For Donna and Nick
There are so many people I want to thank for their ongoing help in my career: my agent, Richard Parks; Frank Robinson, who has offered his years of experience and a keen editorial eye on each of my novels; Kate Mattes, who encouraged me to start a series. The folks at Justin, Charles: Stephen Hull, Carmen Mitchell, and Karen Connor, who do such a wonderful job of producing and publicizing my books. My advance readers: my sister, Catherine Sinkys, Nancy Childs, and Sibylle Barrasso. John Cole who welcomes me into the camaraderie of his office when I get too stir-crazy working out of the house. Richard Rabinowitz, with his generous help with contacts and publicity.
And I’d like to give special thanks to those who have helped specifically with this story: Chuck Geller for his knowledge of the diamond trade; Dr. Alex Bingham with advice for all things medical; Jim McNeil, my longtime friend and sailing buddy who’s helped me keep a hand on the helm all of these many years.
Thank you all,
Bill Eidson
PROLOGUE
They were thirty-five nautical miles off the coast of Rhode Island.
It was a few hours before daybreak, and Seagull, a thirty-eight-foot sloop, was taking on thirty- to forty-knot gusts. She’d been doing it for the past ten hours, and although she seemed to be handling it well, her skipper was worried.
Matt figured he was still an hour away from rousing his wife, C.C., for her watch. Sean and Laurie, twelve and seven, were down there, too. They were all asleep the last he looked. If the wind got any stiffer, he’d have to bring C.C. up early. He didn’t want to do that, though. They were both worn out with this weather.
He had the mainsail reefed down. He’d furled the genoa to the size of a storm jib that morning, and had yet to need more sail.
They were on the way back from Florida.
Matt felt uneasy. He’d made the rounds earlier on his watch, hooking his tether to the jacklines and moving quietly over the boat.
Everything had seemed fine.
They had to be careful of shipping traffic. He had a small metal radar reflector up on the mast, and he checked his own radar regularly.
He was always a bit uneasy at night, with the possibility of ships looming out of the dark. But now there was something else, something he couldn’t quite identify.
It was good that they were almost home. They’d make it through the Cape Cod Canal by the end of the day. Once through there, it would be another day to Boston.
Matt loved the boat. Sailing was his passion. And this trip was his dream. While C.C. and the kids were hardly just along for the ride, even little Laurie knew the trip was mainly for Daddy.
Yet he too was ready for land.
Tired, and ready for a break.
Matt jerked to full awake. He wasn’t sure what had happened. There had been a banging sound. A vibration.
His first thought was they had hit something.
He turned to look in the boat’s wake, but it was too dark to see if they’d hit a piece of driftwood. He cursed himself softly for falling asleep on watch.
Then he checked the depth gauge even though he knew the bottom was well over a hundred feet away.
It could’ve been simply a wave that they caught wrong.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Still angry with himself.
The boat shuddered again.
Damn.
Matt grabbed the flashlight and played it on the mast. He thought he saw the mast shift. He rubbed his eyes now and stared at the pole.
Seemed … fine. Matt wanted to say, It’s fine, damn it.
But it was off.
He looked at the side stays, the cables on each side that held up the mast. He expected the two stays on the lee side to be a bit slack, with the windward side taking all the pressure.
But the lee shroud and side stay were more than slack. They were flopping around in the breeze.
His stomach dropped.
He looked on the windward side.
The chain plate had lifted. Fiberglass decking had been pulled up. The pressure of the sail was pulling the chain plate right through the deck.
Matt jumped back and disengaged the steering vane. He spun the wheel desperately, trying to tack around so the port side stays could take the pressure. Already he was running through a jury-rig plan in his mind. Get on a steady port tack … lower the sails … back up the stays with lines to the toe rail, and head straight for Newport under power …
But even as the bow started to come around, a gust — blowing maybe fifty knots — came along and finished the job.
The mast bent about five feet up from the cabin roof, the aluminum creasing like a cheap curtain rod. The boom slammed down across the deck, and the mast toppled into the sea. The chain plate snagged on the coach handrails and then broke free, whipping across the deck into the cockpit. Matt put his arm up just in time and took the blow.
His arm hurt like a bastard, but that wasn’t the worst news.
He put the flashlight to the lee. The sails filled with water. The white of the sail becoming gray-green.
Seagull began to list to port, broadside to the oncoming waves.
“Matt, what’s happening?” C.C. was hanging on in the companionway. The kids behind her.
Twelve and seven, for God’s sake.
He said, “Get their vests on, slickers, too. We just lost the mast.”
“Oh my God …”
“Daddy, you’ve got blood,” Laurie said. She pointed at his face.
He touched the side of his face and took away his hand wet with blood. His right arm was shaking, and when he felt his right forearm with his left hand, it came away with blood, too.
Then another wave swept across them broadside and he had more to worry about than lacerations.
“Hurry,” he said.
C.C. turned immediately and began to hustle the kids back.
