Surrounded by Sharks (9 page)

Davey was two and a half miles offshore, drifting to the southwest in a countercurrent. It was a bad situation, and it had just gotten worse.

That was a shark. He was sure of it now.

He replayed the images in his head. There was the first quick one, just a blur as it turned quickly and vanished. If that had been it, he could’ve told himself it was something else. It could’ve been some other big fish, a tuna maybe. But then he’d seen it again. It was moving slower this time. It was in no hurry at all, and why should it be? This was its home, not Davey’s.

It glided slowly by, ten feet down. He saw its pointed head and its knifelike body. The water and plastic between them warped its shape slightly as it slid by, but he followed it and got a good look. He could see its fins, as clear as any nightmare he’d ever had. The dorsal fin angled straight up like a sail; the pectoral fins projected out like wings. Its mouth hung just slightly open, a line of black in all that blue.

He lost sight of it. He turned the bottle, tugged it through the water, tilted it farther down. Nothing, it was gone again. He began to see stars and realized he’d been holding his breath the whole time. He gulped in air and tried again. This time he dunked his head under the water and tried it without the bottle. He opened his eyes, but all he saw was water.

The little fish had scattered, not because of the shark but because Davey was moving the bottle all over the place. He saw them now, just off to his left. They were four little gray blurs, moving in unison. They skittered a few feet farther away as he watched them.
It’s behind me!
he thought.

He jerked his body around, kicking his legs and pushing through the water with his right arm. His left arm was draped over the top of the water cooler bottle, and it was slowing him down.
By the time I see it, it will have its teeth in me
.

But when he completed his turn, there was nothing there. The endless ocean faded to a featureless blur in front of him. The ocean pressed in. He let out a few bubbles to keep the salt water out of his nose. He looked to his left, to his right, and then down past his feet. He surfaced, blowing out air as he went.

He checked to make sure no water had gotten into the bottle during the commotion. He wanted to climb up on top of the thing. He wanted to stand on it, like a lumberjack rolling a log. But he couldn’t. It would sink, and then where would he be?

He told himself to calm down, not to panic. Yes, it was a shark, but it was small. It didn’t look much more than three feet long. There was no way to be sure at that distance, but that’s what he decided: three feet. Four feet, tops. He was taller than it was.
I’ll punch it in the face if it tries anything!
That made him feel better.

For a while, he alternated between scanning under the water for the shark, scanning the horizon for boats, and scanning the sky for a plane or helicopter. He made them Official Survival Tasks and kept himself busy with them. He thought about how he’d signal if he saw a boat: He’d wave the bottle, splash around, shout as loud as he could. Same for a plane, he decided, except there wouldn’t be any point in shouting.

The worst of his panic subsided, but his nerves were still stretched as tight as guitar strings. He heard a splash off in the distance, and it was like someone had strummed those strings with a hammer. He whipped his head around but saw nothing.

He wanted to scream, more out of frustration than fear. He had no idea what had caused the splash. Had something jumped out of the water? Why? He forced himself to go back to his Official Survival Tasks. Task 1: Look for shark. Task 2: Look for boats and/or land. Task 3: Look for planes and/or helicopters. Task 1: Look for shark…. Half an hour later, he had one other task to take care of.

Davey was the kind of kid who got out of the water to go to the bathroom under normal circumstances. These were not normal circumstances. The little fish had returned, and he apologized to them as the water got ever so slightly warmer.

It’s hard to say he’d just made an enormous mistake. What choice did he have, really? Still, sharks are legendary for their sense of smell. Less well known: the fact that urine in the water is nearly as intriguing to them as blood.

Eventually, there would be that, too.

“You’d be the family of the boy, then,” the officer was saying.

Brando noticed that he didn’t say
missing
boy. Everybody noticed that.

“Yes, I’m Tam Tsering, his father.”

“I’m Pamela Marcum Tsering, his mother.”

The officer pulled a notebook out of his pocket. Brando had seen a hundred cops do that on TV. They’d pull a little notebook out of the back pocket of their pants or, if they were detectives, the inside pocket of their sports coat. This guy pulled it out of the side pocket of his cargo shorts.

“Well, I’m Jeff Fulgham. Deputy Jeff Fulgham — always forget that part. You can call me Jeff, Deputy, whatever you’re comfortable with.”

He was fishing around in his pocket again. This time he came up with a pen, but he didn’t write anything. He turned toward Marco and asked, “What time’s the next boat?”

Marco looked down at his watch. “Twenty minutes,” he said. “Or whenever Zeke gets here.”

“Yeah,” said Deputy Fulgham. “This isn’t the best place. People are going to start lining up, anyway. Let’s go somewhere to talk.”

“We can go out back by the pool,” said Marco. “Nice place to sit. Should be quiet.”

Who cares if it’s a nice place to sit?
thought Brando, but no one was asking him. The deputy hadn’t even asked him his name.

They were all rumbling back down the dock now. Marco and the deputy were in the lead, talking low. Brando picked up his pace a little. He wanted to get close enough that he could hear what they were saying, but not close enough that they’d notice him. He watched the handle of the deputy’s gun move back and forth as he walked. The gun was black, and so was the holster. When Brando looked closely, he could see the long rectangular edge of the magazine.

But he couldn’t hear what they were saying. The footsteps, the breeze, the distance … They all conspired to keep things secret.

