Sail

  “The storm, Mr. Carlyle,” said Tatem, unruffled. “It hasn’t fully passed through the area the signal is coming from. I can’t send out a search-and-rescue effort unless I know the team can actually make a rescue—or for that matter won’t end up needing to be rescued itself.”

  “So when will that be?” Peter asked, sounding desperate. “What’s your estimate?”

  “As I said, it should be very soon.”

  “What am I supposed to do in the meantime? I mean, what can I do?”

  “I’m afraid there’s not much more you can do besides wait. I’ll call you as soon as the situation changes and we know more.”

  This struck Peter as wholly inadequate. As far as he was concerned, telling people to wait was tantamount to blowing them off. He felt like he was being handled. He hated being handled.

  Still, there was no sense showing this Tatem character the full force of his trip-wire temper. Peter knew he could ill afford to piss off the Coast Guard. He definitely needed them on his side.

  “Lieutenant, there must be something more that can be done,” he pressed gently.

  Tatem exhaled a prolonged and heavy sigh. “Well, I don’t know if you’re a religious man, Mr. Carlyle, but if I could suggest one thing, it would be prayer.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant, that’s good advice,” said Peter, who didn’t think he’d said a prayer in the last twenty years.

  Chapter 38

  “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD,” muttered Jake, emerging from belowdecks as soon as the storm had passed. “That was something else.”

  Katherine and the kids, still wearing their life jackets, were right behind him. Their reactions echoed his as they gazed around. All in all, the Third Commandment never stood much of a chance. Mark in particular sounded like a broken record. “Jesus H. Christ,” he kept repeating. And for good reason, too.

  The deck looked like a war zone in the middle of Iraq. There was splintered wood at nearly every step, shattered nautical instruments along the helm, and a veritable obstacle course of strewn ropes and seat cushions everywhere else.

  And it only got worse when they all peered upward.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” said Mark again. “I don’t believe it.”

  “If you don’t believe, then stop calling on poor Jesus,” Jake finally said, but then he patted Mark’s shoulder.

  The tremendous jolt they had all felt while riding out the storm the night before was exactly what Jake had said it was. Lightning. The mainmast must have been hit dead on—which pretty much explained the second jolt, which immediately followed.

  The top of the mast had been completely sheared off! Cut in two.

  It had plummeted eighty feet, smashing into the deck. Or rather, what was left of the deck.

  The new developments were what had prompted Jake to activate the EPIRB. Even if they were lucky enough to survive the storm, he knew that without a workable mast, their sailing days on The Family Dunne would be absolutely, positively . . . done. This vacation was over, and given the circumstances, none too soon.

  Now, standing on the deck in daylight, he could see that his decision was the right one.

  “Uncle Jake, when will the rescue people get here?” asked Ernie. “How soon?”

  “I imagine the Coast Guard has to wait a bit for the storm to pass the area,” he answered. “As soon as they can come, though, they will.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Carrie, less than convinced and looking a little paler than usual.

  “Yes, I’m sure they’ll be here. They know there’s a problem. They’re good at what they do.”

  “They better be!” said Mark, still staring at what remained of the mast. Scorched black where the top had broken off, it looked like a big burnt match.

  Jake reassured the kids for a second time while stealing a couple of concerned glances at Katherine. They all had been holding on for dear life during the storm, but it was Katherine who appeared the most shaken up right now.

  “You okay?” he said to her.

  She nodded—and to almost anyone else that’s all it would’ve been. A simple nod. To Jake, though, it was more. He could read between the lines. Katherine had been dealing with more than just her fear; she was also dealing with the guilt. This trip had been her idea. The trip was her fault.

  That’s when it clicked for him.

  His eyes darted from Katherine to the kids, each one looking more dour than the next.

  I’m not doing my job, he suddenly realized.

  He was still captain, responsible for their well-being, and as such he was setting the wrong example right now. After the eight-hour, white-knuckled ride of their lives, this was no time for doom and gloom. They should all be happy. No—on second thought, they should be celebrating.

