Furious

  I reached above my head and touched the Odyssey, grasping the transom with both hands. I scissor kicked, propelling myself out of the water. My chest landed on the gunwale. I reached for a sheet and pulled myself onto the deck, lifting my feet over the transom.

  Behind me, something slapped the surface, splashing me. I turned and looked. The surface foamed white. The cushion had disappeared.

  I crab-walked away from the edge until I backed into the steering wheel. I pulled my knees against my chest and rubbed my legs and feet. Everything remained attached and intact.

  I made it.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Brad’s screams echoed across the space between us.

  I stood on the Odyssey’s deck and watched the Karna burn. Flames burst through the windows and reached high into the air. The breeze carried a toxic, chemical odor. There was nothing I could do—nothing I wanted to do.

  Hearing Brad burn to death was awful, a fate I would not wish on anyone, but the Brad I had known—my Brad—no longer inhabited his body. The virus had eaten away his brain, leaving a homicidal, flesh-eating monster in its wake. Watching the creature he had become feast on that innocent sailor had numbed me. My Brad could not have done that. No human could.

  Rabies had released something wicked and heinous inside Brad—traits he had kept hidden. Maybe his violent tendencies had always been there, waiting for a physical or societal trigger to escape. Maybe the virus inside him had eaten away his nerves and removed his capacity to control his primal instincts. The Indonesian government needed to destroy every bat inside the Pura Goa Lawah cave, before it transformed more people into demons.

  Long, orange tendrils of flame burst through the stateroom hatches and Brad’s screaming stopped. His nightmare had ended. A huge plume of black smoke poured from the yacht, rising high into the air. A blinding flash forced my eyes shut and a wall of pressure knocked me off my feet.

  My ears rang, and I shook my head to clear my mind. I grabbed the gunwale and pulled myself to my knees. The yacht’s cabin top had disappeared in the explosion. Fragments rained onto the surface as flames consumed the yacht.

  A loud crack reverberated across the water. The yacht’s bow tilted at a sharp angle and slid stern-first into the ocean. The fire sizzled and popped as the cold seawater extinguished it. The yacht slipped below the surface, and only the mast remained visible, as if the Karna was giving me the finger.

  The yacht sank.

  The surface bubbled with air released from below. A billow swept away the disturbance, and the ocean turned placid, as if the yacht had never existed. Only a black cloud of smoke and scattered debris remained.

  The yacht was gone. Brad was gone. The poor sailor was gone. But I lived.

  I soaked in the thousands of miles of blue ocean. The only sound, the splashing of the sea against the hull. I ran my hands over my legs again to reassure myself I was in one piece. How had I made it off the yacht? How had I escaped the shark? My chance of survival had not been high.

  I descended the companionway and walked through the cabin, feeling like an intruder. The elderly sailor had sailed the ocean alone and come to my rescue, only to be savagely murdered. I hoped he had died quickly and not suffered. A pang of guilt tugged at me, weighed on my soul. I had not intended to hurt anyone. I had meant to warn whoever came, but I had pushed my mind and body beyond my limits of endurance and had passed out on the mast.

  I would have to live with that.

  On the yacht, I had faced my worst fears and insurmountable odds, the sum of all of my life’s tragedy, but I had persevered. I had confronted all of it and won. Beneath my depression, a fire still burned inside me. I would learn how to live with Emma’s death. Her loss was a part of me, but it did not sting the same way it had a few weeks ago. I would be happy. I did not know the exact path I would take, because the future remained a mystery, an unending adventure full of sorrow and joy. But I knew one thing.

  I wanted to try.

  The Odyssey had an electronics system beside the chart table. I opened the navigation screen and the boat’s position displayed on the map. I zoomed out. We had come within one hundred miles of the Maldives.

  A light on the marine radio glowed green, and a list of frequencies had been taped above it. I plugged in the emergency maritime channel, lifted the handset to my mouth, and hesitated. If I notified the governments of the Maldives or India, would they allow me to dock or would they deny me entry as a potential rabies carrier?

