Venus Over Kemah

By Amanda Sherrill

Wendy Edwards goes on a spur-of-the-moment sail on foggy Galveston Bay with her childhood friend, Bryan McClellan, and witnesses a boater toss a body overboard. As horrified as she is, she could never have guessed where the dreadful act would lead, but Kemah, Texas, the small coastal town where she has lived since birth, is smack in the middle of it.

Meanwhile, the United States is close to crumbling, and domination by a globalized government is no longer a distant threat. Already wise to the menace, homegrown FURA members are holding their seventh summit in the area. Their mission is to protect the freedoms they still have while remaining focused on their vision for a new union of states. A member's son goes missing, and Bryan, who is also a member, gets Wendy involved. Together they dive an offshore petroleum platform in the Gulf of Mexico to find answers. Things heat up after a bloody knife turns up in their boat and results in Wendy's discovery of WORE. Then she learns of an unseen international force that has been using genetic warfare and propaganda for decades in order to create a subservient mutant population.

As Wendy spends her forced vacation trying to figure out who dumped the body in the bay, she wears disguises, overhears of abhorrent acts, witnesses a murder, is chased, and things blow up, battles are fought, and more. And the bodies pile up. Wendy suspects a serial killer is on the loose, and her search eventually puts her in his sights. But he's not the only one after her.

Wendy does everything she can to make sense of the rash of evil, and once she sees the big picture, she realizes it's not only a matter of her own survival but of the human race and man's ability to recognize the existence of God.

Inspired by reality, Venus Over Kemah may spark anger at the abominations inflicted on mankind, give a few chuckles--perhaps a few tears--share the frustrations and warmth of a blossoming love, offer encouragement, and hopefully leave you cheering.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888517420

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

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

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

cover.jpg

Venus Over Kemah

Amanda Sherrill

ISBN 979-8-88851-741-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88851-743-7 (Hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-88851-742-0 (Digital)

Copyright © 2023 Amanda Sherrill

All rights reserved

First Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

Quotes from scripture are from The Holy Bible, New International Version.

Quotes from The Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America are from printings of the original documents, and from The Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America, published 2002 by the Cato Institute.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

For Bob, my hero

Now the Lord is the Spirit,

And where the Spirit of the Lord is,

there is freedom.

2 Corinthians 3:17, (NIV)

Chapter 1

Thought the fog would be gone by now.

Should clear soon. Wind's picking up, said the young man as he trimmed the mainsail and shortened the jib sheet.

Just then, the southeast breeze freshened against the close-hauled sails, and Wendy Edwards, perched on the forward starboard rail, instinctively reached out over the Galveston Bay waters to counterbalance the deepened heel. This was her domain where she could feel the wind in her face and catch the sea spray that would grace that watch on a brisker day. When the gust passed, the boat steadied, and Wendy leaned back on her hands and eyed the surrounding mist. Far astern, the horn on red buoy number two sounded. It was deep. Resonating.

We probably should have waited another hour, she said. Just to be safe. The navy-blue skort and red tank top she wore were uncomfortably damp, and her long, wavy auburn-red ponytail was plastered to her neck.

Bryan McClellan laughed. I doubt anyone else is out in this soggy muck. He wore khaki shorts, a blue T-shirt, and a baseball cap. How 'bout we see how she tacks?

Sure. Need help with the jib? she asked, scrambling off the rail.

No, I got it.

She flattened facedown on the slippery deck and prepared to slide across to port beneath the headsail. Her only traction came from her white deck shoes.

Ready about, he called.

Ready!

Hard alee.

Skillfully he adjusted and cleated the sheets as he turned the wheel to alter their heading by ninety degrees. As the bow passed through the wind, both sails moved smoothly across the boat to the falling deck.

Show-off, Wendy said.

Now perched on the higher port rail, Wendy looked aft to the cockpit at Bryan, a friend since childhood. He was lean, muscular, and sported a year-round tan, which she thought looked pretty good against the sun-bleached curls peeking from beneath his cap.

He caught her eye and, grinning ear to ear, asked, What do you think of her now?

Not too shabby, she conceded. But now we're off course. Bad idea in this poor vis.

Hey, this is a shakedown cruise. Gotta see what she's got.

After a few more tacks, they resumed a due east heading, and he stretched out on a locker beside the helm. Wendy settled back on the rail.

Bayspray was a thirty-five-year-old, thirty-foot sloop which Bryan hoped to buy. It had just come on the market and met his specs and budget, so he had asked Wendy to test-sail it with him. He was as content as a porpoise in a pod, she thought, and hated that she had made fun of the elderly boat when they met at the pier an hour earlier. But her gibes had not been unfounded.

Swamped in the last hurricane, Bayspray was devoid of the standard furnishings, and none of the electronics worked. There was also considerable crazing on the decks. Honestly, she thought, who wants the bad luck that put a boat underwater?