Seagull’s broken mast made a shrieking metallic sound. Matt got to his feet and stumbled forward, seeing the aluminum tear further. The portion of the mast in the water twisted and worked, as if it too wanted to be free. Matt could see that when the break was complete, the mast would be a jagged-edged pole in the water — a pole that could puncture Seagull’s hull.
He hurried back to the cockpit, opened the locker under the port bench, and pulled out a pair of red-handled cable cutters.
“What about the raft?” C.C. yelled from the cabin. Behind her, the kids were snapping on their vests.
“We’ll be all right if I can cut us free. But get our position, put out a Mayday. And, Sean, come up here with me and hold the flashlight.” He hurried to the bow and went to work on the head stay.
His son was beside him in a minute, holding the flashlight steady. Matt glanced over, saw Sean was hearing his harness and life vest and had snapped his tether to the jackline. Matt said, “Good boy. We’ll get through this, buddy.”
The metal was tough and it didn’t give easily. It took him longer than he thought, hacking away at it. Blood poured down over his hand and made his grip on the cutters slippery. But at last, the head stay gave.
“C’mon.” They moved down to the port side stays.
He figured if he could get those off, he could let the mast stream out behind him. Then he’d have ample time to cut the backstay.
“It’s going to be OK, Laurie,” he called to his daughter. She was standing in the cockpit. “Scary, though, huh?”
She didn’t answer, just stared back at him, her eyes wide.
He kept working on the stays. He didn’t want to think about the position they were in. The position he’d put them all in.
He’d gotten through the first port side stay when Sean said, “Dad!”
Matt looked over his shoulder. He flashed the beam of light out to the water and they saw the biggest swell yet bearing down on them. He could hear C.C. below, saying, “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” and then the wave hit.
The mast broke free from the remaining stump. Matt had to jump out of the way as it suddenly withdrew and then, still connected by the remaining side stays, plunged back against the cabin. The boat shuddered, then rocked away, and the mast slid down further, snagging on the stanchion lines briefly, then fell into the sea. Matt and Sean crawled back to the port stay and got back to cutting.
Matt started talking to himself. Hoping, praying, that the mast would slide alongside the hull.
But the sails on the mast held it in the water like a sea anchor. As the mast itself filled with water, it remained just what Matt had feared: a jagged spear sticking out of the water, attached to the boat by hardened steel cable.
The boat rocked in the next sea, and Matt had to give up on the stay when Sean played the beam onto the mast and yelled, “Dad, watch out, watch out!”
Matt rolled to his feet and pushed Sean ahead into the cockpit. They tangled in the safety lines as the broadside waves rocked the boat back toward the mast.
The mast was like a living, angry thing, gouging the deck where he had been kneeling. Seagull rocked away again, and the mast slipped out of view.
“Daddy,” Laurie cried.
She was his baby, only seven for Christ’s sakes.
“It’s all right, it’s all right.” He hurried to the backstay with the cutters, but she clung to his leg.
“Give him room, Laurie,” Sean said. “Let go.”
“Shut up!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Matt said, trying for a calm tone. “She clings, I cut, and you hold the flashlight.” He worked on the cable and was making good progress when Seagull was hit again. He staggered, and Laurie went down with him. He quickly regained his feet and went back to work on the cable. Sean braced himself and held the flashlight.
But Matt knew the bad situation had just become considerably worse.
Seagull seemed to lift slightly, and her motion in the water was different. There was a screeching again, metal against metal. Matt could hear the rush of water.
“What’s that?” his son said.
Matt didn’t answer. He took Laurie’s hand and clutched his son by the shoulder and looked him in the eyes. He was terrified, but trying to keep it under control.
“Sean, take Laurie up on the starboard rail and the two of you huddle down behind the cabin. I’m counting on you to look after her. Can you do that for me?”
Sean nodded. He took his sister’s hand. “C’mon, Laurie.”
Matt lifted up the cover for the engine compartment and played the flashlight beam inside.
His worst fear was realized.
The compartment was half-full of water. The jagged end of the mast was visible, having punctured the hull. Only the engine block had kept it from moving straight through and puncturing the starboard side of the hull.
Matt turned to his wife. She was standing in the companionway, her face stark white. The microphone was in her hand.
“You get an answer to that Mayday?” he said.
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s not working!”
He swore under his breath and gestured to the sunken mast. “Of course not … the antenna. It’s underwater right now.” He hit his leg in frustration. He had to think.
“Grab the handheld radio and GPS. Get the flares, some food and water, while I get the raft. We’ll have the EPIRB putting out a signal for us. Maybe with the handheld we can raise a ship. We need somebody. ’Cause we’re going down.”
CHAPTER 1
It was good work.
Jack Merchant had been avoiding it for a long time, but the winch had finally frozen, leaving him no choice.
