Sail

by James Patterson

  With the raft propped under some branches, at least I’ve been able to stay in the shade. Mark, Carrie, and Ernie each take turns wetting leaves every ten minutes or so, layering them on my forehead to try to cool me down. Beyond that, there’s not much they can do. The fever needs to run its course.

  I just don’t know how much longer I can keep up with it, and how much I can stand. I’ve never been this sick in my entire life.

  Twice already I’ve blacked out—the first time for a few minutes, the second for over an hour. What’s going to happen the third time? What if I don’t wake up?

  It’s that thought that tells me I need to talk to the kids. I need to tell them how much I love them, and also how sorry I am for the times I may have let them down. Most of all, I need to prepare them for the worst-case scenario. I know it’s crossed their minds. How could it not?

  It’s the way they’re staring at me. The fear and sadness in their eyes. They already know I might not survive. Even little Ernie knows the sad truth now.

  My first instinct is to talk to them as a family. That’s what this trip was all about, after all.

  But I’m quick to realize that looking at the three of them together will result in a tear fest, like that hospital scene with Debra Winger and her kids in Terms of Endearment. I won’t be able to get through something like that.

  So I decide to speak to them individually. Carrie first.

  Only she doesn’t want me to do it.

  “I can’t do this with you,” she says, turning away. “You’re not going to die, you’re going to be fine. You’re the toughest person I know.”

  “Sweetheart, please look at me,” I beg. “Please, Carrie.”

  She finally does. “I’m so sorry,” she says, her eyes welling up.

  I wasn’t expecting that. “You’re sorry? What for? I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

  “No, it wasn’t fair. I wasn’t fair. I didn’t take responsibility for myself. I blamed you for things in my life that weren’t your fault.”

  “Some of them were. I should’ve been there for you more. Carrie, I should’ve been there.”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay,” she says. “I only wish it hadn’t taken this trip for me to realize that.”

  “You and me both.”

  “I love you, Mom,” Carrie says, and then we both cry.

  Mark’s next. He’s not ready for this conversation either. He cracks a joke about buying a Maserati with his inheritance to avoid dealing with his emotions. Who could blame him? Certainly not me.

  “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” I ask him.

  He nods. “I have to be the man of the house. Or the island, in this case. Something like that? You don’t have to say it, Mom.”

  He’s right. There’s more, though. “You have to promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “First tell me that you promise.”

  “That’s not exactly fair. But okay—I promise. Now what is it?”

  “That no matter what happens when you get off this island, you never, ever sell yourself short again.”

  He looks at me, confused. “I don’t . . . understand what you’re saying. Not exactly.”

  “I thought I was being a good mother by giving you every advantage a kid could have. I was wrong. Really wrong. I should’ve been making you hungry. Instead I made you numb.”

  “Is that your kind of oblique way of saying I should stop smoking pot?”

  “For starters, yeah. What I’m really trying to say is that your father and I have inadvertently taught you a very harsh lesson—life is too short and too precious to waste.”

  He nods, a half-smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “So I shouldn’t waste mine, right?”

  I hold out my arms and hug him to me. “Make me proud. I know you will, Mark. You’re great.”

  “So are you, Mom.”

  Finally I’m face-to-face with Ernie.

  “My little man, you grew up so fast,” I say. “Too fast.”

  “Not really. I’m scared, Mom. I feel like I’m ten for the first time ever. Or at least since I was three.”

  “It’s okay, honey. I’m scared, too. No matter what happens, though, I’ll always be with you right here,” I say, pointing at his heart.

  “What about this, though?” he says, pointing to his head.

  “What do you mean?”

  He takes a deep breath. He almost seems—what’s the word?—embarrassed. “Right after Dad died, I could picture him with no problem. Now I barely can. Why is that? I’m afraid I won’t be able to remember you either.”

