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The harbor was unexpectedly deserted when Matt pulled in. He could have sworn he'd seen a figure, half obscured in the fading light of dusk, running across the dunes as he'd approached, but now there was no one in sight. He moored his boat and heaved his bag onto the pier, then climbed out after it, using the nearest piling for support. A tarnished brass bell attached to the top rang out, cutting through the eerie silence of the evening. From the shore there came an echo, the answering clangs rippling out like vibrations along a taut line after some careless fish swallows the bait.
Unsettled, Matt shouldered his bag and headed toward town.
On the main street, the cheery storefronts he remembered from before were now interspersed with boarded up windows and ‘for lease’ signs. He still had not seen a single person since arriving on the island. He half expected a tumbleweed to go rolling across his path just to complete the effect. Still, as he walked down the empty road, he couldn't shake the prickling sensation of being watched. Every once in a while he thought he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned his head to look there was nothing there.
He picked up his pace until the familiar beach house came into view. This at least was comfortably unchanged, though he noted the whitewash looked in need of a good refresh and children’s toys no longer dotted the lawn.
Matt climbed the front stairs, knocked twice, and waited. After a moment the door swung open, and Matt took an instinctive step back as he stared into the dark abyss of a shark's gaping mouth. A small hand pushed up the disturbingly realistic paper mache mask to reveal Sean Brody’s face, now longer and angular, having shed the final vestiges of toddler doughiness since Matt last saw him.
“I scared you!” he said, flashing a wide, gap-toothed grin.
Before Matt could answer, Ellen came hurrying down the hall. “Sean!” she snapped. “What have I said about opening the door on your own?” Her expression, more worry than anger, softened as she looked up and caught sight of Matt.
“Hi,” he said.
He leaned in for a swift hug and a peck on the cheek, but Ellen held on surprisingly tight. “Matt, it’s so good to see you. We weren’t expecting you until Saturday. The ferry—it only runs on weekends now, and we weren’t sure if…well, it doesn’t matter. You made it.” She let him go and stepped back.
“Yeah, I found out about the ferry the hard way when I went to buy a ticket. I took my boat down instead. I hope I’m not intruding,” he said, not sure if the surprise of his sudden appearance was maybe an unwelcome one.
But Ellen brushed away his concerns. “Of course not. Please, come in. The boys and I were just finishing dinner, and Martin should be home any minute. Have you eaten? I can make you a plate.” She turned and shuttled Sean towards the dining room and Matt followed after.
Martin arrived at the house as Matt was scooping the last bite of mashed potatoes and gravy from his plate. He too held on a little longer than necessary as he hugged Matt in greeting, and some of Matt’s last lingering worries about whether there was still a place for him here began to ease. Ellen came back from getting the boys started on their nighttime routine and opened a bottle of wine, and the three of them settled in at the table.
“So,” Matt started, gesturing at Sean’s discarded shark mask lying on the floor. “What’s that about? It’s a pretty good rendering, I have to say.”
“Oh, all the kids have them,” Ellen said as she topped off their glasses. “It started the year after the attacks. The school counselor said she based it on some psychological theory, that it would help the children process what had happened. But even after she retired, they still kept making them. Now I think it’s just an end of the year project.”
“It’s morbid,” Martin said, taking a long drink. “The town started holding a bonfire on the beach on the last night in June as a kickoff to the Annual Regatta, and all the kids wear those masks. It's the same beach where Alex Kintner was killed. I don’t know what to call that, but it sure as hell isn’t ‘processing.’”
Ellen made a noncommittal noise, but she didn’t voice any disagreement. Matt decided to keep going. “Coming in from the harbor through town—it looks like there have been some changes around here.”
“It’s been a tough few years for the island,” Martin said slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully. “After the media circus died down, tourism never really bounced back the way that everyone hoped. We still get some for the Fourth of July, but it's not enough to sustain folks in the off-season. Most of the newcomers, and a lot of the not-so-newcomers have moved away. As for the ones that stayed, it's almost all the real longtime islanders, the ones whose families have been here for generations. If you thought this place was insular before, well…”
Matt remembered the obstinacy he had encountered from the locals, their reproach towards outsiders, and wondered what it must be like for the Brodys as some of the last remaining mainlanders. He took a sip of wine and then ventured, “You know, as glad as I was for the invitation, I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me about why you asked me here now.”
A look passed between Martin and Ellen that Matt couldn’t interpret.
“I'm going to go make sure the boys are in bed,” Ellen said. She rose from the table, dropping a kiss on the top of Martin's head before heading down the hallway.
After she left, Martin stood and crossed over to the rolltop desk in the corner. He slid open a drawer and came back to the table with a thick file folder that he dropped in front of Matt.
“We found another body. I found it, actually,” he clarified. “Washed up on the beach earlier this month. I could use your expert opinion.”
