“Oh, bloody hell,” blurted Trevor Manfred. With stark white hair that flared out like Andy Warhol’s and a lanky body clothed in black-leather pants and a dark gray turtleneck, he didn’t look like a man whose every need was tended to. But when the sterling silver steak knife had finished rattling on the deck, he made no move to pick it up. Instead, he merely let out a sigh while a servant dressed in a white Armani suit accented with gold cuff links bent down, picked up the knife, and, using a fine violet-silk napkin, wiped down the deck where the knife had fallen. Only moments after the knife had fallen, the glorious sheen of the oak deck had been restored and all traces of the accident erased. Simultaneously, a similarly dressed second servant offered Trevor a new blade, sliding it handle first over his sleeve toward his employer.
Trevor looked at the half-eaten well-marbled T-bone steak, cooked rare, oozing red juices, and lined with thick strips of fat. The steak’s accompaniments, deep-fried onion rings and a tall bottle of dark lager, served as a stark contrast to the otherwise opulent surroundings. “Take all but the beer. Next time make it steak tips. The only bones I want to see from now on are in the collection. Understood?”
With a nod, the silent servant made his retreat, taking the tray table, food, and utensils with him. The second servant followed, carrying only the soiled silk napkin and dropped knife. As the two men left the foremost bow deck, Trevor stood from his plush lounge chair and approached the front rail. He grasped it with one hand and downed the beer, chugging it like his chums on the college rugby team used to. The beer emptied, he wound up and sent the bottle sailing over the deck. He watched the brown missile spinning end over end, falling for a quick three seconds until it splashed into the ocean and disappeared, far, far below the forward deck of Trevor’s mobile mansion on the ocean.
The Titan, five hundred feet long and seventy-five feet wide, was the world’s largest megayacht—Trevor’s megayacht. Its design was trendsetting, sporting a loggia that stretched over the whole width of the yacht, linking the fully stocked salon with the resplendent dining room. At the stern of the ship was a round room featuring a three-hundred-degree view. A garage that opened to the ocean below held a submersible at the lowest point of the ship. A black Sikorsky VH-3D helicopter (the same helicopter that transported the president of the United States) sat on the helipad at the highest point of the ship, just behind the pool.
Every piece of décor had been purchased, or otherwise obtained, by Trevor and placed specifically where he indicated. Banisters were topped with gold gargoyles or naked women…sometimes both. The pool on the Titan’s top deck was shaped like a Chinese dragon, undulating up and down and curving around on itself. The bow, like those of ancient ships of old, was adorned by a beautifully sculpted and scantily clad woman bearing a trident and shield, and wearing a horned helmet. Statues, pilfered from the ancient cultures of many nations, decorated everything from bathrooms to the grand library, which contained thirty thousand books. The centerpiece of the ship was the collection. Trevor’s pride and joy. Put simply, it was a huge accumulation of art, relics, and natural phenomena over which the Museum of Natural History would salivate. The entire ship, from bow to stern, reflected the taste of a man obsessed with mythology and ancient history. But for Trevor, it wasn’t enough to satiate his need to explore the unknown, to experience fresh new ideas or ancient wonders.
The bottle resurfaced and bobbed in the five-foot swells. Trevor realized that while he was the fifth richest man on the planet, who had all the world’s oceans as his playground, he had been reduced to watching a floating bottle as entertainment.
“Bored, sir?” The voice was firm yet subservient, like a pit bull barking at its master.
Trevor didn’t turn around. He simply looked across the endless blue expanse stretched out before him. For a brief moment Trevor understood how humanity had once believed the world was flat. From his high perch, it certainly looked as though one could simply fall off the edge of the world. He shrugged and spun to meet Remus, his head of security, who was dressed as though he were on a pleasure cruise—khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. “Bored doesn’t begin to do justice to the drudgery that has become my existence…nor to the lack of imagination implicit in your outfit. Good God, man.”
Remus smiled, ignoring the jab. “There is always Shanghai, sir.”
