“Sure thing, Uncle Phil,” a voice yelled back from below deck.
A moment later, a wiry teenager popped his head up through the Bertram’s double doors, springing up onto the aft deck with youthful exuberance.
“Hi there,” said the smiling youngster, extending his hand. “I’m Steve.”
“Jake Braddock,” Jake replied affably.
“Jake Brad . . . hey, you’re that fencing champion, right?” Steve gushed. “Yeah, my uncle told me all about how you used to be his first mate a long time ago. Our whole family watched you on TV when you won the gold medal. I remember that cereal box with your picture on it. Wow, you were great!”
“Thanks, kid,” Jake said, feeling confused and a little embarrassed. “Your . . . uncle?”
“That’s right, matey.” Phil grinned. “My brother’s youngest, in fact. Stephanie and I were never able to have kids of our own. So, I’m training this young buck to take over the business for me, once I ride that big charter up to the sky.” Phil winked at Jake, pointing a crusty thumb back at his nephew. “Say, Jake, does he remind you of anyone you know?”
Turning to watch the energetic teenager, who was already back hard at work checking rods and lures, stowing gear, and cleaning up at the same time, Jake had to admit he did indeed. “Maybe, Captain Phil,” he smiled. “But can he set a hook on a fifty-pound Dorado, while netting another at the same time?”
“Oh, please,” Phil scoffed. “As I recall, you backlashed the rod and dropped the net and the fifty-pounder into the drink. We had to use the gaff to bring it back onboard, fish and all!”
Steve Starling paused to look up from his appointed tasks, his eyes wide in mock astonishment. “I guess that’s one fishing legend shot to hell.”
The three men burst out laughing. Then, the uncomfortable silence started to return.
“Well, I’d better get going Phil,” Jake said somberly. “I know you’ve got a tide to catch, along with a monster tuna, and I’ve gotta get some breakfast before my deputy drags his sorry butt down here.”
Phil winced, and despite Jake’s protestations, struggled from his chair. He extended his gnarled hand once more. “It’s good to see you, kiddo,” he said, smiling and shaking hands again with surprising vigor. “I’ll be around for a few more weeks of the season before we take the Sayonara down to Key West. By the way,” he half-whispered. “I heard you had another run-in with that bastard Harcourt’s son the other day. Folks are saying you taught the little prick a lesson. Good for you! If you ever get tired of dealing with all the bullshit around here and you want your old job back, you just give me a call!”
“Thanks, Captain Phil,” Jake said. “That’s actually not a bad offer.” As he turned to go, he hesitated for a moment, his eyes wandering back past the marina, out toward the fogbound sea. That same unshakable feeling of foreboding was still there. He looked back at his old friend. “Say . . . you be careful. It’s been rough out there the last few days.”
“Now, don’t you go worrying about an old salty dog like me,” Phil said as Jake hopped over the gunnels and onto the dock. “I’ve been doing this a long time. And a little bit of excitement comes with the territory.”
As Jake walked away, Phil Starling yelled out “Hey, Jake! Don’t forget the reason why we became fishermen. It’s the limitless possibilities. Once you drop your bait into those briny depths, you never know what you’re gonna get!”
Turning around and smiling sadly back at the old man, Jake nodded and waved once more as he walked toward the Cove Hove. Eventually, the sounds of the Sayonara’s charter captain and mate faded in the distance.
Suddenly, the sheriff stopped in his tracks. A familiar looking limousine drove slowly through the marina, shadowed by an SUV with tinted windows. Jake’s eyes narrowed. It occurred to him that Dean Harcourt might be the source of the anxiety that welled up within him. There was plenty of unfinished business between them. Whatever the case, he was not in the mood to deal with either the senator or his watchdogs this early in the morning. Especially not on an empty stomach.
Behind him, three pairs of watchful eyes tracked his every move.
“So, that’s him, eh?” Darius Thayer leaned forward, tilting his wolfish head toward the limo’s tinted windows.
“That’s right,” Senator Dean Harcourt said, lighting an expensive cigar. “Mr. Jake Braddock, the ‘legendary’ sheriff of Paradise Cove. Take a last look, Brad, because once I get my way, he won’t be around any longer.”