Matt flipped open the folder and was immediately confronted by autopsy photos. Martin winced and reached for them—“Shit, sorry”—but Matt was already picking up the top page. It was a young man, clearly in the water for some time, his abdomen bloated and skin mottled with discoloration. There were multiple jagged gashes and wounds on his arms and legs, and the next picture showed more across his back.
Matt swallowed hard to keep from gagging. “Cause of death?”
“Officially? Drowning secondary to blunt force trauma. It's been ruled accidental. Eric Dougherty: he was a bartender in Atlantic City, just here for a few days. Coroner's office said he probably had too much to drink and fell off a dock onto some rocks.”
“And unofficially?”
“That's where you come in,” Martin said.
Matt glanced down at the photos again. “You think it's another shark?” He tried to get a better look at the wounds on the back, but the resolution was low and it was hard for him to make out much detail.
“I'm not sure what to think,” Martin said. “But I know that if there were to be another shark attack here, Amity would be through. We could never survive the negative publicity; it'd become a ghost town.”
It seemed to Matt like they were halfway there already, but he kept that to himself.
“It got me thinking, though, so I did a little digging,” Martin continued, as he reached for the folder and pulled it towards him. He rifled through the contents and took out several pages that looked like typed case notes. He tapped the top sheet in front of him. “Walter Simms. He was a transient who used to camp on the beach sometimes. He was reported missing by his sister in New Haven. The last known sighting of him was here in June three years ago, and there's no evidence of him ever buying a ferry ticket off the island.”
“He could have hopped a ride on a fishing boat or gotten someone else to buy him a ticket,” Matt said, dubious, but Martin was shaking his head, already pulling more pages from the file.
“Richard Hoffman, retired dentist from Portland, last seen leaving Amity Harbor two years ago on a fishing trip. His boat was found floating off Nantucket in perfect condition with no life jackets missing. That one was declared a suicide. Apparently his wife had recently died and he was having money troubles.” Martin shuffled more papers, pulling out another sheet. “And Ann Marie Edwards. Reported as a runaway by the group home she was staying at in Boston. Technically still a missing persons case, but some tourists remembered seeing her on the ferry to Amity last June.”
“Okay,” Matt said, his eyes scanning over Martin's notes, “suppose they are all connected: you're the chief of police, what did your investigations turn up?”
“That's the other thing,” Martin said. “There were no investigations. They've all been conveniently handled just outside our jurisdiction. Not a single one of these disappearances ever had a case file opened in Amity. Or if they did, it never made its way across my desk.”
“That's quite the conspiracy you're alleging,” Matt said, still not sure what to make of it all.
“Three people vanish from the island, all in June—same month as when the first attacks started—and now this body washes up around the same time, with those marks all over it,” Martin said. “What if the only reason Eric Dougherty didn't end up filed as another missing person is because I found him before someone else did?”
Matt flipped through the papers again, checking the dates. “The timing would fit with seasonal migration patterns,” he conceded. He returned to the autopsy photos. Beneath them was a photocopy of the death certificate. He studied it, remembering how much pressure there had been to accept that ridiculous boat accident story after Chrissie Watkins’ death. He looked up at Martin, who was watching him expectantly. “Is coroner a political position in Amity?”
“Yes it is. And this year is an election year.”
Matt tucked all the pages back into the folder and closed it. He drummed his fingers on top, thinking. “I can't tell from the photos. I would need to see the body in person to know for sure if it was a shark.”
Martin grinned and dug into the pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of his chair. He produced a jangling ring of keys with a metal tag stamped MORGUE. “I'm ready if you are.”
Matt had expected to drive over in the truck, but instead Martin led them on an unfamiliar back route by foot.
“I take it we're not on official police business, then,” Matt said.
Martin's jaw was tight as he shook his head. “Not as such, no.” He had grown immediately tense upon leaving the house, all of the ease seemingly sapped out of him by the silence of their deserted surroundings, which felt nearly as oppressive as the humid, breezeless night air. Martin kept looking around, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the unkempt hedges and overgrown lawns of the empty houses that lined the street. Matt wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he followed Martin's lead and stayed alert.
Aside from a stray cat that had come shrieking out from behind a garbage can, they didn’t see a single other living creature during the walk. “Is it always this quiet out?” Matt asked, as Martin searched for the right key to unlock a back service entrance to the police station.
“Mostly, yeah. The number of full-time island residents is down about forty percent from the last time you were here, and people seem to be keeping to themselves more. Or, at least they do around me.” He finally fitted the correct key into the lock and the door swung open.
They made their way down a dark hallway and through another set of doors, and then they were in an autopsy room with a row of freezer drawers on the back wall. Martin flicked on a large, rolling surgical lamp, but left the overhead lights turned off. Then he pulled open one of the drawers and stepped back.
