· Web viewMeg looked to the west side of the ... Little Jimmy had done a masterful job of...

A Killing Tide (Holland)

Scribes: This is the penultimate submission for my novel. I’ve made some significant changes to the MS since the last submission, including the narrative voice (now 3rd person intimate) and the novel’s title (now called A Killing Tide, which sounds more thriller-ish), along with filling in backstories for several characters and some additional scenes, so there may be some references which feel new to you. Sorry about the length, but I’m hoping you’ll forgive me since my last several submissions have been on the shorter side. As always, I value your comments and suggestions. Thanks for reading. - MKH

Chapter 28

The massive pumps behind the public aquarium were humming loudly. Near the back

docks, Meg could hear the whine of a chop saw from the new house that was going up

across the grass flats. Duncan wasn’t home. She stood on the deck outside his darkened

kitchen and pulled out her cell to call him. It went straight to voicemail.

“Where are you? Call me. It’s important.”

She ended the call and scanned the back dock. A double-crested cormorant stood

atop one of the pilings with its wings outspread. The buzz of cicadas mingled with the

sounds of machinery coming from the boat shed on the far side of the parking lot. Duncan’s

truck was parked in its usual spot. Where the hell was he?

Meg opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. Luckily, Duncan never locked

anything. The interior of houseboat was cool and dark. No sign of breakfast dishes, or even

dinner for that matter. The place felt abandoned in way that was hard to pinpoint. A stab of

fear knifed through her. What if she was too late? She riffled through the stack of mail on

the counter. There was a fat envelope from the Gulf Shores Title Company. She opened it

and scanned the contents. The settlement closing for Duncan’s ranch. It listed the buyer as

JASH Holdings, LLC. There was a Bradenton address. Meg used her phone to scan copies of

the relevant documents, then emailed them to her ex-husband, Matthew. Investigative

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journalists had ways of finding out information that eluded others. Perhaps he could get a

line on who was behind JASH Holdings.

Meg quickly checked the rest of the houseboat. Nothing seemed out of place. If

anything, it was tidier than usual. She stepped through the sliding glass door onto the rear

deck and looked at the Sarasota skyline beyond the mangroves. That was when she noticed

that the lab’s net boat Starkist was missing from the big dock.

She tried to raise Duncan on the VHF marine radio. Starkist should have been on the

usual channel used by the lab’s boats, but Meg got no answer. She switched to the alternate

channel. Still nothing. On a whim, Meg began cycling through the channels, listening to the

chatter. Typically, non-commercial, recreational, commercial, and fishing vessels each kept

to their own channels, with the U.S. Coast Guard monitoring channel 16. Finally, she got a

hit on channel 71.

“Starkist, Starkist, Starkist. Do you copy? Over.” Marine protocol was always

triplicate.

Duncan’s voice was full of surprise. “This is Starkist. Meg, is that you? Over.”

“What’s your location, Starkist?” Meg tried to keep the rising panic out of her voice.

“Can’t provide that right now. Need to keep this channel open, over.” He sounded

oddly formal.

“Duncan, we need to talk. Where are you?”

Nothing but static came in reply. Finally, he spoke again.

“Not on the radio. It’s not safe. I’ll call you on your when I can, over.”

“You okay?”

“I’m good. Gotta dash, though. Over and out.” With that, he was gone.

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Meg frowned and put the radio handset back. There was no telling how long it

would be before Duncan would call back, but it had felt good to hear his voice. Exhaustion

was creeping up her limbs, making them heavy. She desperately needed some coffee. While

Duncan’s coffee maker did its thing, Meg peered inside his refrigerator to see if he had any

half and half. No luck. The only items on hand were three bottles of beer, some Sriracha

sauce, and a shriveled-up lemon. Jesus, Duncan. How did he live like this?

Meg sat at the table and checked in with Jacob Townsend to see how Moby was

doing. The dog was sleeping on their couch and his wound looked good. She expressed her

gratitude, then told Jacob she’d be in touch. She pulled out her notebook to re-think what

she had written down earlier. It was important to clarify while everything was fresh in her

mind.

Matthew was coming at it from the Pentagon angle up in D.C., and Meg would focus

on Joe Monroe. His connection to all this was the most baffling. It was one thing to set up a

secret base, but another thing entirely to add the local sheriff to the mix. She wondered

whether he was on the take. She had seen him in the company of the Maldonados, once.

Maybe it was as simple as that: a crooked cop in league with some low-life criminals. You

scratch my back, I scratch yours. Meg pulled Duncan’s laptop out of the storage locker then

looked online for whatever she could find on Tony and Rory Maldonado.

Both men had done prison time as juveniles, but their records were sealed. They had

joined the merchant marines in their early twenties and sailed the world for a decade. Five

years ago, the brothers started a private security firm called MBS. They provided personal

protection, consultation services, and tactical skills training. There was no brick and mortar

office that Meg could find. The mailing address was a P.O. Box in St. Petersburg. There were

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many unsubstantiated rumors about drugs, illegal weapons, loan sharking, and money

laundering, but nothing had ever materialized into actual charges. These were the men

with whom Duncan had become entangled. She shuddered involuntarily.

Meg glanced at her watch. Time to get moving again. She packed up then skirted the

edge of the lab’s dusty parking lot and followed the path back to the Sarasota Sailing

Squadron, where Isurus was tied up. She climbed aboard and was rinsing the salt water off

the foredeck when her phone rang. She smiled as Sam Fletcher’s name appeared on the

caller i.d.

“Your timing is impeccable.” Meg looped the hose back on its hook.

“Oh?”

She told Sam everything she had learned, including her nocturnal visit to the camp.

“Where are you now?” he asked. His tone was anxious, the timbre a note higher than

usual. “I’m coming to get you. Let me bring you in for a statement. This needs law

enforcement help.”

Meg thought about that for a moment. The threats she had received were still fresh

in her mind. If you go to the police, you will die. Next time, we’ll kill your dog, kill your family,

kill you. It wasn’t just the threats that had her tied up in knots. She hated the feeling of

being rescued. Self-reliance was hard-wired into her, and she wanted to solve this thing. On

the other hand, this had become way bigger than her ability to grapple with it on her own.

Her stubborn pride and hubris had already gotten Moby hurt. Why risk it? Yet, law

enforcement was already involved in the form of Sherriff Joe Monroe. It was hard to know

how high up the food chain this whole thing went. Meg voiced her doubts.

