Sail (12 page)
CARRIE’S BLUE GAZE ricocheted all around the water. The shark. Her mother. Her brothers. Uncle Jake.
The damn shark again.
Why won’t it just go away? Does it sense how defenseless we are? Of course it does, it’s a predator.
She felt helpless, stuck in limbo. There had to be something she could do, though. What?
That’s when it hit her—literally.
The Hail Mary box.
She didn’t even realize she’d let go of it until a small swell sent it smack against her head.
There would definitely be a bump later. If there was a later.
What mattered was now. Was there something in the box that could help? Maybe?
With a frantic burst of energy, Carrie grabbed the latch and snapped it open. Flipping back the lid, she quickly tried to push herself up from the water to look inside.
It only half worked. She caught some glimpses—a first-aid kit, some blankets, an inflatable raft—but even tilting the box to her eye level, she couldn’t see what was buried underneath.
Screw it, just dump everything out!
she thought.
She thought again. What if some of the stuff didn’t float? What if the one thing she could use sank to the bottom before she could grab it?
She had no idea what that might be, but the thought was enough to make her try to reach deep into the box instead. She felt around.
C’mon! There’s got to be something . . .
Her hand desperately moved from one item to another. Was that a bottle of water? A flashlight?
She glanced over her shoulder as she continued to search. The shark was no more than a hundred yards from her mom and Ernie. Probably less than that.
Hurry!
Carrie’s hand kept blindly jumping from one item to another. Then, with a depressing thud, her fingertips hit the bottom of the box. Damn!
Nothing.
Her eyes welled up, the frustration pushing out the tears, when all of a sudden she felt something tucked tight against the rear corner. It was cold. It was metal.
It was a gun!
She was pretty sure of it. The smooth curve of the trigger gave it away.
She yanked as hard as she could. Out came the gun. Only it looked like no gun she’d ever seen. There were large casings attached behind the grip—were those bullets? No, she realized. They were flares. It was a flare gun.
Who cares? As long as it fires!
She turned back to the shark. Her hand was shaking. So was the rest of her. With her left hand, she tried to steady herself against the Hail Mary box. She’d never pulled the trigger of any gun in her life.
She started yelling at the top of her voice and splashing. Sure enough, the shark turned her way. Was that really such a good idea?
I can do this! Just aim it and shoot . . . Just aim and shoot . . .
Carrie lined the sight up against the shark, counting back from three . . .
Two . . .
One . . .
She squeezed the trigger.
The flare fired, amid a barrage of smoke and sparks so thick she couldn’t see a thing.
Including the gun dropping from her hand, sinking.
She couldn’t help it—the sparks had scalded her knuckles. Had the gun malfunctioned? How old were those flares? All she knew was that her hand was practically on fire. “Son of a bitch!” she yelled.
And for a couple of seconds her voice was the only sound she heard.
Then came another sound.
Cheering!
All at once Ernie, Mark, and Katherine screamed for joy. As the smoke finally cleared, Carrie saw why.
The flare gun had worked, at least well enough. The shark had turned around. It was swimming away. She’d scared the dumb beast.
Lunch wouldn’t be served after all.
At least not here.
At least not the Dunnes!
DEVOUX SAID GOODBYE to Peter Carlyle from the bench near the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse. He walked down the block until he had completely disappeared from Peter’s view.
Then he turned around.
Where to next, Peter? Pray tell.
Clients were more than just clients to Devoux. They were an investment. Or, if you really wanted to get down to it, a high-stakes gamble. Big risk, even bigger reward. So naturally one had to keep an eye on them.
Carlyle especially.
He represented the largest payday yet for Devoux. But it was hardly money for nothing.
All things considered, the dirty work was the easy part. Devoux excelled at killing. He was trained for it, had a real knack. Up close, far away, and everywhere in between. The CIA for sure had hated losing him, but there had simply been no alternative. Once you go off the reservation, you can’t come back.
