14
The circle of light . . . so precious, as precious as the air he is sucking into his mouth, as precious as the mask shielding his eyes and nose from his toxic environment.
Jonas wiggles like a tadpole, pushing through tightening hot layers of internal organs, moving almost blindly in the suffocating darkness toward the epicenter of the tremors, the circle of light, like a halo, his only friend.
His head pounds with the reverberations, his eardrums and brain and bones buzzing with each double beat.
Stay focused . . . allow your thoughts to stray and you'll allow the insanity of the act to gain a foothold. Keep moving through the chamber of horrors, and stop that god-awful sound.
He is falling and then he is rising, he is slipping, then he is clawing, precious flashlight in one hand, fossilized Megalodon tooth in the other, the latter clenched so tightly that its serrations are drawing blood.
His heart beats in unison with the infernal sound, his ears pound in rhythm with its incessant vibrations. And then the walls that wedge in his existence—the walls of Jericho—slam-dance against his flushed face, announcing the organ's presence, and he slices through the membrane, hacking and sawing with that serrated edge until the walls split apart and reveal the heart of the beast to him.
The precious light fades, but even by its dim halo Jonas can see the basketball-size organ, thumping and squeezing within its protective hive of blood vessels, singing at him like Poe's telltale heart, mocking him in its unholy thunder. Anger swells and Jonas pushes headfirst into the cardiac chamber, nearly tumbling into oblivion as his host descends rapidly like a 747 airbus hitting wind shear.
The first stab spurts a pint of blood that squelches his light. His mind screams in the darkness, the insanity of his plight asphyxiating his brain. Blindly reaching forward, he clutches the pounding organ to his chest and hacks at its blood vessels like Ahab punishing his white whale.
Bracing his legs, pulling with all his might, praying with all his soul, he bellows into the rapidly draining pony bottle of air like a man awakening in a buried coffin.
The dam bursts, exploding hot blood against his face mask.
The god-awful sound ceases, replaced by a suffocating silence and his own muffled screams—
* * * * *
Unable to breathe, Jonas rolls off his face and awakens, his heart pounding like a timpani drum. "Jesus . . . Christ."
He lies on his back, his eyes focusing on the golden slivers of dawn peeking through the cabin's lone porthole.
A knock, and Erik Hollander enters. "Jonas, you awake?"
He rolls out of the hammock, grimacing as his lower back greets him good morning.
"You okay?"
"Lower back's out again. Wish you had a chiropractor on board."
"Want me to get one of the Candy Girls to massage you?"
Jonas responds with a scowl.
"Okay, but I need you one hundred percent. Big day today. The results from the first viewer vote are in, which means we'll be setting up to film the losing team's vote. They have to oust one of their members. Before that all happens, we need footage of you supervising the chum slick."
"Chum slick?"
"It's a part of the next Daredevil challenge. The Neptune 's entering shark-infested waters, at least that's what the previews will say. We'll want to draw a nice crowd of predators before the teams risk life and limb in the next challenge. See you up on deck in ten for makeup."
For the next five minutes, Jonas forces his body to stretch. He struggles through three sets of twenty push-ups, then shaves and dresses. Instead of heading up on deck, he takes the companionway downstairs to the Daredevils' dorms.
Mia Durante exits the coed bathroom, wearing only a towel. "Hello again."
"Uh, yes, hi . . ."
"Mia Durante."
"Right. Sorry, I'm terrible with names."
"So, when do you think you and I can get together for a little one on one session?"
"One on one?"
"I feel a need to share my thoughts with you. We were told you'd be sort of our Daredevil counselor."
"What is it you need counseling about? Your wardrobe?"
"Cute. What I need is advice from a mature man. These idiots have no appreciation for what's important. Not me. I've seen the other side, I have a good idea what's waiting for us out there."
"Excuse me?"
"Death. The great equalizer. I've died before, or didn't you know?"
"No."