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“I’m not so sure, Sam. No offense or anything, but I’m not convinced law

enforcement can help with this. It’s a military thing, I think. And, the Manatee County

Sherriff’s department is involved somehow, which makes it even messier.”

Sam was insistent. “It’s okay, you don’t need to go farther than you’re comfortable

with. But you can trust me. I won’t let this go to anyone else just yet. I’ll keep it under my

hat and keep you safe. That’s what matters most. I can help. That’s my job. You know I’m

right.”

His voice conveyed warm concern. Meg smiled, thinking about how her brothers

still sounded the same way sometimes. Considering the panoply of questions that needed

answers, it made sense to share it all with Sam and let him help figure things out. This was

his training, after all. He could assist her getting the proof she needed to help Matthew to

write his blockbuster story. Meg felt a sudden flood of gratitude for this good man who had

come into her life at just the right moment. Her chest fluttered at the thought of feeling his

arms around her again. She missed him. She was so tired.

“All right,” Meg agreed.

Sam was flying back to Tampa from Tallahassee this morning and needed time to

check in with his supervisor. He wouldn’t be able to get down to Sarasota before three or

four o’clock. He would meet Meg at her house late this afternoon.

“We’ll fix this,” he reassured her.

In the meantime, she decided to head up to Cannon’s Marina, near the north end of

Longboat Key, to refuel. It was mid-morning as Isurus idled past all the sailboats moored off

of City Island. Sarasota Bay was dotted with crisp white sails and speed boats making their

way up and down the Intracoastal Waterway. Rather than heading to the busy ICW, Meg

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opted instead to take the inside channel that cut through the wide grass flats on the east

side of the key.

The humidity was oppressive, and air felt too close. It needed to rain. Inland,

towering cumulonimbus clouds were building. The water just inside Quick Point at New

Pass was a brilliant turquoise. A mother and father, trailed by three young children,

splashed their way among the shallows looking for shells, scooching their feet as they went

to avoid stepping on stingrays. Meg’s mother used to call it the Sarasota Shuffle. She smiled

at the memory, then pushed the throttle down and Isurus surged forward. The coffee had

helped. She was getting her second wind.

Meg was approaching Bishop’s Point when the runabout behind her caught her

attention. It was coming up fast on the starboard side and she could see two men standing

side by side at the center console. One of them leaned and pointed ahead of them. This was

a tricky part of the bay to navigate, and only seasoned boaters risked it. Most people kept to

the main channel. The men may have been counting on her to slow down as the water got

skinnier. That would be the prudent thing to do. It was not surprising that someone would

take a run at her, but Meg was feeling irritable and a little reckless. She looked ahead to

where the channel narrowed considerably. On either side lay hard shoals and oyster beds.

This route required boats to thread the needle to avoid running aground. Skippers had to

pay close attention to particular landmarks to get it right. Okay, assholes. Let’s see how well

you know these waters.

Meg looked to the west side of the bay and found the two water towers. She lined

them up and used them as a harbor pilot might use range markers to stay in the center of a

channel. She held the two towers in alignment and accelerated. She adjusted the trim so

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that the engines lifted slightly away from the stern, and Isurus began to fly. The runabout

stayed on her tail for a hundred yards, sitting low and cutting a deep vee through the water.

The driver didn’t know how to trim his outboard. That’s when Meg saw her chance. Up

ahead, it looked like she was going to run out of room and would need to move into open

water soon. Over the years, countless boaters with no local knowledge had panicked in this

spot and tried to get to deeper water, only to suddenly find themselves tearing the bottom

out of their hulls in six inches of water. Meg knew the channel took a sharp turn to the left,

then right, and back again to the left, in a backwards s-curve. She gripped the wheel and

made a sudden zag to the right. The other boat responded in kind, going right and gaining

speed. He was looking to beat Meg to the narrow passage between Buttonwood Harbor and

Whale Key, where he would cut her off.

Just as quickly, Meg steered back to left, keeping to the center of the little channel

and following its serpentine contours. Her pursuers stayed on their course, plowing ahead

in water that was growing shallower by the second. The driver hunched low over the

wheel, while his companion focused on Meg. She hadn’t noticed the gun in his hand until he

raised it and fired. Instinct made her flinch and her boat swung wildly. Sweat stung her

eyes. Meg’s hands were trembling, and she fought to keep them on the controls. It took

extraordinary skill to hit a moving target, let alone do it from a base that was also moving.

Luckily for Meg, this guy didn’t have extraordinary skill. She kept her head low and focused

on the unspooling channel ahead.

Seconds later, a sickening crunch wrenched the air and both men were thrown

violently forward as their boat ran aground on the hard bottom. Meg normally took little

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pleasure in the misfortune of other boats, but relief flooded through her as she saw this one

torn into pieces by the oyster bar. These two wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while yet.

Isurus swung through the turn and Meg used her phone to snap a couple of photos of

the crippled vessel and its crew. More evidence for Sam. She hadn’t recognized either of

these men, but they had come out of nowhere on her. How had they known where to find

her? Perhaps they had gotten lucky and spotted Isurus coming out of the Sailing Squadron.

Meg’s heart was hammering hard in her chest. She had gotten lucky just now. She needed to

disappear for a while, at least until she could connect with Sam.

Fifteen minutes later, Meg had crossed Buttonwood Harbor and joined the main

ICW north before dropping into Millar Bay, then idled along one of the long canals that

extended out from Longboat Key. Cannon’s Marina sat in a secluded bayou at the junction

of two canals. It was one of the few places with a public fuel dock and the lab boats had

been coming here for years. Isurus slid quietly past trees laden with ripe mangos and bright

bougainvillea bushes that lined the main canal.

Meg’s phone chirped in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw a text from Duncan.

Cortez in sixty. Usual spot. Cryptic and terse and very un-Duncan-like. She hoped he was

okay, though she was relieved to hear from him. Meg wondered whether he had

encountered anything like the two assholes she had just left stranded on the oyster bed.

She sent him back a thumbs-up emoji, then focused on steering Isurus into the fuel dock

without being broadsided by a rental pontoon boat that was pulling out of the marina.

Little Jimmy Peterson waved to Meg as she slid into the slip and cut the engine. He

grabbed the bowline and tied it fast to the cleat while she climbed out and did the same

with the stern.

