PART I ONE WEEK IN OCTOBER Day one, Friday, October 18

CHAPTER ONE

Friday, October 18

Driftwood Key

Florida Keys, USA


Hank Albright looked out across the turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Off in the distance, storm clouds were brewing, causing the points of the waves to lance up and down. The miniature pinpricks at their crests were white against the backdrop of the bluish-green gulf. It was never ending. A perpetual motion machine of energy coming ashore, teeming with life and creatures and an entire world he’d spent his life admiring.

He’d always been drawn to the water. He had been born on Driftwood Key in the Albright family home, which had been there since the early days following the connection of the string of islands to the mainland via the Flagler Railroad. The original Conchs, as those early settlers were called at the turn of the twentieth century, were dependent on the pristine waters for survival.

Albrights, Russells, Pinders, and Parkers shared a common background. Their forefathers were American Tories who fled the Thirteen Colonies at the end of the Revolution to a new home in the Bahamas. They became fishermen and sailors. They discovered the bounty beneath the pristine Caribbean waters and made a life for themselves.

Their descendants ultimately found their way to the Florida Keys when transportation generated commerce and trade routes to a burgeoning American economy. They brought their trade and craft with them and harvested the sea of the large mollusks known as conch.

The Albrights were pioneers in their own right. In a way, the Florida Keys was somewhat of a wilderness at the time the Flagler Railroad was built. Like their counterparts who’d traveled to the west on the mainland, the new settlers built towns, established local governments, and created businesses to sustain themselves. Today, the one-hundred-twenty-five-mile-long chain of islands that begins just south of Miami and stretches to within ninety miles of Cuba is known for its sun, sand, surf, and tourism.

Hank, despite having lived his entire fifty-one years on Driftwood Key, never tired of the deep scent of saltwater, the moist tropical air, and the mild subtropical climate. Certainly, hurricanes were a factor, but Driftwood Key and the buildings that dotted its landscape had withstood the worst of what Mother Nature had to offer. Thus far, anyway.

He slid his hands into the pockets of his white linen pants. Hank didn’t have a uniform per se, but if he did, white linen pants topped with a Tommy Bahama camp shirt would be it. No shoes required. He looked and dressed the part of a retired islander with sun-kissed skin, bleach-blond hair, and a slightly weathered face courtesy of years of exposure to the sun and salty sea.

Hank, however, was not retired. He operated the Driftwood Key Inn, a property on the National Register of Historic Places, built by the Albright family in the early 1920s. The inn, which was more of a village, actually, was situated on a twenty-eight-acre island in the heart of the Middle Keys just west of Marathon.

Driftwood Key was unique in that it was not located directly on State Road A1A, a north-south Florida highway that runs along the Atlantic Ocean from Key West to Fernandina Beach at the Georgia border. Many a crooner had belted out a song about A1A, providing imagery of swaying palm trees and margaritas to music lovers.

The Albright property was an anomaly in the Keys. It was only accessible by a private bridge that connected it to the much larger Vaca Key. It was exclusive as room rates go, yet all-inclusive, meaning it was an expensive property to visit, but its guests were provided everything they needed for their stay.

Throughout Driftwood Key were nineteen self-catered cottages complete with kitchens and all the amenities. Food was delivered to the guests daily by the inn’s staff or, at their option, they could have dinner with Hank and other guests in the main house.

The private beach and stunning freshwater swimming pool were surrounded by native palm trees and vegetation. The mature growth, coupled with the ever-present breezes off the gulf, allowed guests to completely block out any sound or light emanating from the other keys.

Hank loved his home and business. He understood why people were drawn to the warm, maritime climate of the southernmost part of the U.S. Who could argue with a beachfront umbrella, toes in the sand, and a cold drink in hand? Most couldn’t and were willing to spend their entire budget on a multi-thousand-dollar stay at the Driftwood Key Inn.

Hank mindlessly kicked at the sand that morning as he spoke to his wife, a daily ritual since she’d died of breast cancer eight years ago. He still missed her, and coming out to the beach with the break of dawn was his way of keeping her close to his heart. The sadness and despair over her loss had passed years ago. There were constant memories of her throughout Driftwood Key. A random flower garden planted here. A secluded hammock hung there. These reminders didn’t torture Hank. They allowed him to hold her close to his heart.

“Good morning, Mr. Hank!” a voice cheerily announced.

Hank turned to greet Jimmy Free, the youngest son of Sonny and Phoebe, who had worked for the Albright family since they were young. The entire staff at the inn referred to him as Mr. Hank. Early on, he tried to force them to call him Hank. Heck, he’d grown up with most of them, and attaching the word mister to his name didn’t seem right. Nonetheless, out of respect, once he took over the inn’s operations, they began to refer to him as Mr. Albright. Hank pitched a fit, and finally a compromise was struck. It was agreed that he would be henceforth referred to as Mr. Hank.

Jimmy, like the rest of his family, who’d worked on Driftwood Key for generations, was of Seminole Indian descent. Their ancestors had immigrated to southern Florida in the late eighteenth century and had been employed by merchants after the railroad was built. The Frees were one of the largest Seminole families in the Keys. Jimmy’s aunt, Lindsey Free, was the mayor of Monroe County.

“Good morning, Jimmy,” Hank greeted heartily. He genuinely liked the young man who’d just taken over the water sports activities at Driftwood Key. Jimmy was one of the many young men who grew up involved in all manners of water activities, from fishing to diving to beach games. His zest for life was addictive, which made him a favorite of the inn’s guests.

He handed Hank a red Solo cup with a straw protruding out of it. “Mom asked me to bring this to you.”

Hank took the cup and looked at the concoction. It was adorned with a pineapple slice.

“It’s a little early for cocktails, don’t you think?”

“Said no one ever,” replied Jimmy with a toothy grin. The young man’s joke was surprising in light of the fact Jimmy had never had a drink in his life as far as Hank knew.

He shrugged and took a tentative sip. His eyebrows rose, and he nodded his head with approval. He sucked it down in earnest the second time around.

He raised the cup in the air. “Hell yeah. I approve. What is it?”

“It’s a new breakfast smoothie Mom’s trying out. She added flax seed, papaya, banana, and protein powder. Hella good, right?”

