Alexa bob-stepped in waist-high water until a wave slapped her flat, shoved her forward, spit her out. The beach was open arms, and she was the prodigal child. She scrambled on all fours past the tide line, flopped into a child’s pose, pressed her cheek against the sand, raked grit and shells through her fingers. She was safe. No sharks could get her.
What if the man came back?
She jumped up, ran, stumbled, caught herself, limped toward the closest boathouse. Her left hand hung heavy, swollen. The remaining glove had filled with water.
Charlie. She would call Charlie if she made it out of here. She pushed against the rough wood of the boathouse, tore off the bloated glove, wiped sand from her face, edged around the side. Droplets ran down her back, making her want to squirm, but she stayed still and peered from around the corner—at the beach, pier, boats—alert for movement, shadow, footsteps.
The serene view did not compute. The water could have swallowed her whole and left not a ripple. Her mind jumped to footprints. The man had dashed across the beach. She could photograph his footprints. She reached into her pocket for her phone.
“Shit.”
Her cell, stashed in her pants pocket, its outline leaden, was a goner. And her tote was on The Apex. No way she was going back. The man might be coming back. She didn’t think his attack had been premeditated, because her decision to search the boat had been split second.
He had probably been surprised when he climbed those stupid spiral stairs and seen her.
She studied the sandy stretch between her sodden Keds and the pier. Maybe she could spot a footprint anyway, make mental notes of size and pattern. She began to shiver. Her sweater was gone. It must have been ripped off by the gaff, was probably on The Apex, or floating in the water. As if she had drowned. Only a wet, no-iron button-down between her and cool air. The thought of her North Carolina-light cotton sweater, a tear at the shoulder, floating on an ocean current—all that was left of her—made her cry.
Get a hold of yourself.
The shivers would fight hypothermia until she got warm and dry.
Alexa turned and skulked behind the boathouses to the parking area. No car. She jogged the steep hill to warm up, ready like a deer to jump into the thicket at the sight of headlights. The weight of sodden, sandy clothes made it hard and slow. She was heading straight to Wallace’s, even though she knew she was in for a lashing. Bruce Horne had told her during a heated exchange in the case they worked together that her brash actions had put herself and her colleagues in jeopardy.
Yep. Old dog. Old tricks.
No porch light. Nervously, she knocked.
A bathrobed Wallace looked incredulous at her drowned-rat appearance at his doorstep, and he was furious when she spewed her tale.
“I told you to wait until morning.”
Nina, from behind his shoulder, took Alexa’s hand, leading her to a hall bathroom. “Your hand’s ice. Use that towel,” she said, pointing. “I’ll wash your clothes, get them to you tomorrow. Let me find something for you to wear.”
In the mirror Alexa saw a raw scrape on her right shoulder, near her neck, where the gaff had nabbed her sweater, whipped it off. The wound made her gasp. She leaned into the sink and gingerly washed sand and salt from it, her hands shaking, and then rinsed her face and arms.
Outfitted with dry undergarments, too-short pants, socks, and snuggly sweatshirt, Alexa towel-dried her hair and reset her ponytail. She extracted her phone from her sopping pants, double-checked for a pulse by pushing buttons and shaking it. Nada. Photos, proof, and her contacts list, down the drain.
Unless photos live in the cloud. The thought gave her hope.
Voices—Wallace’s angry and urgent, Nina’s calm and soothing—penetrated the bathroom wall. She wondered if she’d be fired, lose her new job. What a mess. A door closed and footsteps passed the bathroom. Alexa folded her sad, wet clothes and left them on the bathroom floor. Nina was in the kitchen, pouring boiling water into a mug. The scent of hot chocolate made Alexa want to cry again. Dammit.
“Drink this, luv,” Nina said, putting the mug in front of her.
“Thank you.”
“It’s only powdered,” Nina said. “Kip is changing into his uniform.”
Alexa sipped cautiously. The dishes had been washed; a few pots drip-dried in a rack. She pushed her back against the wood slats of the chair, grateful for the tableau of home and hearth, the lingering scent of fish stew, the heavenly hot cocoa. She set the mug down and put the ruined phone on the table.