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“Howdy, Meg. Just been talking about you,” Little Jimmy greeted her with an easy,

lopsided smile. A small patch of strawberry blond beard was attempting to lay claim to his

face.

“Oh?”

Little Jimmy’s dad was an old family friend who once served in the Coast Guard

under Meg’s father and had owned Cannon’s for the past fifteen years. His son had been

called Little Jimmy since he was a baby, which was a bit silly now that the boy was twenty

years old and had at least six inches and fifty pounds on his father.

“Some guys here asking for you a little while ago. Pop told them they were outta

luck.” He nodded towards the office. “Fill her for you?”

“Please.” Meg’s nerves were jangly, and she blinked the sweat from her eyes while

scanning the parking lot. It was empty. She started breathing again. “They say what they

want?”

Little Jimmy shook his head then grabbed the gas hose and spun the lever on the

side of the pump. “Nah.”

He peered more closely at Meg then.

“Hey, you okay? You don’t look so hot.”

She was trying to control her shaking limbs without much success.

“Ran into some assholes out there. Shook me up a bit, is all.”

Little Jimmy frowned. “I thought that Palmier business was all over with. Want me

to call the cops for you?”

Meg shook her head. “No, it’s okay. Rather keep a low profile, I think. Thanks.”

She smiled at him and his face blushed an even deeper red.

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Still wary, Meg slung her backpack and walked to the restrooms, which were labeled

Gulls and Buoys. Inside it was cool and damp, and it felt good to be out of the sun. She

splashed cold water on her face and neck. Her t-shirt was soaked through with sweat, so

she retrieved a clean one from the bottom of her pack. She shouldered the door open and

froze when she rounded the corner and saw the sheriff’s deputy speaking to Little Jimmy

on the dock. She ducked through the side door into the marina’s storefront.

Big Jimmy Peterson looked up from his perch behind the cash register and smiled.

“Morning, Meg.” His smile faded as soon as he saw her face. “What is it, honey?”

“Don’t have time to explain. I need help.”

Meg peered through the front window and saw the Manatee County Sheriff squad

car parked there. A second deputy was leaning against the passenger door, checking his

phone. She ducked her head down.

“You got it.” Big Jimmy was on his feet.

“I can’t be found right now, Jim. By anybody, understand?” Meg nodded towards the

deputy out front.

“What’s going on?” He was moving around the counter now.

“These cops aren’t who they seem. Trust me. Please help me get out of here.” Her

heart was pounding hard and she ran a sweaty palm across the back of her neck. Her eyes

scanned the store looking for a place to hide.

Jimmy Peterson had known Meg Scanlon her whole life. He knew she wouldn’t lie to

him. He was nothing if not loyal. He searched her face for the briefest moment and then

sprang into action.

“Come with me. Quick.”

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He led Meg through a side door marked employees only into a short corridor that

led to his office. He opened a closet and removed a padded motorcycle jacket and full-face

helmet.

“You still ride?”

Meg nodded. It had been a while, but she would manage. Big Jimmy thrust the

helmet into her hands and helped her put the jacket on. The padding made her shoulders

and elbows seem enormous. The full helmet would conceal her slender neck and shoulder-

length hair. Given her height, a casual observer might assume she was a male. Perfect.

“Go out through my office. The Ducati is right there under the eave. They won’t see

you until you pull out onto Gulf Shore Drive. I’ll see what I can do to distract them.’

“I won’t forget this, Jim. I owe you.” Meg hugged him. “I’ll have the bike back to you

before the end of the day. You keep my boat safe?”

He nodded as he trotted back down the hallway into the store. “Get out of here while

you can.”

Meg opened the office door a crack and peered outside. No one was visible except

for a couple of mechanics in the boat shed across the crushed shell parking lot. She stepped

out and looked carefully around the corner to the front, where the one deputy was still

leaning against the patrol car. Behind them, a commotion came from the docks as two boats

vied for only one spot. Angry voices caught the attention of the deputy and he moved

toward the dock to see what was going on. It was the only opening Meg was going to get.

She climbed on the Ducati, cinched the chin strap tight on the helmet, flipped the visor

down, and turned the key. The engine purred to life under her as she swung the kickstand

up with her foot, then eased the clutch out with her left hand and gave it some gas with the

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right. The bike surged forward, and Meg felt the sensual rush of speed and power between

her legs. Seconds later, she was headed north on Gulf Shore drive with the throttle wide

open. She wanted to put as much distance between her and those deputies as she could.

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Chapter 29

Cortez was a tiny, historical fishing village nestled along the waterfront on the mainland

side of Sarasota Bay north of Bradenton. It was a sleepy, timeless sort of place that instantly

evoked old Florida: live oak trees and hedges of sea grapes adorned the dusty lanes that led

from stilt houses to the commercial docks, where stone crab boats and shrimp trawlers

delivered their daily catches. Meg found Duncan sitting at a picnic table on the docks

outside the Star Fish Company, a little seafood place that had remained a hidden gem but

was a favorite among the locals. He looked like he hadn’t slept or shaved in a week.

“You look terrible,” Meg told him as she pulled her arms out of the motorcycle jacket

Big Jimmy Peterson had provided her.

“You look pretty rough yourself,” he replied.

“Where have you been?” Meg looked carefully at the surrounding area, scanning the

docks and the parking lot for people who looked like they didn’t belong.

Duncan kept his head low as he offered her a glass of iced tea. “Hard to know where

to start. Don’t have much time.”

“Try me.”

Duncan told her he had become suspicious when Joe Monroe turned up at his ranch

asking him questions about his neighbors and wanting to know whether he knew them

well. It had been a strange encounter, so he began wondering about the person who was

buying his place. He hadn’t met them, only knew the basics from his realtor. After I had

called, he started asking some questions about JASH Holdings and doing what he referred

to as “investi-googling.”

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“I found out more than anyone needs to know about shell companies,” he admitted.

“The main thing to remember is that they provide anonymity. Anyone who wants to buy or

sell something, or move money, can do it through a shell company and avoid discovery.”

“Did you find out who’s behind JASH Holdings?”

Duncan shook his head. The most he was able to discern was that it had been set up

in Delaware by an attorney who specialized in those types of contracts.

“I don’t like it, Meg. There’s bad juju around this deal.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she jumped in.

“Lemme finish.” Duncan was uncharacteristically brusque. His cheeks were pale, and

his mouth drawn taught. Meg sat back and crossed her arms, waiting.

