Saffron: Book One of The Neptune Chronicles

9781483518817

PROLOGUE

11:35 am, Sunday, April 12th. Bob and Patricia Donald hiked to the end of Overlook Trail in Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park. It’s an easy, level hike, but there are some wonderful resident birds here in the park, which is near Big Sur on the California coast, and the Donalds have been coming back every April for the last six years. Today, they spotted a flock of black swifts and a peregrine falcon soaring overhead. A dark-eyed junco sang out to its potential mate from a cypress as they walked along, but they were here for something other than birds today. The bench at the end of Overlook Trail is one of the best spring viewing spots in the area for the northward migration of gray whales, as they head from Baja California to the Arctic Ocean. The females come in close to shore to help protect their young, who are making their first trip north.

They had reached the bench at the end of the trail and dropped their backpacks to the ground next to it. Over closer to the cliff edge, Bob called out that he had spotted a group of pigeon guillemots swimming in a protected corner close to the rocky beach.

Patricia set up her spotting scope, which was sixty-power and perfect for getting a close look at grays, as well as distant birds. She scanned the horizon with her binoculars, but didn’t see any spouting or other signs of the whales. She lowered her view to take a look at the guillemots Bob had spotted, and she noticed something in the shallows that might have been a harbor seal. It was about the size of a female seal and quite light colored.

Bob, there’s a harbor seal down there, she said and turned the scope down to take a closer look. What she saw amazed her. It was a pair of naked people swimming in the frigid water. Then, looking again with the scope, she saw that it looked like they had long flesh-colored fins for feet.

Bob, come here! She looked again. They both had long hair, streaming behind them as they swam, and they moved through the water like it was home!

Omigod! Bob!

He stepped up to the scope and turned his baseball cap around to get it out of the way. Then he looked through the scope. Damn, missed whatever it was. Just saw a couple of flippers going under.

Patricia watched for half an hour, trying to describe to Bob what she had seen. Of course, he had all kinds of ways to explain that she hadn’t seen a pair of sea-going humans. Eventually, they had to leave, with Patricia beginning to doubt what she thought she had seen. But for weeks after, she checked online to see if there were any other reports of sightings similar to hers. And there were a few, indeed.

1.

I live in the Valley of Smokes. Long before the first automobile added its exhaust to the birth of modern smog, the Chumash named the Los Angeles basin the Valley of Smokes for its tendency to hold the smoke from their campfires. I’m driving up Santa Monica Boulevard. It’s Sunday morning, August 9th, and it’s dark and gloomy, lots of overcast, even though it’ll be another scorcher. Ahead of me on the right, a young woman in a tight pink sheath is walking her Yorkshire terrier. The dog chases a butterfly around its owner and ties up her pretty bare legs in its leash. If I were a casting director I would be interviewing her to find out what she’s good at besides dog walking.

I reach the entrance to the 405 and turn north toward Sepulveda Pass. Traffic is pretty light for this infamous stretch of highway as I come up on a giant, gas-guzzling Extended Cab Silverado. It looks like the driver has second thoughts about using all the world’s oil and he’s Priusing up the grade at 50 mph. I move into the fast lane in my little middle-aged Alfa Romeo Spyder and easily pass him and watch him shrink in my rearview mirror. Half a mile later, the heavy overcast in Los Angeles breaks up, and I see the postcard blue sky ahead of me. I take the Mulholland Drive exit and twist east along Mulholland to Benedict Canyon. It’s a beautiful morning to drive this road in this car, and I’m pleased that Dr. Daniel Patrick has given me a reason to be up here.

Patrick called yesterday and wanted to know if I’d be interested in discussing a new project. Of course, I said yes, when he told me that he needs a diver for this one. I’ve been on two previous assignments for Patrick, the last one in the jungles of Borneo, which didn’t require any diving. I have to admit that I prefer the ocean to fever-ridden jungle rivers.

My name is James Edmondson, Jamie to my friends, and if you know me, you’re probably my friend. I’m pretty easy going, unless you disagree with my views on the environment, which are downright strident.

