Furious Read online

  “I’m worried about your health,” I said.

  “It’s only a headache, fatigue . . . some joint pain. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sicker.”

  “I just need sleep.” Brad walked to the companionway and stopped with one foot on the stairs. “Wake me if you see anything, uh, concerning.”

  I nodded, and he disappeared below. I scanned the horizon again. The idea of pirates seemed ridiculous. I poured myself another cup of coffee and settled in behind the wheel. The back of my neck tingled—as if someone watched me—part of the non-visual awareness everyone possessed. I examined the horizon in all directions, but saw nothing, except miles of sea.

  I thought about the hospital and working again. Did I have the focus necessary to concentrate on my patients’ needs? Returning to my routine would help, and it would be nice to see Eric again. I missed his company.

  The air cooled, raising goose bumps on my arms and shaking me from my daydreams. Black clouds crept in from the east. The morning’s nautical weather report had forecast clear skies with only a ten percent chance of precipitation. Ten percent was not zero percent. It would rain soon, at least a sprinkling.

  I slipped below and found my Harvard sweatshirt in the starboard berth. I kept it there, along with a few paperbacks and other things, to avoid having to keep going into the stateroom and waking Brad. I climbed the stairs and stopped dead.

  Two sails bobbed on the horizon behind us. I could only see the top of the sails, which meant it was over four miles away. I turned to get Brad and paused. Was I acting melodramatic? Was it even the same ship Brad had seen? He had called it a sloop.

  What the hell is a sloop?

  I would wait to see if it came closer. I took the helm, flipped off the autopilot, and turned the wheel to port. The wind poured across our starboard side, sending us into a beam reach, and the boat heeled. The deck slanted to port, and I gripped the wheel hard, spreading my feet to keep my balance. Years of childhood ballet lessons had finally paid off.

  Brad had said the yacht could safely lean until it reached thirty-something degrees. I could draw a thirty-degree arc on paper with a compass, but it was another thing to estimate pitch on the deck. I extended my arm toward the horizon. Straight up was 180 degrees, meaning my arm was at ninety. Halfway between my arm and the horizon was forty-five degrees. I lowered my arm and compared the angle to the deck. We heeled less than that and the sea was nowhere near the gunwale, so we were safe. Probably.

  I scrolled through the control panel. Our speed had increased to eleven knots and swells crashed against our hull. Brad had warned me about sailing parallel with the swells, but I wanted to see if the ship followed us. I flipped to the sail screen and eased the boom out. The deck righted, and the yacht slowed to six knots. The luff edge of the mainsail fluttered, and needed to be trimmed, but heeling scared me. I stared over the transom and the other boat’s sails appeared farther away. Had they turned?

  Clouds moved overhead, blotting the sun. Rain pattered on the deck and fog rolled across the surface with the leading edge of the cold front. Within minutes, a turbid stew shrouded us, limiting visibility to twenty yards. At least the other boat could not see us. Would they spot us on their radar?

  The AIS was off!

  Brad had turned off our radar signature. We would be invisible, or at least unidentified, to other ships. Worse, I would not hear an audible alarm if another ship was on a collision course. I hoped our path was clear, or if another vessel was nearby, that the crew monitored their radar. The rain continued for five minutes then stopped, but the fog remained. Thick white clouds hung close to the water. It reminded me of a Sherlock Holmes book—something in a cranberry bog—but I could not remember the title.

  A foghorn blared twice in the distance, off our starboard bow. The sound resonated through the heavy air, like a monster moaning in the wilderness. It chilled me to the bone.

  What now?

  I flipped through the instrument panel and hit our air horn. One high-pitched yelp cut through the air. A moment later, the foghorn howled in response. The sound came from in front of us, off to port. Whatever kind of commercial vessel it was, it had seen us, or heard us, and knew we were there.

  “What the hell is happening?” Brad yelled from below.

  “We’re in the fog,”

  “No shit. Where’s the ship?” He climbed the stairs and moved into the helm beside me.

  “It traveled from starboard to port. I hit the horn, and it responded. I think it passed us.”

  Brad turned to starboard and elected the radar screen. “He’s out of our path and heading south. It’s probably a tanker or a container ship. Wait, why are we headed west?”

  “I saw a ship behind us and wanted to get away,” I said.

  “What other ship?”

  “There were sails behind us.” I looked aft. The sky to the east and south had cleared and there was no sign of the ship.

  “I don’t see any sails.”

  “Maybe I outran it or lost it in the fog.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t imagining it? I think I scared you before.”

  “Yes, Brad, I’m sure I saw it. I didn’t hallucinate a set of sails.”

  He scanned the horizon. “If it was there, it’s gone now.”

  “If?”

  “There’s nothing there now. I’m going back to bed.” He went below.

  I said nothing. Why had he been condescending? I had seen the ship. It had not been my imagination. It was probably a fishing vessel or maybe a family on a vacation cruise—not pirates. That would be absurd.