"I'll tell you about it sometime soon, but not now, the vibes are all wrong." She moves closer, then inhales the aroma of his chest. "Mmm. Animals sense fear, but people do too. You hide it well, Professor J, but I can smell your fear, it runs deep."
"Oh . . . Kay. Listen, I'm sorry but—"
"Do you know why I'm a Daredevil? It's because I've lost all my fear of living."
She twirls around, losing her towel in the process. "Bet you won't forget my name so easily next time we meet." Mia laughs, dragging the towel behind her as she walks away.
"Dad!"
Jonas jumps. He turns to face his daughter, who is wearing a thong bikini. "Jesus, Dani, you want to give me a heart attack? And cover up, you're practically naked."
"Hello? I just saw you staring at that nude woman."
"I wasn't staring. Anyway, forget about me, where were you last night? And why are you dressed like that?"
"I've been in a photo shoot all morning. What are you doing down here? We have a rule, no one over thirty admitted."
"Funny. As a matter of fact, I was looking for you. I thought we could talk."
"About what?"
"College, for one thing. You know, it's still not too late to—"
"College is out. I'm going to be traveling. Europe. Australia. Erik said he could get me work as an extra in a movie filming in Sydney next fall. It's time for me to spread my wings and fly."
"Why can't you fly and still go to college?"
"Dad, I know you don't want to hear this, but I'm not interested in taking prep classes for the whole nine-to-five deal. I want to live my life to its fullest, be like you used to be."
"Me?"
"Yeah. You know, before you got tied down with a family."
"Dani—"
"As long as I've known you, you've been miserable, always stressed out, always worried about money. Look at you now, it's like you've been reborn. I was watching you yesterday up on deck, you were actually smiling. That's the first time I've seen you smile in years."
"Untrue."
"Dad, it's cool. Look, college just isn't for me. And think how much money you'll save in tuition."
"Dani—"
"I gotta run. See you at lunch." She hurries down the corridor. "And quit staring at naked women!"
* * * * *
The sea is calm, the sky a deep blue, not a cloud visible. Captain Robertson has lowered the ship's main and foresails, allowing the Neptune to drift.
The upper deck adjacent to the captain's gallery has been taken over by the Candy Girls, who are using it as a tanning area, their lubricated flesh glistening as they record everything for "stock footage."
Jonas joins Andrew Fox on the main deck. The shark photographer is pulling on a wetsuit as his men lower one of the shark cages overboard.
"Going for a little dip, Andrew?"
"Just a little appetizer before the main course." Andrew points port side.
The surface of the sea is covered in crimson, the chum slick pooling around the ship. A dozen dorsal fins cut the surface, then scatter as the super yacht, Coelacanth, pushes closer through a spreading pool of cow blood and fish innards.
Behind the vessel, being towed by cable, is a large floating object—a freshly killed Humpback whale.
The Coelacanth 's twin engines idle in neutral as the vessel's crew, all natives of Borneo, release the 33,000-pound carcass to the sharks.
Within seconds, the predators swarm upon the floating mass, biting and flailing their streamlined bodies with reckless abandon, tearing off huge chunks of flesh.
Jonas grips the rail, his anger building. "Where's Hollander?"
* * * * *
Aboard The Super Yacht Coelacanth
The sleek super yacht's interior is a plush palace decorated in polished mahogany and teak. Located in the lowest of the superstructure's three upper decks is a galley, pantry, crews' mess, crews' quarters, laundry room, tool, and supply room. The middle deck contains a sky lounge and VIP suite, as well as the captain's stateroom, located just behind the wheelhouse.
The upper deck remains the private habitat of the yacht's owner. Walls and cabinets are planked in a deep cherry wood, the floors black onyx marble. Large tinted bay windows surround the master suite, which is complete with gymnasium, Jacuzzi, entertainment room, office, and private kitchen.
