From the Deep (3 page)

CHAPTER 5

Rainbow Bay Beach

Australian gold Coast

The scorching sun burned down on the juvenile sperm whale that had beached itself some five hours earlier. Twenty six year old marine biologist, Clara Thompson and her team of volunteers had been working on freeing the trapped animal for some time, and were close to returning it to the ocean.

“Dexter,” she yelled to her assistant as she replaced the wet towels which covered the whales back. “Hose her down again, we need to keep her skin moist.”

Dexter looked at his boss and nodded, not having the heart to tell her that the animal’s chances of survival were slim. Clara had seen beaching’s before, but the last couple of weeks had seen a worrying increase in the phenomena. Often there were plausible explanations. Confusion on the animal’s part or due to following smaller, more nimble dolphins into the shallows had accounted for similar incidents in the past. Even sonar pings from submarines had been known to cause confusion in certain species and cause them to beach themselves in error, and yet, something about this most recent bout of them concerned her. It was too much, too many different species at the same time. It wasn’t enough to make mainstream news, not when there were pointless celebrity feuds to report on, or wars in faraway countries to glorify. However, in the close community of marine biology, the stranding’s had certainly raised a few eyebrows, and now one had happened on her doorstep.

Clara had a slim, athletic body, and bronzed, freckle dashed skin from a career spent mostly outdoors. Her eyes were green and her hair a stunning shade of red, which even tied and hidden under her baseball cap still stood out in the blazing Australian sun.

“How long until that bloody crane gets here?” she snapped.

“It’s inbound. Within the hour I expect.” Dexter replied, glancing at the tide that was lapping around the whale’s underbelly.

He picked up the hose as Clara worked on digging a channel around the animal to help return it to the ocean. A crowd of onlookers had gathered and were watching intently.

“We can’t wait much longer,” she said, glancing at the weakened animal. “We need to try to do this by hand.”

“I thought you said that was a last resort?”

“This is the last resort. Get some of those rubberneckers to help us.”

Thirty minutes later, the group managed to drag the whale back into the ocean. They whooped and cheered as they watched the animal swim away. Clara stood, hands on hips, breathing heavily from the exertion.

“Think she’ll be okay?” Dexter asked as he stood beside her.

“I hope so. She seems lively enough.”

The pair started to walk back up the beach, when they heard the commotion behind them.

The whale they had rescued had re-beached itself, only this time it wasn’t alone. Clara and Dexter watched as dozens of whales, dolphins, and even sharks launched themselves on the beach, thrashing as they tried to distance themselves as far as they could from the water.

“Jesus…” Dexter said as he watched wave after wave of fish lurch out of the water.

Clara didn’t reply. Instead, she stared out beyond the beach full of stranded marine life, to the calm blue ocean beyond.

“What the hell is spooking you all?” she muttered to herself under her breath.

CHAPTER 6

Kodiak town,

Kodiak Island,

Alaska.

Lying off the southern coast of Alaska, Kodiak Island is the second largest of its kind in the entire United States. Mountainous and heavily forested in the northern and eastern regions, yet treeless in the south, the island is pocked with numerous natural bays, which are used by the local fishermen to shelter their vessels when the nearby Bering Sea unleashed one of its frequent violent storms. The island also boasted a rich wildlife reserve, and was populated by a community who almost exclusively work in or around the thriving fishing industry.

Because of its location within the sub polar oceanic climate zone, Kodiak’s 6,000 residents are subjected to long, cold winters that test even the hardiest of the fishermen who make up a vast bulk of the local populous.

Valerie Harris looked out of the window of her house across the bay, and clutched the photograph of her late husband a little tighter. Although death itself wasn’t a surprise out on the water, the fact that the Harris family were so well known, and had been for generations, made the local interest aspect worthy of the newspapers paying particular attention to the story. Valerie looked at her children as they ate breakfast, Tyler who was three, and Tess who had just turned five, would never know their father. Never get to find out what a wonderfully warm, kind man he was, and for that, she was angry. She closed her eyes, and rested her head on the cool glass of the window, feeling guilty about the dark thoughts that had drifted back into her mind.

