Ambrosius

By Preston Walcker

Decorated war hero Chase Huntsman is a camp caretaker living on the pristine shores of Lake Whatcom in the forests of northwest Washington. When a massive winter storm pounds the region, he is forced into action to save Desiree Chandler, the sole occupant of a runaway boat, just before the craft is smashed on the rocks. In the storms aftermath, Chase searches the wreckage and finds a valuable golden artifact left behind by the boats craftsman, who just happens to be an international fugitive who disappeared thirty years ago. The find propels Chase and Desiree on an adventure-laden treasure hunt that threatens to unmask an old and dangerous family secret. When powerful forces unite to stop them, the two learn too late they may have made a grave error in following the clues left in the wreckage. Some secrets are better left in the darkbut some risks are worth taking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512791945

Preston Walcker

Preston Walcker is a former police detective and law firm investigator. He has extensive experience with—and inside knowledge of—the American criminal justice system. He currently resides in the Seattle area, where he was raised.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 Preston Walcker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9193-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9195-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9194-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017909763

WestBow Press rev. date: 07/18/2017

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

For Calen and Rose: This book was written for you and because of you. We started this race together; we’re going to finish it together.

Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?

Job 38:4

You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.

Jeremiah 29:13

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Eunice Jones: You never stopped typing; never stopped believing; never stopped praying; and you never stopped loving. My love for you and debt to you is boundless. Kudos and love to Art Jones, who joined us in the middle of this project. To Shari Miles, thank you for your comments, proofreads, prayers, and love. Laurie Thiessen, for unwavering love and support throughout. Others who played a part in the progression of this novel include Meriel Price, Brian and Suzanne Vanderwerff, Phil Nelson, Kathy Ide, Anne and Mason Stubblefield, and anyone else who added thoughts and ideas along the way. Last, but certainly not least, Karla Dial, for her incredible, unmatched editing talents and perceptive recommendations on bringing this manuscript to fruition. You turned the light back on. Our story begins here.

PROLOGUE

Camp Firwood as depicted in this book is real. I’ve taken some liberties with the topography of the island where it stands. As the idea for this story germinated in my mind, it was important to somehow convey the mysterious magical aura of a summer youth camp on its own island. That presented endless creative possibilities on which to twist the plot.

I attended Camp Firwood as a wide-eyed youth, and later spent a summer serving on the staff. Those memories hold a special place in my heart. That’s where I learned to sail, to windsurf, to waterski, and to weave spine-tingling ghost stories. Even more significantly, it’s where I forged relationships with fellow campers and staff, some of whom remain in my life today. My experience at Camp Firwood helped me on my journey of faith—and in the end, that has made all the difference.

CHAPTER 1

December 16, 2014

Northwest Washington State

The sound of breaking glass rousted Chase Huntsman from a dreamless sleep. An icy wind whipped through his lakefront cottage. He sat up in the recliner, the family room pitch black, save for the red embers in the woodstove. His head and body throbbed.

His watch read 11:05 p.m. How many prescription pills had he taken? He’d never even made it to the bedroom.

More crashing sounds came from the kitchen. Chase reached for the lamp, nearly tipping over a coffee mug in the process. The lamp switch clicked but didn’t illuminate. No surprise. Even the weakest of windstorms tended to knock out the electricity here in the boondocks, where his closest neighbor was almost a half-mile away.

When Chase stumbled into the frigid kitchen, freezing water soaked his socks. He opened the cabinet where he stored a battery-operated Coleman lamp and flipped it on.

A massive branch from the blue spruce in his backyard had snapped off and smashed through his window, and now sprawled across the sink. Chips of porcelain and shards of glass swam in the flood on the floor. A strong wind beat the downed tree limb, hammering it against the broken frame.

Behind Chase, a deep snarl pierced through the howl of the storm. His heart thumped and his mental fog cleared. Chase knew his dog’s voice as well as his own. He turned and found his big German shepherd shivering in the dark.

It’s all right, Rowdy. Chase set the lamp on the counter and buried his hand in the familiar warm fur. He scratched his pet’s neck to flatten his raised hackles. Tremors of fear coursed through the muscular body. A good tempest was about the only thing that could reduce his proud dog to a nervous wreck.

With Rowdy’s fears assuaged, Chase turned back to the carnage in his kitchen. Wind and rain continued to blow unchecked through the gaping hole, but there was no way to fix the window tonight. He grabbed all the towels in the hallway linen closet and wrapped some around the protruding branch. It wasn’t ideal, but at least it would block more rain from coming in. He used the remaining towels to sop up the standing water, sweeping up shards of glass and porcelain at the same time.

Rowdy sat in the entry, watching his every move.

When he was satisfied he’d done what he could, Chase left the kitchen, closing the door behind him to protect the cottage’s only source of heat in the family room. The wind whistled through the makeshift patch wrapped around the still-thumping branch.

Chase fed the fire and coaxed it to a roaring flame, then glanced at the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. It looked much cheerier with the bubble lights turned on. But without electricity, he couldn’t transform it from tacky to festive.

With a sigh, he turned his gaze to his second-floor lake-view window. Visibility was almost zero. He’d always had a love/hate fascination with storms. So much raw power and unpredictability, even beauty. But then there was the aftermath, the destruction, the cleanup. He couldn’t have one without the other.

Rowdy plopped down next to him, leaning his head against his leg and nudging his hand for comfort. Chase knelt and wrapped an arm around his dog.

