Vincent clipped his chest harness into the lifeline and surveyed his surroundings. He was surprised to see the rain had subsided and the clouds were lifting somewhat, allowing better visibility. At that moment, he spotted something moving in the distance, off his starboard bow. He grabbed for the binoculars and brought them up to his eyes. “There you are!”
Through the glasses, Vincent could see a huge white power cruiser with what appeared to be a large radar dome; or was the vessel a trawler? Or maybe it was a sport fisher. It was hard to see as it moved behind the thinning clouds. Perhaps the crew was waiting out the weather so they could do some fishing.
“They have to be some avid fishermen,” he muttered aloud. “They’re as masochistic as sailors.” Whatever they were up to, he had to shake them soon so he could get some decent sleep.
The fresh air helped quell Vincent’s nausea. He braced himself in the seat and savored his sandwich and soda. Life was improving. There was a promise of better weather, his stomach was full and based on the positions reported by the rest of the fleet, he was at the head of the pack.
Vincent reached up to the coach roof and switched on a camcorder that ESPN technicians had installed inside a watertight Lucite box. He had come forward readily when the cable network had asked for volunteers to record daily progress during the race. The camera was calibrated to get a panoramic view of the boat and the surrounding waters. The camcorder began its three-hundred-sixty-degree turn.
Vincent swiped water droplets from the camera housing and faced the cockpit microphone. “It’s ten a.m. on Tuesday, June 3rd. Woodwind is located at approximately two hundred miles southeast of Matamoros, Mexico.” He went on to describe the weather, the set of the sails and other particulars of sailboat racing that he thought might be of interest to the TV audience who would be viewing the tape in about two months.
The camera turned slowly to the right. After one complete revolution, it reversed direction and pivoted back the other way. He completed his report and switched off the camcorder.
Vincent felt somewhat relaxed now that he had seen the other boat and knew it wasn’t the leviathan he had conjured in his mind. A profound sleepiness overcame him. After a quick look around, he settled onto the starboard cockpit seat.
He slept heavily for twenty minutes—until the radar alarm rang out. Disoriented, he jumped up, almost choking himself with his safety-harness tether. He scanned with the binoculars without any success, then peered down into the cabin at the radar scope. The boat—he assumed it was the same one—was back. This time it was six miles behind him. “I’ve had it! That’s it!” Vincent shouted. He reached for the autopilot controls and turned Woodwind eastward.
As Woodwind’s bow crossed through the wind, she came up on her lines, and Vincent could hear the clutter rearranging itself below in the main salon. He released the jib sheet and eased out the main. Already he experienced a sense of relief. Why had the decision to change course taken him so long?
Vincent could imagine the bewilderment of the race officials the next morning when he called in his report: “The bad news is: I’m off course, heading away from Vera Cruz. The good news is: I’m making record time.”
He chuckled to himself, then climbed below and double-checked that the collision alarm was set to sound if he came within six miles of anything. He returned to the cockpit, clipped his harness into the safety line and settled onto the port seat for what he hoped would be a deliciously long nap.
Vincent didn’t know what startled him, but he found himself wide awake and on his feet—but not for long. An errant wave jerked the boat and threw him off balance, knocking him to the cockpit floor. He pulled himself up onto a seat and looked at his watch. “That’s impossible,” he shouted. He had been asleep for four hours.
Now he remembered what woke him. He had heard an unusual sound… Maybe it was a dream. No, he was sure it had been real. But this time it wasn’t the radar alarm… It could have been something shifting down below. Or maybe a wave smacked up under the bow. Or possibly a dolphin had jumped, then slapped the water—occasionally dolphins would race beside the boat, then arch up in the air and look at him with one curious eye, then plunge back into the deep… No, that wasn’t the noise he heard either.
He looked around, but the binoculars showed him there was nothing within his two-mile radius of visibility. He moved forward and peered down into the cabin. The empty radar screen offered additional proof that he was alone out there. But rational or not, Vincent couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.
At that moment, the VHF radio in his pocket erupted in static. Vincent jumped. “Aha! That’s the noise,” he shouted gleefully. The puzzle was solved.
Excited at the prospect of communicating with someone nearby, he dug the VHF out of his pocket and pushed the button. “This is the sailing vessel, Woodwind. Do you read me? Over.” No response. He called twice more, but the radio remained silent in his hand.
Vincent was about to give up and pocket the radio when five bursts of static came back in a regular rhythm, then six more bursts, then four. To him, it sounded like someone on the other end was playing games with their VHF microphone button—and with him. Vincent shivered; the hair on the back of his neck went on alert.
He wondered if he was getting paranoid. He had read about solo sailors on long passages having hallucinations and delusions. But he never thought it could happen to him.
On the other hand, suppose somebody was stalking him? And what if he didn’t make it back home? “Damn! Damn! Damn!” he shouted to the wind. He should have told Diane about the notes. What if someone else found them before she did? After a moment’s deliberation, Vincent reached over and switched on the camcorder.
He spoke into the cockpit microphone as the camera turned slowly toward him. “Diane, Honey, this is for you.” He began singing Funny Valentine in a tremulous voice, altering the lyrics to suit his needs.
