Sail

by James Patterson

  Maybe it’s the tone of my voice, the notion that we’re not about to discuss the weather or anything else that’s trivial in our lives. He turns away from his computer and stares right at me. “What is it, Mom?” he asks.

  I sit down on his bed, taking a deep breath before I begin. I’ve been planning this conversation in my head for years, all along thinking that I could prepare myself properly, not get too emotional.

  So much for that.

  “Why are you crying, Mom?”

  I tell him the truth. “It’s Jake,” I say. “I still miss him a lot.”

  “Me too.”

  “I know you do, honey. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Did I do something wrong?” Ernie asks.

  “No. Absolutely not.” I did. But it’s the best mistake I ever made, something I’d never change.

  I stare at Ernie, his eyes and face, and it’s as if I can see him more clearly than ever before, as if I know who he really is.

  “Mom?” he asks. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “Yes, honey, there is.”

  And so I do.

  I tell Ernie who his father is.

  Chapter 110

  AFTER A NIGHT of telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth to Ernie, I promise to do the same in court the next morning.

  So far, so good.

  As I wrap up my testimony for Nolan Heath and his prosecution, my only complaint is the hardness of the witness chair. Would it kill them to include a cushion on this thing? Seriously, though, I think I’m doing okay. The jury seems to believe me, if not to feel downright sorry for our family. The elderly lady on the end of the first row looks as if she wants to bake us cookies.

  That said, I’m not sure how much anything I have to say matters. The most I can prove is that I’m a woman who got duped by one of the best. I thought I was marrying a really great guy. How was I supposed to know that charming Peter Carlyle was a lying, cheating, murderous lout?

  That was the point, I guess. I wasn’t supposed to know who Peter was. Sometimes I still find it hard to believe. My husband tried to murder my entire family.

  “Your witness,” Judge Barnett announces. I immediately feel a twinge.

  All it takes is Gordon Knowles rising from the defense table for me to realize that “so far, so good” only gets you so far in a murder trial. The real test is about to come.

  “Dr. Dunne, this sailing trip with your children was your idea, wasn’t it?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Mr. Carlyle had nothing to do with arranging it, am I correct?”

  “Yes. Although he did know about it well in advance. Months in advance, actually.”

  Knowles grins. “Oh, I see. Because he knew about it in advance, you’re suggesting he had ample time to plot your family’s murder.”

  “I’m just saying —”

  “Of course, lots of people knew in advance that you were taking this trip—for instance, the people you work with at Lexington Hospital.”

  “I’m pretty sure no one there wants to see me dead.”

  “What about you, Dr. Dunne?”

  I’m taken aback. “I’m not sure I understand the question. Could you rephrase, please?”

  “You’ve been under the care of a psychiatrist for some time, haven’t you?” asks Knowles.

  “Yes, I see a therapist. Lots of people do.”

  “Are you on antidepressants?”

  In a flash I can feel my blood, comfortably on a low simmer up until this point, begin to boil. The word incredulous doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. “Are you suggesting I had something to do with all this?” I ask with a shaky voice.

  “Your Honor, could you please instruct the witness that I’m the only one permitted to ask questions right now?” says a smug Knowles.

  “I think you just did that for me, Counselor. Get on with it,” says Judge Barnett, directing one of his sternest looks at the defense attorney.

  “With pleasure,” says Knowles. “In fact, I’m just getting warmed up . . .”

  Chapter 111

  KNOWLES TURNS BACK TO ME, edging closer. So close I can smell his designer cologne. Eau de Pompous, perhaps? I never liked this man, not even when he was at Peter’s and my wedding reception. Hard to imagine it now. Peter’s buddy cross-examining me in court at a murder trial?

  “Do you know the very last words recorded by the Coast Guard when Jake radioed them during the storm?” he asks.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I do—it’s right here,” he says, strutting back to the crowded defense table. He picks up a yellow legal pad and adjusts his glasses. “Right before the radio went dead, Jake Dunne screamed, ‘No, Katherine, don’t!’”

  Knowles folds his arms and stares at me. “Don’t what, Dr. Dunne?”

  I look at him blankly. I’m trying to remember—there was so much going on during the storm.

  Finally, it comes to me. The bin.

  “I think I was opening —”

  He cuts me off. “You think? What is that supposed to mean? Do you remember it or not?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” says Heath, rising from the prosecution table. “He’s badgering the witness. Dr. Dunne isn’t being given a chance to answer the question.”

  “I’ll retract the question,” says Knowles.

  Of course he will, the tricky bastard—it’s already done its damage. No wonder Peter likes this obnoxious creep so much.

  He continues: “Dr. Dunne, how much money did you inherit when your first husband died?”

  “I don’t know the exact amount.”

  “Would it be safe to assume that it was over a hundred million dollars?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “You were the last person to see your first husband alive on his boat, were you not?”

  “Actually, no —”

  “Objection!” shouts Heath. “This is outrageous. Relevancy!”

  Knowles quickly turns to the bench. “Your Honor, the death of Stuart Dunne was ruled to be accidental. I’m simply trying to point out that accidents happen on boats, just like anywhere else.”