Matt grabbed a pair of gloves and a mask from a box on the counter and approached the body with some trepidation, not sure what the state of decomposition would be. Wary of potentially contaminating evidence during this unsanctioned escapade, he avoided touching as much as he could. Still, the injuries were much clearer here than in the photos, and he could see the rough, torn edges of flesh peeling back from the wounds and the missing chunks of muscle beneath.
“See these marks?” He nudged Martin with his elbow to get his attention and pointed towards the largest gashes on the torso and legs. “Those patterns are consistent with the teeth of a great white.”
“So it was a shark attack,” Martin said.
“I’m not so sure,” Matt said, peering closer. “These are tooth marks, yes, but not from any kind of bite I’ve ever seen. The spacing and depth is all wrong. It looks more like, I don’t know, like something, maybe someone, hacked into him with a fistful of shark teeth.”
Martin stared at him, his expression incredulous. “You’re saying he was murdered?”
“I'm saying these don’t look like any shark bites I’ve ever seen. There can always be alternative explanations in marine biology: a new species, a congenital deformity, but the odds are low. As for the rest of it?” Matt paused and shrugged. “You’d know better than me, but I think if there is a cover-up going on, it might be hiding something a lot worse than unreported shark activity.”
“Shit,” Martin said weakly. He leaned back against the wall and briefly shut his eyes.
Matt slid the drawer shut and tossed his gloves in a bin. “Why is the body still here? You said the cause of death was already declared an accident, so shouldn’t the remains have been released to the family by now?”
Martin sighed. “We’ve been trying to find someone to come claim him. The kid doesn’t seem to have any next of kin, and I wanted to give it some time before sending him off to a pauper’s grave.”
Something nagged at Matt. “Doesn’t it strike you as a little odd that all of your victims were visitors to the island? If it were a shark coming back to feed each year, probability would say that there should be at least one local in the group. They spend more time on the water than anyone.”
“Maybe the locals have learned to be more careful after what happened last time,” Martin said, but he sounded doubtful. “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know yet,” Matt answered. “But I think we shouldn’t hang around here any longer than necessary.”
They’d only been walking for a few minutes after leaving the morgue when Martin stopped, his attention caught by something off to their right.
“That's strange,” he said. The lights were on inside one of the classrooms in the school, and from the silhouettes visible through the window, it looked like a full house.
“Parent-teacher conferences?” Matt ventured hopefully, but Martin was already moving towards the entrance and Matt jogged to catch up.
The door scraped loudly against the floor when they pushed it open, and all the talking in the room stopped as everyone turned to stare at them. It looked like the whole town, or what was left of it, was crammed into the classroom. At the front sat Mayor Vaughn and a handful of others Matt didn't know.
“Evening, Martin,” the mayor said with an acknowledging nod, breaking the uncomfortable silence. His tone was noticeably cool. “Ah, and Mr. Hooper. How kind of you to make time to visit the Brodys. It's a shame you were never available when I invited you to come and lend your expertise to our tourism board. It would have been nice to offer the good people of the mainland some reassurance that the shark problem was behind us.”
“Is it?” Matt asked. He was ready to hash this out here and now, but Martin gave him a warning nudge with his elbow and stepped forward, putting himself slightly between Matt and the townspeople.
“What's going on here?” he asked.
“It's a meeting of the Islanders Association,” Mayor Vaughn answered. “We’re finalizing plans for the bonfire night.”
“And you don't think those plans are the sort of thing that ought to be shared with the chief of police?” Martin said, folding his arms over his chest.
“This is a closed session. For association members only,” the mayor said, putting special emphasis on the last part. “Besides,” he continued, “Deputy Hendricks is here.” He gestured to the corner where Hendricks sat sunk down low in his chair like a schoolboy trying to avoid being called on. “I'm sure he can pass along any pertinent details.”
“I'm sure he can,” Martin said evenly, staring at Hendricks, who wouldn't meet his eye.
“Wonderful,” Mayor Vaughn said with a smile, his teeth glinting white under the fluorescent lights. “Well then, goodnight gentlemen. We have a meeting to finish.”
At that, the four burly fishermen that were seated closest to the door stood up, towering over Martin and Matt and crowding them towards the door.
“Yeah, yeah,” Martin said. “We can see ourselves out.” He grabbed Matt by the bicep and steered him down the hall at a brisk walk.
They were several blocks away before he released his grip. Matt took that as his opening. “You want to tell me what the hell that was about? What's the Islanders Association?”
Martin didn't slow down. “A goddamned pain in my ass,” he said. “Let's just get back to the house. I can tell you more then.” Matt wanted to protest, but from the expression on Martin's face, it was clear something about the encounter had him spooked.
They made it to the house without further incident, though Matt had once again had the unpleasant sensation of being watched. Martin bolted the front door and checked that the others were locked, then poured them each a generous serving of whiskey and dropped heavily onto the couch. Matt came and sat in the chair opposite him.
