Retributive Justice

By Edward Brower

Edward B. Arthur is the mastermind behind a plan to claim immense wealth and power. PADCORP Biomedical Ltd. clandestinely develops live human fetuses producing fetal stem cells for its own diabolical purpose. Billions in profit motivate:kidnapping,rape,murder,and political corruption. But Arthur has some big suprises coming his way. The pursuit of retribution by Ty Montgomery!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Brower
• Release date: Oct 21, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452358710

Edward Brower

EDWARD BROWER Author’s Bio Edward Brower was born in Detroit, Michigan, and grew up in south Florida and the surrounding islands. He and his wife Nancy Kathryn have two adult daughters and three grandchildren. Ed has a Bachelor of Science degree in Behavioral Psychology and a Master of Public Administration degree from High Point University in North Carolina. From the 1970s until his retirement in 2007, Ed has had extensive experience as an author, entrepreneur and real estate businessman. He has traveled to thirteen countries and enjoys all types of deep sea, surf, and cold water lake fishing. He currently resides in both the Outer Banks and Piedmont regions of North Carolina. Among Ed’s favorite authors are John D. MacDonald, Clive Cussler, and David Baldacci for their great hero versus villain conceptions, story development, exciting suspense, and casual entertainment. As a writer, Ed hopes to entertain and to encourage readers to consider some the effects of new technology on our ever-changing and evolving moral paradigm. Retributive Justice is the first book of the Tyler Montgomery collection. He has completed Wireless, the second of the series, released in late 2010 and Ed is currently working on the third of the Ty Montgomery Novels scheduled for publication in early 2011.

Book preview

RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE

A Ty Montgomery Novel

by

Edward Brower

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Published by:

Edward Brower on Smashwords

Retributive Justice

A Ty Montgomery Novel

Copyright © 2010 by Edward Brower

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

* * * * *

To:

DaLa

Why does the river flow to the sea, and How does the wild eagle fly?

When will the acorns grow into trees, and Who put the clouds in the sky?

"EAB At Devotion, 1982"

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Acknowledgements

With warm thanks to Bill Greenleaf for his superb guidance and insightful evaluation, critique, and literary advice; Lauren Moseley for her tireless editing and creative input; my good friend Larry Snow for his encouragement and expertise in local North Carolina lore; my brother Dan Brower who’s experience, research referrals and support persevere as invaluable resources. Posthumous thanks also to Dr. George Elder Waynick Jr., Tillman Prater, William Neal Reynolds II, and Terry L. Wilson, whose thirty year friendship continues to be a source of information on all things.

* * * * *

"Always take notice of those who continue that never-ending battle, against truth, justice, and the American way!"

Terry L Wilson, 2009

* * * * *

Prologue

Demitri stood alone silently, like a ghost, with the portable PowerPak hanging from a strap slung over his broad, muscled shoulder. Leaning casually against the huge oak, the white-haired man gripped the blazer in his right hand as he uncoiled, stretched, and then attached its cord to the Pak. It was just past twilight, and the last of the fading orange glow from the sun’s daily expedition from horizon to horizon had almost vanished. His vision would adjust to the darkness within moments.

Standing well over six feet, with a black ski mask covering his face and closely-cropped hair, he appeared in his camouflage as part of the trunk from as far as thirty yards away.

He had selected an aiming point just over 100 yards across the lonely country highway: a white and black speed limit sign. As he squeezed the trigger, a silver-dollar-sized circle of cobalt-beam concentrated in the center of the road sign. He smiled, released his breath and the trigger simultaneously, then waited patiently for the white Toyota Corolla approaching, its bright lights aglow, less than a mile away.

Inside, the unsuspecting driver felt chagrined. He had recently been laid off from his job as a special lab technician in an ultra-modern cryopreservation facility. He sped ahead in the ambient light, going home, after a few beers at the tavern, to his wife and two children.

Just as the Corolla reached the road sign at over sixty miles per hour, Demitri again squeezed the trigger, and the blue dot briefly struck the windshield. For less than two seconds, the entire passenger compartment flashed in a burst of cobalt-blue light that totally blinded the driver, who missed the curve and crashed head-on into a well-rooted pine. All the lights, including those in the driver’s eyes, were extinguished, permanently extinguished.

