5

Venice Beach, Florida

Danielle Taylor lies back in the twin-size bed, feigning fatigue, as her parents enter from the adjoining room of the suite.

She inhales her mother's perfume seconds before the kiss on her forehead.  "Still feeling queasy?"

"A little."

"Your brother's out on the balcony, playing video games.  Try to get some rest."

"I will.  Have fun at dinner."

Jonas waves from the doorway.  "Night, Dani.  Remember, you're still grounded.  That means you don't leave this room."

"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?"  She rolls over, exaggerating her annoyance.

Jonas starts to say something.  Decides against it.

The outer door double clicks shut.  Danielle waits five minutes, then heads outside to the balcony where her brother is spread-eagled on a lounge chair, absorbed in a video combat game.

"Hey, Poindexter, I'm going for a soda run.  Want anything?"

"Don't lie.  If you really wanted a soda, you'd be ordering room service.  You're sneaking out."

"Okay, how much to buy your silence?"

"Ten bucks."

"Five."

She heads back inside.  Removes a $5 bill from her purse.  Crumples it up and tosses it at her brother.  Returning to her bedroom she slips an unbecoming gray flannel jogging suit over her hip-huggers and see-through blouse, then applies makeup, doubling up on the eyeliner.

Danielle pockets one of the card keys to the room and leaves the suite.  Avoiding the elevator, she takes the staircase five floors down to the lobby, pushes open the metal fire door, and peeks into the corridor.

Restaurant and lounge to the left, the hallway leading to the pool and beach to the right.

Keeping her head down, she turns right, following the carpeted corridor past the ice machine, then exits out to the pool deck and beach club.

It's after nine, the pool area closed for the evening.  Leaving the fenced-in area, she heads for the beach.

The Gulf is calm and soothing, the night air warm, the sky a mixture of stars concealed behind whiffs of white clouds.  She strips off the sweat suit, fixes her hair, then heads for the group of people gathered around a small campfire along a dark stretch of beach.

The aroma of beer and pot cut through the salty air, the pulse of rap music overpowering the sound of the surf.  Couples are making out along the darkened periphery.  Approaching the campfire, she stumbles over a sleeping bag, the naked couple inside barely noticing.

Several dozen people sit around a campfire, now burned down to charred logs and glowing embers.  Dani sees faces in the shadows—teens, mostly female groupies, mingling with members of the Daredevil troupe.

Look at them . . . swooning all over these guys.  How pathetic.

She turns to leave, then hears Wayne Ferguson's voice.  "No worries.  Plenty of time to cut away.  You do what you gotta do."

He is seated on a log at the edge of the campfire, dressed in a "Surf the Wild West Coast" sweatshirt.

Dani takes a seat behind two heavily tattooed bikers, uncertain if the one on the left is a man or woman.

Fergie takes a long swig of beer, draining it.  "Yep, Lady Di was lookin' out for me today."

"Hey, Fergie, tell ‘em the story about Blackfellas."

"Nah, they don't want to hear that again.  Besides, Adam'll just interrupt, won't you mate?"

"Only when you get it wrong."  Adam Potter is lying on his back, his head in the lap of a bikini-topped platinum blonde.  Short and athletically built, the computer executive and part-time Daredevil manager has short-cropped copper-brown hair and a reddish-blond goatee.  Dani notices the tattoo of an Indian on the man's right shoulder peeking out beneath his cut-off sweatshirt.

Catcalls of persuasion.

"All right, all right.  Someone toss me another coldie and I'll spill my guts."

A bottle of beer is fished from a bucket of ice and passed to Fergie.

Shushes.  The crowd quiets.

"Happened ten months ago, right Adam?"

"Eleven."

"Eleven, right.  It was just after Diana left us.  Anyway, Adam and me were hired by a surfing magazine out of Elliston to take underwater shots of surfers.  First stop naturally was Blackfellas, our name for Blacks Point, a somewhat empty expanse of Australian sea located at the entrance to Anxious Bay."

"It's on the southside of Australia," Adam adds, "a wild surfing spot.  As the waves hit the submerged rock shelf, they create immense left-handed breaks—perfect for filming."

"Am I telling this or you?"

"Sorry."

"Right.  Anyway, I'm working below the waves while Adam's on the wave-runner, changing film and posing for the Sheilas, when one of the Yanks . . . what was his name?"

"Christopher Laubin."

"Right.  Well, old Chris catches a beaut, and yours truly is bobbing right in the tube, camera pointed, clicking away like a battler, when all of a sudden, this enormous shark comes poking her head right out from under and bites poor Christopher below the left knee, surfboard and all."

Whispers of awe.

Dani feels her blood run cold.

