Sail (9 page)
ANGELICA’S ENGLISH was spotty and at times nonexistent, but she managed to convey enough key words and phrases to get her message across. Or rather, the message she’d overheard being left by the Coast Guard on Peter and Katherine’s home answering machine less than half an hour ago.
Storm.
Boat missing.
No hear from Missus Katherine or Mister Jake.
She’d also managed to write down a phone number that Peter could call for more information. Before he could dash off and do that, there was this little matter of jury selection in one of the highest-profile trials the city had seen in years. Peter approached the judge.
Naturally, everyone in the gallery—especially those sporting shiny press badges—was extremely curious to find out what this impromptu sideshow was all about. The murmuring was contagious. This murder trial was certainly buzzworthy enough. Now would this added twist put it over the top?
Also extremely curious was the young gun of a prosecutor. He wondered—no,
feared
that Carlyle was reaching into his renowned bag of tricks to gain the upper hand in choosing just the right jury. As fast as someone could say “Marcia Clark,” he hurried over to join the hushed conversation going on between Peter and the judge.
Now even the court reporter and clerk were exchanging raised eyebrows. What the hell was going on here? What was Peter Carlyle up to this time?
That’s when the judge picked up his oak gavel and banged it hard three times. Quiet quickly fell over the courtroom. But what the judge had to say did absolutely nothing to enlighten anyone. All he offered, in a gravelly voice reminiscent of Tom Carvel’s, was that voir dire in the Kincade trial would be postponed “until further notice.”
Again he went to his gavel, wielding it like a sledge-hammer.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
And off Peter dashed, leaving everyone in the courtroom, including Angelica, in his pin-striped, wingtipped wake.
PETER DUCKED INTO the privacy of an empty office near the courtroom and whipped out his cell phone. His thumb was a blur as he dialed. The number for the Coast Guard had a 305 area code. Courtesy of a couple of drug-smuggling cases he had worked as outside counsel over the years, Peter knew that code was Miami.
Angelica had scribbled the name of the Coast Guard lieutenant who had called. Andrew Toten, it read. Or was it Tatem? Peter squinted at the piece of paper in his hand. Angelica wrote English only slightly better than she spoke it.
No matter, he would get the correct information from this Toten/Tatem.
After three rings, a woman answered. “Lieutenant Tatem’s office,” she said curtly.
Tatem.
There was one question answered. That left only about a hundred others.
“Yes, this is Peter Carlyle calling from New York City. Lieutenant Tatem left a message at my home earlier this morning. I understand there’s an urgent situation.”
“I’m not sure if he’s available, Mr. Carlyle—let me check, please. One moment.”
Peter blinked hard in disbelief.
She’s not sure if he’s available? How urgent does the situation have to be?
Before he could respond, “He damn well better be available!” Peter was put on hold. Actually, his first thought was that he’d been disconnected. The Coast Guard apparently eschewed Muzak, preferring stone-cold silence instead.
Finally a man’s voice came on the line. He sounded official enough, although younger than Peter expected. “This is Lieutenant Tatem,” the man said.
Peter hurriedly identified himself and asked what had happened to
The Family Dunne.
“That’s part of the problem. We’re not quite sure,” replied Tatem. “We know the boat’s been caught in a severe storm that boomeranged out over the Atlantic last night. We lost radio contact with it sometime after four-thirty this morning, Eastern Standard Time. It could be something with their radio.”
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” said Peter softly.
“There is every reason to be optimistic, Mr. Carlyle. About two hours ago we received an EPIRB signal.”
“What exactly is that?” asked Peter.
“Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon,” answered Tatem. “It’s a tracking device, kind of like LoJack for boats. That’s how we found you, in fact. The boat’s owner, Dr. Katherine Dunne, listed Peter T. Carlyle, Esquire, as the emergency contact. Are you her attorney?”
“No, I’m Katherine’s
husband.
Wait, I’m confused—is my family okay or not?”
“I can’t say for certain, Mr. Carlyle. But the device
is
manually activated. Somebody set it off. We’ll be sending out a search-and-rescue mission as soon as we can.”
Peter’s voice sharpened to an edge. “What do you mean,
as soon as you can?
What the hell are you waiting for?”
“The storm, Mr. Carlyle,” said Tatem, unruffled. “It hasn’t fully passed through the area the signal is coming from. I can’t send out a search-and-rescue effort unless I know the team can actually make a rescue—or for that matter won’t end up needing to be rescued itself.”
“So when will that be?” Peter asked, sounding desperate. “What’s your estimate?”
“As I said, it should be very soon.”
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime? I mean, what can I do?”
“I’m afraid there’s not much more you can do besides wait. I’ll call you as soon as the situation changes and we know more.”
This struck Peter as wholly inadequate. As far as he was concerned, telling people to wait was tantamount to blowing them off. He felt like he was being handled. He hated being handled.
Still, there was no sense showing this Tatem character the full force of his trip-wire temper. Peter knew he could ill afford to piss off the Coast Guard. He definitely needed them on his side.
