Uncharted (16 page)

A year ago he’d have said he and Karyn were doing a fine job of part-time parenting, but lately he’d begun to question himself. He had no idea who Sarah’s role models were. He’d never talked to her about her dreams. From conversations with Karyn, he knew that posters and handmade art decorated Sarah’s New York bedroom, but she hadn’t made any effort to add a personal statement to his spare room. In Manhattan she hung out with kids he would probably never know, going who-knew-where to buy who-knew-what.

Did they still sell drugs on New York street corners?

Sometimes he worried about losing touch with his daughter. He used to be her hero, but who did she admire these days? He wanted to be everything Sarah needed him to be, but unless she handed him a list, he wouldn’t know where to begin.

At fifteen, she was still too young to drive, but many of her older Atlanta friends had their own cars. He’d brought her to the mall to meet some girl named Giselle, who had promised to bring Sarah home after an hour or two of “hanging out.”

“This Giselle,” he said, “I haven’t met her, have I?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Would your mother approve?”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “Good grief, Dad. She’s a nice girl. I wouldn’t hang out with her if she weren’t.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t nice. I asked if your mother would approve. I don’t want her calling me to ask why I left you alone with some tattooed hottie who sells fake IDs and Xanax on the Internet.”

Fatherhood had turned him into a gestapo agent.

Sarah sighed and rolled her eyes, but she kept eating. Food, he’d discovered, could be a useful tool in parent-teen communication. Sarah wouldn’t get up and stalk off as long as something edible remained on the table.

They sat in silence while Kevin watched the youthful freak show that passed by the ice cream shop, and Sarah mined for nuts in her melted ice cream.

“Mom said the guy who died was really nice.”

“He was.”

“She said he was a philanthrope.”

“A
philanthropist
—yes, I suppose he was.”

“Mom said he was about to fly around the world to build a school for some kids right before he died.”

Good grief, what
hadn’t
Karyn told the girl? Sarah was channeling her mother, each word needling his conscience and reminding him that while he’d made an impressive amount of money in the last few years, he’d never done anything even remotely philanthropic—unless you counted the change he chucked into Salvation Army buckets at Christmas.

Maybe he needed to do something to make his daughter take a little pride in her father. Maybe he needed to reclaim his rightful place as Sarah’s hero.

He crossed his legs under the table. “Did your mother tell you I might help build that school?”

Sarah’s spoon clattered against the glass tabletop. “You’d do something like
that
?”

Her reaction sealed his decision. “I’ll be leaving Monday night. I’m going with the man who had planned to help David. We’re going to build that school together.”

Eagerness shone in Sarah’s gaze. “Awesome. Can I come?”

He laughed. “You’ve got to go to school. I can’t pull you out for more than a week no matter how charitable the cause.”

“But I’d learn so much! I could learn about islands and fish and natives and stuff. Is that place like Hawaii? Please, Dad, let me go!”

“No can do, kiddo. But I promise to bring you something. Maybe a coconut?”

She rolled her eyes. “Listen, Dad, I know my teachers would be okay with me taking a trip like that. Sure, I’ve missed a few days this week, but they’d be
thrilled
if I—”

“Honey, this isn’t an educational trip; it’s going to involve physical labor and a lot of hard work. Besides”—he cracked a smile—“I wouldn’t want you to witness your old dad hitting his thumb with a hammer. This trip’s going to be a challenge even for me; I don’t want to worry about you too.”

“You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. I could help. I can carry bricks or blocks or whatever you use to build things—”

“The answer is
no
, hon; you need to stay with your mom.”

“What if Mom says I can go?”

“Your mother would sooner die than let you go halfway around the world during a school week.”

“She lets me come to Atlanta.”

Kevin opened his mouth to say,
Only when she’s desperate for time
alone,
then caught himself.

He leaned forward and pressed his palms against the cold tabletop. “Honey, I love you more than anyone in the world. Because I love you, I want you to stay in New York and go to school. I’ll tell you all about the trip when I get back.”

Her face contorted into a grimace of disappointment, but only until another girl walked up, her pale belly gleaming between hip huggers and a knit top that spelled out
Spoiled Princess
in pink rhinestones. “Sarah?”

Sarah turned, her smile practically jumping through her lips. “Guess what! Next week my dad’s flying to some like, really primitive island to build a school.”

The girl regarded Kevin with bored eyes. “Cool.”

“Giselle?” He lifted a brow and hoped her driving skills were sharper than her manners. “I’m Kevin Carter, Sarah’s dad.”

“Hey.” Her lips tugged a straw from an oversized soft drink, then assaulted her audience with a bottom-of-the-cup gurgle of ice and water.

“Well, Dad,” Sarah said, “thanks for the ice cream. Giselle will bring me home.”

Kevin glanced at his watch. “By six, okay?” he called as they moved away. “We have dinner reservations for six thirty.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He wasn’t sure his comment registered; lately Sarah had been suffering from selective hearing
and
amnesia.