You might want to sign her up for the Blessing of the Fleet, she said.

Okay, she does need some serious work. But wait 'til I fix her up, then see who's green with envy.

It hadn't been so foggy at the marina, but by the time they had motored into Clear Lake, the shoreline had vanished. Clear Creek Channel, eerily vacant, wasn't as bad, so they had continued into the soupy bay where, after clearing the navigation markers, they had hoisted the sails and cut the engine. The sudden silence had been reassuring that no unseen power craft was nearby. But now, the poor visibility put them alone at the center of a gray four-hundred-foot-wide briny pie surrounded by a moldering, whipped cream cloud of the same color. And other than Bryan's handheld GPS, they had no instruments that could see beyond the dismal muck, so they kept their ears open. The only sounds came from the boat's hull slipping through the light surf, the occasional luffing of the sails, and the foghorn's periodic, mournful blast.

They were beating on a starboard tack toward a natural gas mining platform. Their plan was to cross the Houston Ship Channel south of the obstruction via the middle pass and head into Trinity Bay. Neither liked crossing north of the structure where a large spoils area lay beside the forty-five-foot-deep maritime highway. And today, the risk would be greater that an unseen tanker's bow wave might catch them unawares and carry them into the shallows.

I haven't heard any ship blasts, said Bryan.

No change in the wave pattern either to indicate an approaching tanker, Wendy said. But they'll start moving when the fog clears.

A rogue wave gave them a bump, and wires rattled, sending Bryan's eyes up the deck-stepped mast.

Shrouds need to be tuned, he said. Got some play in the standing rigging.

Wendy spotted a pair of gray dorsal fins as they briefly surfaced, one after the other.

Two dolphins ahead, she advised, smiling. No matter the weather, it's always a fantastickle day when you're sailing.

Bryan laughed.

The lapping water grew more aggressive, and a cool spray caught Wendy, washing away some of the unpleasant clamminess.

Sun's not far behind! she said.

As if hearing her, rays from the celestial fireball began to perforate the gray veil as it thinned into wisps. Then dead ahead, the gas plant materialized out of the mist. Its steel pipes reached skyward sixty feet, and the hodgepodge of other equipment spanned over fifty feet.

Hand me my camera, she said as she crawled aft. I want to get some shots of the platform in the fog.

He passed it to her just as another errant wave hit the hull, forcing Bayspray to buck as it climbed the crest and then dropped into the trough. The fiberglass timbers shivered, the boom bounced, and rigging and shackles rattled violently. Taken by surprise, Wendy slid uncontrollably across the cabin top but was belayed by the mast. Then a distant horn blasted a warning.

Ships are moving, she cautioned.

Bryan adjusted the sails and gave the shrouds a second look. I need to tighten those puppies. Maybe there's some tools below. He quickly rigged an autopilot and disappeared from the cockpit.

Wendy made her way forward along the narrow starboard deck, using the cabin top handrail for support. To the south, visibility had improved enough that she could just make out Eagle Point at San Leon. She didn't know how the north looked because the sails blocked her view. Upon reaching the bow, she sat down against the pulpit and began to snap photos.

A minute later, she called out, Hey, Bryan. What'cha doin' down there? We need to tack pretty quick.

Be up in a minute, his muffled voice called back.

Then the dreaded sound reached her ears.

Hey! she called out. I hear a boat!

The roar of engines quickly grew louder and came from all directions.

Bryan! I can't tell where its coming from!

He popped up from the companionway and head-swiveled as he strained to identify the sound's location.

Nothing to the south, she said as she flopped onto her stomach and peeked under the headsail. North is clear too.

Then she saw it. From the diminishing fog beyond the mining structure, a fast-moving powerboat suddenly broke through.

It's ahead of us! she shouted.

She watched the gap rapidly narrow between Bayspray and the gas plant. And unbelievably, the powerboat wasn't giving way to the underpowered craft. It seemed determined to stay close to the platform. Horrified, she screamed, We're on a collision course!

Wide-eyed at the helm, Bryan took in the missile-like beast racing toward them. No choice. Gotta jibe, he said in a strained calm.

Wendy's heart pounded as she clawed at the deck cleats and handrail, propelling herself across the cabin top, and then scrambled down into the cockpit beside him.

Both vessels were beyond the point of safely altering their headings, and with only seconds to spare, Bryan cried out, Prepare to jibe! Jibe ho!

He cut the sailboat to port, away from sure disaster, but the maneuver moved the surging wind to the same side of the boat as the sails, sending them into a dangerously deep heel. The rigging rattled ferociously.

Bryan iron-fisted the wheel to keep from spinning out of control while heaving the mainsheet to control the boom. Wendy helped by grabbing the leeward jib sheet, but suddenly the line was snatched from her hands, and the headsail escaped and wrapped wildly around the headstay.