Sheet lightning lit up the sky, followed almost instantly by a peal of window-rattling thunder. In the brief illumination, Chase noticed whitecaps frothing on the lake. In his four years as caretaker of Camp Firwood, he’d never seen whitecaps that big on Lake Whatcom. It was only about ten miles long and maybe a mile across at its widest.

Mesmerized by the display of nature’s wrath, Chase looked across the channel toward the camp’s six-acre island. The little land mass was barely visible through the pouring rain, but staccato flashes of distant lightning backlit it every few minutes. The island rose out of the lake like an ancient, shadowy behemoth being birthed from some deep chasm in the earth.

Last night’s weather forecast had predicted a massive storm would bear down on the area. Chase had taken precautionary measures to protect the camp’s myriad recreational crafts, checking and rechecking their tie-downs. He’d pulled the canoes and rowboats higher onto the beachheads and made sure all outbuilding doors and windows were secure.

In the process, he’d aggravated a five-year-old combat-related hip injury he’d suffered in Afghanistan. Which was why he’d taken a double dose of his narcotic pain relievers before falling asleep in the recliner.

At thirty-six, Chase kept himself in prime physical shape. But four two-year tours of duty in the war on terror had been hard on his body.

He feared his preparations would prove to be woefully inadequate. But what else could he have done? After all, he was alone here in the offseason and solely responsible for all 150 acres of the Christian youth camp. Even in ideal circumstances, police and rescue services were were at least half an hour away.

Rain pelted the window in sheets, momentarily obscuring his vision before blowing away.

A brilliant series of lightning bolts lit up the lake. For a heart-stopping moment, Chase was certain he’d seen the hull of a small boat floating a few hundred yards from the shore. He focused on the area, hoping for another flash.

He didn’t have to wait long. This time he was sure it was a little day sailer, maybe twelve to fifteen feet long. She was in a sideways, out-of-control drift, at the mercy of the brutal north wind. Her sails were stowed but her untethered boom swung wildly around a pirouetting mast. The waves almost overtook the little boat as her gunwales dipped in the irritated lake.

Chase grabbed a pair of binoculars from the end table and trained them on the bobbing craft. As he adjusted the optics, he noticed the heeling boat was heading straight toward the channel between the island and Camp Firwood’s beachfront. When it rounded Fir Point, it would be lost to his sight … and in danger of striking the rocks of the island jut.

He stared at the sailer to determine whether the craft might be ferrying a doomed passenger. Seeing none, he shook his head at the thought of some poor guy waking up to an empty slip. Looks like a nice little sailboat too.

Rowdy looked up at him and tilted his head in apparent agreement.

Movement at the rear of the boat made Chase’s breath hitch. Was that a person huddled below the swinging boom? What sane human being would be out in this gale?

Before he could confirm or dismiss the existence of an unfortunate soul on board, the sailboat barreled around the point and into the channel, on a direct course with the treacherous boulders of the island. Its passenger, if there was one, risked grave injury or even death in this deadly surf.

Chase grabbed the phone to call 911. No dial tone. He checked his cell. One signal bar flickered on and off. He tossed it onto the recliner.

He grabbed his parka, pulled on boots, and raced for the camp’s boathouse. The wind and icy rain all but stole his breath away as he ran the sloping hundred-yard cobblestone path to the small covered structure, where a top-of-the-line motorboat was stored in a harness above the water.

Chase had rescued overturned sailers, marooned rowboats, and broken-down jet skiers many times during the calm summer months, but never at the height of a winter storm and in heavy waves. Linking up with a violently thrashing sailboat in this tempest would be next to impossible, but it was the only thing he could think of.

He reached the boathouse, adrenaline shooting through his veins. The sailer had been out of his sight for mere seconds, but Chase couldn’t shake the mental image of it demolishing itself against the rocks, its passenger sinking beneath the waves.

With the power out, he had to manually winch the Ski Nautique into the lake. He forced himself to move quickly, but his muscles screamed with the effort and his fingers slipped on the wet metal winch.

Finally, the speed boat settled into the agitated water. Chase unhooked the harness and heaved up the boathouse garage door. Wind and rain swirled into the little structure. Chase scrambled aboard and turned the start key, bringing the powerful inboard to life. He flipped on a swivel spotlight affixed to the frame near the captain’s chair.

Since the storm was blowing from the north, Chase pointed the bow straight into the onslaught of waves. Water sloshed over the sides, draining through the scuppers.

Chase set a southeast course for the channel. The Nautique was designed to tow water-skiers on a glassy lake. She had a windshield but no canopy to protect occupants. Chase felt like a sock in a washing machine as rain pelted him from above and waves pitched the boat from below.

He prayed he wasn’t too late.

Upon rounding the point, Chase saw the doomed sailboat in the channel, so far on its leeward side that the gunwales almost touched the tips of the whitecaps. It sat low in the water as wave after wave pummeled the little craft.

As Chase drew near, he swiveled the spotlight till the beam lit up the sailer. A six-inch, serrated hole in the wooden hull near the water line was sinking the craft. The boom swung perilously, as if bent on obliterating anything in its path.

A head appeared near the stern, the hood of a parka cinched over the face. An arm pointed frantically at the ominous rocks. The guy wasn’t even wearing a life preserver!

With the howling wind drowning out the Nautique’s beefy engine, Chase pulled past the monohulled sailboat, then whirled around and aimed the bow directly into the storm. He gave the motor just enough throttle to slow his drift and threw the handle end of the skiers’ rope to the desperate sailor.

The wind caught the rope and tossed