She had bought a bottle of vodka, and set aside a stockpile of pills. Twice now, she had gone as far as opening the bottles, but hadn’t found the strength to go through with it, mostly because of the love she had for her children. The voice in her head that had given her the idea to end it all in the first place, was making ever more convincing arguments that they would be better off without her of late. As she stood there, it started once again to ask those questions she was never able to answer.

What would happen when the money ran out?

What would happen when the house got repossessed because she couldn’t afford to keep up the mortgage payments?

What would happen when the children grew older, and their unconditional love for her morphed into resentment and hate?

She closed her eyes, and clenched her fists, determined not to put them through such an ordeal. She did, however, wonder how long it would be before the voice in her head became the one she turned to for help, and that idea frightened her. All she could do was to take things one day at a time and hope she made it through.

And if the day came where she couldn’t?

She looked at her children, and choked back more tears. She would have to. It was the only way.

CHAPTER 7

Sunset Cliffs,

California

“Go on, Tommy, stop being such a pussy,” Alex goaded as he treaded water and squinted to the cliff top.

Tommy ignored his brother and looked at the ocean some fifty feet below. It had started as a game of dares, each of them daring the other to do things more and more extreme in the hope of causing their sibling to back out. First, they had dared each other to steal a magazine from the local store, then to run across the street without stopping or changing direction to see if they could make the traffic swerve to avoid them. So far, they had each done everything the other had suggested, however, now as fourteen year old Tommy looked at his brother from the edge of the cliff, he didn’t think he could go through with it.

“Toooommmmyyyy,” Alex goaded as he kicked onto his back and spat water in the air. 

Tommy stared out at the beautiful, pale blue of the Pacific Ocean, and shifted his weight, his feet starting to burn on the hot surface. He knew the jump was safe. The water here was deep, and he was in no danger of hitting rocks or anything else that could end his life or leave him in a wheelchair. Still, he wasn’t great with heights, and as he looked down on his brother, his stomach knotted.

Alex was making chicken noises as he kicked and splashed in the water below.

“Okay, cut it out.” Tommy yelled, the irritation in his voice just about masking his fear.

He took a deep breath, and psyched himself up to make the jump.  There was no question of him wimping out. He would never live it down, especially as he was older than Alex was by almost a year. He took a couple of steps back, exhaled, and calculated his run up.

Three running steps, then jump.

Easy.

He felt a powerful surge of adrenaline as he took his run up, half considering trying to perform a mid-air somersault in order to try to shut Alex up and prove he wasn’t afraid.

He saw the shape out of the corner of his eye as he was about to leap, and although he tried, couldn’t stop in time. It was huge. A deep, dark shadow under the water that was angling towards Alex.  Tommy half jumped, half fell towards the water, his brother’s mocking now secondary to the thing that was heading towards them. He told himself it was a whale, yet knew it was way too big. Impossibly big. His thought process was cut short as he hit the water, tumbling and spinning as he submerged.

He kicked to the surface, gasping for air as his grinning sibling swam over to him.

“What the hell was that? You screwed up whatever you were trying to—”

“Swim!” Tommy blurted, kicking towards the beach.

“What the hell?”

Tommy put his head down and kicked hard, vaguely aware that his brother was following. He could see the beach, near, and yet seeming so very far away. He spared a glance over his shoulder, and a fresh surge of adrenaline raced through his body.

The wake was closing in on them. It was impossibly large, impossibly wide. Tommy thought he could see the ghostly shape of a mottled grey body below the surface as whatever it was closed on them.

He turned towards the beach and lowered his head, kicking with everything he had.  Alex was alongside him now as the two boys swam in unison.

Tommy felt the blessed touch of the sandy ocean floor as they reached the shallows. Coughing and spluttering, Tommy charged up the beach, his brother in tow. He turned to look out at the water, and saw the immense shape that had followed them peel away and head back to the deep. The displaced water rolled towards them, sending a freak wave up the beach, soaking sunbathers and children who complained as they scrambled to higher ground. Alex had his hands on his knees, panting as he tried to regain his breath.