But now that he was into it, the parts spread out on an old beach towel, the problem found — he was enjoying himself. A little spring had come off the ratchet inside the winch. Without that little spring, the winch couldn’t haul in the genoa sail. Without the genoa, there wasn’t much reason even to take the boat from the dock. But Merchant had been lucky enough to get the spare part at the marina store. He had the tools, the knowledge, and the time.
He took a moment to look out over the harbor. The sun was low enough that from his angle the water was a rich sea green. It was late afternoon, middle of the week. And Merchant was at home. Truly, his boat, Lila, was also his home in Boston Harbor.
He was wearing an old bathing suit and a T-shirt. His bare feet felt good on the warm fiberglass sole. A little trickle of sweat was going down his spine, but the faint breeze was keeping his brow dry.
No complaints.
He figured it’d take forty minutes or so to grease each part carefully, wipe off the excess, and put the winch back together. Maybe an hour.
Either way, there should be plenty of time for him to take a sail that afternoon. First, buy some groceries, get some beer. Then maybe he’d head out to one of the harbor islands, drop the hook. Spend the night. Maybe a couple of nights. He had enough money to not worry for the next month, maybe two.
He turned back to the winch.
It was good work.
“You’re not going to leave all that grease, are you?” Sarah asked. “You’ve got to wipe off each part.”
Merchant looked up. “You,” he said.
He was surprised she’d managed to get so close without him noticing.
Her back was to the sun, but he could see she was grinning at him.
“Well?” she said. “Do I need to tell you everything?”
Standing there with her hands in her back jeans pockets.
“Apparently so.”
“I’m not interrupting?”
“Course you are.”
“Too bad.” She climbed onboard and leaned down to kiss him. Their lips touched just lightly, and Merchant did his best not to convey how much the pleasures of fixing the winch had just paled.
Sarah was in her late twenties, dark hair, green eyes. The body of an athlete, which she was.
She said, “I’ve missed you the past couple of times you were down at the office.”
“I noticed.”
Sarah owned a marine repossession business down in New Bedford. Taking boats back from people who didn’t make their payments. Since he’d come back to Boston a year ago, Merchant had helped her search and recover some of the tougher jobs. Helping her and keeping himself in dock fees and grocery money.
Merchant was fairly certain he was closer to Sarah than anyone on earth. And yet, he suspected she’d avoided him those last two times he’d been at her office.
Love, trust, intimacy.
Not always easy to get all three together.
“So,” he said. “Seeing you does good things for my heart, as usual.”
“No explaining your heart, sweetie.” She stepped down into his cabin and rummaged around through the icebox until she found an iced tea. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
“I had to see somebody in town and figured I’d stop by.”
“Glad you did.”
She climbed back up the stairs and sat beside him. “So can I help you put your winch back together?”
“I’ve got an assistant now?”
“More like a supervisor,” she said. She kicked off her boat shoes and leaned back. They opened their iced teas, clinked them together, and drank.
“Hi, Jack,” she said.
He said hi back. And refrained from asking her why she’d been avoiding him.
“So what have you got going on?” she asked.
He told her about some of the shooting he’d been doing. Back in his days as an undercover agent with the DEA, he had frequently posed as a pro photographer with a cocaine problem. Now that he was out, he’d been giving serious consideration to becoming a real photographer without the drug habit.
“Been working on the portfolio,” he said. “Pretty soon I’m going to have enough of the marine stuff together, I’m going to make a submission to one of the stock houses. See how that flies.”
“Gee, and the money will just roll in.”
“Sarcasm isn’t as attractive as you might think.”
“Explains just one of my problems,” she said. “So what else are you doing for real money?”
“Spending a little of it on beer and groceries.” He told her about his plans to go out sailing for the afternoon. He didn’t invite her, but the opening was there and she knew it.
“Sounds nice,” she said. “But, the islands have been there for a long time and they’ll probably still be there in a few days. Maybe even a week or so.”
“You think?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So what have you got for me?”
“A referral, maybe.”
“Some boat you’ve got paper on?”
“No. This is different.”
“Is it a boat?”
“Sort of.”
“Uh-huh. Well, this is all clear to me now. Why do you have a guilty look on your face?”
“Don’t want to take advantage of you. Don’t want to take advantage of him.”
“Who’s him?”
“This client. This guy, really. He’s in a spot, and he doesn’t know what else to do. He came to me and I can’t take the time out, and I’m really not sure anything can be done, and I don’t want to take his money or lead him on and waste my own time for something that’s hopeless.”
“And so you thought of me.”
She smiled quickly. “I think about you a lot. More than you’d know.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear. Be even better to see you some more.”
“I know,” she said. “Believe it or not, I’m working on it. But about this guy …”
“Yes, about this guy.”
“He’s lost a lot. Everything that matters. And he came to me to help him track down a boat.”
“At least that sounds like familiar territory.”
“Sounds it, but it’s not.” She checked her watch and looked up the dock. Merchant followed her eyes and saw a man walking toward them. He moved along slowly, as if he were tired.
“This him?” Merchant said. “You brought him here?”
