“Oh ho!” Trevor clapped. “A real man’s man!” He then produced a bottle opener from his pocket. “A much more civilized approach, don’t you think?” Trevor took the second beer, popped the top with a grunt, and drank greedily from the bottle.
Atticus wondered how such a diminutive man could drink like a college frat boy. Trevor was a living monochrome, black and white, day and night. Further study of the man would have to wait. There were more important issues at hand. “You were about to tell me why I’m here?”
Trevor placed the now-empty beer on the coffee table and sighed. “Ah yes.” He crossed his legs and placed his hands delicately on his knee. “Well, quite frankly, I’m bored.”
Atticus raised an eyebrow.
“Not right now, mind you. I meant to say I was bored, until I heard about your predicament. …In no way do I mean to overlook your tragic loss, but this creature has stirred feelings in me I have not felt since I first laid eyes on the ocean as a child. I want to find the creature, Dr. Young. I want to find it and kill it.”
“Why kill it?”
“Well, you obviously have your reasons…but mine, I’m afraid, are much more selfish. Please, come with me.” Trevor stood with a grin. “To fully appreciate my goals, it would be best for you to see the collection.”
Atticus polished off the beer, retrieved his duffel bag, and followed Trevor to the door. He was led past the Easter Island sculpture and down a long hallway. The hallway, which wound in a wide arc, had doors along the right side, but the left was blank. Trevor led the way, humming joyfully to himself. Then the hall widened and opened into a grand foyer. Double staircases led down from the deck above and ended at three sculptures of hauntingly beautiful women. In every way the women were perfect, clothed only in formfitting robes. Their upper torsos displayed firm-looking breasts. Their slightly agape mouths showed full lips and supported high cheekbones. But their hair…snakes, coiled and twisting. And below the waist, where there should have been long, sumptuous legs, tightly coiled serpentine bodies reached the floor. “Medusa,” Atticus whispered.
“Only one of them,” Trevor said as he unlocked a pair of double doors with a skeleton key. Another oddity, Atticus noted. Most of the security on the ship thus far had been top-of-the-line stuff—voice-, retina-, and fingerprint-activated. Yet here, in the man’s most prized room, the contents were protected by a simple skeleton key. “The other two are named Stheno and Euryale; quite attractive really. They guard the collection.”
With fervor, Trevor pushed the two doors open, revealing a massive room beyond. It stretched for one hundred feet in either direction and stood four stories tall. But it wasn’t the size of the room that was most impressive. It was the absolute beauty of what it contained.
Atticus entered with wide eyes, taking in every morsel. Hanging on the walls were paintings he recognized from Monet, van Gogh, Rembrandt, da Vinci, and Picasso—famous paintings—the sort that hung in the Louvre, yet there they were, displayed as though they were the real thing. Again, Trevor seemed to read his thoughts, though Atticus imagined that everyone who saw the collection thought the same thing.
“They’re all real, I assure you,” Trevor said.
Atticus stood in front of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, beautiful in every way, even more impressive than the version the world adored. Atticus felt dwarfed by the fifteen-by-twenty-nine-foot painting. “The other is a fake?”
“Oh no,” Trevor said, clearly tickled to be able to explain, “They’re both quite real. But the one displayed at convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie is merely a practice run for the real thing…a very detailed practice run, mind you, but not the final product. Da Vinci would have known that tempera on gesso, pitch, and mastic wouldn’t last. This final version is oil on canvas, a much more durable…and vibrant medium. Don’t you think?”
Atticus nodded, his jaw slightly slack. He’d seen photos of The Last Supper and had never been that impressed, but this…this was a true masterpiece. He turned his attention toward the rest of the room. There were statues—Roman and Greek gods. A miniature version of the Sphinx, yet more complete than its famous companion in the Egyptian desert and sporting a lion’s head, stood alongside an ornately engraved obelisk. A variety of smaller artifacts from all over the world, the greatest treasures of mankind, lined the insides of several long glass cases. An entire portion of cave wall, covered in primitive pictographs, stood mounted, dark and brooding. Atticus stood before it, trying to decipher the meaning, but the images jumbled in his mind, impossible to glean any meaning at all.
