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Chapter One

Twenty-one years later…

Nathan Dallas swatted a mosquito on the back of his neck as he guided the Buford boys’ aluminum fishing skiff across the dusky water. The two brothers sat in the prow, drinking and muttering to one another until Nathan couldn’t help but wonder what they might be up to. He’d been gone from Arcadia for a lot of years, but he still remembered the rumors that had always swirled around the Bufords.

He remembered a lot of other things, too. The river stirred powerful memories for him. His father, strong and agile, diving into those murky depths for pearls. His mother, gentle and pensive, calling Nathan in to supper.

And Shelby, suntanned and sweet, waiting for him on the bank.

Cutting the outboard motor, he let the boat drift. In the ensuing silence, the twilight came strangely alive. A few feet from the skiff, a water moccasin glided like a ribbon of silk toward the bank. Somewhere nearby a turtle plopped into the water, and a whippoorwill called from the branches of a sweet gum.

The melancholy sound brought back even more memories. The nights Nathan had camped out alone by the river because he couldn’t stand seeing the grief in his father’s face, the defeat that had stooped Caleb Dallas’s shoulders and dulled his eyes before he’d reached fifty.

Back then Nathan had sworn he would never be caught in the same trap that had drained the youth from his father. He’d get away from this river if it was the last thing he did. He’d make something of his life, be somebody. And no one—especially not a woman—would ever take it away from him.

Well, at least that part had come true. His downfall hadn’t been caused by a woman. It had been his own hubris that had wiped out his career and his good name. And now here he was, back where he’d started. Back on the river, but this time, he wasn’t diving for mussel shells with his father. Caleb Dallas was dead, and Nathan now hunted something far more precious than pearls. A story that could launch his comeback. An exposé that could not only restore his reputation, but the self-respect he’d so carelessly tossed away in Washington.

He let his gaze travel downstream to where spotlights illuminated Takamura Industries. Yoshi Takamura had made millions selling freshwater mollusk shells to the Japanese cultured-pearl industry, but now that the mussel beds in the Pearl River were badly depleted, he’d turned his attention elsewhere.

He’d built a laboratory along the water, but to what end no one in town seemed to know. Or care, for that matter. Takamura was too important to the local economy for anyone to get overly concerned about their activities. But the secretive nature of the lab had triggered Nathan’s natural curiosity.

He’d cultivated a deep throat on the inside, a man named Danny Weathers who was an old school buddy of Nathan’s and who now worked as a diver for Takamura. So far, Danny hadn’t been able to shed much light on the activities inside the lab, but Nathan wasn’t about to give up. Not when he smelled a story.

At the other end of the boat, Ray Buford slapped at his bare leg. “Hellfire, Bobby Joe. Why’d you go and forget the bug spray? Skeeters gonna eat us alive out here.”

“Not if you get enough alcohol in your bloodstream. This is better’n any old bug spray.” Bobby Joe drained the last of his beer, smashed the empty can against his forehead, then slung the can overboard with a bloodcurdling yell.

Frowning, Nathan watched the container sink. Obviously, the Bufords didn’t put much stock in river conservation. No wonder the Pearl River suffered from such dangerous levels of pollution. Nathan was sorely tempted to give them both a stern lecture, but he doubted it would do any good, and besides, he didn’t want to risk alienating them. They both worked part-time for Takamura, and Nathan figured if the brothers got drunk enough, they might be willing to talk to him—which was precisely the reason he’d convinced them to let him help run their fishing lines tonight.

“Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if we saw that ol’ monster out here tonight?” Bobby Joe drawled.

“Yeah,” Ray replied dryly. “That’d be real hilarious, Bobby Joe.”

The younger Buford laughed, belched then pulled a wicked-looking knife from his belt and trailed it in the water. “Here monster, monster, monster. Where are you, boy? Come show that ugly face of yours. Make us famous.”

“What’re you, stupid or something?” Ray grumbled. “Shut the hell up.”

“Chill, man.” Bobby Joe made a chopping motion in the water with the switchblade. “That monster comes up here, I’ll show him, like I did ol’ Shorty Barnes that time.”

Shorty Barnes was the reason Bobby Joe had spent three years in Cummins Prison Farm, but Nathan wasn’t about to remind him of that fact.

“You’d show him all right,” Ray scoffed. “Hell, boy. He’d chomp your arm off in one bite, knife and all.”

“Sounds like you boys believe all those stories about the Pearl River Monster,” Nathan said.

“Oh, Ray believes all right. He saw that thing himself, didn’t you, bro?” There was a goading quality in Bobby Joe’s thick voice. “Go ahead, tell ’im.”

Ray didn’t say anything, but in the fading light, Nathan saw something that might have been fear flicker across his homely features.

Unlike Bobby Joe, Nathan wasn’t about to ridicule Ray Buford for his fears. Nathan used to dive in this river, in water so murky he sometimes couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. There’d been times when he’d become so disoriented, he couldn’t tell up from down, and in a cold, black panic, he’d sensed things he’d never told anyone about.

Twenty-one years ago, he’d never been as certain as everyone else in this town that Shelby Westmoreland had been lying.

An uneasiness settled over the boat. They were in the middle of the river now, over the deepest part. The water was more than fifty feet in places. Nathan had often wondered what kind of creatures could survive on that cold, muddy bottom. Man-sized catfish, if legend could be believed.

But it was the giant river loggerheads that had always given Nathan a healthy dose of caution. Diving in water populated by those creatures wasn’t for the faint of heart. Also known as alligator snapping turtles, they sometimes grew to over two hundred pounds, and Nathan had once seen a smaller one snap a broom handle in two with its powerful jaws. He hated to think what one of the larger specimens could do to a man’s hand.

The boat drifted toward the first marker, and Ray reached over the side of the boat to grab the white bleach jug fastened to the end of the trotline. He gave it a yank. “Damn. The line’s tangled.”

“Looks like one of us’ll have to go down and get it freed up.” Bobby Joe fingered his knife. They both looked at Nathan.

He reached over the side of the boat and grabbed the line. “Let’s try working it loose first.”

They tugged and pulled for several minutes before the line finally snapped free. Bobby Joe grunted as they hauled it up. “Musta hooked us a big sucker.”

When the line popped to the surface, Ray leaned over the side to get a look. “What the hell is that?”

The realization hit all three of them at once, and Ray yelped, jerking back so violently the boat threatened to tip. Nathan clung to the sides as he stared at the mass of flesh and bone tangled in the line.

“Man, oh, man,” Bobby Joe said almost reverently. “Would you look at that? Something’s done ripped that poor bastard all to hell.”

Ray didn’t say anything. He stared at the corpse with a look of sheer terror, flinching almost pitifully when the beam of Nathan’s flashlight accidentally caught him in the face.

Nathan leaned over the edge of the boat, playing the light over the body, what was left of it. The black neoprene wet suit was in shreds, but the mask was still in place. Sightless eyes stared up through the lens, and an icy chill sliced through Nathan.

The dead man was Danny Weathers.