Hank laughed as he took another sip. The icy-cold drink gave him a mild attack of brain freeze.

“Hella good,” he repeated Jimmy’s words.

Jimmy began to unpack his scuba bag containing fins, mask and a snorkel, although he rarely used it. He was capable of holding his breath under water for nearly ten minutes, five times the average person.

“I’m gonna empty out the lobster traps and then get everything set up for the backgammon tournament.” The inn had set up dozens of traps around the island to catch Caribbean spiny lobster. Jimmy also liked to dive near the reefs and catch them by hand.

“Fins up, Jimmy!”

The young man provided Hank a thumbs-up and began to jog down the beach. Hank turned toward the main house just as the sun was peeking through the palm trees on the east side of the island. It was gonna be another glorious day in paradise.

CHAPTER TWO

Friday, October 18

Driftwood Key


Hank turned up the smoothie and made sure to consume every drop. He would encourage Phoebe to make this a part of his daily routine if she had time. Hank rarely stopped for breakfast in the morning unless some of the Albright family stayed overnight or a notable guest happened to be in residence.

He bounded up the broad, sand-covered steps leading to the porch of the main house. The sand covered part of the porch, a wood deck covered with an upper balcony and kept cool with numerous ceiling fans that also served to shoo away mosquitos during the summer months. Hank glanced to his left and greeted the man who truly kept the inn running smoothly.

“Whadya say, old man?” he said with a laugh.

“Not as much as you, old man, but my words of wisdom are worth listening to,” Sonny Free shot back.

Since they were boys, the two men had grown up together as brothers just as close as Hank was to his actual brother, Mike. Hank enjoyed all things water, and Sonny had spent much of his time understanding the unique ecosystem of the Florida Keys. While in high school together, they were in an American literature class that taught Ernest Hemingway’s works, including The Old Man and The Sea. Sonny referred to Hank as the old man in the sea, and Sonny was playfully called the old man on the land. The nicknames had been used between the two men for thirty-five years.

Sonny noticed the empty cup in Hank’s hand. “I see you got a serving of my missus’s new concoction. Could you taste the secret ingredient?”

Hank was puzzled because he thought he could identify the fruit and even the hint of vanilla from the protein powder. “Which one?”

“Conch, naturally.”

“Really. I swear I couldn’t taste it.” Conch, which didn’t have a strong flavor, usually left a bit of a salty aftertaste. Its rubbery texture must’ve been obliterated in the blender. “Why would she add conch?”

Sonny laughed and adopted his best Jamaican-islander accent. “Because, mon, it makes you strong, if you know what I mean.” Sonny made a fist and rammed it into his hand several times.

Hank shook his head and rolled his eyes. His friends, family, and pretty much anybody who knew him personally had encouraged him to make lady friends. Perhaps, they suggested, find time to go on a date. Or, at worst, enter into one of those friends with benefits relationships.

He wasn’t interested. Nobody could ever replace his wife, and he was certain he’d constantly be comparing his new relationship to the one he’d had with her. Yet it was human nature to have companionship, and he supposed it was inevitable that the right person would come along at some point. In the meantime, he had Driftwood Key and all that came with it.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Say, Sonny, you wanna install the thatch roof on the new massage gazebo today? We’re gonna have a full house this weekend, and I’d like to set up a second spa area for the guests.”

“Sounds like a plan. After lunch? It won’t take long.”

“I’ll find you,” replied Hank as he entered the open foyer.

Most times of the year, the windows and doors to the main house remained open. Some seasons were buggier than others, and of course, inclement weather caused the staff to batten down the hatches, as they say. Occasionally, a wild critter native to the Florida Keys would find itself inside. Many years ago, the Albrights had eliminated the Key Largo cotton mouse population. By taking away its preferred prey, the ringneck snakes that inhabited the other keys were no longer around either. Once in a while, a curious marsh rabbit would find its way inside the house or even a wayward sanderling. They were allowed to mill about inside until at some point they’d get hungry and move on. This was life for Hank and every living being that inhabited Driftwood Key. They were like family.

The main house, as Hank called it for lack of a better term, was more of a gathering place for guests as well as the center of the inn’s administration functions. His bedroom was upstairs, overlooking the gulf-side beach, while family guest rooms were located on the south side of the building, facing the Atlantic. Downstairs, Hank had an office, as did Laura, his reservationist who doubled as a front desk clerk. The formal dining room of the home had been expanded to accommodate up to forty guests. Coupled with a gathering room that included a bar and seating, the main floor was both functional for the business as well as an entertainment hub for guests.

There was one part of the main house off-limits to everyone except a select few. The kitchen. This was Phoebe Free’s domain. She was the ruler of the roost. Phoebe was the chef. Head of procurement. Matron of the housekeeping crew. In essence, she was the grande dame of Driftwood Key. And Hank liked it.

There were a lot of aspects of the inn’s operations that he enjoyed. He was always inserting himself in Sonny’s activities. He led more fishing charters than the boat captain he’d hired to perform the task. Evenings were a genuine pleasure, as he was able to get to know folks from all around the world. Conversations were lively. Drinks were enjoyed. Most nights, Hank went to bed with the pride of another successful day under his belt.

He entered the kitchen. “Phoebe! You’ve done it again. This smoothie was fabulous.”

“Well, I’m glad you approve, Mr. Hank. I thought this would be a better start to your day than eggs, sausage, bacon, biscuits, cholesterol, fat, and artery-clogging goodies.”

“You know I don’t eat that very often,” said Hank. Only a couple of times a week, anyway. His father had died of congestive heart failure, and everyone who loved Hank vowed to save him from the same fate. “By the way, the secret ingredient is really not necessary.”

Phoebe turned her body slightly to conceal the kitchen counter where she’d been working. She blushed as she sneakily slid an emptied conch shell and its contents behind her back.

“Whatsoever do you mean, Mr. Hank?” she tried to say with a straight face.

“Sonny ratted you out. I couldn’t taste it, but I know what you’re up to.”

Phoebe scowled and glanced toward the open window that overlooked the front porch. If she’d caught a glimpse of her husband, she might’ve slung a butcher knife at him. “My ingredients and recipes are none of your concern, Mr. Hank. It’s just, well, Laura said a nice group of ladies, sisters actually, are coming in for the week today, and I just thought…” Her voice trailed off before she revealed her true intentions.