  I could sail the rest of the way by myself, dock in the Maldives, and fly home. But, two people had died, and I needed to notify the authorities. If the sailor had a family, they deserved to know. I also needed to warn the Balinese authorities before they had another rabies outbreak. And Eric worried about me. Everyone deserved to know what had happened. I had a moral duty to report it, even if it meant they would deny me entry.

  I had an obligation to the dead. And to the living.

  I lifted the receiver to my mouth.

  “Mayday, mayday. This is the sailing vessel Odyssey declaring an emergency.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Four Years Later

  I stood over the Emma’s grave. It had been four years since she passed. It seemed inconceivable how someone that small, whose life had been ephemeral, could have had such an impact. Her death had shaken me to my core, made me wonder if I could ever be happy again. Emma’s death had also led me to Bali and put me on that yacht. It had impelled me to confront my demons and something more elemental. It had forced me to decide if I would submit and die or refuse to surrender and choose life. Emma’s life had led me on a journey to discover who I was and what really mattered. It had been a quest to save my soul.

  The early spring air smelled of buttercups, lilac, and hope. Another hard New England winter had ended, and the sun warmed my skin with the promise of summer. I knelt in the soft grass and laid a bouquet of tulips against the gravestone. I kissed my hand and touched the granite.

  “The flowers are beautiful,” Eric said.

  “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl,” I said.

  I turned and smiled at him. Seeing him made me whole.

  Eric bent over, took my hand, and kissed my cheek. “Spenser and Sophie are playing with Treasure in the car, but they’re eager to get to the park. Do you need more time?”

  “I’m ready now.”

  Eric helped me to my feet, and we walked to our vehicle. He had asked me on a date six months after I returned from my voyage. He had waited long enough for me to recover from my physical, psychological, and emotional wounds, and given me sufficient time to mourn Brad.

  After arriving in the Maldives, I had spent twenty-four hours in quarantine, until a doctor confirmed I was not symptomatic. I received fourteen days of post-exposure prophylaxis; in case Brad had infected me with the rabies virus. During that time, authorities conducted a death investigation. Eric’s testimony describing my frantic calls helped corroborate my story, and the Balinese Department of Health discovered hundreds of infected bats in the Pura Goa Lawah cave.

  They averted a rabies outbreak, and the police cleared me of any wrongdoing.

  Authorities identified the sailor Brad had killed—a retired engineer named Robert Mathis. His wife had passed away years before and they had no children. I tried to find other family members, but he had no living relatives. I made donations in his name to Boston Pediatric Surgical Center and to a rabies awareness group in Indonesia. I vowed to make those annual gifts to keep his name alive.

  Brad’s death devastated his parents, but when I had tried to console them, they pulled away. Maybe they blamed me for what happened or perhaps seeing me reminded them of their loss. Maybe t
hey refused my sympathy, because they had never liked me, never thought I was good enough for their son. They hired a lawyer to enforce the prenuptial agreement I had signed, but I did not need any of Brad’s things. I had been happy to move back into my family’s brownstone in Boston, happy to return to my fellowship, happy to resume my life. I had signed a paper agreeing not to contest the prenuptial agreement and left their house for the last time.

  I would never know if Brad had caused Emma’s death. If he had hurt her, he was a monster, and I was not to blame—not a bad mother. If he had killed her, I would hate him forever. I wanted an answer, but that craving could turn into obsession, and either way, Emma was dead, and nothing would bring her back. Maybe it was better not to know.

  I had finished my pediatric surgical fellowship six months after I returned to Boston and became a board-certified pediatric surgeon at Boston Pediatric Surgical Center. Eric and I had seen each other every day and spent all of our free time together. He had asked me to marry him a few months later and I had accepted with none of the second-guessing or internal conflict I had experienced with Brad. I knew it was right.

  Eric was my soul mate and everything I ever wanted in a man. His kindness and his intelligence reminded me of my father. His passion for helping children and his drive to be the best doctor possible reminded me of myself. We shared a common outlook on life, a rational approach to problem solving, and most importantly, the desire to find happiness and meaning in every moment.

  Eric and I had married less than a year after he proposed, and we had twins, Sophie and Spenser, two beautiful, healthy children. They were two years old now, and we planned to give them a brother or sister soon.