  I shook the thought away but could not shed the feeling of dread. My fear of water had put me on edge since Bali, but there was something else too. I felt unsettled, as if I had left the stove on at home. I had missed something—something critical—and I could not put my finger on it. I wrapped my arms around my chest and watched the horizon. Whatever it was, I would figure it out soon.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By nine o’clock, the pirate threat had not materialized. I had not seen any other boats, and with the wind behind us, I did not have to trim the sails or change course. I sat behind the wheel, but my mind drifted six months into the past and thousands of miles away. I thought of Emma—her smile, her laugh. She had been happy, which meant I must have been a decent mother. She would giggle and scrunch up her face when I tickled her. I hung onto the image of her smiling, before letting my mind go blank and focusing on the sensations of the sun and salty breeze against my skin.

  I felt more and more like myself each day, but guilt gnawed at the edges of my consciousness. I had not been a good wife these past six months, nor a good friend. I had been lost in my grief, consumed by my tragedy, and I had not shown concern for the people around me. I missed Jessica. I missed Eric too. They both deserved apologies.

  I went below, lifted the satellite phone out of its cradle, and dialed Jessica’s number. I wanted to hear her voice, and I longed for a piece of home. Boston was thirteen hours ahead, and I had to catch her before she went to bed. Jessica answered on the second ring.

  “Dagny! Oh my God. How are you? Are you okay?” Her voice sounded tinny, echoing over the line.

  “I’m fine. I feel better than I have in ages and I wanted to talk to you. Is this a good time?

  “Jimmy was homesick for Jersey, so we’re sitting here eating hoagies and disco fries.”

  “I’m on a boat at sea and that food still sounds bad.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you . . . and Brad.”

  “I didn’t think you ever thought about Brad,” I said.

  “I don’t know if I sh
ould tell you this, sweetie, but I heard something about him.”

  An icy wind blew through my chest. “About Brad?”

  “I heard Dr. Emery talking after my shift last night. You remember her, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was chatting with Dr. Manson in the ER, and I heard her say a patient filed a lawsuit against Brad for malpractice.”

  As soon as she said malpractice, I realized I had expected her to say Brad was having an affair. Subconsciously, I had been waiting to catch Brad sleeping around. I did not have evidence of infidelity, but I knew it, deep inside. Brad had cheated on me. I decided not to mention it to Jessica.

  “Malpractice? For what?”

  “I don’t know,” Jessica said. “I only overheard part of the conversation and I didn’t want them to think I was eavesdropping.”

  “Did they say when it—”

  The door to the stateroom opened and Brad walked into the salon. He met my eyes, and I turned away.

  “What’s that, sweetie?” Jessica asked.

  “I have to go,” I said. “I’ll call you in a day or two.”

  “Are you upset? Was I wrong to tell you?”

  “Not at all. I’m glad you mentioned it. Brad’s awake. I’ll call you soon.” I hung up.

  Brad stood in front of me. “You know that’s like four bucks a minute.”

  “Money wasn’t an issue when you spent twenty-four thousand to rent the yacht. Another twenty bucks won’t bankrupt us.”

  Brad cocked his head. “Is something wrong?”

  “Are we being sued for malpractice?”

  Brad’s eyes widened. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Okay.” Brad expelled a long stream of air. “Yes, I’m being sued.”

  “We are being sued. We’re married, remember? What’s the suit about?”

  “I operated on a patient to remove an infection, and I guess I didn’t get it all. I don’t know. Something happened. He died.”

  “You never told me. When?”

  “About two months ago.”

  “And they blame you?”

  “They think it was my fault.”

  “We can fight it.”

  “The nursing staff complained too.”

  “What did they say?” I asked.

  Brad took a deep breath. “That it was my technique, my lack of thoroughness. They alleged negligence.”

  “Allegations have to be substantiated,” I said.

  “This wasn’t the first time.”

  “What wasn’t the first time?”

  “Another patient died a few months before.”

  I stayed quiet. Brad had not told me about that patient either. New England General Hospital had hired Brad before I left to take my fellowship at Boston Pediatric Surgical Center, but we had only worked in the same hospital for a brief time, and I had no firsthand experience to evaluate his surgical skill. I had heard rumors after we started dating, talk about incompetence, but I had shrugged them off as ad hominem attacks based on jealousy—catty attempts at career advancement. People could be competitive and cruel, and I knew doctors and nurses who thought demeaning the work of a colleague somehow made them appear more competent. Brad had done the same thing many times. But maybe the rumors were true.

  My stomach twisted.

  “Are we being sued for that one too?”

  “Not yet,” Brad said.

  “Does the administration think there was negligence? Are you culpable?”

  “It’s only a simple lawsuit filed by the patient’s family. It’s frivolous.”

