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S
turman focused his drunken gaze on the two matching parrots, willing his eyes to merge them once again into a single bird. It was no use. No matter how hard he tried, the double vision kept winning out and the bird split into a blurred pair standing on the bar. The big red birds cawed and bobbed their heads up and down happily. Sturman was distinctly aware he was being mocked.

“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
.

D
etermined 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.

After talking to the yacht captain, Joe and Val had returned to the coast and met up with Nikkola, who had once been one of Val’s colleagues. His employers at the Weston Research Institute, a renowned marine studies group located in San Diego, had hired the squid-fishing vessel out of Monterey Bay. The boat had steamed down from California’s central coast the day before with Karl aboard. Once the vessel arrived, Val and Joe had met the crew and headed back out to sea to catch up to the shoal before it could travel far.

Through the salt-streaked pane of glass facing aft from the wheelhouse, Val watched as Joe leaned away from the gunwale, wiping his mouth. He walked unsteadily across the heaving deck toward the wheelhouse, his hands grabbing at anything available for support. At least instead of a uniform he had worn street clothes—a Windbreaker over a gray sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, all now soaked.

“Feeling any better?” She handed him a roll of paper towels as he entered the wheelhouse, dripping cold seawater.

“Never been better.” He grinned and wiped his mouth. “Always feels better right after you hack. I think I’ll probably be at this for a while, though.”

“You must be freezing.”

“Feels good, actually.”

“You and Sturman were in the Navy together. I thought for sure you’d be immune to the high seas.”

“We were on an aircraft carrier. Even the open ocean couldn’t really move that sucker much, except in a typhoon. I guess I’ve lost my sea legs, though.”

“I guess you have, son. Hah!” The
Centaur
’s captain, a grizzled, squinty man in a heavy cable sweater, sat at the helm, a grin on his bearded face as he spit chewing tobacco into a plastic cup. Besides laughing at everything, he had a bad habit of commenting frequently on Val’s conversations with Karl and Joe. He didn’t have much to add.

Joe had been handpicked to join the others after his boss had talked to Southern California political officials. They wanted law enforcement to observe this unusual operation, and since Joe had been involved from the first reported squid attacks, he was the best choice. Because Humboldt squid weren’t technically native to Southern California waters and were now believed to be actively pursuing human targets, government officials had allowed the Weston Institute to organize the operation to try and capture the shoal. A lot of money had been donated, so the institute heads had jumped at the chance to help.

Val knew they wanted to figure out what was going on as much as she did, and the task provided a great opportunity for exposure and positive PR for the institute. But she wasn’t convinced that what they were doing would either be effective or set a good example.

“Karl, do you really think what we’re doing here is a good idea? I mean, are we sending the wrong message to everyone? That these animals are the enemy, and we’re here to try and to stop them?”

Karl looked up from the monitor of the Fathometer and shrugged. “I do not know, Valerie. Our expedition here gives me a great opportunity to observe the squid in their environment.”

“Inside a net is hardly natural.”

“Do not be so negative. This is unbelievable! Besides, it sounds like these squid really are becoming quite dangerous. If we capture this group, then you will have a lot more specimens to examine. And enough material for at least two or three papers,
ja
?”

“I prefer to study living squid. It’s hard to study the behavior of a squid sprawled out on an examining table.”

Captain MacDonald slapped her shoulder. “But the dead ones are easier to eat! Hah!”

“I’m with Captain MacDonald. Let’s just round these bastards up for slaughter.” Joe was beginning to regain color, and his voice sounded stronger.

Val looked at Joe, then the captain. “At least you two agree on something.”

Joe smiled. “I just hope we can find them before this seasickness kills me.”

Val shook her head. What was the point? Joe and his pal Captain Ahab were like so many other people who didn’t understand biological science. Society tried to humanize every animal, making them all helpless victims or horrible monsters. That way of thinking was good for animals like cuddly-looking polar bears, but bad for cold-blooded fish and faceless, ten-armed oddities that lived deep in the ocean.

She said, “Joe, you already took something for the nausea, right?”

“Yeah, but that was a long time ago. I really didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“I have some pills stowed in my duffel, if you need them. It’s the red bag in the berthing area.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah. I better take another pill. Thanks.”

“You want me to get them for you?”

Joe waved his hand. “No, I can get them.”

As Joe began to lurch unsteadily out of the wheelhouse, Karl looked up at Val. “Valerie, I know you would prefer live specimens. But necropsies may help us figure out why this is happening now, with this shoal—you said it yourself. The squid you already examined was heavily infected with parasites, which were perhaps vectors, and very, very large. With more specimens, you might be able to theorize what is now merely a hypothesis,
ja
?”

Joe paused in the doorway and turned around. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Karl, but I have no problem taking out what is a proven threat to people.”

“That makes two of us, copper!” The captain slapped Joe on the back as he walked out of the wheelhouse.

Joe yelled back from outside. “Just drive the boat, asshole!”

The captain laughed. “Our copper’s feeling a bit spicy again, eh? Maybe the man’s getting his sea legs back after all.”

Val wondered how long these men and their big egos could suffer being crammed together in the confined space. Karl alone seemed immune to the captain’s ribbing, instead focusing on the readout of the Fathometer. He had been glued to the device since about an hour after they had left shore.

