She hemmed and hawed and started to blush. Finally: “When you told me your wife’s boat was missing, my first thought was that maybe I could have you all to myself. Isn’t that horrible? It is. I feel like such a dick.”
“No, it’s just very human,” he said, reaching out to caress her cheek. “That doesn’t make you a bad person.”
“Really? You don’t think so?”
“No, I don’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re definitely not a dick. Besides, I’m sure the Coast Guard will be calling me any minute to tell me they found my family and they’re all okay.”
Peter had barely finished the sentence when his cell phone rang. They both had to smile at the timing.
“Is it the Coast Guard?” asked Bailey as Peter dug into his suit pocket and took out his phone.
He glanced at the caller ID and shook his head. Then he did something odd, at least as far as Bailey was concerned. As the phone continued to ring in his hand, he simply stared at it.
“Who is it, Peter?” she asked. “You look surprised.”
He definitely was.
Chapter 54
HOW DID SHE find out so fast?
Peter knew he would eventually have to meet the press, as it were, regarding the disappearance of The Family Dunne. It was only a matter of time.
He just didn’t think it would be quite so soon.
After listening to one more ring, he finally answered. “What took you so long?” he said sarcastically into the phone.
If he had let the call go to his voice mail, he knew she wouldn’t be content to leave a message. Instead she’d have one of her attack-dog production assistants track him down in person. That’s how she worked.
“Peter, I’m so, so sorry,” said Judith Fox, host of the number-one daytime cable talk show. “You must be worried sick about your family. I know family comes first for you.”
“Thank you, Judy. Yes, it’s been a very hard day so far.”
Peter mouthed who it was to Bailey, who immediately looked impressed. Indeed, Judith Fox was a household name, even giving the queen herself, Oprah, a run for her money lately in the ratings.
One reason was Judith’s uncanny ability to break stories. She was a dogged reporter first and foremost, with a genuine sixth sense for the news. Plus she had the mother of all Rolodexes. She knew everybody, including Peter.
They had first met at an American Bar Association party in the ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria while Judith was still a beat reporter for WNBC. Peter had just successfully defended a big-time rap star on an attempted murder charge and was enjoying his first bite-sized taste of national publicity.
Naturally Judith sought him out at the party, and in turn Peter managed to charm the pants off her that night.
Panties, too. Which was why she allowed him to call her Judy. For the next year, right up until she launched her cable show from Times Square, the two became what Page Six of the New York Post referred to as “best friends with benefits.” Of course, the merciless bloggers who covered the media had another term for it: “fuck buddies.”
Put simply, he and Judith Fox had history. And now she had his ear, and dibs on the story.
Counting the seconds in his head, Peter waited for her pitch. For sure, it was coming.
“You absolutely, positively have to do my show this afternoon,” she pleaded. “You must.”
Peter was about to say no, that it was too soon, when she beat him to the punch.
“Peter, before you decline and tell me you’re still digesting the news, consider this,” she continued. “By getting this story out there right away, you ensure that the Coast Guard spares no effort or expense in finding your family. You want that, don’t you? Of course you do.”
The irony was so thick Peter could’ve choked on it. No, he didn’t want that!
But the game now was all about appearances, wasn’t it? And like it or not, that would mean doing his best acting job on The Judith Fox Show.
Hell, maybe it was a blessing. The sooner he could expand his role as the worried, emotionally distressed, innocent husband to a wider audience, the better.
“Sure, Judy, I’ll do it,” he said. “Anything to help save my family.”
Chapter 55
WHAT WAS THAT AD SLOGAN you saw all over? Ellen Pierce wondered. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? Ha! Not if you’re an agent with the DEA.
What happens in Vegas becomes a nightmare of paperwork back in Manhattan.
For the third straight day since returning home from Vegas, Ellen was stuck behind the desk of her small office at the DEA’s New York Division on the Lower West Side.
This part of the job never made an iota of sense to her. Screw up and lose your bad guy, and you only had to file one report. Actually bring him down and you had to file three. It was almost as bad as being a doctor and dealing with insurance companies. The thought had probably come into her head because Ellen had once considered pre-med rather than pre-law at Wake Forest.
No wonder she was procrastinating so much today. Her latest diversion was the New York Times crossword puzzle, and she was stuck on seven across, a six-letter word for nonringer.
“Single!” she finally shouted out, a quick smile pushing up her cheeks. She was surprised she hadn’t figured out the answer sooner. After all, that was all her mother talked about. “Why on God’s green earth is my beautiful daughter still single?”
Because she’s married to her job, Mom, that’s why. And maybe she’s not all that beautiful anymore.
Getting back to her busywork, Ellen began organizing the receipts for yet another report. Expenses. In the middle of checking her math, she stopped cold at the sound of a familiar voice in the room, one that turned her stomach.
Ellen looked up at the small television she always kept on in the office. It generally served as background noise, and she’d barely paid any attention to it all day. A couple of minutes of The View. An occasional look in at SportsCenter.
Until now.
On the screen was none other than the defense lawyer Peter Carlyle. Ugh! Double ugh!