Just then, the VHF radio began broadcasting loud music. Vincent stopped singing and tried to remember where he had stowed the flare gun. He unclipped his harness tether from the lifeline and climbed below to look for it—just as a precaution.
Vincent was bent over, rooting around in the depths of the quarter berth when the radar alarm screeched out. He straightened up with a start, hit his head on a projecting bulkhead and went reeling out into the main salon. The proximity alarm continued blaring.
Vincent took a moment to blink his vision back into focus, then checked the radar. He couldn’t believe his eyes. A quick look through a starboard porthole confirmed what he saw on the screen. “SHIT!!!”
A large power boat, by now just a mile or so off his starboard beam, pushed a mountain of water in front of it as it sped toward Woodwind—the two boats were on a collision course. He had to change direction quickly.
Vincent leaped to the stairs and scrambled topside. The big boat was almost upon him. He lunged for the autopilot control. But his tether clip got hung up, jerking him backwards off his feet. He smashed his head against the starboard seat and crashed to the cockpit floor.
Vincent lay motionless. Through his shadowy awareness, he heard his brain throbbing to the rhythmic vibrations of a large engine. “Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)/ How fast she nears and nears!”
Then came a jarring impact, followed by a gnashing, grinding, splintering upheaval. Then silence and sleep… delicious sleep … Diane.
μ CHAPTER FIFTEEN μ
Returning from her early morning jog along BRI’s trails, Diane found Maxine waiting for her outside the locker room door.
“Do you have your cell phone with you?” she asked Diane breathlessly.
“It’s in my locker. Why?”
Maxine pushed open the door and stepped back. “You need to get it. The Coast Guard will be calling you.”
“Why would the Coast Guard…?” She didn’t need to finish the question; there could only be one answer. Fighting off a sense of alarm, she hurried to get h
er phone. But her jogging shoes had turned to lead, then the locker door refused to open.
Maxine came up behind her, gently moved her aside, and asked for her locker combination. She spun the dial and opened the door just as the cell phone struck up Mozart’s Turkish March.
Diane grabbed the phone off the shelf and pressed the button. “This is Diane Rose.”
The voice was young and male. The words were clipped and professional with a little Texas mixed in.
“This is the Coast Guard, Corpus Christi, Texas, Mrs. Rose. The Vera Cruz Race committee has informed us that the sailing vessel Woodwind has not communicated with them for the past twenty-four hours.”
Diane eased herself onto a bench and stared at the tan metal lockers. Maxine sat down beside her and placed her hand on Diane’s arm.
“I need to ask you some questions,” the young man said. Then, without waiting for a response, he started in. “Are you the vessel’s owner?”
“Well… my husband and I own it together.”
“How many people are on board Woodwind, Ma’am?”
“One—my husband—Vincent Rose.”
“Is there a life raft on board?”
“Yes.”
“A life jacket?”
“Yes.”
“Is the vessel equipped with an EPIRB?”
Diane hesitated.
The voice prompted her: “An emergency radio beacon.”
“Of course… Yes.”
The questioning went on. Diane could picture the young man: trim physique, short hair, white uniform; sitting at a gray metal desk, filling out a form. And she was quite anxious to help him get it right; probably a throwback to all her years in school—that special world where correct answers guaranteed good outcomes.
Diane pressed the off button, but didn’t move from the bench. Maxine sat quietly beside her.
Somewhere a wall clock was ticking. It reminded Diane of her third grade nun who told the class to observe a moment of silence contemplating eternity in hell. To help them understand the concept, she told the students the devil had a clock that chanted: “Forever, forever, never, never….” The exercise gave her nightmares for months.
Now, a sense of the dark infinity of her life without Vincent passed through her, propelling her to her feet.
Without looking at Maxine, she said, “The Coast Guard has the last coordinates Vincent reported. They’re going to fly out and look for him. I’m sure it’s just a radio malfunction.”
She turned and walked out of the locker room, forgetting to shower and change clothes.
μ CHAPTER SIXTEEN μ
Enrique Martinez paced in front of the expanse of windows in his Bogotá, Colombia office suite. It had been four weeks since he shredded the threatening letter and set it aflame in the Waterford ashtray on his desk.
To be exact, it had been twenty-eight days, two hours and thirty-seven minutes since he watched the orange and blue flames consume the paper full of deadly truths while his mind cast about wildly for any fragment of information regarding “The Knights of New Granada.” As far as he knew, they were just a very old legend.
As National Election Commissioner, he was accustomed to Colombian politics. But the past couple months had been particularly bad ones.
Eight weeks ago, leftist guerrillas had sent a message that his family would be kidnapped and tortured if he did not support their candidates. A week later, the right-wing paramilitary warned that they could no longer protect him from zealots in their ranks if he did not show favor to their cause. Five weeks ago today, his limousine and chauffeur had met with an incendiary demise outside his favorite cigar store. Subsequently, three different unwashed rebel groups claimed credit for the explosion, threatening further displays of might if their various demands were not met.