Built in the Abeking shipyard in West Palm Beach, Florida, for the late Mrs. Evelyn Maren, wife of the deceased real estate mogul, Jonathan B. Maren, the vessel is all that remains of an inheritance left to the departed couple's only child.
Michael Maren is in his master suite dressed in a bathrobe. The wide end of his binoculars poke between the slats of his shiny chrome venetian blinds, his eyes focused on the man standing by the port-side rail of the Spanish galleon. "You've aged, my friend. The years haven't been kind."
"Who are you talking to?"
Maren cringes at the woman's New England accent. "I'm talking to myself, if you must know." He stares at Jonas for another minute, then crosses the plush ivory-colored carpet to his private office.
Maren's assistant, Allison Petrucci, sits before three large computer monitors and a bank of closed circuit television screens, rubbing baby lotion over her sun-scorched skin. The petite twenty-five-year-old brunette from Boston wears no makeup and bites her nails, more to keep them short than out of habit.
"Any change?"
"No," she mumbles, polishing off the remains of a turkey sandwich. She pauses to wash the mouthful down with a swig of diet soda, then points to the main sonar screen.
A white blip appears.
"He'll ascend every so often as high as fourteen hundred feet, then return to deeper water. The dead whale has his attention, but I doubt he'll rise any higher until the sun begins to set."
"When's the last time he fed?"
She glances at a wall clock. "Eighty-three hours and counting. It'll happen tonight, bet the farm on it." She turns to face him. "Hey, don't you think you ought to radio Hollander?"
"Screw him. He wanted reality television, reality is what he'll get."
* * * * *
Aboard The Neptune
"For the last time, Professor, it's reality TV. Whales do actually die in reality, right?"
"This was arranged and you know it," Jonas says, stalking the man across the main deck.
"Look, I honestly don't know what you're talking about. The crew of the Coelacanth has standing orders to locate bait as needed. Obviously we got lucky, end of story."
"I demand to know how this whale was killed."
"Demand? Jonas, you're not in any position to demand anything. Look, maybe the whale died of old age. Maybe a Greenpeace ship inadvertently clipped it. Who the hell cares, as long as we can use it for our purposes. Now get to your mark or I'll dock you a day's pay."
His blood pressure soaring, Jonas takes his place next to Charlotte. The supermodel adjusts her silver and crimson one-piece Daredevil swimsuit, then nods to Susan Ferraris. "Anytime."
The director shoots Jonas an evil eye. "That's twice you've been late, Taylor. The next I'll be grabbing you by your—"
"And five, four, three . . ."
Charlotte activates her smile. "And welcome back. Earlier today, we finished tallying your votes, which overwhelmingly gave the first round of competition to the Makos and their incredible parachute jump into a waterspout. As you know, by losing the round, the Hammerheads were forced to vote one of their team members off the ship. Jason Massett is our first Daredevil casualty, and we're with him now. Jason, any final words before the chopper takes you back to civilization?"
"Yes, Charlotte." The five-foot-eight former lacrosse player from Manhattanville College flashes a good-natured smile. "Obviously I'm disappointed, not just for myself but for my family and friends back home. However, just to show I'm still a Hammerhead, we've decided that my departure from the ship will count as today's team stunt."
"And what will you be doing?"
The camera pans back to a twelve-inch-wide, eight-foot-long wooden beam that has been hastily mounted over the starboard rail.
"Charlotte, back in the seventeenth century, Spanish galleons like the Neptune were often threatened by pirates. Innocent crewmen were made to walk the plank, only to die a hideous death in shark-infested waters. Today, I'll be swimming through these same waters as I make my way to the Coelacanth for my journey home."
"Wow, what a stunt. Jonas, any words of advice?"
"Yes, don't do it."
A pre-recorded drum roll echoes across the main deck.
The remaining members of Team Hammerhead stand at attention along either side of the plank.
Michael Coffey leads his teammates in a salute. "We honor our brother, Jason Massett, and pray for his safe journey."
