Monstrum (14 page)

“The
wake
was huge,” Murphy corrects, frowning thoughtfully. “I never saw hide nor hair of the beast itself. No one did, did they?”

“I got a quick look,” I admit. “Big eye. Black and white markings. Crazy sharp teeth.”

The other survivors look vaguely alarmed at this news.

“And we heard the eerie shriek it makes,” Murphy adds after a second or two. “Like nothing I've ever heard on an animal show, let me tell you. Enough to make a grown man piss on himself—excuse me, ladies,” he says quickly.

The whale's cry echoes inside me, and I know exactly what Murphy means. I repress a shiver and finger my aquamarine.

The captain and Dr. Baer exchange significant looks. Excited looks.

Murphy also notices. “And if you don't mind me saying so,” he continues, scowling, “I don't see why the two of you look like the cat that ate the canary dipped in cream. What do you know of the foul creature?”

Captain Romero hesitates and does something with his hands in his lap. For the first time, I notice that he's wearing a huge gold signet ring on his right hand. He twists it around his pinky, frowning as he arranges his words. “It's . . . a complicated story. The . . . company I work for—”

“Burke and Company,” I supply, remembering the lettering on the side of the ship.

Captain Romero winks at me. “You see, Cortés? Bria Hunter is as clever as she is beautiful. Watch out for this one.”

“I plan to,” Cortés answers.

I ignore this portion of the conversation and also the heavy burn of Gray's gaze on the side of my face. “Anyway, the company you work for . . .” I prompt, blushing furiously.

“Burke and Company? Never heard of ‘em,” Murphy says flatly.

“That does not surprise me,” the captain says. “It's a privately owned corporation out of Rio de Janeiro, but my crew is international. We specialize in, ah, asset acquisition and development. The company has awarded a research grant to Dr. Baer so he can study wildlife in the area.”

Maggie perks up. “Wildlife? So you're a . . . what?”

“Marine biologist,” Dr. Baer says.

Maggie beams at him. “Cool.”

“No, Maggie,
not
cool,” I interject, annoyed with my friend's ongoing mania for all things animal, despite what we've just endured. “He's not out here trying to save fluffy baby seals from being clubbed for fur coats. They're after that monster whale.” I stare at Captain Romero. “Aren't you?”

Captain Romero's lips curl with amusement as he nods at me. “I repeat: clever as well as beautiful.”

“So that's why you've got that weapons room, isn't it?” I say. “You've got enough firepower to blow the whole Bermuda Triangle to smithereens.”

“I would be foolish indeed if I did not prepare my ship for any contingency,” Captain Romero says. “There are whales in these waters, yes, but there are also drug smugglers and pirates.” His gaze hardens. “I do not like to be vulnerable, nor do I take risks with my employer's investments.”

“So it's definitely a whale, then?” I ask.

“The details are on a need-to-know basis only.” The captain gives me a rueful smile to soften his words. “I will say only that Dr. Baer has some theories about the creature, which may be an entirely new species.”

“New species?” Sammy asks, leaning forward in full science geek mode. “How could there be a species that size that no one's ever encountered before?”

“I don't think it is impossible at all, Mr. Lewis.” The captain smirks. “After all, it's not so very long since a live giant squid was recorded for the very first time, is it?”

“Well, yeah,” Sammy says, “but we knew it existed before that, because dead giant squid wash ashore all the—”

Murphy is apparently out of patience and reaches out an arm to keep Sammy quiet.

“Never mind,” Murphy says. “We don't have time for discussions about giant squid and new species and everyone's feckin' life story back to birth. I've heard enough about your
theories
,
Captain”—he makes quotation marks with his fingers—“to know that I don't care to hear any more.”

Captain Romero's lips thin into a tight line.

Maggie and I raise our brows at each other. Now that the immediate crisis is over, Murphy's normal personality, cranky old guy, seems to be making a comeback.

“I want to hear that you've notified the authorities,” Murphy continues. “I want to hear that the Coast Guard is sending a cutter to pick us up or that you're going to do a swing-by at Eleuthera and drop us off. Once these children are out of the area, you can study that demon spawn of Moby-Dick to your heart's content. Knock yourselves out putting those radio tags on his fins, and good luck to you. I hope you live to tell the tale, but I think there's a better chance of Uncle Sam opening up Area Fifty-One and making it an amusement park where you can ride the UFOs and eat cotton candy, so I'll not count on it. All I ask is that you leave us out of your suicidal nonsense. We just want to go home.”

Captain Romero has gone very still, and there's a pinched look around his mouth as he lifts his hands from his lap and places them, fingers laced, on the table. “Your wish is my command, Mr. Murphy, I assure you. As it happens, we have changed course and are headed back to Eleuthera as we speak. We should arrive by dawn if the weather conditions—”

“But what about the Coast Guard?” Carter interjects.

Captain Romero's hands come apart and he studies his fingers as he twists his ring again. “That is the problem with American teenagers, is it not, Señor Murphy? They study the Constitution and believe that the rights they have not earned, but have been granted by virtue of their birth on U.S. soil, make them the equal of their elders. So they speak freely when they should be listening.” He waves a hand, sighs, and continues sadly while Carter's jaw drops with outrage. “But what can you do? I struggle with this with my own son.”

