As he watched, the third light vanished in the darkness. The beacon lights were all gone; his men were gone.

Remember the shadow, his mind whispered again.

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 26

Nick’s Cove, Marin County, California

– sixty-five days later

Jack Monroe hummed as he sanded the flaking deck; nice smooth circles, lightly does it, respect the wood, as his father used to say. He stood, admiring his work for a moment, with a grin beginning to split his face. He turned, sanding block still in hand, and now pointed at his Australian terrier, Ozzy.

“There is nothin' like a dame – c’mon, join in, buddy.” Ozzy cocked his head. “– there is nothin' you can name – that is anything, like, a, da-aaame!”

Jack lowered the sanding block, brows up. “How was that, Oz?”

Ozzy turned in a circle, his mouth open, and tongue out, in the doggy equivalent of manic applause.

“That’s what I thought.” He looked back at the deck – magnificent. He sighed, The Heceta – named in honor of the island cave that saved them – was all his. The sixty-two-foot motor yacht, designed and built in 1938 by the great pair of Alden and Jacob, was a beautiful mix of original teak planking over a white oak frame, and with enough modern equipment and power in its engine room to fight the most ferocious swells. Old world charm combined with new world tech.

Jack sat on a single small stool, coffee mug resting on an unread newspaper. Ozzy came and lay at his feet, having found an old dry paintbrush to work on.

Jack lifted his mug to sip at the lukewarm liquid. He grinned again; he still couldn’t believe he owned it. Right now, The Heceta was up in dry dock on Miller’s Boat ramp, and he had given himself the entire long weekend to do nothing but sand back the peeling paint on the deck, the last real job needing to be done. By tomorrow evening he hoped to begin the varnish and paintwork – the fun stuff. Then he’d polish the brass fittings, and she was ready for inspection and duty, and also visitors… or at least just one special visitor.

He looked up at the pilothouse. There was a saloon inside, a chart table, fully stocked bar, and two cabin bedrooms. He smiled and nodded; the Mironov Foundation had been generous; he could never have afforded a boat such as this on his salary – not in a dozen lifetimes.

“To Valery.” He toasted the lost Russian billionaire, and then sipped as he read the headlines. His eyes were always drawn to any articles about the sea, sea-life, or boats. He stopped at one.

‘Dolphin visitors moved in for good?’ The headline asked.