“Lieutenant, there must be something more that can be done,” he pressed gently.
Tatem exhaled a prolonged and heavy sigh. “Well, I don’t know if you’re a religious man, Mr. Carlyle, but if I could suggest one thing, it would be prayer.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant, that’s good advice,” said Peter, who didn’t think he’d said a prayer in the last twenty years.
“HOLY MOTHER OF GOD,” muttered Jake, emerging from belowdecks as soon as the storm had passed. “That was something else.”
Katherine and the kids, still wearing their life jackets, were right behind him. Their reactions echoed his as they gazed around. All in all, the Third Commandment never stood much of a chance. Mark in particular sounded like a broken record. “Jesus H. Christ,” he kept repeating. And for good reason, too.
The deck looked like a war zone in the middle of Iraq. There was splintered wood at nearly every step, shattered nautical instruments along the helm, and a veritable obstacle course of strewn ropes and seat cushions everywhere else.
And it only got worse when they all peered upward.
“Jesus H. Christ!” said Mark again. “I don’t believe it.”
“If you don’t believe, then stop calling on poor Jesus,” Jake finally said, but then he patted Mark’s shoulder.
The tremendous jolt they had all felt while riding out the storm the night before was exactly what Jake had said it was. Lightning. The mainmast must have been hit dead on—which pretty much explained the second jolt, which immediately followed.
The top of the mast had been completely sheared off! Cut in two.
It had plummeted eighty feet, smashing into the deck. Or rather, what was left of the deck.
The new developments were what had prompted Jake to activate the EPIRB. Even if they were lucky enough to survive the storm, he knew that without a workable mast, their sailing days on
The Family Dunne
would be absolutely, positively . . .
done.
This vacation was over, and given the circumstances, none too soon.
Now, standing on the deck in daylight, he could see that his decision was the right one.
“Uncle Jake, when will the rescue people get here?” asked Ernie. “How soon?”
“I imagine the Coast Guard has to wait a bit for the storm to pass the area,” he answered. “As soon as they can come, though, they will.”
“Are you sure?” asked Carrie, less than convinced and looking a little paler than usual.
“Yes, I’m sure they’ll be here. They know there’s a problem. They’re good at what they do.”
“They better be!” said Mark, still staring at what remained of the mast. Scorched black where the top had broken off, it looked like a big burnt match.
Jake reassured the kids for a second time while stealing a couple of concerned glances at Katherine. They all had been holding on for dear life during the storm, but it was Katherine who appeared the most shaken up right now.
“You okay?” he said to her.
She nodded—and to almost anyone else that’s all it would’ve been. A simple nod. To Jake, though, it was more. He could read between the lines. Katherine had been dealing with more than just her fear; she was also dealing with the guilt. This trip had been her idea. The trip was her fault.
That’s when it clicked for him.
His eyes darted from Katherine to the kids, each one looking more dour than the next.
I’m not doing my job,
he suddenly realized.
He was still captain, responsible for their well-being, and as such he was setting the wrong example right now. After the eight-hour, white-knuckled ride of their lives, this was no time for doom and gloom. They should all be happy. No—on second thought, they should be celebrating.
They were alive!
Who cared if the boat was basically destroyed? They weren’t. None of them was even hurt. Soon, thanks to the EPIRB, help would be on its way and they’d boogie out of here.
“So what do we do now?” asked Ernie.
Jake flashed a grin.
He knew just the thing.
JAKE LUNGED FORWARD with a mischievous laugh, grabbed Ernie by his life jacket, and swooped him high into the air.
“What do we do now, little man?” he said. “We go swimming, that’s what we do!”
With a heave-ho, Jake launched Ernie over the railing. “Noooooooo!” Ernie screamed all the way down to the water, which he hit with an impressive splash.
Mark and Carrie broke into spontaneous laughter while Katherine dashed to the edge of the boat. She was sure Ernie would be in tears, or worse, thanks to Jake’s practical joke, or whatever it was he thought he was doing.
But Ernie was just fine. Actually, he was better than fine. Against the neon-bright orange of his life jacket, his smiling teeth looked whiter than white. He looked up at the boat and shook a playful fist at Jake. Then he began splashing around, having an absolute ball.
Jake spun on his heels, casting a devilish eye on Katherine, Mark, and Carrie. “Who’s next?” he asked. “It’s one of you for sure. Who can I catch the easiest?”
Like bugs under a lifted rock, they all scattered across the deck. One by one Jake hunted them down, singing blissfully off-key the entire time. It was a favorite Blondie song. “One way or another, I’m gonna getcha, I’ll getcha, I’ll getcha, getcha, getcha!”
He gotchaed Carrie first. She wriggled in his arms hopelessly, trying to break free. “I don’t understand,” joked Jake as he lifted her over the edge. “I thought you liked going overboard!”
Carrie laughed uncontrollably; she couldn’t help it. The first day of the trip and her suicide attempt seemed like a long, long time ago.
