Killing Chase (5 page)

Once we reached cruising altitude,
I joined dad in the cockpit and donned the Bose aviation headset, while Art looked over my parole papers in back. The digital readout said we were cruising at twenty-two thousand feet at a speed of three hundred forty knots. My brain was in overload with the overwhelming amount of technology in front of me, above me, and to the side. The closest I had been to technology in prison were the battered payphones in our wing. Occasionally, Ashmore would receive prisoners who were new to the system, and these newbies would affix letters and photos to their cell wall and refer to it as their Facebook wall. Prison humor is the best.
No, not really.

“You want to take the stick for a minute?” Dad said, nodding at the black control yoke in front of me. My first thought was,
No, I most certainly do not.
Then a switch in my head flipped and said,
Live a little
, so I grabbed both uprights and held her steady. Dad pointed to a display.

“That’s the attitude indicator. Keep it level.”

“Shouldn’t an attitude indicator say something like confident, grateful, or condescending?” I joked.

“Yeah, well, if the little aircraft on the display screen gets below the horizon for too long, we’ll all be descending,” he said.
Dad gets his humor from me.

“How’s Pops?”

“Old and cranky, but otherwise plugging right along. Still walks a mile every day, rain or shine, and eats the same boring crap. Oatmeal with coffee for breakfast and a turkey on rye with a side salad and apple for lunch. Dinner is baked salmon, broccoli, and brown rice. He smokes one Benson and Hedges cigarette every morning after breakfast and ends his day with two fingers of Jameson on the terrace before bed. By God, he’s going to outlive us all.”

“Not bad for ninety-one,” I said.

“Ninety-three. He’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“He’s not gonna want to wrestle, is he?”

“Heaven help you if he does. Talk about old-man strong. Okay, turn the stick to the right ten degrees. We’ll begin our descent in about twenty minutes, and we’re a smidge off the next waypoint.” I made the slight turn, and the plane responded.

“That’s good. You got the stick for the next ten, then I’ll take it. You’ll earn your wings before you know it.”

“Art says you’re building the Russians a new navy.”

“They mint a new billionaire over there every day it seems, and they all want their toys,” he said as his eyes scanned the instrument panel.

We clipped the northernmost part of northeastern South Carolina as we descended through fifteen thousand feet. Five minutes later, air traffic control out of Wilmington cleared us in to Cape Fear Regional. I watched my father talk on the headset, fully in his element, in complete control. It was the way Henry Hampton lived his life. He was born in 1952 and in charge soon after he left the womb. An overachiever, he claimed he was number one academically in school, beginning in kindergarten and ending in his senior year of high school, in which he was the Foggy Harbor High valedictorian, class of 1970. He received a full academic scholarship to MIT and graduated in three years with a degree in mechanical and ocean engineering. Two years later, in the summer of 1975, he returned to Foggy Harbor with a master’s degree in naval architecture and marine engineering and went to work for my grandfather at his company, Hampton Marine.

For the next fifteen years, my dad and grandfather grew the business; the sizes of the boats they built grew larger and larger. My grandfather retired in 1990 and Dad changed the name to Aquatic Expeditions
.
Sailing is in the Hampton clan’s blood, although I’d yet to be infected with it. I preferred solid ground to churning water and often wondered if that was the reason for the chasm between us.

“We’re going to head out into the Atlantic and come in from the south. We’ll fly over the shipyard and give you the bird’s eye view of everything.”

“Dad, I just want to tell you thanks for picking me up and letting me crash on the boat until I can afford my own place. I’ll try and stay out of your way.”

He looked at me for a few moments and didn’t say anything. Then he looked back over the instrument panel and at the empty sky ahead of us before he spoke.

“Chase, I realize I was a pretty crappy father to you growing up. I was absent quite a bit, and even when I was there, I wasn’t, if you know what I mean. I don’t want to make that same mistake twice. You can live on the boat or out at the estate with Pops for as long as you like. Who knows, you may be the one telling me to stay out of your way before too long. I want to spend as much time together as possible though, son.”

“I’d like that too, Dad. Maybe you can teach me how to fly this contraption.” I said, and I meant it. Aviation had always fascinated me. I looked out the window as we crossed the coastline, twenty-five hundred feet above the deep-blue Atlantic. At two thousand feet, he banked the jet into a wide, lazy turn to the right, and locked in on the glide path. I could see Foggy Harbor and the Cape Fear River to the north as we continued our descent.

“I’d like that, Chase. It’s not that difficult.” We came out of the controlled turn at eleven hundred feet, and I could see the runway dead ahead at six miles. I looked off to the left toward the Foggy Harbor Marina and the shipyard. Standing out like a sore thumb was the largest yacht I had ever laid eyes on, and that’s saying something coming from the son of a shipbuilder. It wasn’t just the length that caught my attention. The
Anchor Management
was tall, about five or six decks, I guessed.

