“Is that a no?”
“I’m sorry, Matt. You know how hard this is to say after all we’ve been through together. It’s not forever?”
Hawkins smiled and said, “You’re not off the hook. I want a signed copy of your next book.”
He rose to say good-bye. Cait sprang from her chair, came around the desk, wrapped her arms around him and planted a kiss on his lips that curled his toes.
Abby was waiting for him outside.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Okay. A little difficult.”
“Difficult? Then why do you look like the cat that swallowed the canary?”
He put his arm around her shoulders. “I was thinking about an idea I wanted to discuss with you.”
When he explained what he had in mind it was Abby’s turn to smile.
“It’s about damned time, Hawkins.”
Camden, Maine, Six Hours Later
The sleek red-hulled lobster boat glided out of the picturesque harbor, passing some of the windjammers that carried passengers to give them a taste of what it was like in the days of sail.
Hawkins was at the wheel and Abby stood on the deck taking photos of the tall-masted boats. Not a wisp of a cloud marred the luminous blue sky. The air was heavy with the salty scent of the sea. Squadrons of sharp-eyed gulls wheeled over the fishing boats searching for scraps of food. The breeze ramped up several knots as the boat entered the open waters of Penobscot Bay, but the bow cut through low mounding waves like scissors through blue silk.
Hawkins’ father had the wooden-hulled boat custom built for his lobster business. When he retired from fishing and became a shore-bound lobster distributor, he converted the forty-two-foot-long workboat into a comfortable pleasure craft that was ideal for island-hopping along the Maine coast. When Hawkins had called and asked to borrow the boat, he had felt like a teenager asking Pop for the keys to the family car, but his father had happily obliged, especially when he learned Abby was coming with him.
After the meeting with Cait, Hawkins and Abby had dashed home to pack their overnight bags and rendezvoused at the airport. Abby had arranged for a small jet that flew them to Portland, Maine where they picked up a rental car. Two hours later, they pulled up to the low-slung Hawkins family home on a rocky point. His father came out to wrap Abby in a bear hug and his mother beamed with delight. She still considered Abby as a daughter. Hawkins stayed long enough to be polite, eat some homemade apple pie and catch up on local gossip before saying that he wanted to get moving so he could make landfall before dark.
His father said the boat was fueled up, well-stocked with food and booze and ready to go. Within minutes of boarding, Hawkins and Abby set a course to Vinal Haven, southwest of Camden, and when they arrived they found an anchorage in a quiet cove. While Hawkins grilled a couple of rib eye steaks and sweet potatoes, Abby made a salad and opened a bottle of 2007 Bordeaux.
Abby had suggested that they dress for dinner. She had exchanged her shorts and polo-shirt for a diaphanous strapless cocktail dress of lavender. Hawkins changed from his cargo shorts and T-shirt into an olive cotton blazer, fresh jeans and a dark green shirt. They sat at a table on the wide deck, enjoying their food and wine by candlelight, watching the sun dip behind the island, and chatting about Calvin and Sutherland.
After their meeting in Washington, Hawkins had asked Calvin and Sutherland what they planned to do. Calvin had grinned like a mischievous kid.
“I’ve been talking to Abby about transporting Amir’s bomber if I can persuade the old bandit to part with it.”
Sutherland simply said, “I’ll let you know,” before she got on her Harley and rode off like the Lone Ranger.
“Do you think we’ll ever hear from Molly again?” Abby said.
“When she’s ready. In the meantime she’ll be watching every move we make.” Hawkins took a sip of wine and stared up at the star-spattered sky. “We’re damned lucky the gods look out for fools.” He realized his faux pas and said, “No offense, Abby.”
Abby laughed softly. “None taken. I’m glad you asked me to go on the mission.”
“We couldn’t have done it without you, Abby.”
“I’ll have to admit I had my doubts.”
“Can’t imagine why. Having Crazy Matt arrive on your doorstep asking you to go on a dangerous treasure hunt seems like a perfectly normal request.”
