assault. The croc came out and dragged him into the river. He didn’t even yell, didn’t have the chance. It grabbed him here.” The hunter gestured at his legs from thighs to pelvis. “I remember praying for the man to drown, scream until his lungs filled with muddy water. That would’ve been more merciful than being torn to shreds.”

“That had to be traumatic for you,” Kelly said, “especially at so young an age.”

Thorpe nodded. “What I remember most were the remains. The creature took everything but his legs, both of which were snapped off at the knees. This happened not twenty feet away from me. Those legs . . . they stood straight up like a pair of stiff boots, seemed to stay that way for the longest time before falling over.

“I ran over to help, but he and the crocodile were already gone. There were footprints where he’d been, and a large furrow in the soil where the thing had come on land. There was blood on the banks too, bright crimson spots against the white sand. Just a few droplets, an unnatural amount for such a violent attack.”

“Did the authorities catch it?” Evan asked.

“My mother called the police. They dredged the river ‘til catching what they thought was the guilty party. They shot the croc dead, pulled it from the water and performed a necropsy on shore. They found the man inside, what was left of him. Bones and hair and a waterproof wristwatch that still kept time.” Thorpe lifted his arm to show off an old, beaten timepiece. “The police were able to identify the victim, discovered he hadn’t any family. They must’ve thought I was in a bad way after seeing what I had, felt so sorry they gave me his watch. That was the day I decided to become a game hunter.”

Unbeknownst to the others, Thorpe had never imparted that personal anecdote before. Not to anyone.

“Nile crocs are the worst,” Evan said. “There are three types known to kill humans: the Nile, the black caiman, and the Yacaré.”

“Add the Leviathan to that list,” the old man said. “Where did that creature come from? The Bible said it’s been around since the dawn of creation. It had to be hiding somewhere.”

“Crocodiles may not have been around since the beginning of time, but they certainly appeared in the early morning hours, geologically speaking. They’ve existed for a couple hundred million years and have remained remarkably untouched by evolution.”

“Like God created the perfect killing machine on the first try,” the billionaire said. Neither of the scientists agreed with that judgment. “But crocs don’t live in the water. All the time, I mean — don’t they stay on land for the most part?”

“That’s true,” Kelly said.

“So where’s its homeland?”

Even if the researchers knew that location, neither of them would divulge the information to him. The marine biologist said, “We’re not sure.”

“I’ve heard enough,” the billionaire said. “We’re pulling out.”

“Pulling out?” Evan asked.

“I’ve got a gambler’s instinct. I know when to cash in my chips.”

“You’re returning to shore?” Kelly said. She tried hard to keep the hope from her voice.

Oscar Wright nodded. “Tonight. We’ll make port in the Keys, and by this time tomorrow I’ll be back in Manhattan.”

“Well, thanks again for helping us this afternoon, Mister Wright.” Evan extended his hand, and the old man shook it. He had a firm grip too, much stronger than Evan expected from a septuagenarian.

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. If rumor got out that I wasn’t the surly bastard people thought, I’d get eaten alive in the boardroom. I saw the damage that beast caused. I faced it and came away with my life. I bested Him.”

“The Leviathan?”

The billionaire smiled weakly. “After hearing Thorpe’s story, I don’t need any more convincing. I’m out of my element here. I realize that now.”

Kelly said, “You have no idea how refreshing it is to hear you say that.” She was next to shake the old man’s hand. “We only ask you not tell anyone about our expedition. The Leviathan — ”

“Will stay between us, I assure you.” Wright took some effort to stand. The muscles in his body ached as much as his joints creaked. “When you’re ready to reveal the Leviathan to the world, you’ll have the full support of Wright Enterprises.”

Evan said, “That means a lot, sir.”

Wright picked up the envelope of photographs. “I fear this will be the closest I’ll ever get to the creature.” He looked at the marine biologist with a softness in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. “Do you mind if I held onto these? For my private archives, of course.”

Kelly was inclined to tell him no but reversed herself after a moment’s pause. The old man had been sworn to secrecy, and she held him at his word. “Consider them a keepsake.”

Thorpe got to his feet and nodded at the others, his way of saying goodbye without having to speak or touch anyone.

“I wish you two the best of luck,” the old man said.

“Thank you,” Kelly replied.

It occurred to the marine biologist how insane their plan must sound to an outsider. After nearly being massacred by the beast, they were about to re-enter the water to detain it. The audacity that required, the hubris. They needed more than luck to capture the Leviathan. They needed a miracle.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

AFTER OSCAR WRIGHT and Ian Thorpe left the Aurora, Kelly watched the Naglfar cruise into the distance. She didn’t believe the old man was serious about leaving until the gigayacht at last disappeared over the horizon.

Improvements to the Simon were remarkable, given its dire condition. Rafe worked through the night with Evan’s help. Early the next morning Kelly pulled Evan aside for a serious conversation.

They spent two hours outlining a comprehensive plan to capture the Leviathan. The scientists relied on crocodilian behavior to better understand how the creature might react and also probe any potential vulnerability. When both of them were clear about what needed to happen (including contingencies, in case of emergency), they went their separate ways.

Kelly and a couple interns readied the necessary materials at dawn while Evan resumed work on the mini-sub. The outside hull was in better shape now. Not great shape, but good enough to last one more trip.

Later that morning the marine biologist climbed the Simon’s conning tower and called inside to Rafe. “Anybody home?”

His voice replied, “I’m finishing up.”

“How much longer?” It was already eleven o’clock, and she wanted to get on the water sometime soon. That timeline was tenuous and depended on Rafe’s schedule.

The Jamaican’s head appeared below. “Gimme another hour, ninety minutes mebbe. Is that okay?”

“I can live with that.” The high-hanging sun threw her shadow on the mechanic. “Remember what we spoke about . . . Help me help you.”

“I’m working as fast as possible. Sometimes I wish I had another set of arms.” His bright smile faltered a bit. “You ain’t gonna tell anyone but Hamilton, right? About Mistah Wright, I mean.”

“My lips are sealed.” It would be in poor taste to notify anyone else about the Jamaican’s extracurricular activities. Other than her and Hamilton, no one needed to know.

“Sealed ‘bout what?” Evan asked. He stood next to the submersible, acetylene torch in hand.

“Nuthin’ in particular,” she said. The marine biologist jumped off the sub, landed hard on her heels. “Keep up the great job you two. Rafe told me it’ll be another hour or so. Then you and I are up to bat.”

Evan nodded. “Have you see Bart this morning?”

“No, why?”

“He wants to see you in the pilothouse.”

“Thanks for the heads up. I’ll go there now.”

When she visited the bridge, the captain wasn’t in his usual jovial mood. “What the hell’s going on?” Bart asked.

“Pardon?”

“My peepers may be old, but I still see a lot from my perch here. Since yesterday I’ve watched those guys repair that pissant sub nonstop. Then this morning I heard a rumor you expect to get back in the water today. Please tell me you’re smarter than that.”

“I’m afraid not. Rafe and Evan are finishing work on it now.”

“That’s insanity.”

“You don’t think I know that? Better judgment dictates to stay on board or go back to shore altogether. That’s the smart choice, the safe one. But safe won’t catch the Leviathan.”

“You’re starting to sound like Oscar Wright.”

“Never compare me to him,” the marine biologist cautioned.

“Then quit obsessing. At least he had the common sense to know when he was outmatched. I’m not asking you to abandon the plan, just reconsider it. Regroup, get the Simon fixed properly at dry dock and make another voyage.”

“By then the specimen may be gone for good. We have to seize it while we have the chance.” She nodded toward the sonar equipment. “Have you been watching things?”

“All night,” he said. “I didn’t get a wink of sleep.” There were half a dozen dots on the green viewfinder. Bart pointed out one of them, isolated from the others. The Aurora had kept pace with the Leviathan so they didn’t lose it. “If anything happens to you, I’m responsible. My ship, my liability.”

“Don’t worry, you’ve been absolved of all accountability. If anything goes south, it’s my head on the chopping block.”

“I don’t mean losing your job. You almost died down there. Hasn’t that sunk in? Do you want that thing to finish the job?” Bart was flabbergasted by her gall. There was a difference between courage and stupidity, and she appeared to have the two mixed.

“Get in touch if anything changes. And don’t forget to drop the nets.”

Kelly left the pilothouse before Bart could dissuade her. She instructed an intern to fetch the bait while she crossed the weather deck to a pile of chain stored beside the anchor box. She dragged a length of it to the Simon, where it attached to the submersible’s stern with a quick-release carabineer.

The intern returned with a wheelbarrow carrying the fresh sailfish carcass that had been ripped apart by the Leviathan. The remaining piece weighed sixty pounds and had been stored in the galley’s meat locker.

She connected the other end of the chain with a grappling hook, spiked it through the marlin’s meatiest part. The bait had been drained of blood and replaced with liquid tranquilizer. After calculating the amount of sedative needed to quell an animal the Leviathan’s size, Kelly figured she required five deciliters of heavy narcotic. With a syringe she injected a large dose of detomidine into the meat.

The marine biologist wanted nothing left to chance, yet she was aware most of what she hoped to accomplish that day relied on sheer luck.

* * * * *

Rafe and Evan finished the Simon ahead of schedule, half past noon. Kelly joined them for a final inspection, scrutinizing every nick and dent on the hull. The submersible was only as strong as its weakest point, and she wanted to be certain those points had been reinforced.

Satisfied with the exterior, she went inside to test the electronics. Rafe informed her that fundamental systems were working. Navigation was functional, as were the depth gauge and speedometer; however, the sonar and radio were beyond repair.

Evan fashioned what was left of the steel arm into a defense mechanism. The Simon was helpless in the water, and the researchers needed someway to protect themselves. The ranger had soldered a long spike to the end of the arm. While it wasn’t perfect, the makeshift weapon was better than nothing.

Twenty minutes later Bart came down to the weather deck to see them off. The trawling nets had been deployed to either side of the research vessel. Chainmail meshes that weighed two tons apiece, they stretched to a maximum depth of four hundred feet. “I still don’t like this,” he told Kelly. “Especially since we can’t keep in communication.”

“We’ll be fine.” She followed Evan up the side of the submersible. “I have a timer on me,” she told the captain. “If we’re not back in an hour, wait longer. We’ll try to be back before then.”

Bart said, “The animal’s about a half-mile to the east. The continental shelf drops off around here, so be careful.” Kelly made a mental note. Before she closed the hatch, she waved to Rafe. “See ya later, alligator.”

The Jamaican smiled. “After while, crocodile.”

Using the Yumbo crane, Rafe relocated the Simon to the edge of the rear platform. All crewmembers were on deck to watch the mini-sub sink below the ocean. Within minutes the submersible was gone from view. And the researchers were on their own.

* * * * *

It seemed impossible to get more isolated than being on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Kelly Andrews found a way though, cut off from the Aurora. That sense of loneliness settled heavy in her heart as she watched her friends and colleagues vanish from view.

“How’s it looking back there?” she asked Evan.

The ranger was on his stomach, peering out the mended back viewport. The cracks in the Plexiglas had been filled with sealant, which gave it the appearance of a splintered spiderweb. It was Evan’s responsibility to make sure the Leviathan took the dosed marlin bait. “We’re good to go.”

He estimated how fast the creature might be able to swim. Its sheer size and weight was a hindrance for high speeds; he guessed it could move upward of twenty knots. As the Simon maxed out at fifteen, it was essential to stay a safe distance from the beast at all times.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Kelly said. Today the water was clearer. Not by much, but enough to double yesterday’s visibility. Throughout the night the Aurora had followed the Leviathan fifty-three miles north from where Oscar Wright had rescued them.

Her darting eyes scanned the surroundings. Every movement and flicker of fish caught her attention. The Leviathan had to be close. After piloting the Simon for ten minutes, she figured they had traveled at least half a mile. She slowed the thrusters, and the submersible hovered near the ocean bottom. “Anything?” she asked.

“Negative.” From the corner of his eye Evan saw an undefined silhouette on the edge of his sight. When he turned directly toward it, he saw nothing except an immense blue screen.

The sea was wet as wet could be, the sands were dry as dry.

A fragment of poetry occurred to him, something he’d read as a child. He couldn’t remember the author — Ogden Nash perhaps, or Lewis Carroll?

He switched to periphery vision again. Sometimes that worked better than viewing the object head on, like spotting a faint star in the winter sky: look too close and it vanishes. “Fifteen degrees to your left,” he said.

As Kelly closed in with the mini-sub, the mass became more pronounced.

There was no mistaking the Leviathan.

The animal scoured the seafloor, pushing through the sand with its elongated snout, billows of silt blossoming up to hide the creature in a translucent haze. The giant crocodile unearthed a large stone, a piece of dead brain coral the size of a football. It gingerly grasped the object in its muzzle and swallowed the rock with a backward tilt of its head.

Evan turned for a better view. “Just like a bird,” he whispered.

Being a reptile — one of the last holdouts from the prehistoric era — the Leviathan shared many traits with modern avians, a common ancestor in the evolutionary chain. Similar to birds, the creature needed to consume stones on occasion. These gastroliths aided in digestion since the body couldn’t absorb them. They served to grind up large chunks of food that were swallowed whole.

Seeing this animal behave in such an ordinary manner made the researchers ecstatic. Every shred of evidence was important and cemented their soon-to-be-legendary reputations.

“You think it’s hungry?” Evan asked. He realized how inane the question sounded aloud. Of course a creature that large was hungry. It was always famished.

“We’ll find out.” Kelly moved the Simon toward the creature, the lump of marlin dangling twenty feet below the submersible. She steered the mini-sub near the beast and allowed the meat to suspend several yards away. The quick-release mechanism on the carabineer would untether the meat from the Simon at the slightest pull. After it was consumed, the tranquilizer should take effect within ten minutes.

The animal hunted for more gastroliths, oblivious to the meat hanging overhead. “No dice,” Evan said. He strained to see the creature from the rear viewport because there were no portholes on the submarine’s keel. “Jiggle it a bit like a fishing lure.”

Kelly jerked the mini-sub about, which in turn bobbed the meat. Perhaps the creature had poor vision and saw movement better than stationary objects. The Leviathan’s gaze peered up at the marlin through a milky, nictitating eyelid. The animal stopped, perfectly motionless.

Then it struck.

Its snout went from the sand to take the bait. There was a brief tug before the chain uncoupled and dropped to the seabed. The croc tore the meat free, ingested it in a single gulp.

“How will we know if the sedative works?” Evan asked.

“Give it a little time.”

Kelly used the digital camera to snap several shots of the Leviathan eating while Evan checked the monitors. “Depth is steady at one hundred and seventy meters. Ambient temperature’s sixty-four degrees.”

After five minutes Kelly said, “Let’s move on to the next phase.” The Leviathan didn’t move much at present, twitched sporadically and appeared to be asleep.

The Simon dipped lower, parallel to the seafloor but hovering above the sediment. Kelly glanced at her watch. Twenty-three minutes had passed since they left the Aurora. She had to act now. Kelly activated the bright, underwater halogen lamps. Two hundred volts flared at once, enough to scare away any animal in the vicinity.

Any animal but the Leviathan. The creature opened one eye then the other, intrigued by the sudden illumination. Evan was the first to become aware of the creature’s deceit. Its apparent slumber had been a ruse. The creature was wide-awake when it sprang upon the submersible.

Kelly veered the mini-sub sharply left, taking defensive measures to escape the beast’s jaws. “Hold on,” she said and revved the thrusters to full power. The Simon shot through the water on a southeasterly route.

The Leviathan stayed close behind. Adrenaline coursed through its body, expediting the drugs in its veins. The thrill of the chase was on.

“Is it still following us?” Kelly called over her shoulder.

“It’s right on our ass.”

With an added blast of energy, the creature gained on the submersible. Evan wondered if Kelly had used an adequate amount of detomidine; if not, their lives were in peril.

Rushing along the seafloor, the Simon approached a wall of black. Impenetrable onyx met them at fifty meters. It was already dark here, and for a moment Kelly was baffled by what she saw. Then she remembered the captain’s caveat: The continental shelf drops off around here somewhere, so be careful. The researchers had found the boundary of the North American landmass, their submarine teetering on the edge of the abyssal plain.

The ground gave way beneath them, a gaping chasm waiting to swallow them as hungrily as the monster that pursued them. “Hold on to something,” she said and took the Simon into a hard nosedive. The vessel rushed into the heart of the void, their hunter close behind.

“Five hundred meters,” Evan read from the monitors. “Six hundred . . . Seven . . . What’s this sub rated for?”

“Two thousand meters,” Kelly lied. The Simon was safest under a depth of fifteen hundred meters. And with the integrity of the hull previously compromised, it was wise to keep the submersible under a thousand meters. As Kelly Andrews hadn’t crafted a career by following rules or conventional wisdom, she’d be damned to start now.

From sea level the North American mass slopes into the Atlantic approximately two hundred and fifty miles off shore. At the rim of the tectonic plates, it drops off precipitously to the true ocean bottom one and a half miles below. Some cracks went deeper still, into the earth’s mantle itself where magma heated the water in boiling pockets and methane beds seeped poison.

The darkness here was absolute. In the midst of it, Kelly was aware it became blacker in gradient degrees and reminded her of walking through a dense fogbank. “A thousand meters,” Evan said. He added, “I’m not really in love with this idea.”

The marine biologist would never admit to the inherent flaws of her plan, no matter how much they unsettled her. “Tell me when the sedative kicks in.”

Evan looked wide-eyed out the viewport. All he saw was teeth.

“Unless you wanna be its next meal, step on it.” He checked the gauges again. “Twelve hundred meters. Water temperature’s fifty-four and dropping.”

The Simon sped along at top pace . . . swerving to the right . . . to the left . . . up and down. Despite Kelly’s countermeasures, the Leviathan stayed close on the submersible. Its agility in the water would’ve otherwise amazed the researchers had the creature not been trying to devour them. “Seventeen hundred meters; water at forty-nine degrees.”

Finally the submersible began increasing distance against the crocodile. “I think it’s slowing down,” Evan said with a smile.

The plan was working. If they forced the cold-blooded Leviathan into frigid water, its metabolism, heart rate and respiration would decelerate. “Eighteen hundred and counting,” he called.

The creature still gave chase, though not as aggressively. “At least the Simon’s holding up well,” Kelly said.

In counterpoint to this observation, the front window fractured in a broken zigzag. She’d pushed the submersible beyond its limits, and it was starting to break down. The scientists could spend no more than ten minutes at this depth, the equivalent of twenty atmospheres crushing the mini-sub from all sides.

“Twenty-two hundred meters. Temperature is forty-two,” Evan said. Pressure cracks spread in the Plexiglas and the hull groaned. “Twenty-four hundred meters. We’re in too deep.”

“Almost there,” she told him. The bottom had to be somewhere near. Eight thousand feet below the waves, the submersible rocketed toward the seafloor. “How far back is it?”

Evan checked again. The Leviathan maintained its pursuit. “Ten yards maybe.” The blackness was complete, and he could hardly discern the creature. Inside the sub all color had drained; the only illumination refracted from the halogen lights. At two thousand, seven hundred and four meters, the Simon finally reached its destination.

The seafloor suddenly appeared at once from the darkness. “We’ve hit the wall. Hold on.” Her knee-jerk reaction took the mini-sub out of a dive. Evan cursed as she straightened the Simon. “What’s the temp?” she asked.

He checked the gauges. “Thirty-five degrees, just above freezing. It shouldn’t take long now.”

They had twenty-three minutes left before Bart expected them at the surface; it would take half that time to make it topside at maximum speed. Kelly did the crude mathematics in her head. They were eighty-one hundred feet below sea level and roughly a mile east of the research vessel. Her calculations had to be perfect. She worked backward to ascertain what velocity and direction was required to return to the ship. If she were incorrect by even a fraction, they would overshoot the Aurora and likely succumb to the Leviathan.

