The Knife

By Abigail Falanga

Water laps under the pier. It’s a new moon, leaving the night dark. Ropes chafe my wrists—like guitar strings against my fingers, but harsh as the bad memory of yesterday, when this all began.

Busking on the corner near Brown’s Bar, I was getting good Saturday-afternoon tips from sailors off some freighters that’d just come in. A fat wad of bills landed in my guitar case as I finished a so-so cover of a Macklemore song, and I looked up with heartfelt thanks.

A man was putting away keys and wallet, head close-shaved, with a toothy grin that almost made me choke on my gratitude. His arm wound around Sukie, one of the prettiest ladies that frequented the Bar.

“It was completely worth it, Bobby,” she said to me, then turned to murmur in her date’s ear, “My favorite song!”

“Anything for you, babe,” Toothy-grin sweet-talked as they loped off.

I should’ve paid attention to my instincts—something felt wrong about that encounter.

I went into the Bar for a drink and burger when traffic got rowdy. Toothy-grin was there, the self-satisfied object of a catfight between Lucy Brown, who was ignoring several customers, and Lottie, another bar-lady. Sukie was nowhere in sight.

I hadn’t finished glowering at the trio when Jenny Diver slipped onto the barstool next to me, also scowling at them. Jenny was a port cop and usually avoided me—and everyone else. But, since we apparently had mutually strong feelings against Toothy-grin, I worked up the courage to talk to her.

“Who is that guy? Seems to get a lot of attention.”

Jenny acknowledged my existence, directing her ravishing sea-green eyes my way. “His name’s Heath Messer, and yeah, he certainly has our attention.”

Score one for me. “Why?”

“We suspect him in connection to a few robberies.” She left it at that, cagey as usual, sipping a Scotch and hiding behind blunt-cut dark hair with an unexpected, and surely unprofessional, aqua-blue streak.

“Next drink’s on me if you tell me more.”

“You can’t afford it.”

“It’s on Messer.” I waved a crumpled ten. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to—I’ll still buy.”

Jenny looked full at me, half-smiling. “No offense, Bobby, but I get offered drinks from way cuter guys all the time.”

“But none so honest!”

Jenny’s phone rang, crushing whatever hopes I might’ve had for our conversation. Her eyes widened, and she repeated the report—someone had found Sukie’s body washed-up a few miles away. I glanced over, but Messer had left the bar.

Sunday morning, I set out to find a good corner where I could intercept churchgoers. A small, frenzied crowd caught my eye. On the sidewalk in front of them lay a man, throat slit, dead.

Horrified, I looked away just as a man I thought I recognized slipped around a corner. I gave chase, rounding into an alley after him, making good time though my guitar encumbered me.

Too late. The next street was clear.

Police had arrived when I got back. Jenny was there, so I hung around and told her what I’d seen as she went to her car.

“Could be Messer,” she admitted, retrieving a laptop and slamming her door. “It’s his kind of thing. Take all someone has, kill him, get away. Trouble is, no one ever sees more than you did, and he always wears gloves.”

“He’s done this before?”

“Shows up every couple weeks, along with a crime wave. But,” Jenny hesitated, glancing at the other cops, “that’s just my theory, okay? Don’t let on to anyone else.”

Only later that afternoon did it occur to me what she meant. A little internet digging confirmed it. The crime waves coincided with spring tides. That was when I remembered seeing a marina key on Messer’s keyring. Maybe he came in on a low-haul boat, which could only dock at the new or full moon.

But I couldn’t just let it lie. No, I had to be stupid enough to check it out myself.

I talked my way past the marina guard, who let slip that he knew Messer. And after an hour of searching to see what types of boats were docked, I had…

Nothing.

No boat fit what I was looking for. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe—

Sudden pain and blackness drowned awareness.

Now here I am, tied up, head throbbing, eyes struggling against the dark night.

“You know, the great thing is that no one will even notice you’re gone.” Messer secures the rope attaching to me to a block of concrete.

“You gonna kill me?” I try to sound brave. “Take my money?”

He stands and grins. “Sure. Just not up here. Less to clean up if I take it down below.”

His mouth widens, broadens. Impossibly broad with too many razor-sharp teeth.

Am I hallucinating? How hard did he hit my head?

His face smooths back into his body and—

He kicks the block. It drops into the water, taking me with it.

I struggle against the ropes as waves close over my head. Lights from the marina silhouette Messer’s elongated, shark-like form. He jumps in after me, jaws snapping.

A fishlike creature closes on him. Shark-Messer roils backward as an underwater gun spurts silent fire.

The other thing drops the gun, then twists its tail and comes at me, a knife in its hand.

The weight at my ankles drops away. Finned arms wrap around me, and we surge to the surface…

And breach, struggling onto the boardwalk.

When I can breathe without coughing, I try to thank my rescuer, and realize…

It’s Jenny. She pounds my chest to clear my lungs. She cuts my bonds.

She’s still scaly.

“You’re a mermaid?”

“And Messer’s a shark-shifter.” Jenny looks at me, eyes shimmering. “I’ve suspected for some time. He got away, but his blood’s in the water now. We’ll catch him, thanks to you.”

Can you guess which song from the 1950's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Abigail Falanga may be found in New Mexico creating magic in many ways – with fabric, food, paper, music, and especially with words! She’s loved fantasy ever since playing out epic adventures of swords, fairies, and monsters with her siblings, and loved sci-fi since her dad’s stories around the dinner table. Besides sharing mad little stories on Havok, she is busily trying to launch approximately five hundred novels into the world. Some of them are even finished!

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