Then a distant freighter's bow wave caught them on the beam, and Bryan lost his footing and his grip on the mainsheet. Both crew reached for the flailing line, but they were too late, and the wind filled the mainsail and slammed it and the boom far to starboard.

With little support from the loose standing rigging, the jarring abrogation of the overpowered sail was too much for the mast. Following a sickening rattle and bam, it crashed down with a bang as one of the spreaders pierced the cabin top, and the boom carried the lifelines into the drink. The dismasting took mere seconds.

Wendy and Bryan looked in time to see the powerboat roar past, now heading south. They shouted and shook their fists at the reckless driver who never looked back.

I got a good look at the back of the driver, she said angrily. Black muscle shirt, dark hair, and a baseball cap pulled down low. And something dark on his shoulder.

Yeah. Like a tattoo. And his cap had an extra-long bill.

He seemed more interested in hugging his passenger, Wendy said.

Is that what he was doing? I couldn't tell.

Strange, she added. The boat was all white.

"They're all all white," he said.

I mean, I didn't see any markings except for what looked like damage up by the bow.

Bryan glanced at the mess onboard and then selected channel sixteen on his portable VHF radio and made the mayday call.

Meanwhile, Wendy gingerly picked her way forward to check the stability of the downed mast. The upper section rested to starboard of the bow pulpit, the base hung aft off port, and the spreader, lodged into the cabin, seemed to steady it. She had hoped to free the headsail but, before reaching it, realized it would be futile, so she returned to the cockpit.

Bryan had completed the call, and she asked, Think anyone else encountered that jerk?

I don't know, but I put the word out, he said as he assessed the damage.

Wish I had thought to take a picture of him. But good news—the mast isn't going anywhere.

Let's just recover and secure whatever's in the water, Bryan said. Then I think we can get back to the marina under our own power.

Wendy noticed they were drifting and asked, Want to anchor?

Nah. Long as we're moving away from the gas plant, we'll be okay.

They began with salvaging the mainsail, and Wendy saw Bryan wasn't grinning anymore.

It's not so bad, she said. Sailing's all about adventure.

Yeah, but this is one I could do without.

By now, the fog was almost gone, and the bay was beginning to sparkle in the sunlight. Then something caught Wendy's wandering eye.

One of the sails tore, she said.

He dug through the heavy polyester in his hands. Where?

Out there, she said with a nod at the small white mass floating near the gas platform.

They finished their tasks and returned to the safety of the cockpit.

What about that? she asked, pointing to the flotsam.

I'll get it, he said, firing up the engine.

Bayspray slowly moved toward the debris, and then he said, Take the wheel. I'll grab the boat hook.

He ducked below and was back in an instant to find Wendy staring into the water.

What is it, Wen?

That's not part of our sail, Bryan. She looked at him in horror. It's a dead naked body.

Chapter 2

Earl Cadwell ran a dirty hand through his gray stringy hair as the elevator door opened. The car was empty, and he stepped inside and punched the button to his floor.

Suddenly, a deep voice shouted, Hold it!

Cadwell pushed the same button repeatedly and hoped the now running man wouldn't make it. The door finally slid shut just as the angry red face skidded to a stop behind it.

In the quiet little six-by-six space, Cadwell set a thick briefcase on the floor and then pulled up a sleeve of his white dress shirt. Nothing had soaked through the bandage, but it hurt like heck. He pulled the sleeve back down and left the cuff unbuttoned. He hated collared shirts. Even with the top two buttons unfastened, it was like wearing a noose around his neck.

No one boarded before he reached the fourteenth floor, but the ride seemed endless. He had heard this was the slowest of the two elevators, which was why he chose it. Most people avoided it.

The stainless-steel cell shuddered to a stop, and he waited for the door to decide to open. At last, he exited and was appalled to see a woman in high heels clicking toward him from the direction he needed to go. Here, he lacked the confidence he had back home and, as always, never wanted to speak to anyone unless he was in control of the encounter.

But he knew who this woman was. Darra Zain. His deceased courier had taken phone-camera shots of people to avoid, and she was at the top of the list. He stepped over to a plate glass window, placed the briefcase on the floor between his feet, and studied the view below.

The grass was green and lush in the vacant lot next to this uptown business complex. Just beyond it were two new and shiny high-rise office buildings. One housed an international oil and gas exploration company and the other a bank.

Can't swing a longhorn by the tail without hitting one or the other in this town, he thought. Even got a bank in this building just for tenants.

To the right was Post Oak Boulevard, and traffic was heavy. A siren screamed, and its source appeared with flashing lights as the Houston Police Department SUV forced its way through the jam while stressed motorists tried to edge out of its way.

To the left loomed thirty floors of luxury apartments. It was just one of many housing projects designed to lure the young money who thought they knew everything and to keep those dollars here. She lived there.

He watched her reflection in the glass as she neared. He knew she drove an expensive car. During the day, she parked it here in the garage, even though it was within walking distance from her building.