“Geronimo!” yelled Jake as he tossed her over the side.
That’s when Mark tried to turn the tables on his fun-loving uncle. At least he was finally taking some initiative. He snuck up behind Jake and grabbed him around the waist. “I say
you’re
next!” he shouted.
But Mark could barely lift his much bigger uncle, let alone send him for a swim.
“Nice try, hotshot,” said Jake before applying a wrestling spin move on Mark that would’ve made Dusty Rhodes proud.
In two seconds flat, Mark was hoisted over the side.
“And then there was one!” declared Jake, eyeing Katherine, who was trying to hide out at the bow.
“Okay, that’s enough. I’m good,” she said. “I’m the mom. I say game over!”
“Game over?”
Jake began slowly angling toward her, cutting off escape routes. She was cornered and she knew it.
“No, really, c’mon,” she said. “I give up . . . Uncle!
Uncle, Jake!
”
He shook his head. “Do you really think you’re going to talk your way out of this one, Doc?”
“But my hands . . . ,” she said, holding them up, her bandages looking like mittens.
“The water will be good for them.”
The kids had gleefully paddled toward the bow, making no secret of what they wanted to see. A grand finale.
“C’mon, Uncle Jake, send her over!” yelled Ernie. “I’ll catch her.”
“Yeah,” shouted Mark.
“Katherine Dunne—c’mon down!”
Jake laughed and then shrugged. “Sorry, Kat, but you heard the boys.”
He rushed in, lifting her up in his arms and spinning her around. For a quick but unmistakable moment their eyes met, the memories of their secret flooding to the surface—only to disappear as fast as the kids screamed for Jake to hurry.
Which he did.
With everyone laughing and having the time of their lives—lives that had seemed in doubt only a short time ago—Jake stood at the bow, triumphant.
“I’m king of the boat!” he yelled as he released Katherine into the air. “King of the —”
BOOM!
In the blink of an eye
The Family Dunne
exploded, the entire boat disappearing within a massive orange fireball.
“THERE HE IS! There’s Carlyle,” shouted a reporter, wielding his arm like a jousting stick as he pointed down the long, echoing hallway of the courthouse. Off they all raced, a pack of hyenas with roughly the same manners as hyenas.
In some ways it was like a scene out of an old movie, the intrepid reporters milling around until the man of the moment showed his face. Within seconds of stepping out of the office where he’d called the Coast Guard, Peter was surrounded.
Every reporter, from the
Post
to the
News
to the
Times
to the
Journal
, was utterly convinced that the message Peter had received in the courtroom had something to do with the Kincade case. Something very juicy and rewarding! That had to be it. What else could it be to pull him out of voir dire?
They weren’t about to get an answer, though. Not yet, at least. Not until Peter knew more about the mystery himself. The reporters clung to him like paper clips to a magnet, but Peter didn’t let out a peep to their onslaught of questions. Not even a “No comment.”
What a tease he was. Years and years of practice.
The renowned attorney Peter Carlyle—the man who loved trying his cases in a packed courtroom and always managed to have a few words, if not an entire monologue, for the press—remained absolutely buttoned-lipped this time.
Instead he silently pushed his way through the wall of handheld recorders and ducked through a nearby door that guaranteed his escape thanks to a sign on the frosted glass that featured five magical words, words that all of this society sorely needed.
NO PRESS BEYOND THIS POINT
.
The door led to the administrative lounge, and from there it was a mere two flights down a secluded staircase to reach an exit at the back of the building.
Walking through a narrow alleyway, Peter did a quick check around the corner of the soot-laced brick building, his eyes carefully taking in the sidewalk before him.
Hmmm. It looked reasonably good. No reporters to the left, no reporters to the right.
In the clear.
Peter eased his way into the crowded foot traffic of lower Manhattan, blending in as best he could. He didn’t know yet where he was going. Wherever it was, he could at least get there in peace and then try to respond to the disturbing news he’d just gotten.
But then, two blocks farther, a newsstand caught his eye. While those bloodthirsty reporters back at the courthouse were busy searching for tomorrow’s headlines, Peter had yet to read today’s. Screw the war on terror, world hunger, and the latest celebrity adoption—
what were the pundits saying about him and the Kincade trial?
Or really, just him? Strangely, he felt a need for self-justification right now.
Peter snatched up a few local papers before pointing at a small refrigerator with a sliding glass door directly behind the turbaned guy manning the stand.
“And a Red Bull,” said Peter.
What happened next was unbelievable, but pure Peter Carlyle. The moment the guy turned around to open the refrigerator, Peter reached into the tip jar on the counter, pulled out a handful of singles, and stuffed them in his pocket. Never mind that he was carrying over six hundred bucks in his wallet.
The counterman turned back around with a cold Red Bull in hand. He quickly added up the total, including all the papers. “Five twenty-five,” he muttered, sounding vaguely Pakistani.
Peter reached into his pocket and counted out six of the stolen dollars. “Here,” he said. “Keep the change.”