and allowing him to see scads of tiny creatures-crabs, shrimp, and snails-retreat to the shadows. The empty, glassy surface of the water only left one thing to look at, and it was by far the motliest sight in the tide pool.
Atticus examined the reflection of his face. Crow’s-feet had been carved into the skin around his eyes over the past ten years, but more severely in the last two. His hair, cut short, was simultaneously beginning to turn gray and recede. At only forty-one, he was beginning to look more like his father. His skin was still tanned dark brown, almost the same hue as his eyes, but the most distracting feature on his face was a long, scraggly beard that made him look more like a craggy sea captain than an oceanographer. He shook his beard and removed the few crumbs that had managed to cling since breakfast. They fell into the pool. A small, tan crab crawled out to inspect the sinking debris, snagged it, and retreated once more to the dark.
“Well,” Atticus said, “ Hemigrapsus sanguineus, fancy meeting you here.”
Atticus thrust his hand into the pool like a diving osprey and snagged the little crab. He pulled his lightly clenched fist out of the water, dripping and containing the small arthropod. Cupping his hands together, Atticus inspected the little creature to confirm its identity-the Asian shore crab-an invasive species that had made landfall in New Jersey in 1988. Now, almost twenty years later, it inhabited the coast from Maine to the Carolinas. It competed with local crab species but also threatened the famous North American lobster. Just one of many invasions most people are unaware of that threaten the ocean’s ecosystem. True, the Asian shore crab might successfully replace the North American lobster in the food chain, substituting one animal for the other…but no one eats shore crab.
As Atticus looked the crab over, he knew he should crush the little thing before it could spawn and continue the invasion. But he didn’t have the heart. Killing wasn’t something of which he was capable, not anymore, even if it was an invasive species. He believed they should be wiped out and removed from the ecosystem, but not by his hands. He’d report the crab’s presence, and a crew would be sent out to find and kill every Asian shore crab in the area. It was a noble effort, but ultimately would prove futile.
Kind of like my work, Atticus thought. Atticus was in the business of wildlife preservation, but focused on the New England’s larger mammalian species, the humpback, minke, fin, and North Atlantic right whales, though he also worked with dolphins, seals, and, occasionally, sharks. He worked as an independent contractor for the New England Aquarium, the Whale Center of New England, and other independent scientific outfits, though most of his work and income went to the highest bidder, primarily the U.S. Navy, with which he still had close ties. His work could keep him at sea six months out of the year and often for weeks at a time, tracking, identifying, and tagging animals. His work for the military was often more discreet and required the signing of documents that guaranteed his silence, but it paid the bills and didn’t conflict with his environmental efforts.
But none of it mattered anymore. In a week, Rye and his work on the ocean would be a memory.
After placing the crab back in the tide pool, Atticus worked his way back through the rocks, the incoming tide nipping at his heels. He trudged through the shell-filled sand and walked over the top of the water barrier. At the apex he gazed at the long strand of houses with no view, and then slid down the hill on his heels. He reached his old red Ford Explorer, climbed in, and closed the door.
Atticus turned the ignition, and the SUV started with a roar. The dashboard clock glowed blue at him, reminding him of the time. He was going to be late. With a slow sigh, Atticus pulled off the side of the road and onto Route 1A, the memories of the past fading as anxiety for the future set in. Where he was going next would be the hardest part of his day. He had to tell Giona that they were moving in a week, to Ann Arbor. It was for the best, he knew, but he didn’t look forward to breaking his daughter’s heart…again.
3
Penobscot Bay, Maine-Thirty Miles Out
The ocean lay flat and placid, calm in a way so rarely seen in the waters off Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine, collectively known as the Gulf of Maine. Jack Michaels leaned on the port rail of his fishing trawler, the Ragnarok, and wearily rested his chin on his hands. The herring season thus far had been abysmal, moving slower than the current four knots at which his ship was plodding along. It wasn’t that the fish weren’t there-other vessels were bringing in phenomenal hauls-but whether by some design of the sea or God’s working against him, the herring were avoiding the Ragnarok.
