Devil's Harbor (28 page)

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again and looked for the closest access to shore. He was just outside the mouth of the bay, but the rocks at either side were too sheer to scale. His only real hope was the little beach he saw at the far end of the bay. He had trouble gauging how far it was. Was it two hundred feet or less than that? He kicked and paddled and ignored his thumping heart. He started humming “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”

Something dense collided into his legs.

“God help me,” he said for the first time in his life. He urinated involuntarily. When he tried to look back, he upset his balance and fell off the life preserver. His head sank underwater. Too frightened to shut his eyes, he saw prowling through the shifting bluish green light a shark the size of a car. He had no idea how big the one he couldn't see was. He scrambled back onto the ring and gasped for air.
Keep going,
he told himself. He was in the bay now. The beach was right there. He could hear little waves lapping at its shore.

The water felt warmer, which meant it was getting shallower. He was so close. He looked left and right to see where the fins were. The one on the left was still there, but the one on the right, the bigger one, had disappeared.

Instinctively, he turned and saw the fin directly behind him. The shark was tracking him directly now. Coming in to strike.

Nick Finn stopped swimming and praying. There was nothing more he could do. He understood that now. Somewhere deep in the stillest part of his brain, beneath its roiling surface of emotion and beneath the complicated machinery of language that occupied its middle depths, Finn realized that he was powerless over whatever happened next. He knew it to be an irrefutable truth, and accepting it gave him a focus he had never before known. He felt sharp, calm, and alert. He saw the approaching fin, the mouth of the bay, the rock faces framing it, and the lightening sky doming it all with acute clarity. He floated in the water, facing out to sea, and waited for the mouth of the shark.

The thick, gray-black fin drew near, water streaming off its broad dorsal surface. Finn noticed that the tip of the tail fin was several feet beyond the dorsal, and from sheer curiosity he tried to calculate the overall length of the shark. He figured it was no less than twelve feet long. He saw its long, gray snout. The shark came within touching distance, then changed course a point, tilted slightly, and glided slowly past to Finn's left, just below the surface of the water. The predator seemed as large as his Tacoma. Finn saw the jagged teeth the size of keys in its giant, slightly open mouth, its white underside, its black, fathomless eye watching him. He saw its fluttering gills, its pectoral fin, the slow, lazy undulations of its tail fin. He reached out and ran his fingertips over the shark's sandpaperlike skin. With a quiet splash, the shark turned and dived into deeper water, and its fins disappeared from the surface. He looked to his left—the other fin had also gone. The last ripples petered out and the water's surface was smooth again. Finn climbed back onto his life preserver.

The first time his foot hit the sand, he thought it was the other shark. Then his other foot hit the ground and he knew he was in the shallows. He half walked, half swam the rest of the way. He crawled over the cold, wet sand until he reached the dry stuff beyond the reach of the tide. He collapsed onto his back, shivering uncontrollably, not from fear but from exhaustion and cold. He heard the sounds of water lapping at the shore and of his teeth chattering. Soon after, the sun rose clear of the hilltops and blanketed the bay in its warmth. He breathed deeply and long and, before letting himself pass out, resolved never to forget the truth he had grasped in that moment when he had stopped struggling and had turned to face the shark.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Finn opened his eyes. The sky had turned purple and red, and the sun was setting over the sea. He tried to sit up but a severe cramp in his gut made him collapse back onto the sand. The wounds in his arm and cheek smarted. His tongue had swollen so much, it felt like he had a rag stuffed in his mouth, and he had to breathe with his jaw wide open. He felt dizzy to the point of fainting. He closed his eyes and saw a kind of static on the back of his eyelids. His heartbeat was fast and shallow.

He heard a voice say “Drink.”

It took him a moment to regain his focus, but when he did he saw a face with a long gray beard, blue eyes, and long gray hair. He tried to speak, but his throat was bone-dry.

“Drink,” the man said again. He tilted a tattered plastic water bottle to Finn's lips.

Finn felt cool, fresh water on his tongue. It was the most exquisite thing he had ever tasted. He drank like a newborn calf at its mother's teat.