Martin took off his glasses and scrubbed at his face, then leaned forward towards Matt. “The Islanders Association is some sort of…historic civic organization, I guess you’d call it. The charter has apparently been on the books since colonial times, but as far as I can tell it really took off again a few years ago, after the shark. To join, you have to have been born on the island and have at least one parent who was an association member.”
“That must keep it pretty exclusive.”
Martin nodded. “It's supposed to be restricted to ‘true’ islanders. Looking around that classroom, I think probably half of them could trace their lineage back to the original settlers of Amity.”
“You didn't know before tonight who was in the club?” Matt asked.
“I had guessed a lot of them. Didn't know about Hendricks, though. Christ.” Martin rested his elbows on his knees and ran his fingers through his hair. “I had been having him help me pull files about the other missing persons cases.”
“Do you think you can still trust him?”
“I don't know. It didn't use to matter so much, not being from here, but these past few years…” he trailed off, his hands spread wide. Matt got the drift.
“Times get tight and people always start making up new ways to decide who’s us and who’s them.”
“The Islanders Association certainly hasn’t helped with that,“ Martin said. “They seemed harmless at first, maybe a little kooky, like a local-flavored equivalent to the Freemasons. They’ve got some sort of idea about the shark having been mystic retribution for losing touch with the island’s past. Then they started holding all these meetings—members only, of course—and the next day I would have someone from Larry’s office breathing down my neck about some change that needed to be made to public safety or city policy. Mostly all to do with ‘restoring local traditions.’ That’s how the whole pre-Regatta bonfire night got started.”
“And you think this was all being driven by the association?” Matt asked.
Martin nodded. “The directives officially came from City Hall, but it was an open secret who was pulling the strings. Now I know why, since the mayor and the entire city council were in that room. Speaking of,” Martin said, “did Larry really ask you to come back and work with the tourism board?”
“There may have been some messages that I ignored. But to be fair, most of them came while I was at sea,” Matt said, thinking about the stack of letters and phone memo slips he had found on his desk when he got back.
“I get why you didn’t take him up on it. Hell, I skipped out on most of the publicity tour in the aftermath. But still,” Martin continued, with a slightly sheepish smile, “it would have been nice to see you more often.”
Matt swallowed. “I’m better in small doses,” he said, but the truth was he had always worried a little about wearing out his welcome here.
Martin just fixed him with a warm smile and let the comment slide. He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. Even if the Islanders Association is up to something, there’s nothing more we can do about it tonight. We'll bring the evidence we’ve got to Larry and the others this weekend, before any tourists show up for the Fourth.”
Matt still wasn't sure what exactly that evidence pointed to, but he didn’t argue. He downed the rest of his drink and stretched. “You got a spare pillow and blanket I can use? It looks like Ellen forgot to make up the sofa bed.”
“No,” Martin said, giving him a significant look, “she didn't forget.” Then he stood and headed towards the master bedroom, and Matt broke into a grin and followed.
In the morning, Matt slipped out from under Martin’s arm and showered and dressed, making sure he was presentable well before Michael and Sean would stumble yawning out of their bedrooms.
He left a note on the kitchen table, then set off for town. In the bright light of day, the island seemed more like he remembered. There were finally a few people out and about, though the number still seemed sparse, and no one bothered to offer a greeting or even a wave, either hurrying past with their heads down or fixing him with an unfriendly stare.
Along the main street, Matt noticed that the lampposts had been decorated with a shark motif, similar to Sean’s mask. It didn't look like much in the daylight, but he could picture what the effect would be at night—a diffuse orange glow lighting up each mouth from within, and the rows of pointed teeth casting distorted shadows on the ground. Matt suppressed a shudder and reminded himself not to come this way after dark.
Matt's first stop was City Hall, to inquire about charter and membership records for local organizations. When he got there, though, the doors were locked and a sign had been posted: closed for bonfire night. He thought he could see someone moving behind the desk inside and he banged on the door, but after several minutes of no answer he gave up. He would try the library instead. At least there his old graduate school card catalogue research skills might come in handy.
The library was surprisingly spacious and modern. The librarian, an older woman who struck him as vaguely familiar, stood behind the reference desk organizing a reshelving cart and wearing a dour expression.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked, without making any move to stop her work.
“I’m doing a little historical research on Amity and was hoping to find some primary sources. I tried City Hall first, but they’re closed today.”
“Yes, most places close for Bonfire Night,” she said, and somehow Matt could hear the capitalization in her inflection. “What sort of primary sources are you looking for?”
“Oh, you know, newspaper articles, public records, that sort of thing.” He hoped that was a nonspecific enough answer to avoid raising any suspicion.
