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  MERMAID

  The eleventh novel in the Sean O’Brien series

  by

  Tom Lowe

  Kingsbridge Entertainment

  ALSO BY TOM LOWE

  A False Dawn

  The 24th Letter

  The Black Bullet

  The Butterfly Forest

  Blood of Cain

  Black River

  Cemetery Road

  A Murder of Crows

  Dragonfly

  Destiny

  The Jefferson Prophecy

  Wrath

  The Confession

  The Painter

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, incidents, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental.

  MERMAID – Copyright © 2020 by Tom Lowe. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, photocopying, Internet, recording or otherwise without the written permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. MERMAID is published in the United States of America by Kingsbridge Entertainment, Windermere, FL.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in—Publication Data - Lowe, Tom.

  ISBN – 9798655210936

  MERMAID by Tom Lowe – First edition, July 2020

  MERMAID (a Sean O’Brien Novel) is distributed in ebook, paperback print, and audiobook editions. Tantor Media is the publisher of the audiobook.

  Cover design by Damonza.

  Formatting and conversion services by Ebook Launch.

  MERMAID by Tom Lowe © Copyright first edition – July 2020. Published in the U.S.A by Kingsbridge Entertainment. All rights reserved

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks and deep appreciation for the people that helped put this novel together. To my wife, Keri, who works tirelessly as my first reader and brilliant editor. To Darcy Yarosh, Helen Ristuccia-Christensen, and John Buonpane for their outstanding beta reading skills. What a great team! Thanks to the talented people at Ebook Launch. To the graphic designers with Damonza. And finally, to you, the reader. Thank you for reading and being part of the journey. I hope you enjoy MERMAID.

  “The sea, once it casts its spell, holds you in its net of wonder forever."

  - Jacques Cousteau

  For Richard Smith

  CONTENTS

  ALSO BY TOM LOWE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  ONE

  If there was no lightning, she would risk it. Savannah Nelson opened the hatch to her ten-year-old Subaru and slid her surfboard from the car, a Ron Jon Surf Shop decal on her rusted bumper. She looked around the empty parking lot near the beach at Ponce Inlet, Florida. There were no other cars. Made sense, she thought. Not many people would come to the beach when a tropical storm was offshore threatening like a bully ready to climb over the horizon. It was early morning, the sky slate gray. Maybe enough time to get a couple of rides in before the storm came too close.

  Savannah had grown up on a surfboard. At the age of three, she would hold her dad’s big hands as he helped her learn to balance, standing in front of him on the longboard or on his feet, riding the swells, wave after wave. Laughing. Learning while she played. Now, at age twenty, she had the natural beauty of a young woman who spent a life outdoors. Tanned, healthy skin. Dark auburn hair a foot below her shoulders, playful eyes that captured the deep blue surface of the Atlantic on a still day.

  But today was not a tranquil morning. Savannah locked the car, picked up her board and walked from the lot down a sandy pathway leading to the beach. The trail was bordered on both sides by humpback sand dunes and sea oats, the bronze seed heads swaying like stalks of wheat in the wind. The path widened around a short bend, and the Atlantic Ocean beckoned her, the briny scent of the sea mixed with the DNA of a tropical storm, the smell of rain in the distance.

  Savannah stood on the crest of a sand dune and watched the ocean, viewing the breakers. She felt the strong breeze in her face and the sting of airborne sand in the wind across the wide beach. The lifeguard stand was closed and locked, the windswept shoreline deserted. The ocean had the look of tarnished silver. A steely gray color visible between the frothing breakers. In the distance, over the horizon, an approaching storm whipped the surface of the sea, creating large swells that would roll like silent hills until they crashed as towering waves onto the beach.

  But Savannah never looked at storms as ominous. To her, they were simply part of nature, and they offered opportunities when it came to making waves on the eastern coast of Florida. She was a competitive surfer. Waves generated from tropical storms or approaching hurricanes were great opportunities to hone her skills on the board. When she surfed in tournaments from places like Hawaii to California, she would be better prepared and more experienced to handle larger waves.

  Wearing a black wetsuit top over her bikini, she walked straight into the churning breakers, the surge of the tide st
rong, the fast ebb and flow almost pulling Savannah’s feet out from under her. She pushed on, and within seconds was in waist-deep water, climbing on her longboard and paddling through the large, incoming waves to get to where the wind and currents were molding them, more than one hundred yards offshore.

