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there, the croc had dragged Tommy downriver. I saw it drag him under. I saw one of Tommy’s arms flapping before it went under like he was saying goodbye.”
    After a moment of silence, George said, “Did you find him?”
    “No. Never found so much as his hat. The croc never came back.”
    “I didn’t come down here to be eaten,” Menhaus pouted.
    “Me either,” Fabrini said. “Fuck that.”
    “A caiman,” Cushing said. “It was probably a caiman. A big one. A Black Caiman.”
    “It doesn’t bring him back knowing it’s name,” Cook said.
    Everyone looked up. It was the first time they’d heard him speak other than in response to a direct question. The logic of what he said shut everyone up.
    “Yeah, caiman, all right. That’s what it was,” Saks finally said. “Where we’re going, maybe it won’t be that bad. Won’t be any crocs or fucking caimans around. Just watch for snakes. They’ll be spraying for bugs. You’ll be safe enough. Just be careful.”
    “That’s why you’re telling us this stuff, isn’t it, Saks?” Cushing said. “So we’ll be careful.”
    “Yes. The jungle is primitive, girls. Remember that. You’re not the boss there. It’s the boss. You’d better have respect for it, cause it sure as hell will have no respect for you.”
    “I think I’m going to be sick,” Soltz said, pushing away from the table and bolting out the door. He left it wide open. The wind hammered it against the bulkhead.
    The first mate, Gosling, appeared moments later. “You men secure these hatches when you come and go or I’ll throw you to the fucking fish.”
    He slammed the hatch and disappeared.
    Menhaus and Fabrini left next, both were bitching about the job, about life, about nature in general. Cook slipped out without a word. Only Cushing, George, and Saks were left.
    “We should get some sleep,” Cushing suggested.
    “Yeah,” George said, leaving his plate half-full. His appetite was gone again. He felt sick. “You coming, Saks?”
    “No. I think I’ll stay and think about my friend awhile.”
    Cushing and George waited, not knowing what to say.
    Saks grimaced. “Well, what do you want? Get the fuck out of my sight.”
    They left him alone.

6
    Gosling, the first mate, licked his sandpaper lips and lit his pipe.
    Something wasn’t right.
    He stood outside the pilothouse door, staring across the decks. They were lit and he could see everything. Nothing looked amiss … yet,
yet
something was not kosher. He could feel it deep down inside. Call it instinct, call it intuition, call it whatever you wanted, but something was really wrong here. He just couldn’t put a finger on what it was. He could feel the steady throb of the engines through the deck plates beneath his feet. It was not mechanical. After years spent on freighters, he could actually sense when there was a mechanical failure somewhere just as a man can sense something not quite right with his own body. It was like a sixth sense you developed when you knew the sea and you knew your vessel and how she felt and responded and reacted to every wake and swell.
    No, the ship was fine.
    The crew was fine.
    What then?
    He stood there, smoking, sending feelers out in every direction.
    It didn’t make any sense. Yet, he’d been sailing long enough to know he could trust his instincts. But this seemed almost beyond experience, beyond comprehension, something intangible and unknown … an almost physical menace.
    There was trouble.
    There was danger … but where?
How?
    Gosling’s skin had gone clammy and his hands were trembling. It was bad and he had no explanation. He threaded his way amongst the cargo lashed to the spar deck and went to the railing. The sea was calm. Like glass. Like the water in some kid’s little backyard swimming pool. That wasn’t right. He’d been sailing the Atlantic for years and he’d never seen the waters so inexplicably calm. Especially this far out in open water. And March was a notoriously bad