Looking up, he sees a heavy nylon rope attached to the cross, part of a large winch used to raise and lower the yacht’s skiff.
He moans, the nausea rising again.
Three-foot seas lap at his ankles. His bare feet, now underwater, feel numb, as if they’ve been submerged for quite some time.
Lilith, dressed in a black bikini, leans out over the rail and licks the back of his neck. ‘Mmm… I taste fear. Don’t be afraid, Daddy.’
‘What… what are you-’
‘Putting you out of my misery.’
‘Huh? You insane, girl!’
‘A passion I inherited from my mother. Remember her? Pretty Mesoamerican thing, with bright blue eyes. I believe you cut them out of her head the night I was born.’
Virgil struggles to move, the damp rope cutting into his forearms. A six-foot swell washes over his chest, and he swallows seawater. ‘I… I can’t swim.’ He gags.
‘Don’t worry, Daddy, I would never let you drown.’
‘My feet hurt. What’s wrong wit’ my feet?’
Ben lights a joint, then leans out over the rail. ‘Your feet are fine, partner, it’s your toes that are the problem.’
Virgil looks down. As the boat rises above another swell, his bare feet are drawn out of the water-exposing bleeding stumps where his toes had been.
‘Oh, Jesus-help me!’
‘Now why would Jesus waste His time helping a murdering sonuva bitch like you?’
‘I paid my price… I did my time-’
‘And I suppose that makes everything hunky-dory, huh? Read a Bible verse, call yourself saved… poof, you’re born again, a clean slate.’
Desperate, Virgil searches the horizon for another boat. ‘I… I have to report to my probation officer.’
Lilith and Ben laugh.
‘Oh look, Daddy, is this him?’
Virgil’s eyes widen as a half dozen lead gray fins circle below his ankles. ‘Oh, God, please-’
‘God is dead to you, Daddy.’
The boat dips. The sea froths crimson.
‘God is dead to both of us.’
Virgil screams like a banshee.
The boat rises, revealing a seven-foot mako shark tearing at the remains of Virgil’s gushing left knee.
‘Fu… bitch! Hope you… burn in Hell!’
‘I’ve been to Hell, Daddy. You sent me there the night I was born.’
A large brown fin cuts the surface, a second dorsal trailing along the creature’s broad back. ‘Uh-oh. See that shark, Daddy? Now that bad boy’s a bull shark. Once they bite, they don’t like to let go.’
‘Sort of like you, Lilith, darlin’,’ Ben says, drawing another lungful of smoke.
The bull shark circles twice, darts toward the boat, then turns at the last second.
Virgil’s eyes widen, snot running down both nostrils.
‘Why won’t he attack?’ Ben asks.
‘He will,’ Lilith answers, spellbound in the moment. ‘He just wants to be sure. It’s always best to be sure before you strike.’
‘We can learn so much from sharks. Such fine predators.’
‘Yes, nature is the perfect teacher.’
The boat rises and dips, submerging Virgil to his neck.
A serene Lilith watches the nine-foot bull shark bury its snout into its screeching meal, the animal’s serrated teeth tearing apart flesh and intestines within a shroud of scarlet foam – eviscerating the life from her father.
24
3:50 p.m.
K. C. Renner lines the first-team offense up at the twenty yard line, scans the alignment of the ‘Canes’ second-string defense, then barks out signals: ‘Blue-twenty-six, blue-twenty-six… hut, hut… hut!’
The ball is snapped. K. C. fakes the handoff to his fullback, then tosses a short pass to Samuel Agler, who has released from his block and is rolling left out of the backfield.
Sam catches the pass – and is immediately hit by Alec Parodi, a reserve outside linebacker for a three-yard loss.
Coach Demaio kicks at the turf, then blows his whistle. ‘Mule, with me!’
Twenty-one pairs of eyes follow the star tailback as he jogs over to the sidelines.
‘Yeah, Coach?’
