Leviathan Page 5

  “Just the person I wanted to see,” he said. Hamilton stood on a platform overlooking the hundred-and-fifty-thousand-gallon porpoise tank. Inside both Lucy and Desi frolicked together. Once a day Hamilton took them out of their regular tank for a two-hour training session.

  “So I’ve been told,” she said.

  “We’re finishing up here. Gimme a couple minutes.” He held a stack of flashcards the size of paper grocery bags. He selected one for the dolphins, both of which sat attentively at the edge of the tank. On the card was a drawing of a blue triangle.

  “Take your time.” Kelly leaned against the aboveground pool and watched. Personally she preferred to study animals in a natural habitat rather than trapped in a pool. It was remarkable to witness the creatures’ intelligence.

  The female reacted first. Lucy dived to the bottom of the tank where there were several oversized replicas of the items illustrated on the cards. The top of the objects had circular handles so the animals could move them with their snouts. Lucy hooked the blue triangle with her bottlenose and swam back to Hamilton with it.

  The Institute had bought Lucy after Sea World of Ohio closed in 2001. The biologists soon discovered that without a companion, the dolphin didn’t enjoy life. The creature, much like humans, needed interaction with others of its species. It suffered depression for three weeks, refusing to eat and eschewing exercise until a male was introduced.

  Desi was harder to acquire than his female counterpart. The Institute traded three manta rays and a nurse shark to the Mote Aquarium in Sarasota, in addition to incurring the brunt of relocation costs. At once the two mammals bonded and became inseparable.

  It interested Kelly to note how some species were monogamous to the point of dying from heartbreak when a mate passed away, while others had no proclivity toward fidelity whatsoever. She had yet to decide in which group humans belonged.

  Hamilton knelt to rub Lucy’s belly. It turned supine, exposing its white underside for scratching. Dolphins loved having people stroke their snouts and massage their stomachs. Touching them reminded Kelly of petting a wet sponge. He reached for a dead fish, held it flat on his palm. Lucy swallowed the treat without flinching. “You and I need to talk,” he said to Kelly.

  “What about?” she asked.

  He looked incredulously at her. “How’d your trip go?” He chose another flashcard, this one with a red ball on it. Desi dived to the tank bottom to retrieve the object using echolocation.

  “It went well. We got a lot of solid data. I still have to sift through it all.”

  “And?” he pressed. He took the red ball from the dolphin and showered the animal with affection, like a boy with his first puppy.

  “And . . . there was a bit of an incident,” she admitted.

  “You think the Board of Trustees won’t frown on the destruction of more than two hundred thousand dollars in equipment?”

  “I had no control over what happened, you know that. I’m cautious to a fault with the Institute’s property.”

  “I know, I know.” He collected the items lying around, replaced them in a plastic bin. The director dumped the rest of his fish bucket in the pool and jumped off the platform. “Sounds like you didn’t have any control out there.”

  “That’s not true. I — ”

  “Do you wanna go back to trawling? Because that’s the direction we’re headed if your experiment fails.”

  Trawling was a brutal technique wherein research vessels scraped the ocean floor with giant nets to collect whatever animals became ensnared in it. Scientists thought it was skewed because it didn’t represent all the ocean’s species. More often than not, the specimens were harmed or killed in the process, not to mention the detrimental aftereffects on the fragile local environment.

  “We allow you certain freedoms we don’t extend to other researchers because you get results. The Trustees phoned me in the middle of night, and they — ”

  “How the hell did they find out?” she demanded.

  “We have people working to ensure our equipment’s used properly and no laws are broken.”

  She felt somewhat violated by the revelation. “I wasn’t aware.” Who could be a mole working for the Institute? Not Captain Bart, he wasn’t smart enough to play both sides. And Rafe was too naïve. It had to be one of the interns. She didn’t want them on her expeditions to begin with, and now she planned to redouble her efforts to ban them from all future trips. If she ever led one again.

  “The Trustees chewed me a new asshole about chewing you a new one. They can’t believe you let this happen.”

