Monstrum (13 page)

“
Hazel?
No! These eyes are the color of the finest baroque Tahitian pearls!”

I give him a blank look.

“Black pearls! Your eyes are the beautiful gray of the most exquisite black pearls, Bria Hunter, and never say otherwise.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, ready to wrap this introduction up because my blush has now gone beyond my cheeks and is threatening to incinerate my entire head. “You have a great accent. Are you from Mexico?” I ask, thinking of Espi's family roots.

“Mexico? No, no. I am from España. Spain, home of the greatest explorers the world has ever known. Cortés, de Soto, Pizarro, de León—all from Spain. I was born in the great port city of Cádiz.”

“Right,” I say, now feeling distinctly overwhelmed. “Well, it's so nice to meet—”

“And you!” Captain Romero has already moved on, turning me loose to exclaim over Maggie. The loss of his attention is like being center stage at a packed Carnegie Hall one minute, and living in a cardboard box under a bridge the next. “Look at this glorious Titian hair! What is your name, Señorita?”

I'm watching Maggie as she stutters and tries to recall whether she has a name or not when Gray snorts and elbows me in the ribs.

“Hey!” I complain, wincing. “What was that for?”

He eyes me sourly. “Don't get a big head,” he whispers.

“As if,” I scoff.

“I don't like that guy,” Gray says, staring after the captain, who has by now gotten to the last people in line, Mike and Espi. He hands her a linen handkerchief from his pocket and murmurs softly as she bows her head and cries. “He rubs me the wrong way.”

“Yeah,” Carter agrees, frowning. “He's a little . . . off.”

“That's ridiculous,” I say, feeling as though I have to defend the captain after his lavish compliments. Even though there's something elusive about him that also puts me on my guard. “But for him and his ship, we'd all be swimming with the fishes right now, and you know it.”

“And I don't like the dude over there, either.” Gray tips his head discreetly in the boy's direction, but I still don't dare glance that way. “Why is he staring at us?”

I shrug irritably. “Who knows? Uh-oh. The captain's talking.”

“—And I want you all to meet Dr. Eli Baer.” The captain points to the man who came in with him, a red-haired guy with a goatee who doesn't look old enough to vote, much less be a doctor of anything. “And my son, Cortés.”

His
son
?

The captain comes up behind the boy and slings a proud arm around his shoulders. The boy stiffens and pulls away, but that doesn't seem to register with his father. “Cortés lives with his grandmother in Charlotte,” Captain Romero continues, “but he spends his summers sailing the seas with me, and we have had many great adventures together. He's heading to university in the fall. Columbia. They tell me it's a good school,” he concludes, chuckling.

Now that it's been pointed out to me, I wonder how I didn't notice the resemblance between the captain and Cortés before now. They've both got the same straight noses and harsh cheekbones, for one thing, and they're about the same height, although Cortés is lankier. Cortés's skin is slightly darker than his father's, though, and his thick black hair forms a curly halo around his face, making me wonder if he's biracial, like me. His brows slash low over his eyes, making him seem moody, and he is indeed regarding me and Gray with a hard stare.

And then he looks directly at me. Only me.

M
y gaze connects with Cortés's. It's nothing, really. A fleeting glance, if that. But the effect is like the brandy-laced tea I drank earlier, a hot infusion of something unfamiliar but intriguing.

Rattled, I look away and try to tune in to the developing conversation nearby.

“I thank you for saving our sorry butts,” Murphy says gruffly to the captain.

“My honor,” says Captain Romero solemnly, bowing his head. “Absolutely my honor.”

“Where are we?” Murphy asks.

“Northeast of Eleuthera.”

Having not studied my geography like I should, this doesn't mean much to me, but Murphy mutters a low curse and Sammy inhales sharply.

“Eleuthera?”
Sammy repeats. “How'd we get east of where we started?”

The captain frowns. “I don't know. Where were you headed?”

“Atlanta,” Murphy says. “And last time I checked a map, that was a straight shot northwest from the Bahamas.”

“I . . . see.” The captain's expression darkens and he exchanges a quick sidelong glance with Dr. Baer. But then he waves a hand at the table, gesturing for us to sit. “But where are my manners? Forgive me! Eat, everyone, eat!”

We gratefully resume our seats and dig into the risotto again. No one speaks. Captain Romero sits at the head of the table and signals for the server to pour him a glass of red wine. Murphy refuses wine. The captain sips while we eat, regarding all of us thoughtfully. Dr. Baer and Cortés receive plates and eat with the rest of us.

After a while, Captain Romero addresses Murphy. “I wonder: did you have any . . . weather issues?”

Murphy swallows a mouthful of food, gulps down most of his iced tea and swipes his mouth with the tail end of the napkin that he's tucked into his collar. “You better believe we did. We hit cruising altitude and the bleeding sky went black as a tax collector's heart. It's been that way ever since. Never seen the like.”

The captain shoots another look at Dr. Baer, whose dimpling cheeks make him seem pleased with this information. Then Captain Romero nods to the server and signals for him to do something, and the server walks over to some wall control and hits a switch. With a motorized hum, panels on the long wall opposite the table begin to retract to one side, and the other kids and I gasp.

Sunshine streams into the dining room from floor-to-ceiling windows, and the natural white light is brutal compared to the ship's muted artificial lighting.

