Ryan Lockwood - Below

Aggression overwhelmed her curious impulses. Her body turned a deep purplish color. Joining her brethren, she hurtled into the being before her, enveloping its head in her arms and pulling her body down tightly against it so her beak could find flesh.

The writhing mass of predators and prey drifted ever more gracefully downward in slow ballroom spirals as the prey ceased to struggle. Farther and farther from the surface, their courtship took them deep into the blackness as the shoal fed.

The excited screams of the swimmers gradually died down.

It was a relief. For a few minutes, the drunken group in the water below had really made a ruckus that Captain Dawkins had been able to hear even over the loud music blaring through the yacht’s speaker system. In that sort of chaos, people might get hurt. Now the dance music was all he could hear.

He reached for the switch on the dash. He hesitated, knowing all too well that he was probably going to see an embarrassing scene in the water next to the yacht. If it was quiet, the horny young men in the water were almost certainly clinging to the mostly naked women in the water with them, kissing and groping and more.

Dawkins pondered his job security a moment longer, then swore. He couldn’t leave the lights off any longer. He had already been irresponsible to allow Flynt to have his way this long. If the young actor was upset, he’d deal with him tomorrow when he was sober. The kid was usually apologetic on the morning after, if he’d gone too far.

Dawkins fully expected to see one of several possible scenes when the lights again pierced the dark water. One involved pairs of lovers clinging to the sides of the boat; another was composed of a full-on orgy in the water next to it. Less likely, but also quite possible, they would just be treading water and talking quietly. Yet as the bright hull lights revealed the ocean along the sides of the yacht, he was totally unprepared for what he saw.

Dawkins jumped to his feet and stared at the clearly lit water around the boat.

They were all gone.

Surely this was some sort of trick. The captain hurried to the railing and followed it down the length of the yacht to the tip of the bow, then back down the far side, scanning the clear blue water from near the vessel to as far out as his eyes could see in the dark night. Nothing.

Except there was something—some sort of dark cloud in the water, slowly dissipating as he watched. Blood? A moment later, the dark spot was gone. Maybe he was seeing things.

Dawkins stopped near the staircase leading to the stern and stood motionless for several moments, unsure of what to do. They couldn’t all be gone. It wasn’t possible. It had only been a few minutes. The lights had only been off for a few minutes. The boat hadn’t even drifted. Dawkins squinted past the reach of the lights at the darkened sea surface. Even in this almost moonless night, however, he knew he should be able to see the group on the surface if they were within a few hundred yards. It was some sort of trick. He shook his head, then rushed down the staircase to the stern.

“Fernando, turn off the music! Now, goddammit!”

The handsome Latino bartender looked at him with a puzzled expression, then wiped his hands dry on his vest and turned a knob on the wall behind him. The music died. After a few seconds, the loud chatter around the men died down as well.

“What’s up, man? Get the tunes back on!” A stocky young man with spiked blond hair, mixed drink in hand, was looking at Dawkins.

“You, son. What the hell is going on here? Where did they go?”

“Where did who go?” The kid was in a drunken stupor, looking as though he might pass out on his feet. A large tattoo covered one of his pectoral muscles and one shoulder.

“The swimmers, you idiot!” Dawkins grabbed the man roughly by the shoulders, pulling his face close. “Your friends in the water! This isn’t funny. Are they hiding somewhere?” They must have reboarded. They were playing some sort of game, with the captain the sole victim of their joke.

“Who you callin’ an idiot, grandpa?”

Dawkins shoved him aside and raced inside the yacht. He stormed through each room, smashing in one locked door to find a couple having sex, but there were only a few others belowdecks. He knew this boat well. There was no hidden location where more than a few people could conceal themselves. He returned to the helm on the upper deck, huffing as he felt the extra pounds he’d put on over the past few years. He reached into the storage cabinets underneath the dash, withdrew a spotlight, and plugged it into the console.

Breathing hard, he swept the beam of light across the surface of the ocean. As his search began to come full-circle back to the starboard side, he felt sick to his stomach. Nobody. Nothing. Bobby and the other kids were no longer there. They weren’t anywhere.

They were simply gone.

Valerie Martell accepted the bearded yacht captain’s hand as he helped her board his vessel. She jumped lightly from the gunwale of the law enforcement boat down onto the transom. It was a beautiful, sunny morning just off Catalina Island, with gentle seas and a cool westerly breeze.

The middle-aged captain looked weary and discouraged, which didn’t surprise Val. Joe had told her the man had lost an estimated sixteen passengers last night when the missing group had gone swimming in the open ocean. Joe jumped down onto the transom after Val, followed by a Los Angeles County deputy sheriff named Bailey and one of his crime technicians, and the police boat pulled away from the yacht to idle on the waves nearby.

Joe had called Val on her cell early in the morning to tell her about the missing kids. She’d spent the previous night at a hotel in Costa Mesa, south of Los Angeles, where she’d stayed up late trying to decide if she should head back to Mexico.

Because so many of the yacht’s passengers had gone missing—and, according to witnesses, in very rapid fashion, apparently in a matter of minutes—Joe had followed a hunch that they might be dealing with another incident related to the shoal. He had called Val and asked her to come along.

“Captain, I’m Valerie Martell.”

The captain took his hat off to shake her hand, resting it on the pressed white shirt covering his full belly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am. Leonard Dawkins. I’m the captain of Night Flight . Are you a police officer?”

“I’m a marine scientist.”

He frowned. “Why are you here?”

“She’s helping us with an ongoing investigation.” Joe stepped up to shake his hand. “I’m Joe Montoya, a sergeant with the San Diego County sheriff. Can we go sit somewhere to talk? We’ll want to interview each of the passengers in turn, but we’d like to start by talking to you.”

“San Diego County? But I would think that—”

“I know it may seem unusual to have the two of us here with the local authorities. We’ll explain in a bit.”

“I understand. Fernando, can you please bring our guests some coffee? We’ll be in the dining room.”

After Deputy Bailey and his technician had introduced themselves to Captain Dawkins, he led them all to a beautifully crafted dining area belowdecks, complete with hand-carved cherrywood trim and paneling. The passengers sleeping or sitting bleary-eyed in the room were escorted out, and the group sat down at the solid cherrywood table. After the police officers took out notebooks and a tape recorder, the L.A. deputy, who sported an old-time pencil-thin mustache and a crew cut, started in on a basic series of questions about the previous night’s events, all directed at the captain: “Full name?” “Are you the regular captain of this vessel?” “What were you all doing here last night?” “Who was on board when you left shore?”