“I think Crazy Matt is no more,” she said.
“And I think that we’re out of wine.”
Hawkins opened another bottle and filled their glasses. They sipped their wine in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the rhythmical tap of waves against the hull and the piney scent of the warm Maine night. Abby broke the silence.
“We know what Calvin and Molly’s plans are. Where do we go from here?” Abby said.
“I’ll head back to Woods Hole and play with my robotic toys. I assume you’ll go back to running your company.”
“I didn’t mean professionally. I was talking about us. About our future.”
“Ah,” Hawkins said. “Excuse me for being brain dead. It’s a male thing. What’s your take on the situation?”
She put her glass down on the table and got up. She walked to the stern, staring out at the land lights sparkling against the blue darkness, then turned and said, “There may be a chance for us. There may not be. We’re both different than we were. It’s as if we’ve got to get to know each other all over again.”
Hawkins got up and went over to Abby. The soft breeze was blowing the tender folds of her dress against the curves of her body. He put his arms around her and kissed her neck, her ear, her cheek and finally her lips. He ran his hands down from her shoulder blades to the small of her back, exploring the valley of her vertebrae, the firm roundness of her buttocks, the curve of her thighs. She shivered at his touch although the night was warm as his searching fingers brought back tactile recollections of times past.
“No time like the present to get to know each other again,” he said.
They climbed down into the cabin, leaving a trail of clothes behind them, slipped beneath the sheets of the V-shaped berth in the bow of the boat, made love with a frantic urgency, fell asleep, awoke and made love again, slower and more deliberately, and slept until they were awakened in each other’s arms by the squalling of gulls and sunlight through the portholes.
After they got dressed, Abby took the wheel and they headed south to Matinicus Island where they anchored again and Hawkins whipped up a masterful omelet. They rowed ashore, spent the day exploring the rocky island and later that evening explored each others’ bodies again.
The next morning, they set a direct course back to Camden. Hawkins called ahead to his folks and said that he and Abby would love to visit, but they had to get back for an appointment. After returning the boat, they drove to Portland. Abby summoned her jet and Hawkins caught a commercial flight to Boston. Before taking off, they exchanged the lighthearted kiss and hug of old friends and vowed to keep in touch.
The pain of parting stayed with Hawkins during his flight. When his plane landed in Boston, he caught a bus back to Woods Hole. He had called ahead and Snowy was waiting at the bus stop to give him a ride home in the red pick-up. They made small talk on the ten-minute ride. The afterglow of Hawkins’ cruise with Abby was wearing off, sadly. He realized that their romantic interlude had been only that, with no resolution to what he called their situation. He was still thinking about Abby when they pulled up in front of his house. He glanced at the second floor. The bullet-shattered picture window had been replaced.
“Forgot to mention that there’s a surprise waiting for you,” Snowy said.
As Hawkins got out of the truck, Quisset emerged from around a corner of the house and limped over. One of her back legs wasn’t working quite right, and she wore a collar to prevent her from getting at the bandage on her
head, but there was nothing wrong with her wagging tail and she did her best to knock Hawkins over with her usual thigh slam.
Hawkins knelt and gave Quisset a big hug that set off a squirming fit.
It was good to be home.
POSTSCRIPT
Mohamed sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked ISI vehicle parked on the side of a hillside road, watching the walled-off villa through the lenses of his night-vision binoculars.
Four cars had disappeared through the wall gate, which was guarded by two men armed with automatic weapons. He couldn’t see what was going on in the villa hidden behind the walls, but he could picture the scene from past experience attending meetings of the Shadow leadership.
The Doctor and his lieutenants would be sitting cross-legged on the bare floor, their backs to the walls of the room. The Doctor would be haranguing them, lacing his tirade with frequent religious references. In this case, the Doctor would be discussing the failure of the Prophet’s Necklace and the disappearance of the man who was going to carry out the plot.
