Half-Past Dawn (38 page)

They sped into the rain-soaked marina to find the boat already running and the harbor master standing in wait. Frank quickly greeted him, slipped him a hundred, and hopped aboard.

“Listen,” Jack said to Joy as they got out of Frank’s car, holding an umbrella over her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the cancer.”

“So, what’s this mean, you come back from the dead only to have
death waiting around the corner? I can’t go through that again. You don’t know what it did to me to hear you and Mia had died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” Joy calmed down and wrapped her arms around Jack. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now. I love you, Jack, and I love Mia. And I will go on loving the both of you till the day I die.” Joy wiped away a tear. “Please bring her back safe.”

Jack handed Joy an umbrella as one of Mitch Schuler’s town cars arrived in the parking lot next to them. She got into the backseat and, without another word, closed the door, and the town car drove away.

Jack ran through the rain, down the pier, and jumped onto the boat. He quickly released the stern line and ran to the bow.

Frank was at the wheel, familiarizing himself with the controls, when his cell phone rang. He quickly answered it as he revved the motor. “Yeah?”

“Frank, it’s Matt Daly.”

“What’s up?” Frank said, entirely distracted with flipping knobs and levers.

“You wanted me to call you if we found anything.”

Frank froze in his tracks. He hadn’t thought about Matt since his last call, forgetting that he was probably still in his dive gear, dragging the river for bodies that weren’t there. Everything had moved so quickly; quite honestly, it didn’t really matter now if the world found out that Jack and Mia weren’t in the river. But there was an urgency in Matt’s tone that unnerved him; he stopped fiddling and focused all attention on the call. “You found something?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a body.”

Frank spun around and looked at Jack, who was casting off the bow line. “Whose body?”

“We’re not sure yet. It’s wedged in the spillway. It may take some time to get it out. It’s real tough working underwater at night.”

“I’m sure it is.” Frank was hardly listening as confusion began to wrap around him. “Do me a favor and call me as soon as you have an ID.”

“You got it.” And Daly hung up.

Jack turned toward Frank as he cast off the last line and pulled in the bumpers. “Who’s on the phone?”

Frank struggled for words. “Just my wife.”

S
ATURDAY
, 2:05
A.M
.

A
S
M
IA LOOKED OUT
across the water, the slim chance of escape was not what scared her. What tested her mental stability was what she saw across the body of water, two miles away to the west. She understood now where the photo of her daughters at play that Cristos had left her was taken from. It was clear that he had her children under surveillance this whole time. The site she was staring at was the distant beach house where Jack was raised, the house of her in-laws, the place where her daughters now slept.

While sitting on the sandy beach behind his boyhood home, Jack would tell her tales of his youth, stories of a time before he was born, of the great island across the water, where the abject poor were buried in unmarked graves on the southern side, while for fifty years the opulent estate of Marguerite Trudeau hosted the rich and powerful at her weekly summer parties.

Mia was two miles from shore, a swim she could easily make, but it would leave her an easy target for the men who were closing in. She could hear the approach of her pursuers, and without another thought, she turned and headed back into the woods.

She headed in the direction of what she believed was south, away from the mansion, working her way through the woods for five minutes. She could hear her stalkers not far behind, the sound of their footfalls coming from two different directions. Clearly, they had split up and were closing in.

The rain began to fall in large, soaking drops. Mia was drenched in thirty seconds. The thunder was close enough to shake the ground she ran on, the deep, engulfing rumble startling her with every strike.

Before she knew it, she was in the overgrown potter’s field, a world of the dead, countless souls buried beneath her feet, forgotten to the world. Brush had overtaken the footstones, and trees had sprouted long ago, their roots digging down deep into death, carrying it out of the earth, and filling the woods with an ominous cloud of foreboding.

With the storm’s full force nearly upon her, the dark clouds blotted out the moonlight, plunging her into near-total darkness. She stumbled, falling hard to the ground, scrambling through the mud to regain her footing. With the sounds of the driving rain, of the constant thunder, she could no longer hear her pursuers. She spun around the potter’s field as a terrible fear crept up within her, as though she was on the edge of death. She waited for the bullet to strike.