The thought brought a smile to Trevor’s face. The pleasures of Shanghai were always enticing, but Trevor was not in the mood for wine and women. “I crave an adventure, Remus.”
“A whale hunt perhaps?”
Trevor looked down to the deck, at a three-foot-wide, six-foot-long rectangular seam. Hidden below the two men was a powerful harpoon gun, containing a razor-sharp, titanium-tipped projectile capable of piercing solid steel. “The end is predictable. No creature in the ocean can outrun the Titan.”
“Perhaps violence is not the way to satiate your earthly hungers?” A third, more melancholic voice added. The man approached, wearing a broad grin on his young face. He wore the garments of a priest, but walked with the cocksure gait of a movie star. His worldly gray eyes revealed he had been party to more sin than the average priest, and his wrinkled brow showed that he had yet to pass the burden on to God or anyone else.
“Ah, Father O’Shea, to what do we owe the pleasure? Mass isn’t until Saturday, and alas, today is but Monday. You absolved me of my past trespasses only two days ago,” Trevor said.
Remus snorted. “Come to thump your Bible early, O’Shea?”
“Hardly,” he replied.
“You going to reveal the answers to all of life’s problems?”
“That would take a long time for you, wouldn’t it?” Ignoring Remus’s glare, O’Shea approached Trevor. He held aloft a computer printout as though it was a long-sought-after prize. “The answer to your dilemma, Trevor.”
Father O’Shea was the only member of the Titan’s crew who dared to call Trevor by his first name; and, for reasons unknown to the rest of the crew, he was the only man Trevor would allow to do so.
“The Pope is dead?” Remus quipped with a chuckle.
“Remus…” Trevor’s voice contained just a hint of rebuke, causing Remus to clamp his lips shut tight. “His Holiness is to be respected. He has the ability to clear the taint from a man’s soul, a service which you and I benefit from more than most.”
“Yes, sir,” Remus said.
Trevor took the paper from O’Shea. Placing his black-rimmed oval reading glasses on the tip of his nose, he scanned what appeared to be an article from that morning’s online edition of a small newspaper: The Portsmouth Herald. He read the headline with widening eyes, then virtually devoured the entire article.
___________________________
RYE MAN’S DAUGHTER EATEN BY SEA MONSTER
___________________________
Scuba diving at Jeffrey’s Ledge yesterday, Atticus Young and his daughter, Giona Young, both Rye residents, are believed to have been in search of whales. They found tragedy instead. Young’s daughter disappeared after what is being called an “animal attack” and is believed to be dead.
Young, 41, ex–Navy SEAL, prominent oceanographer, and author of Oceans in Peril, had first been seen earlier in the day after roughing up two men who had attacked his daughter. The men’s clothing had been cut to ribbons in an apparent attempt by Young to teach the two a lesson in humiliation. But it was later in the day when horror struck the man who had so well protected his daughter that morning.
At 3:45, a distress call was placed from a boat anchored at Jeffery’s Ledge, a shallow portion of the Gulf of Maine in which whales congregate to feed in the nutrient-rich waters, where Young and his daughter were diving. Here is the transcript of that distress call:
“Oh God. Someone help. God, please. It took my girl! It took her! So big…Like nothing I’ve seen before…no record of this thing…Someone…please, help. Help…”
The distress call, which was heard by more than one hundred individuals, including the Coast Guard, who lat
er pulled Young from his boat, has set off rumors of a giant sea creature roaming the waters of the Gulf of Maine. Local fishermen…
The article continued for another page, but Trevor knew it was all speculation from that point on. He looked up, his green eyes wide above his low-perched glasses. “Remus, instruct the bridge to take us to New Hampshire. I want to be there before the night is through.”
Remus nodded.
“And get me every bit of information available on this Atticus Young of Rye, New Hampshire. I want to know the most intimate details, including his record with the Navy.”
A nervous twitch appeared at the corner of Remus’s lips. Then, with assurance, he said, “Consider it done,” and walked briskly toward the bridge.