“It’s quite possibly one of the earliest pictographs in the world.” Trevor stood next to Atticus.
“What does it mean?”
“Not a clue.” Trevor smiled. “Everyone who looks at it regardless of education and experience, is immediately confounded. O’Shea believes it was written when the Tower of Babel was built. God jumbled the world’s languages at the time and apparently its artwork as well. Can you imagine if everyone you spoke to was as confusing to hear as this wall is to gaze at?”
Atticus had seen more amazing things in the room than most men would in a lifetime, and yet Trevor had said he was bored. Could the man really have exhausted his interest in what he’d already collected? Rather than ask, Atticus moved to the center of the room, where the oldest, most unusual figure, the centerpiece of the space stood. A skeletal Tyrannosaurus Rex and a triceratops locked in battle. The scene looked like something straight out of a children’s dinosaur book, except that the animals were real.
“There are two distinctions to be made between what you see here and what you find at your local museum,” Trevor announced. “First, these are very real. Both are full skeletons, complete in every way.”
Atticus’s mind whirled. He knew there were several T. rex specimens in the world, but he hadn’t heard of any complete specimens though he’d always assumed they existed.
“Most skeletons seen in museums are reproductions of the few complete samples, which are kept safe in climate-controlled warehouses and laboratories. Second…” Trevor moved in close and rested his hand on one of the Tyrannosaur’s tibia. “Here, Atticus, you can touch!”
Atticus moved in close, past Trevor’s gleaming smile, and rested his hand on a cool fibula of the world’s most fearsome land predator. A chill ran through his body. This creature had once lived, once breathed and eventually died on the planet earth. Looking up into its open jaw, seeing its large, pointed teeth, only reassured him that what he’d seen in the ocean, what he’d watched devour his daughter, was real. He removed his hand from the bone and locked eyes with Trevor. “You want to add it to your collection?”
“Precisely.”
“Dead?”
Trevor nodded.
“And what makes you think you can?”
Trevor smiled. “Because of this ship. While in appearance it is but a pleasure boat, I assure you, the Titan packs more than enough firepower to bring down a U.S. battle group, let alone a single flesh-and-blood creature. You’ll have considerably more at your disposal than that small arsenal you have packed in your bag there.”
It was Atticus’s turn to smile. He liked Trevor Manfred, despite what the media said about him, and the man was the best chance he had for exacting his revenge. There was only one question that remained unanswered. “Why me? If you have everything you need to find and kill the creature, you don’t need me.”
“That is where you are wrong, Atticus. Every great sea hunt needs its Ahab.”
“Then I’m here to entertain you, is that it?”
“‘Entertain’ is a harsh word.” Trevor pursed his lips for a moment. “You raise the stakes. For you this is personal. The emotions are real. I’m afraid that I’ve become too distant from the rest of the world to have any real human connections. It’s so rare that I experience emotions such as loss, despair, or rage. Consider it a moral lesson for me, an experience by proxy through a man with deeper convictions than mine.
&nbs
p; “Plus there is the added bonus that you are an expert oceanographer, you’ve encountered the beast and lived…and you’re past…well; you know how deadly a man you are. To be honest, I’m not sure that we could accomplish our goal without you, even with the amount of technology at our disposal. One man possessed, as Ahab was, can do more to turn the tide against the wild than a cruise missile, though we will do our best to help you avoid Ahab’s fate.”
17
Over the Gulf of Maine
“Nothing yet,” Andrea shouted into her headset.
“Same here,” Reilly said.
“Nada upfront,” came Watson’s cool voice.
Earlier, Andrea had approached her commanding officer at the Coast Guard, Gordon Schrumzen. Though a stickler for protocol, she had expected the man, who was a father figure to most in the Guard, to cut her some slack. But he had flat out denied her request to mount a search for a friend at sea. Even if she believed the man was in danger, there was no proof, no distress call. They weren’t the police, and it sounded like the man had gone of his own volition.