And through the sounds of the storm, she once again heard them, less than ten yards away. She froze in place, holding her gun high, her finger on the trigger. Waiting for death.

Thunder exploded, the flash of lightning briefly illuminating the darkness around her: shattered foot-and headstones, felled trees, overgrown bramble. The brief bolt left her eyes momentarily scarred with spots, inhibiting what little sight she had.

Another sound, this one just feet away. She pulled the trigger in the direction of the sound, and her gun exploded, the flash lighting her surroundings for the briefest of seconds. She saw them, two of them, rain running down their angry faces, their hair plastered to
their heads. They both spun and began rapid-firing in the direction of her shot.

Mia spun left a half-second before the gunfire was returned. She raced without direction, tripping, stumbling, her legs weak with fright. She crashed into a broken headstone, her ankle twisting in pain. She hunkered down, enveloped in fear, hiding among the dead.

Mia held her gun as if it would ward off her attackers, ward off evil, blindly pointing it. She never felt so alone, so close to death.

She thought she heard movement again, but this was different. It was a rumble from beneath the ground, as if the souls of the departed had been disturbed.

And then, without warning, Mia was suddenly sucked into the ground.

C
RISTOS STEPPED FROM
the large speedboat onto the dock, the churned-up ocean waters sending the floating wharf rolling around, the two boats banging against their moorings as the waves washed over everything, trying to drag it all out to sea. Ignoring the growing storm, he stalked up the gangway onto shore, where he was met by Jacob.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Cristos said.

“The woman escaped.” A bruise was welling up on the side of his rain-soaked head. They continued walking up to the estate.

“Off the island?”

“No.”

Walking in silence, they arrived at the front door. Cristos saw the spent bullet casings on the ground and spun around into Jacob’s face.

“They shot at her?” Cristos’s words were measured and angry.

Jacob said nothing.

“If she dies, you all die. Where is everybody?”

“Alex and Rizzoli are out looking for her.

“They can’t find her?”

“They lost her. It was like she just vanished. They said it was as if she had disappeared into thin air.”

M
IA WAS IN
a full-on panic, scrambling in a pool of water, her gun lost during the fall, her hands scratching the muddy walls for purchase. She could barely see, but then lightning lit up the night, filtering down into her tomb, and she saw flashes of her prison.

She was in a pit, a makeshift crypt, where countless bodies had been thrown one atop the other when space was no longer available in the graveyard, robbing them of the dignity of lying alone in their eternal rest.

About her were shattered skeletons and tattered clothing that tried in vain to hold what were once human bodies together. The heavy rains, along with her weight, had opened the sink hole like a grave where no one had been in decades, where maintenance had stopped in the ’70s.

And although the illumination of lightning was intermittent, she didn’t need to see to know that the four feet of water was quickly rising around her. Between her exhaustion and the freezing water, Mia knew she could only hold out for so long. If she didn’t drown first, the muddy walls would soon collapse, filling in the grave, where she would never be found, where she would die terrified among the already dead.

J
ACK SAT IN
the teak-appointed salon of the Hatteras. Frank was forward at the helm of the boat as they cut through the choppy seas. Frank had fallen silent since the call from his wife, speaking in short one-word answers. Jack knew he was either pissed, preoccupied, or scared. Jack had picked up on Frank’s mannerisms from the moment they met so many years ago. He hadn’t changed much since. He still
had the powerful arms of a fighter, the sharp mind of a soldier, and the temper of a junkyard dog. Jack would hate to be his enemy. There was no one he would rather have at his side, living or dead, as he was about to embark on the fight of his life.

Jack had tucked all of Toulouse’s effects into a knapsack. He and Frank had pored through the two books, but there were still some missing pieces to the puzzle. He understood that the feds were after the book that included the list of assassinations. He felt sure, though, that Cristos had different motives. There was something else there, something he wasn’t seeing.

