He heard Andrea check the back door and move around to check the others.
If it hadn’t been for Andrea’s approach, he would have quickly broken the hand of his captor, but he couldn’t afford to involve her. Whoever was in the van with him obviously had no interest in Andrea. They could have easily taken her as well. As Andrea began walking away, still searching the parking lot with her eyes, Atticus felt the hand around his mouth loosen its formidable grip.
“If you’re reporters,” Atticus said seriously, “this is going to hurt.”
Before Atticus could let loose, the interior light flicked on.
“Now, now, Dr. Young, you wouldn’t hit a priest, would you?” said a smiling man dressed as a Catholic priest. He was young, in his twenties, and appeared to be as friendly as possible under the circumstances.
The man next to him looked like a giant with bad taste—his Hawaiian shirt as ugly as his face. The man’s ears were misshapen, probably from years of brawling, as was his nose, bent slightly to one side. But the sight of the man didn’t intimidate Atticus. He’d been in many fights with men determined to kill him, and his face remained untouched. No one had ever made contact. Being in a tightly enclosed van gave the larger man the advantage, but Atticus needed only one shot to take down most men. Still, better to take no chances.
He readied himself for a fight, but it never came. The priest moved forward, still smiling, hand extended.
Atticus didn’t take it. “You’ve got thirty seconds.” He didn’t have to add a threat. His eyes did that for him.
The man in the awful shirt snickered. Atticus shot him a look that said, “You’ll get yours.”
The man’s smirk faded ever so slightly.
“Dr. Young,” the priest said, “I am Father O’Shea.” He motioned to the other man. “This is my associate, Remus. We’ve been sent to retrieve you by our employer.”
Atticus didn’t say a word. He didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard anything.
“He’s very eager to meet you.” The priest grew nervous. “He wants to help you.”
“Help with what?” Atticus’s voice boomed like lion’s bellow. “Bury my daughter? Psychoanalyze me? Put me on The Today Show and get my teary story?”
O’Shea backed off a little, “No, nothing like that. He wants to help you kill it. He wants to find the beast…and he wants you to kill it.”
Atticus sized the men up. They were clearly not military. The Remus character might have been at one time, but it must have been a while. He couldn’t conceive of a reason they might be lying, but he wondered how anyone could possibly help him kill such a thing. “What’s his name?”
“He would prefer to remain anonymous.”
“His name or I walk.” Atticus moved toward the door.
“Trevor Manfred.”
The odd name struck Atticus as familiar. Where had he heard it before?
“He’s the fifth richest man in the world,” Remus added proudly.
Then Atticus remembered. He’d read an article in Time a few years back. The man was a recluse, living on the ocean in some kind of superyacht. While being well-known for funding scientific expeditions as well, Manfred’s track record for success was sketchy. Few artifacts were ever recovered and very few scientific discoveries had been made. Most believed that the man kept most of the finds to himself and, as a result, he was unwelcome on the shores of many nations. But, if he could help…
“You know where I live?”
The men nodded. He knew they would.
“Take me home.”
13
Rye, New Hampshire
Leaving the van and two strangers at the street, Atticus moved, like the living dead, toward his home. Every step Atticus took felt like a conglomeration of old and new wounds, opening and festering together, making him ill. He hadn’t made it past the slate walkway, when he felt he couldn’t continue. Just the sight of the white Victorian home with its navy blue shutters had knocked the wind out of him. What would he be able to endure once inside? The photos. The smells. The memories would assault him worse than any weapon mankind had yet to devise. Standing before his house, Atticus knew that a torture worse than any faced on the battlefield awaited him inside.
Then he stepped forward. He’d been trained to enter hell and come back out.
The front steps creaked underfoot as they always did.
The first memory hit. Giona had learned to read on those steps when she was three, long before her classmates. She had astounded them as she suddenly read Goodnight Moon to them on the steps. She was reading James and the Giant Peach by five and never slowed down.
It had only been a day since he’d been home, but after opening the front door and entering, he felt he’d walked into an alien world. Nothing seemed right: the arrangement of shoes and sneakers, two different sizes lining the front hall; the dirty pans in the kitchen; the Sudoku puzzles spread out on the coffee table. He and Giona might not have had the best relationship over the last two years, but they worked on the Sudoku puzzles separately, trying to outdo each other. It was a silent game, a competition between father and daughter that bridged the gap.
And then there were the pictures.
He’d grown used to seeing pictures of Maria around the house. He’d never taken them down, feeling it was totally inappropriate to try to forget her. Love was love. You couldn’t erase it, mask it, or forget it. So why try?
You could, Atticus thought, avenge love lost…love stolen.
He paused at the pictures; each one brought with it an emotional rush that felt like an extreme allergic reaction, building pressure deep in his skull, between his eyes. He scanned each memory, each adventure, traveling back in time to Giona’s birth, his wedding to Maria. Last on the wall was a photo of his entire family, including his parents and his brother.
Oddly enough, it was those pictures, images of the still living that hit him the hardest. He hadn’t called them yet. It crossed his mind that they had no idea Giona was gone; they would still be planning to see him and Giona in two days.
