Kronos Page 29

  Atticus could see the terrified pilot was only seconds away from pulling up and away, so he shoved open the door and leapt without looking, which was good because the fifteen-foot drop would have made him pause. The chopper pulled away before Atticus hit the sand.

  A half-finished sand castle helped break Atticus’s fall, but the impact tore several stitches and sent a jolt of pain through his body so intense that he nearly lost consciousness. He snapped back to reality when the screams of the crowd, now gathered at the perimeter of the beach, reached a crescendo.

  Atticus crawled away from the ruined sand castle and looked toward the ocean. His view followed the fleeing Seahawk, and then turned down, where a massive wave, pushed forward by the bulk of Kronos’s body, crashed to shore. As the water spread thin and receded, Kronos emerged in full. In one quick surge he hoisted his fifteen-foot head twenty feet in the air and laid it down on the sand.

  The crowd’s shrill cries turned to shouts of wonderment as they realized the creature wasn’t able to move on land.

  Kronos opened his jaws, revealing his massive teeth, which drew a communal gasp from the crowd. Raising his head up and down, Kronos hacked like a giant cat bringing up a huge hairball. And then, all at once, the cause of this physiological response launched from his open maw like a black ball of phlegm and landed on the beach.

  As Atticus leapt to his feet and rushed toward the sprawled object, he could hear the crowd muttering as one. Kronos suddenly veered his head toward Atticus. Skidding to a stop in the sand, Atticus realized he still didn’t truly trust Kronos or his motives. But as the large yellow eyes met his for the second time, he felt that same intelligence and connection.

  Atticus held out his hand. A reflexive gesture.

  Kronos leaned in close. Atticus could smell the foul fishy breath. The sharp teeth looked even larger up close, nearly the size of Atticus’s forearm. Kronos stopped a few feet short of Atticus’s outstretched hand and stared at him. Atticus looked into Kronos’s eye up close. “Thank you.”

  With that, Kronos reared up, twisted around, and began pushing his massive body through the shallows and into deeper waters. A cry escaped Atticus’s mouth as he turned back to see the wet-suit-clad form of his daughter struggling to stand. His voice was full of anguish, joy, and relief. Giona heard the voice and turned.

  “Daddy!”

  As he reached her, Atticus fell to his knees and embraced his daughter, who was now sobbing uncontrollably. He held her, oblivious to the rank smell of rotten fish in her hair or the uproarious cheers of the spectators, who clapped louder than a Super Bowl crowd.

  “I love you, baby.”

  Atticus leaned back and looked Giona up and down. Her skin had paled and wrinkled, as though she’d spent far too long in the water. Her purple hair had lost its dye and returned to its natural black. And her deep brown eyes, so much like her mother’s, had lost some of their innocence, but had gained something else.

  “I love you too, Daddy.”

  Atticus held her again, afraid she would disappear, and didn’t let go until a distant roar coupled with a shrill whistle told him the Air Force had arrived. He looked out to sea. Kronos still skittered across the surface of the ocean, an easy target. Giona saw it too. They stood together.

  “Kronos! Go down!” Atticus shouted.

  “Run away!” Giona chimed in. “Go deep!”

  And then he did. One by one the humps of Kronos’s massive body slid beneath the surface of the Atlantic. The last one disappeared just as two F-16s and an A10 Warthog flew low overhead, the roar of their engines drowning out the shouting and excited crowd of beachgoers. With their target now submerged, the jets peeled away and began a long, lazy circle along the coast.

  Atticus turned and looked at Giona, whose eyes were still on the ocean. She’d spent five full days living inside Kronos, and yet, only moments after being expelled from what was surely hell, she shouted in concern for the beast, fearful for his safety. An odd pattern scratched in the sand behind Giona caught Atticus’s attention. He leaned back and found a single word etched into the sand.

  He craned his head and read the word aloud, “Exeter.”

  Giona turned to him and smiled. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  Atticus smiled wide, staring into his daughter’s amazing, living eyes, and burst out laughing. He hugged her again, and she squeezed back with all her strength. By the time they separated, the crowd had made its way back to the beach and was headed in their direction.

  “So,” Giona said, looking at his stitched arm, bandaged shoulder, and bruised face. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

  Atticus smiled wryly. “Like you said, we have a lot to talk about.”

  Giona giggled, which made Atticus’s heart soar. His girl was back, his little baby whole and intact. He put his arms around her and started through the crowd, who were shouting questions and clapping. “Let’s go home.”

  57

  Exeter, New Hampshire

  It was a perfectly brisk Sunday afternoon in October, the kind that always inspired Atticus to go apple picking or hiking in the woods. The earth smelled raw and alive, and the crisp clean New Hampshire air invigorated the lungs.

  But the quiet pleasures of the orchard seemed to be a faraway land. Giona had spent the morning in church, as she had every Sunday since Kronos had deposited her on Hampton’s sandy shoreline. While her recent research on the topic of God was understandable, Atticus still found it odd that she was attending church. Atticus knew she was still trying to work out whether what she had experienced was genuine or a delusion. Of course, regardless of what conclusion she finally came to, the effect on their lives because of the summer’s events had been profound: first in the struggle for understanding, then, in a total redirecting of their lives.