  “I didn’t let anything happen. It would’ve happened anyway. Thanks to me, we recovered the data and the camera may be salvageable. If I hadn’t been there, it would’ve been a complete loss.”

  “That’s what I told them,” Hamilton said. “They’re not gonna let this slide. The Trustees ordered a layoff, and I negotiated like hell on your behalf.”

  “I appreciate that,” Kelly said. The sincerity in her voice was rare for the marine biologist.

  “In the end they settled for a formal reprimand, as well as demanding a written apology and report on the accident. If I were you, I’d get on my knees and grovel. You dodged the bullet on this one.”

  Hamilton and Kelly started across the Institute’s commons. “What went down out there, really?” he asked. “Somebody said you told the crew there’d been an earthquake? I checked with the Geological Service this morning; there has been no reports of significant seismic activity from the Sylvian Trench since 1973.”

  “They didn’t need to know the truth. The video footage will be ready later this week. We found three new fish species, in addition to an eel that looks like a two-foot tadpole. It has forearms and hind legs.”

  “I somehow doubt an eel wrecked that camera,” he said. Normally he would be impressed. Not today, not right now.

  “We were assaulted,” she confessed.

  Hamilton didn’t understand. “By what, pirates? Don’t jerk me around, what ruined the equipment?”

  “Whatever left this.” She took the incisor from her pocket, displayed it in an open palm. It reached from the base of her fingers to her wrist, four-and-a-half inches in length.

  “A rock?” he said.

  “A tooth.”

  “Belonging to what?” They stopped walking so he could closer inspect the item closer.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I found nothing like it in my research. There are a few other texts I want to consult first.” Hamilton picked up the tooth and molested it between his fingers. “We found something new,” Kelly said.

  “Let’s not be hasty.”

  “What type of animal would leave behind something like this?”

  He thought about it. “I can’t tell you what this is from; however, I can say for certain what it’s not from. It’s not a shark, not the tentacle hook from any cephalopod. Barracuda maybe?”

  Kelly shook her head. “It’d have to be record size,” she said. “Besides, their teeth aren’t dull like this. Theirs are sharp like piranha.”

  “It’s obviously from a predator, carnivore of some kind.” He handed it back. “Bottom line, we haven’t a clue. Until the lab goes over it, I’ll reserve judgment. Could be a tooth — probably is now that I look at it — but it could also be a tooth-shaped rock.”

  “Please,” she said. “It’s white. This is fresh.” If it had been a fossil, it would have been black from carbonization. As bone matrix decomposed over millions of years, minerals slowly leeched in to render a perfect imprint in stone.

  Kelly and Hamilton started walking again. They stopped in the foyer of the main building. “Unzip me,” he said. The director turned, trying to reach the thick plastic zipper on the back of his wetsuit. She helped him with it.

  Hamilton struggled out of the suit, which clung to his clammy skin. The front desk receptionist often reminded him to please take off his dripping clothes outside, as not to leave slippery puddles in the lob
by.

  Kelly slipped the object into her pocket when he asked, “Where on the ocean floor did you find that?”

  “That’s the best part,” she said. “It was embedded in the camera. You have to see the damage for yourself.”

  “I’m stopping by the Aurora tomorrow.”

  “This creature, whatever it was, didn’t just break the equipment — it obliterated the camera, tried to eat it.”

  They went down a corridor and he unlocked his office door. Kelly followed him inside and said, “Let me go locate that thing.”

  “So you propose to find this specimen and, what, bring it back to civilization? Show it off to the world like King Kong? Because that didn’t end so well for the people or the ape.”

  “I’m proposing a scientific expedition to track the animal. What I saw out there was at least thirty feet long. Aren’t you tired of insignificant discoveries?”

  “No discovery’s insignificant,” Hamilton said.

  “Picture a beast weighing several tons. It’ll thrust the Institute into the international spotlight. More media attention means more public awareness,” she said, “which equals more donations.” That was an important point to make for the always-strapped institution. “This could be like catching the Loch Ness Monster.”

