What Lurks Beneath (13 page)

O
n break, Sturman stood against the back wall in duck overalls stained with grease from working on one of the facility's boilers. He sipped his Pepsi. Waiting.

Across the room, the aquarium's youngest guest interpreter, Courtney, had just arrived to wait by a clear tank used to temporarily house animals needing inspection or care. After a minute, a door opened and a chorus of voices filled the room as a group of sixth-graders piled in, followed by their teacher. Courtney waited until the children gathered around her, then clapped her hands together.

“In here we have a real treat. A giant Pacific octopus. One of the most amazing animals at the aquarium.”

“Where is it?” A long-haired boy asked.

“He's hiding. Normally, he'd be sleeping in the daytime.” From a stainless-steel bowl, she picked out a piece of frozen fish and dropped it into the tank. A sucker-lined arm appeared from inside one of the plastic shelters provided in the tank. The arm snaked toward the hunk of pale flesh, snatching it up before it again withdrew into the shadows. The kids crowded around the tank, oohing and aahing as Courtney plunged her own arm into the water, another piece of fish in her hand. When another tentacle appeared, she cradled it, lifting it out of the water. The pink, fleshy appendage, laced with what looked like veins, quickly coiled around her hand, causing a few of the children to squeal.

“Guys, this is Oscar. He's a mature male. And this is just one of his arms. Who knows how many arms an octopus has?”

A few children shouted, “Eight!”

“Good. Now a harder question. Does anyone want to guess where an octopus's nose is?” she asked. This time, a long pause. Sturman raised his hand behind the kids, and Courtney smiled at him.

An enthusiastic, twenty-something employee who usually showed younger kids around the aquarium, Courtney was leading the class on a special behind-the-scenes tour of the aquarium. Oscar was on the agenda, as he had been temporarily moved into a tank in the working area of the aquarium, for a routine checkup earlier in the morning. Although roused by the treats, most of the shy animal's body was still concealed inside the plastic cube. But he was obviously interested in contact. Being touched.

“Nobody has a guess?” Courtney asked. “I promise, you'll get the answer right.”

One little girl finally raised her hand.

“Yes?” Courtney said. “Where do you think Oscar's nose is?”

“Under his eyes?” she said.

“Good guess. And you're right. But actually, an octopus's
entire body
is like a giant nose. They have taste receptors all over. And that's not all their skin does. Do you guys know what a chameleon is?”

The same little girl shouted, “A lizard that changes colors!”

Courtney said, “That's right. And did you know that an octopus can do the same thing, but even better?” She gently placed the six-foot octopus's tentacle back in the water, and he reluctantly released his grip. Sturman wondered for a moment if he was lonely, and actually enjoyed this interaction.

“Octopuses not only change colors, to take on different background patterns,” she said. “They also can change the texture of their skin, to match a smooth, sandy ocean bottom or a rocky reef. This helps them to hunt, and to hide from predators. They're nature's masters of camouflage.”

One Hispanic boy raised his hand. “How big do they get?”

“Good question. These are one of the largest species of octopus. Some biologists believe they can weigh as much as four people, and be as wide as a school bus is long, from the tip of one tentacle to another. But not long ago scientists discovered another species of octopus in the Atlantic Ocean that may grow just as large, or even larger.”

“Will Oscar ever weigh as much as four people?” The boy leaned toward the glass, trying to figure out where the rest of the animal was hidden.

Courtney smiled. “Probably not. Very few get that big. They stop growing when their bodies tell them it's time to reproduce. Once that happens, they stop eating, and stop growing.”

“If they stop eating, don't they die?”

“Unfortunately, they do. These octopuses don't live very long. Only about four years in the wild. For
this
species. Which is actually very long for an octopus.”

“How old's Oscar?”

“He's four now. Okay, guys, time to move on to the tide pools. Who wants to touch a starfish?”

The teacher herded her students out of the room, with Courtney following. Sturman nodded at her, and she smiled back at him. After the door shut behind the group, the room became very quiet. Without the kids here, it felt very sterile, the walls and floor a plain white, the fixtures all metal and glass.

He walked up to the tank and touched the lid, which Courtney had been careful to close. And latch.

“You miss your own tank, don't you, old man?” he said.

One thing Courtney hadn't talked about was the main trait that impressed Sturman: an octopus's intelligence. He knelt and looked at the animal, which had again compressed most of its body into the impossibly small plastic cube resting in the tank. He again wondered if Oscar ever got lonely.