“What the hell was all that about?” he asked between ragged gasps.

Tommy didn’t answer. He could only stare out into the ocean and try to make some sense of what he had seen. “Hey,” Alex repeated, “what is it?”

Tommy shook his head, and vomited noisily into the surf.

CHAPTER 8

Freeport town,

Kodiak Island,

Alaska.

At 120 feet in length, the
Victorious
was far bigger than most of the other commercial fishing boats on the dock. The ship was a heavily modified whaler that had been transformed, ready for Andrews and Russo to proceed with their operation. Below its unassuming grey hull, a state of the art command centre had been installed, as had living facilities for up to a crew of twenty. On this particular trip, there would be just twelve. Andrews waited until the boat was securely in its berth, smoothed his jacket, and walked down the ramp onto the dock. He took in the town, casting his sunglass-covered eyes over the homes that were scattered up the hillside. The wind was cold and smelled of salt, and the incessant scatter of seagulls was already starting to give him a headache.

There was a weather beaten and grizzled fisherman checking crab pots at the end of the dock. Andrews angled towards him, unleashing his best smile as he approached.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said smoothly, “I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for someone.”

“Aye, you wouldn’t be here otherwise.” The old man said, not looking up from his task.

“Do you know where I might find Henry Rainwater?”

The old man paused, cupping his hand against the sun as he stared at Andrews.

“You mean the Harris kid?”

Andrews nodded. “I was lead to believe he goes by the name of Rainwater now.”

“So he says, but he’ll always be a Harris round here. You here about the business that killed his pop and uncle?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say, all I can tell you is that it’s imperative I speak to him.”

The fisherman stood and wiped his grimy hands on his shirt.

“Well, all I can tell you is that he ain’t said much of anything to anyone since he got back from the hospital. Hell, he ain’t even left the house. Nobody has seen him anyhow.”

“And where is the house, exactly?” Andrews asked, pulling a notepad out of his pocket.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Not till I know what you want.”

“It’s imperative I speak with him.”

“That may be, but I still ain’t about to tell you where he lives. As I said, the kid won’t talk anyway.”

“How do you suggest I find him?”

“Ain’t my problem. You could try Belgrave point.”

Andrews wrote it in his diary. “Thank you, sir, and where is that exactly, is it far?”

The fisherman shook his head and laughed as he lit a cigarette.

“It ain’t a place. It’s a bar up the hill there. Ask for a guy called Mackay. He was on the boat, and if he’s drunk enough, his tongue might loosen enough to talk.”

Andrews slipped the notebook back in his pocket.

“What if he’s not there?”

The old man smiled. “He will be.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because, that’s pretty much the only place he’s been since the accident. Spends all damn day by himself, drinking till’ someone has to carry him home. He ain’t been the same since he got back from that damn trip.”

“You think he’ll talk to me?”

The fisherman looked Andrews up and down, and shrugged.

“Who knows? Might cost you a few drinks to loosen his tongue. I’ll tell you this though, whatever happened out there has done something to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he was always happy go lucky, you know full of piss and vinegar. Had a mouth on him that would usually get him into trouble. Since he came back… I don’t know. Man’s changed.”

“In what way?”

“He’s quiet. Doesn’t say much to anyone anymore. Just sits staring into space. You know what’s even more odd?”

“Go on.”

“Just before the trip, he bought himself a boat. Took him the best part of six years to get the money together.  All he would ever talk about was running his own boat. The second he came back, he goes and sells it for less than half he bought it for.”

“Any idea why?”

“Who knows, “shrugged the fisherman. “Scared maybe. Who can blame him after almost dying? The ocean isn’t something to be screwed around with.”

Andrews nodded and looked past the fisherman.

“Where did you say this bar was?”

“Up the hill there. You can’t miss it. Big white building.”

“Thanks.”

“Welcome, although I wouldn’t expect him to say much.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Andrews said with a slimy grin. “I guess we will have to see won’t we?”

