Merfolk Page 9

  “I’m only pushing your buttons because you lied to me. If you told me the truth from the beginning—”

  “What truth, Rad?” he snapped. “What lies, for that matter? I simply didn’t tell you I was on a television show. If you never told me you had a television show because you didn’t want to for whatever reason, I don’t think I’d be all up in arms about it.”

  “That’s not the same, Marty, and you know it. You were one of the most famous people on the planet for a while, or one of the most talked about at least. That’s probably something you should tell the person you’re fucking.”

  “Yes, you’re right, Rad,” he said, lowering his voice. “Fucking. And that’s all it is, isn’t it? What we’re doing? Fucking. You’ve made it pretty bloody clear you don’t want anything more than that, so I don’t know where you get off—”

  “I’ve made it clear?” she snapped back. “You call me maybe once a week, or once every two weeks. That’s on you, not me.”

  “Why’s it on me? You can call me—”

  “You’re the man, Marty! You call me, you chase me. That’s how it works, nature’s rules, from the lowliest insects all the way up to us. Courtship, ever hear of it? And besides, I do call you. I called you last night, didn’t I?”

  “What are you getting at, Rad? You want us to start dating? Get serious, get married, have kids? Is that what you want?”

  She glowered at him. “Jesus, you really are a dick.” She shot to her feet and stormed out of the shed.

  “Rad!”

  She disappeared from sight.

  ∆∆∆

  When Dr. Montero and Jacky returned to the shed, Jacky said, “Where’s Rad?”

  “Beats me,” Marty said. He was back at the necropsy table, examining the skull.

  “She didn’t just vanish into thin air, did she?”

  He shrugged. “She went for a walk. I don’t know where.”

  “You two had a fight, didn’t you? You did. And let me tell you, Marty. I don’t blame her for being pissed off with you. I’d be pissed off if the man I was dating turned out to be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I’d better go look for her. Which way did she go?”

  “To the right,” he said dismissively.

  After Jacky left, Dr. Montero said, “You certainly have a way with women, Dr. Murdoch.”

  Marty let that slide and said, “Would you mind emailing me a link to that video when you have a chance?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” she told him. “What did you think of it?”

  “You conducted the necropsy commendably, and the discovery of the skull was believable.”

  “Believable?” She appeared amused. “Of course it was believable. It was a real necropsy.”

  “What I mean is, I’ve fallen for an elaborate mermaid hoax before…”

  “And now you’re seeing mermaid hoaxes everywhere? Let me be perfectly clear then, Dr. Murdoch. My colleagues and I didn’t plant that skull. We’re not chasing our fifteen minutes. I didn’t solicit Miss DeSilva to come to Mirissa; she contacted me. Really, to think I orchestrated some sort of elaborate plan to lure you down here to lend credence to a publicity hoax is simply preposterous. Not to mention insulting.”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth. I don’t think any of that at all. I’ve been perfectly clear that I believe the skull to be authentic.”

  “You know…I envy you, Dr. Murdoch.” She picked up the skull, studying it for a few silent moments. When she spoke, she seemed to be addressing it rather than him. “When I was a child, there were about a hundred beat-up National Geographic magazines in my family’s basement. I used to pore over them for hours and hours on end. I always imagined I was one of the adventurer-scientists in the pictures, traveling the world over and seeing things that no one else would ever see firsthand. In high school I became fascinated with the seas and oceans and the secrets they held, and becoming an oceanographer was a no-brainer. It combined everything I loved: travel, discovery, mystery.” She returned the skull to the table. “My point, Dr. Murdoch, is this. That was a long time ago. I’m forty-three years old now, and that magical sense of adventure I once held dear, that magical belief there were mysteries to be uncovered around every corner and beneath every wave, that’s become a relic of the past. I don’t know where it’s gone, but it’s gone.” She smiled faintly at him. “But that’s not the case with you, is it? The world is still mysterious and wondrous in your eyes. It must be…”

  “Because I believe in merfolk?”