It fills the room, sparkles off the ocean's calm indigo waters, makes my pupils contract with pain, singes my retinas and makes me cry out and cover my eyes.

Enough of us have the same violent reaction that the captain gets the idea. “Close them again,” he orders, waving a hand at the crewman, and the panels reverse, plunging us back into the soothing, dimmer lighting.

Looking stunned, Murphy slowly lowers the arm he's used to shield his face and checks his watch. He's got one of those huge stainless steel sport models that has about ten dials and can be used for diving.

“Why on God's green earth is the sun shining like that when it's nine-thirty in the evening?” he demands.

The captain stares at him. “It is five in the afternoon. Eastern. No later.”

A ripple of alarm circles the table as the other kids and I try to process this information. The captain is mistaken. He has to be mistaken. Our plane left at three, and the crash and ensuing nightmare lasted way longer than a couple hours.

Murphy scrubs a hand over his chin and recovers first. “Five o'clock? On Sunday, you mean?”

“No,” Captain Romero says slowly. “On Saturday.”

This is more than I can stand, and Murphy isn't firing off the questions quickly enough to suit me. “It can't be five on Saturday afternoon,” I interject. “Our plane left the Bahamas at around three and hours have passed since then.”

The captain rests his elbows on the table, steeples his hands and runs his index fingers over his lips for a beat or two. His heavy brows have contracted into a frown, and I can feel him choosing his words one by one, very carefully.

“I'm sure all of you have heard that . . . travelers through the Bermuda Triangle have experienced some . . . strange phenomena.”

Murphy flashes a crooked, humorless smile. “Absolutely, man. We've also heard about leprechauns, banshees, yetis and kelpies, but that doesn't mean that any of the nonsense is true, now, does it?”

Captain Romero's expression cools by several degrees. “Only God knows what is true or not true. What if there is one creature that is responsible for a reign of terror that can now be broken?” He pauses, drumming his fingers on the table. Then excitement lights up his eyes and he hurries on, as though he has a secret that's so thrilling he can't quite keep it to himself. “What if we were in a position to discover, for once and for all, what is behind all of the troubles in this area? Imagine the glory. The riches.”

Gray and Carter make indistinct sounds of disagreement but otherwise keep their opinions to themselves. But I can't. I'm not willing to hear any supernatural theories right now. I just cannot deal with that on top of everything else that's gone on.

“I don't see how that's possible,” I say, painfully aware of both Cortés's steady attention on my face and my own uncertainty. “I mean, no disrespect, Captain, but all the Bermuda Triangle theories were debunked a long time ago. They're just urban legends. You know—like the aliens in Area Fifty-One.” I look to Sammy for support. “Isn't that right?”

“That's right,” he agrees quickly.

The pause that follows is long enough for me to regret being so outspoken, but oh well. I'm not exactly known for my manners. Mona always joked that my real birth family was a pack of wolves.

“Area Fifty-One is real.” The captain's voice has a distinct edge of ice now. “It is a military proving ground for your own government, no?”

“That's true,” Sammy says, “but it doesn't mean they've got Martians on ice out there.”

An, whose ears have turned a fluorescent red with embarrassment, smacks Sammy on the arm, making him yelp. “Sammy!” An says. “You're being rude!” Turning to the captain, she offers an apologetic smile. “My brother is Mr. Science. In case you didn't notice. Sorry about that.”

The captain dimples at her. “Don't worry yourself, lovely An. I'm always willing to engage in a lively discussion. Tell me,” he says, turning back to Sammy. “What is the explanation for so many disappearing ships and airplanes in the Bermuda Triangle? So many mysterious deaths and tragedies? I want to know.”

Sammy, as usual, is up for the challenge. “Nothing that complicated or interesting. Human error. Equipment failure. Rogue storms.”

One of the captain's brows inches up his forehead. “Oh? And what caused the bad weather you experienced, eh? Or maybe you think pilot error caused the sky to go black all at once?”

“I . . . don't know enough about meteorology to say,” Sammy admits.

The other kids and I exchange deflated looks and shift uncomfortably in our seats. We never like to hear Sammy say he doesn't know something. It disrupts the natural order of things, like discovering that the earth is, in fact, flat.

“So,” the captain says. His expression doesn't change, but there's a world of quiet triumph in his voice. “Perhaps we should all be more open-minded.” He turns to Murphy. “Now tell me. What happened?”

Murphy sighs and shrugs. Tugs at his earlobe. Wipes his nose on his napkin. Clears his throat. “We hit cruising altitude and then the sun goes out.” He pauses to cough and clear his throat again. And then he tells the story, sparing none of the harsh details. When he gets to the part about the sounds of the plane's captain and Axel's dad being bludgeoned to death, Murphy's face twists up with emotion, and his mouth works as though he's trying hard not to vomit. A few of us, including me, squirm in our seats, and I struggle with the lingering horror that wants to clamp down on my throat and strangle me. I reach for the aquamarine around my neck and rub it between my fingers.

Everyone waits in rapt silence for the rest of the story.

“What kind of whale was it?” Dr. Baer asks sharply when Murphy finishes. “Did you see it?”

“Didn't see a thing but for the size of it and the wake it made,” Murphy replies.

“How big was it?” Dr. Baer demands.

“The thing was huge,” Mike says, shuddering. “Twenty feet at least.”