“Listen to him,” she said. “And be nice. He’s lost his family.”
“Lost them?”
She nodded.
“What do you mean, he lost them? And I’m supposed to help find them?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
“Did you say I could help him with that?”
“No. I said you’d listen. That I promised.”
Merchant looked back at the man. Now he was right at the bow, just stepping on the finger pier to Merchant’s boat. Even from there, Merchant could read the pain. The stiffness in his walk, the pallor under his sun-reddened skin.
Trouble, Merchant thought.
But he carefully folded the towel around the winch parts, and moved them aside.
Making room for the man.
CHAPTER 2
Sarah introduced Merchant to Matt Coulter.
“Come on up,” Merchant said.
Coulter climbed up the three wooden steps slowly, but stepped into the cockpit without that tentative quality non-sailors sometimes displayed. He looked around the boat quickly, giving it an automatic appraisal in a way Merchant knew he did himself every time he climbed aboard someone else’s boat.
Coulter was a sinewy-looking man. Middle height, sun-bleached hair, pale blue eyes. Mid-thirties. New-looking jeans, boat shoes, and a tan polo shirt. The clothes looked a trifle too big for him. There was a scar along his right temple and the back of his head where the hair had been shaved and was just beginning to grow back.
Surgery, it looked like.
Coulter saw him looking and seemed to wait, to let Merchant make his own judgments.
And then he said, “I’m patched up with baling twine, huh?”
“How are you doing?” Merchant said.
“Little better most days. Two weeks back I was in a hospital bed with tubes in my arms, so this is a move in the right direction. How much did Sarah tell you about my situation?”
“Not much,” she said. “I thought he should hear it from you.”
Coulter gave a faint smile. “Bad as that, is it?”
Merchant gestured for Coulter to sit, and offered him something to drink.
Coulter declined the drink, and they all sat down. Coulter said to Merchant, “Did you read about me and my family at all? Seagull?”
The boat name was faintly familiar.
“Almost a month back,” Coulter said.
“The sinking,” Merchant said. “A sailboat off the coast, dismasted, right?”
“That’s right. That was my boat, my family.”
Merchant glanced at Sarah.
Couldn’t help it. He wanted to say, What-the-hell-did-you-bring-him-to-me-for? But Merchant had been brought up better than that.
The sinking had made the news for several days: a man bringing his boat home from Florida. Boat dismasted. Wife dead. Children lost at sea. He was the only survivor.
“I’m so sorry,” Merchant said. “That’s a terrible loss.” He lifted his hands and dropped them, uselessly. Not knowing what else to say.
“It’s worse than you think.”
Merchant waited.
Coulter said, “It’s worse because I believe my children are still alive and I can’t get anyone to help me find them.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t,” Coulter said. “But I see the way your face changes. I see it from everyone I talk to. The look of sympathy. The glance to my head, the scar. And, yes, I was out of it for weeks. And yes, things are screwed up in my head. I’ve lost big hunks of memory. But not about this. They’re still alive. Or at least they were the last I saw them. They didn’t drown at sea, I know that. And I want you to help me find them.”
Merchant gestured to his boat. “This is it for me. A sailboat. Makes seven knots under the very best of circumstances. Figure four to five for an average. I’m not equipped for a search at sea. Really, the Coast Guard is your best option.”
“I know all that. And they’ve done what they do. By now in their eyes, I’m a desperate father, a nut, a sad case. Someone who doesn’t know how to accept reality. And that’s probably what you’re thinking right about now.”
Merchant didn’t say anything.
Neither did Sarah.
“The difference,” Coulter said, slowly, “is that I’m willing to pay you a substantial amount to help me look.”
“Why me?”
“I’ve read about you. What happened with you and Sarah last year. The Baylors, that couple taking off in their boat, the trouble you ran into.”
“I wouldn’t see that as a reference,” Merchant said. “Both Sarah and I got shot. People around us were killed. How’s that a reference?”
“You found the boat,” Coulter said. He leaned forward and touched Merchant’s arm. “You found the damn boat.”
Close up, Merchant could see the fatigue in Coulter’s eyes even more clearly. Could feel the shakiness in his hand as he touched Merchant’s arm.
“Isn’t Seagull about a hundred feet underwater?” he said.
“I don’t care about Seagull. If I had her on land I’d douse her in gasoline and throw the match. All you need to know about her is that the insurance company paid up. I’ve got money. So triple — quadruple — whatever you make repossessing a boat and I’ll give it to you, if you help me find the boat that took them.”
“I don’t understand,” Merchant said. “If Seagull — “
“Forget that! I’m not making myself clear… .” Coulter passed a hand over his face. Trying to collect himself, it seemed. He said, “The boat I’m looking for is the one that took them away. The one that took Sean and Laurie.”
Coulter’s eyes filled, but he didn’t stop. “That’s the boat I want you to find. The one that took them away.”