  I pull him close and rock him gently. “It’s different now, honey. You’re a lot older. You’ll remember, trust me. As for your father —”

  I stop cold—my words, the rocking.

  Ernie pulls back, wiping a tear from his eye. “What is it, Mom?” he asks. “What were you about to say?”

  No, not like this.

  “It’s nothing, honey. The only thing you need to remember is that your dad loved you very, very much. And so do I. I adore you, buddy.”

  I just should have told you that more.

  I should have told you every single day.

  Chapter 76

  THE DOUBLE CHAISE LONGUE sat angled perfectly toward the night sky, past a convoy of thick evergreen branches. Lying in each other’s arms, Peter and Bailey stared up at a sea of stars that almost made you believe in God.

  “Look, there’s the Big Dipper, Daddy,” said Bailey.

  Peter followed the line of her slender finger, nodding when he spotted the familiar constellation glowing brightly. She was pretending she was his little girl. Cute. He kissed her forehead, pulling her tighter toward him, catching a feel while he was at it.

  “Thank you for being here with me,” he said.

  “Of course,” she replied softly.

  Peter had gone to great lengths to find a place where he could be alone with Bailey—about 250 miles, give or take, from New York, deep in the woods above Dorset, Vermont.

  Here, on the stone patio of a well-appointed log cabin that looked as if it could be the backdrop for a Ralph Lauren ad, Peter was sure he could escape the prying eyes and camera lenses of the paparazzi. They had already served their purpose, cultivating oodles of sympathy for him. Now they were just annoying as hell, refusing to leave him alone.

  Misery truly does love company, doesn’t it?

  The cabin was on loan from one of Peter’s attorney friends, who gladly offered it up when Peter “let slip” that he needed some time alone before the funeral for Katherine and the kids. Of course, the friend didn’t need to know that alone meant alone with another woman. As for the funeral, Peter was well aware that a lot of people thought he was rushing things, but fuck all of them. The media glare would disappear after the funeral—he was sure of it. Once the press had closure, he was home free.

  “How’s your face?” asked Bailey.

  “Healing,” answered Peter.

  She ran her hand gently over his cuts and bruises, which were still swollen around his mouth and eyes.

  “I think scars are kind of sexy,” she whispered. “Bruises, too.”

  “Then that makes me one very sexy guy. He beat the hell out of me, didn’t he?”

  The two laughed freely until Bailey suddenly stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Peter.

  “It doesn’t feel right to be laughing, not with what’s happened to your family. God, Peter.”

  “It’s okay. This night is good for me, Bailey. You’re good for me. This past week has been so hard—I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  About his feelings for Bailey, Peter wasn’t play-acting. He really did feel better when he was around her.

  “Will you make love to me?” she asked.

  That might have had something to do with it.

  Peter slowly undressed his beautiful young law student, who didn’t have much on to begin with. A pair of shorts,
panties, and T-shirt. No bra.

  Completely naked and incredibly luscious, she straddled Peter and unbuttoned his jeans. By the time she reached his boxer shorts he was more than ready for her.

  Slowly Bailey took him inside her, deep inside. “You feel good,” she said softly.

  “So do you.”

  Peter closed his eyes as Bailey began to rock back and forth. The way she arched her back while thrusting her hips, she didn’t let a single inch of him go to waste.

  “Yes,” she moaned. “Yes. Oh God, Peter, oh God.”

  Minutes later she came, screaming louder than she ever had with him. It was so loud that Peter almost didn’t hear the other noise nearby. But he did hear something.

  “Wait, what was that?” he said, halting, holding on to her waist. “That sound—did you hear it?”

  “I think that was the earth moving,” said Bailey, flashing him a playful smile. “Now it’s your turn.”

  But Peter still had his ear trained on the surrounding woods. He could swear he heard something, a clicking noise—only not the kind that any animal would make.

  Son of a bitch! Had they been followed? Had the paparazzi tracked him down?

  Well, yes and no.