Brad Harcourt said nothing. He exhaled slowly and continued to stare out the window.
Thayer’s gaze wandered from Brad back to his father. He studied the wealthy politician surreptitiously, all the while coveting the $5,000.00 Italian suit he was carelessly dripping ashes on. A heavily built man in his mid-fifties, Harcourt was the most infamous and feared resident in all of Paradise Cove, as well as Darius’s employer. The head of an extremely powerful family that, among other things, owned the marina and most of the buildings that bordered it, he presided over Paradise Cove’s town council. He had heavy connections with the FBI and the Coast Guard, and wielded tremendous clout within the Republican Party proper. His money, and the almost unlimited media that came with it, was the source of his power, and on the Hill they loved him.
The two men and teenager were seated in the back of Harcourt’s armored limousine, its soundproof partition sealed tight. Behind them, the senator’s security detail waited for instructions.
Thayer leaned back in his seat and exhaled through his nose. A lean man in his early forties, he had devious eyes he kept hidden behind a pair of Brooks Brother’s glasses. He was Senator Harcourt’s long-time friend, attorney, campaign manager, and a master of dirty tactics; he had an uncanny knack for finding career-destroying information. Behind closed doors it was said that, although the senator had the power, his political advisor wielded it.
“If you don’t mind my saying, I honestly don’t get it, Dean,” Thayer commented, squinting as he removed his glasses to clean them. Outside, the object of their scrutiny disappeared into a nearby establishment. “Didn’t you seek out and hire this guy in the first place? I remember you saying he was – what was the term – ‘politically useful’?” Thayer replaced his glasses before continuing. “Now, all of a sudden, you want to destroy him?”
Harcourt drew fiercely on his cigar, blowing out a cloud of smoke that filled the car’s interior. “Three years ago Jake Braddock was a valuable commodity. He was an Olympic caliber athlete, fresh off winning the nationals. Probably would’ve won metal at the Olympics if he didn’t fall apart after his wife died. So, when I heard he quit competing, I snatched him up.”
Thayer was already intimately familiar with everything Harcourt was saying, but for now was content to let him ramble.
“It seemed like a great move for us, Darius. Braddock was born and raised in Paradise Cove. After he lost everything and came crawling back, it was like the prodigal son returning home. He was a celebrity.”
The senator paused momentarily.
“So, what went wrong?” Thayer prodded.
“Everything. The sympathy we were hoping to get from hiring him after his tragedy never materialized.” The senator started to puff ferociously on his cigar, like a locomotive building up steam. “And his celebrity persona we were planning on capitalizing on, ended up being replaced by some goddamn blue-collar working-class hero etiquette I never expected. He refused to make personal appearances and wouldn’t let us use his name for publicity.” The senator removed his cigar and spat irritably. “And don’t get me started on that interview he did . . .”
Annoyed, Harcourt stopped to tap the end of his cigar into a nearby ashtray. He reached up and scratched at a jagged scar that ran down the entire right side of his jaw.
“Still hurts?” Thayer asked.
“No, not much, but it itches a lot.”
“Looks better than it did the last time I saw you.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s goddamn be
autiful,” Harcourt snorted. “In fact, I’m thinking of having a matching one done for the other side. Believe me, Darius. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish that fucker lived long enough for me to give him a scar just like this.”
Thayer remembered watching the scene on the evening news like it was yesterday. The media coverage of the botched assassination had been a gift from the gods. Hell, you couldn’t buy that kind of publicity. “Listen Dean, you and I both know that scar helped win your re-election. A little sympathy goes a long way.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, how about next time you take the assassin’s bullet. And I’ll give you some sympathy!”
Thayer started, but held his tongue.
His eyes fierce, Harcourt sucked in another puff.
“Anyway, to finish answering your question, rather than serving as an ambassador of goodwill, Jake’s opposed me at every turn, like striving to block us regulating whale-watching, or raising public awareness against our increasing slip-rental fees. And the damn people love him for it.”
