Rogue Justice (33 page)

Zora fought off a wave of emotion as Houdini leaned down, grabbed a nine-inch fillet knife from the deck, and cleanly sliced the rope attached to Samson's tail flukes. Just then the wind shifted to the south, lifting the fog, and unleashing a million dazzling stars. More stars than she had ever seen, shining white and all-knowing in the black sky. An instant later, a flaming red meteor streaked across the horizon in a spectacular show of celestial might. The seas went flat calm. With a profound sense of sadness, Zora and Houdini watched the mighty whale slowly drift away from the boat and disappear beneath the surface, finally at peace in his natural home.

Bloated carcasses float,
Zora thought.
Yet this one did not.

They stood side by side in silence for several long moments. Then Zora returned to the wheelhouse. She set the vessel on a northerly course at seven knots, barely avoiding a giant wedge of driftwood bobbing up and down like a prehistoric crocodile. As the boat passed between Camano and Whidbey Islands, the wind picked up again, making a whistling sound as it whipped through the riggings. The seas began to churn.

But as the sky blushed with the first streaks of dawn, the
Northern Star
slipped out of the chop and inside Penn Cove, sheltered by the rain shadow of the Olympics. From here, Zora could see the lights from the small waterfront community of Coupeville twinkling in the distance. She'd visited there once, remembered it as a quaint little town that billed itself as "a Mecca for artists and artisans of all stripes." And now she could practically hear the whispers of the old timers talking about the merciless capture of 1970 as if it had happened only yesterday, hoping she would not be the cause of even more grief.

Just minutes after the crew dropped anchor, a dense fog began drifting over the shore and soon the boat was draped in primeval mist, like the icy fingers of some malevolent, unseen force. But was it a force for good... or evil?

Zora would know soon enough. For here they would wait until dark.

Wait for the killer whales.

Chapter 35

3 April, 5:00 PM PDT

Kingdom of the Sea Oceanarium,

Seattle, Washington

Colby Freeman walked down a narrow concrete tunnel that led directly from his office into Samson Stadium. The magnificent whale that had brought so much joy to so many, had been gone for nearly eighteen hours now and Freeman still felt sick about his death. He'd watched from a safe distance as Preston Tradd had capably handled the removal of the body, thinking it foolish to risk a face-to-face encounter with the boat captain.

Standing silently at the entrance, Freeman wavered slightly, leaning back against a concrete pillar to keep his balance. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and nervous tension. Still, he couldn't help but feel humbled by this marvel of corporate ingenuity. In addition to the 6,500 bleacher-style seats, there were five deep-blue pools filled with eight million gallons of specially treated seawater. The "main stage" tank was comparable in size to a hockey rink, though curved on one side rather than rectangular. The depth was thirty-six feet. The two "backstage" pools where the whales actually lived were smaller and less than twenty feet deep. The other tanks—smaller still—were used for primarily for animal husbandry procedures.

A fifty-foot-square LED screen on the far side of the main pool loomed over a wide concrete "beach." During shows, the multi-million-dollar electronic marvel came alive, every dazzling move of the whales exploding in a riotous display of colors and nonstop action. The spectacle was accompanied by a masterful music score from an Oscar-winning composer, providing meaning and emotion to the motion. It was all carefully orchestrated, nothing left to chance.

But now the big screen—like the rest of the stadium—was blank, foreboding, silent.

Freeman heard a shuffling noise, glanced over his shoulder, and greeted Samson's trainer, Leanne Bucaro. She wore jeans and a silk blouse. There was no need for a jacket. The temperature had ticked up over the past hour, part of a strange weather pattern that had settled back over the Sound. They sat on the bleachers a few rows up from water's edge, a section known as the "splash zone." The final show of the day would normally be starting about now, filling these same seats with kids of all ages, eager to be drenched by the acrobatic killer whales.

Not today. This area too was empty and eerily quiet.

Humans were genetically engineered to fear the unknown, Freeman had once read, and that instinct—the crawling dread of things unseen—was tugging at him now. The past six days had been stressful as hell, leaving him feeling like the sole survivor of a ship wreck. But he did find some consolation in the masterful cover-up of Samson's death. Thanks to his shrewd penmanship, most of the world, including the media, believed the big orca was happily at play in the enclosed sea-pen adjacent to the park, or as happy as any captive animal could be. Only a handful of people knew Samson was no longer there, fewer still that he was dead. And a team of heavily armed Black Stallion guards remained behind to make sure it stayed that way.

There was nothing remotely consoling, however, about the tragedy that had befallen Katrina Kincaid. Accidental or not, it was stupid and senseless, and he, Colby Freeman, was an accomplice in that. How could things that had seemed so right just three weeks ago have gone so terribly wrong? He knew Katrina's death had left Leanne shaken and scared, that she was going along to get along because of her daughter's illness. It was only a matter of time before she came unglued and exposed the entire charade. Those thoughts he kept to himself.

Freeman slid forward on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, and turned to her. "Listen, Leanne, I'm really sorry about your friend, Dr. Kincaid. I know you two were like sisters."

"Yeah, I've got a hole in my heart the size of Texas. Miss her like crazy already."

"Well, look, if there's anything I can do, you let me know, okay?" Freeman thought about asking how Leanne's daughter was doing, but decided it best to avoid yet another delicate topic.