As the creature continued toward them, its ferocity further lessened. Kelly figured at least another five minutes at the bottom. The Leviathan’s internal temperature needed time to acclimate to the ambient water. Any creature with chilled blood in its system couldn’t exhibit a high level of exertion.

The low, steady moans from the mini-sub frightened Evan. He imagined the hull buckling, collapsing unto itself like a dead star, crushing them inside and drowning them both. Whether the Leviathan ate them or the Simon failed, their deaths would be quick, a small point of solace.

No longer did Kelly have to evade the beast, because it lagged behind them at a safe distance. The submersible’s engine overheated and had turned the confined space into a sweatbox. Perspiration dripped down her forehead and into her eyes. She worked through the discomfort.

Evan’s damp shirt clung to his clammy flesh. “Ease up a bit. We don’t wanna lose it.” It was easy for the crocodile to disappear in the darkness, so the ranger needed to keep a look out.

The researchers led the Leviathan around the seafloor for several minutes. Evan was surprised that it still stalked the submersible. Usually a predator lost interest in prey once it realized the quarry wasn’t weak or injured.

Kelly looked at her watch. They had to start back.

She took the mini-sub into a gradual ascent, following the rudimentary course in her head toward the Aurora. A thirty-degree upward slope would take the craft where it needed to be. Water bubbled through the larger fissures of the Plexiglas.

“Twenty-two hundred meters . . . twenty-one hundred . . . two thousand . . . ” Evan tracked their progress on the monitor while also spying on the Leviathan. He noticed as the water temperature increased, so too did the creature’s energy. “We need to reach the top before its blood warms again.” Kelly quickened the pace, matching the monster’s renewed zeal. If the beast sobered up as the sedative wore off, they’d have to deal with one angry, hungry reptile.

The Simon continued toward the surface: fifteen hundred meters, twelve hundred, one thousand, eight hundred . . .

“We may pull this off,” Evan said.

“I won’t be happy ‘til it’s aboard the Aurora.”

At six hundred feet, Kelly started searching. At five hundred she began to panic because she didn’t see her target. The water itself became brighter — not by much, though colors were bleeding back into the submersible. Signs of life reappeared as well, unlike the barren wasteland at the ocean bottom.

Evan said, “I don’t see it.”

It had to be close.

The Leviathan gained on them, now thirty feet behind the sub. Both scientists frantically scanned the surroundings. It wouldn’t be easy to spot, yet Kelly would recognize it immediately.

“Off starboard, is that it?” Evan asked.

“Good eye,” she said. The submarine veered to the right.

At a depth of four hundred feet, she came across the bottom edge of the Aurora’s trawling net. It shimmered in the ocean current like a billowing flag. The mesh itself stretched the entire length of the research vessel, a hundred and sixty feet, with fortified webbing interlocked in a grid pattern.

The Simon skirted under the lowest edge, then Kelly motored about in a tight circle to face the Leviathan. The submersible hovered as the creature rushed the researchers. They had one shot, so they needed to get it right. “Now,” Kelly said. She revved the thrusters and the sub shot straight at the creature, the refitted harpoon on the prow pointed directly at the Leviathan.

Seconds before the spear impaled the crocodile, the creature deviated course and sailed over the Simon —

— right into the trawling net.

The Leviathan slammed into the net, tearing at it with claws and teeth. The harder it tried to free itself, the more it became ensnared in a cocoon of wirework.

Four hundred feet above, the Aurora felt the beast’s mighty rage as the vessel pitched to starboard.

The creature put up a respectable fight even with slowed reflexes and the tranquilizers in its system. It struggled for half an hour until it was finally immobilized. The scientists watched from the mini-sub, taking pictures and congratulating each other. They breached the surface once they were convinced the Leviathan couldn’t escape their trap.

The Simon broke the waves into glorious sunlight. Kelly opened the hatch, relished the cool breeze on her face. From the Aurora’s main deck, several interns cheered and waved at her.

A minute later Bart’s grizzled face appeared at the bulwark, a bullhorn in one hand. “WHAT’S THE VERDICT?”

She gave him a thumbs-up and shouted, “We got it.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

HAVING CAPTURED THE Leviathan, the Aurora’s crew was faced with the logistical dilemma of getting the creature aboard the vessel. Kelly needed the animal on deck so she could perform the necessary surgery to implant a tracking device. She steered the beaten Simon to the stern and climbed up to the Aurora with Captain Bart’s help.

After a round of celebrations with her shipmates, the marine biologist formulated a scheme to hoist the beast onto the ship. Neither she nor Evan worried about the creature drowning, as both were sure it could survive a significant duration without fresh air. She hypothesized the Leviathan’s bulbous snout was a storage area for breath or a resonance chamber to communicate. Still they acted with urgency to get the crocodile out of the water.

From a cargo compartment in the forecastle, Kelly had several interns retrieve a spherical steel cage. She next instructed Bart to wind the trawling net to the surface, careful to bring the beast with it. The engines worked at full capacity to draw up the creature. The screech of grinding gears and stench of burning oil wafted from the bilge.

When Kelly returned from her berth, she was outfitted in a wet suit. In one hand she carried an inflatable scuba vest, and in the other she lugged a forty-pound dive tank. Upon seeing the equipment, both Evan and the captain tried to talk her out of getting in the water.

“It has to be me,” she explained. “It’s dangerous, I know. I wouldn’t risk putting anyone else in this situation.”

“You can’t go by yourself,” Evan said.

“Can and will.” The ranger was frustrated by Kelly’s habit of disregarding others’ opinions. Kelly motioned at the cage that had been rolled onto the observation deck. “There’s enough room in there for one person — me.”

Squeals from the rusty chains rose to a crescendo as the creature came into view. The Aurora listed more sharply, and the cage tipped toward starboard before Rafe stopped it. Bart had fastened a clip to the top of the cage, which extended across an overhead T-bar and ensured the enclosure wouldn’t sink to the depths.

“What will you do once you’re down there?” Evan asked her.

She slipped her buoyancy-control vest onto the scuba tank and locked it tight. Evan picked up the heavy apparatus, rested it on a bent knee as Kelly struggled into it. Once she snapped the lapbelt together, the weight of the equipment hung entirely on her shoulders. “I need to position the guide wires underneath the specimen so we can securely lift it onto deck.”

Bart said, “And that’s automatically your job, no questions asked?”

“No questions asked.”

Evan checked her regulator, made sure none of the air hoses were tangled and all the buckles were snug. He twisted open the main valve to her air tank and tested to see whether her vest inflated and deflated properly. This was a routine inspection every diver initiated before getting in the water. Safety was of paramount importance to Evan Hale, and he tried to ignore the fact Kelly was about to break the first rule of diving: never go alone. Because she was going solo, it was more imperative her gear worked.

She read the concern on his face, tried to allay his fears. “I won’t be down deep, twenty or thirty feet at most. Just enough to harness the cables around it.”

“Stay away from its mouth.”

“Trust me, I’m well aware. I have no intention of getting anywhere near the head.”

Commotion erupted from starboard as the interns flocked to see the creature. Their jubilation and astonishment made Kelly smile.

She walked to the edge of the stabilizer platform to put on her swimming fins and mask, the latter of which had been coated inside with toothpaste and rinsed so it wouldn’t fog up underwater. “Any advice?” she asked Evan.

The ranger considered Kelly Andrews a beautiful dichotomy, a vulnerable woman who had the strength to work through her weaknesses. He almost kissed her then, held back the urge.

Instead he said, “Try and get it on its back. Crocs put up a fierce front, but if flipped upside-down they’re helpless. All the blood drains from their brain, causing the animal to enter a trancelike state. But only temporarily.”

She stepped inside the steel cage. Bart closed the door behind her as she stuffed the regulator in her mouth. “And watch out for the tail,” Evan said.

Bart tossed two steel cords over the T-bar and handed one to her, throwing the other into the water. Then Rafe used the Yumbo crane to lift the cage and place it in the ocean.

The marine biologist breathed deep as she slipped under the water, the soft whoosh of inhalation magnified in her ears. She took a moment to clear her sinuses, equalize the pressure in her ears by blowing her nose gently, a simple way to protect her eardrums from rupture.

There was enough room in the cage to move about freely, and she was able to push through the water with minimal exertion. The crane to which it was hooked kept her from wandering off course. Its spherical shape was better suited than the conventional metal box because predators had more difficulty biting a round surface. The cage itself deflected the attacks when she went swimming with sharks or barracuda.

Kelly had been dropped to the Leviathan’s rear. Taking the large cord, she transported the cage to the tip of the creature’s tail and looped it through like a slipknot. She worked the cord up to meatier regions, getting caught for a moment on one of the hind legs before moving all the way to mid-thorax.

Paralyzed in the trawl net, the crocodile couldn’t resist Kelly’s advances. She heard a distinct sound from the beast, a low rumble. The marine biologist reached out to touch the creature for the first time, rested a hand on its belly to feel the vibrations. The noise was exaggerated in the water and sounded to her like a pack of idling motorcycles.

She proceeded with the other cable, hooking it superior to the back legs. Still wrapped in the net, the creature would now have its weight balanced when taken out of the water. Kelly filled her BC with air and resurfaced in the cage, signaling to the Aurora with a plastic whistle. Upon hearing that piercing sound, Rafe activated the crane to reel her back to the ship.

Evan helped Kelly out of the enclosure, assisted her in rigging the cords to the Yumbo winch. Once the creature was clear of the saltwater’s buoyancy, the crane would support its tonnage.

Before getting it aboard the vessel, the researchers had to be certain it posed no danger to the crew. While it was impossible to defend against all risk, one major undertaking remained.

On the edge of the deck Kelly noticed Edgar Wallis, camcorder in hand as he recorded every step (or misstep) made by the scientists.

The marine biologist stared at the beast’s unsecured jaws. “What do you recommend?” she asked Evan.

“A croc’s biting power is in closing. The muscles needed to open its mouth are weak by comparison. I’ve seen wranglers close a gator’s snout with one hand, use the other to wrap it shut with duct tape.” He mimed the action himself. “Keep in mind there are two types of gator wrestlers: those who have been bitten, and those who will be bitten.”

“There’s a comforting thought.”

“That’s why I’m taking control.” Evan let her do a hazardous thing by getting in the cage alone, and now it was his turn to be foolhardy. “I have more experience in this.”

“Be my guest,” she said.

Evan expected her to fight him and was shocked when she so readily acquiesced. He handed her a dart gun and said, “Be ready to administer another dosage of tranquilizer.”

“With what’s already in its bloodstream, I don’t know what a reasonable amount is. We don’t want to kill it by accidental overdose. That’d make us no better than Wright.”

“That’s exactly what we’ll have to do if anything goes wrong.” Evan walked to a pile of extra chain, selected a piece twenty feet long. “This should do.” He attached a carabineer to one end then threaded it through itself to create a crude lasso.

The ranger leaned over the starboard rail and tossed the lariat at the creature’s snout. He missed.

He pulled the chain back and tried again. Another miss.

Evan coiled the chain a third time, threw once more. On this swing it caught the tip of the croc’s nose and slid down the snout. The creature shifted in the net, and Evan feared the metal lasso might slip uselessly down its jaws. The cable stayed centered, however, and he yanked the line taut. He looped it thrice around the muzzle before he felt comfortable it could keep the Leviathan’s mouth closed.

The Yumbo crane restrained the creature from moving too much as it was lifted onto the observation deck. “Everyone stand back,” Kelly shouted. She had the rifle pressed against her shoulder, its scope set on the animal’s soft underbelly.

The creature spied Kelly as she tentatively approached. They stared at one another for a long moment, and the marine biologist imagined what was going through its mind, whether it was capable of rational thought at all. She took another step before the beast lashed out at her.

The Leviathan went wild in the net, four legs scrambling on the wet deck as it tried to gain purchase on its lengthy talons. The animal made an effort to return to the sea, its escape route blocked by the stabilizer platform that had been locked in the upright position. It tried to climb the sidewall when Rafe used the crane to tug it backward. Kelly skittered across deck as the animal fell supine, tail and head thrashing violently.

Then it lay still for a moment. Kelly thought it might’ve been injured, perhaps even killed.

“It blacked out when it flipped over,” Evan explained. “Quick, tag it.”

Before the crocodile had an opportunity to regain consciousness, the marine biologist took aim and fired.

A large tranquilizer pierced where the scales weren’t bony osteoderms and the skin was pliable. The dart sank into its flesh and administered the sedative. The creature’s movements eventually slowed from the additional dosage, even after it reawakened. Finally it rested, calm and unflinching.

Edgar Wallis videotaped the entire episode on his videocamera. No one would be able to refute this conclusive evidence. Kelly walked over to the lawyer and spoke directly into the camera. “This is Kelly Andrews aboard the Aurora.” She gave the time and date before saying, “Feast your eyes on that, Lucas.”

The marine biologist motioned for Edgar to stop filming then told him, “Give Rafe the camera. You’re relieved of duties.” He started to protest when she added, “I need you to draft an airtight contract, petition, anything in the legal spectrum that can help protect this species.”

Edgar didn’t object to the request. The beast had struck the attorney with a sense of awe; he wanted to see it unmolested by civilization too. He handed the camera to the Jamaican and retired to his berth to draft up the paperwork.

“The red button records,” she told Rafe. “And make sure to tape us from several angles. The Board of Trustees will want to see everything.” She pointed to several interns huddled by the pilothouse. “You there, grab as many bolt cutters as you can find.”

Five minutes later the interns returned with four pairs. Kelly picked two and Evan took the rest.

“Cut carefully,” Kelly said to the ranger. She couldn’t stress that enough. “Get it free from the net but not the chains.” The creature appeared asleep, but Kelly had been fooled before. Its inner eyelid was closed and the outer one wasn’t, so she had to be alert in case it was faking again. “Use extreme caution and stay away from the head.”

The bolt cutters sliced quickly through the net, most of which had been shredded in many places already. If they’d taken much longer to get the creature out of the water, it may have fled the trap. Within fifteen minutes they had freed the creature from the harness. Still chained in the shackles, it was safe. Had to be. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking the Leviathan was like a vicious pit bull leashed by a rubber band.

“Everybody clear the deck,” she called to the interns. Evan herded the others inside the ship’s superstructure. Soon the weather deck was empty of everyone except herself, Evan and the mechanic. The marine biologist motioned to the cage and gave instructions to Evan. “Put that in storage, then hook the crane to the Simon and bring it up. We don’t want the sub floating off.”

The ranger hated to point out the fault in her plan. He gestured to the Yumbo crane, currently connected to the creature. They’d have to release it temporarily to retrieve the submersible. Evan unclipped the chains and attached the other end of the winch to the Simon. Kelly thought that would be a two-person job, but Evan handled it himself. He raised the submersible from the water, placed it on the deck’s free space. The marine biologist stood guard to make sure the beast didn’t stir during this time.

Once the Leviathan was safely re-tethered to the crane, Kelly went to her sleeping quarters to change out of her wetsuit. While there she recovered an audiotape recorder then returned to the observation deck to begin her initial assessment of the animal.

By now the giant crocodile was at ease, resting on its back with mouth fastened. She turned on the recorder and spoke with the tone of an objective scientist. “Kelly Andrews speaking on behalf of the Siesta Key Research Institute. We are presently aboard the Aurora. Earlier today we caught a specimen of unknown origin. Check against all records for species found in the Atlantic. It clearly belongs to the crocodilian family. Special thanks go to Mister Evan Hale of the Florida Park Service, who was instrumental in capturing the sample.”

Kelly clicked off the recorder. “Get me a tape measure. There should be one in the wheelhouse. Then fetch the tracking device from the lab. It’s in the righthand desk drawer, a black capsule about four inches long. I’ll also need a scalpel, suture thread and a surgical needle. Those things are all in the laboratory; ask an intern if you can’t find them.”

The ranger collected the items while the marine biologist continued her science log. Kelly touched the Leviathan’s belly, timid at first to gauge its reaction. The animal didn’t flinch, deep in a hypnagogic state. Convinced the creature wouldn’t strike at her, she rubbed its right lateral side with her other hand. The underside was pale and speckled, and its texture reminded her of stroking a keyboard. The scales there were thinner and didn’t overlap. The skin’s pebbling was extensive too and felt like a wet football hide.

Kelly Andrews remained entranced by the Leviathan until Evan returned with provisions. Using the tape measure, they went to either end of the creature. Kelly measured to the tip of its tail, curved in a U-shape. Evan kept away from its skull, estimated the last several feet. “Add about six,” he called across the deck.

Into the recorder Kelly documented its length. “Approximately forty-two feet long.” She double-checked to verify that because she had trouble believing the number.

“How long?” Bart asked over the intercom. He’d watched the entire spectacle from the bridge and had the best view overhead.

“Over forty feet,” she yelled back.

“That’s one big sumbitch.”

“Did you jot down its weight?” she called to the captain. No answer, so she asked again. The Yumbo crane came with a scale, and she hoped Bart had noted the load as it was being lifted out of the water.

“Roger that. The winch maxed out.” It had a maximum weight of eight tons. Kelly was disappointed until he added, “I also got the weight when it was in the water, just north of two tons.”

With that information Kelly reasoned a rough estimate of its mass. She figured the Leviathan’s heft to be around twenty thousand pounds. She entered that into the recorder and shut off the machine. “Scalpel,” she said to Evan, her palm open.

He handed her the implement, stepped back to watch. Kelly knelt next to the creature and thought about the best place to make the first incision. Surgery required as much finesse as it took knowledge and skill. The tracking device had to be planted someplace where the creature wouldn’t notice or be able to reach it. She decided on a spot along its flank, about six feet posterior to the left forearm.

When she went to make the initial cut, Evan stopped her. He wrestled the knife from her hand. “Sorry, this is my surgery.”

She turned on him, rage splashed across her features. “What? Why?”

His finger touched the area on which she was about to operate. “How well acquainted are you with reptile physiology?”

“You don’t trust my judgment?”

“Sure, if this were a shark or fish. It’s obvious you don’t know as much about crocodilian anatomy.”

The ranger’s comment pissed her off because he was both patronizing . . . and he was right. She wasn’t as familiar with crocodiles as other aquatic creatures. Perhaps it was best to step aside, at least for the moment.

“Here are the lungs,” Evan said about the point where Kelly would’ve cut. His hand moved posterior to the area. “And here’s the liver. A crocodile doesn’t use its lungs the way we do. Its liver moves horizontally, acting as a piston to pump oxygen. When it slides backward, the negative pressure inside the body cavity causes an influx of air. And vice versa to exhale.” His hands swept along the flesh between the Leviathan’s front and rear appendages. “This two-thirds here is protected by the ribcage. Unless you know exactly where to slice, you’ll hit bone. Running horizontal, posterior to the liver are the diaphragmatic muscles. And layered transversely over those are the abdominals and the intercostals. There should be a place right about . . . here where the two groups are separated.” He marked a spot one-third the way superior to the animal’s hind legs.

Using a surgeon’s care, Evan took the scalpel and made an incision where he’d indicated. Although tightly interlocked scales made it impossible for the blade to cut straight, Evan carved a flap of skin six inches long and three inches wide. Bright crimson droplets beaded in the knife’s wake, which he wiped away using a fresh handkerchief.” He handed the cloth to Kelly. “Here, a blood sample. Don’t worry, the rag’s clean.” The flesh easily peeled away from the muscle on three sides. Only a film of fascia kept the skin connected to the musculature.

In the section he pulled back, the muscle striations were clear to see. “Up and down here are the abdominals, like I said before. And just behind them” — he shifted some of the muscle aside so Kelly had a better view of what it covered — “is what it uses to push and pull the liver to breathe.”