Nina noticed. “Too bad—that. Do you want me to try ricing it?”
“It’s dead. Do they sell phones on the island?”
“No. You’ll have to go to Invercargill.”
“I appreciate the clothes.”
“Ah, yeah, glad to help. Don’t mind Kip. The hunter, the shark attack. It’s not been a box of fluffies for him.”
Spot pressed a muzzle on her thigh. Alexa scratched the silky spot behind the dog’s ear. She opened her mouth to say something, anything to fill the awkwardness, but Wallace reappeared, dressed in uniform. “Let’s go,” he said. “Constable Kopae is meeting me at the station.”
“Hold your bones, Kip,” Nina said. “Let her finish her cuppa.”
Alexa stood. “We need to go back to the ship now. Process the…”
“It’s late, almost eleven,” Wallace said. “You’re in no condition to go back. I’ll drop you at the inn. The constable and I will search the area and keep watch on The Apex until morning.”
“I’m fine. I can go back.”
“No. You are off the case until I speak to the DI.”
“I found a bullet lodged in the upper deck railing. Secure it, but don’t remove it. And will you bag that gaff, the one he swung at me, and bring it to the station?”
“He probably tossed it.”
* * *
As if she hadn’t had enough excitement for a day that had started a hundred hours ago, Alexa decided to hit the pub after Wallace’s car disappeared, see if Kana Duffy was still there. She wasn’t ready to be alone, and maybe she could snoop out some information from Shark Man. Redeem herself.
Jukebox music—Tom Petty, maybe—penetrated the empty lobby when she entered. The restaurant was closed, and through the windows, a harbor light flashed on and off.
I nearly drowned, she thought, watching.
But I didn’t, she thought back.
The gaff gash felt leaky, sticky, hot. As she opened the door to the Full Moon Lounge, it occurred to her that the man who had tried to kill her could be here. Toasting his victory if he didn’t know she’d escaped the jaws of death.
The bar was half-full. Three bearded men sang with fervor into beer bottle mikes. They were—what was the expression? three sheeps? ships? sheets?—to the wind. A woman with long yellow hair and tattooed arms danced in a circle and extended a hand.
“No thanks,” Alexa mumbled, pushing past. She squeezed behind a fishy-smelling man in gum boots—he might have been the man who gave her a lift from the ferry—and bumped into a guy in a ball cap. “Pardon,” she said, searching for Duffy.
He was still here, talking with a couple at a nearby table. She waved like she hadn’t had a near-death experience and approached the bar. “Speight’s,” she called to the bartender.
“Eh?” A pen dangled like a cigarette from his mouth.
“Speight’s.” Alexa jabbed the rubber Speight’s bar mat.
“The bump, eh. Classic move,” said a voice from behind.
She whipped around.
Ranger Scratch from the hut grinned sleazily. The missing hunter—the reason she had been sent to Stewart Island—had slipped her mind again. The bartender pushed a cold bottle into her hand.
“I’ll treat the lady since we’ve already slept together,” Scratch said.
Blood rushed to Alexa’s cheeks. “It was business,” she yelled to the bartender. “Put it on my tab.” Her wallet was in her tote. On The Apex.
The bartender suppressed a smile. Alexa signed the receipt, glared at Scratch, and hustled to Duffy’s table.
“Ah. Here you are. I was about to give up.” He looked her over and pulled out a chair.
“Long day.” She sloshed some beer as she sat. The man and woman sharing the table, in their forties, had vitamin-and-sunshine looks.
The woman smiled. “I’m Meredith Hall. We saw you on the ferry.”
“I’m Alexa.”
Meredith flicked a blond tress over her shoulder. “This is my husband, Theo. We’re from Santa Monica. Where are you from?”
It was the couple who had snatched her taxi. “North Carolina. But I live in Auckland now.”
“The Halls were telling me about their cage dive,” Duffy said. “They went out yesterday afternoon.”