  Chapter 77

  ELLEN PIERCE had a saying—actually a twist on a saying— that pretty much steered her through life: Nothing adventured, nothing gained. In her seven years with the DEA, she had squared off against countless gangbangers, drug kingpins, and mafioso types, one more vicious and cunning than the next. But for sheer resolve, none of them held a candle to Shirley.

  Shirley, a Queens native with the accent still intact, had been Ian McIntyre’s personal assistant for over a decade. She didn’t so much sit outside his office as lord over the space. No one, and that meant no one, got to see McIntyre without an appointment—something Ellen didn’t have that Monday morning.

  She did have something else, though. A large black coffee and a bran muffin. A bribe.

  “Here,” said Ellen, stopping by Shirley’s desk on the way to her office. “I thought you might enjoy a little breakfast this morning.”

  Shirley quickly raised a tweezed eyebrow. “Okay, Ellen, what do you want, dear?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Jeez, can’t anyone do something nice these days without being accused of an ulterior motive?”

  “Not in this building, sweetheart. If this is your way of getting in to see Ian, you can forget about it. He’s preparing for a congressional hearing and doesn’t want to be disturbed until lunch.”

  Ellen smiled sheepishly, as if to come clean. “It was worth a try, wasn’t it?”

  “That depends. Do I still get to keep the coffee and muffin?”

  “Of course,” said Ellen. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Indeed.

  Within a half hour the coffee and bran muffin had worked their caffeine and fiber magic. Shirley somewhat urgently vacated her post for a bathroom break, allowing Ellen to waltz right into Ian McIntyre’s office unannounced. That had been her plan.

  Before he could ask why the hell she was bothering him, she tossed the first glossy picture on his desk.

  “I call this one the money shot,” she announced.

  Even for a man as disciplined as Ian McIntyre, it was impossible not to stare at a picture of a naked couple having sex on a chaise longue.

  “Is that who I think it is?” he asked.

  Ellen nodded with a beaming smile. She was proud of herself. She was convinced McIntyre would be proud of her, too. His telling her to “leave this one alone” would soon be a distant memory. It was all so Machiavellian, the end surely justifying the means.

  “Who’s he with?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure yet. It’s not his wife.”

  In quick succession she tossed more photos on the desk, as if she were dealing cards. One after the other they fell before McIntyre, each reinforcing the same conclusion: Peter Carlyle was hardly a man in mourning.

  “Pretty good stuff, huh?” said Ellen. She couldn’t help herself. “I told you something wasn’t right, Ian.”

  McIntyre remained quiet for ten seconds, maybe more. Finally his eyes lifted from the pictures and bored straight into Ellen’s.

  Uh-oh.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” he shouted, jabbing his finger. “I explicitly told you to leave this alone!”

  Apparently McIntyre hadn’t read The Prince.

  “But the pictures!” said Ellen. “Carlyle needs to be investigated!”

  “Based on what? Extraordinarily poor judgment with his pecker? In case you’ve forgotten, extramarital affairs aren’t illegal in this country.”

  “Even when his wife and family mysteriously disappear off the face of the earth?”

  “Where’s the mystery? Their boat got caught in a storm, there was a fire on board—it’s really sad, it’s a tragedy, but it’s not much of a mystery.”

  Just then something over McIntyre’s shoulder caught Ellen’s eye. It was the television behind his desk. On the screen was a male reporter standing on a dock somewhere sunny, in front of a giant fish strung up by its tail.

  He was talking, but there was no volume.

  “Wait!” shouted Ellen. “Turn that up!”

  Ian spun around to look. He was about to ask why when he saw the caption on the screen.

  Breaking news.

  Dunne family alive?

  Chapter 78

  PETER SAT ALONE in the first pew of the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church, his shoulders square and his joy hidden from the view of others. He could actually feel the outpouring of sympathy from the more than five hundred people seated behind him. It made the back of his head tingle.