Evan held out a hand. “The tracker,” he said. The ranger was surprised how accommodating the creature had been thus far. It didn’t flinch or recoil when cut, and its heart beat normal as evidenced by the steady pulse of its chest.

Kelly took the tracer from her pocket. “I wanna make sure it’s in good condition first.”

“How’s it work?” Evan was used to tagging gators with a clip on the leg, or gluing tracking devices onto turtle shells.

“It emits a GPS signal that’s picked up by passing probes. The Institute piggybacks on NOAA satellites that can triangulate specific loci anywhere in the world to within a meter.” She pressed a switch on one end of the tracker, and immediately a red light blinked three times. “The transmission is sent to a portable receiver. The Institute has two of them currently: one on the Aurora and the other back at headquarters.” She was pleased with the test results.

Evan inspected the crocodile’s wound, hand outstretched behind his back. Kelly gave him the tracer and turned as she heard a hollow thud. Evan snatched the device from where it’d slipped out of his hand and dropped to the deck. “Do these things run on batteries?”

Kelly nodded. “Lithium cells. They last anywhere from six to eighteen months. Most of ‘em crap out after a year. It depends a lot on whether they’re used continuously or automated on a duty cycle.”

Evan slid the tracker horizontally into the creature’s muscle fiber, running parallel to the diaphragmatic striations. “This should pose the least discomfort or friction,” he explained. “If I place the tracer alongside the abdominals, it will scrape against the other muscles with every breath.” The goal was to insert the appliance in such a way that the animal didn’t realize it was there. Kelly threaded stiff sinew through the eye of a three-inch needle before handing it to the ranger. “Thank you,” he said.

His hands worked smoothly as he stitched together the wound, plucking the needle with nimble fingers to sew the seam closed. A few minutes later he admired his handiwork. “Not bad,” Kelly said.

“All thanks to my merit badge in needlework.”

“You were a Boy Scout?”

He shrugged and said, “I didn’t have friends growing up.”

“No kidding.”

“So what’s next on the docket?”

Kelly looked at her watch. It was already six-thirty in the evening — where had the time gone? Getting the creature aboard took longer than she planned, and now it wouldn’t be long before the sun started to set. “A couple more things.” She produced the recorder again and went to the crocodile’s head.

Although the snout was chained shut, Kelly was able to examine the largest teeth poking from its overbite. One of them was missing, the same one she kept in her pocket. Setting her discovered tooth against the jawline, she saw it was a perfect match. A nub of enamel already protruded from the abscess.

She spoke into the recorder. “Dentary tooth number three is missing from the upper premaxillary. It looks like another’s already starting to replace it.” It was common for crocodiles to lose teeth from fighting or old age; whenever one fell out, a secondary tooth supplanted it.

Next she studied the creature’s limbs. “Five phalanges on the front hands. Phalanx number one, two and three have talons about eight inches long. Rear legs have four phalanges, the fourth of which does not have a claw.”

She shut off the audiotape. “Do you wanna do the dirty work, or shall I? We have to find out whether it’s male or female.”

“Do you know how?”

“Theoretically.”

He sighed. “I’ll do it myself.”

Between the creature’s rear legs was a cloaca, the reproductive organ for reptiles of both genders. It was a rippled mound on the underside, a hole leading to either a vagina or penis. During intercourse the penis distended to enter the female’s cloaca, where her eggs were stored prior to nesting. The normal way researchers checked for sex was to stick a finger into the cloaca to feel for a penis (or lack thereof). It was something Evan had done countless times before, except never on an animal this large.

The ranger reached over the Leviathan’s underbelly to probe the creature’s cloaca. Although he normally used his pinkie for such delicate work, his whole hand disappeared up to the wrist. Evan searched and found nothing. He pulled out his glistening hand with a grimace and said, “It’s female, so far I as can tell.”

Kelly noted that in the tape. Evan started across deck toward the superstructure. “Where are you going?”

“Gotta wash my hands.” In that instant the way the waning sunlight hit Kelly made her look weary. “How much sleep have you gotten?” he asked.

“In the last week?” The dark semicircles under her eyes were the size of quarters. “I’ll sleep when we get back to shore,” she said defensively. She couldn’t stop staring at the Leviathan. It looked peaceful on deck, not the same ferocious beast that had killed an unknown number of people.

He sensed her troubled thoughts. “You don’t want to let it go.”

She really didn’t. Too much effort had gone into capturing the thing, and now they planned to free it without reservation. “I’ll keep it overnight to monitor, make sure there are no side effects or complications from the sedative. Then we’ll release it tomorrow at first light.” Kelly was tired enough to nap standing up. “Does that sound selfish?”

“Not at all,” Evan said. “What Wright wanted to do, that was selfish. So long as you set it free, there’s no harm done. My advice is to post a few people out here — Rafe and a couple interns maybe — and then come inside with me. I could use your help.”

“Doing what?”

“Hittin’ the books. I brought along several volumes I’d like to research, see what information can be culled from them.”

“I doubt there’s anything in your books about the Leviathan.”

“I’m not so skeptical. We may properly name it yet.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

KELLY LEFT TWO guards to oversee the Leviathan (plus the ever-vigilant captain standing watch from the bridge) and retired with Evan to the ship’s study. The library was a barren room used more for extra storage than actual research. Most of the bookshelves were devoid of tomes, instead decorated with knickknacks and framed photographs of prior voyages. One solitary shelf was crammed with educational volumes and yellowed, pulp paperbacks.

Almost all the technical journals and reference materials were heaped in piles on the table, both scientists perusing them. Evan and Kelly scoured the books at a brisk pace, scanning for pertinent passages and checking glossaries to reference and cross-reference relevant entries.

A wireless laptop was open in front of Kelly. She’d sent an email to Lucas Hamilton and attached a photo of the specimen. No message, no note, just the picture.

When they started their search, Kelly didn’t know where to begin. Evan handed her a book entitled Nature’s Family Tree. She skimmed it for twenty minutes, tracing the lineage of crocodilians over millions of years as they originally evolved from Cotylosaurs in the Paleozoic Era. That limb branched into the Thecodonts about 230 million years ago, the dawn of the Triassic Period. Those eventually split into various offshoots, including the saurischian and ornithischian dinosaurs. The present-day genus of crocodylia was separated into three distinct families: alligatoridae, crocodylidae, and gavialidae (the last of which the Leviathan seemed most closely related). As expected, she found no exact match in any of the texts.

After two hours Evan went to the galley for a snack. By that point Kelly gave up on the volumes and had turned to the Internet in hopes of unearthing any tidbits, even a footnote.

Evan had been thoroughly engrossed in one specific book for the better part of an hour and had scribbled three pages of notes in his cramped handwriting. When he left she peeked at the title: The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs.

He returned with bottles of water for each of them. “Whaddya working on?” she asked.

“Just thoughts to myself. What about you, come across anything juicy?”

She shook her head and closed the laptop. “Not a whisper of the creature. I think it’s something new altogether.”

“Or something ancient,” Evan said. “What if we’re dealing with a living fossil? Something that once walked the earth but died out eons ago. Modern crocodiles aren’t that different from those of the Mesozoic Era, only smaller.” He rifled through the pages of his dinosaur book. “When I was a kid, like most boys I wanted to be a paleontologist. From my childhood I vaguely recall reading about an animal called the deinosuchus. It was a thirty-foot crocodilian found in North America.” He found the right page to show the marine biologist. It illustrated a giant crocodile jumping out of a river to snatch a low-flying pterodactyl.

“That isn’t it,” she said.

“I know, I know. This set me on the right path though. In a couple books I kept running across one name, Sarchosuchus imperator.” He flipped to another page, and Kelly’s heart skipped when she saw the accompanying sketch. The minute details weren’t perfect — the color of the scales for instance — but that was to be expected since paleontology was equal parts art form and scientific discipline. “Outside the academic community, it’s known as the SuperCroc.”

“That’s brilliant,” Kelly said. She took the book from him to read the supplemental article.

“It says the first evidence of a skeleton was excavated in the 1940s by researcher Alfred de Lapparent.”

“Where was the dig?”

“Middle of the Sahara in what’s now Niger.”

“The SuperCroc,” Kelly said. “They got that right. Helluva long way from Africa though.”

“Not when you take Pangea into account. One megacontinent that connected every thriving species at the time. When continental drift shifted apart the tectonic plates, it left fossilized bones spread around the globe thousands of miles from their places of origin. This could be the same type of thing,” Evan said. “The oceans were filled with creatures so foreign to us that nowadays they’d probably be considered alien. Beasts which dwarf our fiercest predators.”

Kelly scanned a passage of the book. “It says the SuperCroc went extinct 110 million years ago.”

“We have a specimen that proves otherwise. Lapparent only found a few scutes and teeth. From what I understand, a full skeleton has yet to be discovered.”

“We found a real, living dinosaur,” Kelly said slowly, allowing that fact to register in her brain. “How can something like that be part of our world?”

“Not our world,” Evan said. “It’s theirs. By all accounts dinosaurs should rule the earth. The asteroid that wiped them out sixty-five million years ago was like a reset button for evolution, and it allowed mammals — and man, eventually — to flourish. If that had never happened, humans wouldn’t have had the opportunity to survive and become the dominant species.”

Kelly opened her computer again, did an Internet search for SuperCroc. She linked over to an essay about an African excavation headed by Doctor Felix DeSalvo.

“I bet this DeSalvo guy would love to hear from us.”

“Who’s that?”

“He led a botched expedition a few years back. I guess he tried to exhume some SuperCroc bones.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Evan said. “This is strictly a need-to-know situation. I’m already afraid an intern might leak our find.”

“Don’t worry about the newbies. Everyone who works for the Institute signs a confidentiality agreement. If anybody goes to the press, that person’s out of a job.”

“They won’t need one if some magazine offers enough cash. I wouldn’t put anyone above selling us out.”

Evan made a valid point that concerned the marine biologist. She grew increasingly paranoid, rolling through a mental manifest of everyone onboard. She’d been shocked by Rafe’s betrayal and understood any of them could deceive her for the right price.

Her mind wandered to the email she’d sent Hamilton. Was it possible for a third party to intercept the message? “Do you think someone’s already — ?”

“No,” Evan said. “Don’t let your imagination get the best of you.”

“You’re right. I’ll gather everybody together before we disembark to stress the importance of discretion.”

“That’s a good idea. And if anyone believes — ”

A loud, screeching wail reverberated through the Aurora. The noise echoed in the corridors, permeated every room with a jarring siren that was instantly recognizable as the emergency alarm.

Captain Bart’s voice came over the intercom. “All hands on deck. Repeat, all hands on deck.” Kelly imagined a liberated Leviathan charging the superstructure, devouring interns as it escaped into the sea.

The scientists bolted from the library and joined a couple students as they rushed topside. Kelly was first on the observation deck.

The crocodile was chained exactly where she left it.

Oscar Wright waited nearby for the others, firearm in hand. The interns she’d tapped to protect the creature stood wide-eyed beside the old man. Thorpe guarded the gangway, a silent sentinel.

“Permission to board?” Wright said dryly.

Kelly seethed with rage. “Denied.”

“Then consider this a hostile takeover,” the billionaire said. “It wouldn’t be my first.”

The students recoiled when they saw the old man’s Glock. Edgar Wallis came on deck with Captain Bart. The marine biologist gaped at the captain and asked, “What the hell?”

“They threatened us,” Bart explained. He kneaded his Miami Dolphins hat in his hands. “I had no choice.”

“We could’ve outraced them,” she said.

“You know that’s not true.”

“How many do you have aboard?” Wright asked.

Kelly stepped forward and spoke for the Aurora’s entire crew. “Nine, including myself,” she lied. There were actually ten members in all. “That’s nine to one betting we can wrestle that weapon from you.”

“But you won’t,” Wright said. He understood group dynamics and had already sized up the other personnel. Kelly, Evan or Bart may challenge him. Anyone else would kowtow to his demands. And if Wright made an example of their dear leader, nobody would dare oppose him.

“Leave them out of it,” Kelly said. “This is between you and I.”

“Wrong again. You’re quite the narcissist. This isn’t about you. It’s never been about you. This is between me and that thing.” He gestured with his gun to the Leviathan.

“I won’t let you hurt it,” Kelly said. Her resolve was unwavering, and for that alone the businessman respected her.

“You’re in no position to dictate what happens here.”

Edgar walked next to the marine biologist. “Mister Wright, you don’t want to do this. There are severe ramifications for yourself. Any court of law — ”

“Any court of law wouldn’t convict me for shit.”

“If you go back to your yacht right now, I promise to be your legal counsel. We can get leniency from a judge. Put the gun away and we’ll talk. Probation, a fine, psychological treatment perhaps — I guarantee no jail time.”

“You think I’m insane?”

“I didn’t say that,” Edgar retracted. “I believe you’re dealing with a tremendous amount of stress and need a proper outlet to vent.” He took a slow step toward the old man then another. Wright’s grip on the Glock tightened and Edgar froze.

“Why are you doing this?” Evan asked. “I thought you were headed back to shore.”

“That was never his intention,” Kelly said as she realized the old man’s true motives. “After seeing our facilities here, he knew we had a better chance of catching the Leviathan than him. And rather than risk his own life like we did, it was a lot easier to steal it from us.”

“She’s as smart as she is beautiful,” Wright said.

“You backstabbing sonofabitch.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“It doesn’t need to be like this,” she pleaded.

“It really does. I played the nice guy, gave you the opportunity to take your pictures and your notes. Even offered to share the body after I was finished with it, and you rebuked me. That was a one-time offer. Now when I kill the Leviathan, I’m dumping the carcass in the ocean. Within a month there’ll be nothing left: the flesh consumed, the bones scattered.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Evan said. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s my right,” the old man roared. “And God blessed man, and God said unto him, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth on the earth.”

“The Book of Genesis,” Rafe whispered. The Jamaican stepped forward with his friends. “Mistah Wright, I’m not sure you remember me. My name’s Rafe Maliki.”

Kelly said, “Don’t — ”

“I have to.” He turned back to Wright. “For the last two years your company’s paid me to pass along information to you.”

“Well, I’d like to extend my appreciation. Without your help, neither Thorpe nor I would be here. Remind my accountant to send you a bonus.”

The billionaire’s praise caused a wave of shame to wash over the mechanic. “I can’t accept any more money. Helping you has been the worst decision of my life.”

“That’s too bad,” Wright said. “I could’ve set you up with an enviable position at one of my engineering plants.”

The lawyer interceded on Rafe’s behalf. “I think this situation’s best solved by tact and diplomacy,” Edgar said.

Wright signaled to Thorpe, and the hunter came forward with a roll of duct tape. He ripped off a strip with his teeth, placed it over the attorney’s quivering lips. Edgar pressed on, his entreaties now muffled as Thorpe prodded him toward the gigayacht.

“I want everyone onto my ship. Follow Mister Thorpe,” the billionaire said. The interns filed across the gangplank to the Naglfar. Kelly, Evan and Rafe went with the group, mingling with the others.

However Captain Bart stood his ground, meaty arms folded. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my ship, and she doesn’t go anywhere without her captain.” While the Siesta Key Research Institute owned the vessel, Bartholomew Michaels had devoted his adult life to tending it. “This is my home,” he said.

“I figured as much from an old tar like yourself,” Wright said —

— and shot the Aurora’s captain once in the stomach.

Bart gasped as the bullet ripped through his innards, liquefying part of his small intestine. The round punctured a kidney and left a small exit wound on his lower back. The captain doubled over and dropped to his knees, vomiting on deck. Blood and half-digested food spewed from his lips.

Oscar Wright looked at his gun like it was a foreign object, an item excavated from an archeological site where no one knew its true purpose. His fingers were numb from the vibration of the discharge, and he used his other hand to hurl the firearm far over the bulwark. It landed ten yards away with a mute splash and sank to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Evan tackled Wright and pummeled the old man until Thorpe dragged him off. Wright’s lower lip was busted, blood trailing down his mouth into a mad scarlet grin. “Everyone on the yacht,” Thorpe yelled.

“But Bart,” Rafe said. The Jamaican and Evan carefully lifted the injured captain and carried him to the Naglfar.

Kelly Andrews wasn’t about to leave the Aurora. She squeezed in beside Evan and whispered, “I have to make this right.” Then she ducked out, using the distraction to peel away from the mass exodus. The ranger watched her sneak behind the forecastle before he turned away.

Wright wiped his face with a handkerchief and nursed the split lip. He called to the yacht’s captain, “Set course for Florida.”

“Yessir,” Jenkins said as something occurred to him. “How are you gonna get back?”

“I spent time in the Navy. I know my way around a ship.”

“Of course, sir.”

“We’ll call the Coast Guard,” Evan shouted to the old man. “They’ll stop you in the water.”

“By then I’ll be done with everything here,” Wright said over the gangplank. “Even if they left now, it’d take over an hour to get here by chopper, three times that by cutter.”

Thorpe stayed on the Aurora and sent the gangway tumbling into the sea. Soon the Naglfar pulled away from the research vessel and motored west. The yacht was headed toward land, this time for real.

When they left the first time, Wright had instructed Captain Jenkins to steer clear of the Aurora’s radar for at least twenty-four hours, giving the researchers ample time to secure their valuable cargo. After Wright surveyed the ship by telescope to ensure the Leviathan had been captured, he implemented his plan to confiscate the beast.

Kelly crouched behind a barrel of engine fuel and crawled to a safe spot behind the decompression chamber. The freestanding hypobaric room was bolted to the weather deck, a confined space that could fit three people comfortably. She used it to shield herself from view as she spied on Thorpe and the billionaire.

The hunter accosted Wright, the rage on his countenance clear even behind the aviator sunglasses. “You didn’t have to do that,” he told the old man.

“I couldn’t have all those folks hanging around. You don’t think they would’ve stopped us? I needed to level the playing field, make them realize I’m not fucking around.”

“There was no need to shoot the captain.”

“It kept the others in line, didn’t it?”

“I won’t be an accessory to murder.”

“Like you’ve never killed a man before,” Wright said.

“Not an innocent one. He did nothing wrong.”

“I meant to shoot him in the leg anyway,” the old man admitted. “My finger slipped. And he’s alive, so it isn’t murder. More importantly it’ll keep the Coast Guard off our asses a little longer while they treat him.”

The hunter towered over Wright, glowering down at the wealthy entrepreneur. It wasn’t wise to piss off Thorpe. Accidents happen after all, and Ian Thorpe was a master at orchestrating them.

With the other two at odds, Kelly saw her chance to make a move. She scrambled inside the superstructure before either of the men noticed. There was no one left on the Aurora except the three of them, two against one. She didn’t like those odds and needed something to level the playing field.

Removing her shoes to keep any footsteps from echoing in the empty metal corridors, she crept to the wheelhouse. Once in the bridge, she locked the door behind her. Kelly peered over the main console; from this viewpoint she overlooked the observation deck. Both Thorpe and the old man stood by the Leviathan, accusing one another with wild gesticulations.

On the shelf next to her was the marine radio. She switched it on, dialed various channels until she came across one free of static. “Hello? Mayday, mayday. This is Kelly Andrews aboard the research vessel Aurora. We’ve been overtaken and my crew’s been abducted. Does anyone copy?” Overtaken? That must sound ludicrous to an outsider; overtaking other vessels hadn’t been in vogue since pirates sailed the seas. “Repeat, this is the Aurora requesting assistance from the Coast Guard.” She checked Bart’s nautical charts. “Our coordinates are twenty-six degrees north by seventy-six degrees west. My crew has been forced onto a yacht, the Naglfar.” She went to spell the name and realized she couldn’t. “It’s the ship owned by Oscar Wright. Copy? Copy? Does anyone fucking copy?” She slammed down the mike, fought back an urge to scream. No help there.

