The Sound of Many Waters (2 page)

Zane laughed at his own joke, hoping that the excitement of the moment would make Miguel more apt to laugh along with him. Miguel, however, did not even smile.

“I see,” was all that he said.

The mahi continued to thrash inside the icebox, but with air flowing through its gills like slow poison, the veracity of its writhing diminished and Zane was able to latch the lid. He stood and wiped the blood off his face and listened to the fish’s tail thump against insulated plastic.

What motivated the fish to continue fighting inside the icebox? Was it fear? Anger? Did it somehow know that it would never again stalk the quiet depths or glide on saline currents? Whatever the case, Zane wanted it to die soon. It saddened him to see anyone—or anything—suffer.

Only moments before, the fish had been prowling a deep expanse of ocean several miles off the coast of Palm Beach, basking in the balmy flow of the Gulf Stream. Its prey that day was flying fish and it had used a patch of sargassum seaweed as a shady cover, ambushing any school that passed. Like most local fishermen, Zane cherished sargassum. With tiny natural buoys scattered between its yellow leaves, sargassum was unique among seaweeds; it stayed afloat during its entire life cycle. It was a thriving ecosystem that existed solely on the tops of waves, a tangled oasis for countless creatures including baitfish, juvenile sea turtles, crustaceans, and the myriad predators that consumed them. Zane’s heart had thumped with excitement when he spotted dozens of flying fish leaping frantically, bereft of their usual grace, from beneath a spread of sargassum.

“Get ready!” Zane said to Miguel as they approached. “Something’s chasing that school of flying fish.”

Miguel glanced toward the melee but showed no excitement about it, so Zane attempted a joke in hopes of drawing out a smile. “Or should I say a
flock
of flying fish?”

Miguel looked at Zane with a blank, almost irritated, stare. But the clatter of a strike ended the unpleasant moment, and Zane turned to see one of the trolling rods bowed over. Line peeled off the reel, causing it to sing out a high-pitched wail. The mahi at the other end of the line leapt from the water and shook its head in an attempt to throw the hook. Its body shimmered like molten metal in the afternoon sun. Zane was awestruck by the sight, but his mind quickly sprang to work.

“Grab that rod!” he shouted to Miguel. “Start reeling!”

Now in the icebox, the mahi was finally succumbing to the alien atmosphere of the world above water. Flopping turned to faint wiggling and soon all movement ceased. Zane lifted the lid. The skin of the fish—which had been vibrant and neon-green just moments before—was now a dull, silvery hue, and its eyes stared into oblivion. The beast was dead.

“Sweet fish, Miguel!” Zane’s body still tingled with adrenaline. “Hold it up and I’ll snap a picture.”

Miguel glared at Zane. “I told you before. No photos.”

In his four years as a charter fishing captain, Zane had never experienced such disinterest and animosity from a client before. What would normally be hailed as a trophy catch—a cause for celebratory high-fives and cold beers all around—seemed to mean nothing to Miguel, not even important enough to commemorate with a photograph. It was as if fishing was the last thing he wanted to be doing, and yet he had agreed to pay $500 for the trip. Miguel’s dark face had carried that same look of i
n
difference and melancholy throughout the day. None of the ba
t
tles with fish—no matter how violent and thrilling—seemed to invigorate Miguel, nor had the sight of a sailfish vaulting from the ocean as if it were trying to fly. In fact, Miguel spent most of the day staring at the sky, even while fighting the mahi that now lay dead in the icebox.

To each his own, Zane thought. As long as I get paid.

Miguel glanced at his watch—a diamond-encrusted
Rolex
that flung veins of light across the deck whenever the sun hit it—and then looked at the screen of the boat’s GPS system.

“This is where I want to fish next,” he said, pointing to an area on the digital map that was about five miles north of their position.

“The bite’s been more to the south,” said Zane.

Miguel stared at Zane for an uncomfortable moment, so Zane tried to fill the silence with more words. “The Gulf Stream, you know, it comes really close to shore just south of here, and the fish—”

“I don’t care,” interrupted Miguel. “I hired you to take me fishing, and I’m telling you where I want to go. Take me there.”