Yesterday afternoon she had tramped with Wallace and Stephen through the bush to the hunter’s remains. And Andy Gray supposedly canceled Saturday dives due to weather. Maybe he had gone out after all. “Did you go with White Dive?”
“No,” Meredith answered. “We went with Shark Encounter on Glowing Sky. Lucas, our captain, was brilliant.”
“What time did you get back?”
Meredith concentrated. “Six thirty, I think.” She looked at her husband for confirmation. “We were lucky. Dives have been suspended. Everyone is talking about the attack.”
“Yes.” Alexa looked around at the pub patrons. Two of the drunk bearded men were leaning against the bar now. Scratch caught her eye and lifted his beer bottle. She turned back to the couple and spoke loudly. “The man on the beach died from shark bites. The body is in terrible condition. The attack was horrible.”
There. She had cast information and misinformation. Let the tide carry it away.
Meredith looked at her curiously. “Was your cage dive canceled?”
“I’m not here to dive.”
“Oh, you’re a birder. That’s too tame for me.”
Alexa didn’t correct her. “So you went down in a cage?” She wished she had her notepad.
Meredith beamed. “Lucas knew where to find the sharks.”
It occurred to Alexa that it might be the other way around—the sharks knew where to find Lucas and Glowing Sky. “Were there other tourists in your group?”
“There were supposed to be, but they canceled due to the storm. We had calm seas and the sharks to ourselves.”
Duffy interrupted. “How far from shore did Glowing Sky anchor?”
“We could see the beach. Twenty or thirty yards. Lucas said the great whites round here hang out in the shallows.”
Alexa choked on her beer. “What beach?”
Meredith looked to Theo. “I think it was Frenchman’s,” he answered.
She didn’t know if Frenchman’s was close to Ringaringa, where the body washed up. Or Golden Bay, where she swam with the sharks. She needed a map.
“How did Lucas lure the sharks?” Duffy asked.
“The first mate chummed,” Theo said, wrinkling his nose. “Blood soup. That stuff reeked. When we anchored, he threw more chum and some tuna over the side.”
I was the big tuna a little while ago.
“Being below is a religious experience,” Meredith said. “I’m still in a trance.” She saw Alexa’s confusion. “You’re somewhere you don’t belong. It’s clear and cold, and when that massive gray torpedo comes at the cage, this immense force—jaws open, rows of jagged teeth—and turns at the last second, you are saved, redeemed. Life and death in the underworld, and you are a witness.”
Theo nodded. “Eye level with a killing machine.”
“What did you mean by ‘you are a witness’?” Alexa asked.
“It probably was the same shark that ripped that man apart.” Meredith’s brown eyes sparkled in dim bar neon. “We could have been witnesses.”
“Sixteen, maybe eighteen feet she was,” Theo said. “A big swell came up when I was getting into the cage. I nearly fell in the water. She’d have eaten me alive.”
“The shark was probably male,” Duffy said. “The population around here is mostly male. How many sharks did you see?”
“Two,” Meredith said. “The giant and later a smaller one.”
Duffy leaned forward. “Did you notice if the sharks had been tagged?”
“Tagged?” Theo asked.
“An electronic tag. They look like large darts, near the dorsal fin. The data can show where the sharks have been, how deep they dive, when they surface. A tag could—well—provide an alibi. Prevent someone from hunting him down.”
“Wow,” Meredith said. “I didn’t know to look.”
Raised voices made Alexa turn. One of the three-sheets men was leaning, palms flat, on a nearby table, arguing heatedly with a seated man. His buddies swayed behind him.
Duffy scowled at Meredith. “Luke—your guide—should have explained. The goal of cage diving should be shark conservation and education.”
“I took photos. There’s a place in the cage with no bars. I leaned out so I could get good shots,” Theo said.
Perhaps Theo’s gene pool needed culling, Alexa thought.
“Can I see the photos? Might save the shark,” Duffy said.
They exchanged emails so Theo could send them.
