The Drowning Bay: The Trilogy for Freedom, #3

By Geoffrey Wells

Allison's freedom after getting out of prison hinges on keeping a secret from an adopted refugee boy. His mother is missing, but with the hacking skills that sent her to prison, Allison discovers the activist's unpublished blog—the boy's mother is never coming home.   

To win her back Allison's grieving ex-boyfriend breaks his commitment to the United Nations High Commission for Refugees and joins her search to reunite the activist with her son. But a treacherous detective in the pocket of an unscrupulous developer is planning to have them join the body that floats with the fish and osprey in the poisoned bay.

Can Allison learn about belonging from the tides of the lost ecosystem?

Can she find freedom?

The Drowning Bay is the third suspense in The Trilogy for Freedom. For a deep grasp of the compelling characters in Book Three, read the two previous stand-alone novels. 

If you liked, Where the Crawdads Sing and enjoy delving into the psyche of a committed character who must weigh hard ethical choices against a global responsibility to the environment, then read this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ice Wine Productions, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9780998166636

Geoffrey Wells

Geoffrey Wells is the author of three stand-alone novels on freedom, now a series entitled, The Trilogy for Freedom. In his latest eco-thriller/romantic suspense, *The Drowning Bay*, based on a water crisis and climate change, published in 2021, Wells looks at what the responsibility of freedom means and how it might lead to finding a belonging in a lost ecosystem. Inspired by his ascent of Kilimanjaro in 2003 and horrified by the devastation of elephants, he published, *Atone for the Ivory Cloud*, in 2016. Wells writes about how respect for all life liberates us. *A Fado for the River*, published in 2011, is based on his experience in Mozambique one year before the Portuguese revolution spilled into the colony, Wells explores the quest for personal freedom, which grew out of a nation struggling for its liberation. Wells started writing fiction after a career in IT, rising to VP and CIO at two major broadcasting companies. Concurrent with his corporate life, he wrote and produced an award-winning animated film, The Shadow of Doubt, directed by his wife, Cynthia Wells, an animator and painter. The film showed in 27 film festivals and won 5 awards. In 2015 he edited, designed and published the award-winning children’s book, Moonglow written by Peggy Dickerson and illustrated by Cynthia Wells. He lives on the North Fork of Long Island where he participates in triathlons and swims the open water with his wife and their dog, Luciano.

Book preview

One

HER REBOOT BEGAN before the inmates awoke. The nod from a corrections officer meant get up and bring your shit. Allison had nothing she cared to bring, except the folded Certificate of Release in her jumpsuit. She shuffled out behind the CO. The slam of the steel door behind her sent rolling thunder down the cell block, waking women who now knew changes would be coming. A truncated slur and vacant eyes still followed her—even now, one day before the end of her prison term.

The guard passed her off to another, who led her across the sleeping prison yard. Each footfall on the gravel was a step closer to freedom. There was hope in the nudging breeze. She would finish her work free of the noise and mayhem of prison, free to write the best music she’d ever written. This was what opportunity felt like—but wasn’t something she would want to repeat any time soon.

At the admin building, she quickly brushed the tears from her cheeks. She was getting out. The bench press guy at checkout fetched a box from the cage, which he smashed down on the metal counter. Allison sorted through plastic bags of stuff she’d had with her when they checked her in.

Is there another one . . . another bag? she asked. My paper notes. They said I’d get them back. Can you please check?

Nope. The spat plosive landed on his lip. He glowered. He didn’t blink.

It was true—they did say she’d get them back, but they lied. She’d written out every chart on an imaginary keyboard. For three hundred and sixty-four nights she’d sometimes extracted a fleeting melody or a plaintive riff of chords falling out of the constant clatter of misery. Her snippets of musical ideas became dog-eared, wrinkled, and grubby. It took all her willpower to notate the mute chords on hand-drawn lines. The sheaf of pages tucked under her mattress had waited like a black widow for her release, ready to wrap her up in its web of unrealized mistakes, which would prevent her from sharing her work with the brave women or even the hopeless hard cases with whom she was incarcerated. But they had found her charts, and after taking them she’d spent nights staring at nothing, listening to the whimper, the chanting fluorescent lights, the quiet noise. Eventually, her short-circuited rage fizzled in tears, and she could sleep.

She emptied the plastic bag of what used to be in her purse. The phone her mother had given her was just as dead. They’d kept her own as evidence, and without it her world had collapsed, proving how hopelessly unprepared she was. A quarter and three cents from her emptied and battered pocketbook rattled onto the counter, along with six singles, voided credit cards, and her driver’s license.

As Allison gathered her things she tried to keep a level head and suppress the panic when she realized that Ira, her father, didn’t know this was going on and wouldn’t be there to pick her up—not today. He would urge her to see the big picture—she could hear him saying it was a rite of passage. Well, she could handle this humiliation, but she couldn’t handle what to do next.

