43

"Cool," said Elizabeth.

"Awesome," said Max.

The children stood on the rocks seaward of the sea lion pool, watching Mrs. Bixler's vintage speedboat zoon out of its cove and approach in a high-speed turn.  As the boat banked, the late-day sun glittered on the polished mahogany hull and the stainless-steel fittings; it looked like a fantasy spaceship.

Max loved the boat, had begged Mrs. Bixler to let him drive it.  "Not till you get to be my age," she had said with a smile.  "Only an old fool like me drives an old boat like this one."

Amanda stood behind them; behind her, the sea lions rocked back and forth on their flippers, barking for their supper.

In the shed ten yards beyond the pool, a voice came over the speaker of the VHF radio.  "Osprey Base, Osprey Base, Osprey Base... Osprey Mako calling Osprey Base... come in, Osprey Base."

The voice echoed off the cement walls, unheard.

Mrs. Bixler was wearing an orange life jacket, sunglasses and a baseball cap turned backward so the bill would shelter her hairdo from the wind.  She slowed the boat as she neared the rocks, and the roar of the big GM V-8 engine lowered to a growl.  She picked up an ancient megaphone from the seat beside her and called through it, "I'm going to town for Bingo; probably spend the night with Sarah.  I'll get hold of the police when I get to shore, make sure Simon reported in.  They probably already sent a backup boat.  I'll call you if there's any news."

Amanda and the children waved.  Mrs. Bixler pushed the throttle forward, and, like a racehorse suddenly given its head, the boat leaped forward, banked around the point and headed west toward the mainland.

In the shed, the voice said again, "Osprey Base, Osprey Base... come in, Osprey Base..."

"Time to feed the girls," Amanda said, and she stepped back toward the pool.  "Then we'll go up to the house and I'll fix us some supper."  She took Elizabeth's hand, faced her and said, "I'm glad your mom said you could spend the night."

Elizabeth nodded and said, "Me too."

Max stayed out on the rocks, looking out to sea.  "I wonder where Dad is," he said.  "It's getting late."

"On his way home."  Amanda hoped her voice carried more conviction than she felt.  "We'll set places for him and Tall."

They fed the sea lions, returned the leftover fish to the refrigerator and stowed the plastic balls, rings, triangles and other training tools in the shed.  As she pulled the door closed behind her, she felt a faint vibration in the air, similar to that of a voice.  She looked around, but couldn't locate the source, so she shut the door.

The sound was muffled now, nearly inaudible:  " Osprey Base, this is Osprey Mako... come in, Osprey Base..."

When they reached the top of the hill, Max looked down and saw the heron standing in its tidal pool.  "I should go feed Chief Joseph," he said.

"Tall will do it," Amanda said.

"But he may not get in till late.  I can—"

"No," she said curtly, and she realized she was nervous... not afraid, for there was nothing to be afraid of, but apprehensive, anxious... but about what?  She didn't know.  She smiled at Max and softened her voice.  "Tall likes to do it, it's his ritual."

They continued on toward the little house where Amanda lived.

*          *          *          *          *

Mrs. Bixler was perched on the back of the front seat of the boat, steering with her bare feet.  The sea was oil calm, and the planing boat left a blade-straight wake in the flat water.  She felt young and free and happy.  This was her favorite pastime, her favorite time of day, cruising into the setting sun.  Already the water tower and white houses of the borough were turning pink; soon they would turn blue-gray; by the time she reached shore, they would be the flat gray that was the harbinger of night.

Something in the water ahead caught her eye.  She dropped her feet from the wheel, stood in the seat and held the wheel with one hand.

A dorsal fin, tall and perfectly triangular zigzagged through the water; behind it, a scythelike tail slashed back and forth.

A shark?  What was a shark doing around here this late in the day?  A big shark, too, probably fifteen feet long.

She turned the boat and followed the fin.  The shark seemed to be behaving erratically.  Though she was hardly an expert, she knew enough from listening to know that this shark wasn't just traveling; it was feeding, or about to.  It was hunting.

As she drew near, she saw a glint of metal behind the dorsal fin:  a tag.  One of the Institute's tags.  This was Simon's great white shark.

At the approach of the boat, the shark submerged and disappeared.  Mrs. Bixler waited for a moment, but the shark did not surface again, and so she turned back toward shore.

She couldn't wait to tell Simon; he be fascinated — excited, even thrilled — to know that his shark had shown up again.  Now that he had recovered the sensor head, he could locate the shark and...

Something else in the water, dead ahead.  A man.  Swimming.  At least, it looked like a man, though it was bigger than any man she had ever seen, and it was swimming like a porpoise, arching his broad back out of water and kicking with his feet together.

The damn fool, she thought.  Swimming out here, at twilight.

She realized that the man was what the shark was hunting.

She accelerated toward the man, praying she could reach him before the shark did, praying she'd be strong enough to haul him aboard, praying...

Suddenly he was gone, too.  Submerged, just like the shark.  She stopped the boat and looked around, waiting for him to come up.  He'd have to surface, he'd have to.  He'd have to breathe.

Unless the shark had already gotten him.  Or he had already drowned.  What could she do then?

The man didn't reappear, and fear seized Mrs. Bixler.  It was a vague but profound terror of something she couldn't identify.

She put the boat in gear, jammed the throttle forward and aimed the bow of the boat toward the mainland.