  Savannah lay flat on her stomach, using her arms and hands to plow into the warm water, paddling with a determined pace to get her beyond the frothing whitecaps. She made slow progress against the incoming swells and valleys of dark water, closing her eyes as wave after wave enveloped her, covering Savannah with walls of fast-moving water.

  It was tough, but a necessary part of her training. She powered through a large swell and remembered something her father always used to say when she was growing up. Obstacles are the path. Figure a way to get around them, Savannah, or go through them. She almost smiled underwater as she paddled into a large roller, coming to the surface, gulping air, the breaker now behind her, moving toward the beach. She straddled her board, sitting up, surveying the horizon, the warm east wind in her face, rolling clouds as dark as chimney soot falling on a fresh snow.

  She tried to pick out which swell would be the one to ride. Sometimes the largest was every seventh wave, but not always. She studied the incoming mounds of water, bobbing as they rose up and quickly moved on toward an endless tug-of-war with the land.

  Within a minute, she spotted what she was looking for. It was a gut feeling, but she could tell there was something different about this approaching wave. The rolling bank of water was longer than the ones before it, stretching the length of a football field. Dark water. Moving silently. Ominous. Building as it came closer.

  Savannah turned her board around, facing the shore, looking over her shoulder as the sleeping monster wave came closer. She glanced back at the beach and saw a man in the distance. He was alone, standing near the sand dunes, dressed in dark clothes, the hood on his hoodie pulled over his head. He lifted binoculars to his eyes.

  Savannah heard the shriek of a lone sea gull flying against the wind somewhere in the blanket of dark gray clouds. She looked back over her shoulder, the swell rising higher, coming straight toward her. She watched it for speed and timing, laying prone and paddling fast as it came closer, trying to time her strokes with the moving wall of water.

  Savannah pulled out ahead of the wave, stopped paddling, quickly standing on her board as the wave rose more than ten feet above the surface, tons of rolling dark green water moving like a freight train. She felt the power and push of the rushing sea under her board, the roar of white water above her head, crashing on itself with the thunder of Niagara Falls all around her.

  She rode the wave with the sharpened, intuitive skill of a pro, becoming one with the force of nature, staying just ahead of the crashing pipeline of water, a solitary girl in total sync with an avalanche of deafening surf. Savannah used one hand to wipe the ocean spray from her eyes, ignoring the sting of salt, concentrating on the rise and fall of rushing water under her board, two inches below her bare feet. She could feel the power of the wave from her feet up to her heart, the wind in her face, the shore coming closer as she rode in perfect harmony with the wave.

  “Yeeessss!” Savannah yelled, riding the big wave for all of its worth. She clenched her right hand, fist-pumping the air, a big smile on her face, wind billowing through her wet hair. She managed to stay on her board for more than one hundred yards as the wave began to diminish in size and force, finally crashing as a rolling breaker in the shallows near shore. Savannah rode her board up to within fifty feet of the beach, the wave delivering her to a destination like an old friend dropping her off at a place to begin her next journey.

  Savannah hopped off her board, using one hand to guide it to the shore, picking up the board and walking toward a sand dune. She noticed that the man she’d seen was gone. She turned back to the ocean, watching the horizon, looking for another rogue wave, a force of nature to share or to conquer, if only for a minute or so. Savannah’s heart was beating fast, adrenaline flowing through her veins into her very soul. She breathed through her nostrils, the sea air crisp and clean. She absorbed the energy of the ocean, her body rejuvenated from the power of the moving sea, her skin tingling in the brisk wind.

  Just as she was about to go back out for one more ride, she saw the flicker of lightning on the horizon. The storm was getting closer, too close to venture out for another big wave. Savannah glanced up and down the deserted beach. Even the gulls had left. She watched the waves pound the shoreline, white sea foam spewing into the air like confetti. Through the ocean mist, she saw something that looked like a large fish, maybe a baby whale or a shark that had washed ashore or intentionally beached itself on the sand.

  Savannah set her board down and started walking fast toward whatever was lying on the beach. From the distance, the object looked more like a manatee with a tail and flipper. She walked faster, the roll of thunder in the churning clouds, a splinter of lightning at the horizon. She used one hand to pull her wind-whipped hair behind her ears. She picked up speed. Running. The thing on the beach frightening her. Not because it was dangerous. But because it appeared to be human.

  A girl.

  Dressed in a mermaid costume.