“I’ll need your copy of the photos as well, and contact info,” Alexa said. “The sergeant or DI will need to talk with you.” She didn’t have a pad, or anything to write with, and shoved a bar napkin Theo’s way.
“About what?” Meredith asked.
“In case there are further questions about your cage dive. Maybe you saw another boat?”
“One or two,” Theo said. He pushed the napkin away and handed Alexa a business card. “I may have taken snaps of them. Fishing boats—so quaint.”
“The big shark had a long slash over his eye,” Meredith added. “I remember that.”
John Mellencamp started rocking about small towns, and the bar patrons sang along as Meredith and Theo stood. “We leave in the morning,” Theo shouted. “Onward to Queenstown. Bungee jumping.”
Duffy raised his bottle. “Good on ya.”
Theo and Meredith snaked toward the exit. Alexa watched as Meredith’s hair bounced alluringly down her back—how did she manage? Her own hair was stiff with drying salt water. The bushy-bearded man who had been arguing cut in front of the Americans, blocking the exit. “You got balls going down in a cage,” he snarled inches from Theo’s face. “Don’t need the likes of you here, turning our whites into packs of hungry dogs!”
Theo placed a hand on Meredith’s arm. “Small Town” ended on the jukebox, and the bar went quiet.
A broader man appeared by Bushy Beard. “Are you brain dead?” he bellowed at Theo. “The whites aren’t entertainment. Go on, take your Yank money, leave.”
“Hold on,” Theo said. “We respect…”
The first dude’s fists were balled up. “How about I slice you open, chum with you?”
The bartender swung around the counter and bounded across the floor. “Stormy, Isaac—back off. These are paying customers.”
A chill coursed through Alexa’s blood. Could one of these men have been angry enough to shoot a cage dive operator? Might one of these men have been her own Apex predator? She glanced at Duffy, who appeared riveted.
“Hell. I’m a paying customer,” yelled the first guy. “And your bloody neighbor.”
Across the bar, the woman with long yellow hair called, “My children swim here. What do you say about that?”
Theo looked stricken, Meredith defiant as they scuttled to the exit. Their Santa Monica cheese-and-wine party might be marred. Or perhaps enhanced. Alexa imagined Meredith laughing and recounting her shark safari: “The townies are a bit unpredictable and defensive. They don’t understand how diving with sharks protects the ecosystem and educates clients.”
Several bar patrons clapped when the door shut.
“It’s over, folks,” the bartender said. “Next round is on the house.”
Alexa and Duffy exchanged glances.
Duffy shrugged. “I believe in putting people in the water without cages and without chumming. Pure diving.”
“Jesus. Are you crazy?”
Duffy ignored her remark and started riffing on Shark Encounters. “That sounded like dangerous conditions when Theo entered the cage. He should not have had any body parts outside the cage bars, and the boat anchored too close to shore. Three violations.”
Alexa reminded herself that Duffy didn’t know about the bullet in Gray’s gut. “Could Glowing Sky anchoring close to shore have contributed to the attack?”
“Maybe. I’m going to arrange a cage dive in the morning,” Duffy said. “See what’s going on out there. Come with me.”
Not. Happening. “I need to go off-island tomorrow and get to a lab. There are some findings I need to follow up on.”
Duffy leaned so close Alexa could see the pores along his nose. “I’ll wait until you get back. I think the victim was killed because of human interference. I’ve never encountered multiple whites causing a fatality. It’s almost always a single shark and a bite-and-flight.”
She drowned a bit in his pretty face and almost told him his “human-interference” theory was right. Blood from a bullet wound triggered the attack, and someone was willing to feed her to the sharks to keep that a secret.
Duffy took out his phone, probably checking Instagram for how many Likes he had. The jukebox blared again. Alexa looked around, thinking of dueling worlds: tourist and local, predator and prey, good and evil. Three women stumbled to their table, phones poised, squealing for selfies with Duffy. Alexa yelled good night and—fingering the sharp edge of her key—headed to Room Three. She didn’t exhale until she was inside, leaning against the locked door.