The lead aquarist once told him that they used to keep mature Pacific octopi—no,
octopuses,
the correct plural form, he reminded himself—in the larger tanks, with other animals, despite the possible concern that they might be eaten by sharks and wolf eels. But they discovered, to their surprise, that the larger fish and small sharks started to turn up dead and mostly eaten. They soon realized it was the octopus who had become the tank's top predator. Since then, Oscar and other giant Pacific octopuses were kept in separate tanks.

Sturman wished he could get a look at Oscar before he went back to work. He glanced around to make sure nobody had re-entered the room, then grabbed a half-frozen shrimp out of the metal bowl, accidentally left near the tank. He unlatched the lid of the enclosure.

Pinching the morsel between his fingers, he dipped his right hand into the water. He wouldn't use his left, as he'd been warned that Oscar might steal the wedding ring he still wore. He waved the food around as he'd often seen Bill do at feeding time. He'd heard that some octopus species were venomous to people, but not this one.

After a moment, there was movement. The octopus's arms reappeared from the dark cube, seeking the new stimulus in the water. The animal had now taken on a reddish hue. One arm rolled out toward Sturman's hand, wrapping around his fingers. He felt the smooth suckers pulling at his skin, then the tentacle retracted, taking the shrimp with it.

But Sturman could now see one of Oscar's catlike eyes. It appeared to be looking back at him.

Sturman held the steel bowl of food up to the glass, to show the octopus what was inside, and then set the bowl on the table next to the tank. He stepped away from the table. Dimmed the lights. And waited.

He heard a thump behind him, and again glanced at the doors to the room, wondering if he could lose his job over this.

Oscar's body suddenly boiled out of the small opening in the plastic cube, swirling, as if oil poured into the water. The octopus's football-sized mantle inflated in anticipation, and then the animal was sliding its bulk up the side of the tank. The first of its arms rose from the water, tentatively.

Once, shortly after Sturman had started working at the aquarium, Bill had allowed him to observe one of Oscar's checkups. Afterward, the aquarist had placed a clear, five-gallon plastic bottle in the tank. The kind used for office water coolers. Oscar had been smaller then, but still weighed in at maybe forty-five pounds, yet he had somehow crammed nearly his entire, boneless body inside, through the tiny opening. Sturman had been hooked. Another time, Bill had placed a closed glass bottle into the tank. The octopus had immediately located the lid, and worked to open the bottle. Sturman had asked if this was an octopus's idea of play. Like a person doing a puzzle.

You might call it that,
Bill had said.
But it really comes down to something else.

What's that?
Sturman had asked.

A moment later, the octopus had removed the lid.

“A
ntipersonnel sonar,” Mack said.

“How can you be sure?” Val said. “You weren't even in the water when I felt it.”

“Because of how you described it. What else could it be? I'm telling you, kid, it was the Navy's goddam antipersonnel sonar.”

Val looked down at the dinner of minced lobster that her uncle had made for her and Eric. They sat around the cheap Formica table in the kitchen of the guesthouse, eating inside for a change. The rain had finally come, and outside was a downpour, hammering on the tin roof of the shed outside. The last few days had all been quite rainy for the normally drier winter season in the Bahamas.

The meal would have appeared outstanding to almost any diner—the large pieces of succulent shelled meat mixed with tomatoes, onions, and peppers and served over sticky rice in large bowls. But Val still felt ill, and it looked awful.

“How come I've never heard of something like that before?” she said.

Mack laughed. “The Tongue of the Ocean is a goddam testing ground. They don't tell anyone in the outside world what they're doing here. It's all top-secret shit. But I'm tellin' you, those fuckers here are playing with their sonar frequencies again.”

Eric said, “And you think Val felt one designed to make divers, or people inside submarines, feel like shit?”

“Damn right. Breck and I have both felt it.”

“Seriously?” Val said.

Mack nodded, sipping his beer. “Breck was ex-Navy. Had some strong connections at the testing facility here on Andros. Even did contract work for 'em, because he was one of the only guys brave enough to dive on some of their deeper deployments. Anyway, we spent some time diving some blue holes here when I still had two legs, holes that Breck was training others to dive. One time we both got really sick on an offshore dive.”

“What happened?” Eric said.

“We felt what Val felt today. And Breck told me about the top-secret testing the Navy did here, which included using antipersonnel sonar.”

Eric shook his head. “It's amazing what our own government is getting away with here.”

