Sea Creature (13 page)

The editor, swearing under his breath, rewound the tape and zoomed in on the lower quadrant, magnifying by four. The man was clearly visible, hovering in the water. He was white with a gold watch and no life vest.

The next frame took the men’s breath away.

A massive white tentacle looped around the man’s legs just underneath the surface of the water, and he shot into the depths like a bullet.

Taylor Hamilton finished his morning exercises on the balcony of his hotel room. The Hotel del Mar was the casino’s hotel and one of the finest in all of South America. It was designed and built by the same architecture firm that handled several of the casinos in Las Vegas and there was a certain Vegas-like feel to it.

The building was circular and at night it would be lit up a deep gold or blue. A topless pool was on the first floor and Hamilton only briefly glanced at the women before returning to his exercises.

He finished his set with a breathing exercise he had learned in India, a quick succession of short breaths followed by a pattern of long breaths before he would still his mind, and focus on one thought. The thought, as he was taught the exercise, was supposed to be a number or a word. He instead liked to focus on things like money, believing that his thoughts would bring more of it near.

Not that he needed the money, but one could always use more.

There was a knock at his door and he swiveled around and went inside his luxury suite and answered. Stewart stood there, all nearly seven feet of him. He was red and sweaty from working out and seemed out of breath.

“You need to turn on the television.”

Hamilton had learned that Stewart rarely spoke, but when he did, it was always something that absolutely needed to be said. Without asking further questions he went and turned on his television.

“What station?”

“Channel six. It’s a recap of last night’s news.”

Hamilton changed the station and there were three people at a news desk discussing something. In the upper right hand corner was a still photo of a man in the ocean; the photo blurry from being magnified. And underneath him was . . .

“Call the president’s office.”

“Of America?”

“No, Stewart. Not of America. Call the President’s office here. They won’t patch you through unless you tell them that I’m an American investor looking to invest a lot of money. They’ll give you the direct line of the regional governor and he’s who I need to speak with.”

Stewart nodded and walked out.

The news played the full clip. Hamilton couldn’t suppress a smile. He ended his exercises early and went to go shower.

Patrick Russell woke in jail for the third time in his life. The first time had been for a drunk and disorderly charge in Turkey. The Turks were not as understanding as their more moderate politics would lead one to believe. There was talk of lashings and beatings and a full year in jail. In the end, a local commander in the military had heard he was a soldier and released him as a courtesy.

Patrick rubbed at his eyes and sat up on the couch as there was no bed. A full breakfast of Chorizo and eggs and juice had been place through an opening in the cell on a table. He walked over and sat down and began to eat. Though his hand hurt and he was still as dirty as ever, he felt good considering where he had woken up in. But this jail was hardly a jail at all. He had stayed in less luxurious hotels.

There was some commotion down the hall as Mayor Silva walked in. One of the guards shook his hand and said something about his reelection. Ignacio thanked him and continued down the hall to the holding cells. Another guard opened Patrick’s cell and Ignacio came in and sat on the couch.

“You know I should set up a room for you here if you plan to make this a habit.”

Patrick turned back to his food. “Does the mayor come and visit all of his inmates?”

“Just the ones with rich fathers that have the American embassy call me at three in the morning.”

“My father did that?”

“I would assume it was your father. The man in the wheelchair, no?”

“No, he’s not my father.”

“Oh.” Ignacio brushed a piece of lint off his pant leg. “Do you know what you’re charged with?”

“Attempted murder.”

“You shot two men. One in the chest—and he still might die, you know—and one in the ass. There were body parts of a third found in the jungle but they were not sure what happened with him so you have not been charged with murder.”

“They kidnapped us. I could’ve done a lot worse.”

“Yes,” he said, leaning forward, “I believe you could have. I received some reports from the men there and they said you were like a demon. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Military.”

“Ah. I was in the military too. If you are born in a certain low caste, to be successful you can join a gang or the army. Besides the church, there is no other way out if you are born poor in my country.”

“Have you charged any of them for trying to kidnap us?”

“No.”

“So you’re just charging the foreigner, huh?”

“You are an American who shot two Chileans. The public will not be very happy if I were to let you go.” He smirked and stood up to leave. “But I’ve never cared what the public has thought anyway. You are free to leave.”

“What about those men? Will they try and come after us?”

“I wouldn’t worry about those men. I had most of them shot in the jungle. The rest will not be a problem.” Ignacio began to walk away and then stopped and turned around. “One more thing: the man in the wheelchair has contacted the regional governor and will have his proper permits to set sail soon. I suggest my young friend, you not be on that ship when it sails. Go back to America and your soft life. This is no place for you.”

Hector sat in the waiting room of the mayor’s office. It was plush with leather furniture, a large oak desk for the secretary and deep brown wood paneling. Floor-to-ceiling windows took up the wall in front of him and it looked out onto a rose and tulip garden. A slight breeze was making the flowers gently rock back and forth and he watched it a long time.

“Hector,” the secretary said, “when are you getting married?”

“Whenever you are ready.”

She smiled. “You are too much man for me. But my sister . . . ”

“I tried Rosa, I truly did. But all she wanted to talk about was the bible.”

“She was going to be a nun once. Then she fell in love with a boy and by the time he broke her heart she was too old and did not want to do it.”

“She would make a good nun.”

The door to the mayor’s office opened and Ignacio stepped through. He collapsed on the chair next to Hector and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Where were you?” Hector asked.

“The jail. What is it you want, Hector? I have a meeting with su santidad el gobernador.”

“You have not seen the news?”

“No, why?”

“I think we should watch the news.”