  They were alive!

  Who cared if the boat was basically destroyed? They weren’t. None of them was even hurt. Soon, thanks to the EPIRB, help would be on its way and they’d boogie out of here.

  “So what do we do now?” asked Ernie.

  Jake flashed a grin.

  He knew just the thing.

  Chapter 39

  JAKE LUNGED FORWARD with a mischievous laugh, grabbed Ernie by his life jacket, and swooped him high into the air.

  “What do we do now, little man?” he said. “We go swimming, that’s what we do!”

  With a heave-ho, Jake launched Ernie over the railing. “Noooooooo!” Ernie screamed all the way down to the water, which he hit with an impressive splash.

  Mark and Carrie broke into spontaneous laughter while Katherine dashed to the edge of the boat. She was sure Ernie would be in tears, or worse, thanks to Jake’s practical joke, or whatever it was he thought he was doing.

  But Ernie was just fine. Actually, he was better than fine. Against the neon-bright orange of his life jacket, his smiling teeth looked whiter than white. He looked up at the boat and shook a playful fist at Jake. Then he began splashing around, having an absolute ball.

  Jake spun on his heels, casting a devilish eye on Katherine, Mark, and Carrie. “Who’s next?” he asked. “It’s one of you for sure. Who can I catch the easiest?”

  Like bugs under a lifted rock, they all scattered across the deck. One by one Jake hunted them down, singing blissfully off-key the entire time. It was a favorite Blondie song. “One way or another, I’m gonna getcha, I’ll getcha, I’ll getcha, getcha, getcha!”

  He gotchaed Carrie first. She wriggled in his arms hopelessly, trying to break free. “I don’t understand,” joked Jake as he lifted her over the edge. “I thought you liked going overboard!”

  Carrie laughed uncontrollably; she couldn’t help it. The first day of the trip and her suicide attempt seemed like a long, long time ago.

  “Geronimo!” yelled Jake as he tossed her over the side.

  That’s when Mark tried to turn the tables on his fun-loving uncle. At least he was finally taking some initiative. He snuck up behind Jake and grabbed him around the waist. “I say you’re next!” he shouted.

  But Mark could barely lift his much bigger uncle, let alone send him for a swim.

  “Nice try, hotshot,” said Jake before applying a wrestling spin move on Mark that would’ve made Dusty Rhodes proud.

  In two seconds flat, Mark was hoisted over the side.

  “And then there was one!” declared Jake, eyeing Katherine, who was trying to hide out at the bow.

  “Okay, that’s enough. I’m good,” she said. “I’m the mom. I say game over!”

  “Game over?”

  Jake began slowly angling toward her, cutting off escape routes. She was cornered and she knew it.

  “No, really, c’mon,” she said. “I give up . . . Uncle! Uncle, Jake!”

  He shook his head. “Do you really think you’re going to talk your way out of this one, Doc?”

  “But my hands . . . ,” she said, holding them up, her bandages looking like mittens.

  “The water will be good for them.”

  The kids had gleefully padd
led toward the bow, making no secret of what they wanted to see. A grand finale.

  “C’mon, Uncle Jake, send her over!” yelled Ernie. “I’ll catch her.”

  “Yeah,” shouted Mark. “Katherine Dunne—c’mon down!”

  Jake laughed and then shrugged. “Sorry, Kat, but you heard the boys.”

  He rushed in, lifting her up in his arms and spinning her around. For a quick but unmistakable moment their eyes met, the memories of their secret flooding to the surface—only to disappear as fast as the kids screamed for Jake to hurry.

  Which he did.

  With everyone laughing and having the time of their lives—lives that had seemed in doubt only a short time ago—Jake stood at the bow, triumphant.

  “I’m king of the boat!” he yelled as he released Katherine into the air. “King of the —”

  BOOM!

  In the blink of an eye The Family Dunne exploded, the entire boat disappearing within a massive orange fireball.

