Surrounded by Sharks (11 page)

There were more sharks now. The blue, yes, but two more, as well. The newcomers cruised by in tandem, passing slowly underneath Davey’s feet. He watched them closely and followed their progress.

Their fins had black edges and tips. They were blacktip sharks. Davey had seen the little blacktip reef sharks at the aquariums, but he could tell this was a different species, a whole different animal. Each one was as heavy and muscular as an NFL defensive back.

Davey examined their markings with a mix of fascination and horror. They were pure black — as black as their eyes — but uneven, as if each fin had been lightly dipped in ink. The blacktips passed no more than seven or eight feet beneath him. If he hadn’t seen them and tucked his legs up, it would’ve been even closer.
Too close
, thought Davey. Another deep shudder ran through him.

And here came the blue. It hadn’t adjusted its course enough, and now it was heading for the same patch of water as the blacktips. Davey watched, the sharks getting fuzzier with distance. He squinted and stared, coaxing his weak eyes to follow them. Something was going to happen down there. Would they bump into one another? Would they fight?

At the last second, the blue veered off. It shot quickly away, vanishing into the distance. The blacktips continued on, crossing the empty patch of water unconcerned. Davey wasn’t surprised. It was small, and they were big. It worked the same way on land. He hoped the blacktips would vanish now, too.

They didn’t. They continued on for another dozen feet or so, until they were just a black-and-gray blob in his vision. Then they turned and slowly came back into focus. He pulled up his legs again. In a sense, they’d done him a favor with the blue: a circling shark is never a good sign. It was hard for him to feel too grateful, though, as they passed underneath him again. Closer this time. Not much closer, it’s true, but they were in no hurry.

Twenty minutes later, the blue was back. It stayed down deeper, out of the way of the others. Davey could just make it out down there, its penknife body giving it away. It wasn’t circling now, just lurking, waiting for the bigger sharks to do the work.

The blacktips passed by again. They were far enough to the side this time that he didn’t pull up his feet. He was too tired anyway. The adrenaline that had flooded his system was mostly gone now, and he was crashing. It had been a fight-or-flight response, but he had no way to do either.

The blacktips headed away from him for now, and the blue was almost out of sight. Davey scanned the horizon and then the sky. Still nothing. He wanted to believe they would find him. It was a bright and nearly cloudless day. The burn on his shoulders was plenty of proof of that. He was a dark dot on a clear sea. A boat wouldn’t even have to be that close to see him. A plane wouldn’t have to be close at all.

Yes
, he told himself,
they’ll find me
.

Six feet down, the blacktips arced gracefully and headed back his way.

If there’s anything left to find
.

Davey’s aquarium was growing rapidly. The three sharks moved lazily around it, just like the ones back in Cincinnati. And now that Davey was mostly still, the four little fish barely budged from under the water bottle. Even the bright blue fish was back.

And now another one was headed his way. This one was bigger. If Davey had held his hand out flat, with all the fingers extended and together, it would have been the size, and almost the shape, of this new fish. But there was something wrong with it. It was just a few inches below the surface of the water, and Davey didn’t even need to look through the water cooler bottle to see that it wasn’t swimming right. It flicked its tail in spastic jerks that sent it almost as far sideways as forward.

As it got closer, Davey saw that it never fully straightened out. It always stayed a little curled up, like a dried-out flower petal on a windowsill. He couldn’t tell if it was injured or sick or what, but he didn’t want it near him.

“Get away,” he said.

He didn’t even know why at first, and then he did. The sharks … He looked at this new fish, struggling its way toward shelter, and all he saw was bait.

“Getawaygetawaygetaway!”

The injured fish kept coming, determined to reach the little island of shade and shelter. Davey scanned the water underneath him. He didn’t see the sharks. Where were they? He leaned back, pulling the bottle with him. Slowly, he began to kick.

The other fish came with him. The new fish swam harder, flapping its tail, trying its hardest to go straight. Davey kicked harder. “No! Go away!”

And he was right to be worried. Davey felt the blacktip before he saw it.

A pressure wave of water pushed up against his feet and legs. The shark shot up out of the deep and bit the injured fish cleanly in half. Its momentum carried it up and out of the water, and for a split second Davey saw it there. Half of its thick body was above the water, its wet skin reflecting the sunlight. The rest was still below. Then it tipped and fell back. Water splashed across Davey’s face, shoulders, and back.

He swore so loud that he owed the swear jar back in Ohio at least ten bucks.

As the surface of the water began to smooth out, Davey saw the tail of the little fish. Just the tail, still curled, leaking blood and little bits of flesh into the water. The muscles gave one last reflexive flick as it began to sink. Then a shadow, then a shape: The other blacktip surged to the surface. It snatched the scraps. The splash was smaller this time.

Davey kicked harder as the second shark disappeared from view. He hugged the bottle tight to his chest and backed away as fast as he could. He was twelve feet away by the time the blue shark arrived. He saw it thrash back and forth. Its fins broke the surface as it pushed through the bloody water, searching for food that wasn’t there.

After a few more thrashes, it gave up. It had been right to stay near the blacktips, but it had been too slow to take advantage. It was too late to get its share. As it left the surface and descended, its primitive brain formed one simple thought.

It needed to be more aggressive
.