All these matters Enrique could handle. The things they demanded were easily dispatched with a quick payoff or a word through channels to a hired gun.
But one month ago came the paralyzing letter of warning with a scarlet sword on its letterhead.
Enrique had immediately recognized the symbol—the Sword of Damocles suspended on a slender horsehair—emblazoned across the top. He knew it meant imminent danger.
But his panic had come, not from the picture of a sword, but from the ultimatums and incriminating facts written beneath it: “You will sever all connections with the drug trade,” it had said. Then it gave an accurate accounting of times and places of secret meetings he had attended and exact balances in his Cayman and Bermuda bank accounts. The letter went on to demand that he divest himself of “the immoral enrichment received for supporting drug crimes against our country.”
Who were these Knights of New Granada? And how was it possible they knew these things about him?
The letter was written in perfect Castilian Spanish; they were obviously educated people. So they were probably reasonable men. When they made contact with him again, he would explain his untenable situation: Once entangled in the drug world, there were no neat options to rid oneself of that stigma.
And how could he possibly dump all that money in such a short time without drawing notice? Maybe these “Knights” had some suggestions for his deliverance from the dilemma he now found himself in. Maybe he could make a donation to their cause.
They had given him a month to begin corrective action. Enrique hoped to hear from them soon. The fear that these men would expose his wrongdoing to the world had driven him near-mad with anxiety.
For yet another day, he had been ineffective at the office. He might as well go to the club and drown his bad thoughts in good bourbon. Enrique pushed a button and asked to be picked up downstairs.
He felt for his sidearm, then emerged cautiously from the building’s private entrance. His new limousine and driver were waiting. Quickly, he slid into the back seat.
Enrique’s eyes darted from one side of the street to the other as the limousine pulled through the security gates and out onto the main thoroughfare. Then he turned and looked through the rear window. Seeing nothing unusual, he sat back and pulled out a cigar and lighter.
At that moment, the vehicle made an unfamiliar left turn. Enrique leaned forward and asked, “Why the detour?” Only then did he realize the man behind the wheel was not his new chauffeur.
Enrique reached for his pistol. But the driver’s reflexes were quicker. Enrique Martinez would never be heard from again.
μ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN μ
The word spread throughout BRI: “The Coast Guard Corpus Christi was on the phone with Diane.” It had been more than two months since Vincent’s disappearance.
Diane thanked the caller, gently replaced the phone in its cradle and stared out the window at the bay.
David Crowley appeared in her office doorway. “Knock, knock.”
“Come in,” she said softly, without looking up.
David walked in, eased himself into a chair across the desk from her and studied her face.
“They think they might have found Woodwind,” she said in a flat tone.
“Where?”
“South Texas. A sailboat has washed up on a barrier island—Padre Island. Some sea turtle watchers reported it. It’s partly buried in sand, and most of the name is gone. ‘Wind’ is the only word visible on the transom.”
Diane continued without taking a breath: “The Coast Guard suggested I fly down there to identify the boat. They couldn’t give me anything more specific than: ‘On the beach, south of Corpus Christi.’ I need more information than that. Or what’s the point in my trekking down there? I’m not familiar with the area. But even if I were, how could it be Woodwind? Her last known coordinates placed her 400 miles south of there. And the officer agreed with me that probably half of all sailboat names have the word ‘wind’ in them—”
“Do you want me go with you?”
For a moment David’s kind offer threw her off balance.
Then she sucked in a ragged breath and blinked back tears. “Okay. Yes.… Than
k you.”.
μ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN μ
Padre Island National Seashore is the longest undeveloped barrier island in the world. It is separated from the mainland by the Laguna Madre, which stretches from Corpus Christi Bay in Texas to Rio Soto la Marina in Tamaulipas, Mexico.
Throughout history Padre Island has been a wilderness, with the exception of a settlement established by a Spanish priest in the early 1800’s. Before that time, only nomadic Native Americans, Spanish troops and survivors of three shipwrecks in the 1500’s were known to come to the island.
Padre Island has been owned by four different nations: Spain, Mexico, Republic of Texas and the United States. It was designated a National Seashore by the U.S. in 1968.
Of the island’s 65.5 miles of beach on the Gulf of Mexico, 55 miles are open to four-wheel-drive vehicles only.
The Padre Island National Seashore entrance booth was piling up with sand on its windward side. David lowered the jeep’s window and paid the fee. Then he took the beach permit from the park ranger and handed it over to Diane.
“How far y’all goin’?” the khaki-clad ranger yelled over the wind.
“”We’re gonna take a quick look at the surf, then duck back in again.” David said.
The ranger nodded. He knew about peoples’ fascination with storms. “That system out there’s s’posed to cause some unusually high tides. You could get cut off if you go down island too far.”
David nodded in appreciation of the warning, then put the jeep in drive. But the ranger wasn’t finished with them yet.
“This afternoon, I’ll probably have to evacuate a few hardy fishermen and some determined Kemp’s ridley sea turtle conservationists encamped down ‘ere past the five mile point. High tide’s around three o’clock, according to the chart. But Mama Nature’s gonna send us an unscheduled preview today.”
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