Disgusted, Harcourt put out his Cuban, nearly crushing it.
“So, that’s it?” Thayer said, probing deeper. “Are you sure there’s nothing else? Nothing . . . personal in this whole thing?”
Harcourt’s eyes were hard and glittering as he studied his longtime ally. He held up a fistful of orange summonses. “If you’re referring to the incident with my son from the other day, of course there’s something personal in it. I’m a firm believer in Machiavellian philosophy, Darius. An eye for an eye. But there’s more to it than that.” His gaze fell on his son, who avoided his father’s stare by contemplating a nearby palm tree. “You see, Brad’s minor indiscretions received a disproportionate response from Jake.”
Suddenly a thick stream of saliva spurted from Harcourt’s mouth, running down his chin and dripping onto his lap. He cursed, reaching into his breast pocket for a handkerchief to wipe it.
Thayer politely looked the other way. The senator’s routinely grotesque and uncontrollable drooling was exacerbated by agitation or excitement. It was a parting gift from the religious fanatic that nearly ended his life a year ago.
Harcourt put away his handkerchief and leaned forward. His dark eyes bored into Thayer’s. “Look, Darius. The bottom line is this – Braddock has outlived his usefulness. He can’t be controlled, and he’s become a liability. He’s got to go.”
“I see,” Thayer said, leaning slowly back into his seat. “Look, don’t get me wrong here, Dean. I’m just curious as to how you propose to eliminate him. If he’s as popular as you say, he’ll win re-election next year, even if he doesn’t campaign.”
For a moment, Harcourt didn’t respond. He stared through the limo’s tinted glass, focusing on the Cove Hove so intently it seemed he could see the object of his enmity through its stone walls.
“He’s got to have an Achilles heel, Darius. Everyone does. I simply want you to find it.”
“Actually, that might prove to be a little difficult,” Thayer advised, looking down and shuffling some papers he carried. “After you called me, I took the liberty of running a background check on your ‘protector of the people,’ and he looks pretty clean.” He skimmed the pages as he spoke, flipping them one by one with his finger. “His credit is good, he doesn’t drink or gamble, and he hasn’t been involved with anyone since his wife died. On top of all that, he’s rescued three drowning victims over the last two years, including a little girl’s Labrador retriever puppy, if you can believe that!”
“People believe what you tell them, Darius.”
Thayer looked up, closing the folder dismissively as he did. He shook his head. “True. And what the people are telling each other is that crime in Paradise Cove is down sixty seven percent since Jake Braddock took office. He’s a workaholic, but that’s about it. Frankly, I don’t think we’re going to find much we can use.”
Harcourt’s ruddy lips curled back into a snarl, revealing his tobacco-stained teeth. His already intense face turned a deep red and the raised scar on his jaw began to pulse. His fists clenched as he moved forward in his seat. “Look, don’t get me wrong here, Darius, but I don’t give a damn about what your little pile of papers says. I want you to find me dirt on this man. Real dirt. Dirt I can use to destroy his reputation, cost him his job, and ruin his life! Do you hear me?”
Thayer froze as he saw the unpredictable look in Harcourt’s eyes. The senator seemed dangerously unstable, like a man perched on the edge of a very deep precipice, ready to plunge off on a whim, or throw you off instead, and laugh uproariously as you fell.
“What, do you think I’m crazy, Darius?” Foamy saliva was starting to collect in the corners of Harcourt’s mouth. “You think this is some kind of game? Well it’s not. Now you go out there and find me that information I asked for. No matter how long it takes, or how much it costs. Do you comprehend what I’m telling you?” Harcourt raged on, his spittle spraying over Thayer’s face. “If you can’t find what I need, then create it! I will not be denied my vengeance!”
Speechless, Thayer sat there gaping, his eyes peeled wide behind his saliva-stained glasses. His mouth had gone dry, making him labor as he swallowed hard. “Uh, sure thing Dean,” he said warily, pausing to clear his throat. “I . . . think we understand each other completely. I’ll, um . . . get right on it.”
