CHAPTER ONE

 

Livvy McKay peered out the window.

What now?

Her craggy shoreline was a magnet for every piece of wayward junk to swim the waters of Penobscot Bay. The object she saw could pass for one of many toppled granite dominoes lining the shore. Squinting against the sun, she was certain that it was misplaced.

In a debate over tackling the budget versus walking alongside the bay, the victor was easily the latter. Livvy saved the spreadsheet and grabbed the fleece jacket draped over her chair. Maine’s October wind slapped her when she stepped onto the back porch. It was a frigid harbinger of colder days to come. She clutched her collar tight against her throat until the shade of the cottage gave way to the afternoon sun. Brittle grass transitioned to a cobble beach, and the cobble merged with large boulders spilling into the sea.

Leaping from rock to rock, she muttered when an errant lick of foam reached between the crevices, submerging her foot. On one soggy sneaker she approached the object. It was a black footlocker with brass reinforced corners. The ocean had taken its toll on the vinyl so that the surface resembled the tips of her fingers after a long spell in the tub. The brass rivets along the frame were beginning to rust, but other than that it remained sturdy and intact.

Planting her feet on the rocks, she stooped to grab the thick leather handle. The trunk was at least four-feet long by two-feet wide, and although she expected it to be heavy, she barely managed to draw it an inch out of its awkward niche.

If she left it here and waited for George to show up tomorrow, the trunk would be long gone−hauled away by the tide. She stepped back and tugged again with a grunt. The container slid across the rock and settled into the next crevice.

By the time she reached the level plateau of cobble and grass, she was grateful for the cold breeze. She stopped and pressed her balled-up fists into the small of her back, knowing that in the morning her muscles would remind her of this.

Hunching over, she tried the brass latch.

Locked.

Should I even try to open it?

It belonged to someone else. Their property. Their problem.

As she dragged it up to the shed, a host of conjectures as to how it ended up here preoccupied her. There was no identifying text on the container. Perhaps she could track down the logo—a faded globe dissected by a ship’s silhouette.

Inside the shed, Livvy took turns dragging and shoving until the trunk was finally tucked beside a snow-blower. She slammed the door and weaved the padlock through the latch. Normally, she would have left it at that, but this time she clicked the padlock closed.

On the deck of the cottage she kicked off her sneakers before going inside. Taking a seat in the kitchen, she was preparing to research the globe logo on her computer when a sharp thud in the next room startled her. No, it didn’t startle her−it shocked her. No windows were open. No ocean breeze passed through the cottage to disrupt the curtains. She had heard rumors of the keeper’s house being haunted, but she had lived here long enough to discredit such suspicions.

On socked feet she passed through the short hall into a living room furnished in quaint colonial flair. It preserved the history and charm of the cottage. Blue brocade drapes hung motionless against white sheer curtains, and a collection of wooden sailors stood obedient atop a windowsill. In the past, the only sign of supernatural visitors had been that some of the figurines would move, but the wind was usually the culprit−not the ghost of the former lighthouse keeper.

When Livvy turned back towards her desk she saw the man. With the sun pouring off the ocean through the windows, he was nothing more than a shapeless silhouette. She detected motion on his part, but her reaction was too late. Struck across the cheekbone, her hands flew to her face in defense. At the sound of flight, she blindly staggered in pursuit, but her wet sock slipped on the wood and she crashed into the doorjamb.

The door to the deck slammed shut, followed by the pronounced hush of solitude. Livvy rushed to the screen to search outside. Her left eye brimmed with tears, and even the most exemplary vision could not produce a figure on the grounds.

It was as if she had been assaulted by a ghost.

***

Reaching for the wall mount phone, Livvy dialed 911 before she even noticed the receiver was dead. Repeated jabs of the switch hook failed to produce a dial tone. Panic settled in. She took a deep breath and grabbed the closest item of substance−an orange lobster buoy hanging on the wall. It might seem like a preposterous weapon, but there was about twelve pounds of solid wood involved, and it was a better option than her fist.

Hastily, she surveyed each room. The kitchen served as her office, with a desk tucked up against the window. A bathroom, a bedroom, and the living room finished off the layout−each room large enough to comfortably accommodate dwarves.

Sea Lantern Cottage was her haven−a place to feel close to her family.

And someone had dared to assault her here.

The panic gave way to anger. Futilely, she fished for her cell phone, but she knew that she wouldn’t get a signal until halfway down the road. Checking the bars as if on this day they would miraculously register, Livvy jolted when the doorbell rang. Within the small alcove it reverberated louder than the chimes in Notre Dame’s belfry. She peered through the view hole and saw the neck of a man, the slow bob of his throat visible above the collar of a black sweater.