"The wave takes Chris under, and I duck too, ‘cept I'm rushing to let the air out of my vest, thinking maybe I don’t' wanna be on the surface about now, ‘specially with all that blood in the water.  So I'm sinking like a rock, and all I can see is pink foam, and then I spot the shark.  It was a White Pointer, a real nasty bitch, what you Yanks call a Great White, and she was a big one, too, maybe seven meters from snout to tail, and she's circling poor Christopher, but I mean really circling, very fast, like she intends to finish him off.  Chris's on the surface now and he's got hold of what's left of his board and he's paddlin' toward the cliff face, but I can see there's no way he's going to make it.  Then I hear the wave-runner."

"I was circling, looking for him," Adam says.  "I saw a little blood in the water, but I just assumed he cut himself on the coral.  So I pulled up next to him and asked him if he needed a ride in.  He looked pale, but calm, and he said, 'It bit me, Adam.'  And that's when I noticed all the blood, it was just gushing out of him.  So I grabbed him under the arm to hoist him on the wave-runner—"

"—and the shark struck again . . . wham!"  Fergie smashes his balled fist into his other palm.  "Grabbed Christopher around the torso and shook him like a ragdoll."

"About jerked my arm out of its socket," continues Adam.  "That shark and I had a real tug-of-war.  Big wave's bearing down on us and Chris's screaming, 'Go-go-go,' as he grabs hold of the side of the wave-runner, so I hit the throttle and yanked him from the shark's mouth."  Adam pauses, fighting his emotions.  "It was brutal.  He pulled clear but left half of his lower torso behind . . . damn shark just mangled the hell out of him.  Bled to death before we reached the cliff face."

Fergie nods.  "Now it's me and the pointer, and she'd mighty pissed because Adam just stole the rest of her meal.  Before I know what's happening, she's charging me, driving her ugly snout clear into my gut."

"Oh my God, what did you do?"  A tall redhead in a dental-floss bikini covers her mouth.

Feeding off the crowd, Fergie stands, pacing around the campfire.  "Did the only thing I could—I held on.  Pushed down on the top of her snout with both hands, preventing her from getting those nasty ivories on me.  She's snapping and snapping, but her eyes are rolled back, see, so she's not quite sure where to bite.  Meanwhile I'm kicking and kneeing her, but it’s like hitting a pickup truck.  Finally off she swims, only she doesn't leave, she just circles above me, just like she did with Chris.  Me, I'm staying close to the bottom, moving from one coral reef to the next, hoping she'll lose interest and go away—"

"—but she didn't."

Fergie drains his beer, then tosses the bottle in a trash bag.  "Charged me seven more times . . . seven.  Enough to make a man go insane.  Fourth time she knocked my mask off . . . now that was really scary.  Could barely see her as she drove me into the reef.  Feelin' around, I stuck my thumb in the white of her right eye.  She didn't like that and spun away, giving me a chance to retrieve my mask."

"Wow.  How long were you down there?" asks another groupie.

"Felt like hours, but my dive computer said it was only twenty minutes."

"How'd you get away?" the redhead asks.

"Coast Guard finally came by.  I waited until the pointer moved off a bit, then made a mad dash for the surface.  Those were the worst moments . . . not seeing her, knowing she was coming around from below.  But I made it.  Two days later we finished shooting and that's all I have to say about that."

"Are you nuts?" Dani yells out, suddenly realizing she was standing.  "I mean . . . why would you go back after that?"

Fergie smiles.  "Had to go back.  Can't let some guppie dictate how I make my living."

"Sharks aren't after people anyway."  Michael Coffey enters the ring of listeners.  Salt and pepper hair, built like a rugby player, the older Daredevil's presence is clearly meant as a challenge to Fergie's hold on the group.

"You're wrong there, mate.  This shark tasted human flesh and wanted more."

"Bullcrap.  The shark obviously mistook the surfer for a seal.  It only went after you because there was blood in the water and it became aroused."

"Yeah, its hunger for human flesh was aroused."

"You know nothing about these creatures.  I've swum with Great Whites in the open water, I'll be doing it again this winter in South Africa.  The sharks have no interest in humans as food.  Trust me, bee stings kill more people every year than these fish."

"Bee stings?  You're daft, Coffey.  Bee stings don't gut a man.  And I don’t' agree with your theory about seals.  Every year, shark tour operators dump more and more chum into Aussie waters, luring the whites closer to their dive cages so greenies like you can snap photos and act all macho.  These Whites are smart, and we're training them to associate humans with food.  Damn cage-dive operators.  Their brochures should read:  'Man:  The Other White Meat.'"

Scattered laughter.

Coffey is not amused.  "And what would you do?  Slaughter these magnificent animals because they happen to inhabit the same waters as surfers?"

"Sharks are like people, mate, there's docile ones, and ones that have tasted human flesh.  You get one that associates man with food and you'd better kill it, or close the beaches."

"More Jaws bullcrap.  It's stories like yours that endanger the entire species."