‘You hurt, son?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Girl troubles?’
‘No, Coach. Why?’
‘Something’s gotta be wrong, because you’re not running like the Mule I know.’
‘Coach, I’m giving one hundred percent. Parodi just made a nice play.’
‘Parodi couldn’t tackle you in the open field on his best day.’ DeMaio lowers his voice. ‘Look, I’ve heard rumors. If this is a money thing?’
‘Coach, I swear-’
‘Okay, okay, I had to ask. It’s just that I’m worried about you. We’ve got a huge game in two weeks in Gainesville, then the first round of the January Jubilee. I need to know my best player is ready.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Hell, son, show me, don’t tell me. Coach Lavoie, line ’em up again.’
‘Yes, coach.’ Offensive coordinator Mike Lavoie yells at the two squads. ‘Okay, girls, get your asses in gear!’
K. C. Renner buckles his chin strap, listening as Lavoie’s computer communicates the same play.
Sam lines up in the backfield behind fullback Doug Parrish. He focuses his mind inward, his adrenaline pumping, as he beckons the entrance to the ‘zone.’
Renner takes the snap. Fakes the handoff to Parrish.
Sam slips inside the nexus.
The field brightens, the action grinding to a slow crawl.
Sam’s quadriceps burn as he pushes through heavy waves of energy. He blocks the blitzing strong safety, pancaking him with vicious forearm to the chest, then looks up as Renner’s pass floats toward him like a balloon.
As he looks up, the sun melds into a soothing white light.
Who are you, cousin?
The female’s voice coos at him.
Slip inside the light and speak with me.
The light brightens as it widens, blotting out the football, blotting out the entire sky.
Sam leaps out of the nexus – as the ball strikes him on his helmet, and Alec Parodi crushes him with a bulldozing hit.
A whiff of ammonia snaps Sam back into consciousness. He opens his eyes, the team doctor’s face appearing fuzzy.
‘You okay, son?’
‘Dunno. My head still attached?’
‘Let’s get a quick scan of your brain.’ Dr. Meth slips the portable MRI device right over Sam’s helmet. ‘Don’t move, this’ll only take ten seconds.’
The device activates, scanning Sam’s brain.
PATIENT: SAMUEL AGLER.
DIAGNOSIS: THIRD – DEGREE CONCUSSION.
PROTOCOL C-3: ICE, ANTICONCUSSION /INFLAMMATORY
MEDS, MONITORED BED REST.
RETURN TO ACTION: THREE DAYS MINIMUM.
NONCONTACT DRILLS FOR FIVE DAYS.
‘That’s it, son, you’re done.’ Dr. Meth and his two assistants help him to his feet.
Coaches and players watch in accusing silence as Sam limps off to the locker room.
7:16 p.m.
Three hours, a shower, and seven interviews later, Samuel Agler emerges from the air-conditioned training facility into the cool dusk November air.
He motions for the guard to open the gate, then pushes through the usual postpractice crowd. He signs a dozen portopads, then sees the black government-issue limousine parked along the sidewalk.
Fubish… of all days.
The driver’s door opens, releasing a powerful African-American man.
Sam crosses the street, the crowd still enveloping him, shoving porto-pads in his face.
Ryan Beck approaches. ‘Back off!’
The crowd scurries.
‘Hey, Pep. Still have that gift of gab, I see. How you doin’?’
‘Just doin’. You look like shit.’ Beck opens the rear door.
‘Yeah, nice to see you, too.’ Sam climbs in back. The door closes behind him as he takes his place opposite his mother.
Dominique Gabriel removes her dark, wraparound sunglasses. Although she is forty-nine, most would place her age closer to thirty. The ebony hair is still long and parted in the middle, with a touch of gray sprinkled here and there. The breasts are firm, her figure still flawless, thanks to a strict diet and daily regimen of weight training and cardiovascular exercise. The only signs of aging are the crow’s-feet that litter the corners of her chocolate-brown eyes.