CHAPTER 3
Merchant said, “What do you mean, ‘took them’?”
“Just that. They were our rescue.”
“The rescue crew took your kids?” Merchant said. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Coulter said.
“What’s the name of this boat?”
“I don’t know.”
Merchant waited.
Sarah said, “He’s had a lot of memory loss, Jack.”
“I told you, huge gaps,” Coulter said. “I have no problem with my long-term memory. I can tell you how I met C.C., tell you about the birth of both our children. Can tell you about the past twenty-five years. Can tell you most of what happened on our trip back. But after we got off the boat, into the raft, it’s spotty. Doctors don’t agree why. My surgeon says it’s a result of physical trauma. The shrink says my psyche is defending me against the horror of what happened to my family — or, hey, maybe it was the knock on the head. Both doctors say the rest of it may come back soon, later, or never.”
“I see,” Merchant said.
“Yeah, you see,” Coulter said.
Merchant could see the very act of being there was taking a lot out of the man. Merchant had suffered minor concussions twice in his DEA career, and he knew how the physical and mental weakness could hang on.
Sarah said, “Tell Jack about what you know. About the dismasting.”
“Yeah. OK.” Coulter seemed to gather his thoughts and told in a flat, unemotional voice how the mast had broken, his efforts to cut the stays, the puncture of his hull. “There was no choice but to abandon Seagull. C.C. worked with the kids while I got the raft in the water. She took the handheld radio and the GPS, so we could call out our position. We had an emergency kit in the raft with flares. We’d drilled all this plenty of times and it was paying off.”
“Everyone wearing vests?”
“Absolutely. Which is one of the things I’ve been hammering to the Coast Guard. We were all wearing vests. They found me and C.C. If they found us out there, why didn’t they find the kids?”
Merchant nodded. But he — and he suspected Coulter — knew the answer to that was brutally simple.
It was a big ocean.
No matter how well the Coast Guard searched, his children could still be out there. Subject to the horrors of the elements, scavengers, and time.
Merchant said, “Did your wife get through to anyone on the VHF?”
Coulter shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s here that my thinking gets convoluted. It’s just flashes of memory. This boat comes out of the dark. We see the port lights. Red lights moving not too far from us. I remember the sound of big diesel engines.”
Merchant waited, and then said, “And did something go wrong? Did they capsize you?”
Coulter shook his head. “I don’t know. This is as far as I get.”
“OK,” Merchant said. “You remember what the boat looked like?”
Coulter shook his head. “It’s like snapshots. Details, but nothing very cohesive. Big white cruiser sportfisherman. Maybe forty-five feet long. Getting closer and closer.”
“Did you get aboard?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s it?” Merchant said.
“Just about. I’ve got impressions. Fear for my family, I know that. A huge sense that I had done something wrong.”
“But that could just be the situation, that you had them out there at all.”
“It could be. Because I certainly felt that. But this is something different. A different feeling, but without a specific reason, you know?”
“I guess. But from what you’re saying, this boat might have just run over you.”
“No,” Coulter said. “No, that’s not what happened. I don’t know what did, but it wasn’t that.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I just am.”
Merchant paused.
Coulter took a deep breath. Regained himself. He said, “The next thing I remember there’s a tremendous white light overhead. Noise. And I was cold. Very cold. It must’ve been the Coast Guard helicopter, though I don’t remember it exactly. They’d been following the EPIRB signal until it went silent, but they had a fix on the location.”
“Why did it go silent?”
“I don’t know. They couldn’t find it.”
“Those things don’t just sink.”
“I know. That’s my point. Something had to happen to it to make it go silent.”
“And the raft wasn’t found?”
“No. I was very lucky. They’d found me on the first pass of their search grid. They put a diver in the water, and he got me into the basket. They found C.C. about a quarter-mile away.”
He paused here. Tried to speak, and then paused again. He rubbed his hands along his legs, as if attempting to get warm. Then he said, “The autopsy said she died from a blow to the head. But I don’t really remember any of that. I was unconscious. A coma. It wasn’t until almost a week and a half later that I came out of it. And then a couple of days of me going in and out, and asking for C.C., before I woke up to find a nurse beside my bed. I asked where my wife was. The way the nurse managed not to answer me, I just knew it was the worst news. If I could have, I would’ve crawled back inside my broken head and died.”
“Tell me about the head wound,” Merchant said.
“Blunt object. Consistent with a club or baseball bat, the doctor said. Also consistent with a swinging boom. And the same for C.C.” Coulter touched his face, showing the scar along his right temple and cheek. “The police and Coast Guard latched on to this. I was cut from the side stay and chain plate when they broke free. The way they see it, I took some damage already, maybe I took some damage from the boom, too.”
“Meaning you made everything else up?”
“They never say it like that. But that’s what it comes down to.”
“Did the Coast Guard see the boat?”
“No. But from my body temperature, they figured I’d been in the water about a half hour. The helicopter arrived ninety minutes after the EPIRB sent up a signal. And I think the boat that took my family was a fast boat. They could’ve been ten miles away by then.”