The camouflaged man turned as the Corolla exploded in flames and walked slowly through the woods away from the fatal accident. He had done this before and would soon do it again. Accidents were his specialty, and arranging them was his profession.

* * * * *

PART I

* * * * *

(1)

Inside the extravagantly-appointed salon, aboard his sixty-foot Harris Sportfish, Tyler Edward Montgomery, Esquire, had just passed the Fort Macon Coast Guard Station, powered up on a plane, then crossed the threshold to the Atlantic from Beaufort Inlet.

His wife’s worrywart chatter about not hearing from their daughter at college briefly clouded his mind.

Something’s wrong, Cathy had said that morning. She isn’t answering my calls.

Tyler had kept his silence about the animosity that had long existed between Cathy and their wayward youngest daughter, Karen. She’s probably off with a friend, he’d said offhandedly, trying to soothe Cathy’s nerves. You know how she likes to take adventures.

Cathy had wrung her hands and stared at him with her vivid blue eyes. I know something is wrong. I wish she would call.

Well, if she doesn’t contact you before I get back from my fishing trip, maybe we can visit her condo and see how she’s doing with her college life.

That had seemed to momentarily quell the tension as Tyler quickly gathered up his gear and headed out before his fishing trip.

Now, as he looked across the peaceful blue water behind him, he took in a deep breath of fresh air. Things are fine at home, he convinced himself, as he turned his attention elsewhere.

In a nostalgic moment, he recalled his first Gulf Stream trolling trip off North Carolina’s Outer Banks thirty-five years earlier.

~~~

As a young lawyer barely making ends meet, he had treated himself to a twelve-man trolling trip on an old, metal, 110-foot head boat aptly named the Continental Shelf. He was one of the latest members of the NC Bar Association and a very junior associate at the same firm he had clerked with during his years at Wake Forest Law School.

With a new wife eight months pregnant and a ’76 Tercell on its last legs, Ty had earnestly saved, for three months, the total cost of $50, which included the brown-bagged baloney sandwiches he brought from home for his lunch.

Ty had a passion for deep sea fishing that was even greater than his ambition or his passion for criminal law. He recalled that it took the old head boat, at a top speed of fifteen knots, four hours to amble out to the fishing grounds of the Gulf Stream and four hours to return, which left the remaining four hours of the trip to be split evenly by the twelve paying anglers. Each was allotted only sixty minutes in one of the three fighting chairs temporarily bolted to the stern.

This morning, however, he fished alone, seated in his leather swivel chair in the air-conditioned comfort of his private 2.2 million dollar Energizer, outfitted with the very best equipment money could buy. His captain, Pete Zorn, was upstairs at the helm, and his mate, Grey Hart, snoozed in the stateroom down below. Cruising at over thirty miles per hour, they would put out the teasers in less than an hour and a half. What a country! Ty mused. Invoking the immortal words of José Jiménez, Bill Dana’s comic character on the 1960s TV show Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In, he smiled to himself and said, Amereeka have beean bery, bery good to me.

* * * * *

(2)

Almost one month earlier, it was Wednesday after the Fourth of July weekend, and Cassandra Wells had just turned into the parking lot at Applebee’s off of Oleander Boulevard in Wilmington, North Carolina, home to the famous annual Azalea Festival. She noticed the white Mercedes limousine with the hot, young chauffeur leaning against its trunk. She made a second hard right turn so that she could get a closer look. Parking in the space beside the limo, she slowly exited her Nissan Altima, making sure to lift her skirt to reveal just enough leg to get his attention.

Hello! she cooed, adjusting her Louis Vuitton sunglasses.

"Buenas tardes" was the reply from the six-foot, olive-skinned, perfect specimen.

Cassy thought, If I wasn’t late, that would be interesting, very interesting.

She was twenty-six and even sexier than she looked in photos because of the way she carried her superbly toned and quite exquisite body. Cassandra Wells, a.k.a. Casiopia26, was blonde, five-foot-six, and one hundred twenty-five pounds, with every pound in exactly in the right place. She wiggled her ass coquettishly as she strode across the lot, wearing a cream-colored, pleated skirt and a dark-brown, silk, short-sleeved blouse.

As she walked toward the restaurant entrance, she used just the right amount of fluidity to keep the chauffeur’s eyes affixed to her every step.

