Donovan sipped the last of his beer. He decided against another and sat back in his chair. The house and garage were all closed up. Donovan sat in the third-story window with his own camera resting on his lap. He’d not only be able to observe her, but also to photograph her. With his connections, he’d be able to find out exactly who she was. But right now, the last thing he wanted was to confront her and tip her off. It was in his best interest to let her feel as if she had the upper hand. Donovan knew she was a professional of some sort, though not a very good one—she’d been caught. But she was up to something. Donovan felt the roll of film in his pocket. As soon as Erin came and went, he’d use the small darkroom to develop the photographs.
Donovan didn’t have to wait long. He leaned forward and found his target through the viewfinder as a car pulled up and stopped next to Erin’s Honda. He saw her jump out of the passenger’s seat and run to her car. Through the 300mm lens he fired off a rapid succession of shots. As expected, she hurriedly fixed the spark plus wires, then waved at the other car. Donovan never saw the driver, but did get the license plate. Erin slid behind the wheel and started the motor. Moments later, the Honda disappeared. Donovan moved quickly to the other side of the house. Within seconds, he could see Erin running from her car to where she’d left her camera. Donovan zoomed in on her face; he wanted a good shot. He watched as she crouched down and grabbed her Nikon. Without pausing to inspect it, she dashed back toward the Honda.
Once she was gone, Donovan walked downstairs, grabbed another beer, then made his way down to the darkroom. Thankfully, it was somewhat cooler in the basement, though Donovan quickly forgot about the heat as he went to work. It took him a while, but finally he ran Erin’s developed film under the cool water in the sink. From there, he carefully hung the negatives to dry. Tilting his head to the side, he began inspecting the images. His fear grew as he went from one shot to the next and studied each exposure. Donovan easily recognized what Erin Walker had photographed. Out behind the house, down a gentle hill, was the family cemetery. The names on the stones had been captured perfectly. Erin Walker may not have her pictures, but she’d seen the markers—which now made her the most dangerous person in Donovan’s life.
Donovan left the darkroom and went outside, feeling numb as he tried to understand how Erin had not only discovered the house, but knew enough to find the graves and shoot pictures. He looked to the west. The sun was just settling over the Blue Ridge mountains, the sky turning from blue to orange. Crickets and locusts had already begun their nightly chorus. Donovan could hear the deep voice of the bullfrogs from the lake.
He strolled down the brick walkway that led to an open area bordered on one side by an ancient sycamore tree. A fruit bat swooped low overhead, then turned and was gone. He knew he couldn’t stay, so he stood outside the low wood railing that surrounded the family cemetery. He looked at the two markers that stood closest to the gate. In the gathering darkness he looked upon the finely chiseled marble: Robert D. Huntington, 1931-1968. Next to it was his mother’s stone: Elizabeth K. Huntington, 1936-1968. Despite the years, the memory of his dead parents was still a dull ache. His father’s tomb was empty; they’d never found his body after the boat sank. After years of debating, Donovan had finally made the decision to bring his mother’s remains back home to Virginia. He’d resisted for the longest time, thinking somehow that she belonged on the small island in the Pacific, near his father, close to the sea and the man she’d loved.
Donovan lowered his head, forever haunted by the sound of his mother’s cries for help, the sound of the wind and waves before she went under for the last time, her hand reaching for help before it slipped beneath the water. Frozen by fear, Donovan had clung desperately to a section of wood, paralyzed, unable to help. He knew he’d only been a boy at the time, but he never forgave himself. Now, whoever Erin Walker was, she’d connected him with the house and the graves of his parents and grandparents. It wouldn’t take her long to figure out the links between his parents’ graves and the vast fortune of Huntington Oil. From there it would be a quick jump to tie him to his past—as the sole heir to billions of dollars.
Behind his parents’ markers was another collection of headstones. One in particular would send Erin down a road that could destroy everything he’d worked so hard to build. It was the grave of his great-grandfather, whose name he’d taken, Donovan Nash.
