Kronos Page 8

  Obviously, the man had not been to Jerusalem, Atticus thought. While it was still an impressive place, the city’s holy sites were a far cry from what they had once been. He and Maria had gone on a tour of the Holy Land before Giona had been born. It was Maria’s idea, and was fascinating, but the state of the region’s holy sites had made Atticus realize that history had taken its toll on the land. But he felt that the people there, both Jew and Muslim, had deep convictions that found meaning in the very soil of the place. Thoughts of the night he and Maria had spent in Jerusalem began creeping into his mind. Giona had been conceived there.

  “Sounds like a state motto,” O’Shea said with a smirk.

  Remus didn’t hear the sarcasm and smiled proudly. “It is!”

  Atticus clung to the conversation, joining it to avoid fond memories. They’d do him no good under the circumstances. “I did some work in Hawaii once,” Atticus said, the first words he’d spoken since the helicopter had left his home… “Tagging humpbacks. To track their migration and numbers.”

  Remus nodded, smiling. “The state animal.”

  Atticus wondered if Remus had simply memorized the encyclopedia entry for Hawaii, just to make people believe he knew what he was talking about.

  “What did you think?” Remus asked.

  Atticus knew to the core of his being that he should befriend the man. Remus was dangerous and untrustworthy. Getting on his good side could only help. There were a number of answers to the question, any of which would have done the trick. Atticus was surprised by his quick answer. “Overrated.”

  It was an honest answer, but the effect was profound. Remus frowned, squinted his eyes the way seventh-grade girls do when they are teased.

  The priest was smiling ear to ear. “A man of few words speaks the truth powerfully.”

  At least he’d made one friend, though he doubted a priest would be useful…unless he could pull him back out of hell…because that’s where they were headed—and a confrontation with the devil. Only hell wasn’t beneath the earth, brewing with boiling magma. It was found beneath the seas, cold and remorseless.

  The helicopter fell silent again, except for the whup whup whup of its long rotor blades. After ten blessedly quiet minutes, Remus ended the reprieve with a strained, “We’re here.”

  Atticus looked out the window and took in a ship the likes of which he had never seen in all his years at sea or in the Navy. It was massive, the size of a U.S. destroyer, and gleamed bright white in the morning sun. The pool on the top deck appeared to be shaped like a Chinese dragon. A hardwood carved masthead of a beautiful, but thoroughly dangerous-looking Viking woman graced the bow. The decks were staggered up from the main deck, each oval and lined with tinted glass. Atop the bridge, a mass of antennae and satellite dishes rose toward the sky. It was a ship obviously designed to stay at sea for long stretches…if not indefinitely.

  The helicopter set down gently. “Follow me,” Remus said as he opened the side door.

  To Atticus’s surprise, no one asked him to relinquish the sidearm still hanging on his hip, though two servants, dressed to the nines, asked to carry his duffel bag to his room for him. He declined the offer, preferring to keep his belongings, not to mention his arsenal, close by. Once on board, O’Shea went his separate way, while Remus took the lead, taking him through one hallway after the next. But they weren’t headed to the upper decks, where he’d assumed most billionaires would prefer to be; instead they were headed down. They descended three flights of stairs, all carpeted in maroon and lined with ivory supporting posts and gold banisters. The smell of the boat was pleasant, clean but not sanitized like the hospital. At the base flight were long hallways, all decorated with expertly carved statues of marble, rough stone, and wood--all originating from a variety of cultures. The fourth floor down brought with it an extended staircase that revealed the floor’s cathedral ceilings…on a boat. Atticus was impressed by the engineering and beauty of it all, though it did little to calm his nerves. His reason for being there was still ominous.

  At the base of the stairs, where they flared out onto a marble floor, Atticus was greeted by an amazing sight. Positioned at the center of a large atrium was a full-size rendition of a statue on Easter Island. He had never been to the island, but there were few people in the modern world that wouldn’t recognize the megaliths. “That’s an amazing replica,” Atticus said, more to himself than to Remus.

