Furious by Jeffrey Higgins (top 10 novels to read TXT) 📕

The ocean did not scare me as long as my feet remained on solid ground, and spending weeks on the yacht had dulled my fear. I should have done this years ago. I dunked my hands again and splashed a handful of saltwater over my chest. It dribbled down my torso and onto my legs, cooling me.

The shark broke the surface ten feet in front of me, its gray nose sticking out of the water.

I threw my body back from the edge and fell onto the center of the dock.

The shark rolled its head over and stared at me with a black eye—the face of a devil.

I leapt to my feet and scrambled up the steps. My heart raced, and my head spun. I took shallow, rapid breaths but continued to tremble.

I crept to the stern as the beast’s head lifted again, flashing rows of white teeth. Its jaws smacked open and shut, and its head submerged. The shark stroked its giant caudal fin and slid past the dock, in no apparent hurry. The sun gleamed on its dorsal fins as it swam along the port side of the yacht and disappeared beneath the surface.

I pushed the lift button, and the dock retracted against the stern. Maybe the electric currents had drawn the shark. Whatever it had been, I would never do that again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I spent the afternoon scanning the ocean and did not see the shark again, but I sensed it lurking nearby, staying close, waiting for something. The fine hair lifted off my arms.

At twilight, I went below and listened at the stateroom door. Nothing. Brad needed sleep more than anything, so I crept in without knocking.

He snored and smacked his lips like he was thirsty. He tossed and turned in a hyperactive sleep. He scratched the top of his head, rolled over, and scratched it again with his other hand, obviously uncomfortable.

I poured a glass of water and set it beside him. I touched my wrist to his forehead, careful not to wake him. His skin simmered.

He swatted my hand away in his sleep and scratched again. When he pulled his fingers away, blood dripped off his fingernails.

I leaned over and examined him. Dried blood matted the hair on the crown of his head. Had he scratched himself hard enough to break the skin?

Brad’s filmy eyes opened and grew large, filling with rage. He jerked his head off the pillow and grabbed my shoulders.

“Get the fuck off me,” he yelled.

I opened my mouth in a silent scream.

His fingers dug into my flesh, sending shooting pains down my arms. He pushed me and I stumbled off the platform and crashed against the wall. Surprise spread across his face and he gawked at his hands, as if they were controlled by another person and had acted without his permission.

“What the hell?” I asked. “You hurt me.”

“I’m sorry. You startled me. I, uh, I must have been dreaming.”

He seemed contrite, but my shoulders ached, and my hands shook. I hugged myself, more unnerved than injured.

“That hurt.”

“What the hell were you doing to me?” he asked, his tone sharpening.

I took a half-step backward. “I saw you scratching. You’re bleeding.”

Brad’s eyes softened again, and he rubbed his scalp. He removed his hand and stared at his fingertips, which were stained red.

My feet had rooted to the deck. “What is it? Why are you bleeding?”

“Something must have bitten me. I don’t know. The bat, maybe.”

My blood chilled. “The bat? You told me it didn’t bite you.”

 “I didn’t think so.”

“Did it?” My throat had constricted, making my voice high, panicky.

 “It bounced off me, but I never felt a bite.”

“Bats carry all kinds of diseases. You should have let me examine you. I could have taken you to a doctor in Bali.”

“I said I didn’t know it bit me. It’s not my fault. I’m a doctor too, you know. Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Let me examine it.”

“I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

“You’re not fine. You still have a fever.”

“Get away from me . . . please.”

I glared at him. He would not allow me to examine his head and insisting would only infuriate him.

Should I worry about Brad or fear him?

CHAPTER THIRTY

Brad attacked Emma in her grave. His hands tightened around her throat, crushing her trachea, and she choked and squirmed, struggling to breathe. Her face turned blue and her eyes rolled white. I reached for her, but I could not move my arms. I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

I jolted awake to the beeping of my watch alarm. My muscles ached and my head pounded. I leaned forward on the deck lounger, my eyes darting around. Stars filled the sky and empty ocean surrounded us. We had not moved or seen another ship for days. Brad’s condition, the lack of wind, the shark—all left me with an impending sense of doom.

I could not fall back to sleep after those horrible dreams, so I opened my Mac Air to do some research, which always calmed me. It had worked when my mother stumbled around the house drunk and when med school had seemed impossible. It would work now. The infected wound on Brad’s head must have come from the bat in the temple cave. What else could have done it?

I opened a browser and queried bats indigenous to Indonesia. Over eleven million hits popped up, and I scrolled through the results. Indonesia was home to hundreds of species of bats, a fact I did not remember reading in their tourism ads. I searched for the Pura Goa Lawah temple, opened Wikipedia, and read. Nectar bats infested the cave at the temple site, so next, I typed in “nectar bat Bali” and found several ecology websites.

The cave nectar bat seemed like the likely culprit. They were brown or black, with heads shaped like dogs, furry bodies, and pointed ears. They were not carnivores and fed on the nectar of plants. One picture showed