Trevor turned to O’Shea and stuck out his hand. O’Shea took his hand and shook it. “You may be a man of God,” Trevor said, “and money may be of little use to you, but consider your bonus this year doubled. Even if this turns out to be a hoax, you have cured my sad reverie, if only for a few days, something the rest of this motley crew has rarely done without having to spend my money. How is that possible? Hmm?”
O’Shea smiled and answered the rhetorical question. “God works in mysterious ways.”
“Ha!” Trevor belched a laugh and slapped O’Shea hard on the back. “Indeed he does!”
11
Portsmouth Hospital
With the night came a quiet stillness that made it difficult for Atticus to ignore his surroundings. The slight apple scent in the air assaulted his memory. Maria lying in bed. Her last breath. The feeling of his insides shaking with fear as her body convulsed, then lay still. Her room had been nearby…perhaps on the floor above. He wasn’t sure, but this was where she had died; this was the last place on earth he wanted to be. In fact, there was only one place he wanted to be at all, and that was on the ocean, hunting that thing down.
He stuck his head out the window and took in the side of the hospital. The brick building rose straight and flat, but around the windows, grooved designs had been created with the brickwork. They’d make nice hand and footholds. Then there was the brick windowsills—only about five inches deep, but wide enough to stand on. Fifteen feet to his left, the hospital wall jutted out to the right for five feet and continued beyond his field of vision. His eyes scanned the outer corner, where a pattern of bricks, protruding two inches each in a staggered formation, ran toward the ground—a sorry excuse for architectural aesthetics but useful for scaling the side of the building. The brick pattern ended five feet above the bushes that rimmed the parking lot.
Atticus figured the bricks didn’t run all the way to the ground because some kid might get the idea to climb up the side of the building after seeing Spider-Man. But the hospital’s architect hadn’t considered anyone’s climbing out a window.
After climbing onto the sill, Atticus crouched in the window, judging the distance to the next sill over. There was one window between him and the brick ladder. He’d have to jump. His heart began to beat faster, his muscles burning with adrenaline. He looked down again at the five-story drop then back to the windowsill. It was a two-foot jump, not very far, but the narrow sill didn’t give him a margin for error. If he missed, he’d join his family in death. What that would look or feel like, he had no idea. He’d never considered it, not even after Maria died. But now…where were they? Atticus clenched his jaw, pushing such thoughts out of his mind. He could wrestle with death after he finished with the creature.
With that, he leapt.
He crossed the two-foot divide with ease, planting his left foot, then his right, onto the adjacent sill. He flattened his body against the window glass and caught his breath…then saw his reflection in the window and smiled.
Spider-Man indeed.
The room on the other side of the window suddenly filled with light. He saw a shadow moving on the other side. He quickly gazed back and judged the distance to the corner. He could make it. His legs tensed for the jump.
The shades were flung open.
Atticus found himself staring into the eyes of the last person he expected to be in the next room over—Andrea Vincent. Her eyes were wide. At first she appeared terrified, but after gazing into his eyes for a moment, mouthed, “Atticus?”
He’d been caught.
It was during that moment of distraction that Atticus failed to notice the sound of grinding mortar. The brick beneath his right foot gave way and tilted at an angle. The sudden jolt caused Atticus to lose his footing. He fell straight down.
His hands slapped hard against the sill, tingling with pain, but held firm. Atticus was dangling five stories up from a windowsill with a penchant for falling apart. He heard the window above slide open and the sound of a knife tearing through the metal screen but focused on his footing. Using his strong abdominal muscles, Atticus pulled his legs up so that his toes pressed flat against the wall. His fingers strained, digging down into the small space between the sill and the bricks, struggling for purchase.
“Atticus?” The voice was shaky, tinged with fear. “What the hell are you doing?”
He looked up and found Andrea’s eyes burrowing into his. Her face was twisted with concern. He just stared up at her, silent.
She must have sensed his legs tensing. “Don’t.”