Please, man. It’s everything I’ve done here.

What did I just say? Make your phone call and then get the hell out of here while you still have an exit pass. Take your gate money. Go. Now.

He pointed to a bathroom where she could change. What a dick.

Luisa, her hip-hop friend was in the bathroom tying back her shiny black hair. She’d changed into a loose-fitting white shirt—her husband’s, no doubt—the husband she’d shot when he beat her up for the last time. Allison had promised herself that her friend would be the first to hear her new music. Maybe they had given her the charts. But no—Luisa would have returned them. She had a righteous justification for her crime, which is what most inmates claimed, but Luisa’s made the world a safer place for women—and she framed it that way in the lyrics of her breakout song.

Hey. You’re out as well?

That’s right, sweetheart, Luisa answered. It’s Queenie—she’s out tomorrow.

Queenie’s gang had no time for Allison’s Upper East Side schooling, her Juilliard degree, her quiet, well-spoken manner. They’d flashed a shiv as a warning—of what she didn’t know, but they made her part with her toiletries.

Hope you’re right, Allison said. I was dreading seeing that woman on the street. Except, now no one is here for me.

You want to use my phone, babe? Luisa asked.

Allison shook her head, her jaw clenched shut.

No? Why not?

Allison took a step back. Remember? Parole board, girl. No contact with inmates. We need to be careful.

Luisa stared at her with her hands on her hips. Are you sure?

Allison swatted her away. Yeah, yeah. I’ll manage. You can’t take chances.

They’re not monitoring my calls. We haven’t even blown this place yet. Luisa said.

I’m going to miss you. You’ve been a good friend. Eventually, we’ll talk, but now you should go.

Luisa swung her canvas bag over her shoulder. She pulled Allison into a quick hug and whispered a phone number in her ear. You take care, sister.

Then she was gone.

Allison tugged and pulled on the spaghetti straps of her floral-patterned summer dress, which now looked oafishly ill-suited to the occasion. In the mirror she saw her ridiculously naive self, who had believed the lie about getting her charts back. She bent over the basin, splashed her face, and raked her frustrated fingers through her messy ginger hair. Digging for a rubber band in her purse, she pushed aside the two twenties from the Department of Corrections—a paltry sum that underscored the fact that, like the mirror, her future was pathetically tarnished.

Her free call went to Ira. She’d had her father’s number in her head since . . . forever. After the beep all she said was: I’m out. No need to explain, because she couldn’t. He had assured her he would pick her up—tomorrow. She’d call later. It was Thursday and he was in court. It would be hours before he would listen to her message and he couldn’t return the call. Although, now he couldn’t blow her off as he usually did, at least not while she was a parolee. The certificate Allison had signed stipulated she would be living at his new place on Long Island, in a nurturing family home. Except, Ira didn’t do nurturing. Ira did self-reliance. Self-determination was his mantra, which was why the parole board liked him. She could go to his apartment in Manhattan, but the doorman there wouldn’t let an ex-con in without permission. It was that kind of place. Word got out.

Her parole officer, Mavis Washington, would have taken her call, but Allison didn’t like to beg. At twenty-nine years old Allison now had a supervisor—Mavis. It was humiliating. If the PO found out that Allison had not been met by family she would step in, before Allison supposedly fell prey to bad elements on the street. So tough—no call to the PO. In five days, when they would meet again, Allison would show her how well she had adapted. Mavis believed she would be rehabilitated, and that’s the way Allison wanted to keep it—she would make sure she wasn’t on an active parole list. Mavis would be able to confidently assure local police that her parolee was living a law-abiding life.

Allison didn’t need to be reminded: parole was a test, not to be confused with freedom.

Two

WITHOUT LOOKING BACK and with not much to call her own, Allison was walked by a guard to the train station. Good luck was all he said as she purchased a MetroCard. Now she could rekindle her relationship with Sipho. Maybe they’d have a chance. She would apologize for the hateful things she’d said. He would take her to the Red Rooster for a divine lunch, good wine, and make love to her afterward.

Or not. Plan A was not going to work. She needed the basics, not Sipho. A ride. A place to stay. Clothes.

Plan B was to go to the apartment she had lost to Frank, her ex-roommate. Find some things to wear. She would check up on the music equipment he was supposed to be storing for her. She would spend time there while Ira’s office hopefully got her sorted.

On the train into the city Allison decided, if necessary, Frank would put her up for the night. He had always wanted to sleep with her—she, not so much. Finesse would be required.

The subway was a sauna. At the Upper West Side stop she schlepped through the furnace air. May last year had been almost as hot as this. She would return from her walks in Central Park sweating. That had been okay because everything was new then: the apartment she had moved into, and that feeling of having her own commission after graduating from Juilliard. Life had been sweet. As she climbed the stairs to the walk-up, she remembered the sweltering African nights of last summer. The terror and the passion. She knocked.

