Graceless, p.1
Graceless, page 1
GRACELESS
A TROPICAL AUTHORS NOVELLA
NICHOLAS HARVEY
NICK SULLIVAN
JOHN H CUNNINGHAM
WAYNE STINNETT
CONTENTS
Part I
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part II
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part III
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part IV
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Afterword Part I
About the Author
Afterword Part II
About the Author
Afterword Part III
About the Author
Afterword Part IV
About the Author
Copyright © 2022 by Down Island Publishing, LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Printed in the United States of America
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First Printing, 2022
ISBN-13: 978-1-956026-04-7
Cover design: Harvey Books, LLC
Editor: Gretchen Tannert Douglas
Proofreader: Donna Rich
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner unless noted otherwise. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
If one does not know to which port one is sailing,
no wind is favorable.
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Lucius Annaeus Seneca
PART I
PROLOGUE
I stirred with a faint trickle of light grazing the wall around the bedroom window that faced the canal. It must have been early, as Bogey, our yellow lab, had yet to bother me for his morning walk. My head felt heavy and my mind cloudy, the kind of haze that came when a few hours’ sleep wasn’t close to enough rest. I instinctively reached over next to me, and jolted completely awake.
She was still gone.
The events of the past few days flooded back and formed a knot in my stomach, and a lump in my throat. I rolled out of bed and turned on the light. Bogey gave me a confused look from his bed in the corner of the room, and I wished I shared his blissful ignorance. He had seemed lost for a day or two, wondering where Grace could be hiding, but I was still here and his meals came on time, so he’d moved on. I hadn’t. I checked my phone. Nothing new. No text messages, voicemails, or emails to explain where my wife could be. I rubbed my tongue across the new crown on the left side of my lower jaw. It was tough to believe that dentistry was responsible for me sitting in our home in Key Largo while Grace was missing somewhere in the Caribbean Sea, but a broken tooth was the culprit.
I made some coffee, because coffee helped everything, and it gave me something to do. I brushed my teeth and stared at the forty-eight-year-old man with slightly graying light brown hair looking back at me. Usually, I passed for forty. Today I could be fifty something. My eyes were baggy with dark circles, and wrinkles seemed to have sprung up overnight. I stopped looking in the mirror.
Bogey was still dragging his feet, so I sat down at the computer and looked at the charts for the umpteenth time. Grace had left Road Town on Tortola in the British Virgin Islands and sailed along the edge of the U.S. Virgin Islands. She’d crossed to Puerto Rico, followed the northern coast, then over to the Dominican Republic where she’d done the same thing, hugging the northern coastline. Three days ago, she’d left the west end of Haiti, heading north to continue up the island chain. Well, that’s what she had intended. That’s what she’d told me.
Bogey nudged my arm; apparently, he was ready to start his day. I left the computer, which revealed nothing new, and grabbed his leash. It was another balmy, hot day in the Keys, but a welcome breeze met us as we set off down the road toward the park. Bogey quickly marked his favorite shrub by the neighbors’ yard, then settled down to trot alongside, tongue already hanging out of his mouth.
I began the same series of thoughts I’d gone over and over in my head for days. Maybe the satellite phone had died or was lost. It certainly wasn’t powered up, as it went straight to voicemail. Each and every one of the thousand times I’d tried it. But she should have reached the Bahamas by now, with a string of islands on the way. Plenty of opportunity to go ashore, call, email… hell, a carrier pigeon could have flown here by now. She was a web security specialist after all; if anyone knew how to find a way to communicate, it was Grace. Which suggested she’d been delayed. There was a storm front farther west, but weather in the eastern Caribbean had been fine, so some kind of mechanical difficulty, along with a sat phone failure? It was always the second thing going wrong that turned a difficulty into a disaster. But I wasn’t ready to consider any form of disaster, I had to keep my head clear and consider the logical possibilities. At least the ones in which Grace comes home.
The boat hadn’t sunk. It could be stranded, but then again, if she was stranded, she would have used the sat phone—unless it was out of service for some reason—so then she would have activated the EPIRB. The Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon could be switched on manually, or automatically triggered if the sensor was submerged. It sent a serialized and registered identification code and GPS coordinates through satellites to the nearest ground control station, who would alert the local authorities. And me. Following this logic, the boat was still afloat, and Grace had chosen not to request emergency assistance. Or couldn’t.
She had flown down ahead of me to finalize the purchase of our dream sailboat. An Island Packet 380 in our price range—well, nearly in our sworn-to-not-exceed price range—was unheard of, and too good to pass up. I was to fly down a few days after her, and then I bit on an unpitted date. Several days and an emergency crown later, Grace called and told me to meet her in the Bahamas. She’d found a guy that would crew with her for the first few legs, and we would trade spots when they reached Nassau where he was planning to meet up with friends. Brandon. That was about all I knew about him. His name was Brandon. Grace assured me he came recommended by someone in Road Town whom he had crewed for. What if Brandon had fancied himself a nice Island Packet 380? Pirating was far more common than most people were aware; stolen boats and stolen people didn’t just happen off the coast of Africa.