Brando was enjoying the ride despite himself. Back on land, he’d felt angry and sad and guilty all at once. But out here, he could just watch the boat cut the water in half, leaving a wake of white spray.

As soon as the boat began slowing down, his thoughts crept back in. He looked up at row after row of boats tied to a network of floating docks. He’d overheard enough to know that this was the marina and that they were here to look for the captain of the boat that took people to and from Aszure Island. He’d overheard most of what was said on the trip, in fact, because everyone had been shouting over the noise of the engine.

Deputy Fulgham cut the engine and eased the police launch in toward an empty slip. As he did, Brando leaned over the edge and looked down into the vanishing sliver of water between boat and dock. He saw a flash of something on the bottom. It might have been a coin catching the light or a piece of metal that had snapped off the last boat to dock here. Brando would need a closer look to know for sure.

And just like that, he knew what Marco had meant when he said, “No divers. Please. Not yet.” It was so horrible, but so obvious. They would bring in divers to look for his brother’s body on the bottom of the sea.

They were talking all around him. His parents were talking to each other. The deputy was talking to someone on the dock. The words were still loud enough for Brando to hear, but his head could no longer hold them. The five words he already had in there were taking up all the space. What did he mean, “not yet”?

Everyone got off the boat and headed down the dock, and he followed them. The concrete-topped dock floated serenely on the water, designed to rise and fall with the tide. They reached another dock that ran parallel to the shore and took a left. Brando finally looked up and saw Key West. The waterfront was bustling with activity. It was the early afternoon, and everyone was on the move.

Brando wasn’t even really on Key West yet, but he could hear it clearly. A road ran along the shore. Cars and scooters honked, and bicyclists shouted. And behind that rose the muffled roar of thousands of people on vacation, drunk with sun and possibilities. A loud laugh cut through it all briefly, like a goose honking.

“No way,” he said. No one heard him, but he knew it in his heart now. There was no way his older brother would want any part of this. He took a step toward his mom. She didn’t have sleeves on, so he tapped her wrist. She turned toward him and leaned down.

“What is it, B?”

“Davey would hate this,” he said.

“Okay,” she said. “Now be quiet for a second. The policeman is talking.”

The deputy was talking to a very short man in very long shorts. “Hey, Victor. You seen Zeke?”

“The Captain? Yeah, of course. He’s made a few trips out to Aszure already.”

“You been here all morning?”

“Yeah, and I’ll be here all day, too.”

The deputy took the flyer out of his pocket and unfolded it. “Seen this kid?”

Victor looked at the flyer carefully.

Tam and Pamela leaned in, waiting for his answer. Victor gave them a quick glance before answering. “Don’t think so. Tough to say. Lot of kids running around the docks all day.”

“Look again.”

This time he took the flyer in his hands, but the answer was the same. “Don’t think so. Something happen to him? He do something?”

“Just looking for him, that’s all,” said the deputy.

Victor glanced over at Tam and Pamela again and put it together. “Bad deal,” he said to Fulgham. “Hope you find him.”

Hope you find him “soon
,” thought Brando.
He should’ve said “soon
.” But Victor had said what he said. It was another “not yet” for Brando’s list.

“We will,” said the deputy. Brando nodded in approval. “Where’s Zeke now?”

“Probably still eating lunch.”

“Yeah, you want to narrow that down for me a little?”

“Oh, sorry. He’s at Mary’s. Pretty sure, ’cause he asked me if I wanted anything from there.”

“Okay, thanks, man.”

“No problem. If you got another one of them flyers, I’ll take it. Ask around for you, just the people who come and go, you know?”

“Yes, please,” said Pamela, stepping forward and handing him a flyer. “We’d really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” said Victor, taking it in his child-sized hands. “It’s a bad deal.”

The Tserings followed the deputy to shore like a row of ducklings. He walked them straight off the docks and across the road. He even waved a car to a halt so they wouldn’t have to wait for the light. He started up the walkway toward a small, one-story restaurant that seemed to be leaning ever so slightly to the left. The paint was weathered and peeling, hovering somewhere between the dark red it had once been and the washed-out red it was becoming.

“I thought it was Mary’s?” said Tam, pointing to a sign that read
BAIT ’N SWITCH
in slightly fresher paint.

“Mary is the owner,” said Fulgham.

Brando slipped by them, pulled open a battered screen door, and stepped inside.

“Hold on there, dude,” he heard.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he couldn’t see who it belonged to. Sunlight streamed in through the windows and door, but apart from that, the only light came from a few signs glowing behind the bar. A man’s face emerged from the shadows by the door. What Brando thought at first was a lingering shadow near the man’s left ear turned out to be a large tattoo.

“It’s okay, Bacon, he’s here on official business,” said the deputy, stepping into the doorway.

Bacon?
thought Brando.
Did I hear that right?
He had, and Bacon straightened up on his stool when he saw the deputy. He pushed a meaty hand through his greasy hair.

“Oh, hey, Deputy,” said Bacon. “That’s cool. Come on in.”

“Glad to see you carding this time. Where’s the Captain?”

Bacon let out a raspy laugh. “Gonna have to be more specific. This place is full of ’em.”

“Zeke — never mind, I see him.”

Brando did, too. He was sitting at a small table with the scattered remains of a BLT spread out in front of him. It was the hat that gave him away.