Hank set the cup and straw in the sink and rinsed off his hands. He dried them on a dish towel and folded it as he addressed Phoebe. “I know about the reservation, and I know nothing about the guests except they are all female.”

“One is a VIP,” added Phoebe. “I’ve been planning several special meals for the week.”

“We get lots of VIPs. I don’t need to be devouring conch just because one of them is female.”

“Not true, Mr. Hank. You’ve forgotten your father’s words. Eyes wide open.”

Hank laughed. “He was talking about something totally different. It had nothing to do with you fixing me up with a lady friend.”

Phoebe pouted and then furrowed her brow. “Okay, fine. But you will drink these smoothies every day. Please?” Her tone of voice begged just enough that he couldn’t say no. Plus, it had been really good.

Hank wrapped his left arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

She nodded and patted him on the chest in a motherly sort of way. She was three years younger than Hank, but Phoebe had assumed the role of lady of the house after his wife passed. She eagerly took care of him as if it had been a solemn promise she’d made to the Albright family.

CHAPTER THREE

Friday, October 18

Abu Dhabi National Exhibition Centre

United Arab Emirates


Peter Albright knew an attack was imminent the moment the shouts of Abu Dhabi police assigned to the conference security detail reached a fever pitch. But that moment was almost too late. Even as the implication of their warnings registered in his brain, and the logical conclusion calculated, the blast of a car bomb ripped through the Abu Dhabi National Exhibition Centre in the United Arab Emirates.

Peter, the oldest son of Hank Albright, was a pool reporter traveling with the U.S. secretary of state. It was one of the worst jobs in journalism unless you loved to travel. Starting from the bottom, you might be assigned to vice presidents, or the second ladies of vice presidents. Dutifully following them to unexciting locales like Dayton, Ohio, or Fresno, California. Then, with luck, you might get elevated to the president’s entourage, complete with Secret Service companions and Air Force One amenities.

Peter hadn’t achieved that level of experience yet. However, the opportunity to follow Carolyn Sanders, the secretary of state, around the world, was a good one. And she was a frequent flyer to be sure. There wasn’t a conference she didn’t want to attend. Every event of national importance to America’s allies was worthy of her presence. Her appearances rarely made news, as she enjoyed her role as a figurehead for the Washington administration and not a politician trying to make a name for herself. The president seemed to enjoy surrounding himself with, as Peter called them, underachievers.

In any event, he was prepared to pay his dues. Despite the fact his primary employer, the Washington Times, paid his salary, Peter ended up doing work for a whole lot of news organizations that didn’t pay him one plug nickel. Most often, he’d end up writing a lot of vacuous nonsense, like:


Pool Report #1

SOS greets local officials as she arrives at something-or-other airport. The ambassador sneezes. SOS says, “Gesundheit.” Ambassador’s aide sneers and shakes head in disgust. Nation is at odds over trade agreement with Germany. SOS waves at people who lined up outside the fence surrounding the tarmac. They are waving American flags and cheering. Everyone scrambles for motorcade vehicles, and entourage pulls away at 10:11 a.m.

It was gripping, scintillating stuff like that. And he had to do it over and over and over again, even when there was even less to say than the faux pas associated with an innocent sneeze.

Today was different.

The bomb blast was sudden and violent. It came without any warning other than the last-second shouting. Peter acted on reflex, diving behind the large sectional sofa in the middle of the conference center lobby. He scrambled on all fours until he could wedge himself under a marble sofa table to shield his body from flying glass and debris.

His duck-and-cover instincts had been developed in press rooms, not on the field of battle. He’d never experienced anything like a bomb blast, but he’d learned to dodge the verbal assaults of DC politicians looking to make an example of a reporter who questioned the veracity of their statements.

From beneath the marble tabletop, Peter turned his head toward the source of the blast, the circle driveway along the front entry. Once a hundred-foot-wide, thirty-foot-tall section of ornate etched glass, it was now broken into a million pieces, with shards of the panes peppering the attendees of the conference.

Peter checked his exposed skin. For a second, he was relieved. He’d avoided the debris from the blast. He glanced behind him. A woman was dying from a piece of glass that had pierced her neck and severed her jugular. Her once pristine white suit was now being splattered with various shades of crimson.

Mayhem reigned in the lobby. Cries for help. Screams of agony. Moans of pain. The roar of human devastation was deafening.

Then came the gunfire.

Shrieks filled the air as hysterical attendees were frightened to the next level of horror. Peter understood their fear because he sensed there was more to come. The bombs were detonated, and then they were done. However, automatic weapons could go on and on until a good guy with a gun kills the bad guy.

Bullets ricocheted throughout the building. Peter set his jaw in determination. He had no intention of dying under the marble console table. He crawled past the now-dead woman in white along the back of the half-moon sectional. He tried his best to keep the sofa between him and the front entry, the source of the rapid gunfire.

He scanned the lobby. Besides the banks of elevators, there was a hallway that most likely led to the conference center’s administrative offices. All the events were to take place on the third floor overlooking the marina below and the Persian Gulf in the distance. He calculated the distance he’d need to cross in the open to make it to the double doors leading down the hallway.

Thirty yards. He could make it.

He listened, waiting for a lull in the gun battle. Maybe the Abu Dhabi police would give an all clear. Or maybe if he waited for just the right time, he’d run out of time.

Peter sprang to his feet and raced along the back of the sofa in a low crouch. He’d made it several paces without being shot when he crashed hard into one of the gunmen. They rolled over and over in a tangle of arms and legs.

The man was as surprised to be knocked down as Peter was to have engaged the killer. Peter’s will to live gave him the edge he needed to grab the man’s weapon and shoot several rounds into his legs.

Then three things happened all at once.

The killer screamed in agony and shouted, “Allahu Akbar!God is most great! He reached inside his vest and retrieved a grenade. Just as he reached for the safety pin to reveal the striker, Peter shot him in the face. He’d killed someone for the first time.

Well, actually four things. Peter cursed repeatedly. The kind of profanity that someone hurled when both angry and scared.

He gripped the Uzi and pushed himself against the back of the sofa with the heels of his feet. His head and eyes darted in all directions, the barrel of the small rifle following his movements.