With no one else readily available, Kelly had to take matters into her own hands. She left the pilothouse, traversing the hallways down to the sleeping quarters on the lowest level.

Her berth was the size of a jail cell, a bunkbed on one side and barely enough space to change clothes. Thankfully she didn’t share the room with anyone. She used the top bed for sleeping and saved the bottom bunk for storage. Two backpacks, books and various toiletries were haphazardly strewn atop the mattress. But what she wanted was under it.

Tucked beneath was a Luger handgun. She’d purchased it the year before, after an ex-boyfriend began stalking her. The same terror she felt then gripped her now, yet somehow the sidearm quelled those unchecked emotions. After buying the gun, she took safety courses from the local police department where her instructor stressed the importance of keeping the weapon and bullets separate to limit the risk of accidents.

She kept a box of ammunition in her backpack. Once Kelly loaded the rounds into the revolver, she snapped shut the chamber. Now properly armed, Kelly Andrews was ready to wrong a Wright.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“STAY WITH ME. Bart, stay with me.”

Evan had the captain cradled in his arms, lying on the Naglfar’s deck. It was too risky to transport the injured man elsewhere on the yacht; moreover, the Coast Guard would need him in the open to airlift anyway. Rafe knelt next to the old salt with a blank expression. The Jamaican was in denial about what was happening. Surely it must be a nightmare, a bad dream conjured from —

“Get me a first-aid kit.” Evan’s voice sliced through Rafe’s thoughts like a cutlass. The mechanic nodded and left with First Mate Hatfield to acquire medical supplies.

Oscar Wright’s crewmen were horrified by their employer’s actions. When someone started shouting that the billionaire had shot a man, none of them believed it. While it was true Mister Wright wasn’t the most lawful citizen, attempted homicide seemed beyond even the old man’s limits.

Evan slapped Bart’s face to keep the captain awake. It was imperative Bart stayed conscious until help arrived. Every time the captain blinked, Evan thought those eyelids wouldn’t flutter open again. And every time they had. So far. “Can you hear me? Say something. Form the words in your head and say them out loud. Can you hear me?”

Bart nodded weakly and coughed — a throaty hack that shook his solid frame — then he vomited on himself. This was the third time, and by now the only thing left in his stomach was blood and bile. His snowy beard was sprinkled with red flecks.

Evan sniffed the air and smelled . . . what was that odor? It wasn’t pleasant. In fact it reminded him of a fresh carcass rotting on a hot summer day: sweet around the edges yet decayed at the core. Only when the captain dry-heaved again did the ranger realize what it was. The bullet had punctured Bart’s intestines, and now the contents of his bowels were seeping into the rest of his internal cavities. This was not a positive development. Bart regurgitated a repugnant brown sludge onto the deck. The aroma of diarrhea and puke assaulted Evan’s nostrils, and he turned away to gag.

Kelly had abandoned him with a dying man, stowed away on the Aurora to berate the billionaire. In that instant Evan hated her for making such an imprudent, selfish decision.

After a couple false starts, the captain was able to speak. “I’m burning . . . up. Why do I . . . feel so . . . dirty?” He was delirious, running a high fever as his immune system worked overtime. Infection would set in soon, if not already.

“Save your energy. Help is on the way. Just stay with me.”

Rafe returned with the first-aid kit and a cold compress he applied to the captain’s forehead. Evan rifled through the gear, searching for anything that could be useful. There were limited provisions here, without taking Bart’s extensive injuries into account. This was a pack better suited for a Boy Scout campout: bandages, Aspirin, burn ointment . . . nothing helpful to the ranger. He took a white bandage, dabbed the blood around the gunshot to get a better view of the wound. It didn’t appear too bad, but looks could be deceptive. “Here, I’m gonna sit you up. What’s your name?”

When he moved the captain, Evan noticed the crimson pool in his lap. The gash was much worse here. He inspected the area, resisting the urge to probe the hole with his finger. Evan guessed the bullet had passed clean through, which was at least some good news. He put stiff pressure on the lesion, and the captain winced in pain. “Sorry, it has to be done. What’s your name?”

“Not this way . . . Not this way . . . ”

This became the captain’s mantra, a way to will himself to stay alive.

“Not this way . . . Not this way . . . ”

“You’re right,” Evan said. “Not this way. Someday maybe, years from now, but not this way.”

The captain sat up suddenly, alarmed. His voice was lucid, his mind unclouded. “The Aurora,” he said.

“The Aurora’s fine, I promise. She’s waiting for you to get back.”

Rafe rushed into the yacht and ran to the bridge where he found Captain Jenkins. “Call the Coast Guard,” the Jamaican said.

“What’s all the commotion?”

“Someone’s been shot.”

“Who?” Jenkins asked, then: “By whom?”

“Your boss tried to kill our captain.”

“I’m on it.” He tuned the marine radio to channel sixteen and spoke into the microphone. “Mayday, mayday, mayday. Does anyone copy? This is the Naglfar, N-A-G-L-F-A-R.” He gave their present coordinates. “Requesting immediate medical evac. Copy?”

There was only silence.

Then finally a voice answered. “Copy. This is the U.S. Coast Guard. Do you require a chopper?”

“Affirmative. We have a man who’s seriously injured. Time is essential.”

“Copy that. Stand by for airlift rescue. ETA seventy-five minutes.”

“Roger. Thank you very much. Over and out.”

Seventy-five minutes? That sounded like an eternity to Rafe. “What about using your chopper?” he asked. “The one on the helipad. It’d save half the time if we airlifted the captain straight from here.”

“Do you know how to fly it?” Jenkins asked. “Because I don’t. Nobody but Mister Thorpe could possibly get that helicopter in the air.” And he was on the Aurora.

The Jamaican didn’t have a pilot’s license; neither did anyone else aboard the gigayacht. It seemed as though fate conspired against them. Rafe left the wheelhouse and raced back to the deck.

In the short span he’d been gone Bart appeared to have worsened. The captain no longer shook with a slight tremor, and his eyes had a glazed look to them. “How long?” Evan asked.

“Coast Guard’s more than an hour out.”

“Shit.”

“Not this way,” Bart muttered. Evan saw a void in the dying man’s eyes, the same one he’d perceived in the Leviathan’s indifferent gaze.

“Bart, stay with me. Please, I need you to do this. Stay with me.” Evan rubbed his knuckles along the captain’s bony sternum, a trick that sometimes brought coma patients back to reality because of the sheer pain it caused. Bart didn’t respond.

The captain’s lips barely moved as he spoke his final words. “Not . . . this . . . ”

After Captain Bartholomew Michaels died, Evan’s thoughts turned to revenge.

* * * * *

“I’m glad we finally found that creature, if only so I can be rid of you,” Ian Thorpe told the billionaire.

“Is that so?” Wright said.

“I heard the stories about you. Everyone told me you’re a miserable, vindictive prick. And now I know they were right.”

“Word of advice, you should hold you tongue ‘til after you’ve been paid in full.”

“I did my job,” the hunter said. “I found that thing, your dragon or alligator or whatever it is. I’m tired of your stupid, risky behavior.”

“I was the one who designed a plan to let those eager scientists do the hard work.”

“And it would’ve been nice had you shared that scheme with me. Now pay up and let’s go home.”

“In good time,” the old man said. He looked at the animal lying on deck. “Rewards come to those who wait.”

The two men were dwarfed by the Leviathan’s mass. The hunter had never seen a beast so inspiring as the SuperCroc, a creature of grace and beauty trapped in the body of a monster. “One helluva reptile,” he said.

“Quite the opposite,” Wright rebuffed, “more like an animal from above. Sent from heaven and mad as hell.”

Wright started coughing, something the hunter was now used to hearing. The old man tried keeping it in his throat, eventually failing and bending over to wait out the attack. The latest fit lasted almost a full minute, after which Wright spat a bloody wad of phlegm over the bulwark.

“You okay?” Thorpe asked.

“Yes, yes, yes.” The billionaire reached into his jacket to retrieve his medication. “Leave me in peace.”

“I’ll be in the pilothouse if you need anything.”

The billionaire waved him off without a word. Wright stared at the bottle of painkillers, an item he’d kept on his person for the last six months. The thought of needing drugs to stay alive infuriated him, especially in the presence of the mighty Leviathan. “Thought you could best me?” he said to the beast. “You almost did, I’ll give you that. You took everything that made me a happy, productive man. Hollowed me out like a jack-o-lantern and filled me with hatred and cynicism. Did it never occur I would focus that energy on you?”

A flash of anger struck Oscar Wright like a lightning bolt, and he hurled his medication at the creature. “I’ll be made a fool by no one, man or God.” The bottle hit the Leviathan’s head, bounced off the osteoderms and landed in the ocean. The billionaire raised his gaze to the sky, a canvas of seared orange and shifting pink. “Do you hear me? I control my own destiny.”

Wright slowly walked the entire length of the Leviathan, inspecting every inch and marveling at its scales, appendages and tail. On closer scrutiny he found the creature riddled with scars and broken scutes from past confrontations. The old man couldn’t comprehend what kind of foolish being would pick a fight with the giant crocodile.

He examined the sutures on the SuperCroc’s side. The incision was clearly manmade, no doubt one of the scientists’ experiments. Wright finished by analyzing its skull, which was as long as a full-sized human. The bulging proboscis was impressive, its teeth fearsome. But the eyes held Wright’s rapt attention. They were set high atop the head; the pupils were vertical slits like those of a cat, and they had the yellow hue of a jaundice patient.

There were no discernable ears on the beast. Wright assumed it didn’t need hearing to hunt, relied heavily on its other senses. Or perhaps it listened by interpreting vibrations in the water. He crouched next to the Leviathan, drawn unafraid to it.

Kelly Andrews watched the old man from a nearby stairwell. She kept out of sight, waiting for the best moment to confront the billionaire. She and Wright had much to discuss.

“According to the Talmud, one day all of humanity will feast on your flesh, gathered together under a tent made from your hide. What the text fails to mention is that I’m the one who skins you.” He stroked the creature with a palsied hand. “Do you have any idea how much time, effort and money I spent to find you? Millions of dollars, hundreds of tips that led nowhere. But here you are. And that’s what interests me. Why here? Why now? The end of days must truly be nigh for you to have been driven up from the depths.” He shook a clenched fist at the sky. “Your pet is mine now, Lord. You’re not getting it back.”

“Don’t you know talking to yourself is rude?” Kelly said. She stepped into view, the Luger pointed at the old man.

Wright turned, bewildered. “Oh, but I’m not. It doesn’t surprise me you believe that. You scientists, too damn smart for your own good. So wrapped up in the details of the universe that you fail to see the big picture, the Creator at work.”

“Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you a religious man.”

“Why, because money’s the root of all evil? I didn’t used to be rich. And I didn’t always believe in God. My wife introduced me to religion. See, that’s the difference between us. I’m a man of conviction; I have faith in something greater than myself.” He swept a hand to the slumbering reptile. “And that proves I’m right. Behold the Leviathan.”

Kelly’s gun didn’t waver, trained directly on Wright’s forehead. He wasn’t intimidated by the weapon, even took a step toward her.

“You’re wrong,” said the marine biologist. “This is a regular animal, same as any other in the world. I also can’t look at it without feeling that sense of wonder, a twinge of the mystic.” Wright took another step forward, and she countered with a step back. “I remember having those emotions the first time I visited a zoo. I saw the gorillas and elephants and giraffes, all those foreign creatures I’d never come across before. And I realized they had been caged, denied their freedom. This creature won’t share that fate.”

“I don’t mean to display it in a pen or a tank.”

“All the same, you want to deny its right to exist. Your Leviathan has a name, a scientific name. Sarchosuchus imperator it’s called, also known as a SuperCroc. It’s a forgotten dinosaur, an evolutionary throwback. It has nothing to do with the end of the world or fire and brimstone.”

Wright stopped in his tracks, hands neatly clasped behind his back and feet together as if at military attention. “I asked you a question the other night, about whether or not you have children. You avoided answering me then. Care to quench my curiosity?”

“I won’t be baited into some sanctimonious — ”

“You’d make a good mother,” Wright said. The statement gave Kelly pause, as she didn’t expect a compliment from the old man. “I see your empathy for this creature. That mothering instinct overpowers all else. My wife Brenda had the same look every time she spoke about our son when she was pregnant. It’s too bad she only met Joseph once.”

“What happened?”

“She bled out,” Wright said. “A freak occurrence nowadays, thirteen in every ten thousand births. She held him for about a minute before being whisked away to the O.R. where she died.”

“When was this?”

“Over three decades ago.”

“Why didn’t you take your son on a normal fishing trip instead?”

“Because he’s been dead for more than twenty years.” Kelly Andrews glimpsed the vortex of sorrow that was Oscar Wright, mourning shaped like a man. “He was born with Brittle Bone Syndrome. Seeing him suffer through life was far more painful than watching Brenda die. Do you have any idea what it’s like never to hug your son because the merest pressure of an embrace could crack his ribs?”

“I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve gone through. Destroying this beautiful animal isn’t the healthy way to grieve. Your loved ones died and you’re looking for something, anything to blame. This crocodile had nothing to do with their deaths.”

“Of course it didn’t,” Wright snapped. “I’m not an invalid. This monster didn’t kill my family.”

“And neither did God.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because I have beliefs too. I trust there’s nothing beyond our mortal coil. We each get one ride, and when it’s over we rot in the ground. End of story, requiescat in pace.”

The old man’s head hung in shame, his voice almost too quiet to hear. “If there’s nothing else responsible, that leaves me. It’s my fault.”

Kelly’s arm dropped to her side. “No, it isn’t. Some part of you has to know that. What happened to you was” — she struggled for the right word to ease his troubled conscience — “unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” he said. The sadness drained out of his eyes, superseded by their trademark coldness. “Unfortunate is when you accidentally break your grandmother’s favorite heirloom. Unfortunate is when your dog runs away. Unfortunate is when your girlfriend dumps you for your best friend. What happened to me was unforgivable. Malicious, pure and simple.”

“Who aren’t you willing to forgive?” she asked. The answer was obvious to her, less apparent to the man himself.

“I did nothing but praise His name. And when I needed Him most, my prayers fell on deaf ears.”

“Everyone has felt that at some point. We’ve all experienced loss, gut-wrenching heartbreak that shakes us to our very foundations. Difference is, the rest of us can’t afford to fund an expensive warpath. Leave the Leviathan alone.”

Wright pointed an accusatory finger and said, “Your hypocrisy sickens me. You’re no better than I am.”

The Luger targeted the billionaire again. Wright stopped his advances but not his charges. “You act like you want to save the creature. But how long can you keep it secret? The minute people learn it exists, you’ve placed the thing in danger. They won’t stop searching for it, spreading stories about it. You’ve discovered the next Bigfoot, another Loch Ness Monster. The Leviathan will amass a cult following bent on capturing it. And you can’t protect it forever.” He took a hesitant step forward. Now fewer than six feet separated them. The gun was still directed at the old man’s broken heart. “Surely that must’ve occurred to you. You’re a smart girl.”

“I’m a smart woman.”

“Yeah, yay for feminism. You’ve come a long way, baby. Well, I’m pretty goddamned smart too. I know your game: study the creature for now. When word inevitably gets out, you’ll have to retrieve it to defend it against humanity. Either way, its freedom is cut short. Eventually you’ll be forced to house it in an aquarium or habitat. Then you’ll convince yourself it ought to be shared with the world, so you start charging, what, fifteen or twenty bucks apiece to see the animal. Less for the kiddies, of course. And pretty soon it’s devolved into another freakshow attraction, like a two-headed horse or Dargo the Goat-Faced Boy.”

“That’s not true,” the scientist said.

“Oh, but it is. Once you start down that path, it’s the only way the story can end. And one day ten or twenty years from now the creature will wind up dead. Then your science colleagues from around the globe will vie for the chance to help dissect the animal before it’s stuffed and mounted in whichever natural history museum offered the highest bid. It all comes down to money. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from my years in business, it’s that everything ultimately comes down to money.”

Wright took another step toward her. Now he was close enough to swipe the barrel with his hand if he reached out.

Kelly wasn’t about to listen to his lies. She wouldn’t be swayed by his corporate doublespeak. She had the gun; she had the power.

“Are you really going to shoot me?” he asked.

She cocked the hammer in response.

“Like how you shot my friend?” She glanced down at the bloodstained Miami Dolphins ballcap that lay between them. She hadn’t forgotten about what he did to Bart. No matter how lamentable Wright’s life had been, it did not excuse his violent actions.

“Taking vengeance on me would only make us kindred souls. And I know you think yourself better than me.”

“Damn straight,” Kelly said. “I just wanna injure you a bit. Don’t think for a second I wouldn’t do it. Your sob story’s regrettable, but it’s yours alone.”

The old man’s eyes flickered from her for an instant, long enough for Kelly to realize something was amiss. Then she felt cold metal against her throat as a hairy forearm snaked around her neck.

“Sneaky little bitch,” Ian Thorpe whispered. “Didn’t see you slip away in all the commotion. But I’ve been watching you from the bridge this whole time.”

The knife had a six-inch double blade, serrated on one side to cut through rope. It was that edge currently pressed to her throat. She was afraid to even breathe, for fear of drawing blood.

The marine biologist kept the gun aimed at Oscar Wright.

“Think you can slit my throat faster than I can pull the trigger?” she rasped.

“Do you?” The hunter’s hot breath blew against her hair, and she smelled the nicotine on it. No doubt from a celebratory cigar taken from Captain Bart’s private stash in the wheelhouse.

Kelly couldn’t stay focused. Her thoughts wandered to the worst-case scenario. Thorpe slicing through her jugular . . . a red spray pulsing from her neck . . . dropping to her knees . . . keeling over into a growing puddle . . . light dimming from her vision as her brain became starved of oxygen . . . the hunter and billionaire kicking her warm corpse off the edge of the Aurora . . . then fish coming from miles around to feast on her body . . .

“Drop the gun and I’ll have my associate step away,” Wright said.

Kelly instinctively released the weapon from her grip. It dropped to the deck, and she prayed it might discharge and shoot the old man anyway. No such luck. The marine biologist was in survival mode, willing to do anything to avert the perverse tragedy playing out in her mind.

The billionaire picked up the firearm and said, “Good girl.” Thorpe withdrew the blade and joined Wright. “You’ve proven yourself troublesome, Miss Andrews. I’ve humored you thus far. No more.” He tucked the gun in his waistband. “When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, you wind up with a stalemate. Unfortunately since you won’t move aside on your own, I’ll have to give you a push. Mister Thorpe, please.”

The hunter advanced on her, looming over the woman. His arms surrounded her like a vise and lifted her into the air. She yelled and beat at his chest with her fists. When she looked to the old man, Wright had a lifejacket in his hands.

“No-no-no, you fucking bastard. I’ll hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands.”

“Save your strength.” He tossed the life vest far onto the water. “Florida’s three hundred miles that way.”

She fought against the hunter, kicking and screaming as he dragged her to the gunwale. He wrestled her legs over the rail, Kelly’s feet dangling two stories above the churning blackness of the Atlantic Ocean. “You won’t get away with this,” she shrieked. “I hope your God smites you, turns your ass into a pillar of salt. Choke on your tongue and burn in hell.”

With a powerful push, the hunter sent Kelly Andrews overboard.

The last thing she heard was Wright taunting her as she fell. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “See how long it takes you to find my God out here.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE OCEAN RUSHED at Kelly with terrifying speed. She dropped from the Aurora, swearing at Wright as she tumbled all the way down. An instant before hitting the water, she took a deep breath and tucked her arms across her chest. The surface temperature was seventy-four degrees. At the height of hurricane season the Atlantic basin averaged eighty-eight degrees. Kelly braced herself for the water, but it was the cold that surprised her. Clad only in a t-shirt and shorts, she needed to conserve body heat.