Cortés, who's been sitting quietly and listening this whole time, stretches his arms high overhead and yawns as though he's just woken up. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing his eyes and blinking. “I dozed off for a minute. What'd I miss?”

Captain Romero does not look amused, especially when this performance sets off a round of snickering, quickly stifled, from the rest of us kids. Cortés's warm gaze catches mine across the table, and since I can't laugh and keep my guard up at the same time, I'm unprepared for the wild swoop in my belly.

I hastily look away.

“You see?” Captain Romero says to Murphy, jerking a thumb at his son. “What can I do?”

Murphy gives us a death glare and clicks his fingers. “Zip it.”

The sniggering trails off.

The captain waits an extra beat or two for complete silence. “As I was saying, we should arrive by morning. Your National Transportation Safety Board and Federal Aviation Administration will pinpoint the crash site and investigate. Your Coast Guard, which of course keeps a presence in the area, has been diverted by the remnants of the tropical storm last week and the gathering storm this week—it is to the west of French Guiana now and has been upgraded to Hurricane George. Did you know that? It is anyone's guess where it will go next—so they are happy to let us bring you in.”

“We're much obliged,” Murphy says. “And when will these children be able to phone their parents and let them know they're not lying dead at the bottom of the sea?”

“As soon as you are all finished eating. And after that, everyone will be shown to their rooms and fresh clothes. That will work for you, no?”

My friends all nod eagerly, and the excitement level kicks up several notches.

“Can I ask a question, Captain?” Sammy plows ahead without waiting for an answer. “How did you find us? How did you even know we were out there needing to be rescued?”

“We heard your pilot's distress call and realized we were the closest ship in the area,” the captain replies. “Luckily for all of you, the
Venator
is a good ship. She's very good at finding things, and I'm very fortunate to be her captain. God has blessed me.”

This time, when the bell of recognition dings in my head, I'm able to translate easily:

Venator
.

Hunter.

“H
ey,” says a voice behind me. “Is this rail taken?”

I know it's Cortés even before I turn and see him standing there. I might almost go so far as to say that I've been expecting him.

That doesn't mean I'm ready to talk to him, though.

I'm clean and sweet-smelling now, thanks to a hot shower in the cabin I'm sharing with Maggie and An. I'm also dressed in warm and dry sweats courtesy of one of the crewmen. They're way too big, but it's only temporary while our sea-battered clothes are washed and dried, so I'm not complaining.

Bottom line? I feel like a new person.

I've been leaning against the rail and watching the sunset, which is spectacular. At the moment, the top half of the sun blazes orange against pink-streaked skies and sparkling sapphire waves that are beginning to pick up a little, probably due to Hurricane George somewhere to the south. The air is crisp and salty fresh, with no trace of the decaying rot that overwhelmed my poor nose when we evacuated the plane. Even the sargassum, which drifts lazily along in green patches, seems wondrous and peaceful.

I guess I'm experiencing the thrill of still being alive and well.

But now I turn to face Cortés and work on my indifferent act.

“It's a free ship,” I say, shrugging.

He grins, producing dimples that groove past both sides of his mouth, giving him a look that's boyish and disarming. “My father might disagree with that.”

That makes me laugh, but since there's something unnerving about looking directly at Cortés or smiling with him, I turn back to the sunset and rest my elbows on the rail.

“Your father's . . .“ I trail off, struggling for the right word.

“A character?”

“I was going to say
interesting,
” I say, “but, yeah, let's go with your word. He's a character.”

“You have no idea,” he mutters. “He's obsessed with explorers and exploring. Which is why he named me Cortés, in case you were wondering. It's a thrill to be named after the guy who brutally conquered the Aztecs.”

“Cheer up,” I say. “Did you want to be named Pizarro, after the guy who brutally conquered the Incas? Or the guy who brutally conquered the—”

“Point taken.”

“Well. Murphy's a character, too.”

“True. But at least you're not related to him.”

“Point taken.”

I hadn't expected Cortés to be so fun. I'm having an increasingly hard time not grinning at him.

A beat follows.

I stare at the shifting clouds.

Judging from the building heat on one side of my face, Cortés is staring at me.

When I can't stand the spiking tension in my belly for another second, I run a hand through my freshly shampooed and ruthlessly tamed hair, which I've scraped back into a high ponytail.

“It's the hair, isn't it?” I ask. “Combing it is like trying to herd cats. I try, but there's only so much I can do. I know it's distracting.”

When I risk a sidelong glance at him, he's smiling. “Your hair is fine.”

“For now, yeah.” I strongly suspect that my nerves are making me babble, not that that shuts me up. “But it only behaves in ten-minute increments. Less in the tropics, so . . . Don't say I didn't warn you.”

“Trust me,” he says ruefully, pointing to his head. “I get hair.”

I grin. While I appreciate the empathy, his dark hair, like the rest of him, looks fantastic. The wind ruffles through his long curls, sweeping them across his high cheekbones, and the dying light is just bright enough for me to make out streaks of black so intense that they look blue.