by Don Flood

Amanda once daydreamed of becoming rich and famous.
Bright and pretty, she assumed her day would come. Now she’s nearing 30 and feeling the desperation of a dead-end life.
No wonder she’s eager to weasel her way into a hunt for a legendary treasure ship. And tell lies. And string guys along. There’s a billion dollars in gold at stake.
But is she willing to make a deadly deal with a thug and his stone cold killer bodyguard? Reject a man who loves her?
Which leads to the ultimate question: How will she know when she’s gone so far there’s no turning back?

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Chapter 1

 

“Crazed mom on line two,” the chief’s assistant called out.

“Great,” Chief Ben Simpson groaned. “What now?”

“Says son came to the beach and won’t answer his phone. Not even her texts.”

Simpson rolled his eyes as he picked up the phone. No kidding! “Chief Simpson here. How can I help you?”

“My son’s missing!” said the mother, already frantic.

Yup, bring on the crazy.

Simpson was used to these calls. For the past seven years, he’d been police chief at Blackpool, a resort town on the Delaware coast. “Okay, ma’am, don’t worry. What’s your son’s name?”

“Mickey Dooley – he hasn’t answered my calls! ”

“How old?”

“Twenty-four. You’ve got to start looking now. I know something’s happened.”

Seriously? Twenty-four? At the beach young singles went missing all the time. So did older married folks.

“How long has he been missing?”

“He was supposed to call me at 10 o’clock this morning.”

Simpson checked his watch. It wasn’t even lunchtime. Parents are out of control.

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”

“About nine-thirty last night.”

He figured. Not yet twenty-four hours. He couldn’t do anything, which parents didn’t want to hear.

”I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t put out a missing person’s report until he’s been missing for twenty-four hours, but don’t worry, he’ll … ”

“Don’t tell me not to worry!” Indignant. They always were. ”I’m his mother. I can sense when something’s wrong.”

Another amazing ESP mom. “I know,” he said, as soothingly as possible, “but you have to understand. Kids come down to the beach, they party, they meet someone … ”

“Mickey’s not like that,” she said. Defending her son’s honor now.

He stifled a sigh. They ‘re all like that.

“I promise I will put out a missing person’s report as soon I’m legally allowed. Do you know where he’s staying?”

“No, he wouldn’t tell me.”

Think maybe he wants to get away from you? ”I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do right now. As soon as I can, I will.”

He barely managed to extract the rest of the basic information he needed before she hung up.

Simpson went to lunch, not particularly concerned. Late in the afternoon, just before going home, the chief received a call from a boat rental business. One of the customers that day hadn’t returned.

“Have you heard about any boating accidents?” the business owner asked.

“No, everything’s been quiet,” Simpson answered. “Do you have a name?”

“Yeah, it was a young guy. Let me see, I got his license here,” he said as he searched his records. “His name is Mickey Dooley.”

“Of Baltimore?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

“No, but his mother called. She hadn’t been able to reach him.”

“Think something happened?”

“No, he probably just met some girl. He’s off on a secluded beach somewhere. He’ll turn up.”

“He better,” said the owner.

 

Chapter 2

 

“I want to be rich and famous,” Amanda McCartney finally answered, laughing to hide her embarrassment. She also hoped to disguise the fact she was telling the truth.

Her boss, Aaron Freeman, seeing her frustration at work, had asked a simple enough question:

“Well, what do you want to do with your life, more than anything?” She didn’t know. She just knew she didn’t want what she had: a dead-end job in a dead-end career in what was becoming a dead-end life.

“So how do you plan to become rich and famous?”

“You know what? I don’t care,” she deadpanned, before breaking into laughter.

In college, at a loss for direction, she had joined the school newspaper. Her friends thought it an odd choice. “Newspapers are dying,” they said. “No,” she replied, “they’re positioned perfectly to grow with the Internet.”

That hadn’t panned out. Then came the Great Recession. Layoffs hollowed out the industry. Those at the top clung to their jobs. Those below had nowhere to climb. They were expected to feel grateful for being employed.

Amanda had once taken her future success for granted. She was pretty, smart, funny, and something of a perfectionist – in high school, both Homecoming Queen and head of the debate team.

That seemed like a long time ago.

That morning Amanda had felt the desperation as an actual pain in her stomach. She had been doing the man-in-the-street interview, asking people what they liked doing best at the beach. Pure fluff but it got people’s names and pictures in the paper.

She spotted the perfect mark, a cocky, young college kid, about ten years her junior.