We reached the park, but I was already antsy to get back. Bogey finally did his business after sniffing every damn piece of grass for a hundred yards. I bagged his morning gift to the world and dropped it in a trash can as I started back toward the house. Bogey wasn’t so keen to get home and looked at me as though I’d screwed him out of his daily ritual. Which I had. Rain or shine, we walked or ran for at least thirty minutes every morning. He trailed behind at the end of his leash, but I couldn’t sit around, or walk around, doing nothing any longer. Yesterday, I’d run up a phone bill I’d dread seeing in a month’s time, and the only thing I’d learned was there was nothing anyone could do. Not the U.S. police, the Bahamian police, or the Coast Guard. The ocean was too big to search without any idea where to look, they told me. Reaching anyone in Haiti was impossible.
They all asked if we were having marital problems. I was emphatic. I told them no, we’re great together. I said that because I believed that, but all this uncertainty and worry was eating me up. Could she have left me? Had my beautiful wife, the woman I was still passionately in love with after twenty-three years, run off with some shit called Brandon? The thoughts wouldn’t stop bouncing through my brain and I felt nauseous. The air conditioning in the house and a glass of water helped, but what I needed was something to do that would make a difference.
This was all uncharted territory for a high school football coach. Back at the computer, I brought up flights to the British Virgin Islands. Do I start where she left from, or where she was last known to be? Was she really on the northwest tip of Haiti? That was where she said they were when we last spoke. I quickly realized flying to Haiti and getting to the remote coastline would take days. I needed to start in Road Town, where maybe I could figure out who this Brandon guy was and go from there. It immediately felt better to have a plan.
My phone buzzed and I looked at the text. It was some kind of weird, automated message, not a text from a person. I was about to delete it as junk when I noticed EPIRB buried in the text. Shit, it was from the LEOLUT ground station in Florida. It said the local authorities had been alerted on Grand Cayman. Grand fucking Cayman? I jumped up out of the chair and read the message again. This had to be an error. It couldn’t be the new EPIRB Grace had taken with her. Grand Cayman was hundreds of miles west of Haiti, in the wrong direction. Sitting back down, I pulled up a map on the computer and used the measurement tool. Six hundred miles. About the same distance as it was to the Bahamas from Haiti. Three days sailing. Our sailboat, with Grace aboard, had just sunk off the coast of Grand Cayman. I frantically clicked back to the flights tab.
1
I had no idea if I’d covered all the bases, the past few hours had been a blur. I was headed toward a middle seat in the back of the plane on the late-morning flight to Grand Cayman. American Airlines was proud of that seat and allowed me to pay an extortionate price to park my ass in it for two hours. Bogey was having a sleepover with the neighbors who owned his favorite shrub, along with an elderly cat who hissed at all other life forms. Bogey, by default as a yellow lab, loved everyone and couldn’t understand why the cat hated him. I was sure he’d get over it if I came home with Grace. The Comfort Suites was the cheapest hotel I could find, and by cheapest, I mean it was a car payment per night instead of a house payment for some of the others. The rental car had been the only pleasant surprise. A local operation called Andy’s offered a compact for a reasonable price. I just hoped it was an operational vehicle and Andy wasn’t someone with a cardboard sign and a stolen car he was renting me.
I was in complete denial and planned to stay that way as long as possible. On the drive to Miami International, I’d been constantly on the phone. To my surprise, I reached the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service and was put through to a Detective Whittaker. He was aware of the distress beacon reported that morning and had spoken with someone from the RCIPS Joint Marine Unit who had responded. He was reluctant to share much over the phone and urged me to come straight to the police station when I arrived. He did mention an overnight storm that had finally abated this morning. Whittaker also told me there was no sign of the sailboat, which I was taking as good news.
My next call was strange to make. Grace had worked for CyberWard for nearly ten years, yet I’d never met anyone she worked with. The company was based in Palo Alto, California, and she flew out there once every few months, otherwise everything she did was remote. Her office in the house was like NASA’s control center to me, with computers, servers, and everything encrypted this way and that. I understood none of it. My Excel sheet with my players’ stats stretched my computer skills, and she often had to help me. I knew she had certain government clearances for some of the work they did, and I’d rib her that she must be Grace Bond. Years ago, she gave a name and number and told me if there was ever a work issue, call that number. Todd Franks in Palo Alto.