That’s what had led Devoux to Peter in the first place. He wasn’t the first covert agent to freelance on the side, nor was he the first to get caught.
He was, however, the first to hire a hot-shit attorney who marched straight down to Langley to negotiate a highly classified severance package: his client’s life in exchange for his silence.
It was a deal both sides could live with, because they had no choice.
Just to make sure, though, there was a sealed envelope in escrow, hanging in the balance.
“You hold a lot of my dark secrets,” Devoux had told Peter. “Let me know if you’d ever like me to hold on to one of yours. Be my pleasure.”
Yeah, the dirty work was the easy part for Devoux. It was what came after, post-op, which caused concern in his newly found career.
Hoping a client wouldn’t fuck things up, and consequently fuck him over.
In Carlyle’s case, the key question was whether he could withstand the media glare, and for how long? Sure, the über-attorney was a cool customer who was used to intense pressure. But the stakes in a courtroom were one thing. In this game there was a lot more on the line.
So for the next twenty minutes Devoux followed Peter as he continued on foot, heading uptown.
The guy wasn’t really going to walk all the way home to the Upper East Side, was he?
No, he wasn’t.
Near the NYU School of Law, Peter stopped in front of a prewar brownstone with narrow windows. Before climbing up the steep stone steps he glanced to his left and right.
Watching from the end of the block, Devoux chuckled.
Peter, Peter, Peter . . . are you doing something you shouldn’t be? Or someone?
Of course he was.
Devoux had known it the first time they met and discussed his own case. Peter Carlyle wasn’t addicted to money, or sex, or anything of the kind.
He was addicted to risk.
PETER KNOCKED on Bailey’s apartment door, all too aware that this would be his first visit that didn’t involve their having sex. It certainly wouldn’t be for a lack of wanting on his part. It’s just that he wanted something else even more.
Katherine’s estate. The ultimate score. Over $100 million if he survived both her and her obnoxious kids.
If that was to happen, he needed to start playing the role of the distressed husband right away. Even with Bailey.
Especially with Bailey.
She was a bit of a wild card—suddenly part of his life but certainly not part of the plan. Hell, he hadn’t even known her when he concocted this whole thing and made his pact with Devoux.
Now that he did know her—and wanted to keep on knowing her—he had to make sure that she saw no connection between him and
The Family Dunne’
s disappearance. Like everyone else, she couldn’t suspect what a cold-blooded bastard he was.
Peter was about to knock on her door again when he heard that unmistakable New York sound of multiple turning locks. As Bailey opened the door, he prayed that she wouldn’t be wearing anything too sexy.
A man can possess only so much willpower.
“Peter, what a wonderful surprise,” she said. “I couldn’t believe it when you called. I only got back from my last class twenty minutes ago.”
The good news was that she had considerably more clothes on than just her bra and panties. A pair of sweatpants and a Fit T-shirt, in fact. The bad news was that she immediately leaned in to kiss him with those beautiful bee-stung lips. He would have to pull back from her.
Just do it, Peter. This isn’t the time for screwing.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Hey, wait,” she said, a slightly confused look overtaking her face. “Today was your jury selection—shouldn’t you still be in court?”
“Something happened,” said Peter.
“That Kincade woman didn’t try to run you over too, did she?” she joked, grinning.
Peter didn’t laugh. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t.
What a shame,
he thought, because that was actually a pretty funny line. Gorgeous, smart, and a great sense of humor to boot. Bailey Todd had the whole package.
After stepping into her apartment, Peter first grabbed a Diet Coke from her fridge. Then he took her through the events of the morning, from Angelica charging into the courtroom to his call with the Coast Guard lieutenant. The conversation with Devoux, of course, was conveniently omitted from his already far too melodramatic storyline.
Bailey was stunned, to say the least. She couldn’t believe it, had to sit down. She also felt incredibly guilty, and told Peter as much.
“Why?” he asked.
“No, forget it. I’m too ashamed.”
“It’s okay, you can tell me anything.”
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.
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.”
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.