Allison, said Frank. They actually let you out.

Still an asshole. A dweeby ding-dong with his thin, white shins and bare feet poking out of his long basketball shorts. Lakers tank top hanging off withered shoulders and arms. Bath towel around his neck. Ew.

Yes. This morning. Can I come in, Frank?

With a sardonic smile and a faux sweep of his hand and a bow he stepped back. Coffee, your highness?

Sure. Is that toast I’m smelling?

She eased a mug of coffee from his clutch and quickly sipped it down as a voracious craving for a real breakfast seized her.

Well? Tell me all about it.

Oh no, Frank. No.

I’ll toast a bagel for you.

No way.

Even with cream cheese and strawberry jam?

Clearly Frank was itching to fantasize about female inmates in the shower and god knows what else, but Allison was not going to play along.

Frank, where is my equipment? My dad told me he still hasn’t picked it up.

Aww, no juicy stories? Frank taunted. Yes, okay. In the living room. Come.

Allison followed him. Someone a couple of years younger than her, wearing his shorts and tee-shirt, clung to a doorjamb, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Of course, Frank finally gets laid. Happily, he did not introduce them.

This living room was where she had written most of her work and this was where she had imagined revising her charts when she got out of prison. This was where she’d wanted to hear them for the first time, where she would apply her theoretical charts on a real keyboard. But she remembered that was impossible because they had impounded it—almost as if the court thought the keyboard was also an Internet device, which was close, but wrong. The rest of her equipment was still set up more or less how she’d left it, except now Frank’s electronic cello was hooked up to her mixer. A mic stand was positioned for a singer—Miss Sleepy back there, no doubt.

Are you writing? she asked.

When I can. Cara and I work out songs on the weekends.

While this sank in Allison bit her lip, suppressing a strong need to scream. It was disturbing to see her haphazardly rearranged equipment looking like it was there for the amusement of weekend amateurs.

Such a shame, she said.

I know, he agreed, but think of it this way: you can always upgrade to a better keyboard.

He didn’t get it. I meant you—giving up on your talent, is a shame.

He scoffed. I didn’t give up. I needed to pay the rent. Look at where your misbegotten talent got you.

Fair point. But at Juilliard you were doing innovative things with digital music. Your talent was obvious when you played cello on my piece.

Yeah, and what you saw afterwards, when I showed you my code for those virtual instruments—that is my other talent.

Yes it is. Anyway, Frank, I don’t mind if you use my equipment but I need some help right now. I need to make a couple of phone calls. Can I use your phone?

She would have loved to have Frank hear her new work so she could convince herself that her music was not an idle pursuit, as it was for him. But telling him she’d lost her work would sound lame at best. At worst, a lie, an excuse. His implication was true. She had made bad decisions in the heat of the moment.

The truth was, failure—or not striving to succeed—had become routine, safe. Winning was hard. She was convinced this scattering of her equipment and a vortex of other failures and mistakes—starting with her uncompleted symphony, undelivered commission, the mistake that led to her mother’s death, and an indefensible prison term—had crushed her. If she ever had been her highness—as Frank called her—she had since reached a disgusting lowness. It was all so desperate last summer. Right now she didn’t matter to anyone—but that didn’t make her the scum of the earth. Or a victim.

Sure, use my phone, he said. But look, I don’t mind doing you a favor holding your equipment here, but I hope you didn’t think you were going to move back in? 'Cause, I’ll remind you, the rental agreement is now in my name. And Cara and I are happy all by ourselves. We don’t need a roommate, especially one with your record.

Ouch. Frank, that hurts. Allison snatched the phone from him, breathed in and exhaled. No, I’ve not come to move in.

Try to keep control. And, yes, one night would help.

That’s mine, she said, pointing to an Amazon box in the corner, recognizing the fat marker A on the lid.

Yeah, I threw all your miscellaneous shit into it. I’m sorry—your things. Anyway, look through your stuff and then come and have breakfast. Sounds like you need it.

In the box she found a hoodie and a pair of sneakers with socks tucked into them. She flipped over an old water-stained business card, immediately recalling the rainy day in the park when she’d taken the card from CIA Special Agent in Charge Paul Garrett. Big help he was. After she’d helped him on his mission he’d recused himself from defending her when she over-stepped her boundaries.

Then later, when she was serving time, a new corrections officer had accused her of encoding messages in her compositions. Her vigilance impressed the warden. Allison’s sentence showed that cyber forensics had taken a month to figure out her hack, though they’d never come up with evidence of her direct complicity. Despite her stint as a CIA asset for Garrett, they’d slapped a money laundering and obstruction of justice charge on her for interfering with a federal investigation. What sucked was that her Internet access would be monitored when she got out. She would have to resist the urge to collaborate online with musicians who loved working with her.