Duncan, too, had found out that JASH Holdings recently purchased the little group of

uninhabited mangrove islands near Egmont Key. And like Meg, he had gone to check it out.

He took Starkist and staked out the area from one of them. It had been his campsite she had

found earlier this morning. He had observed two other deliveries and exchanges between

the military guys on the biggest key and another smaller group. In each case, they had

unloaded a group of unmarked boxes and then taken with them cases marked U.S. military.

He had followed Rory Maldonado and the men Meg had seen early this morning and

watched them unload their cargo at the Port of Tampa.

“So, you think maybe the SEALs are providing military surplus to the Maldonados in

exchange for other weapons?” Meg asked.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

She thought about it. What if this secret group of SEALs was getting ready to do

something overseas, and the directorate didn’t want the mission to be traced back to the

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U.S. government? They would want to use untraceable weapons. That was where Rory and

Tony Maldonado might come in. They would procure illegal guns for the directorate, and

then receive military surplus and perhaps some cash in exchange. This could be the link

Matthew Kerr needed to break the story wide open.

“There’s one more thing,” Duncan said. “Got a call from my buddy up in Palmetto.

He’s a mechanic up there, works for the county. Tells me one of his friends over in the

machine shop let slip he got paid fifty-thousand dollars to make a batch of silencers on the

sly.”

“Silencers? Hang on a sec.” Meg pulled the metal tube from her pack. “Like this?”

Duncan’s eyes went big as he reached for it. “Where the hell did you get this?”

Meg gave him a quick recap of her own adventure and shared her thoughts about

the relationship between the directorate and the Maldonados.

Duncan looked closely at the silencer in his hand. “My buddy tells me these were

specially made for AK-47s. Over three hundred of them.”

“Why on earth would someone make them when you could already buy them on the

market?”

Duncan shrugged.

Unless that someone wanted the silencers to remain untraceable.

“You think Joe Monroe paid this guy to make silencers for the weapons brought in

by the Maldonados?” Duncan’s fingers shredded the paper napkin on the table.

“I think Monroe, Cushing, and Teasdale have a friendship that goes way back, and

that friendship has become a partnership that is corrupt in every way.”

The two friends were silent as they contemplated what they had stumbled into.

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“This is fucked up, Duncan.” Meg reached out and took his hand.

“I know.”

“We have to be smart right now.”

“This is all my fault.” He cradled his head in his arms.

“Stop it.”

“No, I mean it. Jesus, what an asshole I was. If only I hadn’t started betting again.”

Duncan paused. His Adam’s apple dipped as he swallowed hard. “If only I hadn’t borrowed

from the Maldonados.” His hands curled into fists.

“Stop it, Duncan. You didn’t do this. Let’s get to the bottom of things. Sam is coming

this evening. Let’s tell him everything we know.”

Duncan glanced up sharply at the mention of Sam’s name, then looked away. Meg

waited for him to speak, but he stayed silent.

“What?” She sat back and crossed her arms.

He shrugged.

“Seriously, what? You still got a problem with Sam?”

“Nothing,” Duncan said finally. “It’s just I don’t trust him, not fully. Can’t get past the

way he thought I had something to do with Palmier’s death, I guess.” He raised his

shoulders in a shrug then threw her a weak smile. “No offense, but I’m not sure I trust

anyone right now. Present company excluded, of course.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes and finished the iced tea. They needed a plan,

but Meg’s brain wasn’t working at full capacity. She was exhausted. Finally, Duncan broke

the silence.

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“I’m going to drive out to the ranch later this afternoon. See if I can see what’s going

on out there. Maybe figure out Joe Monroe’s angle.”

“Be careful. The same guys who came after me might be looking for you as well. And

steer clear of any Manatee County law enforcement.”

The two friends agreed to stay off their phones except for texts, for which they

would use a kind of veiled code. They had to assume someone was monitoring. If either of

them found out anything urgent, they would ask to meet for ice cream. They turned off the

location services on their phones as well.

Duncan left Meg standing on the fishing docks at Cortez. As Starkist grew smaller in

the glint of the afternoon sun, she wondered whether she had ever really known her old

friend at all.

****

After a quick trip to the Cortez Post Office, where Meg placed the silencer in a padded

envelope for Matthew up in Washington, she circled back to Cannon’s Marina to give Big

Jimmy his motorcycle back and retrieve Isurus. No sign of the cops anywhere. Little Jimmy

had done a masterful job of inventing a story about Meg’s having dropped off the boat for

scheduled service and catching a ride back to the lab. They must have just missed her, he

told them. Before Meg left the second time, Big Jimmy pressed her in a bear hug and told

her to call him if she needed anything. Meg had promised him the whole story over beers

someday soon.

The ride back down the bay was blessedly quiet. A group of roseate spoonbills stood

in the shallows along Long Bar, their pink plumage soft and bright like cotton candy against

the blue water. Further along the shoal Meg spotted a lone flamingo that was not native to

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this area but had escaped some years ago from Jungle Gardens. No one had the heart to

recapture him, so he hung out with the egrets and ibises, just doing his thing. A couple of

fishermen anchored nearby stood on platforms with fly rods. Beyond them, two dolphins

surfaced, their dorsal fins gleaming in the sun. Meg’s chest flooded with an unexpectaed

wave of gratitude that she was there to bear witness to it all.

Earlier, she had tried to check in with Matthew, but his phone went straight to

voicemail. She had given him a brief update and urged him to call her. Now, she just wanted

to get home to Moby, to her little house, to Sam. More than anything, she wanted her life

back. A nap wouldn’t be remiss, either. Meg wasn’t stupid, though. It would be too risky to

stay home, especially since there were people out looking for her. She would have to keep

Moby with Steve and Jacob for a little while longer, at least until Sam thought it would be

safe to return. She could bunk with them, too, but wondered at the wisdom of being so

close to her own house. She’d better call Grace and see if she could stay in her guest wing

instead.

“Of course, Meg,” Grace had told her. “I’m headed to Santa Cruz for a symposium this

week. I’ll leave a key in the usual spot.”

Meg had thanked her and promised to fill her in on the developments upon her

return. Best not to make her worry. There would be plenty of time to explain it all later. For

now, she needed to let Sam guide her.

