Internationally bestselling author of BLOODMAN, Robert Pobi braves the deep water in MANNHEIM REX, an homage to the blockbuster JAWS and to the classic American novel MOBY DICK.
MANNHEIM REX is published in November 2012 by Thomas & Mercer: here's Chapter One, an exclusive excerpt.
MANHEIM REX by Robert POBI
The characters and events portrayed in
this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 Robert Pobi
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of
America.
No
part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Author’s Note-
The New York Public Library has in its
permanent collection a terrestrial globe known as the Hunt-Lenox Globe. Dating
from 1510, it is the only known historical map with the inscription HC
SVNT DRACONES—“hic sunt dracones,” or “here are
dragons”—over terra incognita. Less than fifty years later, the legend
discussed in Mannheim Rex made
its first printed appearance in Conrad Gesner’s celebrated treatise Historia
animalium III, of 1558. Although these are the
oldest documented sources I was able to find, there is evidence that this
legend dates as far back as 1230.
After three-quarters of a millennium,
there is still much in the way of terra incognita.
—Robert Pobi
CHAPTER 1
Now
would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
—William
Shakespeare, The Tempest
Lake
Caldasac, New York
Early
June
Frank
Knechtel slowed the boat and swiveled his head in the direction of the approaching
storm. He took off the battered gold Ray-Bans and squinted into the ugly mass
of clouds, trying to get a feel for her vitals; he had fished this lake long enough
to know that when it came to weather, shit turned on a dime out here. The summer
storms were the worst, screaming in from the north, washing out roads and downing
trees like a malevolent force in a science-fiction movie.
As
he turned, the thick rolls of stubbly flesh on the back of his neck squeezed
out sweat, and a small part of him was happy that rain was coming— maybe it
would cool things down a bit. Then he saw the ugly flash of lightning and his
relief was short-circuited by the electrical charge he saw dancing in the
clouds. It was going to be a bad one.
The
slate thunderhead rolled in fast, devouring the land in great spasms of rain
and wind and lightning. Behind the jagged cliff of stormcloud, brittle snaps of
white pulsed in the dark body like the irregular firing of a vast volcanic
heart. The cloud bank had flattened the horizon and the atmosphere was pregnant
with the electricity beating in its chest. Ten miles off. Maybe less.
Frank
slipped the throttle into neutral and pulled the big St. Croix musky rod out of
the holder bolted to the oarlock. The cork handle was slick with warm beads of
moisture, as if it too were sweating. While he worked, he kept glancing at the anvil
head moving in, hoping that he wouldn’t run out of time. A flash of lightning detonated
and the lake went from blue to white for an instant. A few seconds later the
sound wave screamed in and it pushed the oxygen from the air and he tasted the electrical
charge in the atmosphere. He spit over the side, hoping to get rid of the metallic
film that seemed welded to his teeth.
Frank
pumped the handle of the reel and the big spool recovered line quickly. He felt
the lure biting the water and the braid sung through the guides on the rod.
There was another mortar round of thunder and the boat actually shook. He doubled
his retrieval speed and spat again.
And
then his lure snagged on something.
He
yanked back on the heavy rod, the hundred-and-thirty-pound line twanging with
each jolt he put into it, then checked the Lawrence fish finder with a precise
pivot of his massive head. The bottom was fifty feet down. What the hell could
he have hooked out here in the open water? Submerged log, maybe. If the storm
hadn’t been coming, Frank would have circled around and tried to work his lure
free, but the wall of darkness had touched the far end of the lake, swallowing the
dam, and he could see the glint of rain hammering down. Then he saw the rainbow
shards of light dancing like sparks and realized that it wasn’t rain at all; it
was hail. Sonofabitch. If he didn’t want to get stuck out in the middle of an electrical
storm with bullets falling from the sky while waving his own personal lightning
rod, he’d have to cut loose and head for shore right now. But at forty-five bucks
he hated to let the big handcrafted lure go. Another jolt of electricity
cracked the sky and made his mind up for him. He reached for his knife just as
the snag started to move.
