J. Rain - Hail Mary

“ Why waste the bullet?” said Fossil.

“ Fuck them,” I said. “We have any way of identifying their boat?”

“ We got its name. It’s called La Bonita. No doubt it hails from Ensenada where shark finning has become popular.”

“ Is shark finning illegal in Mexico?”

“ In theory. Unfortunately, there are many black markets where fins are sold.”

I continued to watch the man with the machete go to work. He next removed each pectoral fin, carefully stepping around the massive creature. His machete gleamed with blood.

“ I can’t believe we’re just sitting here.”

“ I’m sorry, Jim.”

I next watched as the entire group pushed the shark over the open railing. I caught sight of its beautiful, hammer-shaped head with its oddly human mouth convulsing in what had to be agony. The creature landed with a huge splash, and sank almost immediately. Still alive. Unable to swim. Unable to defend itself.

Blood immediately bubbled to the surface.

The fisherman who gave me the finger waved the pectoral fins at us, high-fived a friend, and then the boat chugged south.

The seagulls circled, squawking loudly.

And as they left, turning their vessel away from us, I caught sight of something that would doom them. Or doom me.

I saw cages on the deck. Wire mesh cages.

What was in the cages, I didn’t know.

But I could guess.

As I pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot on Beach Boulevard, I saw him sitting alone in a front booth, sipping from his coffee.

I parked and sat in my car for a minute or two and studied him. Heat waves undulated off the Mustang’s hood. Jack undulated with them, drinking his coffee slowly. He seemed to be enjoying his coffee. Even from here I could see the hint of a smile on his face. Or maybe it was in his eyes, the way they crinkled. Sweat rolled down my spine, between my shoulder blades. If I stayed in the car much longer, I was going to have to crack the window. For the moment, I ignored the heat.

Who was he? Who was he really?

How did he know I was going to be here today? I had only made the decision to come here, what, two minutes ago? I happened to be in the area and decided I needed to talk.

And there he sat.

Waiting.

Maybe he really is God.

Despite myself I laughed…and headed into the restaurant.

“ You knew I was coming,” I said after ordering myself a drink.

“ You knew you were coming here long before that, James.”

“ Not consciously.”

He shrugged one shoulder, almost playfully. “Perhaps not.”

“ Whether or not I knew I was coming here hours ago, or just a few minutes ago, still doesn’t account for how you knew I would be here today.”

“ Maybe it was a lucky guess.”

“ Or maybe you’re God.”

“ Maybe I am.”

“ You’re very frustrating,” I said.

“ You could choose to see me that way. Or you could choose another way.”

“ What way?”

He set his coffee cup down. Jack needed to shave. The hair on his face was peppered with gray. There was a dimple in his cheek I hadn’t noticed before. His eyes twinkled. Eternally twinkled.

“ Playful,” he said.

“ I think I would rather have God be serious.”

“ Because life is serious?”

“ Yes,” I said. “Life is damn serious.”

He nodded and looked down at his coffee cup, which he held in both hands. “Life can be serious, Jim. That I will not deny. But life can also be full of joy.”

“ For some,” I said. “Not for everyone. And certainly not for everything. There is much suffering in this world. Too much.”

“ I agree.”

“ Then why don’t you do something about it?”

“ Sometimes you need to see the acts of violence, Jim, to appreciate the acts of kindness.”

“ But that does nothing for those suffering,” I said.

“ Then don’t let their suffering be in vain. Hear their cry and take action.”

“ I’m just one man.”

“ So am I,” he said.

“ You’re more than just a man,” I said.

He tilted his head toward me. “And so are you, Jim.”

I parked my van a few houses down from the address in question. It was late, just past midnight, and this was my first time here.

Oddly, I felt nervous. Apprehensive.

It had been nearly a month since my discovery. My discovery being, of course, that the son of the very man who had investigated my mother’s murder-the same investigator who had turned up zero evidence-looked exactly like the image in the age-progression photograph.

I sat in my van and studied the single-story home. A home that wasn’t even four miles from mine. There was a white truck parked out front. The garage was wide enough to fit two cars. The lawn was manicured with a curved walk that led up to the front door. The home was fenced on both sides of the property. The fences were lined with hedges and roses. For all intents and purposes, a very normal-looking Orange County home.

That just so happened to be four miles from my own.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. My stomach was roiling. Nerves. I had been sitting on this information for nearly a month. But since my mother had been dead now for twenty-one years, I figured I could wait a few more weeks to decide my next step. Besides, the bastard wasn’t going anywhere.

Almost a month ago.

A month to stew. A month to brood. A month to come to terms with this improbable piece of information.

My mother’s murder was still technically open, although it might as well have been closed. Nothing had been done on it for nearly two decades. And to top it off, the key piece of evidence had been languishing in my father’s moving boxes for years.

The pictures.

My mother deserved better than this. She was a good person. A good mother. She had no family, just me. She had no friends, just me. I was a mama’s boy, admittedly. It’s hard not to be a mama’s boy when your father is ice cold.

I watched the home for another ten minutes from the driver’s side, then slipped through the little doorway that led to the rear of the van. There, I got comfortable in one of the swivel recliner chairs, and through a heavily-tinted window, I watched the home all night long.

I was certain I hadn’t fallen asleep.

Then again, when you stare at something long enough, in a comfortable-enough chair, on a quiet-enough street not too far from the beach, well, you’re bound to slip in and out of consciousness.

Except I was pretty sure I hadn’t slipped in and out of consciousness. I was pretty sure I had stared at that fucking house with its white Ford F-150 parked in the driveway, its seven bottlebrush plants following the curve of the driveway, its mostly green grass except for the dry spot in the middle, and its bright porch light that seemed to somehow reach through the heavily-tinted glass and straight to the back of my head.

After what seemed like an eternity, the porch light finally turned off and a thirty-something woman with a nice-enough body appeared in the doorway. She wore workout clothes. She did a few stretches, appeared to crack her neck, then headed down the driveway, hung a right, jogged past my van on the opposite side of the street, then continued on.

I watched her through the tinted rear window until she hung a right at the far corner and disappeared.

There was barely enough light out to call this morning. The sun was still forty or fifty minutes away. I briefly marveled at morning people. I was fairly certain the woman had been smiling to herself as she passed me by.

I checked my cell phone. A smile on her face at 5:43 in the morning?