Zane looked away from Miguel’s icy gaze. There was a disturbing air about the man, as if some vile thing lurked beneath his murky surface. Most fishermen lived by an unspoken code of respect and kindness while on the water, as if thankful for the mere opportunity to live a life connected to it. Boaters, for example, always waved when passing other boa
t
ers—a stark contrast to the hand gestures common on Florida’s busy roadways—and anglers, for the most part, were courteous t
o
ward each other. With his terse, businesslike demeanor, ho
w
ever, Miguel was like no other fisherman Zane had ever met. Was he hiding something? Perhaps it was nothing more than a personality flaw, Zane finally told himself, or the product of a difficult life. And who was he to judge, anyway?

Zane forced a smile. “Maybe they’ll be biting up north today, too. Let’s give it a shot.”

Miguel stared ahead. “Let’s.”

The center console fishing boat slid over the waves at over 40 miles per hour in the direction of Miguel’s GPS coordinates. Zane glanced toward the shore as they cruised. Now five miles off the coast of Jupiter, Florida—his hometown since birth—he could see the Jupiter Lighthouse piercing the horizon, its hibiscus-red tower distinct against a dull summertime haze. Built in 1860 atop an Indian shell mound and taller than any of the condominiums and mansions that surrounded it, the lighthouse was a backdrop for some of Zane’s most potent memories. The lamp at the top had been preserved and still swirled every night, casting an intense beam of white light across the entire town. It was like God’s searchlight, Zane imagined, because it always found him in moments of intense happiness, danger or de
s
pair.

It shone down on him, for example, on the night of his 15
th
birthday when he invited his classmate and secret crush, Lucia, out in his canoe to fish for snook beneath the Loxahatchee River Bridge. He had been surprised and terrified when she said yes. With her heart-stopping smile, coconut brown skin, and eyes the color of shallow sea, Lucia had always intrigued him, but Zane was a shy boy who rarely found the courage to talk to girls. That’s why he asked her to go fishing; saying the word ‘date’ was impossible.

There was no wind that night. As Zane paddled the canoe across the glassy surface of the Loxahatchee, he glanced at Lucia. With her head tilted back to gaze at the night sky, she looked almost supernatural against the cosmos. Her shawl of hair, draped over her shoulders, was as black as the ta
n
nin-stained river below, and her skin was awash in starlight.

She’s perfect, Zane thought, but what’s a girl like her doing in my canoe?

“People shouldn’t group the stars into constellations,” said Lucia. “They’re so much better when you look at them as a whole.”

“I guess most people like order,” said Zane.

“Like Miss Harper.”

Zane laughed. Miss Harper, the neurotic school librarian, was known to throw books at students who talked too loud during study hours. She chucked a book at Zane once, but he was in no position to complain—Miss Harper’s weapon that day was merely
The Old Man and the Sea
in paperback. An exceptionally defiant girl, it was rumored, once took
War and Peace
to the head.

They soon reached the bridge and Zane dropped a cinderblock anchor overboard to keep the canoe in place. He picked up a fishing rod and was about to cast the line when he n
o
ticed that Lucia was no longer staring at the universe. She was looking at him.

“Hi,” said Zane. He flushed. Couldn’t he have said something more interesting?

Lucia smiled. “Hi,” she said, and then she leaned forward and pressed her mango-flavored lips to his. Zane had never kissed a girl before, and he could not imagine there being any feeling closer to bliss, not even catching a 1,000-pound blue marlin or winning first place in a fishing tournament. He closed his eyes and felt the warm glow of God’s searchlight envelope him.

Zane and Miguel both heard the drone of the airplane at the same time. They were approaching the location where Miguel had demanded to go, so Zane slowed the boat to idle speed. As he had done several times that day, Miguel peered up at the approaching aircraft—this one a single-engine seaplane—and studied it with squinted eyes.

“Here we go,” said Miguel. He waved to the plane with broad sweeps of arms.