Mack shrugged. “I guess. But somebody's gotta keep Americans safe from their enemies. If a few whales die in the process, or a few divers get sick, so be it, I guess.” He looked at Val. “Did I ever tell you that Breck found one of their ROVs? Right off Andros? The Navy actually lost it.” He chuckled. “It carried some sort of advanced weapon. He lied when they asked him about it, said he'd never seen it. Showed it to me one time, though. I wonder if it's still there.”

“Where?” Val said.

He smiled at her.

“So you're an accomplice to stealing from the US Navy?” Eric said.

“I never said I took it,” Mack said. “Just saw it once.”

“Well, let's see. Maybe the next time you find a Navy torpedo on the bottom, or an unexploded mortar in the forest, you should say something to somebody. Unless you don't mind someone else losing their leg—”

Mack got to his feet and lunged toward Eric, but Val grabbed his wrist. “Enough!” she said. “Please, you two, stop. You're making me feel sicker.”

Mack gave Eric a cold look and sat back down. “Fine. But just for you, Val. You're getting lucky today, pretty boy.”

“Whatever,” Eric muttered.

“Anything I can do for you?” Mack asked Val.

“No. I'll be fine if you two stop arguing.”

Val watched her uncle and Eric eat, poking at her own plate with her fork. No one said a word.

W
hen Val woke early the next morning, she no longer felt sick. She convinced Eric to join her for a run. The sky was clear, but the air still smelled wet from the night's rain.

As they turned off the main road and jogged toward the beach on White Sand Cay, Val could see the turquoise ocean waters start to appear between the trees that enclosed the narrow side road. The uneven path ran from the paved road toward the water, and appeared to be the last turn toward the beach before arriving at the gates of Oceanus. Although the path was strewn with trash, there was a fragrant, floral smell coming from the vegetation alongside it. The greenery was striking in the early morning light.

Val looked behind her and saw that Eric was falling farther behind. She shouted at him to catch up. They'd just run almost three miles from their guesthouse, mostly along the narrow shoulder of the Queen's Highway—the island's main thoroughfare—within feet of horn-beeping taxis and other morning traffic. Ever since they had started up a towering bridge that ran from the main island over to the small cay where Oceanus had been built, Eric had struggled to keep up.

He and Mack needed a break from each other. And they all had wanted a break from the blue holes for a few days, as Val tried to figure out what to do next. They were finished at The Staircase. Eric had guided DORA along the taut safety line left by Breck and Pelletier, a huge spider's silken strand coursing through the curves of the dark passageway, all the way back to a restriction hundreds of feet back. But there, their underground expedition had stopped. Eric said he couldn't risk piloting the ROV through, as it would likely get stuck.

That was it. Val was frustrated, but there was nothing else they could do. She wasn't about to ask Mack to go back there, because she knew he would.

The night before, after the uneaten lobster dinner, Val had tried to contact the teenage girl who'd lost her boyfriend at the remote inland hole. The girl's mother wouldn't let her talk, but the woman relayed what her daughter had told her. How she had described something under the water. Something big.

The mother wasn't sure about any tentacles, but she believed that her daughter was telling the truth. It didn't seem possible, that some huge living thing was hidden inside an inland hole. There wasn't even enough life there to sustain the caloric needs of a large animal. But they would need to explore it—soon.

Val had decided that since she was going to get some exercise, she would take a look at Oceanus and try to find the sculptor Ashley had told them about. The ex-fisherman. Maybe he would know something about a rare cephalopod in the area.

She stopped in some shade and turned, jogging in place, as she waited for Eric. She was starting to feel a little hot, despite the cool air.

Eric arrived, hobbling now.

“You gonna make it back, Eric?” she said.

“My knees . . .” he huffed. “Damn rocky road shoulder. Hang on.” He stopped and bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard.

“Just your knees, huh?” She poked at his leg with her toe. “You're young. You need to get in better shape.”

He sucked in a few deep breaths. “I knew the whole surface of Andros was just a bunch of weathered rock. Now I know it sucks for running.” He spit onto the ground, then stood upright and managed a smile. Sweat streaked his glasses. “And I know that I shouldn't run with you.”

Val suppressed a smile. Eric was cute. And he was everything Will Sturman wasn't—sweet, cerebral, sensitive. And a light drinker.

Eric caught her gazing at him. “What?” he said.

“Nothing. C'mon. We can walk the rest of the way.”

 

 

A handful of local vendors loitered on the beach near a small guardhouse marking the edge of Oceanus. They were settled on the sand above a high-tide line strewn with bits of trash and vegetation.