Ellen gnashed her teeth. How could she forget that arrogant prick of a lawyer’s voice? To this day it was like nails on a blackboard to her. She had spent two long years of her life gathering cold, hard evidence against a known Mob boss for bribery and racketeering charges, only to have Carlyle prevail in the trial, thanks to his relentless grandstanding and, worse, outright lies on behalf of his scumbag client.
Turn the channel, she told herself. Get rid of this piece of crap.
She couldn’t, though. It was like watching a car wreck, and she had to know what had happened.
Ellen reached for the remote control on her desk and turned up the TV’s volume. Carlyle was being interviewed by Judith Fox. Didn’t they once date or something?
Ellen listened. What was he promoting now? she wondered. A racy new book? A recent verdict? It didn’t matter. What Peter Carlyle promoted above all else was himself.
But that thought quickly gave way to a twinge of guilt. The interview was about his missing family. Hell, even a jerk like him didn’t deserve to lose his wife and stepchildren out at sea.
He was pretty shaken up, too. His signature voice was actually trembling a bit as he recounted the way in which he had heard the news. “I have every faith that the Coast Guard will find them,” he said with a stiff upper lip. “I’ve got to stay positive, and I certainly will.”
“I think that’s the only thing you can do,” said Fox, turning to her live studio audience with a slow nod. “The Coast Guard is renowned for its search-and-rescue missions, and I’m sure its teams are doing everything in their power to find your family safe and alive, Peter.”
Without even knowing it, Ellen was nodding along with Judith Fox, completely wrapped up in the story already. It certainly made for compelling television. There was drama, suspense, and just enough hope in the face of severe sorrow. Suddenly Ellen couldn’t wait to find out how it would end.
That’s when she got a strange feeling.
She didn’t know why she had it, only that she felt it strongly in her gut. The more she listened, the more she felt it. She stood up and got even closer to the TV.
There was something in the way Peter Carlyle was telling his story. Past tense, almost.
As if he already knew how it ended.
Chapter 56
WITH A QUICK PULL on a black strap, the life raft from the Hail Mary box inflates before our weary eyes. Thank God we’re getting out of this water, at least. No more dog-paddling. No more sharks.
Mark and Carrie climb aboard first and then help Ernie on. I’m next. When they see my leg—or should I say, the white of my shinbone jutting out from my leg—the kids all fall deathly silent. It just about takes something like this to shut them all up, especially Ernie.
“Is there a doctor on the boat?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
The bad joke doesn’t work very well. In fact, the raft only becomes more silent—if there is such a thing—after they struggle to pull Jake aboard.
He’s in even worse shape than I thought. Almost his entire body is covered with second and even some third-degree burns. His skin is like Bubble Wrap with every bubble popped.
Carrie can’t bear to look, and obviously she’s feeling extra guilt because of what happened earlier, when she tried to drown herself and possibly Jake.
Back on land, in the burn unit of Lexington Hospital, there would be a host of available treatments. Out here in the middle of nowhere is a different story. There’s virtually nothing I can do for him.
“Hand me that first-aid kit,” I say to Mark, gritting my teeth over the effort to speak.
The rest of what was packed in the Hail Mary box is scattered about the raft. In addition to the first-aid kit, there is a surprisingly large amount of bottled water and food, though the food is mostly dried fruit, crackers, and nuts, all vacuum-packed in plastic.
In total, it’s not a lot, but it’s certainly better than nothing. And nothing is something we’ve got covered in spades.
We have no motor, no shade, no sunblock, no radio, and no satellite phone.
No fair!
We also no longer have a flare gun, but no one’s about to get on Carrie’s case for that after she saved our butts, and every other edible part of us, with one very timely shark-skedaddling shot.
“Here,” says Mark.
He hands me the first-aid kit. I find some antibiotic ointment and gently dab it over the areas on Jake that run the highest risk of infection. Then I slowly pour as much water as I can into his mouth, until he can’t swallow any more. With his head resting on the side of the raft, he doesn’t move or say anything. I think he’s drifted back to being unconscious, or just doesn’t have the strength to talk.
“There,” I say after applying a thin layer of gauze around his arms and legs, which will still allow his skin to breathe. “That will have to do until help arrives.”
“What about you?” asks Ernie. “Your leg.”
“For now it’s okay. It needs to be set, but there’s about a twenty-four-hour window before there might be any permanent damage,” I explain. “By then I’ll be safely in a hospital bed having you all sign my cast.”
“You really think they’re still coming for us?” asks Carrie.
“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t they be?”
Chapter 57
LIEUTENANT ANDREW TATEM slammed down the phone in his small office at the Coast Guard base in Miami. His lieutenant had just given him the latest update on The Family Dunne. The news wasn’t good. In fact, it made no sense at all.
Bolting out into the hallway, Tatem made a beeline for the Sit, short for Situation Room. Millcrest had just called him from there.
“What the hell’s going on?” Tatem demanded, pushing through the Sit’s double doors. “This isn’t tracking for me. Not one bit.”
No one in the room said a word. Not the land-based mission supervisor. Not the radio specialist. Not the petty officer whose sole responsibility was charting the location of the SAR helicopter searching for the boat.
