Had Kimko seen the death of my son as an aberration worthy of further contemplation... or inconsequential and quickly forgotten? Surely, it had never killed another human. Surely, my son’s death stood out.

  I try to shake these questions from my head, but they’ve already taken root. Little coils of tentacle-like threads have burrowed through my mind and into my soul. Searching, it doesn’t take long for me to find the empty wound my son used to occupy. I poke at it, nurturing the hatred and anger I find there. I focus on it, kindling the coals to a fire that feeds my resolve. The flame, I notice, is smaller than before. But it’s enough.

  Later, with the sky lightening, the rain holding steady, and the cooler steadily filling up, I drink from the last of my fresh water bottle. When finished, I fill the bottle again by plunging it into the cooler. When done, I leave the cooler open to collect more rain water.

  Fifteen minutes later, soaked to the bone and absently drinking the water running down my face and into my mouth, I nod to myself and say, “It’s time.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The ocean feels like it’s become a bit rougher than it was a few minutes ago—almost like it knows what’s going to happen next.

  The swells are a little higher, and they seem to come more frequently. If they get any bigger, I may have to cut the rope anyway, just to keep from sinking. But for now, I’m still riding the swells instead of crashing through them.

  The whale is still alive, still shouldering on, still heading somewhere.

  I make my way to the bow, inspect the cleat the rope is tied to. It’s holding up well. For now, I’ll leave my knife in my pocket where it’s safe. If I need to, I’m sure I can hold it with one hand and open it with my teeth. The last thing I want to do is drop the blade over the edge. Then I’d be screwed for sure.

  Bending down, I grip the blue nylon rope with both hands. It’s taut and wet and cold. Amazing to think there is a killer whale at the far end of it. Even more amazing, it’s the same killer whale who killed my son.

  I pull on it gently at first, getting a feel for it. I can already tell this is going to be no easy task.

  Now I pull harder and sense the boat shift. I reach forward and pull another arm-length of rope. I brace my feet against the deck and the interior hull. When I have enough rope gathered, I loop it around my elbow and wrist, then pull again. Each loop brings the boat a few feet closer to my enemy.

  Kimko is definitely moving slower than before, and he’s not reacting to what I’m doing at all. Trying to lure me into a false sense of security, maybe, but if that’s the case, he won’t live long enough to regret it.

  And, I’m betrayed by my stomach. Maybe it’s just unclean water gurgling in there, but it more or less roars in retaliation for me not filling it with something more substantial. I have a little granola left, so I promise to feed it later if it’ll just shut the hell up for now. It seems to work.

  Another loop around my elbow and the whale still isn’t reacting. The thing must be close to death if this isn’t bothering it. So, I loop it around again and again. This is going to take a while, but it’s not like I don’t have the time. I feel a wry smile stretch my chapped and sunburned lips painfully at the thought. I’ve got all the time in the world, but it has no time at all.

  Maybe I’m the monster.

  My smile fades.

  Maybe I am, but I get to be, dammit. I get to be irrational and pissed off and filled with hate.

  Pull, coil. Pull, coil. Don’t think about it. Just do it. Get it over with, move on. Survive. Swim home, if you can. Fix your life, fix your marriage. Heal your heart.

  Kimko is starting to make that sound again, but this close, it sounds like the thing is whining and gurgling at the same time—a squeaky door on a submarine. It is in agony, and I’m making it worse by pulling on it.

  When I first started this and lowered the boat into the water from my trailer, all I could think about was making the whale suffer. I reveled in the thought. I had a dream about it for weeks and months. It seemed like the most significant thing I could do to avenge my son. I wanted the creature to die—preferably slower rather than faster. But I never imagined I’d feel bad for him as he did. I didn’t think it would take so long for him to die, either.

  The suffering part was just a twisted fantasy. No, I had assumed I would shoot the thing, ending the nightmare quickly.

  It’s been a full day now, and I’m not feeling good about any of this. It has suffered long enough. Time for a mercy killing. A full day of torture wasn’t something I’d planned on. Julien hadn’t suffered that long, after all—maybe just seconds. I’m beginning to feel like more of a monster than Kimko.

