He was happy to bask in that knowledge and wait for the holiday, only a few weeks away now.
For now, he was glad he’d accepted this charter, even if his passenger was more than a bit strange, all muffled up in a huge sweater, and wearing a trench coat that looked like it was at least one size too big. John Alden, he’d said his name was, without so much as a smile. It was certainly a damned good name for a New Englander, and Eddie wondered if the guy was descended from his Pilgrim namesake. You certainly wouldn’t think so from his appearance. Short, with a funny mustache, oversized heavy-framed glasses and a husky way of talking, he reminded Eddie of a terrier. The kind of feisty little dog that wouldn’t accept the limits of its own size and would challenge a mastiff. But the terrier’s money was as good as anyone’s, and Alden had wanted a two-hour cruise around the little islands out past the sound and into the bay. No problem.
Eddie knew those islands like the back of his hand.
Knew the secrets of those islands.
He wondered if this strange little man knew anything of the history. If he was familiar with any of the old Rhode Island tales of daring revolutionaries.
He certainly didn’t seem to know much about sailboats. You chartered a boat like the Sea Maiden because she was a beauty, because she was sleek, because you could unfurl her sails on a day like today, with this gorgeous breeze, and fly.
And what the hell had this guy wanted?
For Eddie to drop the sails and run the motor.
Oh, well. It took all kinds to make the world.
Eddie glanced at his watch. He’d been cruising slowly around the islands for a while now, and it was time to get back. He meant to see Sean off and enjoy the party. Kat was already home, in preparation for Christmas. It was sweet to imagine her pleasure when she saw the gift he had for Sean come Christmas. Kat would play the piano and sing the traditional Christmas songs, along with some she’d written herself. They would all join in, him with his worse-for-wear baritone and Sean with his tenor. And Bridey, despite her age, with her clear soprano. They would make hot Irish coffee, slathered with whipped cream, and Sean and Amanda-the-trophy-wife would regale them all with tales of their trip to Ireland.
But first he had to get back for the big send-off party.
Where had his passenger gotten to? Eddie figured he would just start back, since the guy must have gone forward for the view and the helm was aft. The guy wasn’t in the cabin, that much he knew, because he’d locked the forward hatch. He might have taken the Sea Maiden out by himself, but he wasn’t a fool. No stranger was getting into the cabin by himself. There were too many official papers and personal belongings in there, since the Sea Maiden was the favored vessel for most of them.
“I’m heading back now!” Eddie called, hoping John could hear him. “Like I told you, I have someplace to be tonight!” He needed to get back, take a shower. This was going to be a proper bon voyage party, and he planned to show that uppity trophy-blonde that he cleaned up well.
“Hey! Did you hear me?”
Nothing.
He squinted. The blue was already leaving the sky. Night came early to New England in winter. Like a massive bird’s wing, it swooped in, a single shadow falling silently across the sky.
He started to rise, then sank back in his seat, a perplexed frown knitting his brow.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
At first he was confused.
Hell, yes, the guy was strange, but…
“What…?” Once again, he began to stand.
Eddie wasn’t a small guy. He wasn’t muscle-bound, but he’d worked the sea all his life, and he was no weakling. He even carried a small gun.
Which was in the cabin.
And nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.
He felt the air move as the man did, but he didn’t have even a split second to brace himself against the onslaught. He had barely begun to rise before he was falling.
The icy chill of the water numbed the searing pain. He was falling, falling into the darkness of the ocean, but something was billowing up in front of him, like a shadow, only…
It was red.
It was his own blood, he realized with a strange sense of calm, and it was pouring from his chest, spewing out like a geyser.
He was numb, frozen; only his mind was capable of functioning at all, and then only to realize sadly that he was dying.
What a fool he’d been. He should have seen.
But he hadn’t, and now it was too late.
Yes, he was dying. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet. His lungs were burning, and his blood was still spreading through the water, clouding his vision. He thought his lungs had probably been punctured, not that he’d ever known much about anatomy.
He knew enough to know that he was dying, though.
Being on the water was absolute heaven. Wasn’t that what he’d been thinking earlier? How about being in the water, and praying that it would indeed be heaven when the dark and the numbness and the red pool of blood were no longer a part of him?