Ryan Lockwood - Below

“No crackers for you, you little fucker.”

Sturman tried to sip his beer, then remembered that his glass had been empty for quite a while and he had already tested the empty pint a few times. He was separated from three other patrons by several vacant bar stools at an open-air bar in Gull Harbor. The collection of facilities, thrown together on the northeast side of a narrow isthmus on the northern end of Catalina, serviced a natural harbor facing the mainland. Palm trees a few hundred yards from the calm, protected waters in the small harbor shaded the bar.

“Hey, buddy, how ’bout another?” Sturman waved his glass at the bartender, dripping beer onto his forearm.

“Sorry, man. I told you I can’t serve you anymore. You really should head back to your boat and get some rest.”

“I’ll get all the rest I need when I’m dead.”

The stocky bartender shook his head, then resumed wiping down glasses.

“If you won’t pour me a beer, I guess I’ll go make myself one.”

“Make yourself a beer? Whatever. It’s a free island.”

Sturman lurched out of his chair as he stood to go, nearly falling. His hand instinctively shot toward the bar as he steadied himself, which sent the big bird squawking away.

Sturman grinned. “Your parrot’s an asshole, pal.”

The well-to-do patrons nearby stopped talking and looked at him. He tipped his hat to them, but they looked away. He turned back to the bartender and fished in the pockets of his cargo shorts for money. He threw a few crumpled dollars on the bar. Fumbling for a cigarette in his shirt pocket, he lit it unsteadily and walked out of the bar.

Sturman had sailed straight for the north end of Catalina Island after he left Val. He had spent some time halfheartedly bottom-fishing for dinner in an outer bay near the island as he pondered his situation, and miraculously managed to land a stubborn twenty-pound white sea bass on a hunk of frozen market squid. He filleted the slender, silver-blue fish and placed it in his refrigerator, knowing the bass would be delicious when he grilled it. But it did little to cheer him up.

He couldn’t get Val’s face out of his mind. And when he tried to think of Maria’s, it took an effort to conjure up. Angry, frustrated, and feeling guilty, he had reeled in his lines and headed for the largest harbor on the northern half of the island to drown his emotions at the rustic bar. He had been drunk for two days now.

As he made his way down toward the water, he remembered that he had left Bud behind. He turned and nearly tripped over the dog, already standing at his heel.

“Hey, Bud. Nearly forgot you. Let’s get something to eat.”

Sturman lurched past several groups of tourists near a sand volleyball pit at the upper end of the narrow beach, and they all stared at him. He smiled at them, a tall, rough-looking drunk in a battered cowboy hat and unbuttoned shirt. Everyone averted their eyes and hurried past—except one girl wearing a sundress and carrying her sandals in one hand. She had wavy blond hair, full breasts, and a beer in her hand. She giggled when he leered at her and her friend.

“Hey, ladies, got any plans for dinner?”

Her shorter, plainer friend was not smiling like the blonde was. She spoke first, with a light British accent. “Yes, we do. Terribly sorry. Let’s go, Heidi.”

“My friend is lying.” The pretty blonde smiled at Sturman. She looked at her dark-haired friend. “Some fun, Allison. We are on holiday, are we not?” She turned back to Sturman. “You are a real cowboy, yes?” Her accent was vaguely European.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve even got a boat.”

She laughed, but her friend continued to look at Sturman suspiciously.

“What are you making for your dinner, cowboy?” the blonde asked.

“I’ve got some fresh fish. There ain’t nothing like grilled sea bass. And there’s beer and limes back on my boat.” Sturman pushed his hat back from his face and smiled. “Whataya say, gals? Ever had fresh sea bass grilled by a cowboy”—he swung his arm dramatically toward the sky over the island behind them—“at sunset? It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

The girls exchanged glances, but before the short one could speak, the blonde stepped toward Sturman and lifted his arm up over her shoulder. She put her own arm around his waist and tilted her rosy face up to his.

She smiled. “Dinner sounds brilliant. But only if you’ve got beer, Mr. Cowboy.”

“That I do, Miss Cowboy. And rum. You like rum?”

“Oh, yes. It’s Allison’s favorite.”

“Here we go again.” The brunette shook her head as she and Bud followed the pair. Sturman had planned to swim back to his moored boat with his cigarettes under his hat, but he was happy to pay for a water taxi. Anything for some company on the boat.

Sturman sat up from restless slumber. As his mind caught up to his body, he realized he was in his own bed inside the cabin of his boat. Next to him, poking out of the blanket, was the sleeping face of an unfamiliar blonde.

He had sobered up some as he slept. Now he felt the dull ache of guilt in his chest and wished he hadn’t brought the women on board, despite the fun he’d had with the girl. He’d found out she was Dutch.

He quietly slid on his tan cargo shorts and stepped out of the cabin into the cool night air. The harbor was quiet, save for the soft clanging of sailboat rigging from boats moored nearby and the light snoring of the other European girl. She was curled up in the stern. She’d had fun, too, once Sturman had convinced her to take a few shots of rum. She and Bud had become pals. These girls were all right, but now he wished he were alone.

Sturman looked up at the stars and shivered. Bud padded out of the cabin to join him, nuzzling his head against his master’s leg. Sturman reached down to stroke the dog’s head. Bud always seemed to know when his master was troubled.

Sturman looked back up at the night sky. He saw Val’s face in his mind. Then he tried to picture Maria’s. He could barely do it.

Damn .

Determined waves crashed against stubborn steel in the open waters northeast of Catalina Island. A drab, seventy-foot gray vessel plied the rough Pacific swells, fighting her way slowly to the southwest.

A month previously, a storm in the southern hemisphere near Antarctica had sent a legion of waves marching thousands of miles northeast. Those waves now relentlessly overtook seas that had been calm near Southern California the day before. Even here, on the leeward edge of the island, swells crested ten feet above the sea, easily lifting the prow of the Centaur before pulling it deep into troughs. The wind did its part to make the passengers on the fishing seiner miserable, driving heavy spray sideways across the deck. A thick layer of marine fog concealed the sun.

No one was more miserable than Joe Montoya. Of that, Val could be fairly certain. She looked outside the cabin of the fishing vessel to the stern, where Joe was leaning over the side of the boat. His face and jet-black hair were drenched from the spray assaulting the port side. The poor guy had been sick for hours now. He had spent most of his time aboard alone in the stern, shivering and pale. They had offered to drop him off back in Gull Harbor until they could retrieve him in a day or so, but he had refused. He had been asked to observe the capture operation, and had set his mind to do so.

Val and Karl Nikkola, a tall, gangly researcher with longish yellow hair, sat huddled in the elevated wheelhouse of the Centaur , safely out of the wind and spray. Karl was monitoring what was essentially a very expensive, highly sophisticated Fathometer clamped to a table. Below the Fathometer was a laminated nautical chart depicting the waters of Monterey Bay, where the seiner was based. The device was completely out of place in the cluttered wheelhouse, save for an expensive radar and depth finder bolted down side-by-side on the dash.