~~~

She had met Michael Jenkins online two weeks prior, through her profile posted on SugarDaddy.com. They had exchanged photos and e-mails; talked about NSA (no strings attached), GFE (total girlfriend experience), and FWB (friends with benefits) scenarios; and discussed the possibility of beginning a mistress/sugar daddy relationship that would be mutually gratifying to them both: the kind of relationship that surpassed the average escort service offerings but was clearly driven by the exchange of sexual favors for money. It was a special kind of arrangement.

Once inside, the hostess greeted her, and Cassy explained that she was to meet someone who was probably already here. She described him from the photos she had seen during their online meetings.

Of course, right this way, the hostess gestured, and led Cassy into the bar section of the restaurant.

When they reached the appropriate booth, Michael Jenkins, a.k.a. Pro-man47, slid out and stood to greet her. He looked as handsome as his photos attested: just over six feet, well-built and proportioned, tanned, salt-and-pepper haired, distinguished, and quite striking.

Cassy extended her right hand with her wrist turned down perfectly and said, in her most refined voice, Hi, I’m Cassy.

Motioning with his hand, Michael asked, Is this okay with you, Cassy? I’m Michael.

Absolutely, she answered, as she took a seat opposite him at the booth.

You are even more beautiful in person, he said courteously.

Why, thank you very much.

The hostess left after telling them that their server, Jessica, would be right over to get their drink orders.

Michael was all ravenous smiles, and it showed.

Cassy always insisted that first meetings were either for coffee or lunch in relatively busy restaurants, first for her own safety reasons, and secondly, in case she was totally turned off or freaked out by men who had used ten-year-old pictures of themselves, or pictures of someone else, in their online profiles. In such a setting, she could make her exit politely, without a scene. She had been making arrangements on adult Web sites such as SugarDaddy.com and AdultFriendFinder.com for over three years now.

She had learned from experience that the anonymity that these sites afforded often allowed men to exaggerate their height-to-weight ratios, as well as their descriptions of hair they didn’t have and their number of missing teeth. To her eyes, Michael appeared just as advertised. By the time lunch was over, she would know if everything else he had claimed in his e-mails was bullshit or not. All men bull-shat to some degree, but that was part of the game, wasn’t it? She was an experienced translator of men’s attempts to impress, and soon her opinion of Mr. Michael here would be settled, and subsequently a yea or nay decision would be made. Just by looking at him, she hoped it would be yea.

More small talk about the weather, tourist traffic, etc. ensued. Their orders placed and their drinks and food delivered, Michael looked at her directly. Cassy, I’d like to talk about why we decided to meet in person, if that’s okay with you?

She was rather impressed by his straightforwardness, and she liked it. After all, it was business, wasn’t it?

Surprisingly, Michael took charge right away. My experience is somewhat limited in these matters, Cassy, and since my divorce three years ago, I have only had one mistress relationship. In the beginning, for almost six months really, it was perfect. Unfortunately, the ‘no strings’ provision of our arrangement somehow faded, and her emotional attachment became a little more than I could handle, if you know what I mean?

Cassy nodded affirmatively, and added a touch of flattery herself. I can see how that could happen. Michael, you’re very hot.

He proceeded nonplused. Thank you, but I am also a very busy man. I have a home and office in Atlanta, as well as here over on Figure Eight Island.

Her interest piqued a bit, as the homes on that exclusive island started in value at over a million.

My business requires that I travel quite a lot, and I just don’t have much time to enjoy life as a homebody, if you get my drift. I would hope you could visit on occasion for weekends in Atlanta, and perhaps accompany me on an overnight trip now and then here on the East Coast to New York, Boston, and occasionally DC.

I love visits, she said with some enthusiasm. I would just require a few days’ advance notice so that I can make arrangements for my puppies.

I see, he responded, so you live alone?

Yeah, I haven’t ever had much luck with roommates, and I have no immediate family close by, so when I need to leave for more than a day, I board them at a nearby kennel.

Perfect, he exclaimed. I also hope we could agree on, and stick to, an informal schedule for our visits as well, he added, as more of a question than a statement.

Without wanting to sound too eager, Cassy said smoothly, Sounds interesting.

I’m very interested in the girlfriend experience you described in your profile on the S. D. site, but I also need some alone time every now and then, he acknowledged.

That’s exactly what I had in mind as well, she added eagerly.

What else do you have in mind? he asked.