It was Saturday, 7:30 a.m. in California, and my call was answered on the first ring.
“Good morning, Mr. Fitzgerald,” came a calm, almost monotone voice over the car’s hands-free speaker.
“Hi, please call me Nathan,” I stumbled. “Is this Todd Franks?”
“It is,” he replied, “and I’m sorry we’re chatting under these circumstances.”
“You know?”
“We are aware that Grace hasn’t made contact in several days,” he said carefully. “Do you have someone you’re meeting in Grand Cayman?”
He knew I was on my way there? I had a creepy sensation that I was being watched or tracked somehow. Was our house bugged, or our Internet usage tracked? Now I felt the need to explain that the buxom German housewives’ site was a link sent by a buddy. It would’ve been rude not to look.
“I spoke with the police there, I’m supposed to contact them when I reach the island,” I replied.
“That’s good,” Todd said. “Would you keep me informed of anything they’ve found?”
I got the idea Todd would know long before I would, but I obliged. “Of course, I’ll call you after I meet with the detective.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald,” he responded pleasantly. “And naturally we have contacted the FBI, so they’re monitoring the situation.”
“The FBI?” I guess surprise was my main emotion, but I was angry too. I felt stupid. Apparently, I had no idea what my wife did or who she dealt with every day. I suppose I should’ve been happy that the FBI had an interest in finding her. Hell, bring on the National Guard, the Canadian Mounties and those British soldiers with the big fuzzy hats that guard the Queen. I wanted the whole world helping me find Grace, but somehow the mention of the FBI escalated the situation. I’d been thinking they’d find her and her buddy Brandon motoring into shore in the inflatable dinghy that came with the sailboat. She’d have a rational explanation why they veered six hundred miles off course, and we’d fly home and start arguing with the insurance company. But the FBI involvement suggested something far more sinister.
“It’s standard procedure in our line of work,” Franks calmly explained. “They may contact you directly.”
I had a million questions, but I couldn’t piece together a collective thought to verbalize a single one.
“Let’s speak again once you’re on the island,” he continued, and I mumbled something agreeable before hanging up.
If I’d thought it was a strange call to make, the conversation I just had was downright bizarre. I was relieved to make it into the airport parking in one piece as I had no recollection of the last hour of driving. I’d been on autopilot, focused on the phone calls, which was dangerous at any time, but a death wish on the Ronald Reagan Turnpike.
I had a backpack and a small duffel bag I’d hurriedly stuffed with everything I could think of. What do you pack for a “hunting for your missing wife” excursion? I had put in a pair of tennis shoes, some leggings and a couple of T-shirts for Grace. If the boat was at the bottom of the Caribbean Sea, she’d need a change of clothes. By the time I went through security, took the Skytrain, and walked to the gate, my flight was boarding. I was in the “all you other losers” boarding group, so I had time to get a coffee before they let me on. My backpack went under the seat in front, but there wasn’t any room left in the overhead for my duffel. There was everything up there from cases and handbags to a large puffy coat, but the flight attendant insisted on gate checking my duffel bag. Who the hell needs a puffy coat flying from Miami to the Caribbean?
I took my seat between a husband and wife who were no strangers to the all-you-can-eat buffet, and I offered to switch if they’d like to sit next to each other. Neither seemed interested, so I guessed we’d spend the flight playing the elbow poke game over the armrests. I paid a shit-ton of money for this seat made for a twelve-year-old; I’d be damned if the Golden Corral couple would steal any of it from me.
Two hours on an uncomfortable plane flight was not the best thing for me right now. The kid in front reclined all the way so the back of his seat was about eight inches from my nose, which ruled out using my computer. I could barely sip my coffee. I’d forgotten to retrieve my headphones from my backpack before we took off and now my six-foot frame was wedged in place like a packet of sausages. I played a game on my phone. Anything to distract me from thinking about Grace, Brandon, EPIRBs and the FBI.
2
I don’t think I met Andy, but to my relief his rental car company had a building and lots of cars. The young Caymanian lady behind the desk looked at me sideways when I asked for directions to the police station, but she drew a squiggly line on a map and sent me on my way. The locals had an island accent that was reminiscent of Jamaican, but different somehow. It had an almost musical quality and I realized when I heard them converse amongst themselves, that they were toning it down for my benefit. Which was good because I had no idea what they were saying to each other. Probably, “look at the dumb ass tourist,” but they smiled pleasantly, so I smiled back.
It was my first time on the island. I’d caught a brief glimpse from the air as we’d banked on approach. My middle seat had finally allowed me a view of something other than clouds and Mr. Golden Corral's malodorous shirt, decorated with coconuts. Grand Cayman was a tropical paradise straight from the pages of glossy magazines. A magical destination Grace and I could sail to someday. I still hoped.