The marine biologist spent much time on the seas, going back to her childhood. It was ingrained that the oceans were to be respected and preserved; there was no real need to fear the deep.

For the first time, Kelly Andrews was afraid of the water.

She fought and kicked toward the surface. The pressure in her ears pinched painfully, and she had no idea how far under she’d sank. At least a good twenty feet.

Her limbs splayed out and grasped at nothingness. Push . . . push . . . push. Her lungs were lead weights, out of air now. She exhaled slowly, a trail of bubbles following her to the surface.

Kelly broke the waves, coughing and sputtering as she treaded water. She came up ten yards from the Aurora. The vessel’s long shadow spilled over her as the sun descended to the horizon. She scanned starboard expecting to see Thorpe or Wright watching her. There was no one. She was alone, an afterthought of the two men.

Several feet away she spotted the bright orange lifejacket atop the swells. She swam toward it, snagged the floating device by a couple hanging straps. It was unwieldy and awkward to struggle into. She snapped and tightened the buckles while kicking her legs to stay above water.

The results were satisfactory. Although it rode high on her torso, it was better than nothing. She was actually glad the old man had left it with her, a token kindness overshadowed by his cruelty.

Soon thereafter — she didn’t know how soon because she wasn’t currently wearing a watch — the ship’s engines started. She felt the reverberations through her lower body and cursed Oscar Wright once more. The son of a bitch was planning to leave her. This wasn’t some bleak joke after all.

The motors idled for a while, and the marine biologist wisely swam away from the ship rather than toward it. Any vessel as large as the Aurora created a potent undertow, strong enough to drown anyone caught in its wake. Kelly didn’t want to die tonight or anytime soon. There were few deaths worse than being diced into chum by the ship’s enormous propellers.

After swimming to a safe distance sixty yards from the ship, Kelly was helpless as she watched the Aurora — her Aurora — start on a slow course north. Oscar Wright had commandeered her vessel; moreover, he’d seized the Leviathan for himself, both unpardonable sins.

Not to mention leaving her for dead.

Except that wasn’t going to happen. She needed to quell that negativity before it burrowed in her brain and consumed her thoughts.

Kelly was defenseless against the elements and had no recourse than to watch Wright sail away. The Aurora, one hundred and sixty feet long from bow to stern, became the size of a toy boat as it sped toward the horizon. She saw it grow ever smaller before eventually disappearing altogether.

Once it was truly gone, a strange void grew inside her. She had believed at any moment the vessel might return to rescue her. Only after it vanished was she aware that would never happen.

Kelly started shaking uncontrollably, and not from the chill in the water. She hyperventilated as she suffered a panic attack, gasping for large breaths of air. She allowed herself a moment of weakness, only one. The marine biologist needed to be strong if she was going to survive.

No, not if.

She needed to be strong because she was going to survive.

The last bit of direct sunlight faded as the final sliver of sun set. The moment it vanished entirely, she witnessed the fabled green flash, the emerald spark that supposedly brought sailors good luck. The scientist was desperate for any such fortune.

Daylight dimming by the minute, darkness enveloped her in an unwanted embrace. Nighttime unlocked the mental Pandora’s Box in her head. She imagined the various ways she could die: exposure, hypothermia, dehydration, drowning and (worst of all) being eaten alive.

The moon was low in the sky, beginning its nightly trek across the heavens. The waxing crescent wasn’t as reassuring as a full moon yet more comforting than pitch darkness. She used the North Star to orient herself. Florida would be to her left, the direction where Wright had indicated. At least he hadn’t tried to send her off course.

She decided it was best to stay put than swim anywhere. That was the recommendation most survival experts gave. Rather than risk getting more lost while trying to find civilization, it was smart to remain in one spot and await rescue. Kelly hated to admit that advice didn’t apply here since waves and currents would cause her to drift miles from a fixed location.

Kelly hoped she’d been stranded in a shipping channel. If so, sometime in the next twenty-four hours a passing cargo vessel might spot her bobbing on the water. The notion was so vivid in her mind: the boat, the sound of its motor, even the stenciling on the hull. All she had to do was last one day and she’d be saved.

Yet in the back of her head . . .

No, she pushed that away.

Those dark thoughts refused to be locked away. She pictured hungry sharks and giant squid, all the ocean’s predators swimming beneath her, circling with empty bellies waiting to be filled. Any second she expected something to brush against her legs or nip at her hands.

The seasoned marine biologist knew there was little to fear. However her extensive education taught that the seas teemed with life after dark, when nocturnal creatures from the deep came to shallower waters to feed.

She refused to indulge wild thoughts any longer. She visualized them as a pack of feral cats and herded them into the basement of her mind. No longer would she allow them to roam free.

Still, Kelly had to wonder . . .

* * * * *

Evan Hale didn’t bother changing into a new outfit, his pants and shirt stained with the late captain’s blood. As the dead man’s body cooled on deck, Evan instructed Rafe to cover the corpse and say a few words. He didn’t know whether Bart had been religious in life, but he guessed everyone was bound to be devout in death.

For a moment he entertained the idea of giving the old salt a burial at sea. He rejected the thought on legal grounds. Oscar Wright had murdered him, and Evan wouldn’t allow the old man to get away with homicide. The ranger didn’t care whether the billionaire employed an army of lawyers to erase his sins via bureaucracy and technicalities, justice would be served in this case. If Evan sent Bart’s body overboard, it would be a lot harder to prove foul play.

There was time for mourning later. Right now Evan was concerned about Kelly. He had to get back to the Aurora before she did something irrational. The researcher realized the lengths to which the old man would pursue his misguided quest. And if Kelly got in his way, she may very well share the captain’s fate.

Evan went to the yacht’s pilothouse where both Captain Jenkins and First Mate Hatfield had sequestered themselves. Neither looked at him as he entered. “Turn this ship around,” he said.

“We’re headed to Florida,” Jenkins said. “And we’re not slowing down ‘til the Coast Guard gets here.”

“They’re no longer needed,” Evan said. It wasn’t necessary to elaborate; both men knew what that meant.

“I’m sorry to hear,” the first mate said.

“Sorry won’t bring him back. What you can do is make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“I have my orders,” the captain said.

Evan gripped Jenkin’s shoulder, spun the man around to face him. “Fuck your orders. Is your boss so great now?” Evan gestured at his bloody pants. “He killed the man out there, and you’re still listening to that sack of shit?”

“Look, it’s my responsibility to get us to shore with no more injuries. It’s a shame what happened to your friend, it really is, but that’s for the cops to sort out when we return to the States. That’s my goal and that’s our course.”

Both of them glared at the ranger. Evan wouldn’t be able to fight the pair alone, so he backed toward the door.

“My crew outnumbers yours,” he warned. “We’ll mutiny.”

After he left the bridge, the captain slammed shut the door with a distinct click of the lock.

Everyone else save the Naglfar’s chef (napping in his berth, oblivious to the takeover) gathered on the main deck. Evan cornered Rafe to speak privately. “Do you know how to steer something like this?” he asked the engineer.

“Theoretically,” Rafe said. “In practice, not so much. The only ship I’d feel comfortable helming is the Aurora. This yacht’s too technical for my tastes.”

Evan devised then revised a plan in his head. He’d need at least one of the co-captains, someone to pilot them to the Aurora.

“Have you seen Kelly around?” the mechanic asked. “I need to talk to her.”

Evan couldn’t keep the secret any longer, and Rafe was one of the few people he trusted. “This remains between us, y’understand. Kelly isn’t here because she stayed with the specimen.”

The Jamaican wasn’t surprised; frankly, he would’ve been more stunned had the marine biologist not stowed aboard the research vessel. “So we need to help her,” he said.

“That’s where you come in. The captain won’t turn this yacht around. He needs a little incentive. Do you know what I mean by that?”

“Beat his ass?”

Evan nodded and said, “Follow my lead.” The engineer tailed him through the crowd until Evan spotted Edgar Wallis. The lawyer sat on the outskirts of the group, forever an outsider. “Edgar, a word.”

The attorney paid close attention to Evan’s orders. “Keep everyone calm. Rafe and I are going to the pilothouse. Whatever you hear from there, don’t let the interns get upset. They need a stable influence at a time like this. If you wanna earn my respect, you’ll do this.”

Edgar straightened from his usual slouch and gave a sloppy salute.

On the way back to the wheelhouse, Evan spotted a fire extinguisher attached to one of the walls. He confiscated the object to take with him. They crept to the locked doorway of the bridge, Evan handing the red canister to Rafe. Next he unbuckled his belt, holding it in his hands shaped like a big O. He counted on his fingers: one . . . two . . . three.

Rafe pounded the cylinder against the doorjamb. The lacquered wood was unexpectedly strong but fractured after a dozen strikes. Inside the captain and first mate yelled for them to stop, their entreaties drowned out by the extinguisher’s persistent hammering. It took almost twenty hits to splinter the wood entirely. Rafe finally kicked at its weakest point, which flung open the door.

The two men burst onto the bridge, and the engineer used the canister for its primary purpose. White foam sprayed the co-captains as Evan wrestled the first mate. He punched Hatfield twice before binding the leather strap over the man’s head. Evan pulled it tight around the first mate’s neck, told Rafe to guard the door.

Evan now had leverage, the only thing that had kept the captain from heeding his pleas before. Hatfield was at his mercy, a virtue he lacked at the moment. “Gonna pay attention to my demands now?” he asked the captain.

Jenkins wasn’t amused by the ranger’s antics. “You’re better than this. Let him go.”

“What happens to your friend is in your hands.”

“You won’t hurt him.”

“I won’t kill him. I have no qualms about hurting him.” Evan pulled the belt taut and Hatfield followed him around like an abused puppy with a choke collar. The man’s frantic face was bright red, veins throbbing from his forehead.

“Redirect us to the Aurora.”

“The Coast Guard’s already locked onto our coordinates.”

“Then they can meet us at the research vessel.”

The first mate clawed at his throat and managed a garbled appeal for cooperation. Hatfield’s eyes bulged in their sockets, both of them fully bloodshot. He gasped for each breath, the strength running out of his legs.

“Don’t do this,” the captain said.

“It’s your call, chief. Hatfield here wants you to comply.” The choking man nodded intensely.

The captain stared Evan in the eyes. Each knew the other had been driven to extremes by the deeds of a third party. If he did turn the Naglfar around, the old man would undoubtedly fire him. He had a family in South Carolina to support and couldn’t risk losing his job, especially since his wife was a stay-at-home mom.

Hatfield’s resistance lessened; he stopped squirming against the ranger. His extremities tingled, his vision fading.

“Make your choice,” Evan said.

Despite the demands of his home life, Captain Jenkins couldn’t bear to see his friend in pain. He spun the steering wheel hard to starboard. The yacht slowly arced in a giant semicircle.

Evan let go of the belt. The first mate collapsed to his knees, panting as color drained back into his face. “No hard feelings?” Evan said.

Hatfield replied, “Fuck off.”

Evan shrugged and left with Rafe. While he took no pleasure in his drastic actions, he also didn’t regret resorting to them because they had elicited his desired response.

They were returning to the Aurora.

* * * * *

Kelly Andrews drifted aimless amid the unfathomable expanse of the ocean. She was curled in the fetal position, the best way to conserve heat and keep her vital organs warm. Her appendages had gone numb, her fingertips like wrinkled raisins.

The only way she’d survive this ordeal was by keeping high morale. That was the difference between lying down to die and continuing to battle in the face of overwhelming odds.

One tactic she discovered worked was not to think about her predicament at all. She projected her thoughts to anywhere other than where she was, her aim to create an out-of-body experience.

Except a painful cramp in her left calf reminded her otherwise. She massaged the knotted muscle and decided she didn’t need her boots. They were wet and heavy and unnecessary. Instead of letting them sink, she harvested the shoelaces. There was no telling how they could be useful — perhaps as a fishing line — and she wasn’t about to waste any of the few supplies she had.

Her eyes wandered to the stars, listing the constellations to herself. Polaris was obvious, diagonal from Ursa Major and across from Cassiopeia. She spotted Orion and Taurus too before noticing something she couldn’t categorize. It took a second for her vision to detect movement across the sky. The object was fainter than the others, flanked by red dots. Kelly realized it wasn’t a star she was looking at. It was a plane.

The very thought brought her to tears. She hadn’t cried up to this point because it was a misuse of energy. Now she released that tension through great heaving sobs, her tears as salty as the sea. Witnessing signs of civilization cut her to the core. There were people out there somewhere, too far to reach or shout for help. She watched the transatlantic flight meander across the heavens until it disappeared behind a cloud.

Kelly pictured the passengers in the airplane, invented elaborate backgrounds for them. The elderly couple in seats 4B and C poking at their dinners, rubbery chicken and applesauce. The newlywed couple wearing headphones and suffering through a terrible in-flight movie. The single mother whose child screamed under the reproachful gaze of strangers. The same nameless folks she’d sat beside on numerous trips. The people she hadn’t given a second thought before, whom she now desperately wanted to meet.

Kelly cried until there were no more tears left to spill.

Afterward she searched for other ways to sustain her sanity. The prospects were sparse. For a while she felt seasick, nauseous from the constant rolling motion of the waves. She took several deep breaths to settle her stomach, and the sensation eventually diminished.

Her vision compensated for the lack of light so she was able to see quite far, not that there was anything worth viewing. She counted how many lines of waves she could spot — eight before they vanished into impenetrable darkness.

Then she spied something. At least she thought it was something. Probably her imagination, heightened by fear and adrenaline.

No, there it was again. Closer now, riding through the waves.

Kelly remained perfectly motionless, holding her breath as the form approached. She wanted it to swim by without detecting her.

The scientist wasn’t so fortunate. She perceived the figure was massive based on the underwater pressure waves that were formed as it paddled toward her.

Fewer than ten feet separated her from the creature’s eyes, unblinking above the waterline. She imagined its bulbous snout rimmed with enormous fangs. She needn’t see them to know they were there.

Kelly Andrews gazed upon the fierce Leviathan. If the animal devoured her, there’d be minimal pain. The torment would be over with a single bite, nothing to agonize about.

Wright must’ve had a change of heart and released the creature, couldn’t bring himself to slaughter such an impressive specimen. Except that didn’t sound like the old man. More than likely the creature had fled the Aurora when the billionaire wasn’t paying attention.

She strained to watch the creature, and it stared at her in turn. Inquisitive by nature, crocodilians investigated any strange noise or foreign smell in the water. Its snout lifted and sprayed her face with water as it cleared its nostrils and sniffed the marine biologist.

She dare not move, her eyes scanning the length of its body. No, something wasn’t right. This creature was much larger than she remembered.

This was a wholly new animal, a second SuperCroc.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m not food. Move along, nothing tasty here.”

The sea monster responded as if it understood her words. That was impossible, of course, yet it took an active interest in her. Maybe it wasn’t her it found attractive, rather the scent of the original Leviathan.

“Go on, no food here.”

Positive the scientist wasn’t what it wanted, the beast sank from view and continued its journey into the night. Kelly’s heart raced, a lump in her throat. It took ten minutes until she felt comfortable enough to stretch out her body from its tucked position.

Once again she was alone. And this time that came as a relief.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

OUT OF SIGHT, out of mind.

With the marine biologist taken care of, she shouldn’t have entered Oscar Wright’s mind at all. But there she was, flitting about his thoughts like a hummingbird on steroids. For a brief moment he regretted sending the woman overboard; for an even briefer moment he considered retrieving her from the water. His base instincts won out, told him he’d made the right decision. The old man had built an empire by listening to his gut, and presently he shut out any mental mention of Kelly Andrews. To allay his guilt, he assured himself that he hadn’t killed her. One of several other factors might, including weather and predators, but he had left her very much alive.

The old man leaned against the sidewall, staring at the Leviathan before him. He had waited years for this moment, and now that it was here he found it lacking, hollow. In his fantasies the Leviathan was very different, a sea monster of such immense proportions it held seaports hostage and sank tanker ships with a swipe of its tail.

This captured animal seemed pitiful by comparison. Not as fearsome, not nearly so impressive now that it was restrained and lying on its back, helpless as an overturned turtle. In fact Wright felt almost sorry for the creature. Almost.

Thorpe walked onto deck carrying the one item Wright had requested. He handed a length of rebar to the billionaire, a steel rod about three feet long.

Wright held the pole in his hands, got a feel for its heft. “Yes, this’ll do nicely.” It made a whining sound as it cut through the air like a sword.

“Do you want me to stick around? Or — ”

“That will be all,” Wright said. “I’ll tell you when we’re ready to depart.”

“Very good,” Thorpe said and quickly disappeared into the forecastle.

The old man went to the Leviathan, leaned on his bar like it was a cane. “We had a deal,” he told the creature. Although he spoke to the crocodile, that wasn’t the audience Wright addressed. “Remember when my mother got sick? Sure you do, of course you do — you know everything. I watched her rot away, bedridden. After she slipped into a coma, I prayed for her to wake up. I didn’t want a miracle or a cure, just for her to open her eyes one last time so I could say goodbye. Apparently that was too much to ask.

“After she died I made a promise. You would get neither praise nor condemnation from me for the rest of my days. I’d take credit for anything that went well in my life, and you’d get no blame for any part that went wrong. That was our unspoken deal, forged on her deathbed.

“I kept my end of the bargain all these long years, moved on with my life. Met the perfect woman in wedded bliss and was on the cusp of having a family of my own. Hell, I even returned to the church at Brenda’s insistence, a wayward lamb rejoining the flock. And then you stepped in.”

Wright raised the rod over his head, slammed it down hard against the Leviathan’s stomach. The creature grunted, its claws scratching thin air. “You broke our arrangement, and only now can I repay that kindness.” The old man used the rebar like a baseball bat, practicing his next swing.

“You made certain when your son was born, he was perfect. Your son was flawless, mine wasn’t. And that was fine; I could work around it. People across the globe battle adversity on a daily basis. So long as I had Brenda, we could conquer anything.

“Except you didn’t see fit to let that happen either. You took her away and left me alone to raise a broken angel. I loved Joseph as a father should, showered him with the affection any child receives from both parents. I worked twice as hard and lost everything anyway.”

Another enraged attack on the creature, as he berated the beast. The pressure of each strike transferred through the metal and into his hands, radiating pain out from his palms to the fingertips. “Man was supposedly created in your image. Tell me then, were you born with Brittle Bone Syndrome? Of course you weren’t, you spiteful fucking fraud. I assume there’s a finite amount of happiness in the universe. For every person who’s hoarded more than his or her fair share, there’s someone equally miserable. You saw what my fortuitous future held and decided I needed a dose of reality.

“I’ve lived a life people fantasize about. The wealth, the mansions, the expensive toys. But people don’t see beyond the glamour, to the heartache beneath. The top is a lonely place; you most of all must know that.”

The next time Wright beat the creature, it swiped at him with a webbed claw. Its razor talons missed him by inches, would’ve eviscerated the old man had they connected with flesh. The Leviathan uttered a deep, throaty growl. The chains around its snout rattled as the creature thrashed on deck. It suddenly became animated, as though refusing to tolerate any more of the billionaire’s empty sermonizing.

Its tail was tapered with a line of scutes, like miniature plates along the spine of a stegosaurus. The appendage snaked in quick, successive undulations. The old man ducked as quickly as his arthritic joints allowed, but he was struck in the thigh. The tail clipped Wright and brought him to his knees like a genuflected monk. He crawled serpentine on his belly, crept out of harm’s way while searching for the rod he’d dropped.

The rebar had fallen on deck and rolled toward the Leviathan, out of reach. The SuperCroc’s low rumble intensified as the creature rocked to and fro. Its head lashed about, trying to gain leverage to flip its sizeable body.