Cassy picked up on his drift from the lotharios expression on his face.

I think we ought to be friends, she said, open and honest with each other, respecting each other's space and privacy. I expect to be treated with respect and sincerity, and to give you the same in return. Of course, we would have to have great physical chemistry. She winked coyly. Now he giggled out loud. "However, I really do love to be spoiled."

I think I would love spoiling you too. How much of a regular monthly ‘allowance’ would you require?

Hmmm. She delayed for a moment while she pretended to carefully consider the question and sum things up in her head. Well, I plan to enroll at Cape Fear Community College next term, which means I won’t be able to keep working at the bank full time, and seeing that you want an ‘exclusive’ relationship, as you wrote in your e-mail, I guess five thousand a month would get me by.

Like any seasoned negotiator, she started with a higher figure than she would actually settle upon. She continued: And you want me to travel with you on occasion, so maybe a new outfit every now and then would be nice.

~~~

She’s lying through her teeth about being exclusive, Michael thought to himself, but he nodded his head agreeably. That amount is reasonable, but I get to pick out the outfits! They laughed aloud jovially together.

What is your favorite color? Cassy asked him mischievously.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Without further hesitation, he whispered, On you, especially in intimate apparel that would be pink. He smiled, presenting her with his best rendition of a very hopeful look.

A hot-pink man, huh? she questioned, also in a whisper. You must be psychic as well, she teased. As a matter of fact, that’s the color I’m wearing underneath these clothes right now. She’s lying again, he guessed, as she leaned over the table and came a bit closer to him.

You don’t mean it, he replied, in almost challenging way.

Yes, I dooo, she purred, but I can’t show you right here in the middle of this restaurant, silly, can I? You’ll just have to use your imagination.

Now feigning urgent excitement about the prospects, Michael reached out, took her hand in his, and asked as respectfully as he could manage, How would you like to begin our new friendship and join me at my place on the island this evening for some fine wine and maybe a ‘chemistry’ test?

~~~

Again not wanting to seem too anxious, she took a moment and replied. That sounds like a wonderful idea, Michael, what time? Score the first round for Casiopia26, she thought to herself.

Michael gave her hand a quick squeeze and answered, Around seven. How about we exchange cell phone numbers, and I’ll call you later this afternoon? I have a business meeting after our lunch here and then a few errands to run. I will send my car for you at six-thirtyish; you can give me your address when we talk later.

Your car? She furrowed her brow and batted her eyes several times.

He replied in a straightforward tone. Sure, you are aware that the island is private and gated, and I wouldn’t want you to be delayed crossing the bridge, now would I?

Cassy had never been on Figure Eight Island. She knew it was private and exclusive—no hotels, condos, or commercial enterprises of any kind—but no one had ever sent a car for her before. She was impressed but tried not to let it show.

~~~

They exchanged phone numbers and Cassy hurriedly began preparing to leave. I’m going to be late getting back to the bank. My lunch hour is over.

You go ahead—I’ll get the check and call you in a few hours, Michael reassured her. As she left, he knew there was no job at any bank. He had checked that out before they ever met, as soon as she had shared her real name in one of her e-mails.

~~~

In her excitement, Cassy wasn’t even thinking about getting a sizeable advance on her first month’s allowance. She just wanted to get out to the parking lot to see if the Mercedes limo with that hot Latin chauffeur was what her new friend Michael got into when he left.

As she backed out of her parking space, the chauffeur was seated at the driver’s side, with the engine running. She kept her eyes glued to her rear-view mirror as she waited at the lot exit, and sure enough, Michael headed right for the limo. The driver got out and opened a rear door for him formally.

Hot damn! Hot diggity damn, she thought. Tonight would be interesting, very interesting indeed, and profitable as well, she hoped. Stupid men, even the rich ones wanted an exclusive relationship, and they would believe just about anything. They all thought only with their penises anyway.

* * * * *

(3)

Ty Montgomery, standing flatfooted at five-foot-ten, had never thought of himself as ruggedly distinguished, with a remarkable bronze skin color, topped by illustrious, full locks of silver-grey hair, as Cathy had often described him. Instead, he pictured himself as just an ordinary-looking lawyer with a leathery facade of experience.