He settled back into his chair, watching Sarah and her friend melt into the crowd. What had he gotten himself into? He would have a tough time rearranging his schedule, but he could see no way out now. He had vacation time coming, plenty of it, but he’d have to postpone his presentation of the fourth-quarter marketing report. And the meeting with the execs from Frito-Lay—he could move that back a week.

He supposed he’d have to do a little shopping, buy some clothes more suitable for manual labor than for the boardroom . . . or he could empty out that bottom drawer into which all his old clothes seemed to migrate. He’d have to make flight reservations, cancel next week’s appointments, and call John Watson to learn other important details. He needed to find his passport, see if the Marshall Islands required a visa or vaccinations, and pick up some traveler’s checks.

But it would be worth the effort. Admiration had lit his daughter’s eyes a few minutes ago, and he hadn’t seen that look in months. Knowing that Sarah thought well of him—how’d the commercial go?—the feeling was
priceless
.

Port Wentworth , Georgia

As the sun traveled toward the pine thickets lining the highway, Mark drove away from the quiet town of Port Wentworth. He smiled when he saw that water abounded in the area. Bodies of water, even without gators, could effectively hide and destroy a body, given time.

The bronze-haired beauty, who had told him she drove a silver Honda CRV, lay on the backseat, her wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. Her vehicle had become an important part of his plan; her death would be a treat that provided pleasure during what would have been a boring trip down the interstate.

The infamous Florida Phantom—a name he’d picked up when a nosy kid saw him snatch his third victim—would kill the woman within the hour, then wipe down the car and take her keys. After placing his recent purchases into the plaid suitcase, he would send the girl and the Mercedes to the bottom of a convenient lake. He would hike to a gas station, call a cab, and ask to be taken to the Friendly Mart. At the superstore, he’d find the girl’s car and drive to Atlanta, where he’d wipe down her car and leave it in a crowded lot with the keys in the ignition. The Honda would be stolen before security noticed it. And when the vehicle was finally discovered—
if
it was discovered—it would most likely be miles from the lovely lake where the bronze-haired beauty slept among the cattails.

He gripped the steering wheel as his lips trembled with the need to smile. He had always tried to mark special occasions by killing; murder made momentous occasions even more memorable.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, but he couldn’t see the woman. He could hear her, though. And from the irregular pattern of her breaths, he knew she was listening. She wouldn’t speak, for duct tape covered her mouth.

“Know what?” he said, tremors of excitement fracturing his voice. “You have
made
my weekend. I’ll never forget my trip to Boston, and I’m certainly never going to forget you. You’re going to be my masterpiece. You’re going out in a blaze of glory.”

She began to cry, a keening wail that escaped the duct tape and pierced the space between them.

“You’d better stop that,” he called over the seat. “You cry and your nose will run. If you can’t wipe your nose, you’re going to get all clogged up. You wouldn’t want to suffocate even before we begin our games, would you?”

Her keening faded into a low moan. He shook off his annoyance at the intrusive sound and focused on the road, searching for the perfect private spot.

After he ditched her car, he’d take a cab to the airport, where he’d call the police and his insurance company to report the Mercedes stolen. He’d say he took the I-20 exit outside Florence and followed it into Atlanta, then popped into a mall to pick up a few things for his trip. Distracted by thoughts of those poor kids in the Marshall Islands, he might have forgotten to arm the alarm.

After settling things with the proper authorities, he’d fly to Los Angeles and work on his tan until it was time to join the others at LAX. By the time he arrived back in Cocoa Beach, the insurance adjuster would be eager to settle the claim. Mark would answer the agent’s questions, and within a few weeks he’d have a check for nearly eighty grand. Ken Cobb would be deprived of a car he didn’t quite deserve, and some kids Mark had never met would have a school.

How much more perfect could life be?

Manhattan

On the phone with Rachel Durbak, director of
My Brother Beau
, Karyn ignored the call-waiting beep. That would be Sarah, complaining about something in Atlanta, but today she’d have to exercise a little patience.

She flashed a smile at the mirror in her dressing room. “I’m available anytime you want to discuss the part.”

Durbak’s voice warmed. “Like tonight?”

Tonight she needed to make dinner, help Sarah with a biology project, and sew a ripped seam in her daughter’s school uniform . . . but those things would have to wait. “Tonight would be perfect. What time should I meet you?”

“Seven o’clock? At the Gotham?”

“I’ll be there.” Karyn glanced up in time to see Wes Walczak, the director of
A Thousand Tomorrows
, fill the doorway. What had he heard?

“Thanks,” she said. “See you tonight.” She snapped the phone shut, then gave Wes a cheery smile. “Hi, Wes. What brings you out of your cubbyhole?”

He sank into the folding chair by the door and crossed his legs. “I hear you want to leave us.”