Part 71 (1/2)

Stick had stopped in an all-night supermarket on the way to the boathouse and bought a large beef shoulder. It had been soaking in a bucket of warm water near his feet. Now he took it out, laid it on the rear bulkhead, and slashed several deep gashes in it with a rusty machete. Blood crept out of the crevices, seeping slowly into the seams between the boards.

There was a loud splash near the stern, then another, even louder, just beyond the bow. Fear began as a worm in Murphy's stomach, a twisty little jolt. He began to look feverishly at each new tremor in the water, but he could see nothing but swirls on the surface of the creek.

Then he thought he saw a gray triangle cut the surface ten feet away.

”What was that?” he asked.

The worm became a snake. It crawled up through his chest and stuck in his throat. His mouth dried up.

”This is a little nature trip, Weasel,” Stick said, taking a grappling hook from the bulkhead storage box and burying its hooks in the beef shoulder. He wrapped a thick nylon fis.h.i.+ng line around it several times and tied it in a half hitch. ”Ever hear of Christmas Creek?”

”I told you, I get seasick. I don't have nothin' to do with the f.u.c.kin' ocean.” His voice was losing its bravado.

Stick saw the bar dead ahead, a slender strip of sand, barely a foot above water.

”Well, you're right in the middle of it. This is it, this is Christmas Creek,” Stick said. ”One of the local ecological wonders.”

There was another, more vigorous splash off the starboard bow and this time Murphy saw it clearly, a s.h.i.+ny gray dorsal fin. It sliced the surface for an instant and then disappeared in a swirl.

”Good Christ, those're sharks,” Murphy gasped.

”I was about to tell you,” said Stick. ”This is a breeding ground for gray sharks and makos, and this is the month for it. That's why they're so fidgety. I'd guess there are probably, oh h.e.l.l, two, three hundred sharks within spitting distance of the boat right now.”

The first shark Murphy actually saw breached water three feet away, rolled over on its side, and dove again.

It was half the length of the sailboat!

”Sweet Jesus,” Murphy muttered to himsel He was still trying to maintain his tough facade, but his eyes mirrored his growing fear. He dropped back onto the floor of the c.o.c.kpit and cowered there.

”This b.l.o.o.d.y piece of beef here will drive them crazy,” Stick continued. ”I thought I'd just give 'em a snack, let you see one of the wonders of the world.”

Murphy hunched down lower.

”C'mon, fella, watch the show,” said Stick. He reached down and pulled Murphy up and slammed him against the bulkhead. He threw the piece of meat overboard, holding it by the nylon cord. It had hardly hit before the creek was churned into bubbles. The water looked like it was boiling. The frenzied killers streaked to the b.l.o.o.d.y morsel. Their tails whipped out of the water. Fins seemed to be slas.h.i.+ng all over the creek. The creatures surfaced in their frenzy, their black marble eyes bulging with excitement, their ragged mouths blood-smeared from ripping at the beef shoulder. A great, ugly mako breached the surface, twisted violently in the water, then suddenly lurched into the air as a large gray disemboweled it, the attacker thras.h.i.+ng its head back and forth as it tore a great chunk from the other shark's belly. More blood churned to the surface. A half dozen more sharks converged on the mako, ripping it to shreds. Then one of them turned and charged the sailboat.

Murphy screamed, a full-fledged, bloodcurdling scream.

The big gray turned at the last moment and sc.r.a.ped down the side of the sailboat.

All Murphy saw were insane eyes and gleaming teeth.

Within seconds the hook was empty. Stick pulled it back in.

”Lookit that, they even gnawed at the hooks,” Stick said with a chuckle.

”What're we doin' here?” Murphy whispered, as though he were afraid he would disturb the predators.

”I'll tell you, when these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are homy, they're downright unreasonable,” Stick rambled on.

He swung the sailboat in a tight arc, pulling as close to the sandbar as he could. He knew the creek well; knew, too, that the bar dropped off sharply on its north side, sharply enough to get in tight. Stick grabbed the back of Murphy's s.h.i.+rt and hauled him to his feet.

”What the h.e.l.l are you doing? Lemme alone, lemmee . . . ” the mobster howled.

The boat nudged the bar.

Stick threw him over the side.

Murphy shrieked. He landed on his side in the soft sand, rolled over, still screaming, scrambled to his feet, and sloshed through ankle-deep sand to the middle of the bar. He stood there, his hands behind his back, his eyes bulging with fear, watching the fins circle his diminis.h.i.+ng island.

”For G.o.d's sakes, what'd I do? I didn't do nothin'! Get me offa here. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, please, get me offa here!”

Stick leaned toward him. ”Now listen good, Weasel. The tide's coming in. This bar lies very low in the water. Another five, six minutes, the water will cover it. At full tide, in about forty-five minutes, it'll be up to your waist. Do you get the drift?”

Murphy looked around, wide-eyed. There were sharks all over the place, circling the tiny island as if they could smell him.

”Here, I'll give you a break,” Stick said. ”You won't have to look at them.”

Stick turned the spotlight off.

”No-o-o,” Murphy moaned.

The moon dipped behind the clouds. Murphy was rooted to his spot. He was beyond fear now, afraid to move in any direction. He squinted into the darkness but it was too dark to see anything.

But he could hear them.

”Get me offa here, please,” Murphy pleaded. There was no bravado left.

Stick replied, ”The tide's coming in, Weasel. In two or three minutes you'll feel it around your ankles.”

Murphy's feet squirmed beneath him. He had trouble catching his breath. He was overwhelmed with fear. Then he felt the first cold, wet fingers seeping through the soles of his shoes, down through the shoelace holes, around the tongues of his expensive brogans, clutching at his feet.

Murphy suddenly started to babble. He couldn't talk fast enough. His words tumbled over each other and he started to stutter: ”They'regointo ThunderPoint! To Chevos' p-p-p-place! They went outontheboat to celebrate . . . ”

”Celebrate what?”

”Costello's the new capo di capi.”

”When are they coming in?”

”They're due to get to the marina about t-t-ten . . . ”

”How do you know that?”

”That's when I'm supposed to be back. I g-g-got a coupla hours off 'cause I get seasick. ”

”Who's going to be there?”