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Chapter one

A Year ago, Whistler would not have imagined that he could get used to such a life. Living on a yacht. Island-hopping as he pleased. No problem more serious than the odd balky instrument. No threat more worrisome than approaching bad weather.

It would have seemed more like the waste of a life for a man only in his mid-thirties. And for him, in particular, it would have seemed near suicidal. Yachts move, but not quickly. They are nakedly vulnerable. Whistler, himself, had once sunk, with all hands, a yacht twice the size of his own.

But that time, that whole world, now seemed very far away. That life no longer existed for him because Claudia had given him a new one. She was young, she was warm, she was lovely, she was wonderful. Finding Claudia had made all the difference.

On this morning she was still sound asleep. He had risen early, taking care not to wake her. He liked to go up on deck before dawn and sit, enjoying the sunrise. That was another thing he'd almost never done before Claudia came into his life. He had, of course, seen many a sunrise, but he'd seldom actually watched one. Before Claudia, all that a rising sun meant was that the darkness was no longer his ally.

He now saw the dawn as a time of utter peace. The only sounds at that hour were the lapping of waves and the soft, rhythmic hum that the morning breeze made as it passed through the rigging above him. No birds were yet aloft. There were few lights on shore. There were none on any of the neighboring yachts. In a while, though, the little grocery would open. He would walk up the dockand buy some fruit and a couple of fresh-baked croissants.

He would go unarmed, as he'd done for some time now. Claudia might chide him for going without her. She preferred to be with him as a second pair of eyes in case she was wrong about the danger being past. Or rather, in case her friend the pelican was wrong.

Yes, Claudia spoke to birds. And to dogs. And to the wind. More to the point, they spoke to Claudia. But Whistler had managed to get her to agree to try not to let others see her doing so. Claudia, as it was, was hard enough to forget without him having to try to explain...well...why she's different.

He heard movement down below. She'd gotten up after all. He could hear her in the galley making coffee. In his mind, he could see her in her short terry robe, yawning and stretching and smiling to herself, brushing her wheat-colored hair from her face, revealing those amazing brown eyes. Very soon, she'd be coming up to join him on deck. She'd be carrying two steaming mugs. Her eyes would find him and she'd greet him with a smile. It was a smile that no sunrise could match.

And she would remind him that today was the day. He had promised her that, beginning this morning, they would take the first step toward reclaiming their identities. No more counterfeit papers. No more assumed names. He'd prefer to have waited for a full year to have passed, but Claudia was probably right. It was time. A few weeks, shouldn't make any difference.

Claudia was, by most standards, a beautiful young woman, even more so on the inside where it mattered the most. She was easily the kindest human being he'd met. The most loving, the most loyal, and the most generous. She was bright, quick and funny, good at everything she tried.

She was also, by most standards, certifiably crazy.

But he didn't care. He adored her.

2

They'd sailed north from Barbados to the island of Antigua. If all wentwell, they would stay for a month, passing the last weeks of winter. Amonth would be the longest that they'd stayed in one place. On thatmorning he would rent a permanent slip. It would also be the first time in almost a year that he'd used his real name, Adam Whistler.

Claudia knew that he still had some serious misgivings. But she said he needn't worry. She would be at his side. She would always be there to protect him. And so she stood with him, holding his hand, as the dockmaster entered the name, Adam Whistler, into the marina's computer. They both watched the dockmaster's eyes. The marina's computer was certainly linked to both Customs and the local police. And although Antigua was British, not American, it was probably linked to several worldwide systems that tracked people whose names and locations were of interest to other law-enforcement authorities.

He wasn't a fugitive in the ordinary sense. His whereabouts, however, were surely of interest to any number of people. But he saw no reaction on the dockmaster's face. He maneuvered to where he could see the screen. His name wasn't blinking. It hadn't been flagged. As far as the marina's computer was concerned, he was just another boater passing through.

Claudia nudged him after they had left the office.

"I thought so," she said. "No one cares anymore."

"Believe me. They care. I'm not sure that was smart."

"Well, it's done. And you'll see. We'll be fine."

Claudia, apparently, was at least partly right. In the days that followed, no police came to question him, nor did anyone seem to have them under surveillance while they were exploring the island on bikes. No one had searched the boat in their absence; he had rigged it so that he would have known.

He did not fear arrest. No one wanted him arrested. He knew that nobody wanted a trial that would have made headlines and ruined careers. Ideally, they wanted him quietly dead. Not just him, but his father as well. They had reason to hate and fear his father even more. But they were fully aware that if they made the attempt, there would never again be talk of a truce. And especially if they should hurt Claudia again; not even their families would be safe.