Meg left Isurus tied up at Steve and Jacob’s dock. Moby bounded across the patio

when he saw her, licking every inch of her exposed skin, although it was clear he was still

sore from his wound. She explained to Jacob that she was meeting Sam at her place, but

that she would stay at Grace’s place until the situation was under control.

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“You okay?” he asked.

“Been better,” Meg admitted. She rubbed the fatigue from her eyes. “Thanks for

looking after Moby.”

“Don’t mention it. He’s family.”

She left Moby snoring softly in Jacob’s kitchen and walked home. It was exactly as

she had left it last night, which was reassuring. It felt as though Meg had been gone for a

month. The smell of Murphy’s Oil Soap greeted her when I stepped into the living room. It

was dark and cool inside, and she opened the plantation shutters to let the fresh sea breeze

in. She tossed an empty duffle bag on the bed and was throwing some clothes into it when

she heard the car door slam outside. Peering through the wide slats of the shutters, Meg

could see the top of Sam’s dark head. Relief flooded my system and she ran to the steps to

greet him.

“Hey there, beautiful.” He wrapped her in a hug, and Meg breathed in the scent of

soap and sandalwood. It felt so good to feel his solid presence again.

“So glad you’re here.” Meg slid an arm around his waist and walked with him into

the living room. “Been a hard couple of days.”

The two of them sat in the kitchen and Meg recounted to him everything she had

uncovered. He listened intently, elbows on the table, but did not take notes. Now they were

contemplating the next move.

“What do you think about the involvement of this directorate group?” Meg asked. “I

know it sounds crazy, but I think Monroe, Teasdale, and Cushing are in league together.

Must be a huge profit in weapons deals, especially if the U.S. government is footing the bill

in some way.”

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Sam scratched the stubble on his chin and nodded, then sat back and arched his

back in a big stretch.

“Hard to say.” He stood up and went to the cupboard, then brought out two glasses

and the bottle of Blanton’s whiskey. “You did good, Meg. I can take it from here. Just need to

get an official statement from you tomorrow. It’s going to be all right.” He poured the drinks

then offered one to her. He leaned back against the counter and downed his drink in one

gulp.

Meg held her glass with its amber liquid and thought suddenly about Matthew. It

was strange not to have heard from him all day. When he was on the hunt for a big story, he

usually popped in and out to run a theory by her. She took a sip and enjoyed the pleasant

warmth in her throat, then she tipped the rest of it down. Her blood felt sluggish in her

veins. It had been an exhausting couple of days.

“Here’s what I don’t get, though,” Sam said as he refilled his glass and came over to

refill Meg’s.

The fatigue was pressing on her. He looked a little strange. His face had a jagged,

asymmetrical quality to it she hadn’t noticed before. Was it because she had been thinking

about Matthew? She closed her eyes and shook her head to reset the image in front of her.

If anything, Sam’s face was even more out of alignment now.

“What I don’t get is how you could be so smart about so many things. I mean, you

have a freaking Ph.D., right?”

Meg nodded, but suddenly felt a little uncertain. The conversation had turned weird.

Sam’s face was blurry on one side. She blinked my eyes to clear them. Her phone buzzed on

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the table in front of her. Duncan had sent a text asking her to meet him for ice cream right

away. Why was he talking about ice cream? She couldn’t remember.

“What?” Meg couldn’t understand what Sam was saying.

“You’ve got a Ph.D., but you couldn’t see what was right in front of you, could you?”

His voice was not unkind, but there was an edge to it Meg had never heard before.

“I don’t—” Sam was scaring her now. There was a gaping hole where his mouth

should have been. Meg’s face felt hot, and the kitchen seemed tilted at an odd angle.

“Let’s start with JASH Holdings. Do I need to spell it out?” He counted out one finger

at a time, flourishing as he went. “J.A.S.H. Joe. Andrew. Sam. Harlan.”

Sam squatted in front of Meg, his arms resting on her knees. She stared at him as

though from the bottom of a very deep hole. She couldn’t move. She could hardly breathe.

What was happening to her? Sam stood and leaned forward, his lips lightly brushing the

top of her head. He placed his hands her shoulders and looked at her then, the sadness in his

face solidifying into stone. The stone began to crumble when he spoke.

“Oh, Meg. Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”

Sam pulled her up, and she fell to the bottom of the hole. Blackness smothered her

like a hot blanket on a windless night.

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Chapter 30

Being drugged was not like the movies, where the hero wakes up feeling slightly groggy,

but none the worse for wear. Meg did not know what Sam Fletcher had given her, but her

head throbbed, and she felt pickaxes chipping away inside her skull. Bile rose in her throat,

but she pushed it down. She gradually became aware of motion, voices, and light, although

she still could not fully comprehend what was happening. Another wave of nausea rose in

her and she vomited.

“Fuck,” someone shouted nearby. “She’s puked all over the deck.”

Meg was on a boat. The gentle rolling motion was as familiar to her as her own

heartbeat. The rumble of big diesel engines made her head throb. A big boat. She tried hard

but couldn’t open her eyes, which seemed pasted shut. Her brain shifted from paralysis to

panic. Jesus, what was happening to her? Where was she? Where was Sam? The memory of

Sam’s distorted face appeared and cleaved her in two as the full realization of his betrayal

hit her. How had she missed his involvement in all this?

Breathe, Meg. She focused on calming her mind. She needed time to clear her head

and regain some strength. She could feel her limbs begin to move again. Her eyes opened

enough for her to note that it was dark, and they were at sea. Meg’s head rested on teak

deck boards.

“Get her cleaned up,” another voice said, almost gently. Meg knew that voice. “And

then invite her inside.”

Harlan Cushing stepped through the glass doors from the aft deck. She was aboard

Harlan Cushing’s boat, the Lucky Lady.

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Two sets of hands appeared and pulled Meg to her feet. Someone offered her a

towel, which she used to wipe her face and shoulders. Her tousled hair was a mess, and she

combed her fingers through it, pulling it off her face. Her mouth was parched. She was still

wobbly and needed help walking. Eventually, they made it inside to the stateroom, where

she was offered a chair.

“Welcome back, Meg.” Congressman Cushing smiled warmly from his perch on the

sofa. “Can I get you anything?”

Meg was desperately thirsty. “Water.”

He snapped his fingers and his aide, Robby, brought her a bottle of mineral water.

Robby had a large bandage wrapped around his left forearm. Good boy, Moby, she thought.

Meg drank the whole bottle dry before she found her voice again.

