Lord of the Deep Page 6

  But Alison had touched him.

  He turned toward her.

  Her eyes were flooded with worry.

  Something Mikey didn’t understand passed between them. He noticed that he was gripping the knife so hard his fingers were cramping. He opened his palm, then closed it again around the hard rubber handle.

  Then he slipped overboard.

  The ocean rushed into his ears, his nose, the warm watery pressure of a billion miles of sea pressing in on every inch of his body. For a moment he heard nothing. But the sounds came quickly, the eerie clicking and snapping of deep water.

  It was clear and clean, but the salt stung his eyes. Everything was a blur. He wished he had the face mask, but the old rubber strap had rotted. He spun around, checking for shapes, for moving shadows.

  But there was only the soft, empty blueness.

  The thought of his feet dangling like edible tentacles made his skin crawl. He pulled his knees to his chest.

  Then came up for air. Breathed.

  Went back down.

  The prop was jammed with a bulge of line around the driveshaft. It would take some time to cut it all away. He’d have to work fast.

  Mikey hacked at the bunched line crosswise, pulling it away bit by bit. He sliced his thumb and jerked his hand back. It wasn’t a big cut, but it was a bloody one. Brownish streamers wafted away.

  He glanced around, all the way around. But he had to finish the job.

  He hacked at the line as blood drifted off his thumb, a small watery haze a shark could smell a mile away. He went up for air only when his lungs screamed for it.

  Bill was peering over the edge. Mikey could see his and Alison’s wobbly shapes when he looked up from below the surface.

  Mikey came up, gasping.

  “How’s it look?” Bill said.

  Mikey breathed greedily, his lungs burning. “There’s . . . a lot of it . . . give me five minutes.”

  “Take as much time as you need.”

  Mikey filled his lungs and went under.

  He knew Bill didn’t want him to take as much time as he needed, but he’d allow it if it was necessary. That was one of the great things about Bill. He was fair. So Mikey worked even harder, slicing and slicing.

  Watching for movement in the corner of his eye. For dark shadows.

  He stopped. There! Did he see something?

  He spun around. Looked out and down.

  Nothing.

  Had he imagined it? He didn’t think so. The crawling skin came back. The prickles. The warm water suddenly cold.

  Fear playing tricks.

  Yeah, fear, just fear.

  He worked faster, ripping the severed line off the driveshaft until his fingers burned. In his near panic, he just missed slicing his thumb again. But he kept on hacking and pulling until he’d gotten it all, until bits and pieces of fishing line drifted away, suspended all around him.

  He burst up and gulped in air, acres and acres of sweet fresh air.

  Bill was gone. But not Alison.

  He handed her the knife.

  She took it and dropped it onto the deck, then reached down to help him aboard.

  Mikey grabbed her hand. His arms were sapped rubber, powerless. Blood from his cut streamed down the back of his wrist and stained Alison’s fingers.

  Bill suddenly appeared. He reached over and grabbed Mikey’s other hand and together he and Alison pulled him out of the sea.

  Mikey rolled over the transom and fell wet and glistening onto the deck. He lay on his back, chest heaving. The sun warmed his face, the sun that had never ever in his whole entire life felt so good, so hopeful and still. So warm. He was alive. He wanted to lie there and sleep forever.

  Alison knelt beside him, Mikey’s blood coloring her hand.

  Bill said, “When you’re ready, set up the rods. Let’s get back on the road.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mikey said. “That was all my fault.”

  Bill squatted down on one knee and said, softly, “Maybe. Things happen. But do us a favor, will you?”

  He paused, as if for effect.

  Mikey sat up, one hand on the gunnel.

  “Learn from it.” Bill winked, then stood.

  “Already have,” Mikey mumbled.

  Bill headed back to the wheel. Passing Cal and Ernie, he said, “I’d like to take another crack at snagging that marlin. He may be mad enough to attack anything we put in the water.”

  Ernie said nothing.