His eyes trailed from the slowly undulating seas to the boat around him. The Ragnarok was ten years old, new by some standards, and carried a fresh coat of obsidian paint, giving her the look of a modern ghost ship. The look was reinforced by the myriad of dark sinew-like cables that stretched from various points on the ship to the trawler cranes, which were capable of pulling in tons of fish. The thick net dragged through the water kept the cables taut, ready to haul in the big catch.
Thus far they’d proved useless. For all the ship’s modern accoutrements, including a global positioning system and hydroacoustic fishfinders, the herring had remained elusive. If things didn’t pick up soon, he’d have to take out a loan to make his house payments and carry the business into the next year. If he didn’t pull in a great haul next year, he’d have to declare bankruptcy and go to work for one of the other fishing ventures…maybe head down to Essex, Massachusetts, where he grew up.
Jack considered the Ragnarok once again. Perhaps it was the ship’s gloomy visage that kept the fish at bay? He knew it wasn’t true, but this prime spot on the ocean, his personal secret, was devoid of fish, when it normally teemed with little silver bodies, swimming and swirling in unison. He sighed and removed a cigar from his jacket pocket. Usually reserved for the final successful haul, he felt there would be no use for it this year. Why not enjoy it now? After clipping the cigar and lighting up, he took a long drag, tasting the flavor, but quickly realized that without the success of a big haul, the cigar tasted more like burning dirt. He pulled the smoking cylinder from his cracked lips and looked at it. Its smell was suddenly noxious, and he moved to fling the thing out to sea.
“Captain!” The voice was so shrill and sharp that he almost fell overboard. Jimmy, the excitable new kid on the boat, was prone to overreacting…though his eyes had never looked quite so wide before. Jimmy stopped, put his hands on his knees, and, in between gulps of air, said, “They’re…coming!”
Jack crinkled his nose. The boredom was getting to everyone. “Who’s coming?”
“The-the herring! The hydroacoustics just picked them up.”
Captain Jack Michaels felt hope return. He straightened his stance and firmed his voice. “How many?”
“I have no idea…”
Jack sighed. The boy had been well trained to estimate the number of fish based on the information displayed by the fishfinder. Schools of herring often showed up as large masses of red, green, and blue speckles, and an astute mind could peg the number to within a hundred by gauging the width and length of the signature. But there was little time to scold the boy. He looked to the sky and found the telltale sign that the fish were coming. A flock of seagulls flew over the ocean, watching the waters below. Normally, the gulls would dive and pull fish from the sea, but this group looked as though they were having trouble keeping up. The herring were running. From what, Jack didn’t care. They were headed straight for the Ragnarok.
Bounding into the bridge, Jack took a look at the hydroacoustic display screen. At the bottom were two corresponding lines, one red, and one green. They marked the ocean floor. But it was the large cloud of colored specks that sucked the air from his lungs. The school of fish stretched almost all the way across the screen, with no end in sight. “Holy…” Jack snapped to his senses, issuing loud commands before he had given them any thought. “Drop the second net! Do it now!”
Not every trawler had a second net, but Jack had designed his boat to maximize efficiency. The secondary net was smaller than the first. It would catch a great number, but those that got around it were caught by the much larger secondary net. It was a secret that only he and his crew knew about, and it had greatly increased their catches in the past. Jack’s mouth spread in a wide smile. That day they would exceed the previous year’s catch…in mere minutes. It might take all day to pull the enormous catch from the nets, but the work would be worth it.
Jack could hear the shouts of his crew as they frantically dropped the second net. It spread in the water not a moment too soon. The front wave of herring, the truly fast specimens, hit the net and were scooped up. Then the front end of the mass of fish entered, and Jack actually felt the impact as tons of fish filled both nets. The Ragnarok slowed almost to a stop. Jack slammed the throttle forward. If the boat lost momentum, the fish might escape. The engines chugged loudly in response, groaning against the extra tons of weight, but eventually the boat picked up