  “I’ll allow it,” declares Judge Barnett.

  Knowles pivots back to me. “In fact, Dr. Dunne, as you mentioned in an earlier deposition, your boat had suffered mechanical difficulties—accidents, if you will—prior to the storm, correct?”

  “Yes. We had a ruptured through-hull line.”

  “For those nonsailors among us, that’s basically a hose that channels in seawater from outside the boat to cool the engine, right?”

  “I didn’t know that myself until Jake explained it to me.”

  “Indeed, your former brother-in-law managed to fix the problem. As you mentioned in your deposition, how did he describe what he did?”

  Even before Knowles finishes the question I realize how damaging my answer will sound.

  “He cut out a piece of the fuel line and spliced it onto the engine-cooling water line,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, could you please speak up, Dr. Dunne? Did you say he cut the fuel line?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he cut out a piece of the hosing that carries the flammable fuel to the engine and then he patched it back together? Is that right?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I wasn’t with him when he did it.”

  “Ah. Which means you don’t know how good a job he did, do you?”

  This guy’s like a human minefield. No, he’s worse than that. He’s Captain Knowles of the SS Reasonable Doubt.

  And I’m starting to get a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “Last question, Dr. Dunne, and I’ll remind you that you are still under oath,” he announces over his shoulder. “Have you ever been in the employ of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency?”

  I can practically hear the neck of every person in the courtroom snap as they quickly look from Knowles to me. Where did that come from? What a bombshell o
f a question.

  Same for the answer, I suppose.

  The whole truth and nothing but, huh?

  I lean forward to the microphone. Lord knows I don’t want to have to say it twice.

  “Yes, I worked with the CIA.”

  Chapter 112

  PETER MET UP with Bailey again that night at the Alex Hotel. It had become their secret rendezvous point, at least until the trial was over. Their first night there had been highlighted by two bottles of Cristal, right before Peter left for the Bahamas. But ever since he had returned in handcuffs, no pricey bubbly had been flowing.

  Soon, though, thought Peter.

  He was feeling confident in the wake of the superb job Knowles did on Katherine with his cross-examination. It was a masterpiece, really. Couldn’t have done it better myself. Well, maybe a little more painful shredding of Kat.

  “Are you sure you still want to testify tomorrow?” asked Bailey, curled up next to Peter under the sheets. God, the girl had perfect breasts, even when he couldn’t actually see them and had to tell just by touch.

  “Forget what they’re teaching you at NYU,” he answered. “Defendants in murder trials should always testify. Besides, I’ve got absolutely nothing to hide. That’s the best reason to testify.”

  Bailey fell silent for a moment. It was the kind of silence that spoke volumes as far as Peter was concerned. Something was troubling the lass.

  “What is it?” he asked. “And please don’t say it’s nothing, Bailey.”

  “No, it’s definitely something,” she said. “There’s something I need to know, Peter.”

  Ever since Peter was released on bail, he’d been anticipating this moment. He thought that Bailey, being Bailey, would ask him right away. Then again, he had done a brilliant job of gaining her trust. He should be flattered that it had taken her this long, months and months in fact, to pose the question.

  He decided to beat her to the punch. “No, I did not try to kill Katherine and the kids.”

  Bailey cupped his face in her hands and gently kissed his lips. “I had to hear you say it. Can you forgive me? I’m so sorry, Peter.”

  “Don’t be. It’s just the lawyer in you. I respect that.”

  “Do you forgive me?” she asked.

  “More important, do you trust me?”

  “I do,” she said. “I truly do.”

  He returned her kisses, pulling her tight against him.

  “Now, going against every primal and sexual urge in my body, I’ve got to get some sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow’s going to be an eventful day. Trust me.”

  Chapter 113

  I WATCH as Nolan Heath slowly walks toward the witness stand as if he were Gary Cooper in High Noon.

  This is it, isn’t it?

  He knows it, I know it, the whole courtroom knows it —including the jury. It’s him against Peter. One very determined prosecutor versus one very, very smart defendant. Whoever wins this ultimate showdown probably wins the trial.

  “Mr. Carlyle, let’s clear up one thing right at the start. Dr. Dunne herself told you that she had once done some work for the CIA, did she not?”

  Peter nods easily. “Yes, she did.”

  Heath draws an imaginary gun, pointing his finger around the courtroom. He looks silly and gets a few chuckles from the gallery. Precisely his point.

  “Did Dr. Dunne tell you that she was some sort of covert agent, traveling the world to assassinate dictators and help overthrow governments? A female version of James Bond?”

  “No.”

  “That’s right,” says Heath. “In fact, what she told you was that she had helped organize a research study to measure the effects of different neurotoxins on the human heart, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not exactly cloak-and-dagger stuff, huh?”

  Peter doesn’t respond.

  “But speaking of covert activity, Mr. Carlyle, I’m curious about your behavior in the Bahamas. Agent Pierce testified that she saw you walk out of a remote bar in Nassau with a man who minutes later tried to kill her. Do you deny that she saw you there?”

  “I don’t know if Agent Pierce saw me, but I was there.”

  “What were you doing at the bar?”