The librarian gave him a withering look. “We have an extensive microfiche collection. It has hundreds of newspaper articles and public records, so I do hope you have some means of narrowing down your search. They’re housed in a special reading room. Let me show you.” She turned and began walking briskly away, and Matt had to hurry to catch up.
The room she brought him to had one long desk with a microfiche reader, and all the surrounding walls were lined with filing cabinets. “Good luck with your search,” she said brusquely, then she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Truthfully, Matt didn’t have a good way to narrow down his search. He tried first to see if there were any local newspaper articles covering the other disappearances Martin had told him about, but unsurprisingly there was nothing. Then, he tried to find anything on the Islanders Association, but every search came up blank or sent him on an infuriatingly circular path of “see also” references. It was almost impressive how complete the lack of information was. Someone had purged these records, and it made him all the more determined to find some morsel that they’d missed.
Remembering what Martin had said about the association’s connection to events around the Annual Regatta, Matt started searching for information on the Regatta itself. All the articles he found laid out the same basic story: the first Regatta was held on July 4th, 1925 to commemorate a time during the Revolutionary War when a British spy was captured in Amity. He had escaped by boat, and the islanders successfully chased him down and prevented him from relaying information to the waiting British fleet.
None of it struck him as particularly sinister. On a whim, Matt searched for the earliest records mentioning the Regatta. There was plenty of newspaper coverage of the inaugural event, but he scanned back even further. It was so small he almost missed it, but there tucked away on the bottom corner of an Amity Gazette page from November 1924, something caught his eye. Only the headline and the first paragraph of the article were visible:
Controversy Surrounds Planned July 4th Regatta
The Amity Island City Council’s plan to hold an annual Fourth of July Regatta to celebrate islanders’ contributions to the American Revolution was met by fierce debate at a recent town hall. Citizens in favor praised the likely boost to local commerce, while opponents raised concerns including cost, an influx of ‘unseemly’ elements from the mainland, and a potential association with a historic local tragedy. Boat races have been practiced in Amity since the colonial era, with an organized regatta being held yearly on the first Friday in June from 1826 until 1889, when the event was banned following the drowning death of New Jersey resident Nigel Clark under suspicious circumstances during the race. “It’s a mockery,” longtime Amity resident and Islanders Association secretary Philippa Lawson was quoted as saying. “Either reinstate the regatta in its original form or (Cont. page 6)
Matt scanned forward and back, trying to find the rest of the article, but there was no page six anywhere on the card. Held annually on the first Friday in June. He would have to see if Martin had ever heard about this forgotten, and apparently deadly, other regatta.
A hand tapped firmly on his shoulder and Matt stifled a yelp. He looked up to see the librarian, wearing the same impassive expression as before. “We’re closing early today for the bonfire. You’ll need to stop your research and leave.”
She watched him from the doorway as he packed up and replaced the microfiche cards. Standing at the cabinet, he wondered for a moment if he should let the last card slip down the side of the drawer so it would be less obvious what he’d been looking at. But he felt her eyes boring into him and didn’t trust his sleight of hand, so he slid it back into the correct envelope.
It was only as he was standing outside on the sidewalk, hearing the library doors lock behind him, that he realized where he’d seen the librarian before. She had been seated just to the left of the mayor at the Islanders Association meeting last night.
Matt heard raised voices coming from the kitchen as he climbed the back stairs to the Brody house.
“So it's not safe for me and the boys to be here, but somehow you’ll be perfectly fine on your own?” That was Ellen, her pitch rising with distress.
“I will be, I promise. Larry’s too chickenshit to actually try anything,” said Martin. “And I won't be on my own; I'll have Matt with me.”
“Fantastic.” There was a loud thud, and Matt could picture Ellen bringing a casserole dish down hard on the counter. “I swear to god Martin, you two need to find another form of foreplay besides trying to get yourselves killed.”
That seemed like as good a time as any to knock.
He heard them both freeze and then Martin swearing softly under his breath.
“It’s unlocked,” Ellen called out, sounding flustered.
“It shouldn’t be. Christ, I've told the boys a hundred times—” Martin flung the door open and Matt stood awkwardly on the threshold.
Ellen looked flushed and a little furious. She nodded to Matt, then said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go pack,” before turning and leaving the kitchen.
Martin waited until Matt came inside, then closed and bolted the door before slumping in a chair at the table.
“Everything okay?” Matt asked.
Martin blew out a sharp breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “When I first told her I thought there was another shark, she was convinced I was just being paranoid. Said I sounded like her father after the war, when he thought he saw a German sniper on every rooftop. But now it’s too dangerous?”
A sudden, sickening thought crossed Matt’s mind. “Why is Ellen packing? She’s not—you aren’t—?”
“No. No!” Martin said, aghast, when he caught Matt’s meaning. “It's nothing like that. I asked her to take the boys and go stay with a friend in New York, just for a week or so, until we get this sorted out.”