The
bright slash of the line cut through the water and Frank yanked back, leaning
into it. The rod tip bent, and he pulled with his shoulders, feeling the unmistakable
throb of muscle at the other end of the line, telegraphing out to him. It was
massive, sinuous, sure.
A
wave sloshed over the gunwale as the wind set in. The line zagged back, then
pulled taut, and his reel screamed against the strain on the drag.
Frank
had spent four years stationed at Subic Naval Base in the Philippines and he’d
eyeballed everything from giant bluefin to Mark 48 torpedoes slicing through
the water, and nothing he’d ever seen had moved this fast. Not even close. He
pulled back again and the whine of his reel rose above the howl of the wind
that had started to wail.
The
boat swung like a compass needle, pulled by the force he had hooked.
He couldn’t stop it. Hell, he couldn’t
even slow it down. The motor was gurgling in the irregular swells, coughing
blue smoke thick with the smell of oil. The pulse of the sky at the edge of his
vision caught his attention once again and he glanced up.
The
wall of hail was thrashing across the surface of the lake, bearing down on him.
There was another shot of lightning and the world lit up in eerie blues and the
air ripped open with the roar of thunder. He had to cut loose and head for one
of the shallow bays to wait out the storm or he’d get chewed up out here.
Whatever the lightning didn’t fry, the hail would smash to bits.
He
slashed at the line with the big Buck knife.
The
world went supernova again as Mother Nature slammed a billion volts into the
lake. The shockwave hammered him back over the bench, and he tripped. He
reached out to steady himself. Line wrapped around his wrist and for a second he
felt a pinch. There was another violent surge from the lake itself and the line
dug into his arm. Then the tension let go and he stumbled back. There was a
splash.
He
felt a stinging in his fingers and looked at his hand. It was gone. Neatly. Cleanly.
Gone.
The
braided line had garroted his hand.
A
thick piss-rope of blood drooled out. Thick drops splattered his boots and turned
the water sloshing around the bottom of the boat pink at first. Then quickly black.
Then
the sky opened up. The staccato clatter of hail bouncing off the boat almost
drowned out his single, girlish scream.
Frank
fumbled with his belt. Managed to get it off. Pulled it tight around his arm to
slow the bleeding. Pain hit. He howled again. Grit his teeth. Then saw the shadow
moving just below the surface of the lake. The hail was pounding the water, distorting
it, but it was huge. Massive. Something about the way it behaved transmitted
more than its shape could. There was purpose in the way it moved. It wanted
something.
Frank
scrambled back against the transom, his eyes never leaving the nightmare that
surged through the water, skirting his field of vision. He tripped on the bench
and almost went sprawling backward, over the gunwale. He stood at the transom,
crying, staring into the water. It wasn’t going away. It was getting closer, circling
in.
There
was no longer the sensation of blood drooling out of his wrist or of the hail
clattering down; his universe had been reduced to the black shape that wanted
him. He knew it wanted him. He could feel it.
What
was it?
Why
was it doing this?
But
he knew. It was here to feed.
Somewhere
above him there was a flash of lightning and the air cracked with the pressure.
Frank stumbled. His thigh hit the throttle and engaged the propeller. The boat
lurched forward with a jolt.
There
was a split-second as he teetered on the edge of his balance. Then he fell,
screaming, into the water.
His
boat! He needed to get to—
The
boat chugged steadily off into the haze of the storm and was soon gone, leaving
him alone. With it.
He
spun, searching.
It
found him first.
He
heard his humerus break before he felt it and the thing pulled him down into
the black, toward the center of the earth. His body seesawed with the pulse of its
muscles as it pulled him away from the world.
Please
stop. Oh God, it hurts. STOP! Please. Please, please, pleasepleasepleaseplee—
Stars
filled with phosphorescent blisters of pain burst behind his eyes. His lungs
screamed for air. Something else broke deep inside him and fear replaced all the
things he had ever hoped for.
He
tried to free himself. Each movement to get away brought him a jolting slap of
hurt. He punched at the snout. Connected with bone and slime and teeth. His palm
ripped open. Hit it again. And again. Suddenly he was free. Floating. Knechtel kicked
his legs and his life vest brought him up.