  I’ve got about ten feet of rope left, but rather than finishing, I tie it off and pause to think. I’m close enough to touch the whale if I stretch out a little, but all I can do is look.

  The wound where the harpoon is sticking out is swollen. It’s not bleeding as much anymore, but I don’t think that means anything. It probably wasn’t bleeding at all until I started changing the angle of the rope by reeling it in. Although I’m fighting against the feeling, the amount of guilt settling on my chest is real. It’s making my breathing a little difficult, and, right on schedule, regret has come marching into the party uninvited.

  I take a moment to close my eyes and replay the video of my son’s final moments. Maybe reminding myself of what happened will strengthen my resolve. I need it because cracks are beginning to form in my plan, and I don’t want to see what’s on the other side, not after all this.

  I recall Julien’s smiling face and the laughter and loud chatting of the people on the boat. They sounded like they were having fun—not a care in the world. Then came ‘the event.’ The whale grabbed my son and dragged him beneath the surface. I focused on my boy’s face, but there was so much splashing, I can’t see it too clearly. Was he confused? Horrified?

  Doubt arrives from nowhere and points out all the splashing in the video. I can’t really see anything. Not even the whale’s mouth. How can I be sure what happened?

  “Oh no,” I whisper to myself. Had I actually seen the whale take my son, or had my mind only filled in a gap with what I thought was plausible? Did it sketch something for me so I could have an explanation? Is the truth something completely different?

  Gritting my teeth, I focus and concentrate on my memories. I know I’m right. I saw it. It’s the only explanation.

  Besides, wasn’t my son’s death the first confirmed orca killing of a human? It was, dammit. But, what had Elaine said? She said there was an asterisk, of course.

  An asterisk.

  Why?

  Because they could only assume the whale had killed my son. The image had not been clear enough. Everything is a ‘working theory.’ No hard evidence.

  Well, it was clear to me. I saw it rise up, and I saw my son get pulled down. Clear enough. And that damn saddle mark on behind Kimko’s dorsal fin had been clear as day. There had been no doubt who my son’s killer.

  Asterisk, my ass. No flippin’ way.

  “Eat shit!” I bellow at the whale.

  When I open my eyes, I see something I hadn’t noticed before. The whale has marks along the top of its head and part of the way down its back. I lean a little closer and feel my heart quicken. I know what they are. They’re propeller marks.

  I collapse back into the boat, landing on my ass. Could it be? I close my eyes, searching my memory for any clues that I might be wrong. What if Julien’s friends were so busy having fun, they totally missed the giant orca swimming in front of them, or just below them? What if the orcas were having fun with them, or trying to? I’d seen such a video... orcas swimming in the wake of a speedboat. What if Kimko had gotten too close and been hit by a propeller? Wounded and disoriented, it could have next gotten tangled in the rope?

  What if my son’s death was an accident? Have I tortured this poor creature for nothing?

  But no one suggested it had gotten hit by the propeller. Wait, the people on the speedboat had felt a bump only. Just a bump.

  Had the bump, in fact, been this orca hitting the propeller? Wouldn’t the propeller have been damaged? It wasn’t. It wasn’t. No it wasn’t.

  Then again, an orca’s snout, as I can clearly see here, is just skin and maybe a little fat. The blade could have gone right through it. Right through it. Injuring him. Perhaps even blinding him with the eruption of blood.

  Was Kimko’s only crime trying to play with my son? That he had gotten too close to the fire, so to speak, and been burned?

  I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

  Elaine and some others in her lab suggested such a scenario. But who could believe it?

  I didn’t. Not me. No way. Someone had to pay, of course.

  My son’s killer had to pay.

  Kimko.

  It’s got to be the hunger. Not thinking straight. Those wounds could have been from anything. A shark bite maybe, except there are no teeth marks, or curvature to the wound. It is three straight slashes. Damn near took his nose off.