“What’s your favorite thing to do at the beach?” she asked, faking pageant girl charm.

“That’s easy. Checking out the hot babes like you.”

She didn’t exactly mind, but she was on deadline. She needed an answer she could use for the paper. “Come on,” she smiled, ”I’m … ”

“I know, you’re old enough to be my mom.”

What!It felt like a punch to the gut. Even though he was kidding. Even though it wasn’t true.

Amanda never lacked for admirers, including college kids like this jerk. Wherever she walked, male eyes followed.

She fought to regain control of herself. Pretend the comment hadn’t cut her so deeply. She wasn’t even sure why it had. Finally, she managed to spit out, “I am not old enough to be your mom!” with something of a smile still etched on her face.

“How old are you?”

“None of your business,” she replied, instantly realizing this was the first time she had declined to give her age. She had crossed an invisible line.

Amanda, a professional, worked until she got a usable answer. But for the rest of the day she couldn’t stop stewing about the essential truth behind what the young man said. I’m nearly thirty and going nowhere.

Which is why Amanda wound up at The Nymph, a popular bar named after a legendary treasure ship. She was nursing her ego – and a drink – with Freeman, editor of The Blackpool Beacon, and Kyle Ferguson, a fellow reporter. She had asked them to join her, even offered to buy them a pitcher of beer.

The alcohol had helped ease her self-consciousness, but she still wanted to direct attention away from herself and her embarrassing revelation.

“I can’t be the only one who’s a little restless. Okay, so I’m as shallow as a soupspoon. Come on, Aaron, I bared my soul here. What’s your fondest dream?”

“For you to buy another round.”

“Seriously.”

Aaron smiled. He wasn’t one to confide with his staff, but he decided to play along, for Amanda’s sake. “All right, but Kyle’s next.”

Collecting his thoughts, he began slowly. “I will admit,” he said, “that after three million school board meetings and god knows how many ribbon cuttings, I would like a chance at the Big Story.”

“I guess we’re not talking about Blackpool,” Amanda said.

“Why not?”

“You mean like Watergate, small-town style?” Kyle joined in.

“Nah, people are bored with politics. I’m talking about the Big Story, the kind people talk about. One with big money, murder and in the middle of it all, a beautiful girl.”

Kyle nodded. “You mean the kind you can turn into a true crime book?”

“Bingo.”

Amanda wasn’t buying it. “A case in Black pool involving big money, murder and a beautiful girl? I don’t know. You ought to pick two out of three and hope for the best.”

“Yeah, I know,” Aaron said, “murder’s the tough one. We haven’t had one for twenty years, and that was a meth head shooting a dealer.”

“Yeah, no class at all,” Amanda said, the conversation and alcohol lightening her mood. “We need to get Town Council working on attracting a better criminal element to this town.” She turned to Kyle.

“Okay, you’re up. What do you want, more than anything?”

This was both the easiest and most difficult question anyone could have asked Kyle. He knew exactly what he wanted. I want you, Mandy. I want you to spend the rest of your life with me, here in Blackpool. Yeah, that would be awkward.

He had been going out with Tiffany, a locally well-connected girl, when Amanda began working at the Beacon. Gradually, he found he enjoyed working at the office with Amanda more than he enjoyed spending time with Tiffany. He hadn’t fallen fast but he had fallen hard. Tiffany, of course, sensed his being pulled out of her orbit by the attractive force of another.

One bitter evening she broke it off, hissing, “She’s out of your league!” Kyle pretended not to know she was talking about Amanda.

But while Kyle was free, he feared he was, to Amanda, simply a co-worker and friend. Attempts to get together, such as an invitation to go out on his boat, were deflected before fully extended, such was her skill at fending off suitors.

Now, with Amanda before him, he tried to think of something funny and clever, but his brain served up only the truth. He felt himself getting warmer, dripping with sweat. Really, Mandy, I ‘m a much cooler guy than I seem.

Amanda feigned impatience. “Let’s go, Kyle, spill it. Inquiring minds want to know.”

If only I could. He was, in his own way, as desperate as Amanda. Finally, he thought of something.

“I – for once – would like to be on the other side of the news. I would like to do something that reporters ask me about.”

Amanda pressed. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something important and exciting, something notable in some way.”

It wasn’t his fondest dream, but it was true enough. While he enjoyed being a reporter, he

sometimes felt like a bystander in life, writing about what other people had done.

“And now we have tonight’s winner of the Mr. Vague Award!” Amanda teased, as the waitress returned.

“Do you guys need anything else?”

“Yes,” said Amanda, “a magic potion to make our dreams come true.”