  “You know what Peter Scott thought of that.” Sir Peter Scott had been a leading conservationist. In the United Kingdom, a creature couldn’t be sheltered under the country’s animal protection laws unless it had a scientific name. Scott christened the elusive beast Nessiteras rhombopteryx, or ‘rhombus-winged Ness monster’. It was later pointed out to the gullible that the words spelled an anagram of MONSTER HOAX BY SIR PETER S.

  “We don’t have to keep it,” she said. “Find it, tag it, let it go.” The Institute stood to learn more about the animal by releasing it back to the wild. Feeding and mating habits could be better ascertained, as well as any migratory patterns. There was also the possibility it could lead them to its place of origin, of valuable interest to the scientists.

  “I’d love to,” Hamilton said, “but the sad fact is you’re out of money. Your grant’s up. You blew everything to build that damn camera, and now there’s nothing left for the research itself.” The director hung up the wetsuit and took a seat behind his desk.

  “So I’ll get another grant,” Kelly said. It was a doable proposition, though it may take several months. She couldn’t wait that long; she needed cash for a journey now.

  He looked across the room at her. This was the closest he’d known Kelly to beg. She wasn’t one who normally asked for help (or needed it), but she could use his at the moment. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises though. The Trustees aren’t pleased with either of us right now, and you’re already asking them for more money. The odds aren’t stacked in our favor. How much are we talking about?”

  Kelly tallied a rough estimate of expenses in her head. “Hundred grand?” She quickly amended that figure based on Hamilton’s scowl. “Fifty?”

  “They might be able to free up that amount if — and I do mean if — they go for the idea. If not, I don’t wanna hear any complaints from you.”

  “When have I ever complained?” she joked.

  “They still won’t forgive this mess with the camera. I’ll have to give them some guarantee there will be no more mistakes, a safety net.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I got a friend of mine upstate. He may be interested in a trip like this. Assuming I can convince him to go, the Trustees might sign off on the voyage. His name’s Evan Hale. We’ve used him before as a consultant in herpetology and ichthyology. Sound fair?”

  “Fair enough,” Kelly said, “for a babysitter.”

  “He’s a professional. You go with him or not at all.”

  “Will we have the opportunity to meet first?”

  “That can be arranged.”

  Kelly made her way to the door. “I wasn’t scheduled to work today, so if it’s all the same to you I’m gonna head home and get some sleep.”

  “By all means,” Hamilton said. “And expect a call after I speak with Evan.”

  “Looking forward to it,” Kelly said as she exited the office.

  The marine biologist wasn’t thrilled with the circumstances, but if having a chaperone on the trip were a necessary evil, she’d go along with it. To find this new creature, Kelly Andrews was willing to jump through whatever hoops the Institute wanted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SWEAT STUNG EVAN Hale’s eyes. He didn’t bother wiping it away, let the droplets travel down his forehead and behind his sunglasses. He was used to the heat and humidity. Thirty-one years living in the Sunshine State prepared him for any type of weather conditions Mother Nature could muster. He wore two sets of shirts: his gray Florida Park Service uniform and a t-shirt underneath it to soak up perspiration. In spite of this, dark sweat stains blossomed under his arms and across his back and chest.

  The deafening roar of the giant fan engine rattled his bones. Even with earplugs and headphones, he felt all one hundred and fifteen decibels through his teeth. It sounded like a swarm of killer bees in his head. Traveling south down the Kissimmee River, he scanned the water ahead of the fanboat for any obstructions. The state was in the midst of its worst drought in fifteen years. Water levels were down to record lows, making the waterways shallow and dangerous in parts that were normally easy to navigate.

  His assistant Sara pointed to the left as a blue heron took flight from its roost high in a dead cypress tree. He nodded at her observation, guessed the bird was a juvenile. Its wingspan was only four feet across, still an adolescent.