  Their return home had been short-lived, as the couple who’d bought their home in Rye cared little about the ordeal they’d gone through or the fact that the house wasn’t packed. On that first Sunday, when Giona attended church for the first time in her life, a moving crew came, packed up their personal belongings, and took them away to a storage facility. Of course, after all the videotapes of Giona’s dramatic reunion with Atticus on the beach hit the news, they became worldwide celebrities.

  While keeping Giona sheltered from the media blitzkrieg, Atticus took full advantage of it. He’d signed a book deal, sold the movie rights, had appeared on Good Morning America, Oprah, and The Colbert Report. He’d been front-page news in every paper around the world, while news of Trevor Manfred’s disappearance had been pushed back further than the classifieds. He’d even graced the cover of Time magazine, which had hailed him as “Father of the Year” for first saving his daughter from rapists, then five days later rescuing her from the world’s first honest-to-goodness sea monster. Atticus had explained that Kronos had delivered Giona of its own accord, but the videotapes showing Atticus jumping from the Seahawk and extending his hand toward the giant sea creature was all the evidence people needed to set their imaginations soaring.

  Only two months after their ordeal, they had seen Atticus, Giona, and Kronos action figures in the hands of children; posters featuring Atticus raising his hand to the giant Kronos in the windows of shops; and Giona’s personal favorite—plush toys. She had one each of Atticus and Kronos on her bed, which for the past two months had been a hotel suite in Portsmouth.

  Conner had stayed with them for a week, helping deal with the initial media rush, but had returned to Ann Arbor and his family. Atticus’s father recovered and returned home, but his parents had yet to visit. They planned on coming as soon as he and Giona found a new house.

  Giona insisted that they live in the town whose name she had etched in the sand. They’d been looking for a house in Exeter ever since, but had found nothing that felt right. While their housing budget had skyrocketed in the past two months as the massive checks began to clear, Atticus had no intention of changing their lifestyle. A simple house big enou
gh for two would suit their needs. While the money would help with Giona’s future, he was through being a celebrity. It seemed there was nowhere he could go, save the open ocean, to escape the wide-eyed stares of passersby. It was the same for Giona, and she’d begun home schooling as a result.

  Atticus pulled the fire-engine red Ford Explorer to the side of the road. He resisted buying a new car, though he gave the old Ford a much-needed tune-up and installed a new sound system. It was important to him, that after such a life-changing ordeal, they retain as much of who they used to be as possible.

  Atticus opened the door and took in the neighborhood. It was a pleasant New Hampshire suburb—a mix of old Colonials and modern ranches. Giona exited the passenger side and took a deep breath.

  “I like it here,” she said.

  Atticus looked at her and smiled. Her hair was still as jet-black as her mother’s. She dressed in black still, but much more stylishly, and her clothes looked far less depressing. Whether that was because they had more money to spend on clothing or an outward expression of her internal changes, he wasn’t sure, but he liked it.

  Atticus’s eyes rose from Giona to the house. It was a tall red Colonial with white shutters that the previous owner had refurbished and modernized. It was the perfect blend of past and present, or so the real estate agent claimed.

  As he rounded the hood of the Explorer he saw a Coast Guard bumper sticker on a blue Volvo parked in front of the next house over. His mind instantly and painfully recalled memories of Andrea. After Giona had returned, Atticus’s life became a whirlwind. Between mending his relationship with Giona, the media attention, the legal work of the myriad contracts he’d signed and the innumerable briefings he’d given the Navy, contact with Andrea had drifted from phone calls to e-mails, and for the past two weeks, nothing.

  But Atticus wasn’t entirely to blame. After Andrea had healed from her wounds, she was ordered to assist in the Titan’s recovery effort. The Titan’s captain had explained that the ship’s inner hulls would have sealed as it took on water. He believed that the majority of the Titan’s treasures would still be salvageable. The Titan was eventually raised with the help of the Rough Rider battle group and Captain Vilk, who supplied protection. The contents of the Titan comprised the most valuable treasure trove the world had ever seen, and it would take years to categorize the contents and return them to their proper owners. It was a noble effort, one that Andrea wholeheartedly believed in, yet it served to widen the growing gulf between Atticus and her.

  Atticus missed her, to be sure, but the distraction of finding a new home and a fresh feeling of doubt kept him from trying to contact her. She didn’t reply to his last e-mail, and he took that as a sign that she had moved on. Giona hadn’t met Andrea, but she knew about her. While Atticus, at the request of the Coast Guard, had left Andrea out of his story, Giona knew most of the details and suspected the rest. She tried explaining to him that e-mails sometimes went missing. A glitch in several systems it had to pass through on its way to her in-box, a crashed hard drive, or an overzealous spam filter could have blocked it. But, he didn’t buy it. She would have at least called by then if she’d wanted to contact him.

  “You okay, Dad?” Giona asked, her voice pulling his eyes away from the bumper sticker.

  “Huh? Yeah.” Atticus said, attempting to sound chipper. “I’m fine.”