“No problem. We’ve got Shipwreck Shooters tonight. Three bucks apiece.”

“Do they work?”

“That’s what the guys hope when they buy them for the ladies. But you guys are in luck. In exchange for a generous tip, I will use my powers as head waitress to grant your wishes.”

Amanda kept the gag going. “Will twenty percent do it?”

“That’ll do just fine.”

“Three Shipwreck Shooters then!”

The waitress returned, making an elaborate show of serving the drinks. “First, you must tell me your wishes.”

Aaron blanched. “Do we have to?”

“Yes!” the waitress ordered. “And you must all tell me the complete truth, otherwise your dreams will not turn out as you wished.”

“Wow, this is serious business,” Amanda said, as they all laughed. The waitress’s magic might be questionable, but not alcohol’s.

After all three had recited their wishes and raised their glasses for a toast, the waitress, with mock solemnity, said, “May your wishes be granted.”

“Especially mine!” joked Aaron.

“Against the rules,” snapped the waitress. “You’re all in this together.”

Kyle wondered, through a pleasant buzz, if he had also broken the rules. He hadn’t been completely honest about his wish. He wasn’t too worried. He was out having fun with Amanda, even if it wasn’t a date.

On stage, the overly loud band cranked it up still higher, making it impossible for them to talk.

Suddenly, Amanda turned to Kyle and said, “Let’s dance!”

Kyle hoped he didn’t look as stunned as he felt. Amanda’s asking me to dance? It was as if the gods of the Shipwreck Shooters had listened to his true, but unspoken, wish.

Fortune also began smiling on Amanda. That night, out in the darkness of Delaware Bay, the body of a young man was washing up on the beach.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Chief Simpson wondered if his luck had run out. After the best seven years of his life. He loved being police chief of Black pool. During the summer, there was enough of a crowd to keep things interesting.

The offseason meant plenty of time for hunting and fishing. It was perfect, the best job in America.

Small and wealthy, Blackpool catered to the rich and powerful lawyers, lobbyists and politicians of Washington, D.C. Martha’s Vineyard received more attention as the playground for the nation’s elite and that was fine with Blackpool. They looked down on Martha’s Vineyard as effete, too many artistic types. The summer residents of Blackpool prided themselves on being the governing class. They did not appreciate dead bodies washing up on their beach, which is what had happened this morning.

Simpson arrived a minute after the paramedics. They had already removed the scuba gear and were working furiously to resuscitate the young man’s body, which matched the description the woman from Baltimore had given him. Simpson knew they weren’t likely to be successful.

Up until he received the call, it had been a pleasant morning, warmer than usual for early June, Simpson just finishing his first cup of coffee.

Now he was facing a drowning, his first as chief. The last one occurred shortly before he was offered the job. A drowning was always bad publicity for a beach town. Worse, Simpson feared this drowning could lead to others. It had happened before.

He was also dreading the phone call. The police department where young Mr. Dooley had lived would handle the notification, but he was sure the mother would call him. Wanting to know details. Wanting him to know she had been right.

What a fucking nightmare.

And what could he tell her? He died, ma ‘am, from a combination of stupidity and greed.

Stupidity because it was clear the young man had been diving alone.

And greed? That was because the object of his undersea search, almost certainly, was the wreck of the HMS Nymph. The British warship had sunk in 1733 within sight of the Delaware coast, supposedly laden with gold coins.

Many thought the tale a fantasy, but there was too much potential loot for the story to die, unlike many of the men who heeded the Nymph’s siren call. During the past 150 years, at least 12 men had died trying to find the Nymph. There were serious, sober-minded people in town who considered the Nymph cursed.

The most recent drownings, before Mickey Dooley, went back seven years. That was the year four treasure-hunters had drowned. Some local teens had decided, on a lark, to search for the Nymph. As far as the state police divers were able to determine one of the young men had become entangled on a wreck. His friend had stayed under trying to free him. Both drowned. A simple diving knife might have saved them.

The wreck, of course, was not the Nymph but a small 19th century sailing vessel that carried peaches and other produce from Delaware farms up to the Philadelphia market. Maritime scholars were pleased with the discovery.

But the story, which revisited estimates of the Nymph’s vast wealth, received wide play in the press, attracting still more gold-fevered lemmings. One enterprising young man had managed to drown before he had a chance to officially check into his hotel. Another one was never found, but the evidence suggested that he too had been searching for the Nymph.

In a bizarre twist, some powerful townspeople scapegoated the police chief, who wasn’t at fault.