Oh my God! Hadn’t the man who attacked her been dressed in black?

The doorbell chimed again as her hand gripped the buoy mercilessly. Would the attacker be gracious enough to ring twice and wait for her to admit him?

“Hello?” a muffled call sounded.

“Who is it?” she countered.

“Are you open?”

She saw the throat bob in question. “The sign says McKAY CHARTERS, but I wasn’t sure where the office was.”

Business? Could this be as innocent as a business call?

Coincidences didn’t sit well with her, especially considering the tourist season had ended a month ago and chartering services were reduced to weekends now.

“I need to rent a boat,” the voice proclaimed.

“I don’t rent boats.”

Talking to the closed door seemed ludicrous, but perhaps her last declaration would send him away.

“But−” There was a pause in which she heard the rustle of papers and saw a chin darkened by razor neglect. “It says you charter boats. I see them docked outside. They say McKAY CHARTERS on them.”

“Yes, I charter boats. For groups. I don’t rent boats out to individuals if that’s what you’re looking for.”

God knows the insurance was already astronomical.

“Alright, well−” It didn’t seem to faze the man that this conversation was taking place with a solid panel between them. “I’m interested in chartering a boat.”

Bah. “I’m closed.”

“You’re standing on the other side of this door talking to me. You can just yell yes or no.”

Less than a half hour ago she was doing the accounting, realizing that the summer had not brought in the same figures as the previous year. Actually, she was not closed. It was just that this time of year she only attracted business on weekends. During the week she resorted to freelance programming, something to utilize that computer science degree that went wasted the moment the family business was bequeathed to her.

“Can you show me some ID?”

It was a lame request, but it was all she had.

There was a shuffle and then a shadow obscured the sun through the view hole as a card covered it. At first it was too close to even be legible. He must have realized that as he drew it back a few inches.

It was a Maine driver’s license−Portland to be exact. John E. Morell. Born May 5, 1977. Brown hair. Blue eyes. 195lbs.

“Do I pass?” he asked.

“What are you looking to charter? I have a 36’ tour boat that can hold up to 40 people. Or if you want to go lobstering, I have a 35’ lobster boat outfitted with 20 traps.” Livvy blinked and focused through the hole again. This time she saw the sharp profile of his jaw.

“What about that nice one over there?”

He had to be talking about the yacht.

“That’s mine. It cannot be rented.”

“Alright,” he paused. “The lobster boat it is. How much are we talking?”

Seriously? This was not an assailant dressed in black?

Any other weekday and George would have been around, but today he was in town getting supplies. She was painfully aware of her remote location on the peninsula, where the closest inhabitant was half a mile away. Marlowe and Sophia Ashton−a couple in their late seventies−neither very capable of battling assailants.

Livvy made one last attempt to dissuade her visitor.

“$355 a day.” It was actually $225.

“I don’t want to buy the boat.”

Already at wit’s end, she hauled open the door. “Well I’m sure Pilot Rentals in Seal Bay could offer a better price.”

The man’s eyes widened. His lips parted and snapped into a grim line.

“What?” she challenged.

“Are you okay?”

The question startled her. “Why do you ask?”

“Your face.”

Her hand flew to her cheek. The shock of the doorbell had been enough to distract her from the pain. Marketing research indicated that it was best not to confess to a prospective client that your business had just been broken into. However, if this was her assailant−marketing didn’t really matter.

“I fell,” she explained.

“You should put ice on that.”

Lowering her hand, Livvy studied the man. Yes, he had on a black sweater, which he filled out with wide shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist, and he wore jeans which he also filled out rather well. Had her attacker worn jeans? She only remembered him all in black, but the sun could have accounted for that.

“I was about to,” she chided, “but the doorbell rang.”

“Now I understand your hospitable reception,” he remarked, glancing down at the buoy clutched in her hand.

Refusing to relinquish the weapon, Livvy studied his face. His eyes attracted her first. They looked like the heart of a nor’easter. Dark. Gray. Turbulent. His license was wrong. They were not blue. That was a generic reference he had probably scribbled down in haste.

His hair was dark, nearly black, and although it was short, the wind had carved erratic waves through it. A shadow scored his chin giving him a bit of a pirate flair. It was easy to imagine him at the helm of a ship, ready to confront a storm looming on the horizon.

“Forgive my inhospitable reception, but I don’t usually get much business during the week at this late stage of the year. How many will there be in your party?”

“Just me.”

That was odd enough to put her on edge. He must have realized that as he smiled and nodded.

“I know. It sounds strange, but I just really need to get away today.”

“Today?” she croaked. “As in now?”

His smile revealed a carved line in the stubbled cheek. To call it a dimple would have been too quaint for the brief slash.

