The Shark Rider (23 page)

As they came to a stop, Tristan noticed a change in the weather. He'd been so preoccupied by the I'd-love-to-eat-you sharks, the foot-slicing rocks, and the exhilarating boat ride that he hadn't noticed the thick gray clouds rolling in or the wind picking up.

“Welcome to Scar Island,” said the muscleman who helped them into the boat. “I called on our way in to inform the doctor of the injury.”

The dock rattled as two ultra-fancy golf carts rolled toward them. Each cart had a sleek yellow frame that curved over three rows of white, cushioned seats. A little yellow flag at the front made the vehicles look weirdly official. A woman hopped out of the first cart to arrive. She was wearing a buttercup-yellow lab coat. Tristan decided whoever was in charge had a serious obsession with the color.

“I'm Maria, one of Mr. Marsh's doctors. Where's the injury?”

While the doctor examined Meg's foot, the teens disembarked onto the dock.

“I'm Dr. Meg Gladfell, from the Virgin Islands Institute. We're grateful your boat showed up when it did.” She looked to the driver. “Were you able to reach our ship?”

“Yes, ma'am. Told them what happened and that we were bringing you here.”

“Thank you. These are my, uh . . . students from a summer class at the institute.” She gave the teens a look like she hoped they'd go along with her. “They're here studying coral reefs.”

“That's nice,” the doctor said. “Let's go get this foot cleaned up.”

The men lifted Meg out of the boat and gently put her into one of the carts, keeping her foot raised. Ryder and Rosina went with her, while Tristan, Sam, and Hugh rode in the other vehicle. The carts' drivers were dressed just like the men in the boat; neither said a word.

As the yellow carts rolled down the dock, Tristan whispered, “What about the cameras on the sharks? Did you guys see them?”

“No, I was too busy looking at their
teeth
,” Hugh answered.

“Why would there be cameras on the sharks?” Sam asked. “Do you think that's why they're acting so weird?”

“Maybe someone's studying them,” Tristan suggested. “I've seen television shows where they glue cameras onto animals to learn about them. You know—a shark-cam. But they're not supposed to affect the shark's behavior.”

Hugh whispered, “Well, lucky the boat showed up when it did.”

“Yeah,
lucky
,” Sam said suspiciously.

Hugh and Tristan looked at her questioningly.

Sam shrugged. “I'm just sayin', given everything that's happened, I'm not sure what to think. Remember what Coach said: better to be suspicious rather than surprised. Or something like that.”

Then it started to rain. Tristan wanted to talk more with Sam and Hugh about what they'd seen and everything that had happened. But the loud patter of raindrops striking the cart's roof made further discussion impossible. He tapped his foot nervously and stared out into the rain, thinking. Tristan felt a confusing mix of emotions. He was relieved to have escaped the strangely behaving sharks, and wanted to know why they were acting so weirdly—along with all the other
animals in the BVIs. He was also angry that they still might be thrown off the mission and replaced with senior campers. Unexpected and dangerous things kept happening to them, and they still had no idea what was causing the die-offs.
Something
was going on in the British Virgin Islands, and now, more than ever, Tristan wanted to know what it was.

The fancy, yellow cart struck a bump and the rain abruptly stopped. Tristan leaned out and glanced up—a rock ceiling. They'd entered a tunnel. Yellowy-gold lights lined its rough, dark, rock walls. The drivers slowed as they went around a wide right-hand turn. The carts then rolled to a stop. They were in an underground cavern. It had a high ceiling and was about the size of a big gymnasium. Tristan's attention was drawn to a nearby dock. Tied up alongside was a small submarine. Except for the big transparent bubble at its front, like a giant bug's eye, the sub was painted pitch black. A bunch of milk-crate-like baskets sat nearby, along with some transparent plastic tubes and a stack of metal drums.

The doctor climbed out of her vehicle and pointed to a set of stainless steel doors. “Here's my lab. I've got some medical supplies inside. Should be able to bring down the swelling and put something on there to prevent infection. Dr. Gladfell, if you'll come with
me? Kids, the drivers will take you to a room where you can dry off and get cleaned up. We'll meet you up there shortly.”

Before Meg or the teens could say anything, the carts began rolling away. Tristan looked back curiously as the injured scientist disappeared behind the steel doors.
What exactly was this place?

The carts then sped up and went around several switchbacks before exiting the tunnel. Back outside, Tristan noted that the rain was now just a drizzle. They stopped beside a stone walkway lined with neatly trimmed and manicured plants. Overhead, a green-and-white striped awning flapped in the breeze. The walkway led to what looked like a large, elegant home built of dark wood and tinted glass. The drivers nodded to the teens, indicating they should get out. Tristan wondered if they could talk at all.

Ryder was the first up the path. Rosina followed. Sam, Hugh, and Tristan stayed a short distance behind, as usual.

Tristan looked at the house and then turned to Sam and Hugh. “I think this is the island we saw from the plane. Remember the big mansion on the cliffs?”

Just then, as Ryder was about to knock on the heavy wood door at the end of the walkway, it opened. Standing before them was a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a yellow sarong.

“There you are. Mr. Marsh is busy at the moment, but he asked me to show you to a room where you can get cleaned up. Mr. Marsh also thought you might like
to have lunch. Please wipe your feet here.” She pointed to a furry, buttercup-yellow mat. “And if you would, put on some slippers. Mr. Marsh doesn't allow bare feet inside.” She motioned to a row of simple white terrycloth slippers.