  But the man snickered anyway. “It’s real.”

  Atticus placed his hand against the statue and felt its cold surface, as bleak as the once-lush island that had been its home. To obtain such a magnificent artifact meant that Trevor Manfred was either extremely well connected or extremely cunning. Either way, he’d soon find out.

  Remus opened a door engraved with the words, sitting room. It sounded innocent enough, but when Atticus stepped through, he entered another world.

  “You’re on your own now,” Remus said. “Try not to say anything stupid. Aloha.”

  With that, Remus closed the door, leaving Atticus alone in the room. Atticus knew Remus’s final word was a warning. Aloha. Don’t mock Trevor Manfred like you did me.

  Atticus took in the fifty-foot, rounded room. An amazingly realistic underwater mural covered the vaulted ceiling; the realism of the artwork was astounding. The walls were similarly painted, featuring whales, sharks, seals, and assorted other creatures. Atticus felt at home in the room, though unnerved to be standing, rather than swimming. The floor was an illusion as well, painted dark blue, just as the depths looked from above. The only break to the illusion was the presence of two elegant chairs—thrones really—rimmed with gold and cushioned by red velvet, and a gold-legged, glass-topped coffee table.

  “Come in,” came a loud, cheerful voice from across the room. “You’re just in time for tea.”

  Atticus could see a hand waggling him over to the chairs. After placing his duffel bag on the floor, Atticus made his way over. The man sitting there was not what he’d expected. His eyes gleamed with excitement. His hair sprang up, white and wild in a way that Giona would have loved. His clothing was all black, his skin nearly as white as his hair, though clearly not albino. His eyes shown bright green and alive. “Dr. Young, welcome to the Titan.”

  Atticus decided in that moment that he liked the eccentric man who sat in the deep-sea illusion, surrounded by ancient artifacts and mysteries from around the world. A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, Atticus thought, remembering Churchill’s description of World War II’s Russia. He was instantly as interested in this man as Churchill had been with Russia’s role in the war. But Atticus felt that the diminutive man posed far less threat than Stalin’s gulags and certainly much less than Remus would have had him believe.

  As Atticus opened his mouth to speak, the corner of his eye caught movement. The wall…the outer hull to his left, was not a painting at all! And something very large was swimming just outside, watching them.

  15

  Rye, New Hampshire

  The photo held memories of a happier time for a now-broken family. Atticus sat in the sand, building a sand castle with a little girl Andrea could only assume was his dead daughter, Giona. His hands intertwined with those of the girl, who looked to be about seven, drizzled wet sand on the castle walls. The dripping sand created small structures that looked more like miniature versions of the stone spires that decorate the desert of Moab. But beyond the obvious sand-castling skills, it was the woman to Atticus’s side who held Andrea’s attention.

  Her hair had been caught by the wind and partially covered her and Atticus’s faces. Her eyes were bright, full of life, and her full, puckered lips were kissing Atticus on the cheek. The photo embodied everything Andrea always felt a family should be. In the moment the camera’s iris opened, collected, and recorded the light, it captured an image that Norman Rockwell would have been proud to produce. There was one large discrepancy between Rockwell’s paintings and the photo—the latter pictured reality. A
family in love, once hale, but since wrecked by time.

  Andrea had never met his wife or daughter, but knowing that everything in this image had been taken from Atticus struck a chord in her heart. To love so deeply and have it taken away in two devastating instants could destroy a man…or woman. She knew that from experience.

  Giving little thought to the act, Andrea removed the framed photo from the hallway wall and took it to the kitchen. She opened the frame and removed the four-by-six picture. She flipped it over and read the back.

  2001, old orchard beach, Atti, Maria, and Gi Gi.

  The handwriting was beautiful and feminine—a reminder of the woman whose loving face graced the front of the picture. She looked at the photo again, and rather than feeling envious or even jealous of the woman whose lips were pressed against the cheek of the man who’d been her first real love, she was filled with a sense of kinship…of responsibility.