It took them just a few minutes to arrive at the pool. Deputy Fulgham looked around and pointed at a table. It had a glass top, a beach umbrella built right in, and five seats: just the right number. Tam and Pamela filed past and took seats next to each other. Brando took a few steps and then knelt down next to Marco and the deputy and pretended to tie his sneaker. He listened closely and heard the last words Marco said: “… no divers. Please. Not yet.”

No divers? What does he mean by that?
But Brando barely had time to think about it, because Marco nearly tripped over him on his way to the little table. Deputy Fulgham headed over, too. Brando had untied his lace for his act and now he really did have to tie it. When he finished, he pulled out the last chair and sat down. The interview was already in progress.

“Can I keep this?” said the deputy. He was holding one of the flyers.

“Sure,” said Tam. “Course.”

“And how old is he?” said the deputy, folding the flyer.

“Thirteen,” said Tam.

“And a half,” said Pamela.

“So almost fourteen?” said the deputy.

Pamela just looked at him, like,
Obviously
. The deputy didn’t notice. He was jotting something down in his little notebook. Brando looked over. He squinted. He thought he could just make out the first —

“What’s your name, little dude?” said the deputy.

Brando looked up; the deputy was looking right at him. He was so startled that he nearly tipped his chair over backward. “Brando,” he said.

“It’s Brandon,” said his dad.

Oh my God
, thought Brando.
Did I just lie to the police?

“He prefers Brando these days,” said Pamela.

They were talking about him like he wasn’t there. He hated that.
Also
, he thought,
did he just call me “little dude”?
He didn’t feel guilty anymore. He felt mad.

“And how old are you?” said the deputy. Now he was talking too loud. Brando hated that, too. He hated when adults spoke LOUDLY and CLEARLY to him. How was that supposed to help? He wasn’t seven — or deaf. His grandmother shouted at him, too, but he didn’t mind that so much. She actually was deaf.

“I’M TWELVE!” he said.

“All right, little dude,” said the deputy, jotting it down. “No need to shout.” He turned back to Tam and Pamela, so he missed the look Brando gave him. The deputy had a talent for ducking looks.

“And when was the last time you saw” — Deputy Fulgham looked down at his notes — “Davey?”

“Last night,” said Tam.

“When we went to bed,” said Pamela.

“What time was that?”

“Around ten,” said Tam. “Maybe ten thirty. It was a long day.”

“You got in yesterday? From?”

“Yes,” said Pamela. “From Cincinnati. We live right outside.”

“And you were all in the one room?”

“Yes,” said Tam.

“And you didn’t notice he was missing until this morning?”

“No,” said Tam.

“No,” said Pamela.

And then everyone was looking at Brando. He felt his face getting hot. His stomach tightened up. Panic grabbed at him with a thousand sharp little fingers. But then he thought about the question, the actual words of it. The little fingers let go.

“No,” he said. And that was true. He hadn’t noticed Davey was missing until this morning. The deputy hadn’t asked him
when
this morning.

“And what time was that?”

D’oh!

“About eight thirty,” said Pamela.

Brando was stewing in his chair again. The umbrella built into the table was keeping the sun off them, but he still felt like he was in a microwave. The deputy didn’t even look over at him, though. The microwave clicked off.

“So he could’ve left anytime after ten thirty last night?” said Deputy Fulgham. He looked over at Marco, who shook his head.

“There’s someone at the desk until at least midnight.”

“That when the bar closes?” asked the deputy.

“Yes,” said Marco. “Kitchen closes at ten, but the bar stays open at least that late.”

It was quiet for a few minutes as the deputy scribbled furiously in his notebook. Finally, he looked up. “Who was at the desk last night?”

“Debbie,” said Marco. “Debbie Reyes. You know her.”

“Oh yeah … And?”

“Nothing,” said Marco. “Already called her. She remembers checking them in, that’s it.” Brando remembered the lady who had checked them in: She was tall, and her hair was taller. “And she definitely would’ve noticed a boy wandering around by himself at that hour.”

“Okay, so …” said the deputy. More scribbling.

“Listen, Deputy,” said Tam.

The scribbling stopped. He looked up.

“Our son wouldn’t … I mean, he wouldn’t leave the room in the middle of the night. Where would he even go?”

“Right, right, of course,” said the deputy. “Just trying to establish a time line here.”

More scribbling.

“So you think it was this morning?”

“Yes,” said Tam.

“Of course,” said Pamela.

“Yes,” said Brando. “He took his book.”

“He took his what?”

But before Brando could repeat it, the loudest family on the face of the earth arrived. At least that’s what they seemed like to Brando. It was two enormous adults and a little girl in water wings.

“Don’t go in the pool yet!” called the man.

“Not yet, baby!” called the woman.

“I wanna go in the water!” shrieked the child.

“Now, you wait for Mommy!”

The whole table watched them. There was a brief cease-fire in all the yelling as the family began to unload their stuff next to the lounge chairs on the other side of the pool.

“Yes, this morning,” said Pamela, tired of beating around the bush. “Someone saw him by the boat thing…. By the … the dock.”

“What was that?” said the deputy, suddenly all ears. “Come again?”

“Yes,” said Pamela, taking a deep breath before proceeding. “It was an English family. They told us in the lobby.”

Behind them, there was a splash, a scream. “Don’t go in the deep end!” called the little girl’s mother.

No one paid them any mind. Deputy Fulgham was scribbling so hard, Brando was sure he’d tear the paper.