“Thorpe,” Wright called. He waved his arms at the wheelhouse and called again. “Thorpe, get out here.”

Chains rattled, pulled taut against the crane above. The Aurora listed from side to side as the creature pitched upon the deck.

The old man wriggled behind a fifty-five-gallon drum and peered at the beast. For the first time on the voyage, the billionaire wasn’t in absolute control.

The Leviathan was agitated now, angry and ready for freedom.

* * * * *

Not long after sunset, Kelly’s prayers were answered. In the distance came the soft whirring beats of helicopter blades. She heard the distinctive sound well before she saw the chopper itself. Her hearing latched onto the noise, and it took a moment to orient from which direction it came. No doubt it had originated from Miami, somewhere to the west.

Kelly’s eyes slowly swept across the sky as she probed for any sign of the aircraft. Several minutes passed before she glimpsed the helicopter flying low above the water. Between the lifejacket’s reflective tape and the small flashlight pinned on her shoulder, she hoped to signal the chopper. She twisted the cap on the strobe until it activated and blinked a blinding beam every five seconds.

The helicopter approached, its blades growing louder as it neared. In the vest’s left breastpocket was a whistle for emergencies. She placed it between her lips but did not blow. Her limbs shivered continuously from hypothermia. If her body temperature dipped much further, she could suffer severe, irreversible health complications. At least she was still shaking, a positive sign. If her body stopped trembling, she’d be in major trouble because that meant her internal organs were being affected. And soon after that, delirium would kick in. Either way, she needed to get out of the water. Now.

The chopper’s bright searchlight scanned a swath of the ocean, as though looking for something. For someone. For her. Kelly gestured her arms wildly, bobbing high in the water, doing anything to be noticed.

The craft hovered thirty feet above the growing swells. She discerned the conspicuous white and orange pattern and the words UNITED STATES COAST GUARD printed on the side. Fingers plugged in her ears, she blew hard on the whistle. A shrill trill blasted out, vibrating through her teeth to resonate in her head.

However loud the whistle was, the chopper was louder.

The high pitch was lost in the roar of the rotorblades. The craft passed almost directly overhead. Kelly clearly spotted the pilot inside, desperately motioned at her strobe as if the action would somehow strengthen the beam.

It didn’t, and she remained unseen. The helicopter flew into the distance, taking the marine biologist’s newfound hope with it. She cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed a litany of profanities into the darkness, to the point her vocal cords were raw and hurt every time she swallowed.

The whir of the blades faded until eventually she couldn’t even hear their rhythmic beats on the wind. Kelly half-expected the chopper to reverse direction. Perhaps the pilot had seen her after all and radioed for a nearby cutter to pick her up. That’s what she prayed, the only scenario that didn’t end with her corpse being pulled from the water.

Kelly switched off the strobe. For all the good it did her, she couldn’t bring herself to waste the batteries. She’d use it again if the opportunity arose.

The scientist was completely drained. Emotionally, psychologically, physically, there was nothing left. She wondered whether there was anything worth saving. Those destructive thoughts dominated her mind no matter how hard she pushed them away. After a time she turned to thinking about her father as a diversion. She recalled him reiterating a story similar to her current dilemma.

It had transpired when he was a young divemaster. Jacques Cousteau had invented the aqualung two decades before, a steel contraption that was burdensome and uncomfortable to wear. The Frenchman had named it a SCUBA tank, an acronym for Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus. Recreational diving hadn’t started as a niche industry, and divers were restricted to marine professionals who used expensive, heavy equipment for underwater missions. Doctor Paul Andrews was one of those experts.

The elder Andrews and a colleague had been assigned to retrieve coral samples for study. When the pair resurfaced at a dive site off Cayman Brac, they found their boat had drifted away. The rusty anchor had separated and allowed the twenty-five-foot schooner to float freely. The strong current had carried the boat to the leeward side of the island, stranding the two of them. Without a marine radio, there was no way to contact help so the men relied on one another for moral support.

Doctor Andrews had been in the Coast Guard and heeded the motto of semper paratus in all aspects of his life. He was always prepared for the worst and knew the importance of leaving contact information with someone on land in case of emergency. When the pair failed to return to the marina that afternoon, the harbormaster alerted local authorities who organized a search party. Around sunset Doctor Andrews and his friend were discovered, arms locked together and singing sea chanties. They were dehydrated and sunburned but otherwise in good spirits.

Kelly had heard her father’s countless work stories over the years. Those accounts in part had spurred her into marine biology. That particular tale went untold until one night in college when her father and a group of grad students gathered to trade sea yarns. Driving home that evening, she pressed him about why he hadn’t shared that incident with her before.

“Because I didn’t want you to hate the ocean,” he told her. That was something he’d instilled in her, despite their differences at times. And he had been right: the seas were too beautiful to be ruined by a single bad experience. She thought a lot about her parents as the hours dragged on.

Ultimately her attention turned back to death. Mortality in general, hers in particular. She concluded that drowning was relatively painless. She’d read coroner reports about individuals who had suffocated after ingesting a single teaspoon of water. If liquid entered the lungs, excess pleural fluid was secreted to flush it out, which itself sometimes led to fatal asphyxiation.

There were five stages to drowning. After surprise and involuntary breath holds, the body went unconscious and started hypoxic convulsions, soon followed by death. The irony was dying of hypothermia in warm, tropical waters.

Her mind clouded. It was harder to keep a clear line of thinking. Every muscle ached in her body, and it was difficult to keep her eyes open. Her eyelids were so heavy, all she wanted to do was fall asleep. A quick nap wouldn’t hurt, in fact might be beneficial. It would allow her to stay alert during daylight hours when rescue seemed more likely.

The marine biologist closed her eyes, the waves lulling her to a state of rest.

In her dreams there was yelling and panic. A voice said, “Give me your hand.”

She lifted her arms — they were like barbells attached to her shoulders — and a moment later she had the sense of ascending into the heavens, being reclaimed by God.

“I got her,” another voice said. “Step back, give us some space.”

Kelly awakened to commotion, her vision blurry. She felt warmth and dryness as she was stripped of the lifejacket and covered in blankets. She shook the grogginess from her mind. No, this wasn’t a hallucination.

“You’re lucky Rafe’s got eagle eyes,” Evan told her. “I didn’t believe him ‘til he pointed you out.” The ranger wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “Let’s get you inside,” he said. “Somebody brew a pot of coffee.” When he scooped her up in his arms, she touched his cheek to make sure he was real.

“You’re shaking like a leaf. You’ll have to be stripped out of these wet clothes.”

“Buy a girl dinner first,” she said with a weak smile. “Where are we?”

“Oscar Wright’s yacht.”

Hearing the billionaire’s name caused a visceral reaction like a stomach punch. She shook her head and repeated, “No-no-no.”

Evan carried her off deck and said, “It’s okay, he’s not here.”

“We-we must get to the Aurora,” she said. Her tone was adamant. “We have to save the Leviathan.”

* * * * *

The mercury lights on the research vessel were located on either side of the wheelhouse. They were clear and rendered nighttime bright as day on the weather deck.

They activated automatically as the old man crouched from the stirring SuperCroc. The Leviathan was instantly bathed in illumination. Its eyes gleamed like silver dollars focused on the billionaire. The chain wrapped around its snout was the only thing tethering the creature to the ship.

Oscar Wright shouted for Thorpe. “Get your ass down here.”

The sound emanating from the creature reminded him of a riding lawnmower.

The hunter appeared in the doorway with a tranquilizer gun. “Over here,” he told the old man and took aim.

Wright limped toward the corridor as Thorpe fired darts at the beast. The barbs easily bounced off the creature’s armor plates. The hunter targeted the fleshy area of its flank, but even that seemed protected.

The old man made it halfway across deck before the animal swung its tail at Wright and sent him running for cover back where he started.

The hunter had seen this type of behavior from the most confident, successful predators. The SuperCroc was playing with the old man, like a cat toying with its prey. That trait wasn’t consistent with other gators he’d trapped, which meant this creature had a personality all its own.

“Come get me,” Wright yelled to the hunter.

Thorpe shook his head. “I’m not moving from this spot.”

“You will if you ever wanna see another penny from me.”

Going against his better judgment, Thorpe went on deck. The old man was his charge, and it was his duty to keep the billionaire alive. He reloaded the rifle, fired another round of shots as he dashed across from portside. Thorpe dived for safety and came up beside Wright.

The Leviathan lashed at its chains, trying to pull free of the shackles.

The old man rolled up one leg of his shorts to show Thorpe a bruise. His upper thigh was mottled from where the animal had hit him. The hunter inspected the injury. “You’ll be fine, tough it out. If we can get inside the forecastle, we’ll be safe.”

“How are we on ammo?”

“Out.” The hunter wasn’t convinced all the ammunition in a fully stocked armory could stop the rampaging creature. His gaze settled on an acetylene blowtorch leaning against the sidewall. Evan Hale had forgotten to replace the tool after mending the Simon’s hull, and now the hunter saw it as an opportunity.

It took several tries before the gas ignited in a thin stream of blue fire from his lighter. This was the closest available weapon, and Thorpe was willing to use it.

“Think that’s gonna work?” Wright asked.

“We’ll see.”

The two men inched from behind the barrels, brandishing the torch like a flaming saber. Step by step they crossed the deck, keeping watch on the creature.

The Aurora suddenly pitched to starboard, a ten-degree list that threw both of them off balance. The gas canister dropped, its flame extinguished.

Wright and Thorpe scrambled toward the superstructure, but the SuperCroc was quicker and its tail slammed shut the door. The creature was crafty, somehow understood the men were trapped so long as it guarded the only entrance to the forecastle. A tail that size could effortlessly send either man over the railing or kill him outright.

This time they took refuge behind the Simon. “What the hell was that?” Wright asked. “Did we hit a reef?”

“Not this far out.”

Wright peered over the gunwale, expecting to see a gash alongside the hull. Instead there was nothing . . . a conspicuous lack of anything, which concerned him. What could’ve caused a vessel of the Aurora’s magnitude to list so forcefully?

Then he spied the answer. Swimming off the prow, a huge mass beneath the waves nearly indistinguishable against the dark backdrop. Seconds later the ship rocked again from another violent pounding.

The Leviathan became more aggravated, utilized its claws to tear at the chain. The creature didn’t have a neck, its skull fused directly to the torso for added strength.

They heard the sound of straining metal as the overhead T-bar buckled under immense pressure. It finally snapped, releasing one end from the beast’s snout. Now freed of its cumbersome restraints, the Leviathan shook its head and whipped the chain with enough power to clear most of the deck. It knocked over a couple fifty-five-gallon drums and battered the superstructure. At last the manacle fell from its mouth and the creature opened its jaws to release a furious hiss at its captors.

Wright and Thorpe stayed out of sight, waiting for the moment it moved so they could scamper inside. The sound of the SuperCroc was familiar to Ian Thorpe, one he’d heard many times before. The sea monster was distressed and wanted left alone.

From port came a second hissing that joined the first. Wright didn’t want to imagine what sort of creature waited in the water. The two noises were different in tone yet shared one common attribute: they both sounded angry.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

KELLY DRESSED QUICKLY and waited for the others in the Naglfar’s dining room. She wore a pair of blue jeans and a sweatshirt cribbed from Wright’s wardrobe closet. She’d spent twenty minutes in a lukewarm shower until feeling returned to her fingers and toes. After toweling off — she couldn’t describe how good it was to be dry again — she called Evan and told him to assemble a select few for a meeting in the galley.

She sat at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee. It was strong and black, the way she liked it. The caffeine hit her system hard, energizing her body with every swallow. Its strength recharged her fatigued muscles, and she appreciated the newfound vigor. It would serve her well for the next time she saw Oscar Wright.

Evan entered the room with Rafe and Edgar. The three men greeted her separately, each expressing how glad he was that she’d been recovered safely.

“First off, where’s Bart?” Kelly asked. “I want to know how he’s doing. Or did the Coast Guard take him already?” It was at that moment she connected the two events: the chopper that had flown overhead may not have been searching for her after all, but was responding to airlift the wounded Aurora captain.

No one answered her question.

“Tell me he’s okay,” Kelly said. She couldn’t stand any more bad news, not right now.

“Bart died a few hours ago,” Evan said quietly.

Kelly slumped in the chair, tears welling in her eyes. That grief was cut short, replaced by anger. Oscar Wright had murdered her friend in cold blood. She was frightened by how quickly her sorrow had transformed to fury. Kelly caught a glimpse into the shriveled heart of the billionaire, and what she found there frightened her.

“Would you like to see the body?” Rafe asked. “He’s in the meat locker. The Coast Guard didn’t take him.”

“Why not?”

Evan looked sheepish. “We kinda told them it was a prank.”

“We needed to get back to help you,” Rafe added, “so we said the story was made up.”

“They weren’t happy,” Edgar noted.

Kelly rubbed her face and said, “One felony at a time.” She told Rafe, “I guess that leaves the Aurora in your care.” The mechanic was unsure he heard her correctly. “You know that vessel better than anyone else, bilge to bridge. She’s yours now, Captain.”

“I-I don’t know what to say.”

“The Institute will need a replacement, and you’re my recommendation. There will be a lot of licensing involved and many more responsibilities, but the position’s yours if you want it.”

“I do.” Although he was ecstatic for the opportunity, he wished it had come by better means.

“What will you tell the Board of Trustees about what happened?” Evan asked.

“I have no idea what to tell them.” She looked to Edgar. “Any advice, counselor?”

“Two options: plead ignorance or reveal the truth, that Mister Wright killed him. I’m not sure whether anyone will believe you though. We can come up with a better case when we get to port. How far away is that?” he asked Evan.

“There’s been a change of plans. We’re returning to the Aurora.”

“That’s highly unwise,” the attorney objected. “What has occurred here will already seem suspicious to the police. And Wright . . . Jesus, he’ll eat us alive in court. No doubt he has a army of lawyers on retainer. If we tell our side of the story, he’ll probably sue for libel and take us to civil court while he’s tried in a criminal trial. My suggestion is to leave now and go home.”

“Duly noted and overruled,” Kelly said.

“No offense, but you’re hardly in any condition to make decisions for the rest of us. What were you doing in the water anyway?”

“Wright threw me overboard when I pulled a gun on him. I confronted him about the SuperCroc, tried to stop him from slaughtering it. That’s why it’s so important we get to the Aurora. I just hope we’re not too late.”

“You almost shot him?” Edgar’s face flushed. “Now he can claim he acted in self-defense. Kelly, this is bad.”

“I didn’t say it was good. Do we know where the Aurora is?”

“We have a fair idea,” Evan said. “The co-captains were hesitant to help and needed a bit of convincing.”

“Radar detected the vessel ten miles north of here,” Rafe said.

She nodded and took another drink of java. Even the bitterness of the stale coffee beans reminded her she was alive. “How long was I in the drink?”

Evan looked at his watch. “We pulled you out about four in the morning. When did you go overboard?”

“Just before sunset,” she said.

Evan did the math in his head. “Probably around nine hours.”

“I thought I’d die out there,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to thank you enough. All of you.”

“It’s good to have you back,” Rafe said. “We came looking for the Aurora. By then it was gone. But we scanned the darkness, and I happened to spot your strobe in the distance. Good ting too, or we woulda missed you entirely.”

Kelly was puzzled. She thought she’d shut off that blinking light. Perhaps she was mistaken, or maybe she turned it on during one of her less-than-lucid moments. Whatever reason, she was glad Rafe had seen her.

Evan sensed her discomfort, as if she were holding something back. “It’s okay to cry,” he said.

“No, I got that outta my system. There’s something else.” She took another sip. “I’m not convinced our Leviathan is alone. I came in contact with another one.”

Evan was astounded by the news, the scientist in him suddenly excited while also trying to show compassion toward Kelly. “Another SuperCroc?”

“The thing sorta rose up beside me. At first I thought it wanted to eat me before I realized it wasn’t hungry, only curious. Then it sank below the waves and headed north.”

“You think it’s tailing the Aurora?” Edgar asked.

“If it’s after the Leviathan,” Kelly said. “I don’t know how it’s able to track the ship.”

Evan said, “Their hunting senses are extraordinary. Maybe it caught the scent of the other one.”

“If that’s true, Mistah Wright’s in a world of hurt,” Rafe said.

Kelly was more concerned by other matters. “It’s not Wright I’m worried about.”

* * * * *

Back on the Aurora, Wright was worried about himself. The Leviathan was free and blocked his and Thorpe’s escape. The hunter squatted next to the old man, formulating a plan. He spied the hydraulic equipment on the ship’s stern that raised and lowered the stabilizer platform.

The only problem was it lay behind the Leviathan.

If they dropped that platform, the creature would likely slip into the ocean without a fight. He mentioned the idea to the billionaire.

“Absolutely not,” Wright said.

“It’s our only hope. If we fight this thing, we lose.”

“It’s not your fight,” Oscar Wright said.

“You’re right, it’s yours. But you dragged me into this, and I’m getting us out.”

Heat lightning flashed in the clouds. Widespread, isolated thunderstorms had formed along a frontal boundary and moved toward the west.

“The hell you are,” Wright said. “You did your job, you earned your money. Consider yourself relieved of duty.”

“You can’t fire me. I’m your best chance of making it through the night.”

“I’ll take over from here.”

“I don’t believe it,” Thorpe said.

“It doesn’t matter whether — ” The old man stopped as he realized Thorpe was staring over his shoulder. He turned to see what had captured the hunter’s attention.

The billionaire watched the Naglfar emerge from the blackness. It sidled alongside the Aurora, scraping the hull as it collided and grinded to a stop.

“Oops, clumsy me,” Kelly shouted from the bow. She dropped the Naglfar’s gangplank into place, bridging the vessels.

The Leviathan hissed at the yacht. Its claws scratched deep ruts on the Aurora’s weather deck. In the water its companion returned the call.

Careful to give the SuperCroc a wide berth, Thorpe crawled across to the portside gangway. “We’re glad to see you,” Thorpe told Kelly.

The marine biologist stepped over to the Aurora. “We’re not on speaking terms,” she told the hunter. “What with you trying to kill me, asshole. Expect to hear from my lawyer. In fact, Edgar” — she called for the attorney, and he came forward — “please explain to this gentleman how I’ll be pressing charges for abduction and attempted murder.”

Evan noticed the Leviathan was preoccupied by the commotion, watching from afar. The ranger saw the same strategy Thorpe envisioned. The SuperCroc’s head peered overboard, searching the sea for its mate. As the beast’s head turned, Evan rushed to the hydraulic lift. He triggered the stabilizer platform, which slowly leveled out even to the waterline.

The resulting mechanical noise startled the creature. It twisted around and spotted Evan darting for safety. The tip of its tail flailed like a whip. Evan tucked and rolled, bruising his ribs and racing toward the gangway.

“Everyone stay on the yacht,” Kelly called to the crew. “The captain will take you to a safe distance.”

Wright objected to Kelly ordering around his employees. “They’re under my instructions,” he said.

“I know you have trouble keeping your mouth shut, so practice being silent for when the police come to arrest you.”

“Arrest me?”

“For the death of Bartholomew Michaels.” Kelly got in the old man’s face. “You fucked with the wrong lady.”

“What, did your boyfriend pull you from the water?” Wright turned to Evan. “You should’ve done us all a favor and left her whiny ass out there.”

Kelly punched Oscar Wright in the face, drawing blood at once from the old man’s nose.

“You bitch,” he said.

“Oh, you’ll be the bitch, once you’re serving life in prison.”

The billionaire scoffed. “Life behind bars? For an old man like me, that’s a slap on the wrists. The remainder of my life, what is that: three months, four at most? Your hollow threats don’t intimidate me.” Wright began coughing then. The fits were getting stronger and more frequent.