  Giona looped her arm through his and pulled him close. He felt his sour mood melt away under her affection. “I really like this house,” she said. “I think this might be it.”

  “You haven’t even seen the inside yet,” Atticus said.

  “Actually, I think I have.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  Giona answered with a big smile. She’d yet to reveal everything she’d experienced while inside Kronos, which included several visions she’d had just before being expelled onto the beach. Without saying the words, she let him know that she’d seen the house in one of those “visions” but didn’t feel comfortable enough to talk about it yet.

  While he still wasn’t keen on her new belief debate—God or insanity—he knew that he’d give his baby whatever she wanted…within reason, and if she wanted to live in this house, so be it.

  As they walked up the steps of the Colonial’s front porch, Atticus noticed a plaque on the door. It read, 1641—original foundation laid by John Wheelwright, founding father of the town of Exeter. Atticus froze. Wheelwright. Memories of O’Shea’s lecture on the actions of Kronos over the centuries came back fresh in his mind. Wheelwright had been one of Kronos’s guests. Atticus shook his head and wrote it off as extreme coincidence. Wheelwright probably had plaques all over this town.

  He was about to knock on the door when it opened suddenly and his real estate agent stepped out. He could tell by her beet red face and tousled hair, normally held in place by a rock-solid sheet of hairspray that she’d been arguing. “Look,” she said, “the owner has decided not to sell.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Some ridiculous thing about finishing something she’d started. She was being ridiculously cryptic and totally unprofessional.” Cindy straightened her vest and flicked her fingers through her hair, putting it back in place. She cleared her throat, and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Young. Is there anywhere else you wanted to see today?”

  He looked down at Giona, whose eyes were wet and wide with confusion.

  “No,” he said. “I’d like to see this house.”

  “But I just said—”

  “I’ll make an offer they can’t refuse.”

  Cindy knew he had the money, but the owner must have been convincing. “That lady isn’t budging.”

  “She will for me,” he said with a smile. “We’re famous, remember?”

  Cindy offered a lopsided grin and shrugged. She stepped aside, and said, “Have at it.”

  Atticus rang the doorbell. When no one came to the door, he rang it three times in rapid succession. This time he was greeted by heavy thuds as the home’s owner came toward the door. The heavy wooden door was flung open.

  “Listen, lady. I already told you I’m not—Atti?”

  Atticus stood dumbfounded. The sound of his name from the intimately familiar voice stopped his heart and locked his feet in place. “Andrea…”

  Giona’s eyes squinted. “Daddy?”

  After a few seconds of quiet stillness, which must have seemed like a lifetime to the nervously fidgeting real estate agent, she broke the silence. “Mr. Young?”

  She jumped back as Atticus yanked the screen door open, and Andrea leapt into his arms. Their embrace was savage and tight.

  Atticus loosened his hold when he felt a second set of arms embrace them. In that moment, he opened his eyes, and through blurred vision saw Andrea kissing Giona’s forehead. They gained in that instant—a family.

  Andrea turned to the real estate agent; her eyes wet, and said, “I’m still not selling the house.” She turned back to Atticus, and continued, “But you’re more than welcome to move in.”

  Atticus looked from Andrea to Giona and found a teary, yet hopeful, smile. She nodded. Atticus shivered, as he couldn’t help but see some master design weaving in and out of their lives, moving them in one direction, then another, making no sense at all until arriving at this final destination. He knew their lives were far from over, but he couldn’t deny that the events of the past months—perhaps years—had brought them to this doorstep. He now began to understand the kind of change Giona had gone through and, for the first time, considered, “What if?”

  58

  Somewhere . . .

  The sandy white beach was the kind seen in Hollywood movies. Sweeping palms leaned out over an azure sea. The wind, just strong enough to sway the trees into groaning, carried a hint of salt and flowers. But unlike the beaches in the movies, there were no bikini-clad shipwreck survivors—no tall, dark, and handsome men escaping the pressures of the real world.

  There were simply two bodies, both clad i
n black.

  As the yacht crew who spotted the men while sport fishing would later describe him, the first man had a pale, wrinkled body and a head of stark white hair that ran to his shoulders. He was last seen running into the forest, eyes wild and shouting something about the end of the world.

  The second man, a priest, was unconscious by the time the crew dropped anchor and rowed to shore. The priest was taken on board and tended to. Three days later they found his bunk empty, the dinghy missing, and a quickly scrawled note on a piece of paper: Job 3:8.

  One of the men, who had a Bible, opened it and read a verse that led them to believe both men they’d seen on the beach were lunatics:

  “May those who curse days curse that day, those who are ready to rouse Leviathan.”

  ###

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JEREMY ROBINSON is the author of eleven novels including Pulse, Instinct and Threshold, the first three books in his exciting Jack Sigler thriller series. His novels have been translated into nine languages. He is the director of New Hampshire AuthorFest, a non-profit organization promoting literacy in New Hampshire, where he lives with his wife and three children.

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  Don’t miss the following samples of Jeremy Robinson’s THE LAST HUNTER and ANTARKTOS RISING

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