As the sun set, casting an orange glow over the ocean, the Jayhawk rendezvoused with a 270-foot Coast Guard cutter out of Kittery, Maine. They were en route to the Titan, Trevor Manfred’s castle on the high seas, for a confrontation with one of the most powerful men on the planet. Andrea felt sick to her stomach with worry, but not over an encounter with Manfred; rich, spoiled men she could handle. As for Atticus Young, well, she had no idea what to say to him. The truth, she told herself. She was there for him. Simple as that.
Her eyes returned to the ocean as she stood at the port rail, watching the cutter plow a swath through the sea, toward her unknown destiny. She clenched her jaw, resolute in what she had to do: protect Atticus Young, not from Trevor Manfred, but from himself.
18
Aboard the Titan
The night came quick and brought a cool breeze from the gulf waters. Atticus fought back a shiver, but his body shook regardless. His muscles tensed. His hands gripped the guardrail at the bow of the Titan. He couldn’t see the black water beneath, but he could hear it lapping against the giant hull.
Unable to sleep, Atticus had left his quarters, which were more lush and extravagant than any in the finest hotel. He’d been waited on, consoled, and taken care of by Trevor’s top-notch crew. But the attention did nothing to mend his broken heart. He felt crushed on the inside, even as he willed himself to continue forward, at least long enough to exact his revenge. He just wanted to be alone and, rather than join the crew for dinner, had retired early, hoping to drown the pain in deep sleep.
But his eyes never closed. When the digital clock next to his bed read 3:00 a.m., he’d climbed out of the feather bed, slipped on some clothes, and stolen to the main deck for a look at the stars.
They glowed down at him as they had before during countless nights at sea. Being so familiar to him, the celestial lights typically comforted him in times of distress, filling the void with a sense of wonder, but not that night. He watched the sky in silence, unmoved by their beauty. He stood that way, like a stoic statue, for a half hour before a voice, kind and gentle, glided to him on the night air. “I cannot begin to imagine the utter misery you must be experiencing. I have never had an emotional attachment to another living thing…let alone a daughter…or a wife. Perhaps I am not even capable. I do not know. But I do know this, when a man is hurting, friend or not, a smooth brandy and a warm blanket can dull the pain, if only for a short time.”
Trevor.
Atticus felt embarrassed for a moment at being caught in such a moment of weakness… not weakness… despair. But Trevor’s words revealed a kindness and understanding he hadn’t realized the man possessed. He’d offered help the only way he knew how. And as a matter of fact, brandy sounded good.
Atticus turned and faced the silhouette of Trevor Manfred. “I’ll take you up on the brandy,” Atticus said, “but I’ve got plenty of blankets in my room.”
“That you do,” Trevor said, his voice still gentle. “Come; let me fix you that drink.”
Ten minutes later, Atticus was admiring the golden hue of his third shot of brandy. His mood lightened as the spirits chased away his demons. “This is…I think, the best brandy I’ve ever had.”
Trevor raised his glass and downed the blond liquid. “It’s Courvoisier from France; the favored drink of Napoleon.” He stood from his barstool and poured himself another glass. “‘Claret is the liquor for boys; port for men; but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.’ Samuel Johnson said that, and I happen to agree with him.”
Atticus finished his glass and placed it upside down on the rich mahogany bar that was the centerpiece of a fully stocked, and what appeared to be old-fashioned, American bar. It produced a strange sensation. On one hand, Atticus knew he was at sea-the gentle rise and fall of the ocean reminded him of that every few seconds. But the decor and feel of the place told him that if he exited the room, he’d step out into the hot Texas desert. If he’d still been wearing his. 357 magnum on his hip, he’d have fit right in too.
“I’m no hero,” Atticus said.
“You served your country. Truth, justice, the American way, and all that.”
“It was my job.”
“And now? You’re still fighting. You’re still doing what’s right in the eyes of men, facing insurmountable odds-a modern-day Hercules.”
“It’s still my job.”
Trevor opened his mouth to ask, but no words formed. His thoughts were plain enough.
“I’m a father,” Atticus added.
Trevor nodded slowly, as though attempting to translate a foreign language. “I see.”
With a clear mind, despite the brandy, he took in Trevor; dressed in black-silk pajamas, his stark white hair tousled about and milking yet another brandy, the man was a caricature of himself. He’d always thought the rich tycoon would be unapproachable, cold or so strange that a normal conversation would be impossible. Yet he’d offered exactly what Atticus needed to bring himself back under control. For that he was grateful. Perhaps the man would become a friend.
“Do you really think we can catch the beast?” Trevor asked, leaning both elbows against the bar.
“Can and will,” Atticus said, leaving no doubt.
“I like that about you, Atticus. You’ve a strong will. And I, for one, don’t doubt your resolve.” Trevor smiled. “But you won’t be doing much of anything if you don’t sleep, right?”
Trevor walked behind the bar, opened a drawer, and took out a bottle. He shook a single blue pill into his hand and offered it to Atticus. “This will knock you out. You’ll wake feeling refreshed. There are no adverse side effects, I assure you.”
Atticus took the pill and downed it dry without question. “Thanks.”
Trevor shrugged, “I own the company that makes them. They’re no cost to me.”
Atticus smiled. He wasn’t thanking him for the money spent on a single pill. He knew that was inconsequential. “Not for the pill,” he said, “for your kindness.”
His words brought a smile to Trevor’s face. “You may be the first person to thank me for that…and my motives are actually quite selfish. I can’t have my Ahab checking out before our first chase, can I?”
Trevor almost seemed nervous about being called kind…or was it that the gesture was so foreign to him that he really didn’t know how to respond? Regardless of his motive, Trevor had been kind to him. Atticus made a note not to forget, even with the alcohol clouding his mind… and the sleeping pill quickly pulling on his eyelids. Atticus slouched. “That sleeping pill is working fast.”
“Right then,” Trevor said. “Off to bed with you.”
Trevor helped Atticus to his room and laid the groggy man in bed. Atticus looked up, his body fully relaxed, the anguish of his life diffused by a drug-induced haze. “Trevor,” he said, as the rich man stole for the exit. “You’re a good friend.”
“We’ll see about that,” Trevor replied before stepping out of the room. “We’ll see…”
Atticus’s eyes closed before the door, and he was blissfully asleep within seconds, unaware that his new “friend” had never left the room.
19
US Coast Guard Cutter-Gulf of Maine
The rising sun cut through the cobwebs in Andrea’s mind. She’d slept fitfully the night before, not because of the swelling seas or rocking boat, but because of the nightmares that wracked her slumbering mind. She’d seen her own version, conjured up by her darkest imaginations, of what had happened to Atticus the day he’d lost his daughter. But with each waking and returning to sleep, the dream steadily changed until she was Atticus, and he was Giona.
Then she watched as a dark form rose from the depths, its teeth impossibly long and sharp, its size without equal. A massive jaw opened and sucked Atticus inside. She could still see his body as he slid, kicking and fighting, down the creature’s throat.