Page 18 of Ensnaring the Siren

“Their families are devastated,” Fairfield continued, voice rising in fervor as he lifted his eyes to the cameras. “No one wants to say that these sea people are hostile and pose a threat to national security. So, I’ll say it. This was a massacre, not the equivalent of a ‘shark attack.’ And to try comparing it to one is a gross misrepresentation of what happened. Animals aren’t malicious, people are, and these are people we’re dealing with here.”

Fairfield spewed more venomous rhetoric, but after about a minute, Reid swapped to a different video, unable to listen to that man’s shit a second longer.

The incident had garnered enough attention that the State Governor made a public address, “mourning the loss of Maine fishermen” and promising to “investigate the incident.” Behind-the-scenes, the administration asked the Coast Guard to increase their patrols in the Gulf of Maine.

Word on the Coast Guard grapevine, stations up and down the East Coast were being flooded by calls from scared, jumpy people reporting “mermaid sightings,” none of which could be verified. All incensed and on edge from the news.

Reid returned to his reading.

There was speculation by some that Nautic’s CEO had a toe in protected species trafficking and other unseemly underground activities. But “rumors” were where they stopped, and nothing concrete had ever surfaced that would lead anyone to take real action.

With the amount of time Nautic had spent fishing in merfolk territory these last few months, he bet they didn’t like that it was going to be declared a marine sanctuary. Were they milking the area for all that it was worth before that happened? And merfolk had become the unfortunate bycatch?

Or was there something more going on? Something intentional and sinister. It wasn’t much of a stretch to assume that someone like Fairfield would take one look at a beautiful, mythical creature and see dollar signs.

Hatcher entered the room with a newspaper and thermos of coffee in hand. He paused to peer over Reid’s shoulder before plopping down at a desk beside him, concern etched onto his face. “Those Nautic’s files?”

“Yeah.” Reid rubbed his eyes, aching from screen strain. He really wasn’t a desk job kind of guy.

“You know that’s CGIS’s job, right?”

“Something’s just not sitting right.” He clicked over to a web browser. “It’s bugging me.”

“Is it bugging you because it’s actually bugging you, or because she asked you to look into it?” No doubt who Hatcher meant. The biting way he said “she” said all.

“Can’t it be both?”

Hatcher sighed. “I guess. Are you finding anything interesting?”

“Nothing concrete, but Nautic’s definitely not squeaky clean.”

“What corporation is?” Hatcher sipped his coffee, then leaned forward, squinting at the blog post Reid had pulled up on screen. “A rumored illegal aquarium fish market seller,” Hatcher read out loud. “A mermaid would be quite the prize.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

Perez swept into the room. “What are we gossiping about?”

“Nautic.” Both Reid and Hatcher answered simultaneously.

“That they’re probably into illegal market stuff,” Reid clarified. “And would see mermaids as an enticing business venture.”

Perez rolled her eyes. “Well, duh.”

Ignoring the jab, Reid jerked his head toward the newspaper in Hatcher’s hand. “That today’s paper? Can I see it?”

The dropmaster drew it closer to his person, grip tightening. “It is. Why?”

“I just want to see if they did a follow up on The Merry Mariner story.”

Hatcher wheeled his desk chair back a pace. “It’s probably online too.”

“I’ll give it back.” When Hatcher didn’t so much as twitch, Reid added, “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Squirrelly much?” Perez reached for the paper, presumably to take it by force, but Hatcher skirted around her and handed it over, grumbling that he wanted it right back.

On the front page of the Haven Cove Daily, above the fold, was a special interest piece written by Jackie Gaten on the fishing crew who died. All eight of their pictures were laid out in a grid and cropped into headshots, either taken from family photos or social media profile pictures. Reid’s eyes snagged on the first photo and the over-tan man smiling up at him with salt-and-pepper hair and a prominent scar that sliced up from the right-side corner of his upper lip to his cheek. The last man Reid had failed to save.

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