Prologue
The howling wind drives the steep waves toward the boat. A huge swell hits. White spray cannons over the bow. The hull shudders from the impact. Ice cold water sluices across the deck. Panic writhes like a live current inside him. He’s sailed through summer storms before, though none as fierce as this. Think. Think, he commands himself, marshalling his fear.
Reduce the sail.
He pulls a jack knife from his pocket and saws through the rope securing the jib. The sail lets go. It flutters and snaps like a wild thing in the blustering storm. Another wave crests over the bow, washing away the lingering traces of blood.
The boat shudders. Chest heaving, he sheathes the knife and drops to his hands and knees while all around him the wind howls, the relentless waves roar.
Lower the mainsail.
He inches along the deck until he reaches the base of the mast and arches up to lower the sail.
The wind snakes across the waves and catches hold of the boom. It jibes with brutal force and slams into his shoulder in a blinding flash of pain. He sprawls to the deck. The scream of the splitting metal hinge sounds as the gooseneck rips free. The boom flails above.
He’s lost control.
The deck tilts and he’s sliding—careening toward the edge. He screams. His hands scrabble desperately, searching for something to grab onto, to stop himself from plunging over the side into the churning black sea.
His fingers graze a rope and he grabs hold. Hand over hand, he hauls himself up the deck, muscles straining as the next wave hits. The storm is intensifying.
He needs to get below deck.
The boat pitches and he loses his footing as he scrambles toward the cabin’s opening. He grabs hold of the ladder and climbs down into the darkness below. The water is already thigh-deep—as heavy as wet cement as he struggles toward the red light.
The radio.
Teeth chattering, he drives his legs forward. Stumbling. Reaching. Gasping until he makes it. He tears the microphone from its perch. Thumbs the button. He screams out the words in a torrent of panic, hoping somebody will hear.
“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is the Dreamcatcher. We’re three miles east of Deception Bay. We are sinking. Repeat. We are sinking. One on board, one overboard. Over.”
One overboard… Scott. He can’t think about that now.
Dropping the radio, he lunges forward and falls to his knees. Hands scrabbling across the floor, he searches for the seacock located on the hull. His shaking fingers clutch the lever. It’s stuck. He clenches his teeth and tries twisting it again. Harder. Heart booming.
The boat must sink. It’s his only hope.
The valve gives way and opens, filling the ship like a well. A flash of lightning illuminates the cabin. The water is hip-deep now. He bats away the floating seat cushions on his way toward the ladder.
A wave smashes into the side of the hull. The boat heaves. It rises on the swell, yawing sideways, exposing it to the steep wave. Then it rolls.
Cast violently onto his side, he struggles to get his bearings as seawater surges into the small cabin. It happens fast. The hull fills until he is completely submerged. He pumps his arms and legs, aiming for the opening, desperate to swim out. But the life vest strapped around his chest keeps pulling him up, pinning him, trapping him inside the dying boat.
His lungs burn—screaming for air.
He needs out.
Numb fingers fumble with the straps securing the vest. They are sticky. Stubborn. He grabs for the jack knife. Cuts it free.
Desperate—terrified, he swims toward the opening until he is out. Breaking the surface, he comes up beside the boat and gasps in the salty air. He spies a life ring floating a few feet away and surges toward it.
He grabs hold of the orange ring as the black water crashes overhead in a bone-chilling embrace, forcing him down. He kicks his feet, driving upward, clinging to the life ring with all he’s got. Waves pummel him from all sides. For the first time since he was an altar boy at his grandmother’s church, he prays.
Please God. Please God. Please God.
God never answered his prayers back then. Why should he now? After what he’s done…
He mouths the words of the rosary prayer as the minutes drag past. Pummeled by the frigid waves, each second is excruciating. A clock ticks down in his mind. Ten minutes. Maybe less before hypothermia sets in.
The boat is gone. He’s going to die. He clings stubbornly to the life ring, unwilling to give up.