  “But the complaints from nurses. Did they—”

  “Lawsuits happen all the time. You know that. I’m insured.”

  “Was there malpractice?”

  “Everyone’s exaggerating, trying to feel superior. The other doctors don’t like me. It’s all bullshit.”

  “That may be true, but is there any basis for this? Did you make a mistake?” I held my breath.

  Brad shook his head and his eyes drifted to the floor. His shoulders slumped and his head sank. “Maybe . . . I don’t know.”

  I glared at him and my anger gave way too empathy. “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know, dammit.”

  “Brad, I—”

  “I said, I don’t know.”

  “Relax.”

  “I am relaxed,” he screamed.

  Brad’s eyes flared, chilling me. I wanted to speak but stayed silent. I had seen this mood before.

  “I’ll be on deck,” I said, “if you want to talk.”

  Brad followed me with his eyes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I paced on deck with one eye on the sails and my other on the companionway, unsure what worried me more—sailing or Brad’s temper.

  Brad always had an edge to him, an unpredictability, as if he lived on the precipice of fury, poised to erupt. Sometimes, he would grow quiet, his eyes would narrow, and the muscles in his jaw would bulge. In those moments, he would remind me of a lion, a predator in the bushes. He had controlled himself while we dated, but I had sensed a gathering storm.

  Then, on a wintry day last January, the beast had broken free.

  Brad came home smelling like perfume and whiskey and stormed around the house, angry about some problem at work. He had been drinking more since the pregnancy, and his intoxication only worsened his moods. When I asked him whose perfume I smelled, his eyes flared with rage and he grabbed me by the shoulders, hard enough for his fingers to leave bruises. I was eight months pregnant, and it scared me. He apologized profusely after the incident, saying he had been drunk and had not meant to do it. I made him sleep on the couch for a week, and he catered to my needs, waiting on me like a servant.

  His exemplary behavior lasted for one month.

  Two weeks after Emma’s birth, I complained Brad was not helping enough around the house, and he threw a glass of scotch against the wall. That scared me too. He begged for forgiveness again and promised to stop drinking and see a counselor. My judgment told me to dump him, but I owed my infant daughter a stable home and Brad had not touched me—not that time—so I relented. Chalk up another decision to my hormonal imbalance. He stopped drinking and saw a therapist. Things improved, but I still considered leaving.

  Then Emma’s death trapped me in a fog of despair.

  Now, Brad’s dishonesty, my suspicion of infidelity, and his seething anger all left me disquieted. Had he always been like this? Had Emma’s death opened a portal for his true self to break out? Brad had married once before, in his late twenties, to Helen Swift. Before Brad and I wed, I had looked her up online. She worked as a graphic artist, was a year younger than me, and still looked beautiful.

  Helen may have the answers I sought.

  I tiptoed down the companionway and listened to Brad’s snoring reverberate inside the stateroom. I returned to the navigation table, opened my laptop, and Googled Helen Swift. My old research popped up, and I located her telephone number. I lifted the satellite phone and dialed.

  Is this crazy?

  “Hello?”

  My eyes darted to the stateroom door. “Helen Swift?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Dagny Steele. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I wanted to talk to you about Brad Coolidge.”

  The line fell silent, and I looked at the instrument pad to make sure the call had not dropped.

  “Hello
?” I said.

  “Yes, I’m here. I haven’t thought about Brad in years. Is something wrong?”

  “Brad’s fine. I, uh, Brad and I were married.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice an impenetrable monotone.

  “We had a baby, a girl.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “We lost her.”

  More silence. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you. That’s not why I’m calling. I’m concerned about Brad, and I—”

  “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  I summoned my courage. “I hope this isn’t too weird for you, but I haven’t known Brad for that long. He’s been angry, stressed, lashing out.”

  “Has he hit you yet?” she asked.

  “Yet?”

  “Brad was perfect when we dated. He was handsome, charming, and rich. His parents accepted me. Only after we married did the real Brad show himself.”

  “The real Brad?” I asked. I wanted to know what she had done to make Brad’s parents accept her, but I let it go. One problem at a time.

  “Two months after our wedding he came home drunk, and we got into a fight. He told me he was having a cocktail with some colleagues, but when I pressed him, he admitted he had been alone with one of his nurses. I was jealous and overreacted, and when I accused him of cheating, he slapped me across the face. He—”

  “Oh, my God,” I said.

  “Yeah, it was bad. I saw stars. My cheek swelled the next day, and I had a purple bruise under my eye.”

  I did not know what to say. “What did he do?”

  “Oh, he apologized and blamed it on the booze, stress at work, that kind of thing—”

  “That’s awful.”

  “He hit me again two months later.”

  I clutched my stomach. Brad had a history of abuse. I was afraid to ask anything else, and I did not think she enjoyed reopening old wounds. Static hissed over the line between us—two women abused by the same man.