  Peter shrugs. “Having a drink.”

  “Are you aware that there were seventeen bars in Nassau closer to your hotel?”

  “I was trying to avoid the media. They had been relentless, in case you’ve forgotten. They still are. In case you haven’t noticed them on your way in and out of the courthouse.”

  “Who was the man you were having a drink with?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t having a drink with anyone.”

  “Wait, I’m confused,” says Heath, turning to the jury. “You walked out together, correct?”

  “If you mean did we leave the bar at the same time, yes,” says Peter. “I’d never seen the man before, but he said he recognized me from the news. We talked briefly as I left. I didn’t even get a name. I drove off one way, he drove off another.”

  “Yes, and when Agent Pierce followed this supposedly harmless stranger, he opened fire on her. Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know. As I said, I didn’t know the man.”

  “Yes, you did say that, didn’t you? You don’t know.” Heath folds his arms, shakes his head incredulously. “I must say, Mr. Carlyle, although you’re a very smart guy, there sure are a lot of things you don’t know in this trial.”

  “I know I’m innocent,” says Peter in a flash.

  “Yes,” says Heath without skipping a beat. “Until proven guilty.”

  Chapter 114

  WITH THAT, Heath really kicks it into high gear. His questions come rapid-fire, his tone more aggressive, if not bordering on angry. He’s putting the cross in cross-examination, and I am on the edge of my seat. Literally.

  “Mr. Carlyle, how does a military-grade explosive with the power to blow a large boat to smithereens end up on The Family Dunne?”

  “I have no idea,” says Peter.

  “How about this: why did the boat’s emergency radio beacon emit an erroneous signal that put the Coast Guard hundreds of miles off-course in its search?”

  “I assume the beacon malfunctioned.”

  “Oh, really? When exactly did you assume that? Because when you began your one-man search, you somehow started with the islands closest to where the boat really went down. How is that?”

  I watch as Peter smiles as if he’s got it all under control. It’s scary to think I used to love that smile very much. It used to make me feel safe and warm.

  Ha!

  “What you claim to be suspicious is really just common sense,” Peter answers. “Why would I search the area where the Coast Guard was already searching?”

  “So let me get this straight. Looking for your family where they weren’t supposed to be—that was merely a hunch on your part?”

  “More like hoping against hope, I guess. But I also made an assumption that if they were in an obvious place, they would already have been found.”

  “Well, you sure got lucky, didn’t you?” says Heath sarcastically. He glances about the courtroom. “Then again, maybe not that lucky.”

  The bark to my left is Gordon Knowles objecting. “Your Honor, he’s badgering the witness.”

  Judge Barnett nods agreement. “Get to your next question, Mr. Heath.”

  “My apologies, Your Honor. It’s just that there’s something else I can’t figure out, Mr. Carlyle. Both Dr. Dunne and her son Mark have testified that they first spotted you in your plane flying directly over them while it was still daylight. They were waving at you like crazy—they thought they were finally saved, for God’s sake. Why didn’t you stop?”

  “That’s just it,” answers Peter with a relaxed shrug. “I saw them trying to signal me all right, but in light of what Agent Pierce told me about the drug traffickers, I was afraid that my family was actually trying to warn me. That’s why I waited until the dark of nig
ht to return—and yes, with a gun. For all I knew, my family was being held hostage.”

  Nolan throws up his hands, incredulous. “Held hostage? Do you really expect this courtroom to believe that?”

  Peter doesn’t flinch, not even a blink. “Yes, I do. Just as I would expect that a federal agent like Ellen Pierce would be telling me the truth.”

  I shake my head. This is ridiculous! How can he sit there so calmly and lie through his teeth? What’s even more ridiculous is that the jury seems to be taking him seriously. Oh, Christ, did that old lady on the end of the first row just nod in agreement?

  No! No! No! Nolan’s right, how could anyone really believe that we were being held hostage? The jury has to be seeing through all this, right? Whatever Agent Pierce told Peter, there’s just too much other evidence—too many coincidences—stacking up against him. They have to realize it.

  Hell, even Peter has to know he’s truly up against the ropes.

  But you wouldn’t think so, looking at him. It’s almost as if he knows something that no one else does. What’s he up to? I’m starting to get a really bad feeling.

  Then, in a heartbeat, the damnedest thing happens.

  Chapter 115

  HEATH FIRES OFF his next question, aimed squarely at motive. “Mr. Carlyle, do you know how much you stood to inherit if Dr. Dunne and her three children died while on their sailing trip?”

  Peter fires back immediately. “I imagine it’s the same amount as if their plane had crashed when they all flew out to Aspen last winter and spent two weeks at the St. Regis.”

  “What happened, did the bomb not go off on that flight?” asks Heath. “Or at the hotel?”

  Gordon Knowles launches up from his chair to object, only he’s beaten to the punch.

  By Peter.

  “Now you listen, you son of a bitch!” Peter shouts, his cool veneer cracking like a cheap vase. “You don’t know what it was like for me. I was stupid, cheating on my wife, whom I truly did love. Then I find out she’s missing, along with the kids. Do you realize how guilty I felt? I was desperate to find them, do you hear me?”