  “Because you believe in something…so fantastic…yes.”

  Marty considered that—not sure whether it was a compliment or veiled insult—and said, “As you well know, Dr. Montero, marine biology is a mathematical and topographical map, or model, of our oceans and everything inside them. A scientist’s personal beliefs relating to that model are irrelevant. All that matters is that he or she helps to create a more accurate model by uncovering more of its attributes, and thus knowledge and truth. And that is exactly what I am committed to discovering: knowledge and truth. I am not some self-delusional Pollyanna. I don’t believe in merfolk because I want to believe in them, because of some boyish wonder. I believe in them because my research has built a very strong case for their existence, and I would be derelict in my duty as a marine biologist and scientist to not pursue that case, whether it is ultimately proved to be true or not.”

  “Yes, all scientists seek knowledge and truth. All scientists are curious. What I’m saying is that not all of them are passionate. I used to be passionate. Now…not so much. I suppose that is what I meant when I said I envy you. I envy your passion.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Montero. That is kind of you, and I appreciate your candor.”

  “Let’s quit being so stuffy. Elsa is fine.”

  “As is Marty.”

  “Did we just agree on something?”

  “Indeed we did,” he said. Then, “Now that we’re on more cordial terms, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the necropsy video, if I may? You discovered a whale vertebra in the shark’s stomach.”

  “Two, in fact,” she said, going to the steel shelves and retrieving another cardboard box. “Though the second one was post-video, after all the ruckus over the skull died down.” She set the box on the necropsy table and opened the flaps.

  Marty lifted out one of the irregular-shaped bones. It was large and unremarkable and clearly belonged to a whale. He returned it to the box. “Did you find any other bones post-video?”

  “Those were it, I’m afraid. If it matters, during the morphometric assessment my colleague and I retrieved three stingray barbs from the great white’s throat.”

  Marty raised an eyebrow. “Three?”

  “That’s not unusual. Great whites have a particular gastronomic preference for rays.”

  “But this particular great white also had a gastronomic preference for merfolk, which makes the three stingray barbs in its throat very interesting indeed.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

  “May I take a look at the barbs, Elsa?”

  Elsa retrieved yet another box from the shelves, this one more closely resembling a shoebox. She set it before him and removed the lid.

  The three stingray barbs rested on an old rag to prevent them from rolling around. He examined each one carefully and said, “Did you notice that they’re all nearly identical in width and length?”

  “You find that significant because…?”

  “May I use that for a moment?” He indicated the microscope on the desk where he had watched the necropsy video.

  She went to the desk, moved the laptop aside, and set the high-powered trinocular microscope in its place. Marty flicked it on and placed the stingray barb on the stage, arranging it so the base was beneath the objective lens. He pressed his eyes to the binocular eyepiece, twisted one knob, then another, bringing the specimen into focus. He magnified it with a higher objective and adjusted the diaphragm below the stage, reducing
the light.

  He sucked back a short, sharp breath.

  Chapter 9

  ELSA

  Elsa watched Dr. Martin Murdoch as he studied each stingray barb under the microscope with growing excitement. When he glanced up at her, he was grinning like he’d won the lottery.

  “You’ve got me curious,” she admitted.

  “Have a look for yourself.”

  He stood and gestured for Elsa to take the vacated seat. She sat and pressed her eyes to the microscope’s eyepiece. After several long seconds she said, “What am I looking for?”

  “Extraneous biological matter.”

  “You mean the green-pigmented structures?”

  “Yes.”

  “Membrane-bound organelles. Richly colored chloroplasts. Chain-like compartments.” She paused a beat, confused. “It’s green algae, Marty. So what?”

  “Keep looking.”

  “There are some brown-pigmented foreign body structures as well. Thick-walled, elongated cells, axially orientated.” She looked up at him. “Wood cells?”

  “Indeed.”