  We arrived at our SUV and our dog, Treasure, stuck her head through the window. She was the golden retriever I had always wanted, the dog I had dreamed about and thought I would never have. We lived in my family’s brownstone, and I took her for daily walks along Commonwealth Avenue.

  Inside the SUV, Spenser and Sophie clung to Treasure and screamed with delight. I belted the kids into their car seats, and Eric drove us downtown to the Boston Public Garden.

  We spread our blankets and opened a picnic basket near the lagoon. The trees along the shore hung over the water, their buds open, revealing white and pink flowers. Spenser pointed at two swans floating a few feet away and laughed, with the infectious sound of unbridled joy only a child can make. Sophie ran around the blanket giggling, and Treasure lay beside me watching a flock of ducks paddle across the surface. Eric flashed a loving glance, warming me and filling me with happiness. Only Eric could do that.

  My life had changed in four years. Since childhood, I had focused on my career, somehow trying to compensate for the tragic death of my father. My pregnancy with Emma and marriage to Brad had changed my life overnight and made me abandon my identity.

  Then came the voyage.

  Facing certain death had realigned my priorities and allowed me to gain perspective on my life. I realized my altruistic dedication to saving children was noble, but it had also been a coping mechanism, a way to overcome childhood trauma. Expecting my life to end on that yacht had made me rethink how I would spend the remaining time I had left on earth. I still cared about my career and helping others, but I knew I had to focus on my happiness first, which meant marrying the man I loved, having children, and enjoying every moment.

  That voyage had changed everything.

  Treasure lifted her head and sniffed the air. The hair on her back stood at attention, and she leapt to her feet, wide-eyed and alert. I thought she would run after the geese or ducks, but she faced away from the pond toward something in the garden.

  A horrible growling rumbled behind us—visceral, angry, close. My body turned to ice. I flashed back to the yacht, to the monster.

  I whirled around and faced a two-hundred pound mastiff. It stared at Treasure then turned its head toward Sophie, Spenser, and Eric. It curled its lips and bared its teeth. Drool dripped from its fangs.

  In my mind, I saw Brad on his knees, hunched over the sailor and eating his intestines. Brad standing below the mast, clawing at the air, waiting for me. Brad with flesh hanging from his mouth. He had died, but the monster would never be completely gone.

  Eric jumped to his feet and scooped Spenser and Sophie into his arms, shielding them with his body. Treasure lowered her head, ready to pounce.

  A low guttural growl rolled out of the mastiff’s throat and its shoulders tensed.

  I planted a foot beneath me and charged the mastiff, waving my hands in the air. The beast turned toward me.

  “Get the hell out of here, you bitch,” I yelled.

  The mastiff backed up, surprised by my aggression. It turned its head and trotted away with its tail between its legs.

  I looked at Eric and he smiled. He set Spenser and Sophie on the grass and they ran to watch the ducks, unperturbed by the mastiff’s attack.

  “I thought it was my job to protect our family,” Eric said, grinning.

  “We can protect each other. I won’t let anything hurt my family. Not ever.”

  Eric took my hand and kissed me.

  Four years ago, I had been afraid of many things. Now, I feared nothing. The voyage had given me that gift and I would always be thankful. I had much left to do, and I was capable and ready. I had patients to heal and children to save. I had a husband to love and twins to raise. I closed my eyes, letting the sun warm my face, and I smiled.

  I had a life to live.

  . . . . .

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Author photo by Rowland Scherman

  https://www.rowlandscherman.com

  Jeffrey James Higgins is a former reporter, former elected official, and retired supervisory special agent, who writes creative nonfiction, essays, short stories, and thriller novels. He has wrestled an IED away from a suicide bomber, fought the Taliban in combat, and chased terrorists across five continents. He received both the Attorney General’s Award for Exceptional Heroism and the DEA Award of Valor. He lives with his wife in Alexandria, Virginia.

  Learn more at http://JeffreyJamesHiggins.com.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed Furious, please leave a review online, even if it’s just a sentence or two. It would make all the difference and would be greatly appreciated.

  Thanks!

  Jeffrey James Higgins

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