When she explained that the man was Dr. Atticus Young, whose daughter had been eaten by whatever sea creature the Jayhawk crew had seen, Gordon’s eyes looked to the floor. He explained that the Navy had confiscated the images, that they were not to contact the press, and that “the event had never happened.” But then he smiled and said they were all due for a training mission. He told her to organize it under whatever scenario she chose.
When she’d told her crew, every one of them was on board, raring to go. It would not only give them a chance to try finding the monster, but they’d also help Andrea find the man whose personal goal was to find, and most likely kill, the creature. They had mixed feelings about that, as did she, but no one wanted to be left out of the “training” mission.
“I’ve got something,” a kind voice said over the headset. Even old Chuck McCabe and his C-130 were in the air. “It’s big…really big; about ten miles north of your position.
“Copy that,” Watson replied. “Cap, you want to check it out?”
“Affirmative,” Andrea said. “But don’t get too close. Just move parallel to them so they don’t get spooked if they spot us.”
“You got it.”
For the next ten minutes, Andrea kept watch. She had no idea what to expect or what she might find. While the rest of her crew kept their eyes on the sea, searching for the creature, Andrea looked inward. While everyone else was searching for a monster, she was searching for a man…a friend…maybe more.
The Jayhawk suddenly banked to the right, pulling Andrea from her thoughts.
“Sorry about that,” Watson said. “We came up on them pretty quick. It looks like they’re just sitting there.”
Andrea looked out the side window and saw a white ship in the distance, perhaps a mile away. Placing binoculars against her eyes, she took in the ship. “What the hell…”
“I hear that,” Reilly said, peering through his own set of binoculars. “That’s the biggest, weirdest yacht I’ve ever seen.”
“Yeah,” said Watson, “and it’s the weirdest, biggest yacht you’ll ever see. It’s the biggest yacht in the world; belongs to Trevor Manfred.”
Andrea knew the name, as she was sure most people in the world did. It was as common as “Bill Gates” or “Steve Jobs” or “Walt Disney.” The man was a legend. An eccentric, rich business mogul whose collecting habits made him a man to watch by the U.S. Coast Guard. While there was no concrete evidence against him, there were indications that he’d been the recipient of several priceless artifacts taken from the U.S. over the past twenty years, including a complete Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton. While her team had never encountered him, they were all well aware that he was to be monitored.
As Andrea scanned the top decks, she came to rest on a large black helicopter, perched silently on a landing pad. Her heart skipped a beat. The last time she’d seen it, Atticus was watching her from inside. “I want a boat out here, ASAP.”
“Umm, this is still just a ‘training exercise,’ Cap,” Watson said, his voice cool. “And a boat wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Training’s over, boys,” Andrea said. “Trevor Manfred is in the Gulf of Maine, and it’s our business to know why. Now call in a damn cutter.”
Andrea could hear Watson chuckling. The man knew she could call in a ship to watch Trevor; he just liked getting her worked up. It was known she had something of a fiery temper, and many of her crew got a kick out of seeing her in action. They haven’t seen anything yet, Andrea thought.
Andrea caught Reilly chuckling. “What’s so funny?” she asked.
“First a sea monster, not some giant squid or sperm whale, the real thing.” Reilly’s eyes were beaming with excitement. “And now Trevor Manfred himself is in our territory. I’m not sure I can handle much more excitement!”
He was joking, of course, but Andrea took him seriously. “Me too, kid. Me too.”
As the sun set, casting an orange glow over the ocean, the Jayhawk rendezvoused with a 270-foot Coast Guard cutter out of Kittery, Maine. They were en route to the Titan, Trevor Manfred’s castle on the high seas, for a confrontation with one of the most powerful men on the planet. Andrea felt sick to her stomach with worry, but not over an encounter with Manfred; rich, spoiled men she could handle. As for Atticus Young, well, she had no idea what to say to him. The truth, she told herself. She was there for him. Simple as that.