He used to live about a mile north of here in some old apartments located a few hundred feet from Houston's principal waterway, Buffalo Bayou. The slow-moving, muddy-banked river was still untamed there in spite of the 610 Loop that passed over it, and back then, it was surrounded by the tangled, overgrown riparian forest that provided perfect cover for his disposals.

The bayou originated maybe fifteen miles west of his favored dump site under that West Loop overpass. After making a deposit, he knew the warm water and the occasional alligator would take care of any evidence he had missed as the body meandered east through the heart of the city just inches below the murky surface. He had never heard of any that made it past the turn south around the San Jacinto monument where it was joined by the San Jacinto River from the north. He imagined there must be considerable turbulence that would send the last of the remains into the muddy bottom. At that point, the waterway served as a conduit to connect the Port of Houston to the Gulf of Mexico and was known as the Houston Ship Channel. The dredging required to maintain the depth and width of the channel would scatter whatever was left. But now that he lived elsewhere, he no longer employed the bayou. Until last night.

The noisy shoes finally stopped and were followed by several pushes of the elevator call button. Then the woman tapped a few steps toward him. Nice view, huh? I live over there, she boasted with a point.

He turned toward her and said, Really?

It's marvelous. Of course—she looked him down and up—more prosaic people wouldn't really fit in.

She pounded back to the elevators, jabbed at the button some more, and then loudly paced impatiently.

His ears burned. He didn't want to hear her. If he didn't have business to take care of, he might engage with her to make the noise stop. He tried to ignore her.

Years before, he had made his permanent home in the Texas Hill Country, which became the hub of his killing grounds. He had forty acres and a house but was, unfortunately, currently displaced to a tiny, claustrophobic rental out there while his home underwent major reconstruction. Then, due to the sudden demise of his latest internuncio, Cadwell had chosen to handle this delivery himself. He sneered. The foolish young man had died from the cure for his sticky fingers.

Cadwell heard an elevator arrive, and the woman's shoes tapped a few more times while she boarded. He turned to look at her, and as the door closed, she tossed out a single word to advise him that he was an illegitimate child. His face turned red, and as he walked to his office, he contemplated what he would like to do to her while his mind's eye saw her reflection from the window. It had been a long time since he hunted in Houston, and the tight confines of his temporary digs had been fueling a growing rage.

Reaching the next-to-the-last door on the right, he unlocked it and entered. There was no window, so he flipped the light switch. The single room was tiny, but it served a purpose, and today he had come to pick up the cocaine that he would take back home. It would arrive by special messenger at one o'clock sharp. He, in turn, would give the well-dressed delivery boy a parcel that contained the methamphetamines that were his community's cash crop. Later in the day, he would swap more meth for a variety of other pharmaceuticals. These exchanges had taken place every week for years but might soon become unnecessary because his people were working a deal with a commercial carrier.

He stood the briefcase next to the side of the desk and then pulled drawers. After finding what he wanted, he carried it to the settee against the opposite wall. For a moment, his eyes lit back on the case. No one here knew what was in it, but he still kept it within easy reach. He dropped onto the little sofa, stretched out his short legs, and then looked down at the ankle lump of his baggy, worn jeans. Dispatching a would-be thief was not a problem, but he'd rather not use the firearm because the attention drawn by the discharge would be. Besides, it was more satisfying to use your hands. He unfastened another button at the neck of his shirt and glanced at his wristwatch. Not long now.

After checking into a hotel late the previous night, he went to a local nightclub. He had badly needed some release, but the babes weren't receptive to him. As the night wore on, the patrons became more inebriated, and he found his target, a woman in town for a convention that had wrapped that afternoon. She had found him charming, at least, more so than the guy who was supposed to meet her and never showed. Cadwell had bought her several drinks while she complained about men, and then at closing time, he helped her into his rental car. A few hours later, he helped her out of it and into the bayou. Old times.

But he had been too wound up and got sloppy, thus the injury. He glared at his arm and then felt a quiver of excitement as he relived the best moments. He wanted…needed the release again.

He thumbed through the dictionary he had found in the desk. What was the word she used? He figured it was some sort of insult.

Pro…saic, he said and then snarled. Oh, really? I'll show you just how ordinary and unimaginative I am.

Yes, he would pay Miss Zain a visit. He knew she was in the middle of a nasty divorce and was probably lonely, like he was. He would provide a little companionship.

After all, he thought, there's someone for everyone.

Chapter 3

All day at work, Wendy's brain had replayed the image of the body she and Bryan had found in the bay that morning and then the subsequent police response. A marine patrol from the City of Seabrook's police department had quickly arrived to recover the remains and had been accompanied by Officer Houston Samuels of the Kemah Police Department. With a population of only 2,046 residents, the city was too small to fund its own maritime unit, but the KPD claimed the case because the incident had occurred offshore of their jurisdiction. Wendy had been surprised that the US Coast Guard didn't respond, or at least a Galveston County deputy sheriff.

