Excerpt



Tuesday, January 13

Luke followed the overturned boats anchor rope into the depths of Smith Mountain Lake, slid his gloved hand down the rope until he hit a knot, then flipped on his underwater light. He didnt like winter diving in Virginia, disliked wearing the necessary dry suit instead of a wet suit, but at least visibility was better than in summer. And he knew that winter temperatures and forty-degree water always slowed the decomposition and bloating of victims bodies.

He found the body suspended several feet above the bottom of the lake, the anchor rope twisted around the dead mans ankle, the anchor partially buried in the mucky bottom.

Luke forced himself to pay attention to the task ahead of him. Relaxing his guard for even one second in this manmade lake with its underwater secrets could make him a victim also. Hed tag the boat, the police would take over, and his job would be finished.

On shore, spectators whod gathered to watch were saying the victim most likely had committed suicide. Luke had heard them talking while he put on his diving gear, but he didnt believe the man had killed himself. Luke had this gut feeling about the mans death, kind of a sixth sense that said. . . .

Well, its out of my hands, anyhow, none of my business. A damn shame, though. I bet all the poor guy wanted was to catch a striped bass, Luke thought.

*

Late that afternoon, three hundred fifty miles south of Smith Mountain Lake, Aurora Harris stood on the River Walk in Augusta, Georgia, and tossed a red Frisbee to a black Lab. She tripped on a tree root and fell. The dog galloped back to her, licked her face. Laughing, she pushed the Lab away. She stood and plucked dead leaves out of her blonde hair, and brushed twigs and dirt from her Lands End jacket.

A man stepped out from the shadow of a century-old live oak tree and whistled. The dog barked a greeting and Aurora smiled. The man walked toward them.

Sam, what a wonderful surprise! Aurora pulled her camera from its case. Do you have time to help me get some shots of King catching the Frisbee?

Aurora, I have bad news. Sam took her hands in his. He watched her bright smile disappear and tears well in her eyes.

Its happened, hasnt it? I knew this day would come, but I hoped Id have more time with her.

Sam wrapped his arms around his wife. A single tear ran down his cheek. He didnt bother to wipe it off. Its not Margaret, Aurora.

Not Mother? Uncle Charlie, then?

No.

Aurora pushed away from Sam, her green eyes searching his blue ones. Not Dad. Sam, dont tell me its Dad.

My darling Aurora, Im so sorry.

But Moms the one whos sick. Not Dad. Hes healthy as a horse.

It was an accident, Aurora. Sam refused to accept the cops theory that Jack killed himself. He hoped no one would suggest such a thing to Aurora. Shed miscarried five months ago, and now this. He wondered how much more his wife could endure.

How . . . ?

Jack apparently went fishing. Seems a couple of fishermen found his fishing cap snagged on a log near the shore and his rowboat turned over. Somehow Jacks ankle became twisted in the anchor rope, and. . . .

No! I dont believe it. Dad was always so careful in his boat. There must be some mistake.

No, Aurora. Theres no mistake.