“I didn’t think you would be busy today,” he considered. “I really wanted to get out there by myself, but as you don’t rent to individuals…” he hesitated, “…besides, on the weekend the boats would be full, and that’s not what I’m looking for.”

Eccentric or dangerous? She couldn’t decide which. Normally, with George here, this would be a non-issue. She could send him out with the man. John E. Morell.

Livvy swiped at her left eye to brush away some of the pooling moisture. She could feel the pain kicking in. She had to report the break-in to the police. Surely, she wasn’t that desperate for business.

“You really need to put ice on that,” he nodded. “I guess I can come back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow would be much better.” Thank God he was being reasonable. The likelihood of him being her assailant just went down a notch. “10:00am if that works for you.”

He shifted the McKAY CHARTER pamphlet to his left hand and thrust out his right one. For a second Livvy just stared at it. Decorum mandated that she return the gesture. His palm felt warm, and his grip assuring. The touch lingered a second and his eyes remained even longer. He released her and stepped back to the edge of the porch.

“Ten will be great. Do you prefer cash, check, or a credit card?”

“Cash or credit card. Either will do. I’ll see you then, Mr. Morell.”

His eyes narrowed for a second and then he nodded with a grin that flashed that cleft in his cheek. “Ahh, the license.”

He was far enough back from the cottage that the sun could touch his hair. Nature’s lamp revealed many more shades of brown than black.

“And you are Ms. McKay, I take it?” he asked as he consulted the pamphlet.

“I am.”

“Ten o’clock, Ms. McKay.” He tossed a wave over his shoulder.

Livvy watched the six-foot enigma stroll towards a silver Jeep Cherokee.

***

Going to the police to report the break-in was as fulfilling as going to a doctor to complain about a headache. After a lecture on owning a business, and the vulnerability of her location out on the peninsula, Livvy walked out of the Gull Harbor Police Department feeling like she was the criminal for not installing an adequate security system. That wasn’t going to help her sleep any better tonight…but the baseball bat under the bed might.

As she pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of Sea Lantern Cottage, Livvy didn’t think the area felt that remote. A small jut of land marked the entrance to Gull Harbor on one side, and the gaping Atlantic filled the other. She climbed out of her Jetta and gazed across the harbor at the lineup of fish houses−wooden dwellings on stilts. They were only a ten-minute boat ride away.

She was not secluded.

But if that were the case, then why did her hand hesitate on the front door knob? Why did she walk over to the living room window and peer inside as if she expected to find a shadow behind the drapes?

Eyeing the utility pole at the foot of her driveway, she saw by the orange calling card that the phone company had been out to inspect her line.

Good. At least I have that.

Livvy decided to postpone going inside in favor of investigating the trunk. It had been her intention not to open it until she located its owner, but examining it closer might yield a clue as to who that may be.

The Sea Lantern was once an operational lighthouse that guided ships into Gull Harbor. It was now a charred hulk sitting on Livvy’s property. Out of operation for nearly twenty years, it had been struck by lightning last year and a fire ensued, consuming the lantern room. Now it resembled a wickless candle. She was in the process of restoring the lantern, but it was not a speedy task. At this point, all she had managed was to repaint the tower.

Her father had purchased the cottage and lighthouse from the Navy when the Naval base nearby shut down. The Sea Lantern came with the clause that the property was to remain open to the public so that visitors could take pictures and revisit history. That was when McKAY CHARTERS was born.

The McKays didn’t live in the cottage. It was too small to accommodate four people, but her father used it as the office for his new charter company. He welcomed every tourist with the same greeting. “What a wonderful day to be at sea.”

Livvy liked to believe that if there was a ghost inside Sea Lantern Cottage, it was that of her father, silently encouraging her−silently guiding her to make the right decision−silently calling out, what a wonderful day to be at sea.

Bill McKay would love the mystery of the trunk.

She opened the shed door and dragged the cumbersome item out into the light, crouching down to run her fingertips over the globe insignia. The silhouette of a ship at its center revealed a distinctive sphere on top. A Doppler radar system. It could represent any number of sea ventures.

Dropping her knees to the cold turf, Livvy crawled around the trunk. No text could be found on any surface. With a huff of effort, she tipped the chest on its side to confirm the bottom was void as well. She sat back on her heels and frowned. Her only option was to begin a search of that emblem.

A glass of wine, a baseball bat, and an internet search sounded like a lovely way to spend the evening.

***

Sheltered in a thicket of trees flanking the entry to Gull Harbor jetty, Jack Morell studied the McKay woman through his binoculars.