Officer Samuels had taken their statements and said this might be a difficult case to solve because water erased so much evidence. Wendy had pointed out that the body wasn't in the bay more than thirty minutes before it was fished out, but the officer had replied, Depends on where it was beforehand. She hadn't liked anything he said.

But maybe he was right, she thought as she plugged in the appliance in her kitchen. She was probably a little critical of his abilities because he was relatively new to the force. Her mind raced with the possibilities of what might have caused the doomed woman's demise and who might have done it. Was it a jealous boyfriend? Husband? A rival for the affections of her significant other? Perhaps the victim was rich and a relative wanted all her stuff. Wendy knew for certain that whoever did it was a monster.

She slid a bowl in place just as the pop-pop-pops began and, after they stopped, drizzled the small batch of air popcorn with melted butter.

There had been a nonstop flow of tests to run on the 3-11 shift at the quality control lab, and she was physically exhausted—but not mentally. A fast mind and slow body was a bad combination when you wanted to sleep. She was glad she would be off tomorrow but was not looking forward to the two weeks of forced vacation that followed.

Might as well send me straight to the nuthouse, she had told her supervisor.

What would she do? Finally learn to play the drums? It was something she always wanted to do. In fact, she was an impressive lap drummer and could beat out a mean Free Bird that would do Lynyrd Skynyrd proud. She plopped down on the sofa in the living room and thumped a few bars. Then with a sigh, a point of the remote control, and the push of a button, the TV came to life while her own verve prepared to wind down.

On the screen was a fidgeting, unkempt man sitting at a small gray table in a small green room. He had pulled his T-shirt down over his knees, and his arms were hidden inside. With lips that barely moved in an unemotional face, he smoothly claimed to have no knowledge of any details of this particular crime. A hand snaked out of his shirt to retrieve the free beverage on the interrogation desk, and he took a few sips.

It was the murder channel as usual. She almost always guessed the perpetrator early in the show, and she could tell right away that this person was the killer. And based on his convoluted story, he definitely had an accomplice.

Grainy surveillance video from a department store filled the screen and showed the suspect following the victim down an aisle. Suddenly, Wendy straightened.

Hey, what about that woman lurking in the background? she said.

The narrator made no mention of the second suspicious-looking character. Then the next video clip showed the male suspect leaving a hotel, and just as the footage ended, the same woman also exited.

There she is again, and now her jacket's bulging. That's his partner! Are you blind?

While the commercials played out, Wendy surfed the other murder channels and paused at an autopsy in progress. Long thin worms were being pulled from a brain, and the medical examiner explained, This filamentous tissue was produced by rampant DNA production, and we're also beginning to find it in the lungs. As of yet, we have no explanation as to the cause.

That is major gross, she said.

Returning to the other show, she was just in time to hear the narrator state, Charges were dropped because the murder weapon and stolen mini-computer have never been found.

Wendy was shocked by the outcome, and her voice raised a few decibels. The cops are idiots! Or there's something fishy going on!

Her dad had been a police officer, and after thirty-one years as his daughter, she could tell when one of these shows was fluky. But she figured even without that edge, she would still feel it when something wasn't right.

She angrily turned off the television and realized she had just engaged in a one-sided argument with an unseen voice that was recorded on film a couple years earlier. And her unheard ranting would never result in a different outcome. She needed to put her passion to better use.

Again, the vision of the floating body from that morning filled her head, and she grabbed the phone beside her and tapped a single digit. She hadn't talked to him since their sail because mobile phones and cameras were banned from the refinery where she worked. A groggy voice answered.

You already in bed? she asked, surprised.

A pause preceded a slightly irritated voice. It's after midnight, Wen.

Sorry. Just wanted your take on what we should do about the body we found.

More silence was followed by the rustling of bedcovers. What do you mean? The police will handle it.

Samuels thinks it's a tough case, so I think it's up to us to help.

He's got the rest of the police department to help him. That's why we pay taxes.

Look. I can't get the image of that poor dead woman out of my head. Maybe the reason we were at the wrong place at the right time is because we're the unlucky souls chosen to be involved.

You're a little nutty.

That's what I told my supervisor today. C'mon, Bryan. I'm off work for a couple of weeks. What else am I gonna do? You got any jobs tomorrow?

An extended intake of air crossed the digital airwaves as he yawned. First, I gotta check on the boat.

"Poor Bugspray. I'm glad you didn't put any money down on her."

"It's Bayspray," he said.

She giggled. How did the brokerage take it?

They didn't sound surprised. Guess they'll deal with the owners.

They might make more on the insurance claim than by selling it.

Silence.

So no jobs lined up? she asked.

I just finished rebuilding the interior of a forty-foot boat. Can't a guy take a break?

Oh, goody! We'll start our investigation tomorrow. I'll come up with a plan of action.