  I’m probably not dehydrated anymore, but I take a scoop of water in both hands from the cooler, drink it down. That’s got to be it—poor thinking caused by my exhaustion, dehydration, and hunger. Stranger things have happened, after all. It makes sense. My mind is just playing tricks on me. That’s all. Propeller? Those on the ship would have heard it. Probably would have seen blood in the water. Except they were going fast. Super fast. Might not have seen the blood.

  No, no, no.

  Yes. Even more reason to finish this mission sooner rather than later. Got to get it done before I completely crack... and talk myself out of it.

  Kimko’s fluke bumps the boat, almost as if he’s trying to tell me to get this over with. He’s accepted responsibility for his actions, I tell myself. He’s ready for this to end, too. The suffering has finally gotten to him. He knows he can’t get away. He can’t escape.

  I check the knife on my hip, grab a hold of the rope, and slowly begin to draw it in so I can finish the job.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rain comes down even harder. If this keeps up, I’ll need to start bailing water out of the boat soon.

  First things first. I need to get close enough to the orca to use my knife. Or maybe I can grip the harpoon in both hands, and drive it all the way into its heart? We’ll see.

  Hand over hand, I inch closer to the whale, pulling on the rope attached to the harpoon. Blood squelches from the wound that I’ve now opened deeper. In fact, I wonder if the harpoon might actually pull free, eventually.

  As I pull up broadside to the beast, to a spot where I think its heart may not be too far underneath, I start questioning everything all over again. So much so that I let some of the rope slip through my fingers, as the great fish pulls away yet again.

  I grip the rope with near frozen fingers and wonder all over again what the hell I’m doing. There is a high probability this creature wasn’t responsible for my son’s death. Let’s call it 50/50. Certainly great enough odds it doesn’t deserve to die like this... to be hacked to death by a human with a mere hunting knife.

  As I damn near talk myself out of the revenge I have sought for so long, I see something in the water not far off. My stomach lurches. Triangular, gray dorsal fins... so much different than the long black dorsals of the killer whale. Two sharks, maybe more. There’s too much rain for me to tell how many or what species, not that I’m any kind of expert. But I had grown up in a fishing village. I know the sharks of the area.

  And those are not small dorsal fins.

  Still, not quite as large as great whites. Whatever they are, the orca’s blood brought them in, as I predicted, as I damn near encouraged... back when I felt certain Kimko was a murderer, back when I hadn’t questioned my memory. Back when I had been so convinced of my theory of what happened.

  A healthy pod of killer whales could decimate a school of sharks of any size. In fact, great whites want nothing to do with orcas and will generally leave an area when the black and white whales appear. Think about that... orcas scare off great whites. It’s why killer whales are called an ‘apex predator.’ And not just an apex predator. The apex predator.

  Except one lonely, injured, exhausted orca won’t be a match for the bigger sharks.

  Both fins disappear beneath the surface and reappear a few seconds later—this time closer. I let out a breath I’d been holding when I recognize them for what they are: salmon sharks. They’re about half the size of a great white, and still dangerous, but generally don’t attack people or orcas. But Kimko is injured, so all bets are off. A great white, on the other hand, could disembowel a wounded orca in three or four bites. Then I’d likely be next.

  It’s only a matter of time before more—and bigger—sharks show up. Hell, there’s a long trail of blood out there, and it’s likely Kimko is being followed by more predators than I can see. They’re waiting below the surface of the water for their chance to snag a nibble or two. But the sharks will get the first bites. The remoras—those suckerfish that attach themselves to sharks—will be second.

  I shudder at my next thought—one that comes involuntarily and unwelcome. What happened to Julien’s body? I know what the answer is, and it’s something I’ve had nightmares about. I try to forget them, but when they wake me out of a deep sleep in the middle of the night and keep me awake for a full day after, they’re hard to forget.

  A familiar rage takes hold.

  My first reaction is to want to reach for my knife, to kill this thing that took my son... except I’m beginning to think it didn’t take my son.