“What are you doing?” asked Zane.

Miguel turned. Zane’s heart sank when he saw the .45 revolver aimed at his face. “I shouldn’t expect a problem from you, should I, captain?”

“No, sir.” Zane shook his head.

“Glad to hear it. If you do everything I tell you, then maybe you won’t end up as shark food tonight. Am I clear?”

Zane trembled. “Yes, sir.” Was this really happening? It felt like a nightmare, albeit a vivid one.

Miguel turned back toward the plane which was now almost directly overhead and flying at an abnormally low altitude. He raised his arm with his fist clenched and then dropped it toward the water. A small door on the airplane flung open and a square object fell out. It tumbled end over end and struck the ocean fifty yards away, sending a plume of white water into the air.

“Get us over there,” said Miguel. “Quickly!”

Zane gunned the engines and brought the boat alongside the object, which now bobbed on the ocean’s surface. It looked like a large pillow wrapped in cellophane. Everything suddenly made sense. Zane could see that the object was a bale—a common way for drug runners to deliver their products to the United States, strong enough to survive an impact but light enough to float. It was probably filled with cocaine, Zane guessed, cultivated by modern-day slaves in the hig
h
lands of Latin America, and then put on the plane for delivery. Miguel was likely the middleman in charge of collecting the bale, d
i
viding the drugs into saleable units, and distributing them among a network of dealers in South Florida. It would then be divided further, sold through various underground channels, and, ultimately, complete its cycle after being co
n
sumed by a microcosm of society, everyone from the wealthy to the hom
e
less. It was, as Zane knew well, the ultimate product.

Miguel leaned over the gunwale with a boathook in his hand. “Closer.” When the bale came within reach, Miguel stuck the curved end of the boathook through a loop on the package and pulled it in. He grabbed the corner of the bale and strained to haul it over the side.

“Help me bring it in,” said Miguel. Zane paused. Miguel was leaning over the side of the boat, focused on the bale. Here, right before Zane, was the perfect opportunity to push Miguel into the water and save himself.

“I said help me, dammit!” Miguel snarled.

Zane sighed, then leaned over and grabbed a corner of the bale. Violence had never come easily to him. Together they wrenched the bale into the boat.

“Seems awfully heavy for cocaine,” said Zane.

“Who said it was coke?” Miguel gazed at the bale with eyes alight, as if he were looking at a beautiful woman. He ran his hand over the slick, wet plastic, and then he looked up at Zane with a crooked smile. “But if I tell you what it is, then I’ll have to kill you, and unfortunately I still need your help.”

That was the first time Miguel had smiled in front of Zane, but, to Zane’s dismay, he had done it while delivering a death threat. Zane had only known this much fear a few times in his life. The first was when, at 13 years old, he had gone scuba diving with his father, Skip, off the coast of Hobe Sound, north of Jupiter, on the opening day of lobster season. A tropical storm had recently skirted the coast and muddied the water, but bad visibility did not deter them. They were hoping to catch their limit of “bugs”—the local term for Caribbean spiny lo
b
ster—and after splashing into the ocean and scouring the reef for ten minutes they came upon several of them huddled b
e
neath a coquina ledge.

Zane tried to snare the largest lobster of the group but it bolted away, leaving only a cloud of drifting sediment. Skip swam after it and disappeared into the murk. Zane held onto the ledge and waited, but after a few minutes Skip had not come back. Panic swelled inside him and he swam off to look for his father. He shined his diving flashlight in every direction as he searched along the edge of the reef, hopeful that Skip would see the beam cutting through the cloudy water. Instead, a shadow much larger than his father appeared; the commotion had attracted an 8-foot-long bull shark. Zane froze and sank toward the bottom.

As the shark approached, Zane could see its black, emotionless eye studying him. The mouth gaped enough to reveal the tips of its serrated teeth, and its gills flared out like wi
n
dow shutters in a gale. As the shark passed him and circled around, Zane noticed a coral cave to his side. He pulled hi
m
self into it. The shark glided by and vanished back into the haze.