Wendy, this isn't a game. We're talking about somebody who may have been murdered, and you are wanting to quite possibly put yourself in the path of evil.

I realize that, she said soberly. But I want to know who that poor woman is and what happened to her. Something tells me if we don't seek the truth, nobody will.

Chapter 4

Early the next morning, Bryan McClellan stood on Pier 3 in South Shore Harbour Marina in League City, which surrounded Kemah to the west, and stared at the dismasted sailboat in the first slip. Today there was no fog.

Sorry, Dad, he said. I was looking forward to taking you sailing.

Mack McClellan looked strikingly similar to his son, but with a more muscular bulk, ruddy complexion, and close-cropped strawberry-blond hair. His deep blue eyes were intense.

The brokerage holding you responsible?

Don't think so. It was obviously an accident waiting to happen.

You know, from here I can see a good deal of crazing, especially around the base of…where the mast used to be. Did the deck have flex?

Some.

Let's board.

Just then, a man hailed Bryan's father as he approached from the mostly empty parking lot. Hey, Mack. Thought it was you.

The two older men pumped fists.

Great to see you, Paul. When did you get in?

Last night. Nice place. He indicated the resort hotel behind him, then shook hands with Bryan. Paul Finson. Last time I saw you, you weren't much more than a squirt. Now you can look down at your old man's bald spot.

Bryan grinned.

And welcome to your first summit.

Thank you, sir. Looking forward to it.

You and me both, Finson agreed. We're in for some big changes.

Bring any of the family? Mack asked.

Well, my wife couldn't make it. The man appeared concerned.

Everything all right?

They found cancer six months ago.

Oh no. Sorry to hear that, Paul.

We have faith she'll be healed. She's having more tests this week and insisted I come without her. Wouldn't let our son stay with her either, so he arrived a couple days ago to get in some diving.

Oh yeah? Where'd he go? asked Bryan. I dive.

He met some friends at Offats Bayou in Galveston.

How'd they like it?

Well, I haven't heard from him, so he must be having a great time.

From what I hear, said Mack, glancing at his son, the seas kicked up a fuss yesterday after the fog bank lifted.

Bryan winced. But Offats Bayou is pretty protected, he said.

He was supposed to be back here last night, said Finson, so maybe he didn't get to dive. Probably got a room and decided to try again today.

Is your son a certified scuba diver? Bryan asked.

Yes.

Good to hear.

Mack interjected, Maybe you should check on him before he goes out again.

Finson pulled a phone from a pocket and pushed a button. He quickly looked at Mack. Don't worry, it's a drop phone. After a few seconds, he said, Jason, this is Dad. Call me. Then he disconnected.

Do you know the people he dove with? Mack asked.

No.

The three men were silent, and then Finson looked at the mess in the slip and asked, This your boat?

I had planned to buy it, said Bryan. Rigging needed tuning.

I should say so. Where's the mast?

Getting repaired, the younger man said sheepishly.

"My son was also out in the bad weather yesterday."

It wasn't like that, Dad. Bryan looked at Finson. A jerk in a powerboat almost crashed into us. Had to jibe to get away, but the boat couldn't handle it. Turning to his father, he added, Aren't you glad we were out there? That body would have been eaten by sharks and never found if it wasn't for us.

A body? Finson didn't hide his surprise. Are you saying you found a dead body in the water?

Yeah. A woman. This creep threw her out of a boat.

Good grief! I didn't think this town was as bad as Houston.

We're close enough to have some of the same criminal element, said Mack. Like a cancer, the enemy's consuming Houston and everything it touches.

Our crime has really gone up in the last year, Bryan added. All tied to drugs.

That's right, said Mack. Not only from rival suppliers vying for territorial dominance but also from the behaviors spawned by drug abuse.

Paul, now worried about his son, scrolled through his phone's address book. The credit card company can tell me if Jason used my card.

Good idea, said Mack. He patted the man on the back. Hope everything's okay. Please join us onboard when you're done.

The two McClellans boarded Bayspray to assess the extent of the damage. Ten minutes later, they debarked just as Finson finished his phone conversation.

There was a boat rental charge in Galveston two days ago, he said, clearly upset, and a second more substantial charge to the same company yesterday afternoon. The owner said the boat was found abandoned a couple miles from Bolivar Roads in the Gulf of Mexico, so the additional charge was for taking the boat outside the bay area and for damage.

That doesn't sound good, said Mack.

Where's Bolivar Roads?

It's the cut between Galveston Island and Bolivar Peninsula, said Bryan.

Gives the Houston and Texas City ship channels access to the gulf, Mack added.

I don't know what to do. I tried Jason again, and he's not answering.

Let's go file a missing person report, said Mack. It's been two days since you last spoke with him, right?

The upset father nodded.

What's the name of the boat rental company? Bryan asked. I'll dig around and see if I can find out anything.