Jason hugs his teammates good-bye, then, head held high, he climbs onto the edge of the plank and starts walking. Three feet from the end, he turns and winks at one of the Candy Girls, a Reese Witherspoon look-alike named Natasha, then swan dives into the sea.
Daredevils, Candy Girls, and crewmen rush to the side as the cameras continue to roll.
Safe within his shark cage, ten feet underwater, Andrew Fox aims his camera through an opening in the stainless-steel bars, capturing the scene from below.
The underwater realm swarms with more than two hundred dark projectiles, the sharks darting in and out of clouds of vermillion mist to attack the whale carcass.
Jason breaststrokes calmly along the surface, moving at a controlled speed. He keeps his head above the chum, which pools around his outstretched neck as he swims along the periphery of the slick, the super yacht seventy-five yards away.
Dark fins surface to encircle him, slipping in and out of the turbid waters.
Dusky sharks, a few blues. No real man-eaters. Watch for the brown dorsals, the Gray Reef sharks can get aggressive if they think you want their meal . . .
* * * * *
Below, Andrew Fox zooms in on a school of golden hammerheads, circling well below the mêlée.
And then the underwater photographer spots the 1,800 pound, sixteen-foot creature rising slowly from the depths. Sees the telltale pattern of stripes . . . the blunt nose . . .
Tiger shark . . . oh Jesus—
* * * * *
Jason increases his pace as he swims beyond the chum pool to cheers. Smiling from ear to ear, he rolls onto his back and kicks up a storm. "Do it, Hammerheads, beat the—
"Ahhh . . ."
A hundred unseen daggers rip into Jason Massett's buttocks and pelvis as he is driven out of the water.
The Tiger shark plows him backward through the sea, shakes loose a hunk of flesh, then releases the Daredevil, whose bloodcurdling scream shatters the calm. "Ahhh . . . help! Help me!"
Jennie Arnos and Doc Shinto are the first to answer the call. Within seconds, the heavy whine of their Zodiac blots out the shouting crewmen.
Jonas stands atop the capstan, focusing on the scene through a pair of binoculars. As he watches, the Tiger shark circles back along the surface to launch a second attack.
My God . . .
Dani pushes through the crowd and clutches her father's arm. "Do something!"
Jonas looks into his daughter's frightened eyes, his expression telling her everything.
Jennie Arnos races the motorized raft to the spot of the attack as the predator charges Jason again.
"Ahh . . . ahh—"
Jason flails at the shark, then is dragged under just as Doc Shinto reaches overboard to grab his hand. "Lost him . . . where'd he go?"
"There!" Jennie points.
Doc falls sideways against the opposite side of the raft and grabs the Daredevil by the roots of his hair just before his head disappears again. Reaching down with his free hand, he secures Jason beneath his armpit and forcibly drags him onto the raft.
Blood gushes everywhere, disguising a ring of puncture wounds that encircle what's left of his waist. Jason's eyes are wild, his mouth gasping at air.
Forcing himself not to look, Jennie whips the Zodiac around and accelerates back to the Neptune.
Jason, deathly pale, convulses as he gazes up at Shinto. "Doc, I can't feel my legs. Are my legs still there, Doc?"
Doc Shinto chokes out an affirmative, then passes a blood-soaked towel against the spurting gaps in Jason's stomach, unable to bring himself to look at the ravaged pelvis.
"It's rising, Doc, the numbness is rising. Oh, God, Doc, I'm scared."
"Hang on," Jennie yells.
Michael Coffey and Evan Stewart dangle from the bottom of the cargo net secured to the starboard side of the Spanish galleon. Reaching down, they lift their fallen comrade and place him in a hammock-like sling, where he is quickly hauled up to the main deck. The sheath is soaked in blood within seconds.
Jason's body sprawls out on deck as a team of medics and cameramen swarm him. Like a pit crew at the Indianapolis 500, the EMTs work feverishly on the semiconscious Daredevil, his dark blood pooling beneath them.