I pull into Patrick’s circular drive and notice that he’s been out already this morning—his Tesla is sitting in the driveway, showing everyone that he’s in favor of the environment and has the money to prove it. I pull my Spyder in behind it and walk up to the entry doors. I ring the bell next to the double doors twice my height and twice as fancy. After a short wait, Marcela, a matronly Filipina in a black and white uniform, answers the door.

I’m Jamie Edmondson. I’ve worked with Mr. Patrick before. You may remember me.

Yes, I do, Mr. Jamie, she warmly welcomes me into the vestibule. I’ll tell Mr. Patrick you’re here.

His vestibule is the size of my condo’s living/dining room. It’s hung with Audubon prints, and I stroll over to the Laysan Albatross which strikes my fancy this morning. The floor is paved with bamboo, a grass, not a wood, and therefore greener than oak flooring would be.

Jamie!

I turn, and Patrick is standing there smiling. He’s a ringer for Mr. Rogers, only a few years older. He’s wearing a cardigan sweater and Keds, which finish the impersonation smartly.

After shaking my hand, he suggests that we move out to the terrace to enjoy such a gorgeous morning. The table is already set with a coffee thermos, cups and saucers. Patrick knows me well enough to remember that I’m a coffee hound—French Roast, black. Marcela brings me a mug, knowing that I’m not a big fan of bone china.

A few of the season’s first Audubon’s warblers skitter around in the row of eucalyptus that creates a screen between his back yard and the mansion next door. It’s owned by an actress who stars in a TV cop show. I’ve met her at a couple of Patrick’s parties, and I like her in person even better than on TV, where she’s knocking lowlifes’ heads together. Maybe she’s better in person because she’s actual size, and her actual size is just about perfect.

Have you seen Mercy lately? I ask, hoping for another chance to see her.

No. Mercedes has been on location in a new movie project, he answers with little interest. I think she’s in Thailand for this one.

He takes a sip of his coffee. But let me tell you what’s going on. For the last month or so, visitors along the California coast north of Big Sur have been reporting sightings that don’t make sense, he says, waiting for my reaction.

When he gets none, he continues, There’ve been at least three reports of Beluga Whales in the area near Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park.

Belugas are small white whales similar in size to the larger dolphins. If you look up Beluga Whale on Wikipedia, you’ll see that they are native to Arctic waters. You’d never see them south of northern British Columbia. Certainly not on the central California coast. Go to Sea World. Some do very well in captivity. They’re cute, kind of roly poly with a smiling face. He tells me that there have been no reports of any escapees from any aquarium. Anywhere.

Another few reports, he says, say the Beluga sightings gloss over the truth. What they say they’ve seen are far smaller than Belugas. More like the size of California Sea Lions. In fact, they’re reporting sea lions, but with a twist. They’ve spotted three or four albinos in their ranks.

I whistle at that one. A single albino sea lion would be extremely rare. A group of them is only slightly less impossible than a Beluga cavorting around in Acapulco Bay.

"You know me, Jamie. These reports have definitely got me wondering, and I want to send a ship up to investigate. Of course, I thought of you right away. It could be that people have been spotting some extra pale Harbor Seals, but the reports are saying they’re not seals. They move too quickly and playfully.

When it comes right down to it, the Pacific Ocean is too big a bowl to imagine that we have a firm grasp on its contents. There are still areas with deep trenches, unreachable depths and mountain ranges that we barely know. Even though we’re talking close to shore and near populated areas, you know as well as I do that when you put your face under the water, you’re a foreigner in a faraway land.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe some fish that’s used to places that have faded from our collective memory has decided to bring his school of buddies to meander around in new waters. Maybe it’s a good thing that Patrick can afford to throw money away like this. Maybe not.

Right away, I tell him that I’m interested. He’s caught me at a good time, between jobs and girlfriends. I can head out as soon as he’s put a team together.

Patrick’s expeditions invariably reach out to what he refers to as new frontiers. He’s still a fan of Star Trek, but he chooses to put his missions on the planet Earth, looking for new ways to make life here more palatable, sometimes for its human inhabitants, more often for the others. He’s become famous and, along the way, rich, finding new cures for disease or saving a species of mosquito from extinction.