“Anything to help identify the boat?”
Coulter paused. “One thing. The anchor plate. This boat had a high bow. With the strobe light from our EPIRB, I could see the bow pretty well. So I’ve got a pretty good mental impression of the plate.”
“You’re talking about the plate the anchor rests against?”
“That’s right. Two anchors, one on each side of the bow. And a plate to protect the hull.”
“What about it?”
“The shape of the plate itself was unusual. Most of the time, they’re just rectangles, you know. This one was unusual in that it wrapped around the entire bow. Top few feet anyhow. Gave the bow a very powerful look.”
Merchant looked at Sarah, then went below for a moment and came back with a clipboard. “Here, draw it.”
“I’m pretty terrible with this.” Coulter took the pen and stared at the blank paper, then started. He quickly crossed out his first couple of attempts, and then concentrated on the third. He handed it over to Merchant.
Coulter wasn’t as terrible as he thought. The plate not only wrapped around the bow, but tapered back as it went.
“It looks like the Nike logo,” Coulter said. “I’m not saying it is, but the shape is similar.”
Merchant stared at the line drawing. Not knowing much else to say. Trying to read anything in the little sketch that would give him a direction to move.
Coulter said, “I can see it from your perspective. A boat that I can’t identify takes my two children. The police and Coast Guard don’t believe me. You’re looking for a way to get this nut off your boat and go about fixing that winch.”
“I don’t think you’re a nut,” Merchant said. “I think you suffered the worst loss anyone can suffer. It’s just that I’m not sure what I can do to help you.”
“I’ve got money,” Coulter said.
“And I can use money,” Merchant said. “But I don’t want to take your money if I can’t help you. And I’m not a licensed private investigator.”
Coulter waved that away. “I’ve talked to several of them. But the way I see it, it all starts with finding that boat, and no private cop I’ve talked to yet knows anything about boats and the sea. That’s where I lost my family. That’s where we have to start. Find me that boat.”
Merchant paused. “Let me ask you … On the message your wife was putting out on the hand radio — did she also say that you had an EPIRB putting out a signal?”
“No. And no detective has asked me that question yet. But I’ve thought about it a lot. The people in this boat must have heard our message. Heard that we were out there, needing a rescue. Heard that we were out there, and had reason to think no one else was coming.”
“Do you remember exactly what your wife said?”
“That’s one thing I remember just fine. C.C. on the radio. ‘Mayday, Mayday. This is the Seagull. Our boat is sinking. We have two young children onboard, we need immediate assistance. Help us please.’”
Coulter kept his eyes on Merchant as he said this.
And then he let the silence lengthen when he finished.
Merchant wanted to look away, but couldn’t.
Whoever heard that message either decided they had no choice but to assist — or, infinitely worse — decided there was something in the distress call they liked.
When Coulter asked him straight out if he would help, Merchant said yes.
CHAPTER 4
Merchant saw Coulter’s surprise and relief. His shoulders lifted slightly, his burden partially eased.
Merchant hated taking that away, but he had to be honest. “Listen. I don’t want you to hold out a lot of hope here. This may be — this probably is — as simple and awful as your children were lost at sea and nobody has found them yet.”
Coulter sat back.
Merchant continued. “All I can promise is that I’ll help. I can help find the boat. I can chase up and down the marinas. I can chase down whatever information we get.”
Coulter nodded.
“Money. I figure five hundred dollars a day, plus expenses. If I find the boat and if that leads to your family, you can pay me a bonus, how’s that?”
“Make it fifty thousand if you get my children back. And I’m serious.”
“Fine,” Merchant said. “Now bear in mind, I don’t have a PI license, I have no official status.”
Sarah said, “You can do this under my company. You’ve got business cards. Doesn’t mean anything legally, but sometimes a company name backing you up is all you’ll need.”
“I’ll write a letter,” Coulter said. “Stating that you’re acting on my behalf searching for the boat that rescued my family. That my health prevents me from doing it myself. That’s the truth.”
“Deal.” Merchant put his hand out, and they shook. Coulter definitely looked more relieved.
Merchant didn’t.
While Coulter went to the marina restaurant, Merchant went below to change his clothes. He put on khakis, a light blue shirt, and boat shoes. When he came up, Sarah was waiting for him in the cockpit.
She said, “You think you’ve got a shot at helping him?”
“Just what I told him.”
“So you think they’re dead?”
“Don’t you?”
“Why are you taking it then?”
“Maybe give him some … clarity.” Merchant hated the word closure.
“And maybe it’s the five hundred a day.”
“My specialty,” Merchant said. “Ripping off grieving fathers.”
She smiled at him, but there was no happiness in it. “Sisters, too.”
He and Sarah had met years ago, back when he was in the DEA. Her younger brother had been murdered along with the crew of a fishing boat down in New Bedford. Everyone assumed he was involved in running drugs, but Merchant kept digging until he could tell Sarah that her brother was guilty only of naïveté, nothing more.