Suddenly, a noise breaks overhead. Deep. Deafening. The thud, thud of helicopter blades. Casting a desperate gaze skyward, he is trapped in a blinding circle of light. He squints. Freeing one arm from the life ring, he waves it frantically overhead at the Coast Guard chopper hovering above.
Chapter 1
My head pounds from the river of martinis I consumed just a few short hours ago. I peek through the window of the 747 and wince as the golden orange glow of the rising sun hits me square in the eyes with all the force of a seagull sucked into a turbine. I close my eyes, and like Neo, from The Matrix, I find myself wishing I’d taken the blue pill instead of the red one.
Why, oh why, oh why, did I take the call?
Just as plain as the spots on the inside of my eyelids, I can see Diana’s sober expression as she thrust the phone in my face.
“Austin, you need to take this,” she said.
I pulled the phone from her bony, talon-like grip, because in the five years I’ve been with the Writer’s Place Literary Agency, I always do what Diana tells me. Well, okay. That’s not universally true. It’s more accurate to say I should always do everything Diana tells me. I’ve lived to regret the few times I chose not to heed her advice.
And just like that, the fleeting high from standing center stage at my own book launch party fizzled like bubbles in flat champagne. Now, here I sit, strapped into a seat so uncomfortably narrow that even a Russian gymnast would complain, chasing the light of dawn across the continent to the last place in the world I’d ever want to go.
Home.
I can think of a dozen gooey, heartwarming quotes about homecomings and wallowing in the heart of familial bliss. None of them speak to me. I think Thomas Wolfe had it right when he said, “You can never go home again.”
I’ve had twenty-eight hundred miles and six hours to mull over how can and should are two very different things.
***
Even at this ungodly time of day, SeaTac Airport swarms with life. Natural light floods through the massive windows and nearly blinds me. I don my sunglasses and follow the throng of fellow travelers toward baggage claim.
I catch sight of my reflection in the glass window of a storefront as I pass by and slow down for a better look. I stroke the short beard covering my jaw and grin. Considering I spent the night on a plane, I look damned good.
The window ends, and I scan the racks of books at Hudson’s News. And there it is, big as life. I stop dead in my tracks. Displayed right out in front is my new novel, Murder at Echo Lake. You know, I never get tired of seeing my name in print. There it is in 120-point gold type.
Apparently, you need to signal when you stop, because just then, someone slams into me and I stagger a step to regain my balance. The man turns, his red face apologetic.
“Sorry. Are you okay?”
I nod and keep walking.
People on the West Coast are way nicer than they are back east. In New York I’d be yelled at, and flipped off, probably with some nasty slur about my mother. But here, they apologize. Weird.
Halfway down the terminal, I see a happy sight. The green goddess on the Starbucks sign beckons me, and my feet, as if on autopilot, steer me to her.
The aroma of roasting coffee beans smells deep and earthy, like salvation, and I’m standing in line when my cell phone rings. I dig in my pockets until I find it. Heads swivel in my direction as the theme song to the movie Jaws plays. With a grin, I pick up the call.
“Where did you disappear to last night?”
My agent, Diana Black, sounds as irritated as a cranky toddler.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
“Did you leave with the blonde or the brunette?”
I smile as I contemplate the question. Most of my loyal readers fit a certain demographic. Many came of age in the days of JFK and Martin Luther King. Occasionally, though, I meet fans who are more, shall we say, in keeping with my particular tastes.
Anyway, the fact that Diana is asking about my love life has me intrigued. She hasn’t shown the slightest romantic interest in me since Chicago, five years ago. And to be perfectly honest, there wasn’t much romance that night.
“Austin,” she prompts me.
Did I mention Diana’s pathological hatred for pauses? Life moves at warp speed for her. I suppose that’s probably true of most successful literary agents. I drag the pause out for a second or two longer before I answer.
“Both.”
“Both. Really?”
She sounds surprised, and maybe a little disconcerted. I find myself wishing I could see her expression. By the sound of her voice, I think she’s frowning, but I can’t tell for sure.