Val didn’t like to work with other researchers, but Karl wasn’t so bad. The self-important Swede had a great work ethic and was friendly enough. Based in Southern California, he was a leader in the use of acoustic backscatter, or ABS, to describe the biological signatures of marine animals. He’d been brought into the growing squid circus once the very rich parents of a young man missing from the actor’s yacht had donated a lot of money to the Weston Institute—in exchange for a serious effort to capture and “study” the shoal. Of course, capturing in this case meant killing, but Val sympathized with the parents’ motives.

But she still felt a bit guilty for her part in this witch hunt. She had not lost a child to the shoal. Humboldt squid in a way
were
her children. And what a mother she was.

She had told Joe, the police, and everyone else that their best shot at finding the shoal would be through the use of more sophisticated sonar and, more specifically, by hiring Karl and his institute. She had led the vengeful parents right to the researcher—and they could afford to hire his institute. The national media exposure on the Humboldt squid attacks had now become ubiquitous, so Val tried to convince herself that the rich parents could have found Karl on their own. Mother of squid or not, she figured that it would be crazy to miss this opportunity now. And she had a free ticket to join in the effort. So here she was.

If anyone could find the shoal, it would be Karl. His doctoral thesis had been on validating the use of ABS to accurately identify different forms of sea life that were normally difficult or impossible to identify using standard sonar. Most of his work had been done in the deepwater environments farther north in Monterey Bay, where he had worked in the past with the crew they were with now. The rusty fishing seiner they were on—which looked similar to a trawler—was now officially chartered by the institute. It was still rigged for netting tiny market squid, but the group hoped they might use it to net the huge Humboldts.

After years of research, Karl could not only locate soft-bodied animals like squid on the Fathometer, animals that had previously been thought more or less invisible to sonar, but from what Val knew he could even differentiate a shoal of market squid from a shoal of much larger Humboldt squid—which is why she had suggested him for the operation. It was also why she tagged along on the operation—not so much to help out as to learn.

“Karl, it still amazes me that you can really identify Humboldts on this thing. I’ve never had much luck with sonar.”

“
Ja,
it is no problem.” Karl’s attempts at hip Americanized English didn’t always work. He pointed at the device below them. “This baby is calibrated to have a higher sensitivity than typical sonar, so that helps. But it actually happens that squid are great sonar targets.”

“I ain’t seen a squid yet that’ll show himself on sonar, son.” The captain of the seiner sent another brown gob of spit into his plastic cup.

“Probably not. But you never use this Fathometer, Captain.” Karl didn’t look up at the captain as he continued fiddling with his toy. The captain scowled, then looked out the windshield. Sheets of seawater rained against the cabin as the
Centaur
crashed into another large wave.

Val was quite familiar with how Fathometers worked. They sent out rapid pulses of sound, and depended on the different densities of animals or other underwater features in the water column to bounce echoes back to the device emitting the signals. The problem with squid had always been that their bodies were so similar in density to seawater that they didn’t reliably show up on sonar.

She said, “Squid don’t generally reflect sonic pulses, but a few smaller parts in their bodies do. Right, Karl? I’ve been trying to catch up on your research.”

Karl nodded. “Right. Most of their soft bodies are invisible,
ja
? But as you must know, some parts of these squids are not soft. This makes detection possible. You hear me?”

Val felt as though she were being quizzed by a professor in a first-year marine science course. “The beak, the pen, the braincase, parts of the suckers . . . they’re all dense enough to reflect sonar. I know, Karl.”

“Excellent. So all I must do was spend some time observing captive squid. I figure out how to fine-tune the Fathometer in a controlled setting, and how to recognize the resulting acoustic signatures of the different animals. You hear me?”

“We both hear you, Karl.”

“Then I validate my research in the field, first off Monterey, then down in the Gulf of California, as you know. Holy shit, Valerie, you have a lot of squid down there!”

The captain spit into his cup. “I myself have thought of relocating to Baja, but I don’t trust them Mexicans. They’d probably steal my boat. Now my deckhand here, he’s a pretty decent fellow, though.”

“I don’t know about thieves, but Mexico does have a lot of squid.” Val was glad Joe had left before the comment from the uncouth captain. “Karl, I was sure that the best luck you’d ever have would be down there with me. But now it looks like the crowded conditions and high rent in Baja have driven our squid to seek accommodations up here.”

“Rent? I do not understand what you are saying.”

The captain laughed. “Figures. Damn Norwegians.”

“I am Swedish, Captain. I have told you before,
ja
?”

The captain had already made one derogatory comment about Scandinavians. The last thing Val needed was these two arguing. “Never mind the rent comment, Karl. I was just making a joke. So what have you learned in your research?”

“Yes. My research. So it turns out
Dosidicus
can move in very dense groups. Sometimes ten or more individuals packed into each cubic meter of water. And they sometimes hunt in very shallow water, though the belief is that they are only deepwater animals.”

“Right. We saw that firsthand down in Baja.” Val had met up with Karl for a few days when he had come down to Mexico the previous year. Knowing the area well, she had led him to several shoals of Humboldt squid, but hadn’t spent much time staring at the Fathometer with him. She preferred to be in the water, doing her own research.