Mohamed knew this because his commander was the one who had told the Shadows that the ISI could no longer provide cover for them. The treasure mission had failed. The Chinese deal had fallen through. Amir was still alive and in control of the lithium fields. The old warlord was looking for the highest bidder, but the U.S. was sweetening its offer by bringing in troops to protect Amir’s village.
Mohamed had heard from a CIA contact that Marzak and not Hawkins had killed his cousin. He had been fond of Saleem, and felt a load of guilt about bringing the professor into the dirty business of intelligence. His contact had said Marzak was dead, but Saleem knew there were others who were complicit in his cousin’s murder. When the commander told him to tie up loose ends, he had no hesitation carrying out the orders.
Mohamed knew that the Doctor was ultra-cautious. He would arrive in one car and leave in another, one of four that would speed off in different directions. Any attacker would have to go after all four cars if he didn’t know the right one.
What the Doctor didn’t know was that one of the men at the gate was in the employ of the ISI. When the gate opened after a few minutes, Mohamed kept his eye on the guard, who dropped his hand and tapped the rear fender of the third vehicle as if sending it on its way.
Mohamed smiled and punched out a number on his cell phone.
“Black Mercedes. Heading east,” he said.
The call was patched through to a dimly-lit windowless room in Tampa, Florida. The pilot in charge of the Predator that had been circling high above the villa worked the joystick and sent the drone winging after its prey. Within minutes the drone’s nose camera picked up the smudge moving in an easterly direction. The operator’s supervisor gave the command to fire, and seconds later two Hellfire missiles streaked out from below the wings of the drone and transformed the Mercedes into a ball of white fire.
The explosion that destroyed the Doctor and his car was soundless in the operations room, but thousands of miles away Mohamed heard the thud and saw the flare in the distance.
He instructed his driver to get moving and said in a low voice, “A torch to light your way to paradise, dear cousin.”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
My fiction-writing career owes it start to the bad navigation of an 18th century pirate. For it was in 1717 that a ship, the Whydah went aground, reportedly carrying a fabulous treasure. In the 1980s, three salvage groups went head-to-head, competing to find the wreck. The controversy over the salvage got hot at times and I thought there might be a book in their story. I was working for a newspaper at the time.
I developed my own detective, an ex-cop, diver, fisherman, and PI named Aristotle “Soc” Socarides. He was more philosophical than hard-boiled. Making his first appearance in “Cool Blue Tomb,” the book won the Shamus award for Best Paperback novel. After many years in the newspaper business, I turned to writing fiction and churned out five more books in the series.
Clive Cussler blurbed: “There can be no better mystery writer in America than Paul Kemprecos.”
Despite the accolades, the Soc series lingered in mid-list hell. By the time I finished my last book, I was thinking about another career that might make me more money, like working in a 7-11.
Several months after the release of “Bluefin Blues,” Clive called and said a spin-off from the Dirk Pitt series was in the works. It would be called the NUMA Files and he wondered if I would be interested in tackling the job.
I took on the writing of “Serpent” which brought into being Kurt Austin and the NUMA Special Assignments Team. Austin had some carry-over from Soc, and another team member, Paul Trout, had been born on Cape Cod. The book made The New York Times bestseller list, as did every one of seven NUMA Files that followed, including “Polar Shift,” which bumped “The DaVinci Code” for first place.
After eight NUMA Files I went back to writing solo. I wrote an adventure book entitled, “The Emerald Scepter,” which introduced a new hero, Matinicus “Matt” Hawkins. I have re-released my Soc series in digital and print, and in 2013, responding to numerous requests, I brought Soc back again in a seventh Socarides book entitled, “Grey Lady.” My wife Christi and I live on Cape Cod where she works as a financial advisor. We live in a circa 1865 farmhouse with two cats. We have three children and seven granddaughters.
To learn more about Paul Kemprecos, check out his website at http://www.paulkemprecos.com.
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