“That must be her?” I said, pointing. Construction had just begun when I left for prison, and this was the first time I laid eyes on her.

“It is. The pride and joy of Aquatic Expeditions,” he said. I’ll give you a quick tour once we get aboard, then let you relax for a few hours before dinner tonight. I’ve got some guests flying in this afternoon for the weekend, and I’ll be picking them up from the airport around four. Former clients. I think you’ll enjoy hanging out with them for a few days. We’re setting sail for Nassau at five, and we’ll be back in time to have dinner Sunday evening with Pops.”

“You want me on the trip?”

“Absolutely. Trust me on this,” he said with a hint of mischievousness in his brown eyes. I liked this new side of my father. However, I began to wonder when things would head south between us. History was not on our side, and derailment was usually just around the corner.

“Umm, Dad, there is the small matter of me traveling outside the country. I am on parole.” He looked at me in mock disgust as if he were ashamed of me.

“You don’t give your old man enough credit. Art’s already obtained permission for you to travel to Nassau. Your passport is still valid for another eighteen months. Of course, I did have to put up a million-and-a-half bond with the State Parole Board, so please do not attempt to seek asylum in the Bahamas.”

Five hundred feet. The flaps deployed and the jet slowed. Thirty seconds later, we crossed the Cape Fear River at a hundred feet and then the threshold of the runway. Dad put her down smoothly, and we taxied to his private hangar. Foggy Harbor. Home.

“
You can drive the small
boat inside the big boat?”

Dad laughed and said, “It’s much easier to disembark guests inside the boat rather than tying up next to her and having to worry about the chop. We simply fill the dry dock with seawater and drive the tender inside. There are a number of ports that are unable to accommodate us, so sometimes we have to drop anchor and tender in.”

“Why would anyone want to leave this ship?” I asked.

“Not every yacht we build has this feature, but the
Anchor Management
is unlike any boat we’ve ever built. It has every bell and whistle that our team of design experts could think of for a boat her size. For example, see this starboard hull wall behind me?” he said, turning around and walking to a control panel mounted next to the dry dock/swimming pool. He punched in a code on a digital keypad, and immediately the hull wall opened outward and lowered itself toward the water.

“We call this the Beach. Twenty-five feet of rear, starboard wall lower to just above sea level. We can put tables and lounge chairs out here and a ladder if people wish to go for a swim in the ocean. If they want to drink, we have a wet bar, as well as a bathroom and steam shower for cleaning up after the swim.” He pointed behind me and continued, “Port side opens too. That’s where we launch the jet skis and personal watercraft. It’s forward thinking like this that has kept our company on the cutting edge of modern shipbuilding,” he said matter-of-factly.

I guessed it wasn’t bragging if you could back it up. The truth was my mouth had been wide open since I stepped aboard. Six decks, including a helipad, two pools, and three Jacuzzis . . . and the decor and layout were amazing. Understated elegance was the phrase that came to mind. I appreciated the fact that there were no vertical steel bars on the windows.

“So you live on here?” I asked.

“I do, most of the time. I’ve put together such a great team that mainly all I do is entertain clients. We fly people in, like today, and take them out on the ship for a couple of days, and the whole experience sells itself. People love the ship. On the trip back, before we dock here at the marina, I will sit the clients down and show them a presentation our marketing team will have put together of a ship with all the amenities they requested. Seven times out of ten, they want to add amenities. A kid’s entertainment room, a spa room, a movie room. You name it and it has probably been requested. The master suite our guests are staying in this weekend has a sea terrace, just like the Beach, but on a smaller scale. Folks with money to burn love stuff like this.”

“How long does it take to build a two-hundred-thirty-foot boat with six decks?”

“It’ll take as long as it takes, is what I’ll tell the client,” he said, punching in the code to raise the “Beach” wall. “A yacht of this size is not to be rushed. We’ve had a few contracts that have taken us two, sometimes two and a half years to complete, but we stipulate that we do not work under time tables, although time is money, and we work diligently.”

“I can’t believe this is home for the time being, compared to where I’ve been the past seven years.”

“Chase, what’s done is done. You’re twenty-five-years old, and it’s time to start writing the next chapter of your life.”
Right dad. I’ll entitle it “Betraying My Family.”
The magnitude of what I would need to do to keep my freedom was starting to sink in. It’s possible that my actions could wreck everything my father has worked so hard for.

“I know, Dad. I just have to figure out where to begin. To be honest, I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep much last night. Think I’ll head on back to my room, take a shower and then a nap, if that’s okay with you?”