Earlier, the sight of the trunk had startled him. He had been scoping out the coastline when he noticed the woman hauling a footlocker towards the lighthouse. His lame attempt to gain access to the property was thwarted until tomorrow, but he was desperate to get his hands on that trunk.

Had she opened it? Had she called the police? 

A cryptic message from his uncle just moments before the MV Algonquin went missing made Jack frantic. Warren Pennington, the CEO of Pennington Marine Science Center managed a hasty call to his nephew, indicating that he had found something while filming Deep Weather.

“Listen to me, Jack. I only have a minute.” In the background Jack swore he heard gunfire.

“Warren−” The title of uncle had been abandoned since he was a teenager. It was an imprecise label anyway. Father, would have been better, except for the fact that the man had not conceived him.

“Don’t talk. Listen.” Warren’s voice was hoarse. “I have found something,” he rasped, “and it would appear that people are not pleased with my discovery. They are coming now. I hid what I could. Remember the panel beneath my desk? I tossed some overboard as well. But there is no time to tell more over the phone, and I don’t want to endanger you any more than I already have. Trust no one, Jack. Don’t go to the authorities. There is something about this that wreaks of conspiracy—”

Jack started to counter this madness, but the unmistakable staccato of an automatic weapon had him crying out his uncle’s name.

“God, Warren. What is going on?”

But the connection dropped.

Jack’s repeated attempts to redial went unfulfilled.

For two days, all efforts by the Coast Guard to locate the vessel had proven fruitless. Desperate, Jack conveyed his suspicions of foul play in the Algonquin’s disappearance, disputing their claim of rogue weather capsizing the ship. Even the authorities didn’t see the twisted irony in their theory that weather caught the Deep Weather crew unaware.

Jack didn’t reveal that his uncle had found something. That admission shouldn’t be needed to spur them on. Saving lives should be their only motivation.

Spanning the peninsula through his viewfinder, he saw that the road to the lighthouse was empty. Only one car was parked in the driveway. The McKay woman. She claimed that her black eye was an accident, but it didn’t sit well with him. From the urgency in his uncle’s tone, that trunk could be a harbinger of danger.

Jack’s cell phone blared.

He scanned the incoming number, but judged it to be spam by the abundance of digits. Nonetheless, he slapped it to his ear and barked, “Hello.”

“Is this John Morell?” A woman’s voice inquired with a slight lilt.

“Who is asking?”

“This is Amanda Newton from BLUE-LINK. I am trying to reach Warren Pennington. I was given your number by Pennington Marine Science Center.”

Jack’s mind raced. BLUE-LINK. BLUE-LINK. He came up with nothing. He’d never heard of it before. Yet another anomaly to set him on edge.

“I am not familiar with BLUE-LINK.”

“It is a global risk assessment company,” came the tolerant response. “Is Warren Pennington available? It is urgent I speak with him.”

I bet.

He glanced down at the numbers again and realized that they were prefaced with 011-44. Britain.

“Warren is not available. I am his nephew, and the CSO of Pennington Marine Science Center. I can answer any questions you may have.”

A lengthy pause.

“I understand that your uncle runs a research vessel,” she hesitated as fingers tapped on a keyboard, “around the 43^rd parallel north in the Atlantic.”

He came alert. “Excuse me. Who are you again, and exactly what do you want?”

“Quite honestly, Mr. Morell, I need your uncle’s help. I believe he might have located something recently that will be valuable to our company.”

“Valuable enough for you to−” Curb it. Until he could figure out the game this Amanda Newton was playing, he had to rein in his anger and secure as much information as he could from her.

“Now it’s my turn to say, excuse me,” she stated coolly. “I don’t know what your tone infers. My call to you is purely to seek out a professional courtesy from your uncle as one business owner to another.”

“So you are the owner of this BLUE-LINK company?” Jack was hastily scratching down notes on a small spiral notebook.

“Founder. Owner. Yes.” She cleared her throat. “By the runaround that I’m receiving, I gather your uncle is not available.”

“Correct. I told you that already. But I’m sure you were aware of that fact before you even called me.” The pen in his hand nearly snapped under the force of his grip.

“As Chief Security Officer I understand your need to query someone you are unfamiliar with,” she remarked coolly. “I will wait for the opportunity to speak to your uncle directly. You have my phone number now, and my title. I am sure you will research me, and perhaps if I am lucky, you will eventually pass my message on to Mr. Pennington. Thank you for your time, Mr. Morell.”

“Wait−”

The connection went dead.

Goddammit. Pressing redial only yielded an automated voicemail. Frustrated, he threw the phone on the passenger seat and refocused on the McKay house.

Tomorrow he would find a way to get his hands on that trunk—and anything else that may have washed up on the McKay shoreline.