The Reef

any change. Otherwise, we’ll be back by noon.”
    When they were alone, Tate took Matthew’s hand. “Let’s go see him.”
    Maybe his color was better, Matthew thought a few moments later when he stood over his uncle’s bed. Buck’s face was still drawn, but that horrible gray wash had faded.
    “His chances go up every hour,” Tate reminded him, and slipped her hand over Buck’s. “He made it through surgery, Matthew, and he made it through the night.”
    The dim glow of hope was more painful than despair. “He’s tough. See that scar there.” With a fingertip, Matthew traced a jagged pucker along Buck’s right forearm. “Barracuda. Yucatán. I was running the airlift, and Buck and the fish ran into each other in the fallout cloud. Went and got himself stitched up. Was back in the water within an hour. He’s got a beaut on his hip where—”
    “Matthew.” Tate’s voice was shaky. “Matthew, he squeezed my hand.”
    “What?”
    “He squeezed my hand. Look. Look at his fingers.”
    They flexed on Tate’s, a slow curl. Matthew’s skin went cold, then hot as he looked at his uncle’s face. Buck’s eyelids fluttered.
    “I think he’s coming around.”
    A tear leaked out of the corner of Tate’s eye as she gave Buck’s hand an answering squeeze. “Talk to him, Matthew.”
    “Buck.” With his heart skidding in his chest, Matthew leaned closer. “Goddamn it, Buck, I know you hear me. I’m not going to waste my time talking to myself.”
    Buck’s eyelids fluttered again. “Shit.”
    “Shit.” Tate began to weep quietly. “Did you hear that, Matthew? He said ‘shit.’ ”
    “He would.” Matthew grabbed Buck’s hand as his throat burned. “Come on, you candy ass. Wake up.”
    “I’m ’wake, Jesus.” Buck opened his eyes, saw blurs. Shapes swam and shivered. He had the sensation of floating, found it not altogether unpleasant. His vision clearedenough for him to make out Matthew’s face. “What the hell. Thought I was dead.”
    “That makes two of us.”
    “He didn’t get you, did he?” Buck’s voice slurred as he struggled to get the words around his tongue. “That bastard didn’t get you?”
    “No.” Guilt crashed down on Matthew like cold, honed steel. “No, he didn’t get me. It was a tiger, about a ten-footer,” he said, understanding that Buck would want to know. “We killed him, Tate and me. He’s fish bait now.”
    “Good.” Buck closed his eyes again. “Fucking hate sharks.”
    “I’ll go tell the nurse,” Tate said quietly.
    “Fucking hate them,” Buck repeated. “Ugly bastards. Probably a rogue, but make sure we got bats and bangsticks.”
    He opened his eyes again. Gradually the machines and the tubes came into focus. His brow puckered. “Not the boat.”
    Matthew’s heart began to thud in his throat. “No. You’re in the hospital.”
    “Hate hospitals. Goddamn doctors. Boy, you know I hate hospitals.”
    “I know.” Matthew concentrated on soothing the panic he saw in Buck’s eyes. He’d worry about his own reaction later. “Had to bring you in, Buck. The fish hurt you.”
    “A couple of stitches . . .”
    Matthew could see the instant Buck began to remember. “Take it easy, Buck. You’ve got to take it easy.”
    “Got hold of me.” The sensations rushed back, one tumbled over another like nasty children in a street brawl. Fear, pain, horror and a skittering dread that triumphed over the rest.
    He remembered the agony, the helplessness of being shaken and torn, choking on his own blood, blinded by it. That last clear memory of staring into those black, hate-filled eyes as they rolled up white with cold pleasure.
    “Son of a bitch got hold of me.” Buck’s voice jerked as he fought against Matthew to sit up. “How bad? How bad he get me, boy?”
    “Calm down. You’ve got to calm down.” Struggling to keep his hands gentle, Matthew pinned Buck to the bed. It was pitifully easy. “If you act like this, they’ll knock you out again.”
    “Tell me.” Panic darting in his eyes, Buck took a fistful of Matthew’s shirt. The grip was so weak, Matthew could have shaken it off with a shrug. But he didn’t have the heart. “You tell me what that bastard did to me.”
    Of all the things that had been between them, there had never been lies. Matthew covered Buck’s hands with his, looked him square in the eyes.
    “He took your leg, Buck. The fucker took your leg.”

C HAPTER 8
    “Y OU ’ RE NOT GOING to blame