"Come on, Jay, stay with us!"
"Get me two more bags of O-positive!"
"It's no good, he's losing it faster than we can pump it in him. Jesus, look at his pelvis. It took his right hip and half his buttocks."
Dani stands on the capstan next to her father, unable to take her eyes off the scene. Blood is everywhere, she has never seen so much of it before, even in the worst horror movies. How much blood can a human body actually hold?"
The EMTs look at one another, then abruptly stop working. One checks his watch. "That's it. Time of death, fifteen hundred hours, seven minutes."
An eerie chorus of sobs overtakes the wind.
Dani chokes back tears as she buries her face against her father's chest, forcing herself not to look at the inanimate object that, only minutes ago, had been Jason Jon Massett.
* * * * *
Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula
Monterey, California
Patricia Pedrazzoli hurries through the basement corridor of the hospital. She locates the door labeled "DCS" and enters in a huff.
There is no nurse on duty. "Hello?"
"Back here, please."
She follows a man's voice to a small emergency room. Only one of the three beds is occupied.
David Taylor is lying on his back, an oxygen mask strapped to his face.
"Oh my God—"
"He'll be okay." A doctor approaches, dressed in hospital greens.
"Trey Harris, I'm the physician on duty."
"Patricia Pedrazzoli. What happened to him?"
"Decompression sickness. Comes from ascending too fast on a dive. The reduction in pressure causes nitrogen to dissolve in the tissues and blood. The bubbles disrupt cellular activity, affecting the organs."
"David was scuba diving?"
"He won't admit to it, but the symptoms are pretty clear. His skin and joints were burning, which is what brought him in. By the time we got him down here, he was doubled over in pain. Fortunately it's just a mild case, the oxygen should clear his symptoms fairly easily. If not, we'll transfer him to a hyperbolic chamber for repressurization."
"Can I talk to him?"
"Yes, but go easy, he's still a bit nauseous."
Patricia moves to his bed and pulls up a chair. "David?"
He moans. Opens an eye. "Don't . . . tell." His voice is muffled by the mask.
"I am going to tell. Diving alone . . . are you crazy? You could've died."
He struggles to sit up. Pulls the mask away. "My mother, she'll give herself a stroke. I won't dive alone again, I promise."
"Put that mask back on your face. This isn't fair, you know. I don't mind helping your mother out, but I don’t have time to baby-sit you, either. Where were you diving anyway?"
"The canal. I was trying to shut the doors."
"That's no excuse."
"Never happen again."
"I said put that back on."
"I need to talk to Uncle Mac."
"Forget it. Mac doesn't even have access to a phone."
"Take me to him?"
"Absolutely not. Now lie back down and get some rest. I'll be back tomorrow morning to take you home. But I swear, David, if I catch you anywhere near the ocean, I'll call the police and have them lock you up until your mother returns."
* * * * *
Bamfield / Barkley Sound
Vancouver Island, British Columbia
Barkley Sound is a vast marine habitat that cuts through the western coastline of Vancouver Island, running inland more than thirty miles to Port Alberni. Fed by three main channels and the seaward extensions of a group of narrow fjord inlets, the heavily trafficked waterway plays host to rocky coastlines, islands and reefs, as well as caves and tide pools.
On the northwest banks of Barkley Sound lies the city of Ucluelet, a popular destination for tourists seeking to whale watch, fish, dive, and just get back to Mother Nature. Across the waterway on the southwest bank is the tiny village of Bamfield, a sparse community of under three hundred surrounded by Indian Reserves and sections of the Pacific Rim National Park.
In 1972, a consortium of five western Canadian universities established the Bamfield Marine Station, a teaching and research facility that provides year-round assistance to visiting scientists and students studying the marine sciences. In addition to its academia, Bamfield also serves as an outpost for the Canadian Coast Guard Pacific Region.