They stood and walked into his office. A large plasma screen was mounted on one wall and they sat down as Ignacio flicked it on with the remote.

Across the bottom of the screen in Spanish were bolded the words, “Giant Squid: Monster of the deep claims the life of a tourist.”

The video was played again and then they had an expert from the University of Santiago speaking about the biology of the creatures and how little is actually known about them.

“They have been playing this all day,” Hector said. “It is on a repeat on every station. I did not think it would get this much attention.”

“There is nothing more entertaining for people than death, Hector.”

The report then showed a photo of a man that Hector recognized. It was Taylor Hamilton, the man in the wheelchair. The report stated that he had issued a reward of one hundred thousand American dollars for anyone that captures the creature.

They watched the rest of the report which lasted about half an hour and then the station returned to a soap opera.

“What are we going to do?” Hector asked.

“We need more men. Those fool fisherman are going to get themselves killed on the sea.”

“How many more?”

“As many as you can get. I have a feeling, Hector, that we are in for a long day.”

John Kerrington had come to Chile in search of his big break. He had hated America for the twenty-eight years he had lived there except for one year when he lived on the beach in Santa Monica.

He had met a young man that also lived on the beach and when the police eventually caught on and would do routine checks of the local spots where they liked to sleep, they rented a shack that they shared with over twenty other people.

Most of the days were filled with smoking pot and drinking and surfing. A lot of the day was spent fucking as everyone shared everything, but tempers and jealousies flared and that caused too much drama. Eventually, they decided, the shack would have to be a place for just men as the women were fought over constantly.

But he grew sick of his life and the people around him and decided to take his meager savings and move to the South America.

There was Brazil at first, but it was similar to America in a lot of ways so he tried Peru next, but it was far too different. And then he found Chile.

It was perfect. It had just the right mix of savagery and civilization that he needed. He began work on the boats; the fishermen hiring him on a per diem basis. He would wait at the docks and sip his coffee and eventually some old fisherman that didn’t feel like working that day would hire him for enough to pay for his hostel and food for that day or couple days.

He became such a fixture on the dock that he eventually landed a job on a commercial fishing boat that had lost a crewman at sea. The captain was a stern man of about fifty and had lost a son early in life. He had told John much later that he reminded him of his boy.

John scrimped and saved every peso he earned, choosing to live in a tent on the beach rather than waste money on a hostel any longer. For two years he lived out of his tent eating little more than fish and rice and a few delicacies he caught himself here and there.

But eventually, he had enough money.

He bought a boat and began fishing on his own. The catches were small at first but he knew the trick. The Chileans had two flaws: they used any excuse not to work, and they were superstitious.

All the fishermen took three hour lunches and this was John’s busiest time. He didn’t stop to eat or even use the bathroom unless he hopped into the ocean to relieve himself quickly before climbing back in. In those three hours, with no other competition nearby, he captured more fish than many of the other boats did for the entire day combined.

The superstition of omens based on the clouds and ominous bird or fish movements meant that many fishermen left the water for long periods of time; occasionally even days at a time. Feeling no such need to adhere to myths and folklore, he worked even harder during these periods.

Eventually, he hired a deckhand. And then another boat, and another after that. Soon, he was the premiere fishing captain at the docks. With twelve vessels and over thirty employees, no one could compete with him, and eventually many of the fishermen sold their ships to him and found other employment.

John sat at the café, a café he had longed for intensely when he lived in a tent not a mile from here, and enjoyed a lunch of crab and grilled pig intestine with a honey glaze. A television was playing up in the corner and he saw a newsflash interrupt the soccer match. Some of the patrons groaned but he took another bite of crab and watched.

He nearly choked on his food.

Many of the locals had talked to him for years about the ghost in the ocean. Some had told him that it was only one animal that would come back to feed every fifty years and that was possessed by the devil.

Their superstition never ceased to amaze him. He knew exactly what it was and why it was here.

A local manufacturing plant had greased the palms of all the politicians and were dumping their byproducts into the ocean. It was far cheaper to do so than store it or dispose of it at approved dumping sites. This enabled them to offer their products cheaper and put their competitors out of business. What they told the politicians they bought was that after the competitors were gone they would stop the dumping. Most of their competitors were now gone, and there was no inkling that the dumping would stop.

The chemicals killed much of the smaller fish that could process them. The larger fish ran out of smaller fish to eat. The larger predators ran out of large fish and so on. Something like this was unpredictable, but he had figured
something
would happen. Nature had a way of balancing itself; one way or another.

The news story said that a wealthy American investor was paying $100,000 cash for the body of the animal, dead or alive.

John paid for his meal and left the café.

“Mr. Kerrington?” Alonzo said.

“Yes.”

“Your boat is here.”

John stood on the beach and looked to the vessel he had just bought from the Chilean government less than a year ago. It was large, at least sixty feet with three decks, and could hold up to twenty crewman, though he wouldn’t be taking anywhere near that.

He took his duffle back and went down the pier and climbed aboard. The crewmen followed; all trusted employees he had worked with for years. They started the engines and pulled out into open water.

They began slowly at first, dumping blood and guts and half-dead fish into the sea behind them. Then they picked up the pace and at one point threw half a goat into the ocean. It was a waste, but one he was willing to make.

Alonzo came to the upper deck and stood next to him, watching the men below. “What will we do if we capture it?”

“We’ll sell it. But more than that, we’ll sell our story. Can you think of any Chilean newspaper or television station that wouldn’t want to interview us?”

Alonzo thought a moment and then said, “No. It will be big news. I think even my mother will see it in Peru.”