walking
around in orthopedic sandals and refused to eat anything that had ever lived.
He knew them well, from his days in
Greenpeace, and found most of them to be either insufferably
smug and self-righteous or ditsily, dangerously naïve.
Anyway, he didn't care if Dr. Macy was the
spawn of Tiny Tim and Leona Helmsley. Her money was good, as so was her project. The Institute's public
relations — an element of his job that Chase loathed and wasn't adept at
exploiting — could benefit from an association with her. Good video images of humpback whales,
especially if they were breakthrough images of the kind Dr. Macy had supposedly
gotten of the
California
grays, would be tangible evidence of serious scientific work. There would be stories in newspapers and on television. Brendan Finnegan would have to eat his words
and find someone else to harass.
12
Max's foot slipped on the slick boulder,
and before he could catch himself he skidded down its face and found himself
standing in water up to his ankles. He
called himself a few names, then sloshed through the
shallow water till he came to a place where the rocks were smaller. He climbed them and continued his circuit of
the island, stepping carefully from rock to rock, aware now of the truth of
what Tall Man had told him: low tide
makes for slippery rocks.
Tall Man had given him two fish to feed to
the heron. He had approached the bird
gingerly, for it was big, its beak was long and sharp and its dark eyes
followed him as if he were prey.
Max had dropped the first fish, fearing
for his fingers, and the heron had snatched it from the water, craned its neck
and swallowed it whole. The heron had
seen the second fish, and had taken a step toward Max. Max had forced himself to stand his ground,
dangling the fish from his fingertips, and the heron had plucked it from him
with surgical precision, its beak missing Max by millimeters. Then Max had tried to touch the heron, but it
had turned away and marched back to the center of its tidal pool.
Max had nothing special to do, his father
and Tall Man were both busy, so he had decided to go exploring. At low tide, Tall Man had said, you could
walk all the way around the island on the rocks, and he had already made it
nearly halfway around, had reached the far southern end of the island, before
skidding off the slimy boulder and soaking his sneakers.
He came to a small pool — a big puddle,
really — where the tide had receded from a basin in a boulder, and he knelt
down and bent close to the water. He saw
tiny crabs scuttling among the stones, and periwinkles clinging motionless to
the bottom, as if patiently awaiting the next high tide. He watched the crabs for a moment, wondering
what they were doing that made them look so busy — feeding? Fighting? Fleeing ? — then stood
up and continued on.
The larger rocks were spattered with guano
and littered with clam shells dropped from the air by gulls, which would then
swoop down and peck the succulent meat from the shattered shells. The smaller rocks closer to the water were
coated with algae and weeds, and in niches between them Max saw matchbooks,
plastic six-pack holders and aluminum pop-tops from soda cans. He picked up those he could reach and stuffed
them into his pockets.
He came to a spot where the rocks looked
too slimy and their faces too slippery for him to climb over them safely, and
so he walked up the hillside and crossed twenty or thirty yards of high grass
toward the biggest boulder he had ever seen: at least twelve or fifteen feet high, probably twenty feet long, a
remnant of the retreat of the glaciers at the end of the last ice age. He circled the boulder, looking up at it with
awe, then began to search for a way down the hill to
the rocks.
He walked between two bushes, tested his
footing and started down.
Something caught his eye, something in the
water, not far out, no more than ten yards
around in orthopedic sandals and refused to eat anything that had ever lived.
He knew them well, from his days in
Greenpeace, and found most of them to be either insufferably
smug and self-righteous or ditsily, dangerously naïve.
Anyway, he didn't care if Dr. Macy was the
spawn of Tiny Tim and Leona Helmsley. Her money was good, as so was her project. The Institute's public
relations — an element of his job that Chase loathed and wasn't adept at
exploiting — could benefit from an association with her. Good video images of humpback whales,
especially if they were breakthrough images of the kind Dr. Macy had supposedly
gotten of the
California
grays, would be tangible evidence of serious scientific work. There would be stories in newspapers and on television. Brendan Finnegan would have to eat his words
and find someone else to harass.
12
Max's foot slipped on the slick boulder,
and before he could catch himself he skidded down its face and found himself
standing in water up to his ankles. He
called himself a few names, then sloshed through the
shallow water till he came to a place where the rocks were smaller. He climbed them and continued his circuit of
the island, stepping carefully from rock to rock, aware now of the truth of
what Tall Man had told him: low tide
makes for slippery rocks.
Tall Man had given him two fish to feed to
the heron. He had approached the bird
gingerly, for it was big, its beak was long and sharp and its dark eyes
followed him as if he were prey.
Max had dropped the first fish, fearing
for his fingers, and the heron had snatched it from the water, craned its neck
and swallowed it whole. The heron had
seen the second fish, and had taken a step toward Max. Max had forced himself to stand his ground,
dangling the fish from his fingertips, and the heron had plucked it from him
with surgical precision, its beak missing Max by millimeters. Then Max had tried to touch the heron, but it
had turned away and marched back to the center of its tidal pool.
Max had nothing special to do, his father
and Tall Man were both busy, so he had decided to go exploring. At low tide, Tall Man had said, you could
walk all the way around the island on the rocks, and he had already made it
nearly halfway around, had reached the far southern end of the island, before
skidding off the slimy boulder and soaking his sneakers.
He came to a small pool — a big puddle,
really — where the tide had receded from a basin in a boulder, and he knelt
down and bent close to the water. He saw
tiny crabs scuttling among the stones, and periwinkles clinging motionless to
the bottom, as if patiently awaiting the next high tide. He watched the crabs for a moment, wondering
what they were doing that made them look so busy — feeding? Fighting? Fleeing ? — then stood
up and continued on.
The larger rocks were spattered with guano
and littered with clam shells dropped from the air by gulls, which would then
swoop down and peck the succulent meat from the shattered shells. The smaller rocks closer to the water were
coated with algae and weeds, and in niches between them Max saw matchbooks,
plastic six-pack holders and aluminum pop-tops from soda cans. He picked up those he could reach and stuffed
them into his pockets.
He came to a spot where the rocks looked
too slimy and their faces too slippery for him to climb over them safely, and
so he walked up the hillside and crossed twenty or thirty yards of high grass
toward the biggest boulder he had ever seen: at least twelve or fifteen feet high, probably twenty feet long, a
remnant of the retreat of the glaciers at the end of the last ice age. He circled the boulder, looking up at it with
awe, then began to search for a way down the hill to
the rocks.
He walked between two bushes, tested his
footing and started down.
Something caught his eye, something in the
water, not far out, no more than ten yards
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