Chasing the Son by Bob Mayer Read Free Book Online Page B

said. “But you are not your husband or your son. I sense Mister Rigney resents having to answer to you. And he resents you are not a man. Or an Institute graduate as he and your son and husband and his father and every man of importance in this city.”
    “Of course he resents me,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “But he is the horse I must ride to the end of this race. It’s too late in the course to switch.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    Mrs. Jenrette gave a low laugh. “That’s your disapproving ‘yes, ma’am, Thomas.”
    “Sea Drift is very important. I suppose my anxiety is showing through.”
    “I understand.” She switched topics. “Your network of information, as usual, seems to be proficient. This Dillon character seems capable. I appreciate the recommendation.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    “Now that you’ve seen him, what do you think of him?”
    “I believe he might surprise you,” Thomas said.
    Mrs. Jenrette’s head snapped to look at him. “How so?”
    “A feeling. There is a depth to him. And he has seen some terrible things.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “I’ve seen terrible things,” Thomas simply said.
    “Hmm,” was all she had to say on that. “As Mister Rigney said, we are at a delicate time for Sea Drift. I feel adrift, Thomas.”
    “It has been a hard road these past few years,” Thomas said.
    “We need to make it through Saturday,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “And we need to find young Mister Brannigan. When those are complete, then I can rest.”
     

Chapter Three
     
    Wednesday Evening
     
    “You killed the mother of my son,” Horace Chase said, without the anger, recrimination or what might pass for normal emotion attached to such an inflammatory statement.
    But the situation was anything but normal. Chase had just climbed up the ladder on board the Fina , a converted river patrol boat to join his comrades: Dave Riley, Kono, and Gator and Chase’s dog Chelsea. It was Gator who’d fired the fatal shot at Erin Brannigan, the impetus for Chase’s statement, back on the island in the Caribbean off their port bow, a dark silhouette in the night.
    “What?” Gator was startled. “Erin?”
    “Erin?” Dave Riley echoed, holding the rope attached to the zodiac Gator had just driven up in. “Our Erin?”
    Chase had a submachinegun slung over his shoulder, water dripping off his combat fatigues. He dumped the fins on the deck. Chase was a tad under six feet tall. His hair was turning gray and cut tight to his skull. As he peeled off the wet shirt, he revealed a dozen various sized pockmark scars on the right side of his body, the result of a Taliban grenade. There was also a bullet mark on his stomach, left of center.
    The fourth member of the team, Kono, was up above them, in the cockpit of the patrol boat, silent, as he usually was. But he moved forward, leaning over the bulletproof glass lining the cockpit, listening.
    “I had to shoot her,” Gator explained to Riley. “She drew a gun on Chase.”
    “I’m still at Erin being there,” Riley said. “How was she connected to Sarah Briggs? And you didn’t shoot Briggs?” he said, indicating Gator.
    The huge ex-Ranger shrugged. “She didn’t have a gun. Actually, she didn’t have much. No top. Not my type.” He added with a hard look at Chase who’d made her his type for a disastrous couple of days.
    “Explain,” Riley said to Chase. Dave Riley had retired from Special Forces years ago. After working security for several gigs, he’d tossed it in and moved to Daufuskie Island, taking over his Uncle Xavier’s small-time bookie operation. Raised by his Puerto Rican mother after his Irish father skipped out, Riley was a long way from the Bronx where he’d grown up. He was a slight man with dark skin, sporting an inevitable slight beer belly, and his once-thick hair was thinning and greying.
    “I have a son,” Chase began. Then he quickly relayed what had transpired between himself, Erin and Sarah. When he finished, Kono