Cameron blinks. Wincing, he rubs his temple, which is throbbing where it must’ve smacked into the table as he fell. He wipes the smear of blood on his shirt and gives the busted stepladder a vengeful kick. If he wanted to, he could probably sue the balls off of this place. Poorly maintained equipment. A workplace injury. But what if someone asks him to explain what he was doing back here in the first place?
“You,” he says, glaring at the creature as he stands. The
thing hasn’t moved. It’s hunkered like some overgrown tarantula, having burrowed in the clutter of tubes and jars and pump parts in the deepest corner of the shelf above the tanks. It scrambled up there, somehow, as Cameron tried to corral it with a broom handle, which he now jabs toward the creature again. “What’s your problem, bro? I’m trying to help you.”
Its massive body heaves, like a sigh. At least it’s still alive, but probably not for much longer. An octopus can survive briefly out of water (there was a documentary once, on some nature channel), but this one has been on shore leave for almost twenty minutes, and that’s just counting from the time Cameron discovered it trying to slip out the back door he’d left propped open.
Someone could’ve warned him the exhibits might escape. Like, how is this even a possibility? Secure tanks should be a reasonable expectation in a tourist aquarium. Honestly, the situation is making him uneasy about those
sharks circling the big tank in the middle, especially now that his head is bleeding. Can sharks smell through glass?
“Come on, buddy,” he begs. Head still throbbing, he adjusts the gloves he put on after the thing tried to strangle his wrist and inches the broom handle closer. Expecting the octopus to . . . what, exactly? Slide down it like a fireman’s pole? But he can’t let the stubborn asshole just die up there, and there’s no way he’s touching it again, even with gloves. It looks like it wants to kill him. “Outta there, now. Back to your tank.”
A tentacle tip twitches, defiant, dislodging a pair of thin metal canisters and knocking them to the ground. They land with twin clangs.
This is going to be what gets Cameron fired. How many times can one person get canned in a lifetime? There should be a legal limit.
Something clicks softly behind him. Then a woman’s voice, trembling but clear. “Hello? Who’s in here?”
Nearly dropping the broomstick, he turns. A tiny woman stands in the doorway. Miniature, almost: she can’t be more than five feet tall. She’s older, maybe a little older than Aunt Jeanne, maybe late-sixties or seventy. She’s wearing a purple blouse, and her left ankle is swallowed in a walking cast.
“Oh! Um . . . hi. I was just—”
The lady’s sharp gasp cuts him off. She has spotted the creature cowered on the high shelf.
Cameron twists his hands. “Yeah, so I was just trying to
—”
“Out of the way, dear.” She pushes past him. Her voice is low and quiet now, any trepidation gone. Moving faster than he would’ve guessed possible, given her age and that boot, she’s across the room in three strides, where she regards the broken stool for a moment and shakes her head. Then, unbelievably, she scrambles to the top of the table.
Standing at her full height up there, she’s almost face level with the octopus.
“Marcellus, it’s me.”
The octopus shifts slightly out of its corner and peers at her, blinking its creepy eye. Who is this lady? And how did she get in here, anyway?
She nods, encouraging. “It’s okay.” She holds out her hand, and to Cameron’s shock the creature extends one of its arms and winds it around her wrist. She repeats, “It’s okay. I’m going to help you down now, all right?”
The octopus nods.
Wait, no. It did not. Did it? He rubs his eyes. Are they pumping hallucinogens through the ductwork here?
That would explain so much about tonight.
Tethered to the tiny woman’s arm, the octopus makes its way along the shelf. The woman limps along the length of the table, coaxing. Once she gets the thing directly over the empty tank, she nods at Cameron. “Move the cover, please, won’t you?”
He obeys, sliding the lid back and holding it open as wide as it will go.
“In you go,” the woman whispers.
Cold, briny water sloshes as the creature drops back in with a heavy plop. Reflexively, Cameron shudders away, and when he turns back, the octopus is gone again, leaving only a stir of rocks outside its den at the tank bottom.
The table creaks as the woman lowers herself. Cameron rushes over, clasping her elbow and guiding her back to the ground.
“Thank you.” She dusts her hands, then adjusts her glasses and sizes him up. “Are you hurt, dear? That cut could use some help.” She shuffles over and picks up the purse she dropped on her way in, then roots around for a minute before offering him a Band-Aid.
Cameron waves her off. “It’s nothing.”
“Nonsense. Take it,” she insists. Her voice is nonnegotiable. He takes the bandage, unwraps it, and fixes the neon pink strip to the side of his head. What a look. Oh well, it’s not like he’ll see anyone but Ethan tonight anyway.
“Good.” She nods. Then, with her voice level, she says, “Well, that’s over. Perhaps you can explain what happened here?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Cameron jabs a finger at the tank. “That thing escaped. I tried to get it back in the water.”
“His name is Marcellus.”
“Okay. Marcellus tried to pull a fast one. I was trying to help.”
“By assaulting him with a broomstick?”
He scoffs. “We can’t all be the Octopus Whisperer, or whatever the hell that was. Look, I was doing my best. If it weren’t for me, that octopus would be halfway across the ocean by now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that when I found him, he was on his way out the back door.”
