Ryan Lockwood - Below

On the left wrist was a dive watch, and strapped to one leg a titanium dive knife. The wet suit was torn in multiple places, exposing torn flesh.

“He must have died recently, sir. Probably this morning. He’s still in rigor mortis.”

“I know what you may have learned about rigor mortis, Smithfield, but they obviously didn’t teach you about it in drowning victims. When a body remains immersed in colder water, rigor can remain advanced for much longer. This guy might have died two or three days ago.”

“Most of the flesh on his upper arm’s gone. Looks like it’s been eaten.”

The humerus bone of one of the corpse’s arms was completely exposed, the muscles and skin gone. In fact, Joe thought it looked like something had tried to eat parts of the body. Without warning, Deputy Smithfield grabbed the stiffened corpse by the shoulder and rolled it onto its back.

“Dammit, kid! You know we’re not supposed to disturb the scene until we get pictures and a CSI on scene.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought that with the waves around him, moving the sand, it didn’t matter….”

Montoya exhaled loudly. “Just step back.”

“Yes, sir.”

The corpse, which appeared to be an older man, stretched its limbs desperately toward the sky. A mess of long, wet grey hair covered the pale face of the corpse. Joe had to know if this was Steve. Besides, the rookie had a point—the surf had moved this body around a lot before they found it. Joe put on latex gloves and carefully swept the hair away from the corpse’s face to reveal small, pale crabs, which scuttled out of empty eye sockets through the tangled strands of hair.

“Christ.”

“What’s the matter, sir?”

“I think I might know this guy.”

It would take dental records or prints to ID the body, but Joe was fairly sure he was looking at what was left of Steve Black. His nose and eyes were missing, replaced by dark recesses. Probably the work of hungry crabs. Some of the flesh on his face had been torn away as well, torn lips revealing a ghastly grin of yellowed teeth. One of the front teeth was capped in gold.

Deputy Smithfield turned away and took a few steps, then stood looking off toward the sea, breathing deeply.

“Hey kid, you all right?”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “Just not used to this, I guess.”

“You will be. Keep an eye on the body, and make sure nobody approaches. I need to call Will Sturman.”

“Who’s that?” The rookie was still looking away.

“Friend of mine. A local divemaster. He knows all the divers around here, including the one who went missing this week. I hope to hell this unfortunate bastard isn’t who I think he is.”

“This where you found the tag?”

“Give or take a few hundred feet.”

Standing at the helm of his boat, Sturman had shifted into idle. As he and Mike Phan gave Val a minute to think, he realized he was staring at the marine biologist’s trim figure while she faced away from him. He suddenly felt guilty and looked away. Mike continued to stare.

“Little pervert,” Sturman whispered.

“What? She’s hot.”

Just as Sturman had expected, Mike had made no effort to hide the fact that he was checking Val out when they first met this morning. Sturman couldn’t really blame the guy, even if he was married.

Val turned to face them. “Did you say something, Mike?”

“Nothing important.” He grinned at Sturman.

“So you guys didn’t see anything else unusual when you found it? Nothing else floating, maybe dead fish or something?”

Sturman sat down in the captain’s chair. “Just the tag, Doc.”

“Please, call me Val. I’m not a college professor.” She looked a little irritated. She’d already asked him to call her by her first same several times, but he found it amusing how she reacted when he didn’t.

“Sure thing, Doc. And I’ll pretend you aren’t still calling me Will.”

The biologist put her hands on her hips. “But that’s your name.”

Sturman squinted at her. “There’s nothing wrong with my last name.”

“Look, call me whatever you want… Sturman. How deep is it here?”

Sturman glanced at his depth finder. “Ninety-seven feet.”

“That’s awfully shallow for Humboldts. But I’m sure the tag drifted some distance after popping off.”

When Val turned around a moment later, Sturman noticed her catch Mike staring at her deeply tanned legs. She ignored the leer and reached down to scratch Bud’s ears. Sturman’s big mutt had followed her around the boat ever since she’d boarded that morning.

Sturman grunted. “He likes you.”

“I can see that.” Val smiled as the dog groaned with pleasure. “I love dogs. I’ve never been able to have my own, though, as much as I have to move around.” Val stepped over the dog and sat down in the shade of the cabin near the two men. She was wearing short shorts and a tight tank top, making it hard for Sturman to concentrate. He realized he hadn’t slept with a woman in several months.

“It bothers me how close these squid are to shore, especially in an area that’s got so much human activity,” Val said. “I’m still finding this hard to believe, but we’ve got to consider the possibility that the shoal may have been involved with the disappearance of those fishermen.”

“And she’s smart, too.” Mike winked at Val. “So what are you thinking, Dr. Martell? The squid killed them, right? I mean, what are the odds these squid just happened to be in the same place at the same time as those fishermen—a million to one?”

Sturman regretted allowing Mike to join them on the boat today. Mike had asked to join them when he heard Sturman was following up on the tag they’d found. It never hurt to have another capable set of hands on deck, but Sturman hadn’t counted on the little bastard hitting on the biologist.

“I hear what you’re saying, Mike, but as a scientist I try not to jump to conclusions. Remember, we’re talking about an animal that has never been known to attack people.”

“Maybe your textbooks don’t say anything about it, but I’ll bet I could find you some Mexican fishermen who would disagree.”

“Really? I’d like to talk to them.”

Mike blushed. “Come on, though. I’ve watched shows about Humboldt squid. Mexican fishermen have a lot of stories about being killed by them when they fall in the water. Los diablos rojos, they call them. It means ‘red devils.’”

“I know what it means.”

Sturman tilted his hat back and shook his head at Mike. Mike met his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

“Mike’s got a point,” Sturman said. “This seems an unlikely coincidence, based on the data from our tag.”

Mike glanced at Sturman and stuck his chest out. Sturman laughed and looked away as Val continued, seemingly oblivious to their antics.

“But what you’re seeing on TV are just stories, Mike. Those shows don’t produce a whole lot of facts.”

“Go on, Phan. Tell us what else you know.” Sturman grinned at Mike from underneath his hat.

“Shut up, Sturman.”

“Be nice, boys. So here’s the deal. That tag definitely dropped off of one of my squid from Baja. And when I downloaded it while on our way out here, I found some pretty surprising information. Here, let me show you guys.” Val picked up her laptop and navigated to a file, then turned the screen toward the men. Sturman leaned forward to look at the display, some sort of text-only file with a set of the numbers highlighted to call their attention to them:

“The left hand column represents the ordinal date… the sequential day of the year. I’ve scrolled down to the end of the dataset, right before the tag popped off on day two hundred and five. We’re lucky it popped off when it did—right after the people went missing. We’re interested in day two hundred and four since July twenty-second is the two hundred and fourth day of the calendar year… the day those people went missing.”