* * * * *
It is not the hangover that forces Terry Taylor to pry open her eyes, nor is it the cotton mouth. It is the incessant banging on the door, reverberating sounds that echo in her skull and force her to crawl off the strange bed in the strange room, in the—
"—where the hell am I?"
She rolls painfully to her feet. Struggles to walk against the nausea. Looking down against the vertigo, she realizes she is wearing a man's XL gray tee-shirt and her underwear . . . and nothing else.
Jesus . . . what the hell happened last night?
The banging draws her attention away from her gurgling stomach. She unlocks the bolt, then dashes to the bathroom and slams the door shut a second before she vomits.
Joshua Bunkofske enters his efficiency, carrying a plastic container of breakfast and a Styrofoam cup of coffee. "Terry? You okay in there?"
"Go away."
He sits on the edge of the bed and reads the morning newspaper.
Terry emerges ten minutes later, pale and in pain. "Where the hell am I and what is that god-awful smell?"
"You're in my room at the Marine Station in Bamfield and that smell is breakfast."
"Toss it outside. What I need is aspirin and my clothes."
"Of course." He looks under the bed and locates the missing items, then removes a bottle of Advil from a nightstand drawer.
Terry returns to the bathroom. She dresses slowly, mindful of her pounding head. Swallows four Advil, then swishes the remains of a bottle of mouthwash.
Joshua looks up as she steps out of the bathroom. "You okay?"
"Far from it." She nods at the unmade bed. "We didn't . . . you know—"
"No. You passed out in the jeep. No other rooms were available at the station except mine. But, hey, I'm game if you are."
"Stop it. Why are we here?"
"You said you wanted to recapture the Meg. I have access to a boat and supplies. With a little luck, we should make it down to Monterey within the week."
"You're insane. You expect to lead that monster eight hundred miles down the Pacific coast?"
"Yes, but we'll be taking the highway, not the ocean. Remember back a few years when a pregnant Blue whale was struck by a motorboat in Grays Harbor? Sea World transported the mother using a mobile tank they constructed out of two trailers. It's like a giant bathtub, open at the top, containing its own seawater supply and circulating pump."
"I know. Jonas was there, he supervised the crew when they loaded the whale into the unit by crane. He even designed the inflatable padding to support the creature's weight."
"And Angel's not nearly as large as a Blue whale. What we'll do is bait one of the whale carcasses with enough drugs to knock her out, then use that gizmo of yours to bring her to the surface. We'll hook her, haul her to the harbor, then load her into the trailer before she knows what happened. Two days later, she's safe and sound, back in the lagoon."
"And I suppose you already cleared this with Sea World?"
"Spoke to a buddy of mine this morning. The crane belongs to a local cargo service, so it's already at the harbor. Sea World only needs a six-hour notice to move the trailer into position."
"And exactly what do you get out of this?"
"You mean, besides a chance to get to know you better? He loses the smile. "Okay, what I want is a supervisory position at the Institute working with Angel. I want a six-figure salary and benefits, the rest we'll work out as we go."
"That baby face of yours is deceptive, you're actually a greedy little shit, aren't you?"
"Hey, I'm just like everyone else, trying to keep my head above water. Besides, that creature's going to make your family a fortune. If I can help recapture it, then I deserve a taste of the pie." He winks.
Terry feels herself growing angrier. "Listen, hotshot, what if I said I just wanted to collect my fee and go home?"
"That's your prerogative, of course. But it's an awful lot of money to be walking away from. At least let me show you the boat."
* * * * *
The Canadian Coast Guard Cutter Cape Calvert is a multitask medium endurance vessel relegated for Search and Rescue, as well as fisheries patrol in Barkley Sound and the west coast of Vancouver Island. Forty-eight feet in length, fourteen feet in breadth, she is powered by two caterpillar diesel engines that can achieve a maximum speed of twenty-five knots.
Terry stares pie-eyed at the cutter, its scarlet-painted hull and white wheelhouse glistening in the late morning sun. "This is a joke, right?"