To his left, a man tried to run for the same hallway Peter intended to escape through. It didn’t end well. A burst of staccato gunfire erupted and struck him several times in the back. His body was slammed to the marble floor, falling like a glass brushed off the edge of a table. Only, instead of shattering, it just hit the floor with a thud, twitching as it fought for its last breath.

The man’s eyes were open, staring at Peter. They were behaving like any human would when the realization came that they no longer had a functioning circulatory system. Peter had just seen three people die, three more than he’d seen in his lifetime. He physically shook himself to force his mind to focus.

He couldn’t run. The dead man twelve feet away from him proved that. He wasn’t prepared to cower behind the sofa. Another detonation would kill him. Gunfire and the subsequent bullets would rip through the cushions, and he’d suffer the same fate as so many others. He needed a distraction.

Peter had an idea. When he and his best friend growing up, Jimmy Free, used to play hide-and-seek on the grounds of Driftwood Key, Peter would often use coconuts to throw Jimmy off his trail when he was getting too close. He wondered what kind of confusion could be garnered from tossing the terrorist’s grenade.

Gripping the rifle in one hand, he scrambled over to the dead man and carefully pulled the grenade from his left hand. It was shaped like a large Meyer’s lemon not unlike those grown on the key. Even the color was similar.

He held his breath to listen as sporadic gunfire continued. Then he heard the roar of a truck approaching. Was it the police or military? Was it another bomb? He dared not stick his head above the sofa.

Bullets whizzed over his head and pelted the reception table where attendees had been standing moments ago. A woman screamed. And then she was silenced. The gunmen began shouting in Arabic. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but their tone was clear. Orders were given and then acknowledged. The terrorists were sweeping the enormous lobby in search of targets.

It was now or never. Peter glanced to his right and then to his left. The path to the hallway was unobstructed. To his right, a piano together with the mangled instruments of a string quartet—two violins, a viola, and a cello—lay beside their deceased musical ensemble.

Peter studied the grenade. He didn’t know if it exploded after a certain amount of time or upon impact. He was sure he could work it. Or at least, he hoped he could. If it didn’t explode, he knew he’d be dead seconds after his plan was discovered.

He held the striker lever firmly against the serrated, cast-iron body of the grenade. He set his jaw, pulled the safety pin out with his teeth like he’d seen in the movies, and slung the grenade halfway to where the piano rested on three legs.

The cast iron hit the marble surface with a clank and then rolled against the body of the once beautiful pianist.

Qunbula!” The man was shouting grenade in Arabic, but the second word in the phrase never left his mouth. The explosion rocked the interior of the lobby. The blast eviscerated the already dead young woman’s body and sent the piano flying several feet into the air before it exploded, sending keys and strings in all directions.

Peter didn’t watch the result. Like the North Vietnamese tossing a grenade into a Quonset hut without regard to the outcome, Peter bolted across the lobby, zigzagging toward the double doors. Bullets skipped along the marble floor on both sides of him and stitched the doors as he approached. Still gripping the Uzi, he crashed hard through the doors.

He never looked back to see if he was being pursued. With gun in hand, he ran as far away as he could, dashed down another hallway until he found a rear entrance to the building, and emerged in a parking lot at the precise moment the UAE Presidential Guard prepared to enter the building.

Peter dropped the weapon. He raised his arms high over his head and shouted the only words he thought might save him.

“I’m an American!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Friday, October 18

Driftwood Key


“Our compliments to the chef!” exclaimed one of the women who’d arrived late that afternoon with her three sisters in tow. She was the oldest of the group and clearly the leader of the pack.

Hank beamed. Phoebe had never served a bad meal, but a resounding compliment always swelled him with pride. Earlier, his project with Sonny had run into a snag, causing him to work on the roof a little longer than he’d hoped to. While he was in the shower cleaning up for the evening meal, the four sisters had arrived, so he’d missed his usual opportunity to greet them. Over dinner and drinks, he was the center of attention as he relayed the history of Driftwood Key and the rest of the archipelago, the only one connected to the continental U.S.

As they waited for dessert, he got to know the sisters at the insistence of Phoebe and pretty much everyone else on the staff. Unsurprisingly, the oldest sister, who was married, took control of the conversation.

“Of course, the baby in the family happens to be the most famous of us all,” she began with a nod and a smile toward her youngest sister at the end of the table. The woman, who was in her late forties, was not familiar to Hank, so he was intrigued.

“Hush, Maggie,” the woman protested. “I’m not famous. Besides, I bet Mr. Albright meets lots of famous people based upon the photographs on the wall.”

Hank shrugged. “We’ve had a few.” He was being modest. Over the nearly hundred years of its existence, the Driftwood Key Inn had hosted notables from Hollywood to Washington.

The youngest sister continued. “I’d be willing to bet Hank doesn’t even know who I am unless he was busy on Google before we arrived.”

Hank laughed at the reference to Google. It seemed to be common practice for people to dig around online to learn all they could about the people they came into contact with, completely incognizant of the fact that others were doing the same to them.

He raised his hand and smiled. “Sorry, I’m not a fan of googling people. In the Keys, we have too many pirates, if you know what I mean.”

Everyone, including an elderly couple who’d arrived that day, laughed. It was Friday night and the first night of Fantasy Fest in Key West, the annual two-week-long celebration of Halloween. Most of the guests had made the forty-five-mile drive to the southernmost point in the U.S. to join in the festivities that evening.

“See, Maggie,” she said with a sneer at her meddling oldest sister. The woman nervously fiddled with her ring finger that no longer held a ring. She made eye contact with Hank. “I’m Erin Bergman.”

Hank nodded and feigned recognition although he had no idea who she was. “Nice to meet you, Erin.”

“She’s the secretary of agriculture,” pointed out her proud sister.

“Oh, of course. Um, I saw you folks listed a Tallahassee address on—”

The overbearing sister interrupted Hank. “No. That was before. Erin is the new United States secretary of agriculture.”

“Okay, sis,” Erin interjected. She appeared embarrassed by her sister’s actions. “We don’t need to bother Mr. Albright with my résumé.”

“Hank, please.”

“Yes, of course.”