“Excellent,” the senator said. He smiled eerily, relaxing back into his seat as if their entire conversation might have been about nothing more than a passing cloud. Tapping a button on his padded armrest, he opened the intercom to his chauffeur. “Pull us closer to the dock so my son can get out, please. Then, if you don’t mind, would you be so kind as to drive us back to Mr. Thayer’s car?” Sitting back in his seat as the limo started to move, Harcourt didn’t say another word. He merely stared out the window with a chilling smile playing across his bloated face.
Darius Thayer also sat there quietly, but his mind was working furiously. Despite maintaining a cool exterior, he was both frightened and disturbed. The senator’s private war with the small town sheriff was exploding into full-blown obsession.
Based on what he just experienced, Thayer came to two inescapable conclusions: Brad Harcourt was completely and rightfully terrified of his father.
And Dean Harcourt was going insane.
From his table in the Cove Hove, Jake watched Brad Harcourt exit his father’s limousine and make his way down toward his docked Jet Ski. A moment later, the big black car drove off, accompanied by its security detail. Shrugging off the deranged senator, Jake turned his attention back to the spinach and egg white omelet sitting on his plate. The place was eerily quiet, the only discernable sounds coming from the kitchen and an overhead television set. With the usual early morning rush of charter captains and their clientele already out at sea, the restaurant and bar were practically deserted.
The Cove Hove was a quaint place, one with a reputation for good food and great atmosphere. Its ornate windows overlooked the marina proper. Decorated to mimic the layout of a 19th century pirate ship, it had a huge captain’s wheel as its centerpiece. Its steady stream of tourists and residential visitors made the popular establishment consistently profitable.
Jake glanced over at the nearby bar; its glasses suspended overhead like crystalline grapes, its inverted stools lined up atop its polished length. He thought back to the days following his return to Paradise Cove. He’d been a wreck following Sam’s death, and nothing anyone said or did could buoy his spirits. His career was over, and his life hard on its heels. The money he made from endorsements was mostly gone, with just a little left to drink. Luckily, everyone in town was clamoring to buy him a brew. They all wanted to be able to brag that they shared a beer with a gold medal winner; they were lining up like soldiers.
Jake grimaced, remembering all the nights he’d staggered out of the Cove Hove, shit-faced and miserable. His plan to escape reality had backfired, and seclusion only made matters worse. The only thing he was accomplishing was boozing himsel
f comatose night after night, and waking up in desiccated puddles of vomit. If he hadn’t accepted the sheriff’s job he’d still be sucking face with some bottle.
“More lemons for your tea, sheriff?” a voice called out. “How’s your breakfast today?”
Jake looked up. The waitress, Mary, was a petite but buxom brunette, perpetually dressed in pink. A transplant from nearby Boca Raton, she fawned over the well-built lawman whenever he frequented her establishment. The moment she saw him she ran to the restroom and sprayed herself with jasmine-scented body splash.
“Everything’s great, Mary. Thanks,” he said with a half-smile. “But I’ve told you a hundred times, you can call me Jake.”
The young girl beamed at him before wiggling off to attend to her remaining customers. Jake took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, then turned his attention to the overhead television.
The broadcast showed a group of reporters at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. They were in pursuit of an obviously uncooperative figure with dark hair and a pronounced mustache, barraging him with questions. The sight of media made Jake lower his eyes.
. . . on the national scene, big game hunter Karl Von Freiling, well known for his capture of oversized snakes and crocodiles, came under fire after the failure of a top-secret expedition. The expedition ended in disaster when four team members were killed.
Von Freiling refused to elaborate on the deaths, except to say that the men all died in a tragic boating accident. Attorneys for the victims’ families have called for a formal investigation . . .
. . . in international news, the huge squid that attacked surfer Manuel Diaz off the coast of Cuba last week has been confirmed to be an unknown species. Scientists who examined the remains of the twenty-five foot mollusk stated the squid is similar to the well-known giant squid, but does not possess its two elongated attack tentacles. They have concluded that this new species is most likely a shallow water predator that hunts by stalking and pouncing on its prey.
KRONOS RISING: After 65 million years, the world's greatest predator is back. Page 10