  Cal slapped two cards on the table.

  Bill went to the wheel and throttled up.

  Alison sat on her heels, her arms wrapped around her legs. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” Mikey said. “Just tired.”

  “My dad wouldn’t have been so understanding,” she said. “And Uncle Ernie would still be wringing my neck.” She turned to look back in the cabin, as if hoping they’d heard.

  “Bill’s the best,” Mikey said softly.

  He struggled up and reset the rods, ignoring the cut on his thumb.

  Bill came aft and put the lures out. Finally satisfied, he went back to the wheel.

  They trolled in toward the island, then out again, passing over the spot where they’d hooked the blue marlin. After five passes Bill gave up and headed out to deeper waters.

  CHAPTER 9

  MIKEY SAT WITH ALISON ON THE FISH BOX.

  They didn’t speak, and didn’t seem to want or need to.

  Mikey’s mind and body were numb. His thoughts came and went slowly and without urgency. Noticing things, yet making no judgments about what he saw. Bill at the wheel, studying the water. Cal and Ernie at the table. Beer bottles bright amber in the sun. Second hand on the clock jumping forward, second by slow second. Alison ignoring her father, yet also drawing him in her sketchbook more than any other subject.

  Mikey’s strength slowly returned, but he was still tired. He could sleep for ten or twelve hours if he had the chance.

  He was back in the world now. Revived. But he could still remember the feeling of being in the water. The fear. The aloneness. No one to watch his back.

  Forget it.

  He looked out at the island, so far away. He wouldn’t mind heading back.

  He remembered first seeing the Big Island from the Crystal-C when Bill had moved them over from Maui. They’d come on the boat. The mountains from the sea were hazy blue sketches in the distance as they crossed Alenuihaha Channel. The island grew clear and brown and green as they got closer, long black fingers of old lava flows scarring the land.

  It was only five months after Bill had walked into his mother’s life. His mom had married Bill on the bow of the boat. Mikey smiled, remembering that perfect blue-sky day. What a great idea, anchoring off Lahaina with skiffs full of friends watching. Mikey’d never in his life seen his mom so happy, so serene and at peace.

  Three weeks after that, everything they owned was packed and stowed all over the Crystal-C. Heading out of Lahaina harbor, they looked like the Swiss Family Robinson.

  The sun rose as they set out for the island of Hawaii. Mikey’d gone up on the bow and let his face lead, the wind soothing his skin. He was in heaven.

  But oh, man, had his mom gotten seasick. So bad she could barely speak. Not him, though. Not even a hint of it. He was made for the sea.

  Maybe it was because of the water bed he used to have. His mom had bought it at a garage sale back on Maui. It was just like sleeping on a boat, rocking and rolling. The only problem was the bed had a hole in it. An inch-long stab wound with a glued-on bicycle-tire patch that usually kept the water inside. But sometimes it leaked, and in the mornings when Mikey found his sheet damp, he had to smell it to see if the bed had leaked or if he had.

  He smiled, remembering that. He’d never in his life wet his bed. When they left Maui, Mikey gave the water bed to his friend Elroy, whose mother cut it up and made a tent out of it for them. They set it up in the backyard and with white poster paint drew a star and U.S. ARMY on the side. The pa
int washed away in the first rain, but it was still a good tent.

  Now Mikey slept on a real bed that didn’t leak. But it didn’t feel like a boat, either.

  “What you thinking about?” Alison said.

  Mikey snapped back. “What? Oh, nothing really.”

  “Come on.”

  Mikey grinned and looked out over the wake. No way he was telling her about the leaky water bed.

  They trolled south, the island passing by off the port beam, the long, flat empty sea to starboard. He thought about Alison, still wondering why she acted so weird to her dad.

  “When you went in the water?” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What was it like? I mean, was it eerie?”

  “It wasn’t any fun.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “Not really . . .”

  He stopped. “Yes,” he admitted. “I was very scared. My thumb was bleeding, you know? And I thought I saw something. But when I looked there was nothing there.”