"She's all we need."
"You're not real bright for a scientist, are you? Angel's at least twenty feet bigger than your whole boat, and I know she can outswim it."
"Okay, the truth is she's the only boat I could get my hands on at short notice, but we'll be fine. The cutter can haul up to one hundred and fifty tons, and she's equipped with an excellent sonar and fish detector. None of the attacks have been in daylight, which means Angel's become sensitive to light. We'll just keep close to the coast at night when she's more likely to surface. It'll all work out, I promise."
"And I promise that you have no idea what you're dealing with." She glances at her watch. "Dammit, I forgot to call my son." She removes her cell phone from her belt and dials her father's house."
No answer.
She tries the Institute. "Christ, where the hell is he?"
"I'm sure he's fine. Come aboard, I want to show you our sonar system and fish-finder. If Angel gets anywhere near our boat, we'll know it."
She hesitates.
"Terry, we're not leaving the dock. Come on."
She steps on board, more to test her nerve than appease Josh. "If I decide to go, we need to agree on a few things. First, activating the thumper will get Angel's attention, but I don't want that fish within a hundred yards of this vessel."
"Not a problem, we can tow it from a buoy. What else?"
"I assume you have a crew?"
"A local fisherman and an ex-Navy guy. They do odds and ends for me. I'll cover them, but I expect to be reimbursed."
She points to the Zodiac mounted in the stern. "I want that motorized raft gassed and ready to launch at a moment's notice, and I want a weapon on board."
"A weapon? Like what? A howitzer?"
"I'm serious. I want an insurance policy, just in case things go bad. Something that can stop a tank."
"You just got done telling Commander Sutera that Angel's a protected species."
"So let them put me in jail. I'm not taking this journey without it."
* * * * *
Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula
Monterey, California
David opens his eyes. He is in a different hospital room, the morning sun peeking behind a window shade. A wall clock reads 6:45.
He sits up in bed. The pain is gone, replaced by pangs of hunger.
He finds his clothes laid out on a chair. He uses the bathroom, dresses, then leaves the room in search of breakfast.
He strolls by open rooms, stopping occasionally to listen in. After a half dozen rooms he realizes he is on a children's floor.
An idea hits him. He locates a nurses' station. "Hi, I'm looking for Athena Holman."
"Room three-seventeen."
David follows the signs. Locates the room and enters.
The girl is in bed, her eyes half-open and glazed over. An untouched breakfast tray is by her side. The television is playing softly.
David approaches. "Hi, Atti."
No response.
He sits on the edge of her bed. "Don't you remember me? I'm Masao's grandson."
Her eyes open wider. "Masao?"
"That's right. You and I met before, a few summers ago I think. Do you remember me now?"
She stares at his face. Nods.
"Are you doin' okay?"
She nods.
"Good. I heard you had a tough time of it, seeing my grandfather drown and all. I'm sorry you had to—"
She turns away, her attention refocused on the television. She turns up the volume.
" . . .the Phillies lost to the Reds last night, six to three, but Pat Burrell hit career home run number seven hundred and fifty-six, bringing him within three of tying Barry Bonds' all-time record. The Phils are off today, but travel to Pac Bell Park for a four-game series with our Giants beginning Friday night. In other games, the Dodgers rallied in the bottom of the eighth to—"
Atti turns off the television. "Grandma says I get to go home soon. She says she'll take me to see Pat Burrell break the record."
"Cool." He points to a piece of toast. "You eating that?"
"No."
He spreads grape jam on the slice of burned bread and takes a bite. "Can we talk about my grandfather?"
Her expression darkens and she turns away. He notices her hands are quivering.
"Angel was in the lagoon when he died, wasn't she, Atti? That's what gave my grandfather a heart attack. It was Angel."
She nods into the pillow.
I knew it! "Atti, don't tell anyone else about it, okay?"
"What're you gonna do?"
He leans over and whispers into her ear. "I'm going to recapture her."