Donovan turned away as thoughts of Lauren came crashing down on him. He lowered his head at the sudden weight. Deep down, he knew seeing her today had only served to reopen the old wounds. Yesterday, his world seemed safe and protected, but right now he knew it was unraveling at both ends. He knew he still loved her…and despite his considerable resources and abilities, there wasn’t a single thing he could do to change the way things were.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lauren abruptly opened her eyes and her dream vanished into the quiet darkness of the bedroom. Momentarily confused, she struggled to understand what had awakened her from a deep sleep. She finally saw her mother peaking through the door.
“Lauren, honey. Are you awake? There’s a phone call for you. They said it’s urgent.”
“I’ll be right there, Mom.” Lauren threw back the sheet and pulled on her thin cotton dressing gown. A quick glance at the clock told her it was five-thirty in the morning. The sleep she’d hoped to get had just been cut drastically. She cinched the belt around her waist and quickly went downstairs. She saw the worried look on her mother’s face as she put the phone to her ear.
“This is Dr. McKenna.”
“Lauren. It’s Calvin. Sorry to wake you. But there have been some developments.”
“What’s happened?” Lauren ran her hand through her hair. Her fatigue evaporated at the tone of Calvin’s voice.
“It’s Helena. The barometric pressure is going through the floor. The latest information from Jonah is telling us that we’ve gone from category three to a category five in near record time. There is a NOAA hurricane hunter aircraft on its way to verify our readings.”
“What’s the pressure now?” Lauren closed her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “We’ve seen explosive deepening before. How sharp was the drop?”
“All of the readouts have been e-mailed to you. But the latest barometric pressure is 27.10 inches.”
Lauren felt her empty stomach churn. The drop was staggering.
“How fast is she moving?” Lauren caught her mother’s eye, then pointed at the coffee pot. She mouthed a thank you as her mom understood.
“About the same. Between eleven and twelve knots, on the same track as before. She’s not making any definitive moves yet.”
“She might not.” Lauren pictured the location of the high-pressure ridge that was behind the long heat wave beating down on the Southeast and Mid-Atlantic states. As long as that dome stayed where it was, Helena wouldn’t have any choice but to run directly at the Baltimore-New York City corridor.
“Why don’t you look at the data the lab sent you, then come on in. I know it’s Sunday and you must still be exhausted. But I’ve already gotten a call from the Pentagon. Everyone is starting to get a little edgy.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Lauren began to inhale the aroma from the coffee maker. She knew she’d need more than a few cups to get her through the morning.
“See you then.”
Lauren hung up the phone and began to organize her thoughts.
“Trouble?” her mother said, softly.
“The hurricane.” Lauren tried to smile. Her mother had been a saint since Abigail had been born and most recently with the deployment of Jonah. More than anything, Lauren wished the three of them could spend the entire day together. She imagined her mother could use a break and Lauren needed a respite from Helena and the DIA.
“I need to go get on the computer. Can I talk you into bringing me a cup of coffee when it’s ready?”
“Of course.”
Lauren quickly padded up the carpeted st
airs and tip-toed into Abigail’s room. Her daughter was sound asleep. Lauren breathed in the scent of Abigail’s things: the baby powder, the fresh sheets. She leaned down and adjusted Abigail’s blanket, then stood and marveled as her baby slowly breathed in and out. Lauren was filled with love as she reached down and lightly touched Abigail’s tiny face.
“Is she still asleep?” her mother whispered from the hall.
Lauren nodded and quietly backed away. Hopefully, Abigail would sleep another two hours or so.
“Here’s your coffee.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Lauren took the warm mug and saw a questioning look on her mother’s face. They’d talked last night after she’d gotten home. Lauren had left out the part about nearly being killed, but she did confess she’d seen Donovan.
“I’m sorry, but I have to go to the office today,” Lauren apologized.
“We’ll be fine. Don’t worry about a thing.” Her mother hesitated. “How are you doing this morning?”
“I’m okay. Just a little tired.” Lauren knew it wasn’t the answer her mother was looking for.