  “Spooky.”

  “And then some.”

  Alison studied him, smiling with her eyes.

  “How’s the cut?”

  “Okay.”

  “Aren’t you going to put a Band-Aid on it?”

  “No. Better to just let it dry out.”

  Alison kept watching him.

  Mikey crossed his arms. Then uncrossed them. He jumped up and went over to the cooler and got two strawberry sodas and popped the tabs. He brought them back.

  Alison took one, still looking at him. She took a quick sip and grimaced at the carbonation. “Bites,” she said.

  Mikey nodded. “I like it when it’s ice cold like this, don’t you?”

  Alison smiled. Those pale blue eyes. “Yeah.”

  CHAPTER 10

  THE CRYSTAL-C RUMBLED ON.

  Alison took her sketchbook and climbed back up onto the flying bridge. Mikey went in and sat in the seat across from Bill. He gazed out over the ocean as they crossed, and crossed again, the great Hawaiian marlin grounds, the seas of massive yellowfin tuna and monster swordfish that some called the best game fish in the world. One of which was lost by Mikey Donovan.

  Mikey frowned.

  Bill glanced over and winked at him.

  Ernie blew his nose, a loud honk. Mikey turned to see him wiping his nostrils with a crumpled handkerchief, pushing his nose to its limits. Mikey turned away.

  “Hey, Billyboy,” Ernie said, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket.

  Bill looked his way.

  “How do you make a blonde laugh on Monday morning?”

  Bill grinned and looked back toward the sea.

  “Tell him, Cal,” Ernie said.

  Cal turned around, big grin on his face. “Tell her a joke on Friday.” They both laughed.

  Bill shook his head.

  Mikey didn’t get it. Were blondes supposed to be dumb, or something? Alison was a blonde, and she wasn’t dumb. These guys were weird.

  They trolled parallel to the island, crossing south to north, then south again in long hopeful meanderings. The relentless rumbling engines numbed Mikey’s brain. This was the hardest part, the boredom, the waiting, the endless crawling over waters warmed by a sun that often gave up nothing but scorching burns, salt-cracked lips, and slivers of shade.

  Mikey got up and went out onto the stern deck. He leaned against the transom, watching the rods nodding silently to the tug and pull of the lures working in the wake.

  As far as Mikey was concerned, the ocean was asleep.

  Something hit his back, a wadded-up piece of paper. He turned and picked it up, then glanced at the flying bridge.

  Alison waved at him. “Open it,” she mouthed.

  Mikey unwadded the paper. How are you doing? He looked up at her.

  She shrugged and raised her eyebrows.

  He gave her a thumbs-up. He was doing fine. Except for thinking about the marlin.

  He looked into the cabin.

  Cal and Ernie were staring absently out the window. The cards and beer sat untouched on the tabletop between them. Bill held the wheel in loose fingers.

  They trolled on.

  Mikey was hungry, but since no one else was scrambling for their lunches, he didn’t either.

  A while later the sky slowly began to lose its blue to the inevitable afternoon clouding, a blanket of gray white overcast that crept out over the sea from the island. Some parts of the ocean were silver and glary.

  Mikey fished a root beer out of the cooler and went back in and stood in the aisle near the wheel. He handed the ice-cold can to Bill.

  Bill took it, nodded thanks. He sat with one foot up on the seat, his arm hanging over his knee.

  Mikey slid onto the seat across the companionway. He scooted up against the window and sat with his arm on the sill, like you would in a car.

  The mountaintops on the island were obscured by clouds now. By five o’clock the sky would be white all the way to the horizon. The sea would be silver gray, and the glare off the water looking west would be nearly unbearable.

  CHAPTER 11

  CAL AND ERNIE started playing poker again. They said nothing, which was fine with Mikey. There was only the slap of cards hitting the table behind where Mikey sat. The rush of a shuffle every now and then.

  Mikey turned in his seat to watch them.