The man brushed away Finn's hand. “Drink slowly,” he said.

Then he carefully put the empty bottle away in a small, threadbare backpack sitting on the sand next to Finn. He wore dirty yellow board shorts and an old frayed T-shirt. He slung the pack over his shoulder, then sat back on his heels, waiting.

Finn started to feel marginally better. The man put his hands under his arms and helped him to his feet. His legs felt wobbly. His body felt anemic. The man helped him up the beach. The sun-warmed sand beneath Finn's bare feet gave way to cooler earth, and soon they were walking through scrub. Sweat pearled on Finn's forehead. He felt like he was burning up, yet his teeth were chattering. Soon the soil underfoot gave way to rock, and Finn found himself being led up a precipitous goat track along the side of the cliff, the man still at his side, guiding him, one strong, thick-veined hand clasped to Finn's arm, standing between him and the void.

At the top of the track was a cave in the cliff face. By the entrance, Finn saw three fish that had been run through their gills hanging from a branch over a firepit, the rock wall behind it smoke-blackened. A grill was leaning up against the wall, a couple of pots sitting on the dirt next to it, a plastic deck chair next to that. Inside the cave was an old, filthy sleeping bag spread on the ground. Next to it was a pile of wood and a cluster of plastic bottles that looked like they'd washed up on the shore. All were full. The man grabbed one and handed it to Finn.

“Drink, but drink slowly,” he said.

Finn lifted his trembling arm and drank. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The old man walked back into the deepest part of the cave, where he pulled back a tarpaulin and revealed hundreds of books piled high, as well as all kinds of flotsam—Finn saw an old paraffin lamp, various clothes, a boat barbecue, a kayak paddle, piles of rope, a windsurfing wishbone, flip-flops, and an old boogie board with its plastic bottom peeling off. The man rummaged around until he found another sleeping bag.

He laid it down near the fireplace. “Rest,” he said.

Finn didn't need to be asked twice. He collapsed onto the sleeping bag. It had the acrid smell of stale sweat, but he didn't care.

*   *   *

It was dark when he woke. The first thing he noticed was the smell of burning wood. He saw the man standing over the firepit, placing a pot on its hot coals. Finn lay back and watched the shadows play on the cave walls. He still felt weak and feverish.

After a few minutes, the man took the pot off the fire and set it on the ground. He dipped a mug into the pot and filled it with what turned out to be boiling water. Then he rummaged through his old backpack and pulled out a bunch of leaves. He broke these up in his hands, rolled them together, then put them in the mug.

He walked over and handed it to Finn. “Tree mallow,” he said, “It'll help with the fever.”

Finn propped himself up on an elbow and drank. It tasted bitter.

Then the old man handed Finn a handful of huckleberries. “You should eat,” he said.

Finn put a berry into his mouth. It tasted sweet and delicious—the nicest huckleberry he'd ever eaten—and it must've shown on his face.

“Never had a wild huckleberry before?” said the man, but not in a way that expected an answer. He unhooked a whole, desiccated fish from the pole and handed it to Finn. “Here, try this.”

Finn tore strips off with his fingers. It tasted of woodsmoke and brine. The more of it he ate, the hungrier he realized he was. Soon there was nothing left but fish bones.

The man took the carcass from him. “I use the bones for fishhooks,” he said, putting it away in an old plastic bag.

Finn wiped his hands on his salt-stiffened trousers. He felt stronger now. His mind was clearing. He looked at the old man by the firelight, taking stock of him. His weathered skin was covered in wrinkles so deep, it reminded Finn of a relief map of the ocean floor. He was barefoot, his feet covered in calluses, the nails as thick as oyster shells.

“You live here?” said Finn.

The man nodded.

“How long have you been here?” said Finn.

The man thought for a moment. “Since 1985,” he said.

“Thirty years,” said Finn. The old man gazed into the fire. A long silence ensued. Finally, to break it, Finn said, “My name's Finn.”

The guy kept staring at the fire. He seemed not to care what Finn's name was. He didn't offer his own in return.

