Ryan Lockwood - Below

“Who are you, my mother?”

“No. I’m a paying customer. And I’m not about to go out on the water at night with a drunk captain.”

Sturman was silent for a moment. “I haven’t had a drink since last night.”

“You must have had a lot. You smell like a bar. Are you really okay to drive the boat?”

“Of course I am. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a lot to drink the night before work.” Sturman turned and went inside the cabin. The air filled with a loud rumble as he fired up the boat. He returned with a lit cigarette in his mouth.

She frowned. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Usually only when I’m drinking.” He blew smoke in her direction. “Or being nagged.”

“So pretty often then. Nasty habit.”

“Nobody’s perfect. Well, you ever gonna hop on board, Doc? Sun’s goin’ down.”

Val stood looking at him, hands on her hips. Why was this man so difficult? “So you don’t want to talk about anything, you drink too much, and you smoke. Typical sailor.” Val threw her daypack at Sturman, harder than she needed to. He caught it as it slammed into his chest.

“Easy. I’m the one who got in a fight.”

“Just drive the boat.”

Val felt her father’s temper rising inside her. Sturman actually reminded her a bit of her father—tall, quiet, tough. And a drinker. After untying the boat from the dock cleats, she climbed on board and stood facing away from Sturman. She heard an unfamiliar sound behind her. He was laughing.

“You feeling lucky, Doc?”

“You think this is funny? If you don’t want to tell me—”

“Whoa. You sure are a feisty one.” He grinned. “All I wanted to know was if you thought we’d catch something tonight. I’m feelin’ lucky.”

Val smiled. “Third time’s a charm, right?” Sturman knew how to piss her off, but she was excited about their chances tonight, too.

As Sturman steered the boat slowly out of the harbor into a light wind, Val studied his face again. He had a fresh growth of dark stubble on his jaw, and his lip was split near the middle. She knew he probably hadn’t seen a doctor, but realized it was futile to try and get this man to do anything he didn’t want to. And she was feeling edgy because she knew they needed to have another uncomfortable talk, which would probably ruin his mood. Might as well get it out of the way.

“I talked to the coroner, Sturman.”

His smile faded. “Montoya told me last night.”

“So he told you everything?”

Sturman turned the helm slightly to avoid a large buoy at the mouth of the harbor. “I guess.”

“The injuries were consistent with what I’d expect from a Humboldt squid.”

“You sure?”

“Well, obviously I can’t be certain. In fact, some of the damage, such as the child’s severed hand that was also found, seemed excessive for the smaller beak of a Humboldt squid. These animals generally can’t bite through larger bones. But my best guess is that the circular tears on the skin of both your friend and the John Doe immigrant were made by the arms and tentacles of a Humboldt. Their suckers leave a pretty distinct mark.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Will. I hope your friend didn’t suffer much.”

Sturman clenched his jaw, then forced a smile. “Let’s go sink a hook into one of the bastards.”

Val thought of asking Sturman again to not take this personally, but she could tell that now was not the time. As Maria cleared the buoys at the mouth of the harbor, he forced down the throttles and the twin engines roared. The boat rose to meet the oncoming swells as it fought its way toward the fading light to the west.

This time, she knew they had found the shoal.

They were four miles off the beach at La Jolla, and had spent several hours motoring in the darkness before getting a promising reading.

Val was positive the massive school of fish on the depth finder was being pursued by Humboldt squid because when she and Sturman had reeled in their lines a minute ago, lifeless hunks of tentacled flesh were still wrapped around one of the glowing lures. Sturman’s dog, Bud, had whined at the unfamiliar smell and was acting restless.

Val had successfully led them to the shoal, based on its previous location, its trend toward shallower waters, and a slight northerly drift from the currents. Now that they’d finally located the animals, they had a new problem. The shoal was attacking the hooked individuals and consuming them before she and Sturman could get them to the surface.

“Sturman, we need to reel them in faster. I need an intact animal if we want to get a transmitter out there.”

“We’ve got enough here for calamari.”

“Funny.”

“Doc, I hate to break it to you, but we aren’t going to get these big guys in any faster.” Sturman’s face was still dripping with sweat from the effort to land the last Humboldt.

“Well, we need to try. Don’t worry about breaking the line or freeing the hooks like you do with a fish. The next time one hits, just reel as fast as you can.”

Sturman looked at her darkly and spat over the side of the boat. “Right.”

“Sturman—your dog!”

Bud had jumped up onto the side of the boat and was looking down into the water. Sturman shouted at him to come down, but the mutt was focused on the dark water, his ears laid back and his tail high in the air. A sudden swell hit the side of the boat, tipping it violently to the side. Bud scrabbled on the side but lost his footing. As his front paws began to slide off the side of the boat, Sturman grabbed a handful of hair and loose skin at the back of the dog’s neck and jerked him back into the boat.

“Dammit, Bud!” Sturman’s expression momentarily changed to one Val hadn’t seen on his face before. The look was gone an instant later as he pushed Bud’s face away from his and stopped the dog from licking his chin. “Thanks, Doc. I don’t want to lose another friend to these sons of bitches.”

“I don’t want you to, either. Even though I’ve had good luck diving with these animals, when they’re in a feeding frenzy they might attack anything.”

“Well, they ain’t gettin’ my dog.” Sturman clipped a short leash onto Bud’s collar and tied the other end to the ladder. “You want the other lines back in?”

“No. I think the two lures still down there should do the trick, and I don’t want to tangle the—”

The fishing rod leaning out over the port side bent deeply. Sturman freed the pole from its holder and pulled back on it. His tank top stretched as he jammed the butt of the pole against his stomach, and the hammerhead shark tattoo on his shoulder rippled under the strain of his shoulder muscles. “Start the timer, Doc.”

Sturman fought to land the animal. He slammed his hip into the gunwale as his quarry made a run or was seized by other members of the shoal. Val stood next to him with a large net, ready to scoop the catch from the water when it reached the boat. Minutes passed, and Val began to pace on the boat behind him.

“There! I can see it,” she said. “It’s not alone. Keep reeling. Almost here…”

The hooked squid, larger than Sturman’s dog, was now visible ten feet below the surface, emitting angry pulses of light as it fought the lure. Around it other shapes darted in and out as members of the shoal snatched at its flesh.

A burst of water splashed into Sturman’s face as the creature reached the surface and jetted water out of its siphons. Val leaned forward to net it.

“Sturman, the net’s not big enough!”

Val looked down at the large squid. It had to be five or six feet long, nearly a hundred pounds. In the harsh white lights, Val could see it had been badly damaged—but it was still alive.