Finson gave him the particulars and then walked back across the parking lot with the elder McClellan. Bryan watched the two men until they disappeared around a corner of the hotel, then after fiddling with the dock lines, he retrieved his phone from a pocket just as it rang.

Your ears must have been burning, he said. Meet me for a late breakfast at the usual spot? I've got a mission.

Chapter 5

Wendy took a sip of orange juice and chased it with the rich, still-warm latte. She savored the mingling flavors and then finished the last bite of egg sandwich.

Don't know why I'm coming with you when I should be out on the water looking for a murderer.

Bryan grinned. Must be my charm.

Don't you want to know who killed that woman? Could be a tourist, and the longer we wait, the farther away he and the evidence get.

First of all, we don't know that the guy who dumped the body was the actual killer. Might have been an accomplice.

True, but—

And second of all, whose boat would you be using?

I know a lot of people with boats. No doubt I could borrow one.

Not after word gets around about yesterday's fiasco.

You were the skipper, not me!

He cut her a glance.

Twenty minutes earlier, Wendy was about to step into her car to meet Bryan for breakfast when his familiar gray-and-black four-door pickup truck pulled across her driveway. He had held up a large to-go bag with an announcement that he was making up for their late start, so she had jumped in, intrigued by what he might have planned.

Heading for Galveston Island, he had explained about Paul Finson's missing son and that he wanted to check it out. They had taken the less-traveled TX 146 route, which was a leg of the Texas Independence Trail. The alternate was IH 45 South, locally called the Gulf Freeway, which was usually bumper-to-bumper. Now, a few miles past Bacliff, Wendy pointed ahead.

Look! Something's going on up there.

Several dozen people wearing dark clothing had run from behind the scrub tree line and then suddenly dropped into the shrubbery along the road.

Undocumented foreigners, Bryan said. They didn't see us coming until it was too late.

A common occurrence in West Texas and along the border, but why so many here? She scrutinized the utility towers and the highline network that dominated the landscape, evidence of the power plant hidden within the littoral forest. Cheap labor at the plant?

Maybe.

As they passed the unlawful visitors, Wendy was surprised to see they all wore black face masks.

Looks like pictures of cartel gangsters in Mexico City, she said.

Yeah. It's so dangerous there, the police even cover their faces.

Perhaps they came by boat through Galveston Bay. She pointed to the truck's animated GPS screen at the blue field depicted just east of them.

Bet they followed that finger of water. Look, it connects the road and the power plant to the bay less than a half mile away.

Bryan glanced at his rearview mirror and said, Look behind us.

Wendy peered into the side mirror and watched a half dozen vans pull onto the shoulder and stop. They're about to be picked up.

Now they'll be transported to their destinations, he said, disgusted. And there's nothing we can do about it.

The coastal flatland included scenic marshes where Wendy spotted white ibises, snowy and great egrets, a pair of flashy roseate spoonbills, and an almost five-foot-tall great blue heron. Then they passed the petroleum refineries and fabrication facilities of Texas City and, after merging onto the Gulf Freeway, the Galveston causeway loomed.

"So what's the Bug…er, Bayspray's owner gonna do about his boat?" Wendy asked.

"The Bayspray is down for the count—got a crack in the mast. Wonder if it was there before we took it out."

You still thinking of buying it?

Nope.

Well, I'm happy to hear it. She laughed. Just wait. One day, I'll have my own boat and you can sail with me.

"You going out with The Meat again?"

She looked at him curiously. You mean Julian? Maybe. Why?

He shrugged.

Jealous?

Are you kidding? If I were a really nice guy, I'd warn him about how bullheaded you can be.

Oh yeah? Well, as a matter of fact, I have a date with him tonight. She stuck out her tongue.

His hand flew to grab it, and she squealed and jerked back just in time to prevent its capture.

Don't use it unless you want to lose it, he warned.

As they drew near their destination, he exited at Sixty-First Street and said, Mr. Finson's very upset about his son.

I imagine so. I would be too.

This is just something I thought I should do for my dad's friend. Hopefully it will turn out to be nothing, but the circumstances are disturbing.

I completely agree and I'm happy to help, Bryan.

She gazed at Offats Bayou sparkling three hundred feet beyond her window and the red, white, and blue pyramids of an amusement park a mile beyond that.

Water's blue today, she said.

He stole a glance. Nice.

After a right onto Sixty-First at the traffic light, they soon arrived at Bob's Boat Rentals. The aging, cracked, asphalt parking lot lay empty next to a large office building that hid the rental docks from the street, and a dozen Mexican fan palms adorned the substantial square footage of the property. They stepped from the truck.

Man it's hot, said Wendy as she smoothed the back of her black skort.

Entrance must be around back, Bryan said.

The pair headed in that direction while Wendy pulled her mass of hair into a high ponytail. A few shorter tendrils around her face escaped the elasticized band, and ringlets at the nape of her neck were already damp with perspiration. Upon reaching the corner of the building, they were met by a steady breeze and a stern-looking middle-aged woman.