"Only species I care about is my own."

Adam chimes in.  "No one wants to kill a White Shark, but Fergie's got a point, Michael.  If you'd been there, if you had seen this shark, you wouldn't be so quick to defend her.  Lions that taste human blood have to be hunted down or else villagers die.  Once a predator acquires a taste, it's kill or be killed."

Coffey shakes his head.  "Live and let live, that's my creed."  He eyes Fergie.  "Besides, if I could choose how I'd go, I'd rather my meat be used to feed a godly creature like a Great White than waste my flesh by dropping it from fourteen thousand feet."

Fergie's balled fist slams into Coffey's mouth, and then both men are on the ground, punching and rolling.  Adam and several other Daredevils jump into the fray, pulling the bigger American off the Aussie.

Coffey smiles, his mouth bleeding.  "What's wrong, birdman?  Can't take a little joke?"

Fergie is a raging volcano.  "Eat me, you bloody drongo.  This ain't over.  We'll settle this at sea."

"Fine by me."  Coffey spits blood and a front tooth into his hand, then tosses it at Fergie.  "here, give this to the tooth fairy."

Fergie pushes Adam's grip from his forearm and storms off into the shadows, his damaged ego kicking at the sand.

Dani waits a moment, then chases after him.  She catches up by the water's edge.  "Hey—"

Fergie ignores her.

"You okay?"

"Guy's a dill.  Big hotshot.  Thinks his piss don't stink just because he won last season's Daredevil."

"He sure knows how to push your buttons."

"Part of his mind games, and I fall for it every time."  He tosses a shell at an incoming wave.

"Who's Di?"

Fergie looks out to sea.  "She was my fiancée.  Died during last year's show."

"I'm sorry."  She waits out of respect.  "Fergie—"

"You want to know why I do it.  Why I risk my arse."

"You almost died this afternoon, but it doesn't seem to faze you in the least.  Do you have a death wish?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Fergie turns to her.  "Look, it may seem like I seek out life and death scenarios, but it has nothing to do with a desire to die, it has to do with a desire to live."

"You're right.  I don't understand."

"Every person dies, Dani, but few of us ever truly live.  Most people waste their lives working nine-to-five in some job they hate like poison, worrying about stupid deadlines, while greedy CEOs steal from their pension fund.  My father, he used to work in a medical ward, a place they send the living dead to rot while their children haggle over the inheritance.  During summers, I used to work for him, cleaning bed pans, massaging pockets of flesh that hadn't seen circulation in years.  The stuff of nightmares is what it was.  Old people who are clinically dead, sucking on breathing tubes, feeding off morphine.  The loved ones insist on keepin' 'em alive.  I've seen things, terrible things I wished I'd never seen.  Deteriorating flesh.  Exposed spinal columns.  One old guy even had maggots growing in his throat.  The flies sometimes get in through the tubes—"

"Stop, you're making me sick."

"Made me sick, too.  But that's life, the uglier side no one hears about.  Me, I had my fill.  I quit school and left home, setting out to experience the thrill of living."

"And nearly dying gives you that?"

"I know it's hard to fathom, but when that parachute failed, part of me was loving it.  There I was . . . right on the edge of living and dying, and I'm the only one who could save me.  That's living on the edge, and it's an amazing feeling.  No fear . . . there's no time for it.  At that moment, you're totally focused on survival.  Adrenaline goes into overdrive, time seems to stand still.  When the reserve chute opens and you know you're going to live, you have so much energy you feel like you're going to burst.  It's still running through me, it'll keep me up all night.  That's what life's about, Dani, taking risks, putting yourself on the edge.  In some ways, I'm like that White Pointer, the one who killed Christopher.  Once you get that taste in your mouth, that taste for adventure, it never goes away.  Diana's dead, but she lived a good life, lived the way she wanted to, all the bullshit stripped away.  I miss her, but in a way, I'm happy for her too."

Danielle leans against him.  "My life . . . it's such a bore compared to yours.  And my father—he's so uptight, sometimes I think his brain's going to burst.  He drives me crazy with all his stupid rules, and my mother—she's afraid to try anything new.  All she cares about is keeping the family safe.  She's so afraid, it's no wonder she goes to therapy.  My brother's nose is always buried in a book, he's a sci-if dweeb, and my so-called friends—all they're into is competing for guys.  I have no freedom, and my parents already have the next five years of my life planned.  I hate it."

"Then do something about it.  It's your life, Dani, take control.  Live every day like it was your last."

"I wish I could.  I wish I could just come with you, live the way you do . . . tell them all to just fuck themselves."

"Do it."

"I can't . . . I can't do the things you do.  I'm too chicken."

"No one's saying you should jump from planes, just let yourself go.  You're immortal ‘til you die."

She reaches into her pocket.  Takes out a joint.  "Want to get high?"