He dialed the number slowly, his hand shaking.
“Hello?” It was a slight voice with a kind tone.
“M-om?” Atticus’s voice cracked, and it’s all he needed to say.
“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.” She was crying on the other end. “We saw it on the news; I can’t imagine. Oh, baby…”
Atticus looked at his answering machine. Sixteen messages. They’d been trying to reach him. “Sorry I didn’t call sooner.”
“Sweetie, don’t you worry about that.” She had begun sniffing, obviously congested from crying. “Conner is on his way there; should be there any time.”
Atticus took a deep breath and held it. He would have liked nothing more than to see his brother. Few people on the planet understood him, thought like him, but there wasn’t time to waste, and the two people waiting for him outside didn’t want to draw too much attention to themselves, or their employer. “I won’t be here,” he said.
“Why…why not?”
“I have…things to do.” He couldn’t think of any other way to say it. He certainly couldn’t tell his mother that he was going to risk his life—risk putting her through more of what she was already experiencing. “I’ll leave the door unlocked. He can hold down the fort while I’m gone.” His mind raced to change the subject. “Is Dad there?”
There was a pause on the other end. He held his breath.
“When the news came on…and we heard your name…and we saw you on the stretcher…he was near hysterical, shouting and ranting. Then they said Giona was… he passed out. He’s at the hospital now for observation. They’re worried about his heart. But he’s fine. Made me come home in case you called, and it’s a good thing he did.”
Atticus’s mind swirled with emotion. Concern for his father and mother and the desire to see them waged war with his thirst for vengeance. In the end, it was the image of Giona’s being swallowed that forced his hand. “I have t
o go, Mom.”
She sighed. “All right…and, baby?”
“Yeah, Mom…”
“When you find the thing, put an extra bullet in it for me.”
Atticus couldn’t help but smile. His mother was a fighter. She’d always been, and most people who knew the family well believed that if women could have been Navy SEALs, she’d have been Atticus’s drill commander. “You know me too well.”
“Don’t tell your father I said that.”
“Do me a favor and call for me. I’m out of time.”
“Of course. I love you.”
“You too.”
Atticus hung up the phone, feeling some of his burden lifted. Having his actions supported, especially by a person he cared about, made all of the indecisiveness wracking his mind, disappear. His resolve returned, and with it, action.
He made his way up the stairs, heading straight for his bedroom. He entered the room and felt nothing. It was the one room he’d redone after Maria died. Her picture was still there, but the décor was much more masculine, and the hints of Maria, her perfumes, her clothes, her jewelry, had all been removed. He hadn’t slept until they were.
He quickly dressed in blue jeans and a formfitting navy blue T-shirt. He pocketed his reflective sunglasses and keys and slipped on his sneakers.
He moved to the closet next. It was filled entirely with men’s clothing. There wasn’t a hint of the fact that he’d shared the closet with a woman just two years ago. He reached up for a duffel bag on the top shelf and pulled it down. He opened the bag and double-checked the equipment he knew was there. Black Special Ops uniforms, a grappling hook and rope, night-vision goggles, flares, SEAL Pup dive knife, black concealment makeup and a high-tech diving suit that put his everyday one to shame. He didn’t know what he’d need, so he left everything as it was and took it all.
Next, he knelt inside the closet and slid the hanging clothes aside. He punched the wall in two spots, loosening a panel. He pulled it free and moved it aside. Inside the alcove were two padlocked cases. He pulled both out and unlocked them with a key on his key chain. He opened the smaller of the two and pulled out a Smith & Wesson Model 60 .357 Magnum. Its rust-resistant stainless-steel body made it perfect for water-bound missions.
Otherwise known as pocket artillery, the six-round revolver would drop an assailant with a single shot to any part of the body—guaranteed. While many younger SEALs were adopting the SIG SAUER 9226, a fifteen-round, compact handgun, as their weapon of choice, SEALs with experience knew a .357 could not be beat. After attaching the .357’s holster to his belt, he loaded six rounds and slid the weapon home. Its weight on his hip made him feel a little more secure. He tossed a box of rounds in the open duffel bag.
He opened the second case to reveal a Heckler & Koch MP5, a sinister-looking compact submachine gun capable of firing 9mm projectiles at eight hundred rounds per minute. It could fire single shots; three-shot bursts, or unleash hell on full automatic. It was light, easy to conceal, and ideal for close quarters combat. He checked the six magazines, making sure they were full, and closed the case, putting the whole thing in the bag.
After adding a few changes of clothing, Atticus had everything he could think to take. He had no idea if the weapons would do any good against the creature he’d seen; 9mm rounds might simply feel like pinpricks to the beast. But he was heading into unknown waters with men he didn’t trust. It never hurt to have backup…just in case. He slung the bag over his shoulder and left the room—ready for war.
But he was not prepared for her room. He glanced into Giona’s room, papered from floor to ceiling with posters of bands and a large periodic table. She had been a melding of two worlds, so opposite; but in her, they merged in perfect harmony. He missed her purple hair…or blue…or whatever color it might have been next week. He dropped the bag and entered the room.