Hank studied Erin. She was markedly different from her sisters, especially her oldest one. She had softer features and was more reserved. The conversations at dinner had been dominated by the others. He wasn’t sure if she was shy, unusual for a politician, or perhaps she was dealing with things in her personal life. Hank, despite his continuous protestations to anyone who suggested he find a female companion, suddenly found himself checking for a wedding ring on his new acquaintance.

“Erin, accept my apologies. I don’t really follow politics. I mean, I do when they raise my taxes but otherwise, um, not really. Well, I do vote. Most of the time, anyway.” Hank found himself suddenly nervous. He was usually a very confident host around strangers. This was different.

“I totally understand,” Erin said. “Face it, most Americans have no idea who their secretary of agriculture is unless they’re mad at me or want something.”

The elderly couple roared in laughter at her statement. Somehow, it must’ve struck a nerve with them on a personal level. Hank allowed them to enjoy their laugh, which also managed to force a smile on Erin.

Her oldest sister continued with Erin’s résumé. “After serving as Florida’s Ag secretary and transportation secretary before that, she was only the second woman to be confirmed to the U.S. post. And, I might add, the first from Florida.”

Erin locked eyes with Hank and grimaced. She was embarrassed by the attention. Fortunately for her, she was rescued by Phoebe, who was presenting her signature dessert.

“Honored guests,” she began, causing Hank to cringe. She’d never started like that, making him wonder if she was in cahoots with big sister. “May I present the house specialty dessert—the 1920s Albright key lime pie.”

Two members of the inn’s waitstaff hustled around the table, setting out dessert plates and forks. A third wheeled in a cart holding two delectable key lime pies topped with meringue. She carefully made the first cut with an olivewood-handled pie knife that had been a staple of the inn’s kitchen for nearly forty years. It, like the inn, had withstood the test of time.

Hank explained the name. “Years ago, my grandmother presented my mom with her cookbook. It was a rite of passage that many families experience in the Keys, not unlike the presentation of the family Bible from father to son.

“Her recipe for key lime pie had always been a family favorite, and therefore it was passed down from generation to generation. I must say, Phoebe has perfected it.”

“It’s because of one special secret ingredient,” she interjected.

Hank’s eyes grew wide. He’d never heard of a secret ingredient, and he immediately assumed she was referring to conch. My god, he thought to himself, Phoebe has gone off the rails and is putting conch in every damn thing.

Phoebe began to laugh and patted her boss on the shoulder. She lowered her voice as if she could read his mind. “Relax, Mr. Hank. It’s not what you think.” She made eye contact with the dinner guests before explaining the family recipe. “The recipe is not unlike many others. You know, eggs, condensed milk, sugar, and, naturally, key limes. But here’s the difference. We grow them right here on Driftwood Key, so they have that Florida sun-kissed taste.”

The elderly man asked, “Well, you folks are known for key lime this and that, am I right? Why would that be a special ingredient?”

Erin raised her hand. “Phoebe, may I take that one?”

“Certainly, honored guest,” Phoebe responded with a smile. She slid her left foot over to kick Hank’s ankle.

Erin continued. “Many people don’t know that the majority of key limes, which are more aromatic and juicier than regular limes, are grown in Mexico because of old trade agreements. Orange growers have faced the same uneven playing field. Part of what I hope to accomplish in Washington is to ease the burden on Florida’s agricultural growers by leveling the playing field with Mexico.”

Phoebe finished distributing the slices of pie and stood back as everyone tasted it. Nearly everyone closed their eyes to savor the flavor.

“Oh. My. God,” said the oldest sister in single-word sentences. She quickly shoved a second bite into her mouth before the first one was completely consumed. “One word. Heavenly.”

Hank chuckled. “That it is. Because we grow the limes here on the key, we can pick them while they’re still green. Phoebe is an expert in determining when the perfect level of ripeness occurs. She says the secret ingredient is the fact that we grow them here. In actuality, it’s the love and attention she gives to picking just the right ones.”

Erin laughed. “Hey, Phoebe. It sounds to me like a good time to ask for a raise.”

“Yes, Mr. Hank. How about it?”

Hank was about to answer when Erin’s phone began to vibrate and emit a text tone that resembled an emergency warning. She quickly pulled it out of her shorts pocket and studied the display.

“I’m sorry. I need to make a phone call.”

A look of concern came over her sister’s face. “Is everything okay?”

“There’s been a terrorist attack in Abu Dhabi.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Friday, October 18

Curry Hammock State Park

Fat Deer Key, Florida


Marty Kantor was a drifter. He had no roots. He had no sense of purpose. He had no soul. There was no way out of the downward spiral he’d succumbed to the day he’d tried his first joint as a teen. Drug experimentation was the first stage toward full-blown addiction, and the readily available hallucinogenic had been a logical place to start.

Soon, the high wasn’t good enough, and he turned to Google. His mom, a functioning alcoholic and manic-depressive, had a treasure trove of goodies to choose from in her medicine cabinet. Kantor researched them all and began taking a few here and there. The highs and lows were glorious.

His mom was too oblivious to notice the missing pills until she tried to get refills and the pharmacy refused to accommodate her. So Kantor mastered the art of placeboing, if that was even a word. Perhaps it was, not that it mattered. It was one he made up, but at least he understood it. Kantor learned how to empty the contents of his mom’s medicine capsules and replace it with a placebo, usually baking starch or flour. He’d ingest the drugs, and she’d get to swallow a baker’s secret ingredient of no medicinal use.

Initially, she didn’t notice the difference until she began to descend into madness. Her meds weren’t working; she’d complained to the pharmacist and then her doctor. When the doctor fired her as a patient for all intents and purposes, she’d try to find another one. However, government regulations made sure her medical records followed her everywhere. Soon, she became desperate to keep her mind sane and sought alternative ways to self-medicate.

This new program worked well for Kantor. Mom would score some heavy shit like crystal meth or even heroin. After she partied with Christy and the Dragon, her dutiful son would rob her of the remaining drugs and use them himself.

Then, one day, the Kantor party came to an end. At least in Miami, anyway. His dear mother unexpectedly became the dearly departed Mrs. Kantor. This sucked for Kantor because he still had a life to live, sort of. For a while, he toughed it out with his mother’s dead body lying in a heap on the far side of her bed against a wall.