  The brief flare of rage is gone, and certainly not directed at the whale, which had been an easy target all along. Doubt and remorse have taken its place. I’m not going to finish what I started. I’ll probably die out here in the middle of the ocean—me and this damned whale who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Now I hear the words... from my friends at the sheriff’s department and even the local Coast Guard. Both groups had looked into my son’s death. Both tried to tell me they were sure it was an accident. Both had been wrong, of course. They had to be wrong. Couldn’t they see the killer whale dragging my son down through all the bubbles? It was right fucking there. On the screen. For all to see. Look past the bubbles and foam and grainy images. The killer is right there, dammit.

  My wife had chimed in, trying to talk sense to me. I hated her a little, too. Didn’t she want revenge, as well? Why did I have to go at this fight alone? To hell with them all.

  At least, that’s what I said. For months. For a year, in fact. Long enough for the whales to return.

  This whole trip has been about justice. But now I’m sitting in a boat, which is probably filling with water faster than I think. I’m soaked to the bone, and it’s getting colder. I’m hungry and tired. I’m drinking questionable water from the bottom of my cooler.

  “Really got yourself in deep this time,” I grumble to myself.

  No matter how guilty I think someone is, if a judge or jury finds them not guilty, I’ve learned to accept it. I’ve spent days and weeks on cases I thought were airtight, only to have it come apart at the end. One little overlooked thing—one faulty witness statement or a witness who can’t remember what they said—and it’s all over.

  I wasn’t even there when Julien died. All I got were some questionable witness statements and a bit of footage from the camera of someone’s phone. Yet, I was willing to sentence Kimko to death. Why? Because he’s not human? He can’t testify as to what happened and defend himself. Or because I needed somewhere to direct my sorrow? Maybe that’s it.

  I blink against the rain running down my forehead. It’s a cleansing feeling. I feel the hatred washing off of me like dust from a long, horribly bumpy dirt road to nowhere. Maybe it’s the rain. Maybe it’s the hunger. I think it’s both. Involuntary fasting, I decide to call it. People have done it forever. Maybe that’s why my mind feels so clear.

  The whale has been gravely injured, but he’s still going. That means there’s a chance he’ll survive this after all. My only worry is that he’ll associate people with pain and danger—that next time he really will attack out of retaliation. Kimko hasn’t turned on me, though. I’ve put him through hell, and he hasn’t attacked me.

  One part of me says to finish him off—to put him out of his suffering. Another part says I can save him if I can just get that damned harpoon out of his back. The wound is swollen so much I wonder if it’s infected. It’s not bleeding anymore, so far as I can tell, but it’s painful to look at. Especially since I’m certain Kimko no longer deserved it.

  I transfer the rope from around my elbow and wrist to the cleat anchored at the bottom of the boat. One of the bolts has been torn loose, I see. But the other two are holding firm. So far.

  I pull on the rope some more, wincing as I see more blood dribble from within the swollen wound. Hand over hand, I draw the creature in closer. When the boat bumps against him, I wrap the loose coils around the cleat, keeping myself firmly against the killer whale.

  When the boat bumps into him a little harder, I get my first reaction from him. He jolts as if I’d awakened him from a deep slumber. Or from near death. Wait, had Kimko been swimming all this time in a sort of half-waking state?

  I don’t know, but his undulating tail pauses, his pectoral flippers going rigid, and he sinks a little in the water.

  “Easy there,” I say in the most soothing tone I can muster, my voice drowned by the wind and splashing and the sizzle of the driving rain. “I’ve got to do something, and it’s going to feel pretty bad. But I promise, I’m not doing this to cause you more pain. And I’m so sorry. I don’t think you did it anymore. I see the scars on your head. Please, just be calm and let me do this, okay?”

  I can’t risk trying to wind the rope around the cleat again. I’ll be lucky if the whole thing doesn’t come off clean with one more tug. So, I hold the rope with one hand while I fish in my pocket for the knife, praying it’s long enough to do the job. Finding it, I open the blade and hold the knife between my teeth like some kind of pirate.