  It was a goddamn beautiful thing. And this funeral was a necessary one.

  Everywhere you looked there were long-stemmed red roses. They had been Katherine’s favorite flower and the one thing Peter had suggested would be a nice touch for the service honoring her and the brats.

  The rest of the planning had been handled by his executive secretary, Layla, like the song. When he had explained to her that he was in no condition to be organizing the funeral, she understood. Of course, at $120,000 a year plus bonus, Layla somehow managed to understand everything he asked of her.

  “Let us pray,” said the minister.

  After the brief invocation, Peter listened as the silver-haired Presbyterian minister sermonized about the fragility of life and the indiscriminateness of tragedy. The guy certainly had a presence about him and was a very good orator. Slick, yet earnest-sounding.

  It always struck Peter as funny and ironic how many of the world’s potentially best lawyers were instead men of the cloth. They were, after all, extremely talented at making people believe in things that they couldn’t necessarily prove.

  “Amen,” said the minister. “Now a reading from . . .”

  The service continued, but Peter tuned it out. Instead he was thinking about the eulogy he was about to deliver.

  Talk about the ultimate closing argument.

  Standing before Katherine’s friends and fellow doctors, her cousins—the few that she had—along with all the brats’ private school chums and chummettes, he knew this would be his moment to rise and shine. He would start strong and stoic, of course. Then he would begin to take long pauses as he fought back the tears and shared a few family stories he’d made up.

  Finally he would break down, a weeping mess. This was when the cuts and bruises on his face would really pay dividends. It would be a pity-palooza. In fact, as Peter closed his eyes he could already feel the minister’s embrace in an effort to console him at the pulpit. After that he was home free. And why not?

  Of course, he had no idea what was happening outside the walls of the church. The breaking news had yet to break through to the congregation. All cell phones had been turned off. It was a funeral, for God’s sake!

  Later, when Peter turned his Motorola 1000 back on, there would be three urgent messa
ges from Lieutenant Andrew Tatem of the Coast Guard, not to mention two from Judith Fox trying to get him back on her show.

  But that was later.

  It was now time for Peter’s eulogy. He couldn’t wait to get all of this behind him. The funeral, and especially his family.

  Standing at the pulpit before the packed church, he took a moment before speaking. He couldn’t help himself. He had to stop and smell the roses, didn’t he? Interestingly to him, he didn’t feel any regret—not for Katherine, nor for Mark, Carrie, or Ernie, who wasn’t such a bad kid, actually.

  Suddenly he heard whispering behind him. Peter turned to look, slightly vexed. A man, maybe in his midthirties and dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, had his hand cupped over his mouth no more than an inch or so from the minister’s ear.

  What the hell’s going on?

  The young man was the organist. He wasn’t supposed to be reading e-mail on his BlackBerry during a service, but he’d been doing it anyway. It wasn’t as if anyone could see him. His perch was high up in the rafters, out of sight from the pews.

  Now here he was in front of everyone—and for good reason. He’d just checked the Yahoo news page while searching for a Yankees score. They were playing a day game against the Red Sox up at Fenway. How could he resist a quick peek?

  That’s when another headline caught his eye—a story of a giant bluefin tuna and its Coke-bottle cargo.

  The minister quickly joined Peter at the podium and joyously leaned toward the microphone.

  “It’s a miracle!” he declared.

  Chapter 79

  THE WORDS ECHOED in Peter’s head all the way home. Somehow your family traveled much farther south than their EPIRB indicated. We’re beginning a new search immediately. There’s hope, Mr. Carlyle.

  Andrew Tatem didn’t give any further details, nor did Peter ask for them when he called the Coast Guard officer back. He was still pretty much in shock.

  Only minutes before, the funeral had become a non-funeral. What a scene! Five hundred people all dressed up with suddenly no one to mourn.

  At least, not yet, and maybe never. No one could know for sure. Katherine and the kids still had to be found, after all.