“Why is she worried about you, us, staying here?”
Martin looked a little guilty. “I didn’t want to mention it because I’m not sure it’s connected, but after I found Eric Dougherty’s body, we started having some…disturbances.”
“Like what?” Matt asked, as an uneasy feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach.
“Dead fish left slit open on the porch, a brick through the garage window, feeling like I’m being followed but when I turn around nobody’s there. One night, some teenager in one of those godawful shark masks stood in the street for hours just staring up at the house until I came out with a rifle and chased him off.”
“Jesus, Martin,” Matt said. “That sounds like more than a disturbance. Did you, I don’t know, report it somehow?”
“To who? The police?” Martin said with a humorless laugh. “It’s the Islanders Association circling the wagons, and they’ve decided that me and my family are firmly on the outside. I figure the best shot I’ve got at stopping it is to confront Larry with everything we've found, give him a chance to explain. If we don’t like the answer, we threaten to expose him to the entire island. He’s up for reelection, and there've got to be some people left that aren't a part of this.”
“Why not just go to the press?”
Martin shook his head. “What we've got is too flimsy. No halfway decent reporter would be willing to risk their career by running it. That's why I want to go to the bonfire tonight. Maybe with all the drinking, someone will let something slip.”
“There's going to be drinking?” Matt asked, waggling his eyebrows.
“Plenty,” Martin said with a laugh. “And don't worry, I don't plan on playing spy games the entire time.”
“Speaking of spy games,” Matt said. “I found something buried in the microfiche archives at the library that might be relevant, but I'm not sure.”
He recounted to Martin what he'd learned, about the earlier June regattas and why they'd stopped.
“Wait,” Martin said, “that sounds familiar. Hang on.” He went out into the living room and came back carrying a thick, blue hardcover book. The spine had embossed gold script reading, A Complete History of Amity Island.
“Polly gave it to me as a welcome gift when I first started. I flipped through it a few times, but it's pretty dry.” He thumbed to the index, then found the page he was looking for and turned it around so Matt could see.
“Folk traditions of the early Amity colonists?”
Martin nodded. “Keep going.”
Matt skimmed the page until he found what he was looking for. The author described legends of the first settlers on the island holding ritual ‘hunts’ at the start of summer by releasing a pig on the beach and chasing it into the ocean in their row boats. If the pig was caught before it drowned, it was slaughtered, guaranteeing prosperity for the island and safe passage for the fishermen during the rough waters of fall and winter. In lean times when domestic animals were precious, the text continued, islanders were rumored to instead carry out a boat race, with the newest arrival on the island serving as prey, though there is no evidence that the unlucky fellow suffered the same grisly fate as the pig.
That uneasy feeling in Matt's gut was back again. “It seems a little far-fetched,” he said, but he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Martin or himself. “Less than a day ago you told me this was about local politicians pulling some strings to cover up another shark attack, and now we're at ritual sacrifice?”
Martin looked chagrined. “You're right. It's probably just a folktale. Let's drop it for now. We'll go to the bonfire tonight, and then tomorrow we can expose some petty, basic conspiracy and move on with life.”
Martin went to check on Ellen, and they both emerged from the bedroom shortly after, clearly having reached some sort of détente.
An hour later, Matt was standing in the driveway next to Ellen, while Michael and Sean sat sullenly in the truck and Martin loaded suitcases onto the bed. “I'm going to drive Ellen and the boys to the ferry terminal, make sure they get out okay, then I'll meet you at the beach for the bonfire,” Martin said, tossing the last duffel bag into the back.
Ellen pulled Matt in for a hug goodbye. “Please look out for him,” she said, softly enough that only Matt could hear. When she stepped back, she straightened her shoulders and smiled. “Make sure you two don't have too much fun tonight without me,” she said as she climbed into the cab, and then Martin pulled out of the driveway and onto the road.
Matt went back inside to wait. He was puttering around the living room straightening up, when he bumped into the end table and knocked off Sean’s shark mask. He bent to pick it up and found it was surprisingly heavy. Curious, he tapped one of the teeth. It was solid. Matt started to pick at the paper mache, tearing away the layers of old newsprint until he revealed a gleaming metallic cast of a great white shark tooth, its point razor sharp.
As he stood there holding the mask, turning it over in his hands, he was struck by an idea. He carried the mask to the dining room and pulled Martin’s file from the rolltop desk. He flipped through until he found the autopsy photos. The jagged wounds on Eric Dougherty weren’t a match for the shape of the mask, but the same type of metal teeth wrapped around a baseball bat or strapped to some brass knuckles? He couldn’t be so sure. Unsettled, Matt put the file back in the drawer and tucked the mask away in the coat closet.
