Gargantua Page 4

  The third was from his editor at Scientific American, who was justifiably annoyed at his tardiness in delivering his latest column. Hell and damnation, he thought with a sigh. The seismic activity in the local waters had gone into overdrive, and he’d spent every waking moment—and, if it came to that, every napping moment—trying to figure out why. His quarterly column for SA had gone straight out of his mind.

  A whistling sound from the kitchen grabbed his attention. He wandered back into the kitchen, switched the burner off, and poured the water into the waiting mug. He contemplated several options, most of which boiled down to coming up with some kind of excuse. He even briefly entertained the notion of using those two poor sheilas drowning the previous night, then immediately rejected the idea as tasteless and irresponsible.

  Walking back to the computer and setting the steeping tea on a coaster next to it, he decided to just go for the truth. Sighing, he hit the REPLY button and typed, Sorry, love, been a bit crazy hereabouts. By Friday, I promise. Cheers, Ralph.

  None of the e-mails were the one he truly wanted to see: the one from his old friend Andrew Angelopoulos, a marine biologist from Queensland. He’d gone on walkabout at the beginning of the semester, but Hale remembered him as an obsessive net-head. He thought for sure that Angelopoulos would check his e-mail, but he hadn’t replied to any of the messages Hale had sent over the past week. Pity. Could use a marine biologist’s input right about now.

  He took one last quick glance over the various mailing list messages to see if any subject lines looked familiar—sure enough, a few did, and he read those, and started composing replies to one or two. One in particular was a pronouncement made by some know-nothing undergraduate about sharks that Hale couldn’t just let go by without a severe reprimand from someone who actually knew what he was talking about.

  After a minute, he glanced at his watch—which read 1:02. His tea had gone cold and he was late.

  Hell and damnation, this contraption’ll be the death of me. He quit out of the e-mail program, shut the computer down, gulped down the last of his tea, grabbed a small shovel, and headed out to the beach.

  Outside, it was another hot and humid day, as would be expected for a South Seas island. Hale loved it. Well, not the humidity, but other things made up for it—unlike, say, Atlanta, where he had spent many years as a geology professor, and where the humidity seemed all-encompassing.

  He walked the short distance from the bungalow the Institute had rented to the beach where he’d buried the prototype seismograph. On the way, he saw a much lower concentration of people than one would expect on such a beautiful day. Hale thought again about the two American girls who drowned. Poor sheilas, going on vacation and winding up like that.

  Not everyone had been intimidated by the news of drowning tourists—Hale saw a man, woman, and a little bloke who couldn’t have been more than eight eating a picnic lunch, and another man playing Frisbee with his dog. ’Course, maybe they didn’t hear about what happened, Hale thought, then dismissed it. It was possible, of course, but not likely. News travelled faster than the wind on Malau.

  Another little bloke was watching the picnicking family with a peculiar interest. Hale noticed that the boy was holding, of all things, a water thermometer—and also that he had a longing expression on his face. Hale wondered what had brought that on.

  Stop trying to figure out other people’s lives, he admonished himself, shaking his head, and get on with the work.

  Ralph Hale had a phenomenal memory, and so moved unerringly to the very spot where he had buried the seismograph twenty-four hours earlier. Kneeling down into the sand, he started digging with the shovel until he found the latest toy from his techies at the Institute. Once the shovel struck the metal of the seismograph’s container, he set it aside and pushed the remaining sand away with his hands.

  Inevitably, his action caught someone’s eye—a young man approached just as Hale finished unearthing the device.

  “Is that some kind of seismograph?” the man asked.

  Hale looked up sharply at the man. He had spoken with an American accent, and Hale saw that he held a couple of sample jars. “Yeah,” he said. “Excellent guess. It’s just a prototype, mind you.”

  “Great toy. Doctor Hale, I presume?”

  Hale stood up. “Another good guess,” he said. This time he wasn’t surprised; anyone bright enough to recognize the seismograph for what it was would probably know Hale was on the island.

  “I’ve read your articles, and your column in Scientific American. I’m a marine biologist—Jack Ellway.”

  “Ralph Hale,” he replied automatically, then shook the man’s hand. “You know that, of course. Never mind.” A marine biologist, he thought, remembering several unanswered e-mails from Angelopoulos. Well, the hell with you, old friend, I’ve got someone close to home now. “I’m glad you’re here, actually—I’ve been wanting to get a perspective from someone on your end of things about all this seismic activity.”

  “Well, the water temperature’s changing, for one thing, which could affect migratory patterns. I’ve got my son checking some of that now.”

  Hale remembered the little bloke with the water thermometer. “That’s your son?”

  Ellway smiled. “Yeah, and my intern—well, he prefers ‘assistant.’ Either way, he’s very bright. A lot better than most of the other losers I’ve had as interns, believe me.”

  “Yeah, well, I had enough of that when I was teaching undergraduates. That’s why I usually work alone now. Besides, I like to get my own hands dirty.” Realizing they were getting off track, Hale steered the conversation back to migratory patterns. “Have you noticed any particular shifts?”

  “I only just arrived today, so I haven’t had time to do any kind of serious projections, but I think we can expect certain . . .”