“What’s going on? Why am I here?”

The mental fog was beginning to lift, though it still lingered in the recesses of Meg’s

brain. She glanced around the room. Sam Fletcher stood in the corner watching them,

although he avoided direct eye contact. There was little she recognized in his face anymore,

which had become hard. He looked ten years older than he had just hours ago. He sipped

from a glass filled with ice and something amber-colored. Meg wondered about the drug he

had given her and whether she could conjure up some poison in his smug little cocktail just

by wishing it so.

Sam straightened then and strode towards the center of the stateroom.

“Still haven’t got a clue, have you, Doctor Scanlon?” Sam’s cruel emphasis on the

word doctor felt like a violation. Who was this man?

“No need for sarcasm, Sam.” Cushing said.

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Harlan Cushing, Andrew Teasdale, Joe Monroe and Sam Fletcher. How had Meg not

made the final connection? Because she thought she had figured it out after linking the

other three. She had seen only what she expected to see and made her theory conform to it.

It wasn’t just bad science, it was implicit bias. It was negligent. She hadn’t seen the full

picture because she had been blind. Sam was right. Meg felt incredibly stupid. She shivered

with cold despite the night heat. Beyond the dark windows, heat lighting pulsed the

horizon. She wondered where they were taking her.

Harlan Cushing was smiling like a genial host. “I like you, Meg. In some ways, you

would have made a perfect member of our little team out near Egmont. You’re smart, fit,

resourceful, and persistent.” He held up a gin and tonic in salute.

Meg waited.

“But, we just didn’t have room for you in the final plans. Women don’t belong in

combat. Never have. No offense.” His benign politeness was grating on her. She didn’t know

which was worse, Sam’s coldness or Cushing’s warmth. She wanted to claw someone’s eyes

out.

“What plans are those?” Meg asked.

The Congressman threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, I see. You think this is the

part of the James Bond movie where the villain reveals the whole master plan to Bond, just

so it can be foiled in the end.” He was still chuckling. “No, you won’t get to hear the master

plan, I’m afraid.”

“I just want to understand why. I’m a scientist. It’s what I do. Humor me.” She tried

her best to conjure a charming smile. It had rarely failed her where men were concerned.

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Cushing returned the smile with one of his own and then glanced good-naturedly at

Sam, who shrugged.

“It’s about serving our country, my dear. The four of us grew up together, as I’m sure

you figured out by now. Andrew and I joined the Navy, while Sam and Joe took the law

enforcement route. Turns out there’s lots of money to be made while serving one’s country,

which is a nice perk.” His arm swept the stateroom. “Lobbyists will pay me just to look the

other way most days. And being the Appropriations Chair has its benefits, too.”

“Like funding some crazy rogue Navy unit?”

Cushing’s reptilian eyes flickered. She knew more than he thought she did.

Meg pressed on. “So, the four of you decided to do what, invade a country or

something? Is that where weapons come in?”

“Let’s just say, the weapons are necessary tools for success. We have access to our

own supplier and we forged a deal with another one.”

“The Maldonado brothers.”

There was a thump on the deck above them and Sam moved to the door with

another crew member. He motioned for him to check it out. The man opened the door and

stepped into the darkness. Meg heard the rush of wind and waves.

“Are you Grendel?”

Cushing gazed at her in scaly silence. His leg began jiggling.

“That’s not something I’m prepared to discuss,” he said finally.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then. So, whatever this ‘Beowulf’ bullshit is, you’ve obviously

kept it under the radar.”

Cushing shrugged nonchalantly, but his leg was pumping overtime now.

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Meg leaned forward in her seat. “But people know about it, even if they don’t know

what it is, exactly. Don’t you see that there are too many leaks now? There’s way too many

holes for you to plug up. You tried to get me out of the way but look where that got you.”

Cushing cocked his head slightly, giving it some thought.

“Meg, this is so much bigger than either one of us. And I hope you don’t take any of it

personally.”

She rolled her eyes and groaned in exasperation.

The Congressman pressed on. “It’s not your fault. But in any operation, there’s the

potential for collateral damage.” His smile turned sad. “I don’t want to kill you, but it’s part

of a larger plan. Think of it as a sacrifice for the common good. For what it’s worth, I do like

you. I’ve always liked you.”

Meg’s heart dropped to the floor at the mention of killing her. Her palms were

sweaty. Her breathing became fast and shallow, so she had to force herself to slow it down.

She had hoped that she might be able to persuade him to see sense. Maybe she still could.

“So where do Joe Monroe and Sam Fletcher come into this?”

Sam turned from the door and walked over to the couch, where he sat down next to

Harlan Cushing and crossed his long legs. He looked dapper and at ease in his pressed

pants and jacket, as though he was at a cocktail party. Bastard.

“I am what is known as the fixer,” Sam said. “I make problems disappear. Mostly, my

job is to provide cover, grease the right palms, and make sure everybody is doing what

they’re supposed to. Pretty easy money, actually.” He shrugged.

“It’s always nice to have friends in high places,” Cushing smiled at Sam and toasted

him with the remains of his gin and tonic.

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“And Leroy Palmier? Was he just a convenient distraction?”

“He liked the money well enough,” Sam offered. “Did what we asked him to and kept

you on the defensive. Problem was he decided he wanted out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Palmier grew fond of you. Pathetic old man actually had some respect for your

work. Wanted to back out of our deal.”

Meg thought about that for a moment. She felt inexplicably sad. Then a sickening

realization came to her.

“You killed him.” It wasn’t a question. She knew it in her bones.

Sam drained his drink in one gulp and placed the tumbler on the table.

“Shot him in the head, then came and made you dinner. Not before enjoying the

show you put on in that outdoor shower of yours, though.”

Sam was drunk. He stood up and walked over to where Meg was sitting, swaying

slightly. His smile cut her to the quick. She felt sour bile rise in her throat again and fought

the urge to vomit. He raised his hand to her face and let a finger trace a light path down her

cheek before dropping his hand to her breast. He cupped it gently then squeezed it hard.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Perhaps we should spend a little time in one of the forward cabins, for old time’s

sake?”

Meg recoiled. The room began to spin again.

“Sam, don’t be such an asshole.” For the first time, Harlan Cushing spoke harshly to

his old friend.

Sam laughed it off and gave her another vicious squeeze before walking away.

