Abalone poaching is dangerous, the fine is huge, and you could find yourself in the jaws of a hungry shark. It’s certainly happened before, and it’ll happen again.
But the demand is ridiculously high. Two to three hundred dollars for a kilogram. High risk, high rewards. Rachel was in financial trouble. She was raised in Kangaroo Bay, so she knew where to find them.
“I couldn’t tell the police why she’d go there.” She bites her lip. “I couldn’t tell them about the other thing, either.”
“What other thing?”
“She was threatened. At work.”
“When?”
“Not long before the attack. Less than two weeks,” she says. “Someone sent her a text message and a video.”
“Her husband?” I prompt. “You said they’d had issues.”
She shakes her head firmly. “No, this was different.”
“Who sent it, then?”
“She didn’t recognize the number. We downloaded one of those apps, afind out who called mething. But we couldn’t find much. We even tried entering the number into those reverse phone lookup websites.”
“And?”
“Nothing. No results for that number.” She pauses. “I reckon someone bought a cheap mobile just to send her the message. They probably ditched it after.”
“What did the text message say?”
“This is what happens to rule breakers.”
“…Whathappens to rule breakers?”
She hesitates. “I think you need to see the video.”
—
The video is low quality.Grainy, speckled. Random dots scatter the laptop screen. The colors are muted and washed out. It looks like it was shot on an early model phone or an old camera.
“Rach took her phone with her to Kangaroo Bay. They never found it. But she transferred the video to her laptop.” Deb hovers over me, grimacing. “She watched it over and over again. We fought about it. I don’t know how she could watch something like that. I certainly couldn’t.”
I squint at it, trying to make sense of what I’m staring at. Then I realize. It’s a woman, swimming in the open ocean.
She’s in a wet suit, arms thrust out like she’s telling someone to back off, her face flushed with fear. I fumble for the sound, turning it all the way up. The woman stammers something, shoulders raised, gesturing frantically at something off-screen. I can’t hear her, but Ican feel her terror. Can see her chest rising and falling, can almost hear her short, rapid gasps.
Deb staggers back. “I can’t watch this…”
She bolts out the room, and I eye her warily, wondering what’s coming.
Then it happens.
The shark’s dorsal fin slices the surface, water rippling as the powerful tail propels it forward, straight at the woman. She paddles desperately, eyes darting over her shoulder as the fin grows larger and larger, cutting too easily through the water. I hear her now. Screaming.
I wonder who the hell is filming this. And why aren’t they helping her?
The woman yells something as the shark goes for her head, then she’s silent, face a pulpy mess, part of her jaw ripped away. She bobs in the water, dazed and bleeding from her mouth. The dorsal fin towers over her head like a witch’s hat, tail viciously slapping on the water. It surfaces briefly, bites down hard on her arm, pulls her under, thrashing so violently, her bloodied legs break the surface.
Then she’s gone.
Video’s over. I sit heavily on Rachel’s bed, replaying it again and again. Purple wet suit. Pale eyes. I pause the video, zooming in, fingers shaking.