Can I help you? the woman asked. Her pock-marked complexion was covered in thick pasty makeup, and the dark, penetrating eyes were heavy with black eyeliner and smudged mascara.

I hope so. Are you the manager? Bryan asked.

I'm the owner, Agria Pina.

Oh. Who's ‘Bob'?

Former owner. The name I keep because it's good for business and I don't have to change all the social media stuff. Need to rent a boat? A ringing phone sounded from inside the office, and she glanced toward the door, flustered.

Not today, said Bryan. We're here because we can't get in touch with a friend, and he was last known to have rented a boat from you.

So what's your friend's name?

Jason Finson.

Him, she spat. To him who had no reservation, I rented in good faith, and he does this to me. She shoved an open palm toward the last powerboat tied alongside the main dock. He stole the motor and all the electronics and then abandoned the boat! The ringing phone stopped.

Wendy and Bryan exchanged glances.

Wow, sorry to hear it, Ms. Pina, said Bryan.

Wendy took a step forward. Ma'am, right now this guy's missing, which is not his normal behavior.

It's normal to steal? The woman firmly crossed her arms at her waist. Her shoulder-length pepper-black hair was generously salted and worn off the face, puffed up, and sprayed stiff. The severe style accentuated the hard lines in her face.

Not usually, said Bryan. Did he leave any contact information? Somebody other than his dad?

I don't ask. A credit card is all I need.

Was he alone? Wendy asked, brushing wind-tossed hair from her eyes. She noticed the other woman's coiffure didn't budge.

There was a girl. About his age. She stayed in the car until they boarded.

Where's his car? Bryan asked, head swiveling.

Their accomplice dropped them off. Left after the two unloaded some diving equipment.

Hmm, Bryan uttered. What kind of car?

I don't know. A reddish car.

Did they leave anything on the boat, Ms. Pina? Wendy asked.

No, they took everything!

I mean, did they leave any of their personal stuff? Their dive gear?

Don't know. Been too busy to board it. If they did, they aren't getting it back!

I don't blame you, Wendy said. I'd be mad too. After a pause, she added, Can we go look at the boat?

The woman gave them both a once-over. Why? From here you see there's no motor.

Wendy held up her phone. I can take a photo for Jason's dad so he can see the extent of the theft. After all, his credit card is now paying for it.

The woman started to say something, but the office phone rang again, and she became agitated. Look but don't touch, she said as she and her petrified hair turned toward the office door.

Wendy and Bryan hurried to the boat. It was a twenty-four-foot white-and-red Hurricane that appeared in excellent shape. No scratches, dings…or blood.

Pretty nice, said Bryan.

For a water car, Wendy added.

They looked at each other and snickered.

I'm boarding, she said and stepped lightly onto the bow.

The loungers had been folded down to create a sun platform. She walked across it and into the cockpit, took a photo, and then put the phone away.

Got a little sink and a space underneath where you could stow an ice chest. Nothing there now. She moved to the stern seating and sat down, facing the bow.

Bryan checked the gaping holes at the helm and said, Electronics were removed by someone who knew what they were doing.

Wendy jumped up. Let's open the lounger, she said, heading forward. Maybe something's under it.

They quickly transformed the platform into two settees that hugged opposite bulkheads.

Bingo, she said and squatted to pick up a mobile phone.

Find something? a rigid voice called from the dock. It was Agria Pina.

Wendy shot upright and, holding the recovered phone to her ear, said loudly, Gotta go, Mom. Love ya. She dropped the phone into a pocket. Did you say something, ma'am?

The suspicious woman glared. I told you not to board.

I'm so sorry, said Wendy, but I had to in order to get good photos. She promptly debarked.

We'll get out of your hair, Bryan said as he stepped off too. Thank you for your time, and we'll get these photos to Mr. Finson today.

Do you want copies? Wendy asked sweetly.

Don't need them. I've got the damaged boat.

Wendy and Bryan returned to his pickup.

Smooth move, Wen.

I had to have the phone. Wendy looked at him. How well do you know this Jason guy? Think he and his friend stole that equipment?

I hope not. I don't know Jason at all, but Mr. Finson's a good man.

Bryan started the truck, and Wendy was already working on the phone.

Chapter 6

Ebby Sandhumad sat in a car outside of a convenience store in Cove, Texas, thinking about what his next action would provide him: monetary means beyond his wildest imagination. It would be in his hands by tomorrow and could make the previous night's dream a reality.

Remnants from that vision descended on him, and he was engulfed in a tingling thrill. What if, instead of using those US dollars for their intended purpose, he kept them for himself? He could buy all the fast cars and women he wanted. Maybe flee to Vegas or California, because movies showed that was where he would find the easiest women and the greatest number of blondes. They had to be blond.

The egomaniacal idea had germinated during a recent flight from New