SKIPPER—Captain Francis Ryan Cameron (55)
MATE—MJ Tuckett (67)
CREW—Alejandro Matamoros (54), Nicolás de la Vega (22)
PASSENGERS—Lila Logan Cameron (54), Francis Rylan Cameron (17), Taliea Indigo Cameron (17)
Seven souls. Seven souls aboard The Old Eileen, and not a single one had answered the radio, which lay next to the manifest like an amputated limb. Jerry picked it up and felt an ice-cold trickle of sweat on the back of his neck.
The cord had been cut.
Jerry’s knuckles went white against the harpoon gun. Bad things happen at sea. Storms kill and brothers drown.
But the radio cord hadn’t been severed by the ocean.
Jerry crept through the luxurious salon and to a door that must lead to a cabin. He let his trigger hand slip down for a moment so he could turn his radio to 16—the international maritime emergency channel.
Just in case.
He opened the door to the cabin.
The master bedroom. King-size bed with an indigo comforter and cream sheets. Velvet couch molded to fit the tight corner. A woman’s lipstick lay open on one bedside table, rolling back and forth as the boat rocked.
There was no one there. No sleeping captain, no apologetic deckhands, no life whatsoever. Had they just . . . left?
Jerry checked the next room. This one held two twin beds with identical navy bedspreads. One bed was unmade, with a variety of books scattered at its foot. The bedclothes on the other were tucked in, military-style.
A sketchbook was half hidden by the pillowcase, open to an illustration of some kind of monster.
Jerry mopped his brow with a rag he kept in his shirt pocket, not caring that it had dried sailfish blood caking the edges. He should have motored on by and called the damn guard.
He forced himself to concentrate. He was doing the right thing. The captain could be out cold and in need of help.
There were only a few more rooms.
But the last cabin was just as quiet.
Jerry peeked into the galley and the bilges, running out of places to check.
The heads. Each of the three cabins must have its own personal bathroom, and he hadn’t yet tried any of them. Hands slick with sweat around the harpoon gun, Jerry retraced his steps, checking first in the crew members’ head, then the master suite’s, then back to the room with the twin beds and the drawing of the monster.
He nudged open the last bathroom door and looked inside.
In the mirror, his own ref lection stared back at him, interrupted only by a string of crimson words that had been written on the glass.
A weight dropped anchor inside his stomach, flooding Jerry with a kind of dread he had avoided for thirty years. The harpoon gun slipped from his hands, and he reached for his radio, unable to peel his gaze from the message on the mirror.