  She frowned in confusion. “I suppose I could understand a bit of algae growing on the stingray’s barb. But what’s wood tissue doing there?”

  “It’s not just on that barb, Elsa. It’s on the base of all three.”

  “Again, Marty—so what?”

  “You told me you’ve followed my work,” he said, pacing eagerly. “You should know then that I hypothesized that merfolk are a tool-wielding species, likely on par with early hominins.”

  Elsa now understood what had gotten him so animated. “You believe that these barbs were lashed onto sticks with some sort of aquatic plant? That they were the tips of…crude spears?”

  “Spears or harpoons, yes. Is there any other explanation?”

  Elsa kept her poker-face dutifully in place as she wondered how to proceed, how to make him see reason…and realizing in the process that such an effort would be futile. He was going to believe what he wanted to believe, what he had long ago programmed himself to believe.

  She said, “There are countless other explanations, Marty.”

  “Name one.”

  “A lot of wood sinks to the ocean floor. It creates ecosystems for all kinds of fauna—including stingrays.”

  “Since when do stingrays attack wood? And the wood tissue was on the base of the barbs, Elsa, not the tips. Both the wood and algae tissue, on the base. Why would that be? Why only on the base, which would have been sheathed in the ray’s tail before the barb broke off?”

  “Marty…”

  “Wood tissue on all three barbs, Elsa.”

  “You’re making assumptions and leaping prematurely to conclusions.”

  “I know, I know.” He ran a hand through his hair, fidgety, distracted. “I need to study the diagnostic anatomical characters of the wood and algae tissue to make exact identifications. I need to recreate a spear or harpoon with the identified material, test it under laboratory conditions, confirm it could be used as a viable weapon…”

  “Marty…”

  “Open your eyes, dammit!”

  “My eyes are open!” she shot back. “As is my mind! But this is just”—a number of derisive adjectives crossed her mind before she blurted—“ridiculous.”

  He fumed. “Ridiculous? Really?” He shook his head. “No, why do I bother? What does it matter to me what you believe? I couldn’t care less.”

  “I’m glad I’m not alone in the Marty-doesn’t-care-what-you-think category.”

  Elsa turned to see Jacqueline DeSilva and Radhika Fernandez standing at the rollup door. It was the TV host who’d spoken. She held a green smoothie in one hand. Her dog was poking its head out of her beach bag, panting in the heat.

  Marty wasted no time explaining to them the discovery of the extraneous biological matter on the stingray barbs.

  Radhika said, “Spears? Merfolk use spears?”

  Jacqueline said, “My God, this story is going to be huge!”

  “All right, I’ve heard enough,” said Elsa, holding up her hands, wanting out of the discussion before it became even more farcical. “I’m glad you’re all excited about Marty’s discovery. I wish I could be too. But it’s time I get back to work. Marty, you can keep the skull until tomorrow. That should be long enough for you to perform whatever tests you wish—”

  A deep, bovine blast of a foghorn sounded from outside.

  “That must be Pip,” Marty said, glancing at his wristwatch. “The girl has impeccable timing, doesn’t she?”

  Chapter 10

  MARTY

  Marty spent the next several hours in the dry lab on the Oannes. Amongst the other world-class diagnostic and research equipment were molecular capabilities for genetic experiments, including DNA and RNA extraction and analysis.

  Legally, Marty likely needed permission from the police to extract a bone sample from the skull. If he were home in England, he would have sought such permission. But this was Sri Lanka, and he didn’t think anybody would notice or care, and if someone did, a bribe would go a long way to soothe any hurt feelings.

  After he had sterilized his equipment and suited up in protective gear, he drilled into the skull’s foramen magnum, extracting a small piece of bone and crushing it into powder.

  The mitochondrial DNA he was after was within the eukaryotic cells, in the fluid surrounding the nucleus. He broke open the wall of one eukaryotic cell using a special enzyme, spilling out its contents. The process was kind of like cracking open an egg into a bowl, except it occurred on the microscopic level. He isolated the mitochondria from the other organelles using centrifugation.