  Savannah bolted over the hard-packed sand—the pounding of the surf loud. Angry. Her heart slammed. She could see the girl was nude from the waist up, an emerald green mermaid tail attached to her body. Even at a distance of fifty feet, Savannah could tell the girl was dead. Face opaque. Drained of color. The girl’s golden-brown hair fanned out around her head as if someone had set her gently down and spread out the long hair.

  Savannah stopped running. Her mind numb. She approached the body. “Please, be alive,” she whispered. The girl looked her age. Late teens or early twenties. There were no visible signs of trauma. No wounds. Nothing but a dead girl in a mermaid costume all alone on a deserted beach in a rainstorm.

  Savannah quickly looked around, up and down the shore. She could see no one in the billowing white sea mist. She knelt down next to the girl. With trembling fingers, she reached for the girl’s wrist, feeling desperately for a pulse. “Oh God,” she mumbled, looking into the girl’s frozen eyes that seemed to stare up to the dark gray sky. In a burst of white light from lightning, she could see the horror still trapped in the dead girl’s eyes. Savannah held the wrist. There was no pulse. Her hands shook uncontrollably, lower lip trembling. Eyes welling. Raindrops splattered across the girl’s body, over her bare breasts and onto her face. Savannah fought the urge to vomit. She glanced down at the girl’s right hand. A ghost crab, body the color of frozen water, was feeding on the girl’s thumb, next to a fingernail painted pink.

  Savannah screamed, using her hand to knock the crab away from the body. She stood, knees weak, head spinning, stomach acid and bile rising in her throat. She stumbled toward a sand dune, fell to her knees, vomiting in the sea oats as thunder shook the ground and lightning illuminated the entire desolate beach for a second. Savannah used the back of one hand to wipe her lips, then looked up toward the dark sky, the light rain mixing with her tears. The rain exited land as quickly as it came, dark clouds looming offshore, an impenetrable rain wall hanging over the face of the sea.

  TWO

  Detective Dan Grant was always suspicious. It came with the job. He never took anything, especially a possible crime, at apparent face value. “Maybe she drowned,” he overheard one of the deputies say as Grant ducked under the yellow police tape, approaching the body with a churning in his gut that he felt when investigating a potential homicide. A half-dozen sheriff’s deputies, three CSI investigators, another detective, and two members of the coroner’s office were on the scene, the tide rising, storm clouds moving off to the north.

  Grant, late forties, African American, wearing a blue sports coat with no tie and khaki pants, stared at the body. A CSI tech snapped pictures. Grant took a deep breath exhaling through his nose, kneeling down for a closer look. He examined the green mermaid
tail, looked at how it was positioned on the body, beginning just below the navel. The tail very realistic in design, down to the simulated fish scales. He looked at the dead girl’s opaque face, eyes open. He searched for signs of trauma around the neck and torso, examining the hands and fingernails.

  Grant stood and jotted notes onto a small pad he carried. The second detective, Jason Lawson, a tall man with a narrow face and guarded, dark eyes, walked up and said, “Poor kid. She doesn’t look like she was out of her teen years. No blunt force trauma, not obvious wounds. Maybe she drowned.”

  Grant nodded. “Maybe, but if the ME doesn’t find water in her lungs … what or who killed her?” He looked around the beach. “And what the hell was she doing out here wearing the tail of a mermaid?”

  “Could be connected to that Hollywood movie, Atlantis, they’re going to be shooting in Florida. Some of it is supposed to be filmed around here, from St. Augustine to Daytona Beach and down in the Keys. I read that some of the movie storyline has to do with mermaids. Maybe the girl was going to audition for a part. She could have been here practicing a swim before the storm.”

  “Topless? I doubt it. Has anyone found the girl’s top … maybe a bikini top or a T-shirt?”

  Detective Lawson shook his head. “No, not yet.”

  Grant scanned the beach, looking at the sand near the body and around the perimeter. “For all of its threatening, we’re damn lucky that storm never moved on shore, except for a few minutes of sprinkling. Did you find any usable tracks, shoeprints or maybe something left by bare feet, that we can use?”

  “Only prints from the girl who found the body. It was as if the body washed ashore out of the sea and was left on the sand. If there was a perp, maybe he killed the girl in the surf, dumped her here, and exited by walking in the water for a while before he left and headed for his car in one of the lots.”

  “Where’s the nearest beach-cam?”

  “Closer to the lifeguard stand and the parking lot, a couple blocks from here.”

  “Let’s check for any video recordings.”