This current adventure of his, and mine, might have something to do with the latter. It’s a tired old song to some, but no species should be allowed to fall into extinction without a fight. Booming economy or not, there’s a place for the natural process Earth established long before we set foot on it.

Sorry about that. Getting strident again.

As we finish our coffees, and I get up to leave, I decide to be strident in a positive way, and I ask, By the way, you said that Mercy’s in Thailand? Do you have her agent’s number? I need to talk to her about something.

Patrick, being the old school guy that he is, calls her Mercedes, but her legion of fans knows her as Mercy Atkins, the female lead in the new cop show, Sunset Strip, where she wields a mini-skirted sheath and a Ruger 9mm better than any detective on TV.

Of course, Jamie, answers Patrick, and he scribbles a note on his napkin:

Mercedes Atkins’ agent,

Claire Keenan,

310-555-9879.

*

On my way back to Santa Monica, I’m beaming at the opportunity I plan on creating for myself. As soon as I get home, I call Star Associates even though it’s Sunday, and a receptionist picks up the phone.

Claire Keenan, please, I ask. I’m Jamie Edmondson, a friend of Daniel Patrick’s."

If you have friends with names that make people move, use them every chance you get.

Just a minute, Mr. Edmondson, replies the receptionist. I’ll have Ms. Keenan with you momentarily.

I wait ten seconds, and Claire picks up, How can I help you, Mr. Edmondson?

I just left a meeting with Daniel Patrick, and he mentioned that Ms. Atkins is on location in Thailand. When she returns to Los Angeles, I’d like to discuss something with her. Patrick and I have a new project we’re working on, and I have a few questions for Mercy. Or should I say Mercedes?

"She’s happy to be called Mercy, sir. And, while she is in Thailand today, I’m actually expecting her back in town day after tomorrow. Would that be soon enough?"

That would be fine, Ms., is it Keenan?

Yes, sir.

Then, if you wouldn’t mind calling me when Mercy is in town, I can call her to set up a time to get together.

Very good, sir.

Thank you, Ms. Keenan. I hang up, and thank myself for having the balls to try something like this.

*

Tuesday morning, August 11th. I’m a quarter mile out into Santa Monica Bay after checking in with Bart Johnston, who’s on Lifeguard Station 32 this morning. When I can, I talk to the boys and girls who are lifeguarding and give them my itinerary. That way, if I’m an hour late, they can send out boats to bring my drowned body ashore. Anyway, it makes sense to me.

Years ago, I decided that the IronMan triathlon was the most macho sport a guy could get involved in. I trained for a year and participated in it for three years during the 1990s. I did all right, but the bike and marathon segments were never up to the level that I did the swim in. Ever since 1997, I’ve continued to swim open ocean, but have given up biking and running. I think that swimming is the best all around exercise, and I find that the joy I get in the ocean clears my head and helps me focus on whatever problem I might be working on.

The swells are pretty light, normal for mid-August, and I’m having no problems as I head south along the outer limits of the bay toward Venice. I’m wearing a short, sleeveless wetsuit. Some of the official ocean races and the Seven Swims won’t allow anything but a swimsuit, but Los Angeles County water isn’t really warm enough for me, and I’m no masochist, only a fool who enjoys the most dangerous form of swimming. I take a look at my watch—it’s 7:30 already, and I turn around and swim back the way I came. Two miles will be enough for today.

I get home and turn on the coffeemaker, then shower. Just as I get out of the shower, the phone rings.

This is Jamie.

Jamie, it’s Mercy.

Good morning! You must still be at LAX. Your agent said you were getting in today.

"We landed at five. I waited until now because I didn’t want to call too early. By the way, what took you so long to call?"

What?

I gave Daniel my number a month ago and asked him to give it to you. I enjoyed talking with you at his party and thought we could meet for lunch or something.

"I’m flattered. Evidently, he forgot about it, because he never mentioned it to me. I was up there meeting with him on Sunday, and I remembered how much I had enjoyed myself with you."

Well, how about lunch today? There’s a nice little Italian place not far from here.

Sounds great. I’ll pick you up at twelve.

Perfect. See you then, she says and hangs up.

Wow! Mercy Atkins asking me