  She imagined Maria’s voice, urging her, Take care of him. But would she mind? Had he ever told Maria about their young love? About his broken heart…if that was what he’d experienced at all? There was no way to be sure, but the woman in the photo would most certainly appreciate someone looking out for her husband. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “Funny,” a friendly yet masculine voice said, “I thought that would be my job.”

  Andrea turned quickly to the voice. A man whose eyes were Atticus’s yet whose pudgy body revealed a life more adapted to sitting behind a computer rather than that of a former Navy SEAL, stood in the doorway. His brother, older and rounder perhaps, but she still recognized him.

  “Been a long time, Andrea,” he said.

  “Hello, Conner.”

  He smiled, stepping into the kitchen, and shook her hand. “So, Coast Guard, huh? Isn’t this a little out of your jurisdiction?” He motioned to the empty frame on the table but didn’t let her respond.

  “He never did stop pining for you, you know.” He sat down next to her and pointed at the photo still in her hand. “Not until he met her, anyway. And that was after he left the Navy. I always wondered if he’d try to find you again after Maria passed; looks like he did. How long has he been keeping you a secret from us?”

  Andrea’s stare was a mix of confusion and guilt.

  Conner’s eyebrows rose high. “You’re not together, are you?”

  “No,” she replied. “Is he with...someone?”

  “No, no. Not that I know of anyway. I thought he might be holding out on me, but if you’re not his girlfriend, then he’s been telling the truth. Not that he doesn’t need one; mind you…the job’s open if you want it.”

  Andrea smiled.

  Conner’s eyes returned to the photo in her hands. His lips suddenly turned down, his voice grew cold. “I was behind the camera in that picture. I’m no photographer, but that’s the best shot I ever took. I have the same one hanging on my wall at home. There’s just something about it. He had everything, you know?” Conner sighed. “I have a family. I love my wife. My kids are great. But that”—he pointed at the photo—“is something I’ve never experienced.”

  Andrea felt a twinge of guilt take root in her gut. She handed the picture to Conner. “I was going to give it to him when I found him.”

  In that instant, Conner seemed to forget about the photo. “He’s not here?”

  “No.”

  “Where is he?”

  Andrea wasn’t sure how to respond. She had just returned to Atticus’s life and wasn’t even sure if she was welcome. She didn’t know how he’d feel about her divulging what she knew—what she suspected, but this was his brother. Her memories of Conner included a lot of teasing and arguing. But they were brothers…and Conner had come to Atticus’s aid. Before she could utter a syllable, Conner spoke up.

  “He went after it,” Conner said. “Damn it.”

  It wasn’t a question. He simply knew, just like that, just as she had.

  “How did you know?”

  He shook his head. “It’s always been a weird thing with Atticus. People who love him can read him like a book.”

  Andrea remembered the hospital. She’d had the same feeling. She had known he intended to go after the creature.

  “I don’t know the details yet,” she added, “but I’m going to try tracking him down. He was picked up this morning by a helicopter. They headed out to sea.”

  “The man moves fast. Was it Navy?”

  Andrea shook her head. “No, but I’ll find out who owns it.”

  “You’ll bring him back?”

  “If I can.”

  Conner handed the picture back. “Give this to him when you find him.”

  “I will,” she said as she stood, suddenly more resolute about finding him right away. “Will you be here?”

  Conner smiled again, forcing back his good nature. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  Andrea smiled and headed for the door. Conner stopped her with his voice.

  “You know…it’s a rare woman who will drop everything and search the high seas for an old friend. Even if it is her job.”

  Andrea’s face heated as her embarrassment grew.

  “Your picture was in the paper and on the news,” he said, with a knowing smile. “Thanks for going to his rescue. Thanks for going now.”