“Are things a little clearer?”
“Mom,” Lauren exhaled. “Nothing’s changed. I know you and I disagree about Donovan. But it’s just the way it has to be.”
“I understand. I just thought—”
“I don’t want to argue this morning,” Lauren cut her off. “I have a ton of things to do and I need to be out the door in a little over an hour. This hurricane is going to be the death of me before it’s all over. Can we just not talk about Donovan?”
Lauren saw the hurt in her mother’s eyes and a twinge of guilt jabbed her heart. For the most part Lauren and her mother were best friends, especially since her father had passed away, but at times she could be so stubborn. Coffee in hand, Lauren swept into the study and switched on her new laptop. Lauren sipped her coffee, more interested in the caffeine than the taste. Moments later, she was looking at the first page of readouts. Her brow furrowed as she studied the latest Atlantic Sea State Analysis. The infrared satellite clearly showed Helena’s position and width. Lauren was both horrified and fascinated as she processed the information. Helena was now positioned 110 miles northwest of Bermuda. Lauren made a mental note to tell Calvin that it would be another ten hours, minimum, before he could send a plane to Bermuda. She thought of the men aboard the USS Thorn. She could only imagine what their journey out of the eye must have been like.
The next image was from the DMPS satellite. With its microwave imager she was able to filter out the overriding cirrus clouds and examine the underlying convective cloud structure. The thunderstorms around the eye were sharp and defined. She knew she was looking at the massive engine of the storm. The formation of such a distinct pattern of cumulonimbus clouds told her that Helena was very much alive and well.
Next, Lauren scanned a dozen other pages of data, from steering winds to the high and low altitude prognostic charts. She shook her head when she saw the sea surface temperature readings. A hurricane needed heat to stay alive, and from what she was reading, Helena would soon be able to suck up the tepid water from the ongoing heat wave. A category five hurricane that made its way into the bath-water temperature ocean off the east coast would only have one option—to grow bigger and even more deadly.
Lauren rubbed her temples. She clicked back to her own computer model she’d used to develop her initial scenario for Helena. She shook her head as she studied the comparison. Helena was more intense, earlier, than even Lauren had predicted.
She leaned back in her chair and put both hands around her coffee mug. She thought back to her theoretical physics class at MIT. In meteorological circles, there was an operating theory that a super hurricane, or hypercane as they were called, could form in the Atlantic Ocean. Winds of up to 300 mph could rage around the eye. Storm debris and vapor would be thrown as high as twenty miles above the earth. If such a hypercane made landfall, a storm surge with waves as high as 100 feet would obliterate any coastline. Lauren felt a shiver run down her neck. She logged off and went toward the bathroom. She needed to get to her lab and communicate with Jonah.
Lauren was halfway down the hall when she heard Abigail softly cooing in her crib. She went in and found her daughter wide awake, smiling up at her.
“Hello, honey.” Lauren reached down and picked her up. She kissed the warm skin of Abigail’s cheek. Her daughter let out a peal of laughter, then pulled Lauren’s hair.
“Oh, she’s awake.” Lauren’s mother breezed into the room. “Here, let me take her. She probably needs to be changed.”
“I can do it.” Lauren turned to her mother and held Abigail close.
“Mother. I need you to do something.”
“Of course. What is it?”
“I think it would be best for you to take Abigail and get out of Baltimore. Maybe go visit Aunt Paula in Chicago. I don’t care where you go, but you have to leave town.”
“Lauren. Are you serious? Is it the hurricane?”
“Yes,” Lauren said quietly, gently kissing Abigail on the neck. “Don’t worry about what it costs, I’ll cover all the expenses. But I want you and Abigail away from the East Coast.”
“If you really think we should…”
Lauren nodded. “Oh, and one more thing. Don’t tell anyone. If you can get a flight this evening I’ll take you to the airport. I have to be at work early on Monday, so tonight might work better. Maybe you could check with the airlines later? I’ll call you when I can, and we can coordinate.”