You see, he had to keep her alive, ostensibly, so he could collect the myriad of government checks that came her way. Kantor cashed them at a liquor store, begrudgingly paying the required twenty percent you-ain’t-the-payee fee. He’d immediately roll right around the corner to pick up some more crystal meth. Now he was partying hearty with Christy.

This worked for Kantor for a month or so. He’d score a diamond of the dangerous drug, get his high, and try to function. Jobs were plentiful, as the economy was roaring, so warm bodies were in high demand. He’d work for a while, cash a paycheck or two, and then increase his drug intake.

Marty Kantor decided to move on when his dead mom began to stink so bad that he couldn’t mask the smell with bonus hits on the meth pipe. He really didn’t have anywhere to go, but he’d always heard the Florida Keys were a party place. Since partying was all he knew, he loaded up dearly departed Mom’s Chevy Lumina with anything of use and headed south.

Kantor made it all the way to Key West before the Lumina crapped out. It was a piece of shit anyway, but it had enough gas to get him to his destination. No matter, Kantor convinced himself. He wasn’t goin’ back to Hialeah anyway. He got settled into his new digs, the backseat of the Lumina.

He tried to party the old way, scoring crystal meth and sailing out to sea in his demented mind. He soon realized Key West was a different kind of party town. It wasn’t full of dope dealers on every corner. There weren’t opportunities to trade sexual favors for a few bucks. The place wasn’t full of pawnshops to exchange stolen valuables for a few bucks. They ran a clean operation down there, and that sucked for him.

Kantor had to change his approach to life, so he made an effort to clean up. He shoplifted a pair of shorts and a polo shirt from a local boutique. He ripped off a bicycle from the cruise ship docks. He found a drunk college kid on the beach and pilfered his flip-flops.

All in one day.

That night, he snuck into a hotel room while the housekeeping team wasn’t looking. He hid in a closet until they were gone. He took a shower, dressed, and studied himself in the mirror. He’d lost a ton of weight. Every tweaker did.

He pushed his shoulders back and tried to stand straight with confidence. The skin sores on his chest revealed themselves through his polo shirt, so he returned to his customary slouch.

He smiled and said to his mirrored self, “Hello, sir. I’m Marty Kantor. I’d like a job.” His smile revealed his decaying teeth and gums indicative of meth mouth. Kantor quickly closed his mouth and scowled at himself. This was never gonna work.

Plan A, finding a job that could support his habit, wasn’t a viable option. So he moved on to plan B. He recalled a saying from when he first discovered puberty and began to show an interest in girls. They’re all hot at 3:00 a.m., referring to women in a bar at closing time.

Plan B was simple. Try to stay presentable and search for unsuspecting women, or men, in the dark recesses of the local bars at the end of the night. Key West was a party town, and it was full of inebriated something or others interested in a sexual encounter for the night. Marty Kantor was just the guy for the job, although the crystal meth had taken its toll on his manhood, a fact he considered irrelevant. He just wanted their valuables. Cash, credit, or payment in jewelry was all acceptable.

That night, Kantor went to work. He found the perfect bar, well off the beaten path of Duval Street, where the parrothead revelers tended to congregate. His head was in a good place that night, and he easily hooked up with a woman, or at least he thought she was.

The two shared a bottle of vodka and jumped in the target’s car. Kantor didn’t care where they were going because he was getting drunk. They shared a joint. They laughed about stupid shit. They drove and drove up A1A until his new friend suddenly slowed the car and pulled down a sandy road into Curry Hammock State Park. That was when the whole dynamic of plan B changed.

One minute, Marty Kantor thought he had the upper hand and was ready to make bank from this unsuspecting loser. His mind raced as he thought of the diamond-shaped crystals ready to take him away to another dimension. The next minute, he found his head forced down into the woman’s crotch—only, it wasn’t a woman.

Kantor had had enough. He tried to pull away from the guy dressed as a woman. He even threw up the contents of his mostly empty stomach as a defensive mechanism. This prevented him from committing the sexual act.

It also ended his life with a swift, brutal blow.

The man, dressed as a woman, thrust a knife into the base of Kantor’s skull and twisted and twisted before pulling it out. By the time he was done with the meth-head-turned-grifter, the body was unrecognizable.

Human scum. Detective Mike Albright of the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department studied the crime scene from a distance. He’d trudged through the wetlands and slopes surrounded by the stands of hardwoods that covered the island. The evidence trail was a hundred yards long, and the low-lying palmettos still showed blood splatter. There were body parts everywhere. Some were missing, either to the wildlife that inhabited the hammocks or because the killer had decided to take them as trophies.

It didn’t look like any body he’d seen before. The corpse was naked. The upper body had been stabbed dozens of times. Appendages had been sawed off, including the man’s genitals. Even its hair was gone, with only a few patches of bloody scalp remaining. What the brutal murderer had done to the victim’s face was unimaginable. The crime was sadistic.

Mike knelt down over the corpse and studied what remained. Where would the medical examiner even start? Did it really matter what the precise cause of death was? He supposed it would in the event the perp decided to go to trial. He tried to imagine what a jury, many of whom might be friends or casual acquaintances of the Albright family, would think of the photographs the forensic team was taking.

The ME approached him. “Mike, the killer has escalated his rage. The MO on this victim is the same as the other except for the obvious increase in body mutilation post-mortem.”

“Any sign of the murder weapon?”

“Part of it,” the ME replied. He handed Mike a Ziploc evidence bag with the handle of a knife inside. “It appears to be spring-assisted. The handle is roughly three and a half inches long. Perfectly legal.”

“What about the blade?” asked Mike.

The medical examiner shrugged and turned toward the body. “In there somewhere, I suspect. I’ll get to work this afternoon and let you know what I find.”

Mike grimaced as he thanked the ME. He’d seen enough. The forensics team would do their level best to gather evidence, but most likely, since this was the second murder in the last two weeks, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, FDLE, would get involved.

The Florida Keys wasn’t exactly the murder capital of the world. It wasn’t even a murderous county. They were few and far between. Most cases that Mike investigated related to assaults, robberies, and the occasional rape.

These killings were disgusting. Demented. Psychotic. Unlike anything he’d seen or heard about in his lifetime. And they were becoming more brutal.