The teens looked curiously at the slippers and then at one another. Tristan and the others shrugged, dried their feet, and put on a pair of slippers. He couldn't help but think it wasn't just the sea creatures in the British Virgin Islands that were strange.

“Please follow me,” the woman said, as she led them down a narrow, yellow-walled hallway.

They came to a museum-like rotunda with several arched passageways leading off in different directions. A fountain surrounded by towering palm trees and tropical ferns sat at the center of the round room. Water trickled over a series of small, black stone waterfalls, creating a bubbling gurgle. The floor was made of a similar black stone polished to a high sheen. Tristan thought he heard music, and then realized it was chirping, like the sound of birds and frogs in a jungle forest or swamp at night. A cloyingly sweet smell hung in the air. Things were getting more bizarre by the minute. They followed the yellow-sarong woman through one of the arches into another hallway. Soft lighting created a golden glow inside. They passed several dark, wood doors, each with a carving of a fish or a bird on it. The woman stopped by a door adorned with a pelican, opened it, and motioned for them to go in.

“This is the pelican suite. There are some dry
clothes for you, and feel free to take a quick shower if you'd like. Lunch is in fifteen minutes. I'll come back for you then.” As she left, she closed the door.

Tristan and the others just stood there staring. The spacious sitting room was luxuriously decorated. Overstuffed couches and chairs framed in rich, dark mahogany were covered in a soft, woven, buttercup-yellow fabric. To the sides were two bedrooms, and, in front, a cliff-top patio overlooked an endless sea of gray-blue. Littered throughout the room were yellow pillar candles of varying heights. Tristan noticed the same sweet smell as before, but this time recognized it—vanilla. Then he heard a familiar gurgling sound. A fountain with water bubbling over smooth, dark stones sat off to one side. Tristan wasn't sure what the point of it all was, especially the fountains—except that they made him want to pee. He went to find a bathroom. The same yellow-obsessed decorator had done that room as well.

Ryder fell onto the sofa, sinking in. “I don't know about you guys, but I could get used to this. Pretty cushy.”

“Do you think this is Mr. Marsh's home or a hotel?” Sam asked.

“Or, like, some kind of wacko spa,” Tristan suggested, walking back in. The overdose of yellow, candles, soft lighting, and pee-inducing fountains gave him the creeps.

Sam picked up a pair of white drawstring pants from a stack on a table. They were miniature versions
of the ones they'd seen Mr. Marsh wearing the night before. Matching gauze shirts lay close by.

“No, thanks, I'm not into the pajama look,” Tristan said.

“You guys gonna take a shower?” Rosina asked.

“Nah,” Tristan said. “I'm pretty dry, and besides, something about this place is freaking me out. Let's just wait for Meg and then get outta here.”

Ryder stood up and took some clothes from the pile. “Why rush, dude, this place is way nicer than that tub of a ship we're stuck on. The shirts aren't too bad. I'm gonna rinse off.”

Rosina went for a quick shower as well and put a shirt on over her swimsuit. Tristan, Sam, and Hugh refused to do either. They got some dry towels and wrapped them around their shoulders.

There was a knock at the door.

18

GOLDEN-FRIED DELICIOUSNESS

T
HE SCRUMPTIOUS SMELL OF FRESHLY FRIED FOOD
made their mouths water and their stomachs growl. The teens had been led to a room with a long, glass wall overlooking the ocean. At the room's center was a lengthy table made of gleaming, pale wood. None of the teens, however, were looking at the view or sitting at the table. They all stood staring at a magnificent buffet set out on a side table. The spread was incredible—stacks of cheeseburgers, platters of french fries, chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, and jalapeño poppers. All were fried to crispy golden perfection. The smell was overpowering, trance inducing.

“Mr. Marsh will be in shortly. Help yourselves,” said the soft-spoken woman wearing the sarong. She then left the room.

Ryder didn't hesitate. He grabbed a plate, stacked it high with fried goodness, and sat down in one of the chairs around the long table. “Now this is what I'm talkin' about.”

The others stared at him and at the food uncertainly.

“What? I'm, like, starving.”

Tristan's stomach rumbled loudly enough to make Sam giggle. He and the others hit the buffet, piling their own plates high with golden-fried deliciousness.

A few moments later, the woman returned, followed by Meg. The scientist's injured foot was wrapped in bandages, and she was on crutches. She hopped in on one white slipper. Right behind her was the tall, lean man with streaked hair they'd seen the night before at the Bitter End. He was again outfitted in flowing white gauze. The room's lighting made him appear even more strangely orange than before.

“Hello, students,” Meg said. “Please say hello to Mr. Marsh.”

Through mouthfuls of food, they muttered, “Hi.”

“Hellooo.”

His voice was deep and he stretched the word out as if trying to get it to flow like the water in his fountains. “Welcommme to my island. Before we go on, what would you like to drink? Water, iced tea, or some lemonaaade?”

The teens made their requests and the woman in the sarong left the room.

“Please, go ahead and eat,” Marsh encouraged them. “Dr. Gladfell, may I get you a plate?”

“Yes, thank you, and please call me Meg.”

“How's your foot?” Sam asked.

“Much better, thank you. Don't think I'll be doing a jig anytime soon, though. But the swelling's gone down, and I've taken a strong antibiotic to prevent infection. Mr. Marsh's doctor was quite helpful, and he was just telling me about the fascinating research they're doing here.”

“Is it a spa or something?” Tristan blurted out, noticing the dark eyeliner the man wore to highlight his intense, light-blue eyes.