In the corner of the box lay her old wind-up wristwatch rendered obsolete by her now-impounded smartphone, which she missed because she’d never heard the street recordings she’d made in the park. She wound and strapped on the wristwatch in the hope that people would write her off as a Luddite, a technophobe who thought hacking was what you got with a nasty cough.

She called her father’s office. The talkative assistant apologized—he was at the vineyard and was of course intending to pick her up tomorrow. She was instructed to catch the 6:30 p.m. bus to the North Fork and then check into an Airbnb. She wordlessly scribbled in the air, frowning at Frank for a pen to write down the address. He had been staring at her and rolled his eyes as he handed her a ballpoint—as if she was always mooching from him. The assistant said Ira would contact her there, and he was very sorry. Of course he was.

Frank was right about being judgmental of her dubious record as a working musician. Yet he got to use her equipment freely. Despite that and his usual offensiveness he was trying to be as polite as he could be, but it was clear he wanted her out of there, asap.

Over a bowl of cornflakes he told her about his promotion to lead tester for a new blockchain wallet service that she’d never heard of. Allison remembered Frank’s limited emotional intelligence: his verbose descriptions were again running into arcane attributes of cloud software tools, which held no interest for her, though she did make a mental note of his now impressive anti-hacking skills.

Frank took back his phone and watched her scarf down her cereal. So why don’t you have your phone with you? Last I heard was you had an accident in the park.

The question rankled her. A stranger had mistaken her phone for his—after he’d knocked her over. Infuriating. Everything fell to pieces after that.

I wish it hadn’t happened. I wouldn’t be here. I would not have been recruited.

You were what?

Yes, you heard correctly. Without my phone a certain intelligence agency—I never found out which—would never have known it was being used by a cybercrime syndicate to traffic African ivory.

Frank shook his head. You’re shitting me, he said, frowning with his eyes shut tight. And exactly how did they do that?

Through my website. I coded an onion router solution to protect my music from being copied. It worked well for a while—and then it worked for them. And yes, I should have asked you to test it.

Despite his smarmy charms Frank had generously showed her how to stitch together open-source code.

Yes, you should have. And the guy who knocked you over?

He’s a set designer. Go figure. When he realized the phone was not his he handed it in. After they questioned him, he jumped on an opportunity that they let slip about the Lincoln Center looking to hire a designer.

The set fell onto the audience, right? I remember the accident. You going to your mother’s funeral. I’m very sorry.

It wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate.

They arrested him?

No. He was the victim of a hack. The network that was breached was the same network for the box office and the set design software. But I found an identifier to the blockchain receipts, and applied the obfuscation engine you found for me.

Oh. My. God. You are insane.

Maybe. Because I did do something truly insane. I tweaked then recompiled the code and ran it, thinking I could reverse the process.

But no, you corrupted it. Poof, said Frank, shooting his fingers into the air.

Ah, right. Disappeared into the ether. Gone.

Well, at least the money never got to the cyber criminals—

She sighed. But neither did it go back to the Lincoln Center.

Frank rubbed his unshaved chin with the back of his hand. Ooo boy.

So, thanks to my initiative I landed with my ass in prison. Allison slid the bowl of corn flakes aside. That was outrageously delicious, she said, gulping the last of her coffee. Now I must go.

No! Allison, stay. It was just getting interesting. I didn’t mean to scare you off.

You don’t scare me, Frank. I know you want me out of here. Right now I am violating the terms of my parole. Your boss won’t appreciate you hanging out with an ex-con, a felon. I get it. You’re supposedly sabotaging the hackers. Right?

Yep. Every day, every minute we’re bombarded by threats. Okay, maybe you should get going.

She was a threat to much more than his job and his life of bliss with Miss Thing back there, holding up the doorjamb. Any hint of being compromised could cost him his career.

Don’t worry, I’m out of here, she assured him. I’ll just use your bathroom and then I was never here.

Allison didn’t like calling herself a felon. It sounded terribly permanent. Fortunately, that wasn’t strictly true: Since her time served had fallen one day short of a year in prison she was technically not a felon, and therefore didn’t have to bear that prejudice—unless expediency was required.

This didn’t help with getting herself invited to spend the night, though now she didn’t want to. Frank had been nice enough considering—letting her use his phone and giving her breakfast, but she was done with him. For now.

It was still Thursday. Back to Plan A: Sipho. Hard to believe they’d both been undercover last summer. During that wild ride in Tanzania, their affair had defied the possibility of love. It would surely be more possible now that a year had slipped by. She was out, and the timing might be right. Though her suspicions of him and his doubts about her had torn them apart she was now sure: Sipho would put his loyalty to her above the agency. But first she needed to find out if he had dealt with the death