Beginning in the mid-1980s, he had carved out a rather unique niche for himself in criminal defense law, specializing in defending clients in matters of computer crime. The field was new then and not yet developed or saturated with legal experts, and the laws were still in their infancy. The World Wide Web was then limited to a few Western European locations and the United States. Terms like online, cyberspace, e-virus, and e-mail had not yet been coined. Computer-to-computer communications were limited to telephone modems and hard wires within the same building. There were no hackers, and most money transfers were handled only by hard-copy documents through the mail, by courier, or occasionally by wire.

Typical defendants were charged with patent infringement, record forgery, equipment larceny, embezzlement, and corporate spying. For the most part, they were low-to-average-income defendants who could afford no more than the average criminal client in retainers and attorney fees. But how quickly all that would change.

Within the last ten years of his extremely lucrative practice, Tyler Montgomery managed not only to accumulate over twenty million dollars in fees and retainers, but his fishing luck spread to his current investment and retirement portfolio, which had trebled in value over the last two years.

During his final year of regular practice, Ty wouldn’t even accept a case for less than a quarter-million in advance retainers. Totally debt-free by age forty-nine, he had accumulated all of the boy toys he had ever dreamt of obtaining, and then some. At fifty-two, he had his own top-notch vessel and crew, and now, having just turned fifty-five last week, he had all the time he had ever missed, or wanted, to fish to his heart’s content, along with the appropriate amount of serenity to do it very, very often. Some said he was obsessed with his favorite pastime, but he reveled in that obsession.

No sooner than Grey finished putting out the last of the four outrigger lines with fresh large ballyhoo, the intercom squawked its shrill alarm. It was Captain Pete up on the flybridge.

Hey, Ty, your wife is on the satellite phone, says she needs to talk to you if you’re not in the fightin’ chair.