Jack pulled out Toulouse’s passport. He read through all of the visa stamps, imagining all of the places Toulouse had traveled to in the last month. He flipped back to the front and stared at his picture. There was a slight resemblance to Cristos, but there was something else … He looked at the dagger, at the prayer necklace.

Jack turned his attention to his wrist, the tattoo. He could remember the man writing the words; he could see him kneeling beside him on the riverbank.

Jack closed his eyes, trying to draw up his memory. He could see the swollen river, moonlight shining down upon him …

“Did you give her the necklace, Jack?” the man whispered.

And Jack finally knew who the man was, who had emerged from the woods, who had written on his arm, who had saved him.

And it was impossible …

… for the man died this past week.

Toulouse paused from his writing, finally looking at Jack, staring into his eyes.

“You did not answer me, Jack. Did you give her the necklace?” Toulouse asked.

S
OMETHING FELL ON
Mia’s shoulder. She flinched and kicked back in the ever-rising water until she heard someone calling her. She
reached over to find a rope dropped down in the pit beside her. She could see nothing above but knew that if she didn’t grab hold, she would surely die, and no one would ever find her.

She held tight and was hauled up. It was only ten feet, but it felt like forever; the pit collapsing behind her as her feet dug into its muddy walls.

She finally crested the rim, bloodied, bruised, and covered in mud. Standing there, holding the other end of the rope, was Cristos.

Standing beside him were Jacob and a taller middle-aged man. Jacob’s face was bloodied, his right eye swollen. “If Jacob had carried out his orders, you wouldn’t be here right now,” Cristos said as they began walking back to the estate.

The rain had let up. Lightning still flashed, although its rumble was seconds behind the glow.

“I’m glad you survived,” Cristos said. “Your husband is on his way, and how would it look if you died
before
he got here?”

S
ATURDAY
, 3:15 S
A.M
.

T
RUDEAU
I
SLAND LOOMED ON
the horizon, intermittently appearing and disappearing behind sheets of rain and drifting fog. The seas were rough as Frank piloted the boat through the six-foot choppy swells.

The storm burst from the dark clouds in five-minute onslaughts of horizontal rain before falling back to a fine mist. Against every regulation, they cut through the waters without running lights, invisible to anyone watching from the island and also to any other approaching vessel. Jack and Frank kept their eyes peeled for on-coming boats and ships, but it was difficult with visibility waxing and waning.

The trip out was nearing an hour when Frank passed the outer edge of the island. The tall white lighthouse on the north ridge came into view, its beam cutting through the stormy night like the sharp blade of a sword. They circled the island twice, confirming that the lights of the mansion were lit and that the estate was occupied.

After quick debate, they approached from the western side and weighed anchor fifty yards from shore.

Within the salon of the boat, Jack checked his gun, ejecting the clip, verifying his bullet count. He cleared his pockets, throwing his money, his wallet, and the envelope with the letter to Cristos—the one he still couldn’t remember writing—onto the table. He opted to hold on to Charlie’s rabbit foot—he chose to believe in every talisman he could at the moment—and the small jewelry box with Mia’s pearl choker inside. It was like having her with him, something he could draw strength from.

Tucking his gun back into his pants, he caught a glimpse of the envelope on the table. There was nothing written on the outside.

Confused, Jack grabbed it, opened it, and withdrew the note. He looked at it, turned it over in his hand three times, and felt his head spin. It was his stationery, no doubt about it. It was the letter he had stuffed into his pocket, the one he had read in Cristos’s Suburban … but it was blank.

F
RANK AND
J
ACK
took the small skiff to the sandy beach on the western shore, far out of sight of the estate. The storm had picked up, visibility barely reaching the Hatteras one hundred fifty feet away. Jack looked over his shoulder, trying to see the distant shore two miles away where his daughters were sleeping in his parents’ home. He couldn’t suppress the creeping fear that Cristos was so close to them.