  The river teemed with life yet reeked of death. The air was thick with rot, and it permeated like a mildewed rag. This was a place of continual decay. He watched nature’s cycles during the last nine years on the swamp, life and death and all parts betwixt. The sulfuric tinge of plant decomposition was stronger than usual due to the dry spell. The Kissimmee River and Lake Okeechobee were down almost three feet, leaving vegetation previously submerged underwater to now putrefy in the open. The smell stuck to his clothes like campfire smoke.

  The vessel he piloted was a flat-bottomed five-by-ten-foot fanboat. Going downstream at twelve knots and fighting a moderate breeze, he sat on a cushioned seat at the rear while Sara used the bench in front of him. The Florida Park Service had purchased several of the boats cheap from an out-of-business tourist outfit, Swampland Cruises, and had modified them for new uses. Still stenciled at the bow of the craft was a faded message: IF YOU HAD FUN ON THE RIDE, DON’T FORGET TO TIP YOUR GUIDE.

  He’d worked a decade for the park service, having gotten an early entry-level job while still an undergrad at the University of South Florida. He was one of a rare breed, someone who’d been born and raised in the state.

  Natural Floridians were hard to come by. They were far outnumbered by permanent or temporary out-of-staters, many of them Northerners who migrated south for the winter season (which earned them the nickname snowbirds). Retired New Yorkers and Midwesterners dominated the population in the colder months, like rowdy college students who descended on the beaches during Spring Break. Most residents came from somewhere else, making Florida a true transient state.

  It was the second Saturday of the month, time for one of Evan’s unscheduled twice-monthly trips to check on the lake’s residents. Life on the lake was abnormal even by Florida standards. It took a special type of deviant who wanted to spend his or her days living alone in the Everglades. Evan called them Lakers. Like living in a log cabin, it wasn’t for everyone. Lakers seemed to fall into one of two categories: those with severe antisocial personalities, and others who wanted privacy to indulge in certain illicit behaviors. The next residence on his mental checklist belonged to John and Jonas Tucker, twin brothers who lived together. The Tuckers belonged in both groups. They weren’t the friendliest folks around, and each had an extensive criminal record.

  Evan used to do rounds once a
month, until last summer when he found the corpse of Willy Topper. The hermit had died from a massive heart attack while doing dishes, collapsed dead at the kitchen sink. The coroner told Evan that Topper had been deceased for almost two weeks before being discovered. By that time rats had gotten to him and ate away most of the pliable tissues of the body like the ears, nose, eyes and fingertips. The odor was unbearable, nauseating at thirty feet. It stayed with the ranger for days afterward, forcing him to habitually blow his nose in vain to rid himself of the stench. It clung to the inside of his nostrils and ruined his appetite for days.

  Since then Evan doubled his visits and tried not to duplicate his schedule from month to month, as not to become predictable. If anyone on the lake did engage in illegal activities, Evan wanted a fair shot at catching him or her. He also saw it as an opportunity to help anybody who may need assistance, especially since most of the Lakers were elderly. They were too old, poor and ornery to live anyplace else. There was something about their stubbornness Evan admired.

  No one lived in houseboats actually on the water; it would be dangerous and stupid to do so. These people grew up around the swamp, and they understood Mother Nature was in control. Their dilapidated homes fringed the lake’s outlying areas. Citizens could reach the nearest town — Rumford, twelve miles to the west — by vehicle in case of emergency; however, the preferred form of transportation was fanboat.

  Most of the houses weren’t more than two- or three-room shanties with corrugated tin roofs. Some were built on stilts for added protection from floods, although the river hadn’t overflowed its banks in over twenty years. A few of the owners didn’t have such luxuries as indoor plumbing or working electricity. These folks had been pushed aside by society and saw the swamp as their only sanctuary. Every year land developers encroached further into marshland; the Lakers yearned for total refuge, as did the wildlife with which they shared the territory.

  The homesteads reminded Evan of his great-grandmother’s place in the Louisiana bayou. He spent every summer with her until she died at the spry age of ninety-seven, when he was fifteen years old. Even then he’d been drawn to the allure of the swamp, to its endless beauty and mystery. Despite the severe poverty here, five miles away millionaire retirees congregated on private golf courses inside their gated communities.