John Lutz - Hot

He was on a square steel landing from which half a dozen black-enameled metal steps descended to a concrete floor. The Tide Pool Room was blue-painted cinder block, the bottom half of which was below ground level. Not the usual sort of construction in southern Florida, but Carver figured it was to lend strength to the sides of the tank where the big shark swam in endless circles, eyeing the outside world with the unconcerned expression of an expert poker player with aces in the hole. What, me wanna get out and devour a couple of tourists? Naw!

The seaward wall was thick glass from top to bottom to provide a view of the shark. Lined along the other three walls were what looked like large trays on wooden legs. There were a few inches of seawater in the trays, and coral and plant life. And an assortment of creatures that might be found in the shallow reaches of the sea and in tide pools left by receding waves. Two elderly women were standing near one of the trays. They wore baggy knee-length shorts and identical blue T-shirts lettered last heterosexual virgin on key west. The larger of the two was poking an exploratory finger at the top of a starfish. The other woman was glaring with distaste at a large crablike creature that was furiously waving its antennae as if warning her to keep hands off, it had had enough of people like this for one day.

Watching this all with an expression as unreadable as the shark’s was a blond woman in her twenties, wearing a white smock like the ones in the brochure photos. But she wasn’t at all like the woman in the brochure. She was enticingly on the plump side and almost beautiful, with a squarish face, large blue eyes, and a ski-jump nose. Her blond hair was cut short and hung straight at the sides and in bangs over her wide forehead. It was a simple, convenient hairdo, just right for jumping in the water and frolicking with the dolphins, then shaking dry, but on her it seemed stylish.

She noticed Carver on the landing, smiled at him, then looked back at the tourists to make sure they didn’t hurt the starfish. Carver set the tip of his cane and descended the steel stairs. He was wearing moccasins as usual, since they had no laces to tie, and the only noise on the steps was the clunking of his cane. Down in the room now, he could hear the throbbing hum of a filter pump, or maybe simply the air-conditioning. It made him feel as if he were in a submarine.

He stood before the nearest display and stared at the largest snail he’d ever seen. The elderly woman got tired of the starfish, volunteered without being asked that she and her friend were from Canada, then left. Carver continued to stare at the snail. For all he knew, it was staring back at him.

The blond woman in the white smock said, “You can touch anything you’d like.”

He thought he’d better not touch the answer to that. He said, “Are you Katia Marsh?”

“You asking me or the sea snail?”

He turned to look at her. She was smiling. “You,” he said.

“You’re not really interested in the snail, are you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m not sure. You don’t strike me as a tourist. Or a scientist.”

“Maybe I just like French cuisine.”

She looked slightly ill but her smile stayed.

“I’m a friend of Henry Tiller.”

“Oh.” She took a small step toward him. “How is Henry?”

“He’s doing all right. He’ll be in the hospital in Miami for a while, though.”

“I want to send him a card. Can you tell me what hospital he’s in?”

Carver told her, along with the room number. She carefully wrote down the information in a spiral notebook she’d removed from one of the smock’s big square pockets. Water flowing into one of the trays made a soft trickling sound.

“Now,” she said, retracting the tip of her ballpoint pen and slipping it and the notebook back in the pocket, “you’re Fred Carver.”

“How’d you know?”

“Word gets around Key Montaigne in a hurry.” Behind her the shark was circling, circling, easily ten feet long, and streamlined and deadly. “You’re staying at Henry’s cottage.”

“Sort of house-sitting,” Carver said.

“I thought you were investigating the hit and run.”

“My, my, word really does get around.” He used his cane to point to the circling shark. “Doesn’t he ever rest?”

“No,” Katiasaid, “they never stop swimming. If they do, they drown.”

“Drown?”

“The water forced through their system by their forward motion is what provides their oxygen.”

“Interesting.”

She brightened. “Really?”

“Sure. I know people who can only breathe during forward motion.”

She cocked her head and looked him up and down as if he were interesting sea life. Her gaze snagged for a moment on the cane and stiff leg, then moved on. “Would you like me to give you the tour?”

“That’s why I came here,” Carver said.

She smiled in a way that let him know she didn’t believe that for one second.

She stood next to him and they moved along the displays while she identified each sea creature, some of them by their Latin names. Most of them she merely pointed to, but a few she picked up so Carver could view them more closely, or look at their undersides.

“You’re a biologist?” he asked, when they’d made the circuit of the room.

“Oceanographer, actually. However, I’m interested primarily in the habits of sharks, which is Dr. Sam’s field.”

“Dr. Sam?”

“Dr. Samuel Bing. He’s very big in shark research. Dr. Sam’s what everyone calls him. He’s chief researcher and director of the research center and aquarium. When I graduated from college last year, one of my professors suggested I write him and ask if he needed an assistant. I was surprised when I got an answer, even more surprised when I got the job.”

“Why sharks?” Carver asked.

Katia crossed her arms, hugging herself as if chilled, but she was smiling. “Did you know there are sensory areas all over them that pick up distress signals of prey?, In fact, their entire bodies are sensors, with a compulsion to feed. They’re like living fossils, as primitive as anything on land or in the sea, yet so little is actually known about them. It’s the mystery that attracts me, I suppose.” The shark behind the glass glided close, gazing out with the round, merciless eyes that had seen the Paleolithic era.

“They intelligent?” Carver asked.

“Not in the way we think of intelligence. But they’re ideally suited for what they do.”

“Which is?”

“They’re perfect predators. They eat and eat and eat.”

“I remember that from the movie.” Looking at the shark’s torpedo-shaped, powerful body and toothy, underslung jaw, he could believe everything Katia told him, and almost share her fascination. Something about predators. “This Dr. Sam, does he live here at the research center?”

“Almost. He and his wife, Millicent, have a house about quarter of a mile down Shoreline. Practically next door.”

“She the woman in the brochure photo?”

Katia seemed confused for a moment, then said, “Oh! Right. That’s Dr. Sam and Millicent.”

“When I drove up,” Carver said, “I noticed this place affords a clear view of the Walter Rainer estate. Henry ever ask about that?”

She hesitated, carefully sizing up Carver before sharing. He liked that. “I’m sure Henry doesn’t want me spreading it around, but yeah, he wondered if I’d seen anything suspicious going on over there.”

“And had you?”

She looked down at a display of anemones. “I’m not sure. I live in town, but occasionally I stay overnight here. There’s a lot of activity over there some nights. Early mornings, actually.”