‘Jesus,’ Andy said quietly. ‘Jesus.’
He came behind her and once again he massaged her shoulders while she cranked the last few yards of line and saw the wire leader emerge from the sea.
‘It’s given up,’ her dad said. ‘You beat it. It’s given up, Morgan.’
But she didn’t think so. Until just before the leap, the marlin’s power seemed undiminished. The fish was still green. Still strong and alive. Unfazed by the fight. But the leader was only a few feet away, the fish lying slack a few feet below the surface. So maybe she was wrong. Maybe it had caved in after just one spectacular jump.
Andy let go of her shoulders, turned, and flung open a drawer in the supply case and grabbed a stainless steel cylinder a little larger than a cigar. It was one of Andy’s inventions. A float on one end, a stubby aerial on the other. It was designed to be hooked beneath the marlin’s second dorsal fin with a small surgical steel anchor, and was programmed to come alive for one week each year. On the appointed date, the electronic sending unit would begin to transmit all the information its microprocessor had collected that year, a day-by-day report on GPS locations, depth, water temperature, speed, distance traveled. By activating it only during that one-week window, Morgan estimated the unit would last for eight to ten years. Sometime during the crucial week when the transmitter came live, they had to get lucky and the marlin had to break the surface, either to sun itself or to attack schools of baitfish. Just a few seconds was all. When the antennae broke through, data would stream up to a satellite and a few seconds later the blue ping would pulse on the Braswells’ receiving unit. The ping would mark the fish’s present location and would continue to ping until the fish was submerged again or the week was over and the unit shut off.
Much better than conventional tagging methods. If it worked, it could revolutionize everything. You could track a fish’s migration, begin to understand its life cycle, its mating habits. Steal a look into the secret life of that mysterious fish. But she and Andy weren’t thinking of its commercial value when they designed and assembled it from salvaged computer parts. The pod was a gift to their dad, their attempt to take part in his consuming obsession.
Andy used a tiny ice pick to activate the unit, then clamped it just behind the sharp point of a customized harpoon.
Morgan hauled the fish closer and could see its blue shadow rising through the water. Listless, on its side. Either defeated or playing possum. It was impossible to tell.
Andy leaned over the transom, cocked the harpoon back, picking his spot.
Her mother called down to Andy. In her tense voice, telling him to be careful. Very careful.
Andy leaned another inch or two, then stood back up.
‘It’s too far, Dad! I’m going to have to wire it, bring it up closer.’
‘Morgan,’ A.J. called. ‘Keep the line tight. Keep it close so Andy can work.’
Andy grabbed his glove from the back pocket of his shorts and pulled it on. Another of his creations. An ordinary blue denim work glove with a thick cowhide pad stitched across the palm and sides. Even a medium-sized fish could badly bruise a hand, or sometimes crush bones.
Johnny seized the biggest gaff from the holder.
‘We’re not gaffing it, Johnny,’ A.J. called. ‘We’re just attaching the pod.’
‘But this is a world record, Dad. This is the all-time big mother.’
All of them laughed, and from that moment Big Mother was her name.
‘Tag and release, Johnny, that’s what we’re doing.’
Stubbornly, Johnny held on to the gaff, planting himself at the starboard side of the transom while Andy stood to port, the harpoon in his right hand. He was touching the metal leader wire with his left, stroking it lightly as if wanting to establish some connection with the giant.
Morgan had handled the wire on small sails and yellowfin tuna. It was dangerous, but thrilling. The saying went, ‘One wrap, you lose the fish, three wraps you lose a finger.’ Two wraps was right. You took two wraps of the leader wire around the gloved hand, no more, no less.
Andy took three.
Morgan wasn’t sure if she’d seen right. Her mind so foggy. Her tongue so swollen, she could barely speak. Maybe he took one more wrap for extra measure, because the fish was huge, maybe he made a mistake, or she was simply wrong about what she thought she’d seen.
A.J. backed the boat slowly.
‘Okay, Andy. Pick your spot, jab it in hard and true.’
Johnny edged closer to his brother, gaff at the ready.
Slowly the bill appeared as Andy hauled it up.
‘Jeez, it’s way over a thousand pounds. Maybe fifteen hundred.’
Andy had the fish at the transom. Its bill was longer than any she’d ever seen in photographs, on walls, anywhere.
Johnny leaned over the edge to touch the fish.
‘No, Johnny. Let Andy do his work.’
The fish must have seen their shadows because it shied away. Andy braced his knees against the transom, leaned back, using all his weight to drag the fish back into place. Morgan could see the muscles straining in his back, in his arms and shoulders. A wiry boy, narrow-waisted, wide shoulders and rawhide-tough. But the fish was strong, very strong.
Andy cocked his arm, held it for a second, then plunged the point of the harpoon into the second dorsal.
‘It’s set, Dad! I felt it lock on.’
He shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have turned his back on the fish to beam up at their father. With a fish that big, it was reckless. But he was so proud, so hungry for a morsel of their dad’s approval. In that half second his back was turned, the fish swung back and made a slow pirouette, disappearing into the transparent blue.
Andy was jerked backwards, his hip banging against the transom. Johnny reached out for him but it was too late. Andy lurched overboard, his hand trapped in the wire. Morgan heard his scream, heard it stifled as he was dragged under, saw him moving quickly through two feet of water, three, four, five, saw him turning back toward the light, trying to swim one-handed toward the surface, a useless stroke against the horrific power of that fish. She saw his face, his blond hair pulsing like a jellyfish around his head, she saw his white flesh turning blue, blue as the water, blue as the fish.
‘Reel, Morgan! Reel, goddamn it!’ A.J. was screaming.
A second later he was beside her. He tore the rod from her hands, cranked the fish back up, cranked. But the line continued to unspool, the sharp ratchet of the reel clicking faster than she’d ever heard it.
A.J. heaved back on the rod, tightening the drag as he did, pulling with all his weight, all his life and breath and muscle.
Morgan couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe. A dull paralysis had taken hold of her. Shock and terror and utter exhaustion.
She rose from the fighting chair, watched the water, saw a flash of white. Andy’s face, his shorts, something. Down in all that blue, his body dragged deeper and deeper into the airless depths. A bear hug crushed her chest, a pressure greater than bones and flesh could possibly withstand.
Her father was groaning as he reeled against the power of that fish, winning back a few feet, a few more. Johnny dropped to his knees, holding to the transom as if he were seasick, peering out at the water. From the flybridge Darlene screamed. Her boy, her precious son. Her wail ripped apart the air.
And then the crack of a rifle shot as the heavy monofilament snapped.
Her father crashed against the side of the chair and crumpled to the deck.
Without a thought, Morgan kicked off her boat shoes, climbed onto the transom and dived into the water and clawed her way down into