women in positions of authority. His use of, “my dear,” twice, wasn’t meant to be kind; it was a jab at her gender.
Neither bothered her beyond annoyance. It was just the kind of spoiled behavior she had expected. She often felt that money made people not only reclusive, but also monumentally immature. Money bought freedom, and in most people, no longer being bound by the restrictions of law or society meant a return to the baser qualities of mankind, or in Trevor Manfred’s case, back to puberty.
“Why are you in the Gulf of Maine?” she asked.
“Right to business then? Are you sure you wouldn’t want to pop over for a spot of tea?” She could see Trevor’s face gleaming down at her, his smile ridiculous. She just stared back at him.
“Some other time then? Well, my dear, we are here for sport.”
“Please clarify.”
“Fishing, my dear. What else?”
Andrea knew his response was a load of bull, but there was no way to argue the point. And she had no grounds to assert otherwise. He’d pushed her into a corner. But she had one hand left to play, and not even Reilly knew it was coming.
“May I speak to Dr. Atticus Young, then?” Andrea paused after speaking, watching the smile on Trevor’s face fade slightly. Atticus was on board. “We know he’s on board and would like to consult with him.”
In an instant, Trevor’s smile returned. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid I don’t know who you are talking about. No man by that name is on my crew.”
Andrea persisted. “He is not on your crew. He is a guest.”
“My dear, please do not insult me by telling me who is on my ship and who is not.” Trevor’s irritation sounded loud and clear.
Good, Andrea thought. Trevor might keep her from speaking to Atticus, but she was winning the psychological battle. She knew the man was rattled, and without giving him a chance to recover, she motioned to the bridge. It was time to move off.
“Your actions will be monitored as long as you stay off the coast of the United States,” Andrea said, filling her voice with authority, willing it to sound deeper, and more assertive, than Trevor’s. “Please let Dr. Young know the Coast Guard is watching.”
The engines of the cutter roared to life, drowning out the beginning of Trevor’s response. They’d cut the man off. It was her turn to smile.
Reilly turned to her. “That was great, but who is Atticus Young?
Andrea smiled, an image of Atticus entering her mind. “A friend.”
“He’s the real reason we’re here.” It wasn’t a question.
Baffled by the young man’s intuitiveness, Andrea stammered over a few words, searching for an appropriate answer, but then gave up. “Yes.”
“Not to fear, my dear. ” Reilly smiled wide. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
She knew he wouldn’t tell a soul, but she’d have to live with every bit of guff Reilly decided to give her. Her only consolation was that Reilly didn’t know the half of it.
20
The Titan-Gulf of Maine
In an instant, Atticus woke and hopped to his feet. Whatever Trevor had given him the night before delivered as promised. He hadn’t felt so rested in years and experienced no residual grogginess. He took in the VIP guest suite around him and sighed. Maria would have loved the place. He had two rooms to himself and an Incan-themed bathroom the likes of which he’d never seen. The bedroom held a forty-inch flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed, a fully stocked minibar, and a superb view of the ocean. The living room held a second TV, also mounted on the wall, a forty-gallon tank filled with exotic fish, and furniture that was not only exquisitely comfortable, but also hand-crafted from what appeared to be single pieces of redwood trees.
If not for the twisting knot of despair and loneliness coiling in his gut, Atticus might have enjoyed himself. He entered the bathroom and shook his head at the decor. The mirror was framed by small skulls-monkeys, Atticus believed. Below the mirror, a sink carved into the top of a large boulder looked like a natural water basin formed from millennia of erosion. But the showpiece of the bathroom was the shower itself. The walls of the shower enclosure were formed from stones, set together neatly. But on the stonework grew moss and vines-real moss and vines. The shower itself was a waterfall that dropped from the mouth of a large statue of the serpentine Incan god, Quetzalcoatl. Atticus ran his hand along the curves and details of the statue. Cold and heavy, he had no doubt that the showerhead, like everything else on the Titan, was the genuine article.
Atticus turned on the shower, shed his clothes, and let the warm water cascade over his body. He was instantly transported to another world. The moss and vines filled the shower with an earthy odor. The sound of the falling water was accompanied by the chirping of birds and distant monkey calls from a sound system that had been triggered the moment the shower door closed. Atticus felt his mind wander and relax. He appreciated the Titan ’s otherworldly feel. And he enjoyed the oddity known as Trevor Manfred. Perhaps, when his quest was complete, he would find some way to remain on board…perhaps.
After finishing his shower, he dressed in casual clothes rather than the military garb he’d brought. He was still serious about his intentions-to kill the beast-but he felt silly for bringing along equipment that would serve no purpose on a sea hunt. Dressed in khaki cargo shorts and a gray T-shirt with navy across the front, he exited his room into a long hallway.
The dim light of the hall revealed three doors on either side. He looked into all of them and each led to another VIP suite. Atticus headed down the hallway, not exactly sure where he was going, but he felt no apprehension about moving about the ship on his own. He passed a door and heard a loud beat from behind it… repetitious…catchy…familiar.
He pressed his ear against the door and was instantly transported back to his teenage years. He was eighteen and at a Rolling Stones concert with Andrea. One of their songs captured his imagination, and it had become his theme song while in the SEALs-the song he imagined that his enemies heard before he paid them a visit. It seemed strangely appropriate to hear the song again; after so long, he still remembered every word to “Sympathy for the Devil.” In his mind, the song was about him, and he was the Devil. But he didn’t want sympathy…only vengeance.
Atticus knocked on the door. For some reason he felt compelled to know who was listening to the music. The beat shut off in an instant and the door opened a crack. Atticus was surprised to see the priest, O’Shea, peeking out. Atticus couldn’t help but smile.
“I never thought I’d meet a priest who was a fan of the Stones,” Atticus said.
O’Shea smiled. “We all have our vices.” He opened the door, motioning for Atticus to enter. “You are actually just the man I wanted to see.”
O’Shea led Atticus into the suite, which looked to be a cross between what a priest’s chambers would look like: a crucifix (though it was large enough to have come from a church…and probably had), a small desk sporting a Bible and pages of notes, and a minimum of decor. On the other hand, the three laptop computer stations situated on a U-shaped desk in the center of the living room spoke of a man possibly more in touch with modern technology than with God.
O’Shea saw Atticus’s eyes lingering on the laptops. “Knowledge is power, my friend, and saving the few souls on this ship that care to listen will take a lot of knowledge. I can’t count on one hand the number of people here willing to hear the good word.”
Atticus smiled. “Well, don’t add me to the handful either.”
“No? I took you for a God-fearing man.”
Atticus suddenly grew uncomfortable with the topic. Discussing God with a priest could only lead to argument, and if Atticus were to consider God at that moment, after what he’d been through (and where he was going), he knew that belief would cause him to curse God rather than praise him. That road was better left not traveled.