  Andrea nodded, surprised by the kindness in Conner’s voice. He knew who she was—an old friend, almost something more, but really just a woman who by chance was on the job when his brother needed help. Any number of people could have got to him first. She might have had a cold, and it would have been someone else giving him mouth to mouth after he’d thrown up while unconscious and choked on his own bile. She knew Atticus had no idea she’d resuscitated him, that he’d been dead, if only for a moment. She wondered if he might even resent being brought back. His brother had no idea either, yet there he was, acting as though she were…

  “Andrea,” he added, interrupting her thoughts, “welcome back to the family.”

  With those few words, Andrea’s thoughts cleared. For eight years she’d spent every waking moment with Atticus, and many of them with his family as well. They’d eaten, played, laughed, and adventured together. Inseparable. Kindred. Family. Those memories formed the bond that motivated her now, regardless of their broken past or feelings about what might have been. They were family. And that was enough.

  16

  Gulf of Maine—Aboard the Titan

  Serrated teeth tore through flesh, rending sinew and vessel, crushing bones and doing a precise job at what they were designed to do—kill.

  Atticus watched in amazement as white membranes slid over the obsidian eyes of the great white shark tearing into a tuna. He’d seen great whites feeding, as well as many other sharks, but never…never in the Gulf of Maine, nor a shark so enormous.

  “It’s at least thirty feet long!” Atticus stood at what he now knew was a pane of glass looking out at the undersea world below the waterline.

  “Twenty-eight, actually,” replied Trevor, who was now standing beside Atticus, watching the shark.

  “You’re feeding it?” Atticus had seen the live tuna fall into the water, dazed and tired. It hadn’t stood a chance against the ocean’s greatest predator. Second greatest predator, Atticus reminded himself.

  “Indeed. The little beastie is something of a pet, really.” Trevor placed his hand against the glass as the great white tore the fish in half and gulped it down. “Good girl, Laurel.”

  “Laurel?”

  Trevor smiled. “Named after a flower actually. Sheep laurel, a nasty little flower also known as Lambkill. It’s extremely poisonous and kills scores of sheep to be sure, and should a human ingest the flower, or worse, honey made from the flower, it is quite deadly. We’re lambs to the slaughter when it comes to Laurel,” he finished with a snicker.

  Atticus watched as the massive shark polished off the tuna. He nodded. “A fitting name. But how is this possible…and why?”

  “We spotted Laurel five years ago,
in deep Pacific waters. She was quite big, even then, and for our amusement, we fed her. Her appetite was, as you’ve seen, voracious, and she followed us. We’ve been feeding her ever since.”

  “But why would you want…”

  “Protection, good doctor. This boat contains a wealth greater than that of many nations, and there are many who would love nothing more than to pilfer what is mine. Laurel does a nice job of stopping anyone who might attempt an underwater insertion.”

  “I would imagine so,” Atticus said, picturing how he would feel encountering this giant underwater. “Does it work?”

  Trevor smiled wide. “There have been a few times when she refused her breakfast. I can only assume she had her fill the night before. I cannot say whether she ate some poor fellow or not, but she has grown accustomed to her slow-moving meals. She never gives chase to healthy fish. If it moves fast, she won’t bother.”

  Atticus made a mental note to not fall overboard, then turned his attention to Trevor. “What interest does the fifth richest man in the world have with a marine biologist?”

  “I thought that would be very clear, Dr. Young.”

  “Atticus will do.”

  “Very well,” Trevor motioned to the chairs. “Please, sit.” They sat in the chairs, which were very comfortable. Atticus felt his body sink in, and, for the first time in days, his muscles relaxed. There was something about the room, being underwater yet not, that filled him with wonder while allowing him to lower his defenses.

  On the coffee table, Atticus smiled upon finding two Sam Adams resting in a silver wine cooler, packed in ice. Based on Trevor’s invitation to tea, his thick British accent, and his almost feminine hand gestures, he expected to see a set of bone china with Earl Grey and crumpets.

  Trevor read his expression. “I may be a Brit, but American cuisine tickles my fancy. Please, help yourself.”

  Atticus pulled a bottle from the ice and popped the top with his teeth.