For the next few minutes, Marty steered the boat through the roiling waves at angles so the boat rose and fell on its long axis, avoiding, for the most part, further soakings. When they reached the aquamarine coral reef surrounding Demon Island, the rougher seas subsided, and he trimmed the speed as they approached the beach.

“You’re the worst driver ever, Marty!” Rad said, looking green and releasing her death grip on the gunwale handle.

“I got us here without capsizing, didn’t I?”

He switched off the engine, hopped into the waist-high water, and dragged the boat up onto the sand. Unlike the well-maintained tourist beaches along Sri Lanka’s southern coast, this one was littered with clumps of seaweed, broken seashells, and deadwood. Behind grassy dunes fifty meters inland, a snarl of jungle climbed a steep, rocky hill, creating a nearly vertical wall of green that towered high above them.

There was no way in hell they were forging a path through that. Rad and Jacky were frowning at the impassable vegetation; they clearly had the same thought.

He glanced at his wristwatch. It was eight thirty a.m.

“Three hours and counting to find your castaway,” he told them. “Where do you want to start looking?”

∆∆∆

They went west along the beach, Jacky and Rad walking abreast and chatting gaily, Marty bringing up the rear. He’d taken off his boat shoes and was enjoying the feel of the sand beneath his bare feet and between his toes. However, his mind was on the work back at the Oannes this afternoon. Hopefully he and Pip would get another four hydrophones in the water. That would leave them seven more to deploy the next day which, if there were no more distractions, would be doable.

Then the waiting game would begin.

How long until they recorded a merfolk’s vocalization was anyone’s guess, but he was confident it would happen. Yes, the merfolk eaten by the great white could have been an outlier. It could have been on its own, lost or migrating or an outcast from society. There might not be another of the creatures within a thousand kilometers of Demon Island. Yet he didn’t believe that was so.

They were here. He felt it in his bones.

Gut feelings aside, logic also told him they were here. Most eyewitness reports of merfolk occurred in island coastal waters. This made sense if merfolk, like most marine mammals, occasionally hauled themselves out of the water onto terrestrial habitats. Lying about on the rocky shores or the mudflats of a remote, isolated island would be much safer than doing so on continental land where, historically, there were more dangerous predators—namely, the genus Homo. When Homo mastered fire, they were able to forge more complex and deadly weapons, becoming formidable hunters that hunted Australopithecus to extinction; they would have likely had no qualms doing the same to their distant, defenseless aquatic cousins.