Instead they all turned to Millcrest.
It was one of those rare moments when the lieutenant wished he didn’t have such a good relationship with his commanding officer. It was just assumed he’d do the talking to Tatem.
“Well, it’s like I said,” began Millcrest slowly. “The chopper reached the coordinates of the Dunne’s EPIRB, only there was nothing there. Not even the EPIRB itself.”
Tatem immediately wanted a cigarette. Badly.
“Give me the SAR team,” he ordered. “I want to hear exactly what they didn’t find.”
Millcrest turned to the radio technician, who nodded with a crisp snap of the head and quickly announced the helicopter’s call signs into a microphone. The entire wall where he sat was lined with monitors and maps.
Within seconds the head pilot responded over an annoying burst of static.
“This is Rescue WOLF, one-niner-one, we copy,” he said, his voice filling the room. The technician had put him on the loudspeaker.
Tatem walked over and grabbed the microphone. His voice was booming. He didn’t ask, he demanded: “What’s the story out there, John? This isn’t making a whole lot of sense yet.”
The pilot explained that he’d done three fly-bys over the given coordinates and there was absolutely no boat, no crew, no sign of anything in the water. They were beginning to search the immediate area, but their fuel level would limit how much surface they could cover before they had to head back to base.
“Any chance your coordinate readings are off?” Tatem asked.
“No, sir,” came back the pilot. “We double and triple-checked already.”
Millcrest shrugged again. “Perhaps it was the EPIRB, Andy. Maybe it malfunctioned before it went dead, broadcast the wrong coordinates.”
“Maybe,” said Tatem. “If that’s the case, we’d better hope the numbers are off by only a little. Otherwise, our search area is as big as that storm and then some.”
“Even with multiple SARs, that could take us over a week,” said Millcrest.
“Exactly. Which means we’d better get started.” Tatem folded his arms, half talking to himself as he turned to walk out. “Let’s hope this Dunne family has some fight in them.”
Chapter 58
IT’S A BEAUTIFUL SUNSET. How ironic is that?
If only we could enjoy this incredible orange glow dipping toward the horizon, the blue of the ocean seemingly melting into the purple clouds fanning across the sky. Instead, rocking endlessly back and forth on this raft, all we can see is the darkness that awaits us. Nightfall. And the numbing chill that’s coming with it.
Never will a couple of blankets have to work so hard.
“I think Carrie was right,” says Mark, his voice sullen. “They’re not coming for us. No one is.”
“We can’t think like that,” I say. “We have to stay positive, and that’s not a cliché, guys.”
It’s as if Mark doesn’t hear me. “If the Coast Guard has our coordinates, don’t you think they would’ve been here by now?”
“Yeah, something’s wrong,” says Carrie.
Ernie nods in agreement, sage little Buddha that he is.
“Listen, all we can do right now is stay here and wait for them to come,” I say.
It’s not exactly the most persuasive argument I’ve ever made, but it succeeds for a reason I didn’t intend. All because I said the word wait.
It makes Mark stare down at my leg. As he looks back at me, his eyes do all the talking. There’s one thing that can’t wait. At least, not much longer.
Nothing like an open grade-IIIB tibia fracture to change the subject.
“It’s time to do something about that, isn’t it?” he finally asks me.
He glances at my leg again, and I do the same.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I’m going to need some help with it, though.”
>
“Count me out,” says Carrie immediately. “I’m sorry, Mom. I told you I couldn’t do pre-med.”
Mark shoots her a look. “C’mon. After all you’ve been through today, you’re telling me you’re afraid of a little broken bone?”
“When it’s a bone I can see? Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you.”
Alas, my superhero daughter has met her kryptonite. Squeamishness.
“It’s okay, Mom, I’ll help,” offers Ernie.
Wow. He says it in a way so incredibly sweet I want to cry. Still, cramming a bone back into my exposed flesh and setting it isn’t something for a ten-year-old to experience, no matter how mature he is.
Hell, it’s not something for this forty-five-year-old either, but I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?
“Thanks, sweetheart, but I only need your brother for this,” I explain.
Your brother and a whole bunch of morphine, I should add.
That’s when I watch Mark dig into his shorts. Our clothes have been dry for hours, although I’m thinking that whatever he’s got in his pocket must still be a wet mess.
That is, until I see the plastic bag and the Bic lighter.
He dangles the bag from his fingertips, giving it a shake before smiling. “Hey, what do you know, dry as a bone.”
I suddenly don’t know whether to hug him or hit him. Either way, “You were supposed to give all of it to Jake.”
“I know. What can I tell you? I always carry a spare doobie,” he says. He removes the already rolled joint and hands it to me. “Think of it as medical marijuana. Perfectly legal, right?”
A few seconds pass as all I can do is stare at the joint. Am I really about to smoke my son’s pot?
That’s when I gaze down at my leg again and consider the godawful pain that awaits me. It’s amazing how much your world can change in one day.
“Hand me the lighter,” I tell Mark.
Chapter 59
THE POT WORKS. Kind of, sort of.
It does reduce the pain a little. Instead of sheer agony, it’s more like a mild form of torture.
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