She probably just wants to complain about Karen some more. Or maybe she’s finally heard from her and just wants me to know everything is all okay. Tell her I’m in the head and will call her back, he shouted at the black speaker box, as he prepared to exit the salon and take his place in the single teakwood fighting chair out on the spacious deck. He decided that he would return her call after the first trolling pass along the weed line that Cap’n Pete had selected for hunting a school of those incredibly colorful indigo, blue, green, and bright-yellow mahis.

~~~

Cathy was Ty’s first love, the same age as he; they had met in the fifth grade in parochial school, began dating at fifteen, and got married at twenty-one. Their thirty-four-year marriage had seen a few rough spots, but they were soul mates, best friends, and they knew each other better than the multiplication tables they had to memorize in Sister Mary Joseph’s arithmetic class.

Although they were the same age, Cathy looked years younger than Ty. Indeed, she was a looker, probably because she had never smoked and spent considerable time taking care of her body and general health. There wasn’t a person who met her, especially male persons, who would have ever guessed she was forty, let alone fifty-five. The doting mother of three and grandmother of two, she took so much pride in showing off her family at every opportunity. Unlike Ty, Cathy Montgomery was a patient woman, putting up with Ty during his 30s and 40s as both a workaholic and a recovering alcoholic.

Suffering since childhood with an inner ear disorder, Cathy seldom joined him on the Energizer, unless it was for an occasional short cruise down the Intercoastal on a calm Sunday afternoon when there was little wind and absolutely no chop on the surface whatsoever. She had flown with Ty only twice in his Beechcraft Queen Air. Even though Ty was an accomplished pilot, flying since his teenage years in his dad’s single-engine Cessna Skyhawk, Cathy’s trouble with vertigo kept her away from airplanes any smaller than a 747 and boats smaller than ocean liners.

Almost fifty miles offshore, the distinctly perfect line in the water, passing from the pale-emerald Atlantic into the deep sapphire of the Gulf Stream, appeared as if it had been carefully hand painted for as far as the eye could see, from south to northeast.

A school of startled flying fish broke water twenty feet from the port outrigger as the weedline undulated like a ten-yard-wide golden ribbon, meandering for a mile through the warm current as the Energizer slowed to trolling speed.

* * * * *

(4)

Comfortably seated in the rear of the Mercedes limo he had rented for the week, Eric Redding, a.k.a. Michael Jenkins, a.k.a. Pro-man47, poured himself three fingers of Chivas, took a sizeable sip, and pressed the button that lowered the dividing window between himself and his driver. Ok, Julio, we’re on. Head over to Figure Eight Realty, and let’s go pick up the keys.

Chew got it, heffay, Julio replied, in his rather pronounced Puerto Rican accent.

Redding, as Michael Jenkins, had rented luxury vacation homes on Figure Eight on a nightly/weekly basis for almost two years now, and almost every time, he got an oceanfront villa at a cost of $1,000, cash, for a whole week. No questions were asked since the very first rental. Today, he had a single-night plan, which would reduce the rental expenses to less than five hundred dollars.

The property managers knew him and liked him for two reasons. One, because when he returned the keys he left the home exactly as he had found it—including freshly laundered bath and bed linens, no trash to remove, and no kitchen to clean up—and two, because he paid in cold, hard cash, which seldom showed up on the agent’s books or records.

Hey Julio, don’t forget to stop by the Wine Emporium on the way over and get me a couple bottles of that Pouilly-Fuissé that I enjoy so much on these occasions.

Julio had replaced Miguel as Redding’s assistant a year and a half ago, after Miguel had made the awful and quite fatal mistake of attempting to double dip, so to speak, one of the other connections Redding had acquired.

Julio replied, No praulem and drove towards the real estate office.

Redding sat back, relaxed, and killed off the scotch. After securing the keys to the same oceanfront villa he had used three or four times previously, he and Julio headed back to the Holiday Inn, parked the limo in the back lot, and prepared to go out to Tony Roma’s for some barbecued ribs and onion rings. We’ll take Julio’s inconspicuous Honda Civic out to eat after I’ve showered and shaved, but first, another three fingers of Chivas. Redding always liked to celebrate a little after making a solid connection.

* * * * *

(5)

Ty’s first strike was a small, schooly dolphin, not big enough to hook up, but big enough to strip most of the ballyhoo off the port-side longline.

While Grey was re-rigging replacement bait, Captain Pete bellowed out from his perch high above the rear deck, Starboard short line, fish on!

Ty grabbed the rod from the holder and began the fight.

Within ten minutes he brought the fifteen-pound mahimahi up to the stern, where Grey gracefully gaffed the beauty and then threw it into the fish box with one smooth motion. Then, before Ty could barely catch his breath, light a cigarette, and sit back in the big, teak, center-mount fighting chair for a moment’s rest. Pete hollered out again, Fish on, port long, then immediately again, Fish on, starboard long!

As Pete slowed the boat for the double hook-up, Grey handed the port rod to Ty and grabbed the starboard rod himself. They caught two more decent-size dolphin, giving them a total of three within the first half hour in the stream.

Ty shouted above the steady humming of the twin diesels, Hey Pete, give us a break for a few, will ya? While Grey began re-rigging and re-setting the lines, Ty climbed up the stainless steel ladder to the bridge above and slid in beside his captain and good buddy Pete Zorn.

I think, we got our share of dolphin for today already, Pete, let’s go look for a wahoo or two now.

Sure thing, Pete said, with his big ear-to-ear grin. Will you tell Grey to take up the lines, and I’ll make a run over near the Big Rock and find some wahoo for us? I’ve wanted to check out this new side-view fish finder anyway.

Will do, Cap’n. Ty moved back down towards the ladder and made his way back to the lower deck for a smoke and a cold one. I better give Cathy a call on the satellite phone while I have a moment, he thought, as he popped the cap off the twelve-ounce non-alcoholic O’Doul’s.

Her cell phone rang only once before she picked up.

Hey, honey, Ty chimed, what’s up?

Cathy cheerfully asked, How’s the ocean today?

Slick as a bathtub, and I already got us some fresh mahi for dinner tonight. He knew how much Cathy loved fresh dolphin, broiled with lemon, butter, and garlic.

That’s great.

Something in her voice told him that was not why she’d called him earlier. I know you didn’t call on this fifteen-dollars-per-minute phone just to get a fishing report.

No, I’m still worried about Karen. She hasn’t called in over a week, and I’ve left two messages on both her condo phone and cell phone. Her voice now fully revealed the tension Ty had first suspected. I know she hardly calls you much anymore, but neither of her sisters has heard from her since the week before last.

Offering comfort for her concern, Ty said, Isn’t she on a break between semesters or something? Maybe she went up to DC or New York to visit one of her friends? Maybe she’s down at the beach protecting the sea turtle nests.

"Well, she always takes her cell phone with her when she leaves her condo or goes on a jaunt, and I know it’s working, because I get her outgoing