“You haven't asked how I got here to your beach,” said Finn.

The man pointed at Finn's orange life ring leaning against the wall. “I watched you paddle in,” he said. “You finished with it?”

Finn almost laughed. “Yes,” he said.

“Something like that would be mighty useful out over the reef,” said the old man.

“You can have it. It's yours.” said Finn.

The man nodded.

More silence.

“You fish the reef?” said Finn eventually.

The man nodded.

“What about the sharks?” said Finn.

“I leave them alone.”

Finn absorbed that. Then: “You ever go to the mainland?”

“Nope.”

“Anyone ever visit you out here?”

The man shrugged. “Hikers and campers sometimes. Yachts anchor in the bay in summer. Rangers know me, let me be, mostly.”

“You don't get lonely?” said Finn.

The man took his time before answering, giving the question some thought. “I miss my wife sometimes,” he said finally.

“What's her name?”

“Dovie Mae. I called her Mae. She died.”

“When?” said Finn.

“Nineteen eighty-five.”

Finn looked down. “I have a wife. Her name's Ximena. I call her Mona.”

The man nodded. “You miss her?”

“Yes,” said Finn.

The old man was quiet for a while. Finally he said, “Then I'll help you return to her.” He got up, fetched a pair of old, worn-thin flip-flops from his pile of things that looked as though he'd found them washed up on the beach, and dropped them next to Finn. “When the fever dies down and you feel better, I'll show you the trail to Two Harbors. It's about seven miles, so you'll need those. From there you can take the ferry back to the mainland. That's where you're from, I assume?”

“Yes. Thank you,” said Finn, meaning it.

“Don't thank me, they're not mine. They washed up on the beach like everything else here. Except the books. I brought those with me.”

It wasn't just the flip-flops Finn was thanking him for, but he let it go.

The old man stretched out on his sleeping bag. Finn lay down on his, on the opposite side, and watched the play of the shadows cast by the fire on the roof of the cave. His thoughts turned to Mona. He whispered her name. On the
Belle,
he'd tried to think back to when things had started to go bad for him. First, he'd traced it back to when he and Diego had found the floater off Two Harbors. Then he'd thought, no, it had started before that, when he'd shot Perez. Lying there in the cave now, Finn realized that he'd been wrong in both cases. His life had gone off the rails the moment he'd taken that first drink in Bonito's. Everything else, he was equipped to deal with. The consequences of shooting Perez had been difficult, but he'd had Mona on his side, and together they would've gotten through it. Finding Espendoza's shark-eaten body had unnerved him, but he'd seen worse things and put them behind him. He could deal with everything life threw at him except alcohol. He had no defense against that.

Neither had his father, he realized. Finn had hated the man for taking what he'd always considered the coward's way out. He'd spent years hating his father for teaching him that the world was cold and uncaring, then leaving him alone in it. But now it seemed to him that his father had been wrong about the world, that he'd made a mistake in leaving it. Finn understood that it was the drink that had taken his father at the end. Once the drink had him, he'd done what every alcoholic eventually does one way or another: he'd given it everything that mattered in his life. And then he'd given it his life.

That night in Bonito's, when the darkness had occupied his mind and he had taken that drink against it, Finn had started down the same road. He was no better than his father; he was just luckier. He was lucky because he was still alive (although only just, he had to admit). And he was lucky, he realized, because he was stone-cold sober. He hadn't taken a drink since the Day of the Dead. He was back among the living.

He thought about Mona, how much he loved her. He closed his eyes and pictured her in her straw hat down by the water's edge, laughing.

Just then, as though reading his thoughts, the old man broke the silence: “You're lucky. It's good to have a wife.”

*   *   *

Finn's ordeal had weakened him physically far more than he realized. Even after two days, the old man didn't think he had recovered enough strength to walk the seven miles to Two Harbors, but Finn insisted on leaving. He wanted to get back to the mainland as soon as possible. He wanted to make sure Linda, Lucy, and Navidad were safe. He wanted to bring Diego's killers to justice. And he wanted to put things right with Mona.