  Then he got down to sequencing the genome.

  Chapter 11

  ELSA

  Elsa spent the afternoon studying the whale feces and recording her findings. As was often the case, she worked into the evening and was the last one to leave the office. She locked up and was about to walk home when she changed her mind.

  It was seven thirty p.m. Dr. Murdoch had had plenty of time to perform the DNA analysis of the skull, which meant he had more than likely already been confronted with the reality that it was human, after all. Elsa would not feel vindicated by this inevitable outcome. She felt sorry for Dr. Murdoch. To believe he had discovered evidence to support his life’s work, and then to discover he was wrong…that would be devastating. Of course, he would have nobody to blame for that but himself.

  Scientists are wrong all the time. Indeed, science can be defined as a system of self-correction that, through trial and error, eventually yields a closer understanding of how nature works. Therefore, an essential part of science is that scientists not only try to falsify their hypotheses to prove that they are true, but that they do so with an open mind. To become emotionally attached or obsessed with a particular theory is to set oneself up for almost certain disappointment.

  Elsa went down the path between the SBMC building and the hostel, emerging on the beach. Dr. Murdoch’s research vessel was moored at the end of the beach’s pier, a large silhouette illuminated from within. She had seen it during the day, and it was an impressive ship, one that would cost more money than she would ever have in her lifetime.

  Must be nice to be a trust fund kid, she thought with a dash of asperity. But at least he’s spending his inheritance on the pursuit of science, even if it is questionable science.

  Breathing in the brackish ocean air, she crossed the hard-packed sand and followed the pier to the boat. She could hear music, somebody playing a piano.

  “Hello?” she called.

  Nobody answered.

  She ascended the gangway. To her right a pair of teak doors led to the ship’s salon. Through adjacent windows she saw that the room was filled with opulent furniture and luxury textiles that could have been transplanted from a Baroque mansion. Dr. Murdoch sat before a glossy black piano, his back to her, halfway through a Billy Joel song. She went to the doors and eased one open, knocking on it at the same time
to announce her presence.

  The music stopped. Dr. Murdoch swiveled around on his little bench, surprise on his craggy, tanned face. Then he grinned.

  “Elsa! What a surprise!” He got to his feet.

  “Good evening, Marty. I’m sorry to disturb you. I thought Miss Fernandez and Miss DeSilva would be here with you.”

  “They’re staying the night, yes. They went to the hot tub a little while ago.”

  “You have a hot tub on this ship?”

  “I live on this floating bucket, and for the sake of my sanity, I believe I should be afforded a few luxuries, don’t you agree? Now, I assume you’re here about the genetic testing of the skull? Come with me. It’s better you see for yourself.”

  ∆∆∆

  Dr. Murdoch led Elsa below deck to a sprawling state-of-the-art dry lab featuring all sorts of electronic equipment. Numerous computers streaming data ringed the room. Along one wall were cabinets, incubators, a safety hood for handling hazardous substances, and a large refrigerated unit. A petite woman sat in a chair at one workstation, studying information on an extra-wide monitor.

  “Pip, this is the good Dr. Montero. Elsa, this is my assistant, Pip. She’s from France, but her mother is Chinese, which is why she looks like that.”

  “Looks like what, Marty?” the woman said in French-accented English.

  He shrugged. “Like you do.”

  “So you are a racist now?”

  “You clearly have Asian and Caucasian features. I simply commented on that.”

  “You know some people are clumsy with their feet?” Pip said to Elsa. “Marty is clumsy with his mouth.”

  “Let me take back my words then,” he said. “Elsa, this is my assistant, Pip. She’s from France, but her mother is Chinese, which is why she’s so stunning.”

  “Yes, that is better, mon capitaine.” To Elsa, “You are here to see the result of the genetic test, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t keep the good doctor waiting, my dear.”