The smell of orange and patchouli was strong…her favorite scent. Her black clothes were draped over the bed, the dresser, still a mess, but not chaotic. Her desk was covered in summer reading: textbooks and scientific journals. At the top of the pile he saw a familiar cover and title: Oceans in Peril by Dr. Atticus Young. He didn’t remember giving her a copy. It had been published five years ago, long before her interest in science emerged. He opened the book and was surprised to see it highlighted throughout with little notes gracing the margins, including one that said, “Dad is so smart!”
Atticus could feel the emotions swelling. If he broke down it would be permanent. He could feel it. He was about to crack. He took a deep breath, held it and let it out slowly, remembering how he would calm his mind before a firefight.
As his body relaxed, the rising sun streaming through the bedroom window drew his eyes. But it was the aberration approaching beneath the sun that held his attention. His ride was coming. Chopping through the air toward the house was a massive black helicopter. O’Shea and Remus hadn’t said anything about a helicopter, but he knew it was for them. Only a very rich man could afford such a thing.
Two minutes later, Atticus left the ground in the helicopter, looking down at his house, wondering if he’d ever see it again. Then he saw her, standing in his driveway. Andrea was there, hands on hips, watching him fly away. She’d just missed him again. He wondered why she still cared at all, after so much time, but for a moment he was just glad that she did.
Andrea cursed so loudly she was sure that the noise would have rattled Atticus’s neighbors had the sound of the helicopter not done so already. She had missed him by seconds, pulling her blue Volvo into his driveway as the unmarked, spectacularly large helicopter lifted off from his near-acre-sized backyard.
If she hadn’t had to stop five times to ask directions after getting his address out of the phone book, she would have arrived in time. She would have tried to stop him, of course, but if she couldn’t have, she would have gone with him.
She couldn’t forget the eight years they spent together. She’d always wondered what life would have been like if they hadn’t grown apart. Marriage seemed likely. Kids, too. She’d never really stopped loving him, just held different values, different goals. They both did, and being stubborn, neither had given them up for the other. When she’d looked into his eyes at the hospital, the long-buried feelings reemerged and twisted her stomach into knots. Could feelings that old be rekindled? She had no idea. What she did know was that Atticus had been her friend once. One of her closest. The bond forged from childhood to young adult still remained.
And, serendipity, or fate, had brought them back together. She wouldn’t abandon him again, not when he needed help the most. She wanted to give him that much, even if it meant setting aside her personal goals for a time. She realized now, far too late, that it’s what one of them should have done so long ago.
She watched the helicopter fly out to sea and knew she’d find him. The ocean was her territory, and she had resources to track him down. For starters, anyone out there with a ship big enough to accommodate such a gigantic chopper wouldn’t be too hard to locate.
When she could no longer see the helicopter, she headed to the front door and found it unlocked. If she was going to understand who Atticus had become and what he might be thinking, she had to do some digging first. They’d been comfortable entering each other’s homes before, even shared keys with each other, but she couldn’t help wondering what might happen if someone found her in his house. Breaking and entering wouldn’t look good for a member of the Coast Guard. But it was a risk she was willing to take.
She entered the house and closed the door behind her, not fully prepared for what she’d find.
14
Gulf of Maine
Atticus looked down at the ocean, seventy-five feet below. The shadow of the Sikorsky VH-3D helicopter rose and fell with the waves…waves that concealed a great creature, which he was sure could pluck them out of the air even then. He’d been part of several airborne insertions in his SEAL days, but none felt nearly as dangerous as the particular mi
ssion he found himself on the verge of undertaking. None had held as much personal meaning either.
The two men seated across from him, O’Shea the priest and Remus the thug, did little to ease his nerves. They were a dichotomy. The priest clearly had brains, but lacked any kind of physical prowess that might suggest he was accustomed to action. He was a priest, after all…but not every priest was a stick-in-the-mud. Then there was Remus. He was a brooding man, whose chiseled smile appeared more like a jackal’s snarl than an honest man’s grin. His pockmarked face didn’t help his grim appearance, and the jagged scar across his forehead was simply a nightcap after drinking in his ugly mug. The bright-colored Hawaiian shirt he wore seemed like a pitiful attempt to pull attention away from his face, but his nonstop chatter about the fiftieth state to join the union revealed a true passion for the culture there.
“Why the obsession with Hawaii?” O’Shea asked, interrupting Remus’s minilecture about how slow-moving lava fields destroy houses, roads, and crops. “Isn’t it just becoming a tourist trap? I read that the scads of new million-dollar homes were raising taxes and that the high-paying jobs were being given to mainland Americans, pushing native Hawaiians and their culture to the mainland. It won’t be a paradise much longer.”
Remus glared at O’Shea. These two are not friends, Atticus thought. He tucked the observation into a pocket of his mind and listened as Remus gave the answer. “Ua mau ke ea o ka aina i ka pono.”
Both O’Shea and Atticus looked at him queerly. He heaved a sigh that was supposed to demean the other two men and make them feel like fools for not knowing what the saying meant.
“The life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness,” Remus said. “When land is holy, its essence cannot be destroyed.”
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