  Chapter 40

  “THERE HE IS! There’s Carlyle,” shouted a reporter, wielding his arm like a jousting stick as he pointed down the long, echoing hallway of the courthouse. Off they all raced, a pack of hyenas with roughly the same manners as hyenas.

  In some ways it was like a scene out of an old movie, the intrepid reporters milling around until the man of the moment showed his face. Within seconds of stepping out of the office where he’d called the Coast Guard, Peter was surrounded.

  Every reporter, from the Post to the News to the Times to the Journal, was utterly convinced that the message Peter had received in the courtroom had something to do with the Kincade case. Something very juicy and rewarding! That had to be it. What else could it be to pull him out of voir dire?

  They weren’t about to get an answer, though. Not yet, at least. Not until Peter knew more about the mystery himself. The reporters clung to him like paper clips to a magnet, but Peter didn’t let out a peep to their onslaught of questions. Not even a “No comment.”

  What a tease he was. Years and years of practice.

  The renowned attorney Peter Carlyle—the man who loved trying his cases in a packed courtroom and always managed to have a few words, if not an entire monologue, for the press—remained absolutely buttoned-lipped this time.

  Instead he silently pushed his way through the wall of handheld recorders and ducked through a nearby door that guaranteed his escape thanks to a sign on the frosted glass that featured five magical words, words that all of this society sorely needed.

  NO PRESS BEYOND THIS POINT.

  The door led to the administrative lounge, and from there it was a mere two flights down a secluded staircase to reach an exit at the back of the building.

  Walking through a narrow alleyway, Peter did a quick check around the corner of the soot-laced brick building, his eyes carefully taking in the sidewalk before him.

  Hmmm. It looked reasonably good. No reporters to the left, no reporters to the right.

  In the clear.

  Peter eased his way into the crowded foot traffic of lower Manhattan, blending in as best he could. He didn’t know yet where he was going. Wherever it was, he could at least get there in peace and then try to respond to the disturbing news he’d just gotten.

  But then, two blocks farther, a newsstand caught his eye. While those bloodthirsty reporters back at the courthouse were busy searching for tomorrow’s headlines, Peter had yet to read today’s. Screw the war on terror, world hunger, and the latest celebrity adoption—what were the pundits saying about him and the Kincade trial?

  Or really, just him? Strangely, he felt a need for self-justification right now.

  Peter snatched up a few local papers before pointing at a small refrigerator with a sliding glass door directly behind the turbaned guy manning the stand.

  “And a Red Bull,” said Peter.

  What happened next was unbelievable, but pure Peter Carlyle. The moment the guy turned around to open the refrigerator, Peter reached into the tip jar on the counter, pulled out a handful of singles, and stuffed them in his pocket. Never mind that he was carrying over six hundred bucks in his wallet.

  The counterman turned back around with a cold Red Bull in hand. He quickly added up the total, including all the papers. “Five twenty-five,” he muttered, sounding vaguely Pakistani.

  Peter reached into his pocket and counted out six of the stolen dollars. “Here,” he said. “Keep the change.”

  Chapter 41

  SO YES, I’m a bastard, he was thinking. Worse even than some people think. Spotting an empty bench at a playground up the block, Peter sat down and sifted through the newspapers while enjoying his Red Bull, but also the daring petty theft he’d pulled off so beautifully.

  The papers were full of him. Sure enough, the start of jury selection in the Kincade trial was getting a lot of ink. That meant so was Peter.

  Shark.

  Pit bull.

  Eight-hundred-pound gorilla.

  Only the New York Times managed to steer clear of the proverbial zoo and the rather biased comments on his courtroom reputation. In a brief story in the Metro section, it opted for “Peter Carlyle, a prosecutor’s worst nightmare.”

  That had a nice ring to it, didn’t it? God bless the Times and Mr. Sulzberger.

  Peter read the printed phrase over and over, the words dancing in his head. The rumba. The tango. The cha-cha!

  That’s when a soft, cultivated male voice cut in. “Fancy meeting you here, Counselor.”