The old lady’s mouth drops open. “Good heavens.”
“Yeah.” Maybe they won’t fire him. Maybe they’ll give him a raise. If it weren’t for him, they’d be replacing their octopus, after all. How much does a giant Pacific octopus cost? They’re probably not cheap.
The old lady’s tone sharpens when she says, “Why was the back door open?”
“Because I was emptying the trash? You know, doing my job? No one told me not to prop it.”
“I see.”
“But I’ll keep it closed from now on.” “Yes, wise idea.”
At these last words of hers, Cameron finds himself standing straighter. Why does it feel like she’s his boss? And what is she doing here? He’d better clear that up. The last thing he needs is Terry accusing him of letting some random
old woman into the building during his shift. He looks her over again. She can’t weigh more than eighty pounds. An unlikely burglar. Besides, she and that octopus have history. Maybe she’s a retired marine biologist. Or a volunteer. Senior citizen outreach.
“Can I ask what you’re doing here?” He tries to frame the question as politely as possible. “I mean, you seem nice, but no one else is supposed to be here, at least not that they told me.”
“Goodness. Of course. I’m sure I did give you a startle. I’m sorry. I’m Tova Sullivan, the cleaner.” A tight smile binds her thin lips as she gestures at the boot. “Injured cleaner.”
“Oh. Nice to meet you” is what he says, but what he’s thinking is Damn. This frail little woman does the same job he can barely get through without feeling like he just ran a marathon? It’s been two weeks and his feet are still sore after every shift. He adds, “I’m Cameron Cassmore, current cleaner. Or temporary cleaner, technically. I’m sorry about your injury. When he hired me, Terry said he thought you’d be out a few weeks.”
“I’m quite all right. It was a silly accident.” Tova’s eyes make the tiniest flick toward the busted stool. “I’m glad Terry found you, Cameron. From what I’ve seen, your skill is adequate. As it turns out, for unrelated reasons, I may be away from my position longer than anticipated. This will be a good solution, perhaps.”
Cameron pauses, digesting this. An extended gig here wouldn’t be the end of the world. Two weeks and he’s no closer to finding Simon Brinks than he was when he got here. The contact info Jessica Snell had given him must have been dated; when Cameron called, the number was disconnected. “Yeah, that would be cool. It’s not a bad job.”
“It’s a lovely job.” Tova smiles, but it’s tight, like it’s holding back sadness.
Okay, so she’s nice, but who in their right mind loves mopping tile and scrubbing floors this much? He shuffles his
feet. “So . . . do you just, like, stop by for fun sometimes?”
“I came to see Marcellus.” Her voice drops. “And I’m aware this may be improper to ask given that we’re barely acquainted, but I would appreciate your discretion.”
“Why?” Shit. This’ll get him in trouble with Terry after all.
Tova takes a deep breath. “Mind you, I don’t condone lying. But you see, Marcellus is a bit of a wayfarer at night, although until this evening I was not aware of his predilection to depart the building.” She frowns. “That part is new and troubling. But I’ve known of his wanderings for some time. He is remarkably adept at escaping his enclosure.”
“And no one else knows.” Cameron nods, starting to understand.
“Not with certainty, no. Terry suspects. If he knew for sure, he would certainly intervene.”
“Like, he’d nail down the top of the tank?”
Tova nods. “Marcellus would be devastated. But what concerns me is worse. Marcellus is old, Cameron, and a loose octopus is a liability.”
Is she really suggesting what he’s thinking? Terry, the fish geek, would put one of his animals down? Harsh. But what if it got out during the day and went after some kid on a field trip? The woman’s probably right about the liability. He folds his arms. “Marcellus is your friend.”
“Yes, I suppose he is.”
“When you went up there to save him, you weren’t afraid of him at all.”
Tova clicks her tongue. “Certainly not! He’s gentle.” “Well, it was still pretty badass.”
“I appreciate you saying so.”
She looks at the ground briefly, then back up at him with her eyes, which are a shrewd shade of greenish gray. “So? Shall it be our secret?”
Cameron hesitates. For sure, if Terry finds him acting as an accomplice to . . . whatever all of this is, this job will be
toast, and any hope of paying Aunt Jeanne back will be toast right along with it. And tracking down Simon Brinks? Toast city. He can’t get fired. Not this time.
But something about the thought of this sweet little old lady losing her friend makes him feel horrible. And the way that octopus had glared at him with its weird, humanlike eye, the threat of euthanasia . . . He shrugs. “Yeah, our secret.”
“Thank you.” She inclines her head.
Cameron picks up the broomstick from where he dropped it earlier and shoves the broken step stool against the wall for someone else to fix. “Conscience does make cowards of us all, huh?”
She freezes. “What did you say?”
“Conscience does make cowards of us all.” He feels himself start to redden. How does he always manage to drop this nerdy shit into conversation? He starts to explain, “It’s just some dumb Shakespeare quote. It’s from—”
“Hamlet,” she says softly. “It was one of my son’s favorites.”