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The aft door slid open again and two men pushed Duncan Miller through it. He was

bloodied and barefoot. He was wearing an inflatable, horse-collar life vest from Starkist

underneath an unbuttoned, torn flannel shirt. His lip was cut, and one eye was swollen

shut.

Meg jumped up and went to him. One of the men reached to stop her, but Cushing

shook his head.

“You’re hurt,” Meg smoothed her hands over Duncan’s cheeks. “What happened?”

Duncan’s voice was hoarse and low when he spoke. “Monroe and some of his

deputies were waiting for me at the back dock. I beat the shit out of a couple guys before

they finally brought me down, though.” He cracked a painful smile. “Sorry you didn’t get my

text in time.”

Meg turned and faced Cushing again. “Congressman, why are you doing this? Why

take the risk? This would be the end of your senate bid. You know that people will be

looking for us. I told you we’re not the only ones who know about all this.”

He chuckled. “Nobody can prove much of anything, I’m afraid. As we speak,

Andrew’s office is shredding all documents. The Navy hasn’t got a clue what the directorate

is really all about.”

Meg thought about Commander Sterling Gray and wondered whether that was true.

“Let’s get it done, Sam.” Cushing looked at his watch. “I need to catch a plane back to

D.C. tonight.”

Meg’s feet felt like they had been nailed to the floor.

Sam walked towards her and reached for her arm. She yanked it away, hard.

“Don’t touch me, asshole.”

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He laughed, but there was something softer in his eyes that Meg couldn’t quite read.

Was it regret?

“Don’t play so hard to get. We’ve seen each other naked.”

Meg glared at him as she and Duncan were shuffled through the sliding doors and

out onto the aft deck. It was a small space, and there were four of them out there, including

Duncan and Cushing’s aide, Robby. Sam kept hand on the small of her back propelling her

towards the stern. Hatred seeped into her every muscle. Meg clenched her fists and coiled

herself as tightly as she could. Her mind raced. Was this really how it would end for Duncan

and her?

Meg looked at her old friend, who gazed back with ineffable sadness.

It was a dark night with no edges. The phosphorescent wake fanned out, then faded

into boundless blackness. Sam’s hand clamped around her upper arm in a vice-like grip.

Pain shot through her, then his mouth was at her ear. His breath smelled like whisky.

“You know, I would’ve killed you weeks ago if the sex hadn’t been so good.” He

leaned in and kissed her neck roughly, his whiskers scraping the skin raw.

Meg felt something turn to steel inside her, then. Something cold, hard, and

unyielding. Her heart became an anvil. With it, she would sink like a stone to the ocean

floor.

She saw Duncan move out of the corner of her eye. He broke free from Robby’s grip

and pin wheeled wildly at Sam.

“Motherfucker,” he yelled.

Sam sidestepped him and drew his gun from a holster inside his jacket as Duncan

stumbled forward and fell to his knees. Robby reached out and held Meg’s arms behind her

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back. For the briefest moment, they were each frozen in this strange tableau. Then, in a

final spasm of desperation, Duncan exploded upward at Sam, who extended his arm and

fired. The impact caught Duncan in the shoulder and spun him around, his limbs suddenly

loose in their sockets. He teetered for a moment before he was swallowed by the dark. His

momentum upended him over the safety railing, then he was gone. Any splash was

drowned out by the big engines.

Meg screamed and pulled free from Robby, throwing her elbow hard into the side of

his head. He fell to the deck. She rushed to the spot where Duncan had gone overboard,

then spun on Sam, who held the gun loosely at his side.

“You bastard.”

Sam was breathing hard and his eyes showed confusion. This was not how it was

supposed to have ended. Before he could raise the weapon a second time, Meg lowered her

shoulder and drove it into his midsection with all her strength. Her arms wrapped around

his knees and she pulled up hard, just as her brothers had once taught her to do. Caught by

surprise, Sam lost his balance and fell backwards over the aft deck. Momentum carried Meg

overboard with him and they somersaulted together into the sea in an explosion of bubbles

and limbs.

All was darkness. They sank into the depths of a world beyond borders. Hands

clawed at Meg and held her down, raking her skin. A long arm wrapped around her neck,

choking and then loosening. Legs and fists pummeled her. She writhed and twisted,

desperately trying to gain purchase on anything that would help propel her to the surface.

Her lungs would surely burst soon. Finally, Meg wrenched free and the violence around her

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suddenly fell away. Instinctively, she kicked free of her shoes and followed the bubbles to

the surface. She took in great gulps of air. Sam was still under water somewhere. Fuck him.

Meg spun her head around at the sound of receding engines. The Lucky Lady was

already thirty yards away. It had not slowed or changed course.

Falling overboard was most often accompanied by surprise then shock. It was so

unexpected and disorienting that it took a moment for one’s brain to catch up to its new

circumstances. As her head cleared, Meg remembered her yoga training and took slow,

deliberate breaths to calm the panic. The scientist in her asserted herself. It was a mild

night, with light wind. The water temperature in the Gulf of Mexico was warm in the

summer, so hypothermia wasn’t a danger. She needed to find a buoy or some sort of

landmark to get her bearings, but there was nothing but inky sea and sky in every

direction. Oh, god. Don’t think about sharks.

Meg became aware of splashing on her right and turned around. Her heart

hammered in her chest. Sam had surfaced and was flailing fifteen feet away. He gulped air

as she had. She turned her body to face him.

“Help me, please,” he gasped. “Meg, I’m sorry. Please.” His voice cracked with

desperation. His arms wind-milled towards her.

Suddenly, Meg remembered their first date and understood. Given all the lies Sam

Fletcher had told her, he had been truthful about at least one thing: the man couldn’t swim.

She was treading water the way her seafaring father had taught her, using the egg beater

kick. She was in a seated position with her legs bent and slowly rotating in opposite

directions, with her left leg moving clock-wise and right leg counter-clockwise. It was

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efficient and enabled Meg to use her hands and arms for other things, like warding off

sharks. Or gigantic, treacherous, lying bastards who couldn’t swim.

Sam was splashing, kicking, and thrashing. Even if Meg had wanted to save him, it

would be perilous to get too close. Lifeguards knew that drowning victims often put their

rescuers at great risk in their panic, which is why they swam out with some sort of gear to

throw to the victim. Sam had already nearly killed her trying to get to the surface when

they fell in. No way was she going to take that chance again. He managed to swim closer to

her and still she held back, trying to figure out what she should do. He was near enough

that Meg could see his face. His eyes were wild, his mouth stretched into a grimace as he

gulped for air.