Her eyes returned to the ocean as she stood at the port rail, watching the cutter plow a swath through the sea, toward her unknown destiny. She clenched her jaw, resolute in what she had to do: protect Atticus Young, not from Trevor Manfred, but from himself.
18
Aboard the Titan
The night came quick and brought a cool breeze from the gulf waters. Atticus fought back a shiver, but his body shook regardless. His muscles tensed. His hands gripped the guardrail at the bow of the Titan. He couldn’t see the black water beneath, but he could hear it lapping against the giant hull.
Unable to sleep, Atticus had left his quarters, which were more lush and extravagant than any in the finest hotel. He’d been waited on, consoled, and taken care of by Trevor’s top-notch crew. But the attention did nothing to mend his broken heart. He felt crushed on the inside, even as he willed himself to continue forward, at least long enough to exact his revenge. He just wanted to be alone and, rather than join the crew for dinner, had retired early, hoping to drown the pain in deep sleep.
But his eyes never closed. When the digital clock next to his bed read 3:00 a.m., he’d climbed out of the feather bed, slipped on some clothes, and stolen to the main deck for a look at the stars.
They glowed down at him as they had before during countless nights at sea. Being so familiar to him, the celestial lights typically comforted him in times of distress, filling the void with a sense of wonder, but not that night. He watched the sky in silence, unmoved by their beauty. He stood that way, like a stoic statue, for a half hour before a voice, kind and gentle, glided to him on the night air. “I cannot begin to imagine the utter misery you must be experiencing. I have never had an emotional attachment to another living thing…let alone a daughter…or a wife. Perhaps I am not even capable. I do not know. But I do know this, when a man is hurting, friend or not, a smooth brandy and a warm blanket can dull the pain, if only for a short time.”
Trevor.
Atticus felt embarrassed for a moment at being caught in such a moment of weakness … not weakness … despair. But Trevor’s words revealed a kindness and understanding he hadn’t realized the man possessed. He’d offered help the only way he knew how. And as a matter of fact, brandy sounded good.
Atticus turned and faced the silhouette of Trevor Manfred. “I’ll take you up on the brandy,” Atticus said, “but I’ve got plenty of blankets in my room.”
“That you do,” Trevor said, his voice still gentle. “Come; let me fix you that drink.”
Ten minut
es later, Atticus was admiring the golden hue of his third shot of brandy. His mood lightened as the spirits chased away his demons. “This is…I think, the best brandy I’ve ever had.”
Trevor raised his glass and downed the blond liquid. “It’s Courvoisier from France; the favored drink of Napoleon.” He stood from his barstool and poured himself another glass. “‘Claret is the liquor for boys; port for men; but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.’ Samuel Johnson said that, and I happen to agree with him.”
Atticus finished his glass and placed it upside down on the rich mahogany bar that was the centerpiece of a fully stocked, and what appeared to be old-fashioned, American bar. It produced a strange sensation. On one hand, Atticus knew he was at sea—the gentle rise and fall of the ocean reminded him of that every few seconds. But the décor and feel of the place told him that if he exited the room, he’d step out into the hot Texas desert. If he’d still been wearing his .357 magnum on his hip, he’d have fit right in too.
“I’m no hero,” Atticus said.
“You served your country. Truth, justice, the American way, and all that.”
“It was my job.”
“And now? You’re still fighting. You’re still doing what’s right in the eyes of men, facing insurmountable odds—a modern-day Hercules.”
“It’s still my job.”
Trevor opened his mouth to ask, but no words formed. His thoughts were plain enough.
“I’m a father,” Atticus added.
Trevor nodded slowly, as though attempting to translate a foreign language. “I see.”
With a clear mind, despite the brandy, he took in Trevor; dressed in black-silk pajamas, his stark white hair tousled about and milking yet another brandy, the man was a caricature of himself. He’d always thought the rich tycoon would be unapproachable, cold or so strange that a normal conversation would be impossible. Yet he’d offered exactly what Atticus needed to bring himself back under control. For that he was grateful. Perhaps the man would become a friend.
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