  Brandon looked wistfully as a woman wiped her son’s face with a napkin. At least, Brandon figured they were a family. They certainly looked like a family.

  They look like us.

  He remembered the Key West trip. On their last day there, after Mom and Dad had completed their work (days ahead of schedule, as it happened), they had thrown together a picnic on the beach. Brandon hadn’t much liked the Key West beach—not wide enough, and the waves were all wimpy—but they had had a great time. They hadn’t had sandwiches, though—Mom had put together a bunch of different fish plates.

  Aside from that, though, these three people were dead ringers for the Ellway family in Key West.

  We’ll never have that kind of picnic again.

  Then: Stop it! They’re probably not even a real family. Probably just some lady and her nephew and some guy she met at a bar somewhere or something like that. You don’t know that they’re a real family.

  Having convinced himself of that, Brandon went on toward the rocks where Dad had asked him to take the water temperature. He looked back to see Dad talking to some older guy. Whatever they were talking about, Dad was really into it. The old dude’s gotta be a scientist. Dad didn’t get that look on his face unless he was talking about work. Certainly, he never looked like that during lunch with Paul, though Paul was certainly nice enough.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brandon noticed a guy throwing a Frisbee toward the water, a dog going after it. The guy who threw it winced as the Frisbee glided over into the surf. Probably overthrew it, Brandon thought. Mom always got that look on her face when she overthrew a Frisbee back when we used to—

  Stop thinking about it!

  The guy ran toward the water even as the dog obediently ran into the crashing waves to retrieve the Frisbee—suddenly, the dog turned around and ran out of the water, making little yipe yipe noises.

  The guy met his dog halfway, and knelt down to ruffle its now wet fur. “What’s the matter, boy?”

  Of course, the dog didn’t answer, so the guy looked out to the ocean to see if he could see what the dog saw.

  Curious, Brandon followed the guy’s gaze.

/>   Suddenly, something poked its head out of the water, just for a second. All Brandon could really see were a what looked like a horn and a pair of eyes. It might’ve been a carnival mask, like the ones he’d seen in New Orleans.

  But carnival masks didn’t usually have scales.

  They didn’t usually blink, either.

  The guy looked at Brandon, his eyes wide. “Did you see that?”

  “Yeah. What was it?”

  “I dunno.” He turned back to the ocean.

  Brandon did the same, but the thing had disappeared, and nothing else poked out from the water.

  “Weird. Maybe it was nothing,” Brandon said.

  “Maybe,” the guy said. “Sure spooked Fred here.” He looked down at the dog, which still looked frightened out of its mind. “Hey, c’mon boy, it’s okay,” the guy said, scratching the dog behind the ears.

  Brandon, meanwhile, went on to the rocks. Maybe I did imagine it.

  Yeah, right. So did that guy and his dog. Still, it was probably just some kind of fish or amphibian or something. Brandon was pretty good at recognizing marine life at this point, but he had hardly gotten a good enough look at whatever it was to identify it.

  He went to perform the task his father had set him and put the creature out of his mind.

  “You’re going out windsurfing? Tonight? What’re you, nuts?”

  Kulani sighed. She had been hoping that her father would work late tonight so that she and Dak could go out without a lecture, but no such luck.

  “I’m not nuts, Pop. Dak and I planned this two days ago, and we’re going.”

  “What about those two girls—”

  “Pop, just because two beach bimbos were too stupid to stay out of a fishing net doesn’t mean Dak and I shouldn’t go out.”

  Pop glared at Kulani. She was worried that he’d try to forbid her from going. It wouldn’t work, of course—Kulani was an adult, and he had no right to control her movements. She was only living with him until she and Dak got married anyhow.

  Finally he said, “They weren’t beach bimbos, they were from Minnesota. And one of them was an experienced diver. It was in the paper.”

  Kulani rolled her eyes. “Pop, they’re just a couple of dumb tourists. I’m a grown woman who’s been windsurfing since I was two, and it’s a beautiful night out.”

  Pop walked up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. In a much softer voice, he said, “Lani, I just want you to be safe.”

  Her anger melted and she sighed, kissing Pop on the forehead as she said, “Don’t worry, Pop, I’ll be careful.” Then she hugged him.

  A knock came from the front door. “Hello?” It was Dak.

  “Dak!” Kulani broke her father’s embrace and ran to the man she loved. She almost leapt into his arms; she did kiss him. She hadn’t seen him in almost a full day, and she had been counting the moments until she saw him again.

  She couldn’t wait to be married to him so that she would see him all the time.

  “Ready to go?” he said after she finally paused for breath.

  “Definitely.”

  Pop said, “You two be careful out there, okay?”

  In a deferential voice, Dak said, “Don’t worry, sir, we will.” Dak had always been good about being on his best behavior around Pop. It was one of several reasons why Pop blessed their engagement.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” Kulani said, pulling on Dak’s arm, trying to drag him out the door. His battered blue pickup truck was parked out front, the two sets of surf skis in the cab. “What took you so long?” she asked as she got into the passenger’s side seat. “I thought I’d have to listen to Pop bitching and moaning about the dangers of the water for hours.”