An older couple was looking over one heavyset woman's wares, as she displayed a series of cheap sarongs. The other vendors merely chatted in pairs. Another woman approached Val and Eric, but didn't press when they politely declined. This early she probably expected business to be slow.

Just past the cluster of vendors was one other man, alone on the beach. An older man carving a piece of wood.

Val walked ahead of Eric, and stopped several feet from the sculptor. He didn't look up as they approached. He was sitting cross-legged on a green blanket, beneath a palm tree, carving what looked like a parrot. His skin was as dark and weathered as the raw wood in his hands. Beside him were other, finished carvings, all brightly painted and gleaming in the morning sun.

She said, “Excuse me, sir.”

“One moment, please.” The sculptor spoke slowly. His full head of dark hair contained no gray, but his face bore deep lines that betrayed his age.

Val waited, squinting out over the ocean toward the sun. The waves lapped gently against the white sand shore. She looked away from the glare on the water, to where a quarter mile farther down the beach, and several hundred feet inland, the hotel towers of Oceanus jutted into the sky. She looked down at the man, still focused on his work. He had some nice wares, but obviously needed to work on his sales tactics. She cleared her throat.

“I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but by chance is your name Clive?”

The man paused and finally looked up at them, then again went back to his work. “Why ya lookin' for old Clive?”

“Someone told us we should talk to him. That maybe he could help us.”

“You all right? You look like ya been workin' real hard.”

“We were just running. Do you think you might be able to help us?”

“Help you with what, dear?” He cut into the soft wood with a pen knife, slowly revealing the parrot's beak. His hands were thick. Scarred, like those of any old fisherman.

“We came to Andros for research. We're looking into the possibility of an unknown species of squid, or octopus, living in the blue holes here.” Val noticed that his hands had stopped moving, just for a moment
.

He lowered the pen knife, regarding first her, then Eric. “I'm just a poor sculptor,” he finally said. “I can't help you with dat.” He swept a hand over his finished works. “See anything ya like here?”

“They're all very nice,” Val said. “But first, can you tell us if you know Clive? Ashley said he worked here. That he was a sculptor. I thought maybe you were him.”

He set the parrot down and smiled. “Ashley sent you, eh? Please, sit.”

Val and Eric looked at each other and shrugged, then squatted in the sand next to the old man. He reached into a leather pouch and withdrew some papers, then began rolling a cigarette.

“I'm the man you lookin' for,” he said. “I'm Mista Clive.”

Val said, “Ashley said you used to be a fisherman. That you were familiar with the sea life here, maybe even in the blue holes.”

“How ya know Miss Ashley?”

“We met recently.” She smiled. “I was running that day too.”

“Yes. She a runner. Not me.” He lit the cigarette and offered it to them, but they declined. He took a drag and held in the smoke. “I don't fish no mores. Too many udda fishermen. And fishin' no good now anyway.” He raised the half-finished carving of an angelfish off his blanket. “I make more money sellin' dees fish dan da real ting.” He chuckled.

“Did you ever catch anything unusual? Any squid, or octopus? Maybe something big?”

“Ashley told me 'bout you,” he said. “You didn't bring the quarmin' man with you?” He gestured at her outfit. “Because you was running?”

“Didn't bring who?”

“The man that walks funny. Missin' parta his leg. I heard about him.”

“You mean Mack. He's my uncle. He's back at our hotel.” She wished he would just answer her questions. “So you don't fish anymore?”

“Only for my dinner. Da increased tourism here changed things. Allowed me to make more money carving.”

Eric pointed at a very large hunk of raw wood behind Clive, perhaps an uprooted stump, draped under a paint-smeared white sheet. “What are you making there? It's huge.”

“Not big enough.” Clive turned and pulled the sheet down to hide what looked like roots. “But it'll do. That de stump of an Australian pine. It too don' belong here. Wouldn't be here if people didn't make such bad choices.”

“The Australian pines, you mean?” Val said.

“I suppose.”

She frowned and said, “Do you know any other fishermen who might have encountered something unusual in the blue holes here? Some larger animal? We'd appreciate any help at all you can provide.”

Clive leaned forward, looked into her eyes, unsmiling. “What's in dem holes, you say? It ain't nothin' you wanna find, dear. Let it alone.”

“I can't. It's my job. I study octopus and squid.”

“Then you wastin' your time. None'a that here.” He smiled, sat back. “You sure ya don' wanna buy something?”