“Sure, son. I have a few matters to tend to before I pick up our guests. I had Stanley buy some clothes for you. They’re in the closet, and they should fit. Oh, and we are meeting at four forty-five on the Bridge Deck to welcome our guests aboard. There will be four of them joining us for the weekend.”

“You don’t plan on giving me any heads up about them, do you?”

“Afraid not my boy. Go get some rest.”

“All right, see you then. And thanks again for everything,”  

“Don’t mention it. Remember, anything you need, just pick up the phone and dial one. We have twenty-four-hour service on board.”

I took the portside stairs one flight up to the salon deck and made my way forward to my seven-hundred-square-foot junior suite. The bathroom was just inside the door and to the left. It featured a deep Jacuzzi tub and separate tiled shower. Marble counters and marble flooring in soft, muted colors stood out against the far wall of smoked glass and thin wood framing.

Outside the bathroom, the suite had ivory-colored carpet, a queen bed with mocha bedding and a forty-seven-inch flat screen television on the wall in front of it. There was a sitting area, complete with two ivory club chairs and an ivory loveseat situated around an oval-shaped, wooden coffee table, the top inlaid with an intricate marble design. A large picture window, covered by an ivory privacy shade spanned the width of the room. I walked over, raised the shade, and took in the view of the marina. A great deal had changed since I had been away. The Foggy Harbor Development Corporation had just finished a renovation of the waterfront in 2009. Restaurants, shops, and a Hilton Resort were added to accommodate the influx of tourists.

I couldn’t see it, but beyond the marina would be downtown Foggy Harbor with the Cape Fear Highway cutting through the middle. Spring Break was in full swing now with college students from the northern schools escaping winter’s icy stranglehold. Hotels and condos dotted the landscape from Foggy Harbor to Myrtle Beach now, and tonight the marina would be lively, once the students made their way in from the beach.

For a moment, as I looked out, I allowed myself to wonder where Bailey was. After high school, she had gone cross-country to Stanford on a full scholarship, or so I’d been told. I had stopped asking about her after a year into my sentence. We hadn’t been close anyway since eighth grade, a lifetime ago. I wondered if she was happy and if she allowed herself to think about me at all.

I closed the window shade partially and walked to the bathroom for my first real shower in seven years. The four-head shower did not disappoint. Glorious hot water pummeled me from all angles, high and low. I stayed in there a solid twenty-five minutes and scrubbed seven years of prison grime off with a loofah glove and a bar of Dove soap, in water that would cook a Maine lobster. Finished, I shaved, toweled off, and threw on some blue boxers. I slid under the covers and hit the number one button on the room phone. Stanley answered on the second ring, and I requested a four fifteen wake-up call.

That was the last thing I remember before the phone rang and Stanley’s South African accent informed me that the time of four fifteen had arrived. I thanked him and dressed in a pair of pressed khakis and a dark-blue dress shirt. A clear plastic bag hung from the door handle and contained brown leather loafers, a brown leather belt, and a pair of navy socks. Apparently, with guests coming, I was not to be trusted with picking out my own clothes, for fear I would show up in a Ralph Lauren orange jumpsuit with matching gold ankle chains and Armani handcuffs.

I took a quick look in the mirror before heading out the door. Not bad for what I’ve endured the last seven years, I thought. Most inmates age quickly in prison. The constant stress day after day wears you down and creases your face with worry lines.

Satisfied that my looks alone would not sink my father’s deal, I opened the door to leave and bumped into a shock of raven hair with porcelain skin, who just happened to be walking past my door as I was leaving.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run you over,” I said, unable to take my eyes off her.

“It’s okay, no problem,” she replied. She smiled sheepishly and had a slight accent that sounded Russian. She was wearing a navy and white summer dress that ended just below her knees. Her hair was wavy, and it framed warm, ice-blue eyes that showed a maturity beyond their years. Either I had been away too long, or I had been introduced to two of the most beautiful women in the world in the course of seven hours.

“Chase,” I said, hand outstretched. She looked mid-twenties.

“I am Anna. Nice to meet you, Chase,” she said. She shook my hand firmly. Her face was flawless and youthful, and for the second time today, I felt like a twelve-year-old boy experiencing his first crush.

“Are you joining us for the weekend, Anna?”

“I am, along with my boss, his wife, and his security guard, Dmitri.”

“Great. Welcome aboard, although I’m probably not supposed to say that until we meet upstairs in a few minutes.” I had a thought. “Anna, do you like practical jokes?

“Of course. I’m Russian. We’re known for our grand sense of humor,” she said, straight-faced. I looked at her, unsure of what to say, until she broke into a big smile.

“Ha, had you fooled.” She laughed; I melted.