At dusk, Matt locked up the house and headed down to the beach. The bonfire party looked to already be in full swing. The beach was packed, nearly as crowded as Matt remembered from his first visit to Amity, and groups of islanders jostled cheerily around him. Just as Ellen had said, the younger kids were all decked out in shark masks, and Matt suppressed a shiver at the knowledge of what was underneath.
Somebody pressed a plastic cup into his hand. It was filled with a dark red liquid that Matt supposed was wine, but it had a slightly botanical aftertaste. It wasn't unpleasant, though, and he sipped on the drink as he moved through the throng of people, looking for Martin.
He found him further down the beach, staring into the raging bonfire. Matt had to admit that it was an impressive structure, well over ten feet tall, with the flames shooting even higher. And suspended from a wire above it was—
“Is that what I think it is?” Matt asked when he reached Martin’s side. Martin jerked in surprise, then relaxed and followed Matt’s finger to the familiar looking ring of shark teeth hanging above the fire.
“Yeah,” Martin said. “I don’t know how they got it. I guess someone must have broken into his shack after he died.”
Matt nodded, but he couldn’t seem to look away. From this angle, it looked like flames were shooting out of the jaw. Like the mouth of Hell. He shook his head, not sure where the thought had come from, and turned away, fixing his gaze on Martin instead.
“Did Ellen and the boys make it out okay?”
“I saw them get on the ferry and waited for it to pull away,” Martin said. “She’ll call tonight after they get settled in the city.”
They stood in silence for a moment, letting the festivities swirl around them. From his earlier encounters in town, Matt would never have believed that there were still this many people on the island, but the crowd ran the gamut from little kids to ancient, grizzled fishermen. He started to notice other shark accessories besides the masks. Several people carried tall walking sticks that were split at the top and whittled to look like pointed tail fins. A few wore impressive capes with epaulets lined in teeth, and many of the attendees were sporting large shark tooth necklaces.
Matt turned to ask Martin, who was mid-drink, about the attire, but as he lowered his cup, Matt caught sight of his red-stained mouth. Blood, he thought suddenly, his heart racing, and the scene in front of him began to morph, superimposed with an image of Martin waist-deep in a shark's jaws, blood pooling around him, spurting from his mouth. Then Martin raised the cup to his lips again and the vision splintered.
Martin caught Matt's expression and his brow furrowed. “What's wrong?” he asked.
“I think there's something in the wine. This is only my first cup, but I feel—”
Martin cut him off with a laugh. “It’s okay, you're supposed to. It's made from a local berry with very slight hallucinogenic properties. They break it out once a year for this party. One of the few contributions from the Islanders Association that I've fully embraced.”
Martin's cheeks were flushed, and there was a glassy look to his eyes that made Matt wonder how many servings of the stuff he'd already had.
“Aren’t we supposed to be here on a reconnaissance mission?” Matt asked, trying to shake off his remaining unease.
“I already made the rounds before you got here. Larry and the city councilors aren’t expected to show up until close to midnight.”
“So what are we supposed to do until then?” Matt asked.
“Enjoy ourselves,” Martin whispered, leaning in so close that his lips brushed the shell of Matt’s ear.
Matt jumped. “Jesus, Martin. We’re in public.”
“Look around,” Martin said, gesturing at the surrounding scene that rightfully could only be described as a bacchanal. “Nobody is paying any attention to us.”
Despite his lingering misgivings, Matt couldn’t bring himself to disagree. The last thing he remembered was Martin’s breath against his neck, searing even in the heat from the bonfire.
Matt awoke to a swaying, rocking movement, and his first thought was that he must still be drunk and having the spins. Then he recognized the sensation and bolted upright.
It was a new moon, and the sky was velvety black, distinguishable from the water only by the pinprick illumination of the stars. The boat was drifting in the current, bobbing on the waves, silent without the hum of the engine.
Martin was sprawled on the deck beside him. Matt checked his pulse, watched his chest rise and fall, and let out a sigh of relief. He was attempting to restart the engine when Martin groaned and pushed himself up to sitting.
“What the hell?” he said, taking in their surroundings.
“I think we're about to find out,” Matt replied, as the radio crackled to life.
“Tonight,” Mayor Vaughn's voice boomed, “we should be gathering to celebrate another successful completion of the Regatta of the Ancestors and the preservation of our way of life for one more year. But instead, our sacrifice failed, and our offering was rejected by the spirit of the ocean that protects our island.”
“God, that man loves to showboat. Do you think his freaky cultist robe is pinstriped or seersucker?” Matt said, as he tried the outboard motor switches. Dead, dead, dead.
Martin had staggered over to the radio and was frantically scanning through the frequencies. “They're jamming every channel except this one. There's no way to get through.”
“Shit.” Matt started checking the storage lockers, but they had all been cleared out. Dive equipment, emergency beacon, flare gun, gun gun—everything was gone.