“No,” I say vaguely, enjoying her stunned silence a little too much. Finally, I relent and tell her the truth. “I’m in Seattle.”
“Seattle?” she barks into the phone. I wince as the sound pierces my eardrum like an ice pick. “What the hell are you doing in Seattle?”
The coffee line shifts and I’m next up for that magic, caffeinated elixir I need to fuel me. A few fitful hours of sleep on a plane won’t be enough to steel me for a fiery reentry into my past.
“My mother was hurt in an accident.”
I count to three as I wait for Diana to respond. Three seconds is a lifetime for her. Finally, she speaks.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Not half as sorry as I am.”
“How bad is it?”
“Well, she’s not going to play the violin again,” I say, but Diana doesn’t laugh. “I don’t know yet.”
“Couldn’t you hire a nurse?”
I snort. Family obligations don’t rate high on Diana’s priority list. This is one of the many ways in which she and I are alike.
“Believe me, the thought crossed my mind.”
“And?”
“And honestly, my mother is…” I lift my hand in a palms-up gesture and grasp for the right word. I write for a living, for God’s sake; describing my own mother’s personality quirks shouldn’t be that hard. Unfortunately, I’ve been raised well enough to realize that it’s impolite to call your own mother a sociopath, to anyone other than a therapist, that is. “She’s difficult.”
I can almost hear Diana rolling her eyes.
“I hate to break it to you, Austin, but all mothers are difficult.”
“Yeah, well, mine’s something special.”
I trail off when I hear Diana sigh. I can picture her shaking her head, her dark eyebrows pinched so tightly together they almost touch.
“Okay. How long will you be in Seattle?”
“About an hour. I’m actually heading to Whidbey Island.”
“Where?” she groans. “Whatever. When will you be back in New York?”
“A week. Maybe two.”
She sucks in a breath of air like she’s been sucker-punched, and I know she’s trying not to lose her shit. And I know why.
“Two weeks? You’re scheduled to go on book tour in ten days.”
“I know.”
The Starbucks line shifts again, and suddenly it’s my turn. Talking on a cell phone and holding up a line is considered a cardinal sin back in New York. Seriously, it’s grounds for murder in my neighborhood. The barista, a doe-eyed, teenage girl, smiles wider than a Miss Teen USA contestant, and I’m momentarily blinded by the glare from her unnaturally white teeth.
“Welcome to Starbucks,” she says. “What can I get for you?”
I blink. She might be the sweetest Starbucks barista I’ve ever met.
“Austin,” Diana barks.
“Just a second.”
I scan the menu for the strongest drink they have. Strong coffee with a shot of espresso. That has to be a winner, right?
“I’ll have a red eye.”
Okay, it’s a little cliché, and behind me, I hear a cacophony of groans, but the barista giggles like it’s the funniest thing she’d heard all day. Her hazel eyes dance with light. I might just love her.
“One shot or two?”
“Two. No, three.”
I hold up three fingers and she nods like the good girl she is.
“Yes, sir.”
Sir. She called me sir. Charmed, I hand over my debit card. I’m half-tempted to prolong the transaction, since this might be the last pleasant conversation I have for the next few weeks, or however long it’s going to take me to sort my mother out. I feel a keen stab of disappointment when she hands back my card, and I shuffle to the end of the counter to wait.
“One week. Promise me you’ll be back by then,” Diana says.
“I pinkie promise.”
Diana doesn’t say goodbye. She hangs up with a grunt, and I stow my phone as the barista calls my drink.
“Red eye.”
She sets the coffee cup down with a grin, and I snatch it off the countertop. Lava hot coffee sloshes over the side and I hiss, instinctively sticking my finger in my mouth and sucking on the burn. Moments later, I slide it into a sleeve before merging back into the human flow trudging toward baggage claim.
“One week,” I mutter.
Ha! I’ll kill myself if I stay a minute longer.
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