Chapter 5
Jerry Baugh
For the first time in twenty-eight years, Jerry dreamed of his dead brother. Steve Baugh, professional sailor, champion swimmer,
and Jerry’s best friend, had been two weeks shy of his thirtieth birthday when he drowned.
In the dream, Jerry was Steve, and the ocean moved around him like a washing machine, keeping his body inside it. He could still catch glimpses of
his ship—Steve’s ship—as it bucked and dipped and drew farther and farther away.
Jerry had wondered his entire life how long it had taken his brother to die and the best estimation he could come up with
was long. Very, very long. Steve was strapping and strong, a damn good swimmer, and an optimist to boot.
The nightmare lasted eons, all while Jerry swallowed more water and swam for his life, for his brother’s life.
At some point he realized he was actually swimming deeper down.
When he opened his eyes in the morning, Jerry was comforted instantly by the familiar sight of his Bass Pro Shops cap brim.
Huge sweat stains pooled under his arms, and he took off the cap to fan himself.
In the weeks after his brother’s death, the nightmares had followed Jerry as if Steve himself haunted the shores that he couldn’t make it back to. That was when Jerry decided he couldn’t stay on land either. Aboard the beat-up lobster boat, the nightmares stopped.
Until now.
Jerry got to his feet and headed to the galley. He made a cup of joe and put a fresh-caught snapper sizzling on a pan. He
waited until both sides were black before he slid them on a plate and lumbered up on deck to eat.
It was the first moment he’d had to think since the boat alarm had gone off. The events of last night came back to him in
pieces: the empty sailboat, the coast guard, the lengthy drive back to port.
The message on the mirror.
It was all too much to take in, especially once a detective reminded him of the rule of salvage: If you find something at
sea and no one who it belongs to, then finders keepers. It was some kind of homage to pirates and scavengers, he liked to
think, to the men who risked everything to find the treasures hidden in the most dangerous parts of the world.
If the detective was right, The Old Eileen might now belong to Jerry.
He looked over his shoulder at her masts standing white against the lavender sky. Jerry could get used to that sight.
He gazed at her for so long that it took him a second to realize he was no longer alone.
A young woman, around twenty or so, in a deckhand uniform was standing on the dock. Her hair was buzzed close to her skull,
and her hands were deep in her pockets. She was looking up at the sailboat with rounded almond eyes, impressed.
“Damn,” the woman murmured.
“Don’t have to tell me twice. I found her last night. Jus’ drifting. Can’t understand it.” Jerry shook his head and took a bite of snapper. “Do you work here in the shipyard?”
The woman nodded and lit a cigarette. “Yeah. I’m Lainey.” She offered one to Jerry, but he waved it away. “Sorry, did you
say you found her? As in, empty?”
Jerry fished a bone out of his mouth. “Jerry. And yep. Can’t understand it . . .”
“That means you own her, right? Rule of salvage and all. Bet the press won’t be able to get enough of this.”
Jerry hadn’t even thought of that. An empty yacht . . . a missing family . . . He set down his plate, appetite vanished, and
scratched at his beard.
“I . . . I need to get some things in order,” Jerry mumbled. “Before the story breaks.”
But Lainey wasn’t looking at him or at The Old Eileen anymore. She was looking down the dock where a van had pulled up. A news van. She stuck her hands back in her pockets and
gave Jerry a faint smile as she walked back toward whatever yacht she crewed for.
“Better get them in order fast, Jerry. It’s already broken.”