“Didn’t realize I hit you so hard,” Kelly said.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he assured her, wiping the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. It came away streaked with blood. “I have bronchogenic carcinoma.”

“Lung cancer?” Evan said.

“It’s terminal, too advanced for chemo or anything else. At the rate my health’s deteriorating, I wouldn’t make it to the arraignment hearing of any trial, let alone sentencing.”

“How long have you known?”

“Eight weeks. The doctors gave me a choice: risky surgery that might kill me, or go home to die in peace. The decision was easy.”

Kelly would’ve offered her sympathies to the old man, except she hadn’t any. He was already condemned to a death sentence, though not from man’s court of law. “You got what you deserve.”

“Never said I didn’t.”

“What the hell is that?” Edgar asked. A trembling finger pointed to a spot off the bow. The mercury lamps penetrated only so far from the ship; on the rim of that halo of light, Kelly saw something troubling.

A large patch of dancing water headed toward the Aurora. Evan had seen the phenomena before, knew it to be the underwater vibrations of a bellowing crocodilian. Its roar was below the range of human hearing at times and affected the water directly above its thorax in that unique way.

Lightning and thunder made it clear Mother Nature was not pleased.

The patch moved swiftly, making a beeline for the research vessel. Kelly removed the gangway and separated the two boats. If both ships needed to make a hasty getaway, she didn’t want them to be connected.

Oscar Wright was transfixed by the patch. He didn’t understand what caused it until he glimpsed the snout. “Another one?” he said. The revelation overwhelmed him. If there was a second SuperCroc, then the Leviathan wasn’t the only specimen. And if there were others, that meant the giant crocodile wasn’t the Biblical sea monster. “No, in the Book of Job there’s only one. God didn’t let both of them live.” He dropped to his knees, gazing at the animal ten yards away.

“Everyone keep an eye on that thing. Don’t let it outta your sight,” Kelly said.

The skies opened to unleash a torrent of rain. Lightning flashed at regular intervals, a succession of bolts that bathed the deck in an ethereal lilac glow. The thunder was earsplitting, the storm directly overhead.

“Where did it go?” Evan asked. “I don’t see it anywhere.”

The scientists searched the waters around the Aurora and discovered nothing. It was impossible to see in the downpour, and the force of the raindrops made the whole ocean appear to oscillate. So long as it rained, they couldn’t track the other SuperCroc’s movements.

Kelly said, “I think it’s over there.” She motioned off starboard.

“I can’t tell,” the ranger said.

The Naglfar pulled away from the Aurora as the Leviathan bellowed.

“We need to get inside,” Evan told her. The research vessel was the tallest structure around, which made it a prime lightning target. It was one reason Evan didn’t want to spend any longer in the open, especially with the Leviathan loose.

“I have to find the other one,” Kelly said.

Evan took her by the arm and led her to the forecastle. “We’ve done everything we can. We placed a tracking device on the thing — it’s time to let go.”

Both researchers fell to the deck as the Aurora tilted violently to stern. The prow rose several feet as a massive weight landed on the rear platform.

The second SuperCroc emerged from the water and spied them. Its orotund bellow overpowered the sound of thunder. The Leviathan answered its call, two prehistoric dinosaurs communicating with each other.

The scientists got to their feet, amazed by the specimens’ interpersonal behavior. The SuperCroc was a third larger than the first, obviously a male. Based on the Leviathan’s measurements, the new SuperCroc was at least sixty feet long.

The old man remained on his knees either out of reverence or physical handicap. “My God.”

Edgar Wallis rushed by the others, dashed for safety. He made it inside the forecastle and slammed the door behind him. Evan and Kelly ran to the entrance.

“Open up. Goddammit, Edgar, open this door.” Evan pounded his fists on the metal until they were bruised. “Fucking coward,” he yelled. “I told you to stay on the yacht.”

Kelly tapped him on the shoulder. “Take a look at that.”

The Leviathan approached the SuperCroc and rubbed its bulb against the other’s face, the two of them gently massaging one another’s snout.

“They’re courting,” Evan said in amazement.

Wright got to his feet, shouting and cursing at the beasts. Even the crocodiles had a loving relationship, something he’d been denied long ago.

The animals looked at him with indifferent, marble eyes. The bigger one opened its mouth to hiss, prompting another barrage of insults from the angry old man.

Evan dragged Wright away from the creatures. The crocs grew increasingly irritated. Soon it wouldn’t be safe anywhere on deck; with the superstructure blocked off, places of refuge were limited.

Excluding the hypobaric chamber.

Large enough to contain the three of them, it was the only object on deck that might withstand an assault by the SuperCrocs.

The fact it was located beyond the Leviathan and her mate proved problematic.

Oscar Wright retrieved the blowtorch and handed it to Evan. “This worked when Thorpe used it before.” The ranger lit the acetylene torch, used it to keep the crocs at bay.

“They don’t like fire,” Kelly said.

The male SuperCroc swept its tail at the trio, which Evan fended off with the flame. The creature recoiled from the heat and hissed. Hot gas erupted from its mouth, igniting a seven-foot flame. The astonished onlookers swerved to avoid the inferno.

As the Bible proclaimed, the Leviathan could breathe fire.

The group clambered toward the chamber. Evan and Kelly entered first, but the old man didn’t follow. He ushered them inside and went to close the door behind them.

“It’s too dangerous out there,” Kelly said. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Oscar Wright said nothing, gave her a sad glance that expressed the answer. His voice was laden with regret. “I’m really not a bad guy.” Then he sealed the hatch and left to face the SuperCrocs.

Evan and Kelly watched the billionaire through a single viewport. “What’s going on? Why’s he still out there?” Evan asked.

“A suicide mission,” she said. It was clear to her that had been his plan all along. The dying man never meant to make it back to shore alive.

Wright walked to the middle of the observation deck, blowtorch in hand. The crocodiles shifted about, rocking the Aurora with their combined weight as they circled the old man. He kept them away with the flame, shouting and gesticulating at the beasts. Safe inside the chamber, neither scientist could hear the billionaire’s yelling or read his lips because his back was turned.

The SuperCrocs ringed around Wright in a giant O, the old man in the center. His tired tirade continued as the monsters circled. Whenever one got too close, Wright touched fire to the tip of its snout. The area around the nostrils was soft, one of their few vulnerable spots.

A ladder dropped from the heavens to the old man. Wright craned upward to see a helicopter hovering above. The rope ladder dangled a foot from him, yet he refused to take it. There would be no last-minute reprieve for Oscar Wright. He made his choice and had no misgivings about it. His fate had been sealed the day his son was born and his wife died.

Overhead Thorpe slightly repositioned the chopper until the ladder hung near the hypobaric chamber. Kelly opened the hatch, which burst their bubble of silence and made the scene real to them: the old man’s anathemas, the thunder and lightning and pouring rain. The ranger grabbed the end of the rope, climbed halfway up before peering down to make sure Kelly was behind him. She was.

The chopper lifted higher, rising above the monsters and the Aurora. They watched the old man repel the crocodiles. The beasts seemed no longer frightened of the flame and became braver, darting about the billionaire in a frenzy.

If there was an afterlife, Oscar Wright hoped to rejoin his family there. That was the ultimate question to which he had devoted a large portion of his life and fortune.

In a single moment, the Leviathan revealed the answer.

The two SuperCrocs attacked in tandem, snapping at Wright in an onslaught of gnashing teeth. The old man was but a morsel to them, a throwaway meal of gristle and bone.

Kelly gripped the rope tight and turned from the slaughter.

As the Leviathan feasted, the larger SuperCroc looked up to watch the dangling researchers. The end of the rope swayed near its head. Before Thorpe piloted out of reach, the creature nipped at the rope and held it tight between locked jaws.

In the cockpit Thorpe tried to steer the chopper. The aircraft wouldn’t budge, tethered to the beast. The animal shook its head, nearly knocking Kelly and Evan to the chaos below. The scientists rode out the jerking until the SuperCroc’s teeth cut through the rope and set them free.

Evan ascended the remaining rungs, pulled himself into the cargo bay. He immediately turned to assist Kelly inside. She collapsed in his arms, buried her face in his shoulder and screamed into his shirt.

“He didn’t need to do that,” she said. Part of her knew that was a lie. There could be no happily ever after for a man as miserable as Oscar Wright.

“Tell me about it,” Thorpe said from the front seat. An explosion of thunder rattled the craft. “The guy owed me about sixty grand.”

Both of them watched the dinosaurs as Thorpe made a final pass around the Aurora. Having dispensed with the old man, the SuperCrocs absconded into the blackness of the open Atlantic. The Leviathan and her mate escaped into the dark water, vanishing from view within seconds.

Evan stroked Kelly’s drenched hair, hugged her shivering body. “Nothing left to worry about,” he promised. “It’s all over.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

AFTER THORPE DELIVERED the researchers to the yacht, he left in the helicopter. The aircraft was later found in Manhattan, parked atop the headquarters of Wright Enterprises. The pilot was gone, not a trace or clue in his wake. By the time law enforcement authorities even learned his name, Ian Thorpe was already on another continent.

The Aurora arrived in port under the guidance of its acting captain, Rafe Maliki. The rest of the crew had returned to the research vessel, save for the body of Bartholomew Michaels. Evan and Kelly decided that justice had been served with Wright’s death; taking Bart back to shore would only invite questions. It was best to perform a burial at sea, which the sailor would’ve preferred over proper interment or cremation anyway. Send him home to the water and tell those back on land he’d been lost at sea.

Everyone agreed it wouldn’t be wise to inform the media about what had happened to Oscar Wright, and to keep knowledge about the SuperCrocs to a minimum. It was also decided the Aurora and Naglfar shouldn’t enter the harbor simultaneously, because it might arouse suspicion. The scientists docked at the marina in Siesta Key while the gigayacht resumed its voyage to New York.

Before reclaiming their ship, Kelly and Evan remained on the Naglfar for several hours. One reason was safety (they wanted to be certain the SuperCrocs wouldn’t re-emerge), and their other motive was to let Edgar Wallis stew in isolation. The attorney was left alone on the research vessel, punishment for his selfishness when the researchers were in peril. Only after they heard Edgar’s frantic pleas for help over the marine radio did they ask to be dropped off on their own ship.

The scene on deck was gruesome. Shirt tatters and gobbets of viscera were spread in all directions. Evan did his best to buffer Kelly and the interns from the brunt of the bloodshed as he led them into the superstructure. Once everybody was safely aboard the vessel and in private quarters, Evan spent the rest of the night scrubbing the weather deck by himself.

Relentless rain had washed away most of the blood. Using a pushbroom he amassed a pile of Wright’s remains and brushed them off the edge of the ship. The only concrete evidence that lingered of the billionaire was his right hand, which Evan had discovered flung behind the hypobaric chamber. Evan braced himself to touch it, regarded the severed limb for a moment. The bite had been clean, separating through the bone proximal to the metacarpals. On the fourth finger was the ring Wright’s wife gave him on their wedding day. Despite the intervening decades, the metal band still shined. Evan took a moment to say a quick prayer for the old man — regardless of their differences, Wright at least deserved that — then he lobbed the hand into the ocean.

After double- and triple-checking that all proof of the billionaire had been disposed, Evan went inside to confer with Kelly about their next move. The researchers felt guilty; even though they’d done nothing wrong, they had to act in secret because no one would accept the truth of the matter. Later every crewmember was pledged to secrecy, sworn to keep confidential anything seen or heard on the expedition. Kelly would mete out any information that needed to be shared. She alone would field any and all inquiries. And there would be questions, many of them.

The Aurora returned to shipyard on Wednesday morning. A memorial service for Bartholomew Michaels was held that Friday. Bart hadn’t drafted a will, didn’t have much to leave anyone had he prepared such papers. His funeral was private, as had been the captain’s life. There were three people in attendance for the ceremony. It was a clear day and the water was as flat and reflective as looking glass, an afternoon Bart would’ve loved because it was perfect for fishing.

Rafe steered a motorboat far into the closed waters of the marine sanctuary. Evan was there for emotional support, and Kelly brought along the captain’s hat. He wore it wherever he went (mostly to conceal a growing bald spot), and she’d only ever seen him once without it. When they stopped Kelly tossed the hat onto the sea, followed by a moment of silence for the old tar. The cap slowly filled with water until it gently sank from view.

Evan glanced at Kelly during the quietude, a slight breeze rustling her hair. During the last several days, she hadn’t ceased to amaze him. And the ranger wasn’t an easy man to impress. Her inherent strength stunned him, and she showed it again by her stoic resolve through grief. She had fought for so much — respect, attention, the SuperCrocs — and it never slowed her down.

The next day Kelly Andrews fought for her job.

* * * * *

Edgar Wallis of all people offered to be her attorney. The Board of Trustees demanded answers about the events of Kelly’s latest voyage. She released information as vaguely as possible and deterred follow-up questions when Lucas Hamilton pressed for more substantial responses. Although she hated lying to Hamilton, it was in his best interest. The less he knew, the better. Maybe she’d tell him the truth months or years from now.

The board members met in a conference room at the research institute. The fate of her future rested with five strangers, three men and two women who would decide whether she continued working for the company. Hamilton moderated the hearing yet wasn’t allowed to vote or express his opinions. He was there merely in the capacity of mediator.

The hot sun filtered through the closed windows, making the room stuffy and uncomfortable. Six pairs of eyes judged Kelly from the far side of the room. Evan waited in the adjoining lobby. He’d come to be a character witness on Kelly’s behalf and give expert testimony. Nearly an hour into the hearing, he began to think he wouldn’t be needed after all. Which could be a good sign, or a very ominous one.

“We’re supposed to believe in dinosaurs?” asked one of the doubtful jurors. She wasn’t convinced by Kelly’s account of Biblical sea monsters and fire-breathing SuperCrocs.

“Maybe that’s not the best term,” Kelly said.

“Do you have any actual evidence for these wild claims?” the woman snapped.

“Yes ma’am, I do.”

Edgar rolled a television set into the room, connected to a VCR. She pressed PLAY to run her videotape of proof. There was static for a moment before the picture cleared to show the captive Leviathan. It included Rafe’s recording of Kelly’s initial assessment about the specimen. “This is what we caught three hundred miles off the coast. I’ve reason to believe this animal, or another of its species, is involved in the disappearances of at least a dozen people over the last few weeks.

“My preliminary research indicates one type of crocodilian matches this animal, the Sarchosuchus imperator. Literally translated as flesh-emperor crocodile, it’s known as a SuperCroc.”

“Remarkable,” said one of the men. Hamilton nodded in agreement. The director never had been more proud of Kelly. “How large is it?”

“This particular sample measured forty-two feet. We came in contact with another one we estimated nearer sixty. Our theory is that the male was about a third bigger than its mate. We didn’t catch the second one on tape, but the two of them engaged in normal courtship behavior for crocodiles.”

“Where is this creature?” another asked. “We’d like to see it for ourselves.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. It’s no longer in our custody.”

“I don’t understand,” said the man on the farthest left.

“This was strictly a tag-and-release mission. At no point did I plan to bring it back.”

“You captured the zoological find of the century and then . . . let it go?”

“More or less,” Kelly said. She didn’t explicate further.

Edgar paused the videotape as board members continued to grill the marine biologist. “So you implanted a tracer on this Sarcho-whatever. You’re telling me we at least know where it is at this moment?”

“Not so much,” Kelly said. If she hoped to save her career, she needed to soften the news. “We surgically inserted a probe under the SuperCroc’s muscle tissue. There seems to have been some complications, however.”

“Complications?” one of the women asked.

Speaking the words out loud was painful, especially considering all her hard work and effort. And so many sacrifices. After checking the GPS navigation system at the Institute, Kelly and Evan discovered nothing had registered. The creature was nowhere to be located by satellite. The researchers tried to account for what could’ve gone wrong. Evan guessed the creature’s stitches had popped and the tracker slipped out during the commotion aboard the Aurora. It was a valid assumption; still, Kelly blamed herself.

She concocted her own version of what possibly happened. She vividly recalled dropping the device. Dropped it hard on deck and neglected to retest it before Evan sewed up the incision. She felt ashamed and unprofessional every time she recalled that moment.

Evan told her the most likely reason was simple electronic malfunction. And perhaps that was the cause; it also seemed plausible. But whatever the explanation, the end result was the same: the Leviathan had eloped and there was no way to trace its movements. Even without the physical specimen, Kelly had collected enough evidence to excite the academic community — her video alone took care of that — but it amounted to a tantalizing taste of what could’ve been gleaned from the species as a whole. She had failed as a scientist, failed as a person.

Although there were others in the room who would strongly disagree with her harsh personal review, that’s precisely how she felt as she met with the Board of Trustees.

“We haven’t been able to transmit a signal from the animal.”

“You can’t find it?” Hamilton said.

She swallowed hard, pushed down the growing lump in her throat. “No sir, it’s gone.”

The Trustees broke into hushed tones, whispering amongst themselves. It took a concerted effort on Hamilton’s part to quiet them. He glanced at his handwritten notes and said, “We’ll deal with that in due time. It appears to me if one — ”

“This looks like the latest in a pattern,” one of the board members interjected. He was an older, gray-haired gentleman sitting beside Lucas. “The destruction of a quarter-million-dollar camera, disregard and demolition of a costly government submarine, and now you’re telling us you lost the one thing that would’ve validated all this collateral damage? What have you to say for yourself? I’ve yet to hear a simple apology.”

Kelly Andrews was too proud to admit she was sorry, even when she was. It’s not like words could bring back the Leviathan or miraculously fix the Simon. So she said the first thing that sprang to mind, a reaction closer to reality than redemption. “I was doing my job.”

The Trustees gaped at her, expecting more. None came. Finally the gray-haired gentleman responded, “We’ll see if it’s still your job come tomorrow.”

“There’s one thing that disturbs every person on this panel,” Hamilton said. “The ship manifest lists its captain as Bartholomew Michaels. I know Bart went on this trip . . . where is he?”

Six people awaited her answer, twelve eyes reading her face.

“I’ll direct any further questions to my attorney, Mister Wallis.”

“This isn’t a court of law,” Hamilton said. “Did something happen to Bart?”

Edgar said, “I’ve advised my client to cooperate in any way she sees fit. If Miss Andrews doesn’t feel it’s appropriate — ”

“At least tell us if he’s alive,” Hamilton said. “He was my friend too. We have a right to know. Was he . . . harmed by that creature, the SuperCroc?”

Edgar stood beside the marine biologist. “I think it’s best to announce a brief recess since my client and I need a short consultation.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Hamilton said. “Everyone’s heard enough to make a reasoned decision. We’ll adjourn for now and ask you to wait outside while we deliberate.”

Edgar and Kelly excused themselves and joined Evan in the antechamber. The ranger was reading a newspaper while a television in the corner blared cable news. Edgar left to smoke a cigarette in the breezeway, allowing the researchers to talk privately.

Evan didn’t look up from his paper. “How’d it go?”

Kelly collapsed in a chair, rested her chin in her hands. “I’m so screwed.”

“It’s not over ‘til they reach a verdict.”

She looked dubiously at him. “They had already reached a decision before I stepped foot in there.”

Her gaze wandered to the TV set, where a photograph of Oscar Wright was pictured in a split screen with the news anchor. The still shots switched every thirty seconds: Wright smiling in a staged photo-op, Wright shaking hands with the Vice President, Wright and his son (that last one caused a pang of remorse in Kelly’s chest). The channel had created a special graphic for the story: MISSING BILLIONAIRE — DAY 4.

News of Oscar Wright’s disappearance made headlines around the world. Reporters claim he went yachting over the weekend and never returned. The Coast Guard had been dispatched for a rescue operation. Two days later it was downgraded to a recovery mission, and a day after that the search was called off altogether. Although the individuals in that waiting room knew the exact cause of the old man’s death, it’d be another seven years before Wright would legally be declared dead.