Instead, they sat side by side in silence.

Then... footsteps.

Mitchell Chandler's footsteps.

"Ms. Bucaro," Chandler said, taking a seat on the opposite side of her. "I appreciate you coming. Thought it might be nice to meet outside, enjoy this great weather."

Leanne nodded, fiddled with a pen she was holding, her head down.

"I know Dr. Kincaid's death is very upsetting," he added, patting her gently on the arm like a doting father. "It's been a shock to all of us, of course. But rest assured we're doing everything we can to help find the person responsible."

"That would be good, sir."

Leanne's eyes, Freeman observed, were darting about like a trapped animal looking for an escape. He couldn't help but think of the irony in that, or the fact that he shared the exact same feelings. If Chandler noticed, he didn't let on.

"Listen," Chandler said. "I've only got a few minutes, so let me start by stating the obvious. We have one core product at KOS and his name is Samson. He's our logo, our mascot, our trademark, the magic bullet that pulls everything together. But there's a much bigger picture to consider here. These parks are just plain good for business. Now, admittedly, we catch a lot of flak over our pricing—seventy-five bucks for an adult ticket on top of fifteen bucks to park. It's a lot of bread. And you know how I respond to that criticism, Ms. Bucaro?"

Leanne shook her head.

"I say, okay, maybe the price of admission
is
a little steep, but we sure as hell keep the riff-raff out, don't we? And isn't it true you get what you pay for? Besides who else caters to the educated and affluent audience anymore. Where can a nice, white suburban family go these days without feeling like they're a minority? Right here, that's where. The only way we keep this machine humming is to sell people's dreams back to them. Does that make sense?"

Leanne nodded this time.

Freeman stared off at the crowds milling about beyond the fenced-in stadium, crowds that continued to shrink by the day. He suddenly felt like the concrete walls around him were closing in, every cell in his body screaming to get out of there. But of course he could not. And he knew what was coming next, thought Leanne probably did too, but they both listened with virgin ears.

Chandler continued. "It's all about image. And every message we send supports and enhances that image. Lose it and you don't get it back. By associating Chandler Global Enterprises with animals and kids, not to mention the environment and family entertainment, it shows that we're socially responsible, that we have a heart, that we're
green.
This is my ace in the hole when the regulators start sniffing around at some of our other operations, those that might be considered, well,
less
nature oriented. Am I making myself clear, Leanne?"

In fact, Freeman thought, peel back the layers and this corporate-wide view of nature was worth billions in tax breaks and deregulation. Of course he would never say that to Chandler... and didn't.

Leanne replied, "Yes, sir." Then, in a measured tone, she expressed some of her own views, about educating the public on the uniqueness and importance of orcas; about the need for intimate study, that observations in the wild were not enough; that it was critical to understand how the whales reproduced, to learn what worked and what didn't work with breeding programs.

Freeman jumped in. "So unlike your friend, Dr. Kincaid, you see captivity as crucial to the whales' survival."

A tear welled up in Leanne's eye. "Katrina is...
was
brilliant," she said, correcting herself. "We both agreed that when kids learn about nature and the outdoors they learn about themselves. And that's the bottom line here. We just differed on the approach, that's all. But I certainly respected her opinion."

"I'm sure the feeling was mutual," Chandler said, his tone somewhat condescending. "Now tell me, Ms. Bucaro, what kind of time are we looking at to train our new whale? Colby here says two to three weeks. Do you agree?"

"Yeah, pretty much. It depends on several factors, though. Size and temperament for starters. Like most animals, whales learn by watching and mimicking other whales, but we're talking about a whole new set of rules here. The brain anatomy of whales is as complex as our own, so they're incredibly intelligent. That's the good news. The truth is, I just don't know. I mean we're obviously dealing with an adult whale. It might be impossible to gain his trust and without that, nothing else matters."

"I get that," Chandler said, his stare as unyielding as a cat's. "Look, this timeline seems reasonable, but I'd like to get a better handle on what all's involved here. Why don't you run me through the basics?"

Leanne seemed a bit perplexed by the request. "Now?" she asked.

Freeman gave her a
yes-now
nod, thinking how long it had been since he'd seen any of the trainers in action himself, other than watching an occasional performance.

"Okay," she said. "First we make sure the whale is properly rewarded for desired behaviors." Leanne went down the list that included food, playing games, scratching their backs, adding, "But sometimes the best reward of all is a big old hug."

Chandler nodded for her to go on.

"The real magic happens with what's called the underwater cueing system. Essentially it's a series of computer codes based on calls recorded from killer whales in the wild. The whale responds to hand signals that correspond to a learned behavior, so eventually the tone becomes the stimulus for the behavior. When that happens, I stop using the hand signals altogether. What we're going for here is precision—it's everything—especially when you understand how complex some of these behaviors are, like getting the whale to leap completely out of the water."

Freeman added, "The breach is a show stopper, all right. Still gives me the chills every time I see it. Puts the
killer
back in killer whale, I like to say."

"I guess so," Leanne said, her voice sinking to a whisper. "Oh, and one other thing I can't stress enough. We need to make sure the audience doesn't think we're manipulating the whale, or trying to dominate him. That's really important."

"Agreed," Chandler noted, turning to Freeman. "Can we live with three more weeks?"