CHAPTER SIX

Friday, October 18

Havana Jack’s Oceanside Restaurant & Bar

Marathon, Florida


Mike balanced his empty glass on the edge of the teak bar, waiting for the bartender to refill it with Jack Daniel’s and a few cubes of ice. The young man had been preoccupied with a group of pretty girls sitting at the other end of the U-shaped outdoor bar overlooking the Atlantic. They were knocking back pineapple-looking drinks full of rum and juice and all kinds of sweet things skewered by an extra-long toothpick. Of course, a tiny paper umbrella had been plunged into the pineapple slice adorning the rim of the glass.

Typical, he thought to himself.

Mike wanted a quiet moment to gather his thoughts, and he hoped Havana Jack’s might give him a place of respite. Mike was not much of a drinker. None of the Albrights were. Hank had gone through a period of escape after his wife died but eventually returned to nothing more than a social drink with his guests in the evening.

For Mike, however, today was different. A special occasion, if you will. He’d worked all day at the grisly murder scene, and technically, this was the end of his tour. A Jack on the rocks or three just might help him cope with what he’d just seen in the hammocks.

A female voice entered his solemn consciousness. “Can I buy you a drink, sailor?” Cliché, but real. It was also familiar.

To confirm it wasn’t all in his head, he felt the woman run her fingers across his broad shoulders, briefly touching the nape of his neck, causing the tiny hairs to rise in response.

More familiar.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he inhaled her scent.

Even more familiar.

Not perfumy. Salt water.

“How’d you know I was here?” he asked without taking his eyes away from the last swig of bourbon.

She set her phone next to his on the bar, drawing his eyes to study its display. On the map, there were two red dots blinking nearly on top of one another.

“I used the where’s my husband app,” she replied as she hoisted herself onto a barstool.

Jessica Albright, Mike’s wife of fifteen years, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, savoring the slightly scruffy feel of his five-o’clock shadow on her lips.

With Jessica’s arrival, the bartender managed to pull himself away from the vacationing college girls to take her drink order.

“I’ll have a Tanqueray and tonic with a splash of Nellie & Joe’s,” she said, pointing at the yellow plastic bottle with the green flip-top. The Florida-bottled lime juice was an essential ingredient in many recipes and a favorite complement to a gin and tonic.

Mike pushed his empty glass toward the bartender. “I’ll have another, and don’t be a stranger next time. Okay?” His demeanor was slightly surly.

“Um, yes, sir,” the young man replied sheepishly.

Mike and Jessica sat in silence until the bartender returned with their drinks and a mango wood bowl full of fortune cookies.

Mike leaned back on his stool and glanced at Jessica before addressing the young man. He pointed at the bowl of cellophane-wrapped treats usually found in Chinese restaurants.

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Um, yes, sir. The Sysco salesman dropped off a case this morning. I guess China Garden ordered way too many or something like that. He gave it to us for nothing.” He reached for the bowl to remove it from the bar, but Mike raised his hand.

“Nah. Leave it. It fits right in with the screwy day I’m havin’.”

They each took a sip of their drink and opened a fortune cookie.

“Me first,” said Jessica as she broke open the packaging and cracked the fortune cookie in two. “‘Luck helps those who help themselves.’ I like it. Time to play the Mega Millions Powerball game.”

Mike smiled as his wife tried to drag him out of his melancholy mood. She knew they both thought the lottery was a way to tax the poor. He opened his fortune cookie and read it.

“Your life is a dashing and bold adventure,” he read aloud. He shook his head. “No thanks.” He slid the small piece of paper in front of Jessica and took hers instead.

She immediately protested. “Hey! Fortune cookies don’t work like that. You can’t just pick and choose your good fortune.”

“I need luck, and you like adventure. Sounds like a fair trade to me.”

“Mike, you can’t trade fortunes.”

“Why not?”

“Um. Well, it’s against the rules or the laws of good fortune or something.”

Mike started to laugh and immediately felt better. He reached over and squeezed her hand before kissing her on the lips.

“Why can’t you just let me be miserable?” he asked jokingly.

“Because, Detective Albright, that’s not who you are,” she replied. “I heard about it on the radio. Was it that bad?”

Jess also worked for the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department as a member of their WET team, an acronym for Water Emergency Team. She was a trained scuba diver as well as a paramedic.

Mike nodded. “Much worse than the first one, Jess. I just don’t understand people.”

“Same MO?” she asked, hoping that by talking about it, Mike would feel better.

“Yeah. Vic was a young male. Stabbed to death. The first murder weapon was a butcher knife. This time, the killer used a spring-assisted knife.”

“Like a switchblade?”

“Sort of, but shorter by law. The max length is three and a half inches, I think.”

Mike and Jessica had met in 2017 when he was investigating several brutal murders in the Middle Keys. In the spring of that year, a woman lost control during her birthday party and went on a bloody rampage, stabbing her boyfriend to death. The couple’s four children were in the house at the time. A month later, a man was arrested for stabbing his friend to death after the victim made unwanted sexual advances in a trailer they shared. In late summer that year, a man got into a dispute with his landlord over an eviction notice. Four lethal stab wounds later, the landlord was dead, and the killer had dumped the body in the brackish water off the Upper Keys. Jessica’s team had recovered the corpse, and Mike had been assigned to investigate the murder.

A murder a year was the norm, and they almost always involved a domestic dispute or an argument between transients. Because of the significant tourism levels in the Florida Keys, the crime rate was twenty percent higher than the rest of the country. While the rate of violent crime was much lower than the state’s, property crime was nearly thirty percent higher.

The two continued to talk about the murders, which Mike was prepared to identify as the work of a serial killer. Jessica asked a logical question. “What’s your gut tell you?”

Mike sat back again and glanced over at the television, which was airing CNN. It was the top of the hour, and as was their custom, the breaking news graphic was displayed on the screen. There was always breaking news of some kind as far as cable news networks were concerned.

“In a way, they resemble a crime of passion. Well, at least the first one did. Killing someone with a knife is very personal. The vic and the killer are necessarily in close proximity to one another. The killer can feel the life of their victim being extinguished.

“What bothers me the most by this second murder is the escalation in the attack. Jess, it was sadistic. Angry. It makes me want to gather up all of our family and hide on Driftwood Key where the monsters can’t get us.”