“I would like to play a practical joke on my father in a few minutes when we meet on the Bridge Deck. Are you in?”

“Yes, I’m in. What do you propose?”

“When we first see each other, you look at me curiously, and say, ‘Chase. Chase Hampton,’ and I’ll take it from there. We’ll ad lib it until my father is thoroughly confused.”

“Sounds like a great icebreaker, Chase.” We quickly swapped personal information for our ruse, then I said goodbye and walked up another set of portside stairs to the Bridge Deck, where my father, unaware of my plan with Anna, nursed a scotch and chatted with the bartender. He was dressed in jeans and a white dress shirt. Frank Sinatra was singing about New York in the background.

“You made it. Good timing. Our guests should be here any minute now. Can Johnny get you anything to drink?”

“I would love a large glass of orange juice, Johnny, if it’s not too much trouble.” I was having a hard time getting Anna Petrov out of my mind.

“No trouble at all, sir. One large sunshine coming up.”

I turned to Dad. “Spill it, who are our esteemed guests?”

“Turn around and you can see for yourself,” he smiled.

I casually did a one-eighty, and the first person I saw was a bald-headed man in aviator shades and a gray suit two sizes too small. He was the size of four Toyota Camrys, and the sweat was pouring down his face as he climbed the last step. Dmitri. He wasn’t fat, just big. Soon the others came into view. A middle-aged man in gray slacks and black shirt, with a neatly trimmed beard and short, bristly, gray hair stepped off next, followed by a sultry, young blonde in a short, black dress. She was a stunner and couldn’t have been much older than Anna. My long lost friend, Anna, brought up the rear.

“Hello again, friends,” my father said.

“Hank, it is good to be with you again. Thank you for your invitation to spend some time on your magnificent ship.”

“It’s been too long, Sergei.” Dad turned to me. “Sergei, this strapping young fellow is my son, Chase. Chase, this is a good friend of our family, Mr. Sergei Durov. We built him a boat about fifteen years ago, and he is now thinking about upgrading.”

“Mr. Durov, a pleasure to meet you,” I said as we shook hands.

“Hello, Chase. So nice to meet you. Allow me to introduce my wife, Viktoria.”

“Hello, Chase.” She had devil-may-care eyes that lingered on me for a second too long. She was a beautiful young woman, but for some reason, she made me nervous.

“And this is—” Sergei began.

“Chase, Chase Hampton,” Anna said, delivering her lines perfectly.

“Anna?” I said, feigning disbelief. I gave her a hug and whispered, “Perfect,” into her ear.

“Wow, it’s been, what, nine years?” I said.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“You two know each other?” my father asked, alternatively pointing at both of us.

“Oh course. Anna . . . Petrov, right?” I said. She nodded, smiling.

“Anna was an exchange student at Foggy Harbor back during my junior year,” I explained. Turning back to her, I said, “I can’t believe you’re here. What a small world.”

“Indeed, Chase. It is good to see you again after such a long time.” I looked at my dad, who was trying to make sense of it all.

“Dad, this reminds me of a famous P.T. Barnum quote. You know the one, ‘a sucker born every minute.’”

Mr. Durov laughed deeply and my father gave me his trademark, well-played, ha-ha, whatever, look.

“So, you two have never met before?” he asked.

“Not entirely true. Ms. Petrov and I ran into each other on the deck below. I thought it might be fun to pretend we knew each other, at your expense of course.”

“Nicely done, Chase. I have never seen Hank Hampton look so confused,” Sergei chuckled.

“Chase will be doing a ten-minute standup act in the cinema after dinner,” my father announced to the group.

“Let me introduce this hulk of a man to my right. This is Dmitri. He is my head of security.”

Dmitri didn’t speak, just nodded, and I think he tried to break my hand as we shook.

Introductions completed, Dad suggested we take our drinks up one level to the sun deck for the sail away. We let our guests go first, and as we walked up, he looked back at me and winked. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was trying to be a matchmaker.

The kitchen staff had set up a table of light hors d’oeuvres to snack on as we left Foggy Harbor. Little white placards sat in front of the platters to help idiots like me discern what I would be eating. I started with a prosciutto crostini topped with a lemony fennel slaw and moved on to spiced beef empanadas with lime sour cream. They were fantastic and rivaled anything the top chefs at Ashmore could have created. Anna suggested I try the blinis and bitokes, both of which were tasty.

“You like Russian food?” she asked.

“This is my first time trying it, but it’s fantastic.” I noticed the boat had moved ever so gently away from our slip. The small Azipod propulsion systems nudged us away laterally and out into the deeper waters of the harbor. In about five minutes, the captain would execute a ninety-degree turn, bringing the bow of the yacht around to face the harbor entrance.