The fisherman nodded as Andrews set off up the hill.

The Belgrave point bar was set back into the hillside, and as the fisherman had said, it was hard to miss. Andrews walked into the dimly lit building, taking a few seconds to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. There were a dozen or so fishermen spread around the tables, all indulged in their own private conversations. Andrews took an instant dislike to the place as he approached the bar, which wasn’t helped by the icy stare of the barkeep which Andrews suspected was reserved for strangers like him.

“What can I get you?” he asked bluntly.

“I’m looking for someone. A man called Mackay. I need to speak to him.”

“That’s him over there.”

Andrews looked to where the barkeep had motioned at the man hunched over at the corner table.

“What’s he drinking?” Andrews asked.

“Whisky. That’s about all he drinks these days.”

“Pour him another, I’ll take one too.”

***

Mackay didn’t look up from his empty glass as Andrews approached, or say anything when he sat opposite and set the fresh drink in front of him.

“Mr Mackay?”

“Who’s asking?”

“My name is Andrews, and I would like—”

“You a reporter?”

“No. I’m with the government, and I want to talk to you about the accident that claimed the lives of—”

“Forget it. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Mr Mackay, the accident needs to be investigated, and we need to find out the truth.”

“The truth…” Mackay repeated as he took a sip of the drink Andrews had bought him. “The truth is the boat sank, and my friends are dead.”

“Is that why you won’t go back on the water?”

Mackay finally looked at Andrews, and for a second, it seemed he was going to lunge across the table. Instead, he shook his head and took another sip of the whisky.

“You don’t know shit. I have my reasons for staying on dry land.”

Andrews leaned close, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“You saw something, didn’t you?”

Mackay watched, offering no reply. Andrews pressed on.

“You saw something out in the ocean, and whatever it is scared you, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mackay said with a sneer. “I saw my friends die. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”

“You can tell me the truth, I believe you.”

“Look, mister, I don’t know who you are, and I care even less. All I can tell you is if you don’t shut up and leave me alone, I’m gonna finish this drink, drag you outside and beat the shit out of you. Understood?”

“Okay,” Andrews said, “I hear you loud and clear. Just remember, I’m only looking to find out the truth.”

Mackay drained his glass and looked at Andrews with a glassy, half-coherent stare. “I don’t care about whatever it is you’re looking for. Just leave me alone.”

Andrews stood and pushed his chair under the table. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, which he placed on the table.

“If you wish to speak with me, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I already told you, pal, I got nothing to say to you.”

“I know. Keep the card just in case.”

“Whatever you say, buddy,” Mackay said as he picked up the card, looked at it, then tossed it back on the table.

“Just one more thing,” Andrews said as he fastened his jacket. “The other survivor, Henry Rainwater… any idea where I might find him?”

“You
might
find him anywhere, but where he is I don’t know. Just get the hell out of here and leave us be.”

Andrews nodded, ignoring the icy stares of the other patrons as he made his way to the exit. Even though it was a small town, finding one man would be difficult, especially if it was a man who didn’t want to be found. He wondered if Russo would have any ideas, and was about to head back towards the
Victorious
, when he saw the newspaper stuffed into the top of the waste bin. He pulled it out, and looked at the headline.

FUNERAL FOR BROTHERS LOST AT SEA.

Andrews looked at the photograph of the grieving woman, crying at the graveside, then at the caption underneath

Widow, Valerie
Harris, mourns her husband Joey, who along with his brother Sam and deck hands Hector Morales & Alex Grimshaw were killed at sea in last week’s tragic fishing accident. See page 7.

Andrews skimmed to the relevant page. Three quarters of it was filled with a long lens photograph of the funeral, and the mourners standing around the four coffins. Andrews skimmed the article, hoping against hope that the usual insensitivity of newspapers would pay dividends. The final paragraph of the article gave him exactly what he was looking for.

…Mrs Harris, of 344 Chestnut Drive, was not available for comment at the time of writing…

Andrews grinned and tossed the newspaper back into the bin.