Jessica nodded. “I’ll be honest. I was worried for Lacey when she moved to California with Owen. I look at that place as a cesspool. Did you know many of the nation’s serial killers began in California? After what I’ve seen here, maybe she’s better off out there?”

“Maybe,” replied Mike in a soft tone of voice. His eyes suddenly became affixed on the television when the chyron read Secretary Sanders unharmed. The video footage of the carnage caused him to jump off his barstool and scream at the bartender, “Hey, turn that up!”

“Mike, what is it?” asked Jessica.

He turned back to her abruptly and replied, “Peter is over there.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Friday, October 18

McDowell Residence

Hayward, California


“Tucker McDowell! Let’s go!” shouted his mom, Lacey, from the bottom of the stairs. “Do you wanna walk to school?”

Her son had the perfect solution, at least in his mind. “Just leave the keys to the Bronco. I’ll drive myself.”

Lacey shook her head and rolled her eyes. She turned around to check the time on the grandfather clock in the foyer.

“Not a chance for two reasons! One, you’re fifteen and only have a learner’s permit!” Lacey paused. She couldn’t think of reason number two right off the top of her head. She went with the old standby used often by her mother. “And because I said so!”

“You don’t have to yell, Mom,” Tucker said calmly as he stepped off the stairs into the foyer.

Startled, Lacey swung around to address her son. “Where did you come from?”

“Duh, upstairs,” he replied sarcastically, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

He’s just like his father, she thought to herself. Why couldn’t I have had a sweet adorable little girl? Because they grow up to hate their mothers, that’s why.

“Jesus!” she exclaimed as she tried to stop the debate raging in her head.

“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. I was just pullin’ your chain. I’m ready.”

Lacey took a deep breath. “No, I wasn’t yelling at you. I was only—”

“Yelling at Jesus,” Tucker interrupted. “You know, Mom, prayer works best in silence sometimes.”

Lacey playfully swatted at her son, who easily dodged the blow. “Come on, kiddo. You know this is a big day for your dad. I wanna get there early, that’s all.”

“Who’s opening the store for you?”

“Carlos is coming in. I should be there to relieve him by two.” She swept her key fob off the foyer table and picked up her handbag, which waited for deployment in a chair. It was rare for her to carry one, opting for a shoulder-sling backpack most of the time.

They made their way to the car when Tucker commented, “You look really nice, Mom. I’m sure the muckety-mucks will be impressed.”

Lacey appreciated the comment from her son. “Thanks, honey. As long as your dad is proud and confident during the presentation, that’s all that matters.”

“Do you think he’ll get the job?”

Owen McDowell was a marketing executive with Yahoo in Sunnyvale, California. The tech giant had just hired its fifth chief executive officer in the last nine years. The new CEO, an accountant and marketing executive by training, intended to bolster Yahoo’s presence in the lucrative online display advertising market by competing with Google AdWords.

Yahoo had been experiencing declining sales and market share for years until Owen used his formidable technical skills and marketing intuition to give the brand a makeover. Over time, Yahoo had failed to generate a brand identity geared toward the younger generation of users. Owen had instituted a number of marketing programs that yielded inroads into Google’s market share.

Today, he was making a pitch to corporate executives focusing on the Yahoo! portal as a starting and ending point for users’ web visits. He’d led the charge on a more privacy-oriented search function, much like upstart DuckDuckGo, which differed significantly from the overly intrusive Google search engine.

“We’ve got our fingers crossed, son,” Lacey replied. The two headed toward Hayward High School, which was only a few miles from their home. The sprawling campus taught nearly two thousand students. Tucker had just begun his junior year and was an above-average student.

A few minutes later, Tucker was off to class, and Lacey gave herself one last look in the mirror before she headed for Sunnyvale. She turned on the radio to listen for a traffic report.

The Nimitz Expressway was bumper-to-bumper. “No surprise there,” she quipped as she considered her alternatives. She decided on the Bayfront Expressway over San Francisco Bay into East Palo Alto. As she drove, her mind wandered to her husband.

They’d met at the University of Miami. Owen had been a graduate student pursuing his master’s in science in the management of technology curriculum. Lacey had been a junior when she and a group friends went scuba diving at John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park near Key Largo. Owen and some of his guy friends were on the same dive, and the group got together for beers that night at Snapper’s. They immediately hit it off and began to date.

Three years later, the two were married, and Tucker was on the way. Owen had accepted a lower-level management position at Yahoo but quickly impressed his superiors. Lacey, who graduated with a business management degree because she hoped to run the Driftwood Key Inn someday, opened up a boutique store in Hayward called Jefferson Outfitters.

The family enjoyed all things outdoors, including hiking, camping, skiing, and various water sports. Owen’s salary was easily able to sustain their household while Jefferson Outfitters, which more than broke even, provided Jessica an outlet to pursue her dreams of working in the outdoors while managing a business.

She waited at the security entrance to the campus of Yahoo’s corporate headquarters. The architecture of the buildings was unique. They were made of precast concrete, glass, and metal with Yahoo’s signature bright yellow and purple accents. The abundant green space and outdoor seating made for a casual, relaxed work atmosphere.

Lacey parked the car and checked herself once again. She was glad they were relaxed, she thought to herself. She was a nervous wreck. This opportunity meant a lot to Owen and would have a profound effect on their financial future.

She walked with confidence along the sidewalks traversing the artificial turf that had been installed to replace the grass that used to lie there. The turf, made of one hundred percent recyclable materials, was a testament to Yahoo’s interest in preserving the environment. It was, however, often used against them in the corporate shareholder meetings by those who thought the company should focus more on profits and less on environmental issues. Regardless, Lacey thought the artificial turf was pretty, and hey, you never had to mow it.

Her phone indicated a text message had come through. She rifled through her bag and saw that it was from Owen. She quickly checked her watch to see if she was late. She wasn’t.

Owen: I see you.

Lacey searched the campus for her husband. She texted him back.

Lacey: Show yourself, creeper. Or I’ll call the law!

Owen: Behind you.

Lacey swung around, and there was her husband, dressed in his best power suit, standing with one hand in his pocket. He was wickedly handsome, and she loved him more than life.

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