  Peter lowered the paper to see his surprise visitor sitting on the bench right next to him. It was as if he had appeared out of thin air.

  How’d he do that?

  “Shouldn’t you be in court?” asked Devoux.

  “Shouldn’t you be anywhere but here?” Peter spoke angrily.

  There was a fine line between mutual respect and contempt, and the two men were sitting right on top of it. In Peter’s mind, what happened next would be crucial.

  “There’s no reason that you and I can’t be seen together,” said Devoux. “It’s not like we’ve done anything wrong.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Peter. “In fact, we haven’t done anything at all, have we?”

  Devoux smiled behind black Armani sunglasses that matched his black Armani three-button suit. “Spoken like a true lawyer.”

  “The same one who once saved your ass, if I’m not mistaken. Am I mistaken?”

  “Am I not returning the favor?”

  “For a damn good price you are.”

  “I gave you a terrific discount off my usual fee. How quickly they forget.”

  “I’m touched,” said Peter.

  “Of course, if you had only known Mother Nature might be willing to do the job for free.”

  “So you heard . . .”

  “Yes,” said Devoux. “I assume you’ve already heard from the Coast Guard?”

  “Just minutes ago, in fact. The officer I spoke to said they lost radio contact with the boat. But he also said they were receiving some kind of signal.”

  “An EPIRB.”

  “Yeah, that was it,” said Peter. “The officer told me it’s manually activated.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  “That means Katherine and the brats are still alive?”

  “Not necessarily. I would expect a little more logic out of you.”

  “The Coast Guard at least knows where to look for them, though, right?”

  Devoux smiled again, this time as wide as the Atlantic. “So they think.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means . . . they received the wrong coordinates. It means I’m very good at this.”

  “How?” asked Peter.

  “Presto, that’s how.”

  Fair enough. Peter didn’t need to know Devoux’s dark secrets. Better if he didn’t. Besides, he could give a shit how he had rigged the EPIRB. Just so long as he had done it.

  “Good,” said Peter. “So the Coast Guard won’t be ab
le to find them. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. Eventually they would, if not for one thing.”

  Peter knew exactly what that thing was. It went without saying, but Devoux said it anyway—clearly just to amuse himself.

  “Trust me, if the storm didn’t kill your loved ones—ka-blam, ka-blooey—my bomb sure as hell will. It’s a done deal. The family Dunne is history.”

  Devoux was a sick fuck all right.

  Precisely why Peter Carlyle had hired him to murder his family.

  Part Three

  Ka-Blam, Ka-Blooey

  Chapter 42

  THE FIRST THING I’m aware of is the intense heat, red-hot. It scalds my hair and skin as I tumble through the air. Everything about this is unreal. I’m on fire!

  And it only gets worse when I hit the water.

  Because I don’t hit the water.

  Instead I come crashing down on a jagged piece of the hull that, like everything else, has been sent hurtling from the boat, or what used to be known as the boat.

  Snap! goes my right shinbone. I know exactly what’s happened. I can literally feel it burst through my skin.

  As I roll off the piece of the hull and into the water, my body immediately goes into shock. My arms, my hands, my one good leg—they’re useless. I can’t move a muscle. If not for my life jacket, I’d be drowning.

  This is unbelievable! What the hell just happened? I can’t begin to imagine an answer.

  I look back at the boat—except it’s not there. It’s not anywhere. It’s gone!

  As if in a magic trick, The Family Dunne has disappeared from sight.

  That’s when the terrifying, gut-wrenching thought travels down from my brain and tears through my heart at warp speed.

  My family!

  All I can see is thick black smoke rising from the water’s surface. Bits and pieces of the boat are in raging flames. Each second that passes without my seeing Carrie, Mark, or Ernie makes the fear and panic grow. Oh, God, where are the kids? Where’s Jake?

  I’m bobbing helplessly in the water as I call out their names between painful, racking coughs. The billowing smoke fills my lungs, and I feel myself getting weaker by the second. I’m losing too much blood from my leg. I’m on the verge of passing out.