Page 2 of No One Aboard

Jerry moved across the deck, aware of every sound his shuffling feet made. He rummaged through his fishing equipment, eyes never leavingThe Old Eileen. His calloused, practiced hands fit right around the harpoon gun, and he felt a measure of reassurance with a weapon in his grasp. He wasn’t scared, he was too old for that, but there was nothing quite like a creaking, old ship on the ocean at night to make a man into a boy again.

He tucked the harpoon gun under one arm and set to work lowering his tiny dinghy. He’d take one moment to wake whoever was on board, then get right back on his boat. Good deed done for the day. Maybe the decade.

Jerry grunted as he climbed up theEileen’s porthole and over the rail. The deck was empty save for an orange life preserver tied to the stern, the boat’s name written in black on the top and a slogan in italics around the bottom.

Unwind Yachting Co.

Safe to sail in any gale!

With no one in sight, Jerry located the companionway stairs that led down beneath the cockpit and gave one last scan of the deck before going below.

Downstairs, the chart house was neat and captainless, but the ship’s manifest was sitting in the center of the table, open to the first page.

Ship’s Manifest—The Old Eileen

Skipper—Captain Francis Ryan Cameron (55)

Mate—MJ Tuckett (67)

Crew—Alejandro Matamoros (54), Nicolás de la Vega (22)

Passengers—Lila Logan Cameron (54), Francis Rylan Cameron (17), Taliea Indigo Cameron (17)

Seven souls. Seven souls aboardThe Old Eileen, and not a single one had answered the radio, which lay next to the manifest like an amputated limb. Jerry picked it up and felt an ice-cold trickle of sweat on the back of his neck.

The cord had been cut.

Jerry’s knuckles went white against the harpoon gun. Bad things happen at sea. Storms kill and brothers drown.

But the radio cord hadn’t been severed by the ocean.

Jerry crept through the luxurious salon and to a door that mustlead to a cabin. He let his trigger hand slip down for a moment so he could turn his radio to16—the international maritime emergency channel.

Just in case.

He opened the door to the cabin.

The primary bedroom. King-size bed with an indigo comforter and cream sheets. Velvet couch molded to fit the tight corner. A woman’s lipstick lay open on one bedside table, rolling back and forth as the boat rocked.

There was no one there. No sleeping captain, no apologetic deckhands, no life whatsoever. Had they just... left?

Jerry checked the next room. This one held two twin beds with identical navy bedspreads. One bed was unmade, with a variety of books scattered at its foot. The bedclothes on the other were tucked in, military-style. A sketchbook was half hidden by the pillowcase, open to an illustration of some kind of monster.

Jerry mopped his brow with a rag he kept in his shirt pocket, not caring that it had dried sailfish blood caking the edges. He should have motored on by and called the damn guard.

He forced himself to concentrate. He was doing the right thing. The captain could be out cold and in need of help. There were only a few more rooms.

But the last cabin was just as quiet.

Jerry peeked into the galley and the bilges, running out of places to check.

The heads.Each of the three cabins must have its own personal bathroom, and he hadn’t yet tried any of them. Hands slick with sweat around the harpoon gun, Jerry retraced his steps, checking first in the crew members’ head, then the primary suite’s, then back to the room with the twin beds and the drawing of the monster.

He nudged open the last bathroom door and looked inside.

In the mirror, his own reflection stared back at him, interrupted only by a string of crimson words that had been written on the glass.

A weight dropped anchor inside his stomach, flooding Jerry with a kind of dread he had avoided for thirty years. The harpoon gun slipped from his hands, and he reached for his radio, unable to peel his gaze from the message on the mirror.