"I don't do drugs.  Drug highs are artificial, followed by nasty lows.  I get high on adrenaline.  I get high on trying new things, by putting myself out there."  He takes the joint from her, tossing it into the sea.

"Hey—"

Fergie's lips stifle her objection.  Any thought of resistance disappears as she turns to Jello in his arms.  He pulls her down to the wet sand, his touch electric velvet as he peels of her clothes, sending jolts of excitement through her groin.

"Let go, Dani Taylor.  It's time to live."

*        *        *        *        *

It is after midnight by the time Jonas and Terry return to their suite.  Jonas guides his room key into the card slot, cursing as the door fails to unlock.

"You're doing it backward.  Give it to me."

"I can handle it, thank you."  He flips the card around.  Fails again.

Terry takes it from him and opens the door.  "Men.  So helpless."

"I'll remind you of that the next time you drag me off the couch to kill a spider."  He kicks off his shoes, collapsing on the bed.

"Are we going to discuss this or not?"

"We've been discussing it all night.  Bottom line:  We need the money."

"So that's it?  You're definitely going?"  She yanks open the sliding glass door to the balcony and steps outside, letting in a gust of tropical air.

So much for sex.  Jonas pries himself off the bed.  He joins her on the balcony, putting his arms around her.

"Don't touch me."

"Come on, Tee, it's not that long."

"Open your eyes, Jonas.  Dani turns eighteen soon.  This is probably her last summer at home—assuming she doesn't take off after her birthday.  Meanwhile, my father's health is deteriorating, David's on the traveling team for Little League, and you're on some Hollywood singles cruise roaming the South Pacific for seven weeks."

"Working, Terry, I'll be working—bringing in money this family desperately needs."

"Leaving me to hold this family together!  I won't go through this again, Jonas, I won't."

"Go through what?  What are you so afraid of?"

She shakes her head, the tears of frustration causing silky strands of ebony hair to stick to her cheeks.  "I was eleven when my mother died.  My father—he didn't know what to do, didn't know how he could raise a family and still earn a living as a marine biologist.  D.J. and I were too young to take on ocean voyages, so my father hired a woman to stay with us while he traveled.  He'd leave us for months at a time.  The nanny cooked and cleaned, but she wasn't there for us emotionally.  That was my role.  I was left to be D.J.'s parent.  Holidays, birthdays . . . it was all up to me.  And each time my father would pack his bags to leave us again, he'd put me on his lap and say, 'Terry, you know I have to do this to support our family, so I'm counting on you to keep everything together while I'm gone.'  Thirty years later, D.J.'s dead, and my father's still pretending he's doing everything for the family . . . and now, so are you.  Our children are growing up, Jonas, and you're missing out on it."

"Tell that to our bank, Terry, when they move to foreclose on our home.  Tell that to the auto mechanic when our car breaks down like it did last month, or the HMO who gouges us every month for medical insurance.  Tell it to the electric and water company, the next time they shut us off, or better yet, tell it to Dani, God forbid she should actually want  to go to college next fall.  I don't agree with what your father did, but I understand his motives.  As far as this stupid TV show is concerned, it's a one-time thing, and I can't afford to let it slip by because you're . . . well, you know."

"No, I don't know."  She turns to face him, her almond eyes full of rage.  "Say it."

"Your therapist said it best.  You're still haunted by memories of what happened to you eighteen years ago.  You haven't been the same since the experience on the Benthos.  It's left you overprotective, refusing to allow you or any of us to take any kind of risk."

"Fine.  You want to leave us for two months, do it, I don't care anymore.  And yes, maybe I do have some issues to deal with, but so do you.  You can't blame all our financial difficulties on me.  You had plenty of good job offers over the last fifteen years, but you refused to take them."

"I can't sit behind a desk all day."

"Why not?  Other husbands do."

"Yeah, well, it's just not me."

"But you're jumping at this offer, aren't you?  Another call to adventure, another chance to convince yourself that you're still some macho warrior capable of fighting the good fight, whatever the hell that means."

"I've been hired to emcee some stupid television show.  I'm not a contestant."

"Not yet, but you will be.  I can hear it in Erik's words as he sings praises to your ego and I can see it in your eyes.  I know you, Jonas Taylor.  You can't wait to show the world what you’ve still got left in your tank.  So go off and play, go sail you last soldier's hurrah while you deny your own male menopause, but don't feed me any more of this bullshit about earning a living, because we both know that's a lie."

The ring of the telephone cuts off his rebuttal.

"Hello."  Jonas watches as Terry's expression changes, her eyes saddening, her lower lip quivering.  "Okay . . . okay . . . No, I can handle it.  Thank you for calling."  She hangs up.

"What happened?  What's wrong?"

She looks up at him, a  lost child.  "My father.  He's dead."