“Your specialty is making a bad situation better,” Sarah said. “So do it for him.”
Merchant laid his hand against Sarah’s cheek. For all her considerable toughness, he knew that she still keenly felt the loss of her parents and brother. And from what she’d gone through afterward with her former lover, Owen, she remained wary. Greater loss and pain could be just around the corner.
Coulter had walked into the right office looking for help.
“Maybe,” Merchant said. “Only one way to find out.” He leaned down and kissed her. “It would’ve been better if you had just gone sailing with me.”
“Someday I’ll learn.”
“Keep promising,” he said. “Someday I’ll believe you.”
Coulter was sitting by the window overlooking the docks. The sidelight etched the lines of fatigue in his face. Merchant waved to the waiter, and when he came over, they both ordered sandwiches and coffee.
While waiting for the order to arrive, Merchant opened his notebook. “How about you fill me in on some specifics?” He asked Coulter a number of questions. Not sure exactly if he needed the answers, but it was as good a place to start as any. Where had Seagull gone down? What were the coordinates for where the Coast Guard had picked up Coulter? Who headed up the helicopter crew? Who was the investigating officer with the Coast Guard? With the State Police? When had the Coulters last berthed and what was their destination?
Coulter was well organized. Most of the questions he could answer off the top of his head or he would consult a small pocket notepad. He gave Merchant the names and phone numbers of the police. He also took out his wallet, carefully removed pictures of his family, and handed them to Merchant.
Merchant put the photos on the tabletop and looked at them carefully. He was keenly aware of Coulter watching him.
C.C. was round faced, pretty in a smiling sort of way. Laugh lines about the eyes and mouth. Dark curly hair. Same with Laurie, the daughter. A grin that made him want to grin right back. In the current circumstances, her image made Merchant feel pressure behind his eyes, and an almost desperate sadness swept through him.
He could only imagine what Coulter was going through.
Coulter was clearly exhausted, but forcing himself to take things a step at a time.
“Beautiful family,” Merchant said.
“Yes, they are. All of them.”
Merchant looked at the boy last. About twelve years old. More solemn than the little girl. Sandy hair like his father. A direct look into the camera.
“He’s my little man, Sean,” Coulter said.
“Looks serious.”
“He is. He had a lot of responsibility for a kid already.”
“How so?”
“I was a drunk,” Coulter said.
Merchant just waited, and Coulter continued. “I got it under control by the time Laurie was three, but Sean was around for too much of my nonsense.”
“Huh. Begs a pretty obvious question.”
“I know it does.” Coulter lifted his coffee cup. “And the answer is no — I wasn’t drunk the night Seagull went down. Haven’t had anything to drink in three years.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“How about since?”
“What do you mean?”
“How’s your sobriety holding up with what you’re going through now?”
“Just fine,” Coulter said.
A bit too quickly, Merchant thought.
“It’s not easy,” Coulter added. “Damn hard. But I’ve got it under control.”
Merchant thought about how many addicts had said those last words to him.
About then their sandwiches arrived. Merchant ate his turkey club, and Coulter picked at his food for a few minutes, then pushed the plate aside.
Merchant let him just talk.
Talk about how he and C.C. had met. Where they lived. Where the kids had gone to school. What they were doing on the boat in the early morning hours.
When all was said, Merchant filed it in his head like this: Matt and Cecilia met while they were both at NYU. Computer science for him, art history for her. After they married, he started calling her C.C.
Coulter worked as a sales associate for a consumer electronics company right out of school until it went bust. Along the way, he found he enjoyed writing about the topic more than selling. He started working as an industry reporter for electronics trade magazines, and eventually opened up a small publishing firm with his friend Ben Pryor. The two worked well as partners and had a half-dozen technical and retail newsletters that earned them both decent incomes. And although Coulter had always been a bit of a drinker, he managed to keep it from interfering with his work life.
But he started hitting it harder around the time Sean was two and continued on until he was eight.
“What stopped you?”
“The kids. One day at the beach. I was supposed to take them while C.C. did the grocery shopping. I told her I wouldn’t drink anything harder than Coke, but the truth was I had a small cooler in the car filled with a thermos of gin and tonic. I’d keep coming up with some excuse to head back to the car. I’d leave the kids under the umbrella, tell them I was going to get another towel, a beach ball, whatever. At first, it worked fine. Sean would watch Laurie. She was three. I’d come back and he’d be helping her with a sand castle or something. Easy as could be. During my third visit to the car I heard the whistle blowing. Thought nothing of it. I strolled back down to the beach and found a crowd of people around my kids. Lifeguard kneeling beside them. Sean had left Laurie alone for a few minutes to play Frisbee with a kid he knew from school, and she took off to go swimming. Went right into the surf and was pulled out. Sean saw her and went in after her. He’s a good swimmer, but before they knew it, he was in over his head and she was pulling him down. Both of them would’ve drowned if the lifeguard hadn’t seen them. I’m standing there blinking in the sun, with gin on my breath. Sean’s crying, telling me he’s sorry he didn’t watch her well enough.”