Atticus looked back to the corner. It was six feet away, but in his current position, all squished like a spring, the leap shouldn’t be a challenge for a six-foot-two man.
“I can help you,” Andrea said, sounding desperate.
“The best thing you can do,” Atticus said, “is stay out of my way.”
Andrea pursed her lips tightly. “Please…”
Then he was airborne, sailing out over the five-story drop like a fearless flying squirrel. And just as a squirrel clings to a tree, Atticus found himself clutching the corner of the hospital. His left hand and foot found holds; then, he swung his body around the corner and found a brick for his other hand and foot. He gave one last look to Andrea, her black hair blowing in the wind, dancing around her worried face.
Then it hit him.
“Why are you here?” he asked, forgetting for the moment that he was hugging the side of a building.
“The room was empty.”
“What?”
Andrea paused, her face flushing. She wanted tell him the truth—that she’d always regretted losing him and that she had never stopped wondering about him, how his life had turned out, if they would ever see each other again. She stared into his eyes, unable to find any words.
Atticus smiled. Andrea had never been short on words, yet here she was, mute. At first he thought she had changed dramatically, become mousey for some reason, but the redness in her cheeks betrayed embarrassment over the unspoken answer, which suddenly struck him as obvious. There she was, hanging out of a window, looking like some damsel in distress, and she was worried for his well-being—a man she hadn’t seen in twenty years. Or was it more? Perhaps the Coast Guard simply assigned her to keep an eye on him?
Her eyes continued staring into his, conveying the message her mouth could not form.
This had nothing to do with the Coast Guard.
A gust of wind caused Atticus to tighten his grip. A brief fear of falling took his eyes away from hers, but his grip remained secure. He looked at her again, this time allowing his frown to convey a silent message of his own. Sorry.
His hands and feet burst into action, and he began a rapid descent. He glanced up one last time. Andrea was no longer in the window.
He doubled his pace.
Andrea hadn’t waited for the elevator, hadn’t even pushed the button. She barreled down the staircase, taking two stairs at a time. What is he thinking? Does he want to get himself killed?
She entered the lobby in just under forty seconds, a much faster time, she believed, than Atticus could have made his way safely down the side of the building. Of course, she realized the he could have fallen the rest of the way and beat her by a long shot. He could
already be dead.
She blew past the bewildered receptionist and burst out of the air-conditioned hospital and into the summer humidity that smelled of seawater and roses. She turned left and kept running without missing a beat. She looked up, spotted the two open windows, and headed toward them.
Her eyes followed her room to the small corner down which Atticus had climbed. She searched the corner up and down, but the silhouette of a climbing man eluded her. Before she reached the bottom, her view was blocked by a tall line of lilac bushes. She continued forward, but moved out and away from the hospital, increasing her angle of sight.
For the briefest moment she thought she saw a shape clinging to the lowest portion of the corner, but then it was gone. She nearly shouted his name, but, knowing she’d alert the media, held her tongue and quickened her pace.
She reached the corner, panting. No one was there.
A black cargo van sat five feet away. The lights were off, the engine silent. Most likely a news van, but she saw nowhere else he could have hidden. She doubted he could have arranged a pickup…they’d have sped away if that were the case. But still…
Approaching the van slowly, she reached out and took hold of the back-door handle. She depressed the button and gave it a yank. Locked. She made her way around and checked the other handles. All locked. She rested her hand on the hood of the van. The night air was warmer. The van had been there for some time.
She gave one last look around. He’d vanished like an apparition.
No, she thought, like a SEAL.
12
Portsmouth Hospital
Atticus watched Andrea approach the van.
Just moments before, he’d fallen the remaining ten feet to the ground, rolled, and listened. He immediately heard her running feet and heavy breathing. He was in no mood for an argument but also saw there was nowhere to go. Then he felt a hand wrap around his mouth and an arm around his waist. They were strong, and he found himself pulled up and into a cargo van. The well-oiled door slid shut without a noise.
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