Crawling along the bottom of the screen, sandwiched between celebrity gossip and local weather in Denver, news agencies detailed a seemingly unrelated story. An anonymous donation of three hundred million dollars had been granted to a special-needs school in Syracuse. The largest endowment in the academy’s history, the Eastgate Rehabilitation Center could now afford to build satellite facilities and upgrade existing services for its mentally challenged and physically disabled students.

Deliberations took twenty minutes before a secretary entered the lobby. “The Trustees have come to an agreement,” she told them. Kelly, Evan and Edgar stood. “Mister Hamilton wants to see Miss Andrews in his office. Alone.”

* * * * *

When Kelly stepped inside Hamilton’s room, it felt like a foreign place where she wasn’t welcomed.

Lucas escorted her from the door. “Please, have a seat.”

“I’d rather not,” she said.

“Relax, this is awkward for me too.” Hamilton leaned against his desk, did his best to comfort her. “First off, you were great in there. I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t be patronizing.”

“I’m not. You accomplished more than I would’ve expected from any other researcher here. I only wish I could’ve been there.”

In retrospect Kelly was glad Hamilton hadn’t joined the voyage. He could’ve ended up like the late Aurora captain or maimed by the SuperCrocs, another tragedy added to her burdened conscience.

“I gather it was quite dangerous. Tell me the truth — no trial, no lawyers, just me — is Bart dead?”

Kelly said nothing, nodded slightly.

“I won’t tell a soul. He was a good man.”

“That he was,” she agreed.

“Another thing bothers me. The media’s gone on nonstop about this Oscar Wright story. Do you know anything about it?”

“Why would I?”

“Officials say the last public place he’d been spotted was a restaurant here in the Keys. Witnesses claim he got into a verbal altercation with a man and woman there. Does that sound familiar?”

“Maybe.”

“Between us, is Wright dead too?”

“We didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“No, not at all. It’s just half the world’s looking for him. Will he ever be found?”

Kelly shook her head.

“I see,” Hamilton said. “The Board of Trustees came to a unanimous ruling. They felt that based on the evidence you provided — ”

She said, “Wait.” She produced an envelope from her purse.

Hamilton tore it open, scanned the short note inside. The room was perfectly silent. Kelly watched Lucas’ lips move gently as he read her resignation letter. It didn’t take him long to finish since it was comprised of four sentences.

He looked at her and sighed. “I-I can’t accept this.”

“I thought hard and realized this is my best course of action.”

“No, I mean I can’t accept this.” He took the paper between his fingers, shredded it in half then again into fourths. “The Board won’t allow me. They gave explicit instructions to terminate you. You can’t quit because I have to fire you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m not allowed to leave with dignity because the Board thinks I should — ”

“Kelly, Kelly, calm down. This is a lot better than you think. This way you’ll receive a decent severance package. I’ll even write you a glowing job recommendation.”

“I don’t need charity,” she said.

“It’s understandable you’re upset. I would be too. You if need to talk, vent, whatever . . .”

“Don’t,” she said. “This is already difficult.”

“You have ‘til the end of the day to clean out your office. Do you need a hand with that?”

“I’ll get Evan to help me.”

“Leave anything that belongs to the Institute,” he said, “including all information related to the SuperCroc.”

“That’s evidence I collected,” she protested. “You can’t axe my ass then steal the work I risked my life to gather.”

“You compiled it at our behest with our equipment; therefore, that’s our property. Please don’t fight me about this. I argued with the Trustees on your behalf to let you keep the original data and give us duplicates. They’re firm on the matter.” He reached to pat her arm reassuringly, and she pulled away from his touch.

Without a further word, Kelly left Hamilton’s office.

She slammed the door on her way out.

* * * * *

It took Evan and Kelly the better part of two hours to strip her office bare. Books needed to be packed away, personal papers gone over to differentiate which were hers and which belonged to the Institute, her desk cleared of photos and knickknacks. Evan made several trips to her Jeep to store the memorabilia.

Kelly came across a framed picture of herself and her father taken when she was a child. It hurt to look at the snapshot, particularly when she thought how she’d have to tell him she was no longer employed at the Institute. Kelly didn’t know whether he’d be furious or disappointed. Somehow anger was preferable.

At last the room was barren, save for the furnishings. All her items were put away, except for a final cardboard box she carried. The only thing on her desk was a stack of papers, her notes from the voyage, and the research she accumulated about the Sarchosuchus imperator. Next to that was the videotape she’d played for the Trustees.

“Is that everything?”

She looked at her empty office. “Not quite,” she said.

Kelly dug out a notebook and used a permanent marker to scrawl GOODBYE ASSHOLES across a sheet of paper. She placed the page neatly atop her research materials as a final message to convey her dissatisfaction.

“There, all done.”

She walked to the parking lot with her things and didn’t look back.

“Whaddya say to dinner?” Evan asked as he rearranged several other boxes in her backseat. “My treat.”

Kelly wavered on the idea. “I dunno.”

“Consider it a chance to celebrate the next chapter in your life. A brand new start.”

“Okay, but no seafood.”

The sun started its evening descent, turned the sky a vibrant orange. Kelly walked to the edge of the breakwall, watching for a minute as it blazed over the open water.

“It’s beautiful,” Evan remarked.

“Sure is.”

He realized she wasn’t staring at the sun, her gaze fixated on the sea. “The SuperCrocs are out there,” she said. “Somewhere.”

“Do you think they’re gone forever?”

The marine biologist couldn’t say. Neither of them knew that answer. Both secretly doubted, though neither verbalized that shared hope.

“Must’ve been hard to let all that proof go. Just give it up to people who didn’t earn it.”

“Well, maybe not all of it.”

Kelly reached into her pocket and took out the Leviathan’s tooth, the reason that had prompted their adventure in the first place. She showed it to Evan, and they both had a hearty laugh.

Continue reading for a preview of

Jared Sandman’s next thrilling novel:

THE WILD HUNT

Coming Winter, 2010

DECEMBER TWENTY-FIFTH

CHRISTMAS ONCE AGAIN treated the Dalton family well. Patriarch James fostered a new appreciation for the holiday. He recalled the happiness it brought when he was a child. One of two days each year (the other being his birthday) when presents were all but guaranteed. For kids it was about one thing: toys. The more, the better. Adults tried in vain to impress the motto It’s better to give than receive onto their children, a meaningless platitude for anyone too young to drive.

As a father he valued Christmas for different reasons. The saying that sounded cliché when he was a boy held very true now. Buying gifts for others — whether the twins, his wife or donating to charity — filled him with unmatched joy.

Watching the girls occupied by their latest presents delighted him in a way he realized his own parents must’ve felt those many years ago. James checked his watch and saw it was after eight-thirty. Audrey and Julie should’ve been in bed half an hour ago, but he’d let them stay up longer to play around. The second graders were so fueled by holiday cheer and an overindulgence of sweets they probably couldn’t get to sleep anyway.

“Okay kiddos, time to clean up.”

The living room was still in disarray from that morning. They’d had time enough to open their gifts and get showered before traveling to Moorhead to spend the day with his in-laws.

“Dad,” Audrey started.

“But we’re not done,” Julie finished. The two always came to each other’s defense.

“This isn’t up for discussion,” James told them. “Put away your toys so Mom and I don’t trip over them. Then brush your teeth and off to bed.”

A murmur of grumbling came from the girls.

“Your toys will be here in the morning,” he said. “You have all next week to play with them before going back to school.”

“Will you read to us?” Julie asked.

“You hafta finish the book tonight.”

“There’s a few pages left,” James said. Each evening for the past week he’d regaled them with the exploits of Ebenezer Scrooge, Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim, one chapter every night leading up to Christmas. Yesterday had been intense for the girls: Scrooge begging at his own tombstone, imploring the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come to spare his life so he may change the course of his destiny. While Julie was more prone to nightmares than her sister, her thoughts were so dominated by Santa’s arrival that the spirit of Jacob Marley and other spectres never crossed her mind.

Karen entered the living room with an empty garbage bag they used to collect torn wrappings, discarded bows and used gift tags (To: Audrey — From: Santa). Within fifteen minutes the house was tidy and the girls were ready for bed. By the time they actually got hunkered under the covers, it was after nine o’clock.

The devoted father read his girls the rest of A Christmas Carol. Julie liked the ending, Scrooge’s generous reformation. Audrey thought the conclusion was a cheat, preferred the parts with phantoms better. Karen joined them afterward to say goodnight.

“Do you think Santa liked our cookies?” Julie asked her mother. The twins had “helped” Karen bake a batch of treats for Santa. They’d left him a dish of chocolate chip cookies — which by pure coincidence happened to be James’ favorite as well — along with a glass of milk. By morning all that remained was a lone, half-eaten cookie.

“I’m sure he thought they were delicious,” James pointed out and shared a knowing look with Karen.

She tucked in the girls tightly. “Saint Nick brought you some presents, but many more came from your uncles and aunts, grandmas and grandpas. Tomorrow we’ll sit down and I’ll show you how to write thank-you notes to all of them.” James shut off the light, told them to sleep well and closed the door behind his wife.

The parents later decompressed in the living room over a cup of hot cocoa. “Another Christmas behind us,” the mother said with no small measure of relief.

“Don’t say it like that. They’ll be in college before you know it. There are only so many of these days we get with them. What, two more weeks’ worth of Christmases ‘til they’re living on their own?”

“I suppose you’re right.” She snuggled next to her husband, and they stared at the tinseled evergreen next to the TV. Even though it was aluminum, the tree looked real and didn’t shed dry needles.

James tuned the television to a channel that aired holiday music. They sat together as Dean Martin crooned softly. While the weather outside was frightful, in here it was warm and peaceful. After ten minutes Karen stood and asked if he was headed to bed too. No, he planned to stay up another half hour with a book. She went upstairs to the master bedroom as he lay on the couch with a paperback.

Halfway through the third chapter, he dozed off and stayed asleep until jerking awake some time later. Karen stood over him in a bathrobe. “It’s three in the morning. I rolled over and you weren’t in bed.”

“Oh, thanks for waking me. I would’ve spent all night here.” He nearly fell over when he stood up. His left foot was numb and tingling, so he wriggled his toes until blood circulation resumed. He hobbled around the living room for a minute then followed his wife up the steps.

In the bedroom he discovered they weren’t alone. Julie and Audrey sat cross-legged on the mattress. “Where were you?” Julie asked.

“The better question is why are you here?” Karen said. “Both of you should be in bed. You’re too old to sleep with us every time you have a bad dream. That’s why Daddy bought you that nightlight.”

“But I heard something,” Audrey said. Julie nodded in agreement.

James tried to calm his spooked daughters. “We went over this before. There’s nothing hiding under your bed. No ghosties or ghoulies or long-legged beasties or things that go bump in the night.” He took Julie’s hand as she climbed off the bed. Audrey grabbed his other one. “You girls need to get back to sleep. There’s nothing here that can harm you.”

The girls’ room was at the end of the hallway, decorated with rainbows and Barbies. Both of them got situated under the covers, twin beds for the twins. “Do you want me to check the closet?” he asked.

“No,” Audrey said. “What we heard came from outside.”

“Someone was staring at us through the window.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Karen said. “You got to see Grandpa and Grandma, and Santa left you so many presents. Don’t ruin such a lovely day by lying.”

Audrey shot rigid in bed and hugged her sheets. “It’s true. Julie saw him too, the man with the beard.”

James walked across the room to peer out the window. At ground level, twenty feet down, there was nothing to see.

“Can anybody get inside the house?” Julie asked. The tone in which she asked the question, so solemn and direct, was very adult; in that moment James caught a glimpse of the woman she’d grow to become.

“No, honey. All the doors are locked.”

“What about the windows?”

“Those too,” Karen added.

Audrey wasn’t placated. “How ‘bout Santa Claus? He can slip into any house, doesn’t matter whether the doors are locked. If he can do it — ”

“Except Santa doesn’t wanna hurt anyone,” Julie noted.

“That’s enough talk,” Karen said. “Go to bed.”

“Your mother’s right.” James kissed both girls and left the door open a crack as he left.

The adults returned to the master suite where Karen said, “I don’t understand what would make the girls lie like that.”

“Lemme take a quick look around just to make sure. If they did see someone — ”

“On the second floor?”

“I’ll double-check the back door, make sure I locked it. Sometimes I forget.”

“Hurry back.”

James went downstairs to the kitchen to ensure the rear sliding door to the patio was secure. It was. Then he went to the front foyer to do the same. Halfway up the stairs, his daughters’ words niggled at his thoughts like a batch of writhing nightcrawlers. Someone was staring at us through the window.

Better to be certain.

He went back to the door, unlocked it and grabbed a nine iron from the bag of golf clubs stored in the coat closet. He slipped on a pair of oversized snow boots and peeked outside. A quick jaunt outdoors to circle the house would put both his mind at ease and the matter to rest.

James stepped onto the porch. The world was pure, untainted white. The snow had stopped for now. No doubt it would recommence before the sun rose. Both sides of the house were clear. He walked down the brick footpath leading to the porch. No footprints in the snow or anything that gave him cause for —

His gaze stopped on the evergreen plants that lined the yard’s perimeter, healthy boxwood hedges. Hidden underneath the thick leaves was a pair of red dots that shined in the darkness like two brake lights. A dark form was concealed beneath the shrubs, and it took James a second to realize what they were.

Eyes.

Eyes that were locked on him.

Something large growled from the hedge. James turned and headed back to the porch, neither running nor wasting time.

He checked the bushes for any movement. His concentration was so preoccupied he didn’t notice the second figure until it was almost too late.

The large canine waiting under the porch rushed toward James. He spotted it in time to throw the golf club up to his face as the creature attacked. Rearing on hind legs, the massive animal toppled James Dalton. Its jagged teeth gnawed at the titanium shaft shoved between its jaws.

James fought the beast, kicked free from being crushed under its sizeable weight. He jerked the club clear and swung it to connect solid with the dog’s skull. Its head cracked from the impact, and still it charged after him.

In the corner of his vision, James saw the first dog appear from the hedges. It regarded him a moment, planning its assault. Two sets of glowing coal eyes watched him. There was intelligence behind them; worse than that, there was pure malevolence.

James sprinted to the front door, and the creatures ran in pursuit. He threw himself at the wooden panel, twisting the doorknob as he fell inside the foyer. He shoved it closed with his back at the same moment the beasts reached the entrance.

Their snarling and clawing at the frame attracted the other family members. Karen and the girls stood at the top of the staircase. James got to his feet and secured the deadbolt. He saw the frightened girls peeking from around either side of their mother. “Stay up there,” he shouted.

“What’s going on?” Karen asked.

“I-I think it’s a pack of feral dogs.”

The furious scratching at the door continued unabated. James’ racing heartbeat subsided now that he was safely inside. In the kitchen he found a phone book, looked up the number for Taggart County Animal Control.

“Who are you calling?” Karen said as she joined him.

He dialed the number and held the phone to his ear. “The game warden. I don’t know if they’re rabid or what, but they need to be captured and carted away. Hopefully euthanized.”

“Were you bitten?”

“One of ‘em almost got me. If I’d been any slower — ”

A recorded message played on the other end of the line. “THANK YOU FOR CALLING ANIMAL CONTROL. OUR BUSINESS HOURS ARE MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY, EIGHT A.M. TO — ”

James slammed the receiver on the cradle. “Why the hell do I pay taxes if nobody’s gonna come when they’re needed?”

“Forget about it,” Karen told him. “They’ll eventually get bored and wander off. And the door can be replaced. I’m only glad you weren’t hurt.”

Atop the upper balcony, Julie and Audrey were scared by the intense barking. Karen started up the steps as James put his ear to the door. Then he hit it with his fist and yelled, “Knock it off, ya mangy curs.”

The clamor ceased at once.

He knocked again, this time more out of victory than anger. “Y’see? I said everything would be — ”

Another blow pounded the door. It didn’t come from James.

The Dalton family gawked at the frame, four sets of eyes staring as the handle slowly turned.

“Dogs can’t open doors,” Julie said.

James silenced his daughter. “Who’s out there?” he asked through the wood panel.

The answer was a powerful thud that rocked the entire frame. Whoever was outside, the deadbolt kept them out. For now.

“Go away,” James said. “I’ve already called the police.”

A barrage of strikes pummeled the door, resounding through the house. Audrey whimpered and started to cry.

James heard a sound like matchsticks being snapped in half. The wooden panel cracked in places, hairline fractures at first. “Leave my family alone.” He stepped backward until the stair risers stopped him.

The Dandy Dogs outside were the least of James Dalton’s problems, which had just worsened considerably.

Wood splintered under extreme pressure as an axe head appeared through the wood frame. The force required to chop through the paneling with a single blow was enormous.

Julie joined her sister in weeping. Karen too was near tears.

James was afraid as well but couldn’t manifest that fear. Not in front of his family. He had to be strong for them. “Get the girls to safety. Lock yourselves in the bathroom,” he told his wife.

“What about you?”

“I’ll find another way. Go.”

The door broke off its hinges, kicked free by the imposing figure who stood on the other side.

The Lord of the Hunt had come to claim his stake.

The heavy door dropped to the floor, narrowly missing James. Karen screamed from the stairway.

The Lord took up the whole entryway, flanked by the faithful hellhounds that sat obediently at his feet.

James shouted, “Call 911.” He rushed halfway up the steps before the Lord’s firm grip took hold of his leg. He tripped and hit his chin on the top riser, the hard fall dazing him for a second.

“James.” Karen grabbed her husband’s arm and pulled at him. The two locked eyes for a moment.

The Lord of the Hunt saw the woman and two girls cowering behind her. He wasn’t here for them. They held no interest to him. Only the man.

James’ voice echoed in the corridor. “Karen.”

The Lord dragged him down the stairs, across the threshold and off the porch. James curled into a ball to protect himself from injury. The Lord hauled him to the middle of the lawn.

Dalton’s family was nowhere to save him, no neighbors coming to his rescue. There was no one around out here in the country. “What do you want from me?”

When the Lord released him, James shot to his feet and sprinted toward a thatch of trees. He didn’t care about the answer. His life was more important.

The Dandy Dogs tore after him. The moving target was a game for them, like a ball to catch or a stick to fetch. One sank its gnarled teeth into his right calf muscle. James pushed on, limping. Pink snow dotted a trail behind him as blood dribbled down his pajama leg.

The second canine pounced, and James fell to the ground. The beast ripped into his back and latched onto his shoulder with a ferocious bite. James twisted around to punch the animal. So focused on the dogs, he failed to notice the Lord of the Hunt looming over him.

James kicked wildly until the Lord punctured his thigh with a skinning knife. The blade sank deep into the muscle, severed a major nerve. The Lord cruelly twisted the dagger.

Pain blossomed like a white-hot starburst. “Go to hell,” James spat.

The Lord of the Hunt wasn’t quite ready to go there yet.

James clobbered the dogs without reservation. They closed in, first shredding his clothes and later his flesh. His strength waned as they began tearing him apart. A pool of blood, black as ink against the snow, puddled around him.

The Lord used the blade to pry open James’ jaw. He overpowered the wounded man, probing Dalton’s mouth. Grabbing hold of the tongue, the Lord carved the hunk of meat from between James’ lips. The injured victim cried out, his words a bloody gurgle. Before slipping from consciousness, James saw the butcher slide the meat inside his own yawning maw.

The Lord leaned close and spoke clearly, now able to articulate his thoughts with another man’s tongue. “Your debt . . . is repaid.” Then he turned and walked away. There was much work to be done.

In the end the Lord of the Hunt didn’t kill James Dalton. The hellhounds took care of that.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jared Sandman lives on Florida’s Gulf Coast, where he’s working on his next book. Visit his website at JAREDSANDMAN.COM for free stories, updates and discounts.