Coulter looked into his coffee as he stirred it and then up at Merchant. “C.C. took them away for almost a year. The past three years have been the hardest and the best of my life, the best of my family’s. The boat, the sailing … all of that was part of reclaiming my family. Last month, I sold off my half of the business to my partner, figuring that now was the time while the kids were still young to really put some time in traveling together. We were doing these coastal cruises, getting ready to do a transatlantic. “
“Why are you telling me about the drinking?”
“Because if you talk to people, you might hear things. I don’t want you to get sidetracked. It all happened on the Seagull just like I told you.”
“As far as you remember.”
“This I know — we didn’t have any alcohol onboard. I couldn’t have been drunk.”
“Got anything else you need to tell me?”
Coulter shook his head.
Merchant considered what he’d just heard. Looked down at the pictures on the table, and decided he’d still proceed. He told Coulter that he would.
Coulter seemed relieved, but he was also gray faced.
“You’re about to crash,” Merchant said.
“Don’t worry about that. Maybe you can follow me to my old office in Newland. I called my partner, he’s in. I’ll write you that letter so you can get started.” Coulter signaled the waiter for the bill.
There was an awkward silence while they waited, and then Coulter said, “Were you ever a lifeguard, Merchant?”
“Two summers when I was a kid.”
“Thought so,” Coulter said. “I thought so.”
He took out his checkbook and gave Merchant an advance on the first three days.
CHAPTER 5
Merchant followed Coulter about twelve miles west of Boston to Newland. Merchant’s aging Saab looked at home on the streets of Newland, as long as no one noticed the rust. Newland had once been a mill town, but those years were long past. It was now an upper-middle-class town complete with a fresh-painted look, expensive cars on the road, and the feel of casual prosperity.
The office was located in a dark red wooden building just above a men’s clothing store downtown. When Merchant got out of his car, the heat hit him. On the way over, he’d been thinking about his next steps, and wasn’t coming up with anything particularly good.
“This way,” Coulter said and led him through a doorway beside the clothing store.
The chill of a hardworking air conditioner was like an invisible wall. Merchant followed Coulter up the stairs, and they entered a small lobby. Coulter was moving slowly, resting on each step.
Once they reached the office, Merchant found the place airier and bigger than he’d expected. There were three offices along one wall and four or five cubicles across from them. Framed posters of trade newsletters like The VAR Report, CAD Corner, Retail Display Monthly, and Exhibit Week adorned the walls. Merchant saw that most of the cubicles seemed to be occupied: there was an air about the place of quiet, efficient work being accomplished at a reasonable pace.
The receptionist looked up and said, “Matt!”
She came over and gave him a hug. “I’m so glad you called us.”
“Thanks, Jeanne. I’ll just need a moment with a computer to write a quick letter.”
“Well, anything we can do to help, anything. I’ll tell Ben you’re here.”
She had black hair streaked with white and an open, friendly face that grew guarded when she looked at Merchant. She went into the office to the right and said, “Matt’s here.”
Pryor came out immediately.
“Matt,” he said. “You look half dead. Sit down.”
“I’m all right.”
“Oh yeah, you look it.” He swung to Merchant. “So you’re the PI?”
If the woman’s look at Merchant had been guarded, Ben Pryor’s was so protective it verged on hostile. Pryor was about fifty, with a strong sun-tanned face, receding hair, no more than medium height. Blazing white shirt, emerald silk tie, tailored black pants. He looked as if he put in at least a few visits to the gym each week.
Pryor spoke to Coulter. “So. You checked his references, Matt?”
“Ease off, Ben,” Coulter said. “All I need is a computer for a few minutes.”
“Sure. Isn’t there one at the condo, though?”
“That’s not mine.”
“Suppose not,” Pryor said. “But they’re behind on their rent, so use it. Or if you’re squeamish, I’ll get a laptop over to you. We’ve got an extra kicking around here someplace.” He looked over at the woman. “Jeanne, see if you can find that spare laptop for him, can you?”
“That’s not necessary,” Coulter said.
“Hell, don’t worry about it. I think it was yours anyhow.” Pryor tried to escort them to the conference room, but Coulter was having none of it. “Ben, stop managing us. Let me write that letter and I’ll be out of your way.”
Pryor smiled and said, “Sure, sure. Jeanne will set you up. I’ll give your man here the grilling you’re too tired to give him.”
Coulter looked so exhausted that Merchant said to him, “That’s fine. Just write me that note while I talk with Ben.”
Coulter followed Jeanne into the office beside Pryor’s.
“Jesus, looks like he’s going to drop,” Pryor said, quietly. Then he walked into the small conference room, waved Merchant in, and closed the door behind him. “Sit,” he said.