But he was forced out, handing the job to Simpson.

Not again, please, Simpson prayed to no one in particular. His phone rang.

Jesus, here we go.

 

Chapter 4

 

It was Amanda, not the mother.

“Hi Mandy, what’s up?”

As if you don’t know. “Are you down at the beach?”

“Yup.”

“Is he alive?”

“Doesn’t look like it, but I can’t give you anything yet. Meet me at two o’clock down at the station. I should have something by then.”

As usual, Amanda arrived on time.

“I hear you put on quite a show last night,” Simpson teased. “Sorry I missed it.”

Indeed she had. Already well known in town because of her work with the newspaper, the footloose Amanda, with a few drinks in her, was something of a local celebrity among the bar crowd.

“I wouldn’t say it was anything special.”

“Not what I heard. I understand you got a standing ovation. The Nymph should pay you.”

“My agent’s working on it.”

Once again, Amanda was impressed by the chief’s encyclopedic knowledge of local happenings, large, small and in this case trivial. The CIA should have such good intelligence.

She pulled out her notepad. “What do you know about the guy who died?”

“Not much. Name is Mickey Dooley. Twenty-four. From around Baltimore. Helicopter mom. Apparently, had never dived before.”

“That doesn’t sound too smart. Do you know what happened?”

“He drowned, probably didn’t pay attention to his air gauge. It happens.”

“How’s the family doing?”

“They’re devastated. I think the mother blames me.”

“That’s awful. Why?”

“For not putting out a missing person report.”

“Which you weren’t allowed to do.”

“Right.”

“And which wouldn’t have made any difference.”

Simpson shrugged.

Amanda got to the point. “What’s this I hear that he may have been searching for treasure?”

“Probably yes, but I’d rather you didn’t make too big a deal about it. We’ll have the town loaded with fortune hunters.”

“Is there really a treasure?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. The real expert is Dr. Stephen Jackson at the Marine Studies Laboratory.”

Amanda shook her head. “Don’t know him.”

“That’s odd. He was pretty famous, though that was a while ago. He’s become something of a recluse.”

“Why’s that?”

“You really never heard of this? About ten years ago he made a big splash with his announcement that he had solved the mystery of the Nymph. He got some businessmen to invest and then the local TV station got wind of it and it turned into a big production. It went national. The Discovery Channel did a big thing on it. Naturally, they didn’t find anything. His investors were royally pissed and he was humiliated. The late night shows actually made jokes about him. As far as I know, he hasn’t discussed it since. He’s rarely even seen in public.”

Mentioning the Discovery Channel jogged Amanda’s memory. The televised treasure hunt, a disaster for Jackson, turned out to be a big break for the host of the show, Maria Hernandez, who had gone on to become a morning show network star.

“That does sound familiar, now that you mention it. I was in my senior year then. I was more concerned about my prom gown than the news.”

“And about running for Miss New Jersey,” the chief teased again.

For this, he received an icy glare.

“Okay, I get the point. But I don’t know why it bothers you. I understand you did very well. They considered you a future winner.”

Which was true. As a first timer, age 18, she had finished second runner-up. She was considered a lock to win within the next couple of years. But the phoniness of the whole affair embarrassed her, despite her being a crowd favorite. She had even won the “fitness” competition.

“Thanks for bringing that up,” she said, coolly.

What was depressing was that she was beginning to regret not entering another pageant. Might have led down a better path than the one I’m on now. Wait, I forgot, I’m not on a path. I’m on a fucking hamster wheel. A former winner had told her, “You shouldn’t be ashamed of making the most your assets. Some day they’ll be gone.” Now she understood.

“So how much gold is out there?” she asked, distractedly.

“Maybe five hundred million dollars.”

“Excuse me, did you say five million?”

“No, five hundred million. Maybe more. Maybe nothing. You could try Dr. Jackson. Like I said, he doesn’t talk about it, but he might make an exception for an attractive young woman such as yourself.”

His comment barely registered. Five hundred million dollars kept echoing through her brain. Later, at home, she found – out of the blue – an email from an old high school boyfriend who now lived in Florida. “If you come down to visit, I can take you to see some of the shipwrecks. It’s really cool.”

How strange, she thought.

She turned on the TV but her mind kept drifting back to the Nymph.

Don ‘t be silly.

But …

But I did hear about this treasure the day after the head waitress said my wish would be granted.

And now this.

Oh my god, listen to yourself This is ridiculous. Get a grip.

She reread the email. No, get an interview with Dr. Jackson.

Continued….

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