“Mama!” Abigail threw up her hands and squirmed with obvious excitement at being near her mother.
“Well good morning, my little angel.” Lauren smiled at her daughter. She decided she could be a few minutes later than she’d planned. “Would you like for Mommy to change you and get you breakfast?”
Donovan had been lying in bed, wide awake, when the phone rang. He’d spent an awful night, plagued by one bad dream after another. As he’d tossed and turned, he’d been trapped; waves of reporters thundered toward him. He’d been unable to escape the mob as they clamored to reach him. He’d awakened, bathed in sweat, a death grip on the mattress. He reached over to the bedside table and snatched the instrument with one hand.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Donovan. It’s William.”
Donovan sat up in bed, instantly concerned. It was unlike his friend to call so early in the morning, especially on a Sunday. To the rest of the world, William VanGelder was the chairman of the Board of Eco-Watch. But to Donovan, William was his oldest and most trusted advisor. A mentor, who over the years since his parents died, had guided and directed him with the unwavering devotion of a father. William was the one person on the face of the earth who was aware of all of the intricacies of Donovan’s other life.
“What’s up?” Donovan answered, a worried tone in his voice. “I was going to call you later.”
“We have a problem. I’ll have coffee and Danish waiting for you when you get here.”
“Give me an hour.” Donovan threw his legs out of the bed as he hung up the phone. He and William never spoke of anything specific on the phone. It was a lesson William had taught him years ago. Donovan scratched his chest and tried to imagine what had happened that would prompt such an early meeting. A flurry of issues flew through his mind, none of them good. With a frown on his face, Donovan headed for the bathroom.
The needle spray from the shower washed away any lingering remnants of his troubled night’s sleep. Donovan stretched his sore muscles under the hot water, knowing the stiffness was from pulling Lauren from the car.
Donovan dried off, decided not to shave, then threw on some khaki slacks and a knit golf shirt. He went down the stairs of his Centreville townhouse and grabbed a bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator. He picked up the pictures he’d developed the night before and headed for the garage.
Quickly, he armed the security system and slid into the Range Rover. He carefully backed out onto the q
uiet cul-de-sac. He came and went at so many odd hours he barely knew any of his neighbors. The small collection of town homes was close to the airport and served his day-to-day needs perfectly. It was a comfortable area, yet not ostentatious enough to draw any attention to himself. It fit his lifestyle and salary from Eco-Watch perfectly.
In the humid air, the morning sun was a blood-red disk. Donovan slid on his dark glasses, nudged the air conditioner up a notch, and headed for Fairfax.
As he drove, Donovan kept trying to figure out how Erin Walker had found him. Could she be with the government? If she were with the FBI she wasn’t very good—or it could be her ineptness was simply an act. The questions whirled in his head. Part of the puzzle seemed to go back eleven months ago, to the only time he’d received any unwanted attention. It had all taken place last winter—after his and Michael’s very public experience in Russia. It seemed to be an issue that wouldn’t die. He’d hoped it was all behind him, but the more he thought about it, the more he believed it had resurfaced yet again. Donovan thought back to that cold November day.
He and Michael had been cruising at 41,000 feet. In the back of Galileo were a group of scientists from NASA. Their mission was to study and chart the roaring high altitude winds that swept out of Siberia and formed the North American winter weather patterns. The flight was routine and monotonous. Donovan had sat quietly, sipping a cup of coffee. Below them, the clouds boiled from a Siberian storm as it raced eastward toward the Aleutian Islands, ultimately to impact the weather in Western Canada, then across the United States.
“I’m picking up a faint distress call on the UHF radio.” Michael sat up straight in his seat and gave Donovan a look of alarm. “Switch over; see what you make of this.”
The distorted words came through Donovan’s headset. Most of it was garbled, or foreign. But he heard a Mayday at the beginning of each broadcast. He scanned the angry clouds beneath them. His stomach tightened and he felt his muscles automatically tense at the thought of someone in the water. From experience, he knew what the storm was doing to the Arctic Ocean, some eight miles below them.
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