Ryan Lockwood - Below

“Drowned? What about his injuries?”

“I had assumed it was all just from sharks, crabs—you know as well as I do what happens to a body left in the ocean for more than a few hours.”

Sturman nodded and stood up. He walked over to the side of the boat and looked out at the harbor. A white sailboat was heading out to sea. It was a calm, sunny day. In his mind’s eye, he saw Steve’s face again.

“The coroner wasn’t certain about the cause of the damage, and some of it was inflicted postmortem….” Joe sighed loudly. “But most of the wounds on his body were inflicted while he was still alive.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The damage to his face, his arms… some of it wasn’t from marine scavengers. It happened before he died. The coroner wasn’t able to attribute the cause yet, but she suspects some sort of animal.”

Sturman felt his blood chill. He turned and stood before Joe before he spoke again.

“What kind of animal?”

“Kathy—the coroner—doesn’t know yet. But she said she’s never seen anything like it before. The body had a lot of symmetrical, round tears in the skin, and so did the wet suit, and something sharp and serrated was responsible for the damage to the flesh. But she’s positive it wasn’t a knife, and definitely not a propeller. She said the cuts aren’t clean enough.”

“What are you saying? Did something try to eat him?”

Joe shifted in his seat, adjusting his gun belt. “She thinks so. I wish I could tell you he didn’t suffer, Sturman, but—”

“That’s enough.”

“Sturman, the coroner doesn’t specialize in these types of injuries, so it may be some time before they can tell us anything else. They don’t want to rush to conclusions.”

“What about those other divers? You find them yet?”

“Nothing yet. Just that kid’s hand…”

“Right.” Sturman sat down again and rubbed the side of his boat with a calloused hand. “You have a marine biologist looking into this? Someone who knows sharks and such?”

“They’re looking to contact someone now. A doctor at the university who specializes in shark attacks.”

“I might know somebody else who can help.”

Six all-weather stage lights with broad aluminum domes, clamped to the railings surrounding Maria, illuminated the dark water around the vessel as it drifted on the nighttime ocean. Small bugs darting in and out of the harsh cones of white light stood out against the black background, like miniscule starfighters battling for the freedom to incinerate themselves on the hot bulbs. Dr. Valerie Martell’s universe had shrunk to the small, overlapping patches of light, because it was impossible to see beyond the glaring brightness near the boat.

Val figured the bugs had probably been stowaways when they headed out, since flying insects rarely ventured this far from the coast. She sat next to Sturman as he steered the boat on a slow course, parallel to the shore as they headed up the continental shelf. It was just the two of them, since his friend Mike Phan couldn’t make it. Every few minutes, Sturman scanned the depth finder for signs of the shoal. They rarely talked.

She studied his profile in the shadow cast by the Western hat, dark under the glow of the stage lights rigged to the boat. It was hard to read this man. When she had spent time with him last week, she had thought he was an awfully quiet person. And he always wore the same hard expression. He was a potential asshole. Although his demeanor was the same tonight, he must be hurting after just losing his friend. She decided to try striking up a conversation again, to get his mind off things.

After he wouldn’t divulge much about his own past, she told him about her upbringing in Florida, how she had gotten her undergrad there and then gone on to earn her PhD at UC Berkeley.

She asked, “Where did you go to school?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh.” She looked away for a few moments. “We really don’t have a whole lot in common, do we?”

“Nope. Doc, I need to talk to you about something important.” Sturman wasn’t looking at her, instead gazing off into the darkness over the sea.

She sat forward. “Oh? What’s on your mind?” The breeze brushed a lock of her hair loose and she blew it out of her eyes.

“What would it look like if a Humboldt squid attacked a man? What kind of injuries do they inflict?”

“Is this about your friend?”

Sturman looked at her. “The coroner identified drowning as the cause of death, but she hasn’t figured out what happened to Steve before he died. Something really laid into him while he was still alive.”

Val thought for a moment. “What kind of injuries were on the body?”

Sturman briefly described the damage to Steve Black’s body, the circular tears and serrated cuts the coroner had seen. He also told her about the damage he had seen himself, to his friend’s face.

“Are you sure you’re okay talking about this?”

Sturman looked away, as if checking their heading. There was a hollow, sunken look on his face exaggerated by the deep shadows under his hat. He nodded.

“Well, I’ve never seen Humboldt squid attack anything larger than a tuna, so it’s hard to say. But the wounds you’re describing could possibly be from a Humboldt squid. Dosidicus have thousands of suckers lined with small teeth, so they can grip prey. And their beaks are serrated, like miniature saw blades. When they bite into larger fish, they can remove large chunks of… I’m sorry. I’m so used to getting carried away with this subject. It’s just that Humboldt squid have been the focus of my life for so long.”

“I just want to figure out what happened to Steve.” Sturman rose and stepped over to the side of the boat, leaning on it with both arms as he looked down into the black water. “I’m kind of wondering if your shoal killed him.”

“As much as I don’t want to admit it, you’ve got me starting to worry, too. This doesn’t sound good for the shoal either. If these animals were involved, you can’t take it personally—”

The depth finder emitted a loud series of beeps. Sturman spun to the helm and leaned down over the display.

“We’ve got something directly under the boat.”

Val’s heart jumped as she sprang from her seat, even though she knew the device wasn’t actually picking up Humboldt squid.

“What does it look like?”

“A large school… probably made up of smaller fish. So the squid aren’t detectable on sonar?

“Right. Their soft bodies don’t reflect sound waves effectively. But they pursue sardines, anchovies, and other small fish that are detectable. Sturman, can you cut the engine?”

He put the boat into idle and turned off the key. It was suddenly very quiet in the darkness around the boat, with just the sound of small waves lapping against the hull. After a moment, the backup generator used to power the lights kicked on in the stern. The depth finder beeped again as the heavy boat continued to drift slowly forward in the artificial light.

“They’re about a hundred feet down. This school extends pretty far, and it looks like whatever’s in it is probably pretty tiny. A few larger readings occasionally, though.”

“Sounds like a school of baitfish. Those bigger readings are probably swordfish or tuna. Let’s see if we can catch anything.”

Quickly, Sturman and Val lowered fishing lines into the water. Val counted off fourteen seconds as the line spooled out, knowing from practice that this would be roughly a hundred feet of line. Each line was rigged with a massive glowing jig surrounded by treble hooks, with a steel leader and eighty-pound test line. They placed the first two poles in rod holders, then dropped two more lines into the water and began to jig them vigorously.