“—demands that the sacrifice be complete before the sun rises on the first day of July, or calamity will befall the island.” Martin must have gotten back around to the original frequency, and the mayor's monologue continued.
“Therefore tonight, we hold another Regatta, for the ocean must be paid what she is owed.” Off in the distance, Matt could just make out a string of lights, stretching along the horizon.
He snatched the handset off the radio. “It's not much of a race if you cripple our boat!” he shouted into the microphone.
Martin leaned in close over his shoulder. “Larry, you bastard—” was all he got out before being cut off.
“I admit it's not the most sporting,” came Larry's voice again. “But you see, we're under a bit of a time crunch. And we did give you a head start—”
“Oh fuck this,” Matt said, as he slammed down the handset and switched the radio to a channel full of static. A moment later, a shot like a starter pistol went off in the distance. They were out of time.
Matt had one last hope at a Hail Mary, and when he opened the storage compartment beneath the passenger seat, he whooped in delight when he found what he was looking for: buried behind a mess of cleaning supplies and instruction manuals was his emergency dive belt and scuba tank. The gauge read a little over eighty-five percent full. Would it be enough? Though it might not matter, since without wetsuits, hypothermia was likely to get them first.
“Martin, listen to me.” Martin was standing frozen by the radio, and Matt grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around so they were facing each other. “We need to go under. It's the only chance we have at survival. We're too outnumbered to fight back, and I'm not totally clear on the rules, but I think their sacrifice only counts if they kill us themselves. If we drown, they lose, so they'll want to try to keep us out of the water.”
“I'm pretty sure if we drown, we also lose,” Martin said. His expression was still panicked, but his breathing had evened out. Good. Matt could work with that.
The lights in the distance were getting closer, but Matt made himself slowly and methodically check over the tank. When he was satisfied, he held out the mouthpiece to Martin.
“This is the regulator. You hold it with your teeth here, close your lips around it, and breathe in normally.” He wished he could let Martin practice, but they couldn't spare any of the air in the tank. “Slow, deep breaths. Exhale slowly the entire time between breaths in, never try to hold it. We take two breaths each, and then pass it over.”
Matt got into the water first, then coaxed Martin down after him. “Don't let go of the boat until I tell you to,” Matt said. He took Martin's hand that wasn't clutching the ladder and guided his arm through the strap of the tank harness so they were attached. “Whatever happens, stay connected,” he said, gesturing to the strap held in the crook of Martin’s arm. “Unless I'm dead. Then take the tank off me and get the hell out of there.”
Martin stared at him, wild-eyed. “Matt, I don't think I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” he said. “You single-handedly blew up a fucking shark. Compared to that, this will be a cakewalk. We'll be home before you know it.”
“A cakewalk,” Martin agreed, then he hauled Matt in and kissed him with a desperation that suggested he didn't believe a word of it.
The lights were getting closer now. “You first,” Matt said, handing over the regulator. As Martin fitted it in his mouth and started to inhale, Matt pushed off from the boat and took them down.
They drifted in an endless black.
Somewhere in the back of Matt's mind, his rational brain tried to calculate depth, current speed, oxygen reserves, but it was a distant hum, like a radio that someone had left playing in another room.
All that mattered was breathing, and keeping Martin breathing. As they had sunk into the water, tangled together in the darkness, he had pictured them as some strange, two-headed creature, trying to feel Martin's inhalations as if they were his own, until the limping, syncopated rhythm of their breaths became a sort of symbiosis.
Minutes, hours, an eternity later, a light appeared, a dim circle somewhere above them, that was rapidly growing brighter. He felt Martin struggling, trying to swim towards it, and in his dreamlike state, Matt started to follow. Then he realized what it reminded him of—an anglerfish.
He held Martin against him, signaling desperately for him to stop and calm down. They went through two cycles of breaths like that, clutching each other face to face, before Matt loosened his grip on Martin and they turned to look up. One by one, the light was joined by others until there were dozens of beams cutting through the water, illuminating the hulking forms of boat hulls. The Regatta was passing overhead.
They waited, motionless, using only the smallest movements to exchange the regulator. Two dozen boats, maybe more, slid silently through the water above them. Matt tracked the direction they were moving, praying they had given up and were headed back to shore. As the last boat disappeared from view, its light flickering and then fading entirely, Matt almost thought he could make out another shape following behind, long and sleek and ghostly white, but when he blinked his eyes it was gone.
Once they were sure the Regatta wasn't doubling back, they slowly began to ascend. Matt didn't dare check the air gauge as he and Martin kicked hard upwards. Just as he heard Martin sputter on an inhale and he knew the tank had finally run empty, Matt saw it: the shimmering ripple of the surface. Lungs burning, he reached out, pulling them towards it with everything he had left. Three more strokes and they were breaking through, gasping and laughing, clinging to each other as they emerged into the pale pink glow of dawn.