  Dak laughed as he got in on his side. “Since when does your father think it’s dangerous to go in the water?”

  “Since two dumb Americans couldn’t figure out how to get out of a fishing net.”

  “Well, he’s not the only one spooked,” Dak said as he started the truck. It stalled. “Derek didn’t get a single ride today—spent the whole day in Manny’s.”

  “Manny must’ve loved that.”

  Dak tried to start the truck again. This time, it stayed on, and they drove off to the beach. “Anyhow, practice ran a little late. Maru was being little Mister Perfectionist again.”

  Kulani smiled. Dak was in Friends Anemones, the house band at Rik’s Bar and Grill; he played bongos and other percussion, and was quite good at it. They were hoping to get some gigs on some of the other islands, maybe even in Sydney or Melbourne or Manila.

  The trip to the beach took only a few minutes—they wouldn’t have bothered with the vehicle at all if it weren’t for the skis. Dak simply left the car at a spot a short walk from the shore—parking regulations were rather loose on Malau—and they got out.

  Kulani moved to the back of the truck, as did Dak. She waited for Dak to open the cab door, but instead he took her in his arms and kissed her.

  The kiss took some time—how long, Kulani did not know, nor did she much care. All she cared about was Dak.

  “Have I told you recently how beautiful you are?” Dak asked after the kiss ended.

  “It’s been hours.”

  “Much too long, then,” he said, and kissed her again. After this last kiss, he smiled, opened the truck, and grabbed a pair of skis.

  A small frown on her face, Kulani did likewise with the other pair.

  When they reached the edge of the surf, they set the skis down. Before Dak could do anything else, Kulani leaned over and kissed him. Dak was only surprised for a moment, then he returned the kiss.

  After they broke it, Kulani waited expectantly—but Dak pushed off into the water. Sighing, Kulani followed.

  Within a few minutes, they were in the middle of the ocean, the salt spraying on their faces, the stars shining in the sky, and Kulani staring at Dak’s lovely back.

  That back then pivoted and turned, and Kulani looked up to see Dak staring at her. “You’re so beautiful.”

  Finally, she thought, smiling. She imagined that she glowed in the moonlight.

  Suddenly, Dak lost his balance—unusual, in and of itself, since Dak had almost perfect balance. Then she started to glide past him.

  For some reason, Dak was dead in the water.

  “Dak?”

  Rather than answer, Dak looked down at his skis. Kulani followed his gaze to the rope attached to the back of the skis, which was, peculiarly, taut.

  Kulani looked back up at Dak, but he looked as confused as she. She was about to ask him what was going on, when suddenly, she found herself moving farther away from him, faster. But that doesn’t make sense.

  Then she realized that she wasn’t moving faster—Dak was being pulled backwards.

  “Oh, my God,” Dak said.

  Kulani was frozen with indecision—not to mention necessity. Unlike Dak, she had a much harder time keeping her balance, and if she tried to turn around, or maneuver in some other way, she would probably fall into the ocean. Oh, God, what do I do?

  Dak’s skis were moving faster now, and farther away from her. “Help me!” he cried.

  A fist of ice closed over Kulani’s heart as Dak finally did lose his balance and fell into the water.

  “Dak!”

  As he fell, his head hit one of the skis with a sickening thud.

  “Dak!”

  With that cry, Kulani lost her balance and fell into the water. She thrashed about for a minute before getting her bearings and breaking through to the surface. She swam over to one of Dak’s skis and found purchase on it.

  “Dak! Dak!”

  Then she saw the blood.

  “Nooooooo!”

  More blood, so much that the water turned the color of red wine. So much that Kulani thought she’d drown in it.

  She screamed.

  She screamed until her throat went raw.

  Finally, she stopped screaming and started to cry.

  Then Dak’s body floated up to
the surface, and the screaming started again.

  THREE

  Until arriving on Malau, Jack Ellway had never met a head of state. Since arriving, he’d not only met one, but eaten at his restaurant, and now was having dinner with him. He found he was rather enjoying the experience. The fact that said head of state had asked to join him, his son, and Ralph Hale in a humble manner uncharacteristic of most politicians helped, as did the fact that the president’s chosen topic of conversation was Jack’s work.

  Toward the end of the meal, Manny said, “Fascinating. If it is not too impertinent, who is paying for all of this?”

  Jack swallowed a bite of his delicious boiled mud crab before answering. “Well, I’m working on a partial grant from UCSD. Sorry, that’s the University of—”

  “California at San Diego, yes, I know. I received a Master’s in English Literature from their Revelle College,” Manny said.

  “Uh, right.” That, like so many things about the Malauan president, surprised Jack. The image he had formed of Manny Moki kept being thrown for a loop with each new revelation.

  “So you live in La Jolla?” Manny asked, referring to the San Diego suburb where UCSD’s campus was located.

  “No, we’re in San Diego proper, though we haven’t gotten back there much the last few months.”

  “Interesting. I must thank you, Mr. Ellway, for indulging an old man’s tedious questions.”

  “Oh, not at all,” Jack said, taking a final bite of his mud crab.

  “Dad loves talking about work,” Brandon said with a roll of his eyes.

  Hale laughed. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”