He
broke into the mist and sucked in greedily, filling his lungs. Water splashed
into his mouth and down his throat. He coughed. And screamed. What
the fuck is it? was
all he could think.
Get
to shore. He looked around and could see it at the edge of the haze. Three
hundred yards. Maybe less.
The
first stroke was awkward and he faltered over onto his side. He tried again and
the same thing happened. The bad arm was not working. He reached over and felt
the denuded bone and slimy tendrils of tendon sticking out of his shoulder. There
was no arm. It was gone.
And that was when the pain went supernova. Bucketloads that spilled through his
body and set his mind on fire.
There
was the swish of something in the water in front of him and he felt the pulse
of a wave as it moved by.
Then
it came back and grabbed him.
It
clamped down onto his remaining arm. Yanked him under. All the fuses in
Knechtel’s mind exploded in a flash of fear. He felt his body pulling to the surface,
the buoyant life vest doing what it was designed to. But the freight train driving
him down just kept going. There was nothing he could do, not against the force
taking him into the earth. He felt a sharp snap as his eardrums imploded and white
noise of static filled what few corners of his mind weren’t packed with agony. Blackness
started creeping in and he started to lose consciousness. Then, for some reason,
it let go.
The
life vest pulled him toward the white world above. The fuses in his mind that
were not yet blown kept him holding on to consciousness. For the second time he
bobbed to the surface.
The
first breath burned down his throat. He coughed and vomited, bile splattering
out his nose in red strings. The world spun dizzily and he saw the distant outline
of the shore flash by. He spun in a whirlpool created by whatever it was circling
him.
He
had to make it to shore. To get away from it. Far away.
Knechtel
tried to swim and nothing happened. It took a second for him to realize that he
wasn’t moving because he had no arms. They were both gone. No,
a voice somewhere back there at the edge of consciousness said, not
gone—bitten off. He kicked his legs and he spun in
place, amid the widening pool of blood.
There
was a surge of pressure as it hit him from below and he knew he had shit
himself. For an instant the pain was brain blinding. And then it…wasn’t. He hardly
felt anything at all except disbelief. But he heard it. The sound was intimate.
And with some disconnection he realized that his body was being torn apart. Chewed.
Crunched. Consumed.
Below
the foaming surface of Lake Caldasac, Frank Knechtel’s head slowly swirled
toward the bottom. His mouth instinctively sucked for air that, had it come, would
have done no good whatsoever because he no longer had a body to process oxygen.
It spiraled down into the cold water, blood billowing out as it sank.
The
last message his brain received before the electrical impulses stopped firing
had been sent from his eyes.
Madness
was coming for him.
Frank
Knechtel’s face, although no longer technically alive, had time to involuntarily
wince before it was torn from his skull.
**************************************
ON POBI:
One afternoon, on a job selling high-end vintage wristwatches, Robert Pobi walked into a client's Manhattan apartment and fell in love with the American Arts and Crafts movement. A collection of furniture, pottery, and metal quickly followed. In 1996, Pobi opened Arcadia Antiques and Decorative Arts, an exclusive antiques and decorating shop in Montréal.
Over the next fourteen years, Pobi's shop became internationally recognized, appearing in Architectural Digest (both American and Italian imprints)., Country Home, Canadian House and Home, Conde Nast's Travel, and many other publications. His clients included movie stars, musicians, and an eccentric mix of top designers.
To fuel his client's thirst for the unusual, unique, and exquisite, Pobi haunted London, Paris, New Orleans, and Boston, hand-picking merchandise from auction houses and dealers.
Comfortably
ensconced in his bustling business, Pobi opened his desk drawer one morning to
see six completed manuscripts staring back at him. It was at that instant that
he decided to turn his full-time attention to the true great love of his life -
writing.
BLOODMAN, Pobi’s debut novel that has now gone
on to become a major international bestseller, and his new novel, MANNHEIM REX, written at a desk once owned by ''God's banker'', Roberto Calvi. Pobi splits his time between a cabin in the mountains and the Florida Keys, writing and fishing for everything that swims.
-30-
JF
November 2012