  At one point Bill stood and stretched. He pulled the legs of his crumpled shorts down and went back and stood in the aisle near Cal and Ernie. “Nice day, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Nice boat ride, you mean?” Ernie said, shooting a sour glance at Mikey.

  Mikey looked away.

  “That, too,” Bill said.

  How does Bill do it? Mikey wondered.

  Mikey frowned and got up and went aft, squeezing past Bill. He climbed up to the flying bridge, where Alison was. Maybe from there he could find those birds again, or a log, or even a skid of flotsam—anything that might help locate fish.

  Alison sat as before, cross-legged. She was facing aft, looking out over the wake. Her notebook lay open in her lap, the pen in the gully between the pages.

  Mikey saw a blip of a boat far out on the horizon. No other boats in sight. Everyone must be fishing farther south today.

  “Sit,” Alison said, tapping a spot next to her.

  Mikey eased down. “Ever finish that drawing?” Alison’s hand covered the sketchbook.

  “I did,” she said.

  “Well . . . can I see it?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Hey, I can’t even draw a stick figure,” Mikey said. “Come on, let me see it.”

  “I guess.”

  She flipped back a couple of pages and handed the sketchbook to Mikey.

  Jeez, Mikey thought.

  It looked just like him, but different, too. The face was his, that was for sure. But everything else was sort of out of proportion, larger than real life. It looked perfect that way, though. Grabbed your eyes and wouldn’t let go.

  “You did this?” he said. Stupidly, he thought, immediately after he’d said it.

  “Well, no, actually the pen just flew across the page all by itself. It was a miracle.”

  Mikey flipped back through the pages, looking at other drawings. Some were unfinished, some were crossed out, some had notes around them, and some, Mikey thought, were masterpieces. “This is incredible,” he said, then looked up suddenly. “Uh . . . do you mind?”

  “You really like them?”

  “Are you kidding? This is great stuff.”

  “My dad thinks they’re weird . . . because I don’t put everything in proper perspective. He thinks it’s cartoony. But I like it this way.”

  Mikey’d been right. There were sketches of Cal all over the place—Cal in the fighting chair, Cal standing in the stern cockpit, Cal smoking a cigar, Cal snoring on the bunk.

  There was one Mikey really liked of Bill sitting at the wheel, squinting, a perfect likeness, his arms bigger than life,
sharpened by shape and muscle mass. It was as if Alison had looked for some telling detail about him and emphasized that. There was another one of Cal and Ernie playing cards, their hands oversized, the cards like scraps of paper lost in them.

  Mikey flipped to the beginning of the sketchbook. There was a girl with a sleek, long-haired cat in her arms. A massive horse and a rider. Cal in a cowboy hat pulled low. A sleeping dog. A woman scrubbing clothes in a wood bucket. Three cowboys branding a calf, the calf’s eyes bulging with fear. A woman saddling a horse, the look on her face one of complete serenity.

  “Who’s this?” Mikey asked.

  “My mom.”

  “I like it. I like all of them. You’re really good, Alison.”

  “I want to be an illustrator.”

  He handed the sketchbook back. “Can I . . . can I have one? A drawing? If it’s okay?”

  She grinned. “Which one?”

  “The one of Bill?” He reached over and flipped to the page.

  Alison studied it, as if considering if it was good enough to give away. “Sure,” she said. “It’s yours. But I’ll give it to you later. I want to cut it out with a razor so it’s not all ratty.”

  “I’m going to frame it.”

  “Really? You’d frame it?”

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “You’re okay, you know that?”

  “Good Lord, thank you. I was worried.”

  Mikey thought he spotted something on the water and stood. There was something that didn’t fit.

  An off-color blip.

  CHAPTER 12

  HE SQUINTED AT IT.

  They were trolling back closer to the coastline now, where the undersea ledges were, where the current churned and food was plentiful.

  Some kind of debris. A dark spot. Cane trash. Or maybe a log.