“Sam, I need you to stay calm,” Meg held up a hand to get his attention. He continued

to splash.

“You can do this. First, take off your shoes and your jacket. Trust me. They’re

weighing you down.” No change in his movements.

“Listen to me. Take off your shoes. Just use each foot to slip them off at the heel.”

His eyes were wide and unseeing. Meg wasn’t sure whether he could understand

anything she was saying.

“H-help me.” He was losing energy rapidly.

Meg needed a different approach. She took off her t-shirt and tied knots in the arms

and neck, then spun it round and round from the base to fill with as much air as she could

before she twisted it shut. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. She threw one

end to him.

“Sam, take this. It will help you float. Trust me.”

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His eyes came into focus then. He looked at the white blob of cloth that floated in

front of him.

“Y-you’re not gonna help? S-such a cold bitch.” His head dipped under and he came

up sputtering.

Something broke free inside Meg and fluttered past her ribs. She grew quiet. She

pulled her shirt back and looped my arms around it. She watched him silently.

Meg wished she could say that she was filled with rage or vengeance, or even

sorrow for what had befallen her at the hands of this treacherous man, who had once

touched her body with reverence and passion. How could she have been so gullible? She

should have felt something. Instead, she felt nothing but a kind of existential emptiness. She

was floating above her body now and watching him struggle the way a scientist might

observe a dying animal. She was not without pity, but she would not intervene in the

natural order. Her own time would come soon enough.

“P-please,” Sam grunted, more softly this time.

He was worn out now. He went under and resurfaced, again and again. He stopped

trying to speak, and his movements grew less frantic. That was the thing about drowning. It

wasn’t a noisy, desperate event in the end. It was a quiet, deadly, struggle and most people

missed the signs. Sam’s eyes remained pleading, yet Meg kept treading water just out of his

reach. She couldn’t help him. It was tough to watch.

Empathy flooded through her suddenly, along with sadness for this broken man and

for herself and what could have been. Meg’s humanity asserted itself then. She could not let

this man die. She faltered and reached out for Sam’s arm. He didn’t struggle when she took

hold of him, just allowed her to pull him close enough to wrap one arm under his shoulder.

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“It’s okay,” she told him. “I’ve got you.”

“Thanks,” Sam’s voice, which had been weak and almost a whisper just moments

before, was now strong and certain. He gripped Meg’s arms with surprising strength.

So, he had lied about this, too.

Before Meg could react, Sam turned and reared up in the water, bringing his full

weight down on top of her and plunging her into darkness. He wrapped long arms around

her torso and held her tightly in his grip, like a giant squid with its prey. Together they

rolled under the water. Meg was tumbling in a world of inky blackness, her legs flailing, her

arms useless against his iron grip. She tore at his face yet still he held fast. Suddenly, her

foot connected squarely with some piece of him and his grip loosened imperceptibly. She

spun and tore herself loose, then used both feet to kick off from him and propelled herself

to the surface.

Meg sensed him swimming upward, coming for her again. She kicked wildly again,

hoping to connect. One foot glanced off him, but she was ready this time when Sam

surfaced. She didn’t wait for him to speak. She launched herself at him before he could

draw a full breath. She wrapped her legs and arms around his head and squeezed with all

her might. He pulled her under again, but she didn’t let go. He reared out of the water, but

still she held on. Sam twisted every way he could, but Meg’s grip was too solid. They

plunged under the water once last time. Meg thought her lungs might burst. Finally, he

stopped struggling and she let go. When she surfaced, she was alone. She began to shiver.

Sam was gone.

***

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Meg was alone in the universe. Duncan was gone. Sam was dead. It was hard not to

think about all the betrayals and the missed signs along the way. It was hard not to curse

her own stupidity. She looked around, hoping to see a dark landmass somewhere on the

horizon. She felt the rise and fall of the great swells under her and fought back the terror of

so much water and so much sky. She wasn’t going to survive for long out here. She was too

tired. Meg’s anvil heart wanted her to let go and let the water take her down.

Still, it was hard not to marvel at the terrible beauty of the Gulf of Mexico stretching

out beneath her in the darkness. She watched as streaks of green phosphorescence trailed

from her arms and legs like the cosmic energy from a million tiny stars, her light and

strength seeping from her with each movement.

This was not how she imagined it would end, of course, floating under a dome of

starlight in the middle of nowhere. But it seemed fitting somehow that she should meet her

end in the place where she had always been most at home. Meg turned and floated on her

back to rest. Looking up at the stars, she was suddenly thrown back into the memory of

floating in Goose Pond all those years ago with her brothers, Denny and Patrick. That same

sense of gratitude filled her again, but it was dampened by grief. She closed her eyes and

drifted on the unseen tide. She would miss her family. She wished she had taken the time to

connect with them more in recent years.

Her father. Would he be proud of her for having died trying to uncover the truth? Or

would he be disappointed that she had, in the end, failed to make any difference. Meg

wanted to tell him she was sorry for ever doubting his belief in her. She wanted to thank

him for teaching her how to love the sea. Her throat constricted around the tears that

began to come.

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Meg thought she would have more time to make things right, to say thank you, and

say she was sorry to all those people in her life who deserved to hear those things. She

wanted Matthew to know that she still loved him, even after all these years. How would he

ever know that she had read and kept everything he ever wrote? Perhaps it was human

nature to think such things in one’s final moments: all those missed chances, all those

stolen memories that appeared unbidden on the edge of consciousness before one slipped

away. Meg opened her eyes again and stared into the depthless star field above, then

pushed down the rising dread and grief. Adrift between sea and sky, she had entered the

place with no boundaries.

I am not brave enough for this.

Meg was so tired. She thought about her mother, then. When they were small, her

mother used to tell them that the stars were really just the campfires of all the people who

had come and gone before them. She would point up and smile and say, “Somewhere up

there, Grandma and Grandpa and all the people who loved us are sitting comfortably by a

cozy fire, watching and waiting for us to join them.” Meg knew one of those campfires

belonged to her mother, too. She wondered whether she was watching her now. Meg let

herself drift with the current and felt the rise and fall of the Gulf like a mother’s breast. She

let the sorrow seep into every crevice of her being.

It wouldn’t be long now.

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