The Hunted - Prologue, Chapter One

Prologue

August 18, 2007 – Boston Harbor Cruise

A misty breeze from Boston Harbor swept through the ship’s restaurant, flavoring the air with the sundry aroma of salt water, seafood, and warm buttered bread. The tables were round, set for eight in an elegant display of ivory linen, gold trimmed china, and crystal glass. Dim lighting and centerpiece candles cast a warm glow on the room, creating an ambience well suited to Mortimer Archer’s spirit.

He had just been promoted to Medical Director of BioLife’s Fertility Lab, a title sought out by his fellow doctors for years; one that, nevertheless, he had assumed with humility. Through careful research and development, for half of his life, he had found ways to nurture life, never imagining that his own would be taken so ruthlessly.

His speech, prompted by an appreciative toast to his dedication to the field, unfolded with gratitude. “When I accepted this position, I did so cognizant of all of you who have stood by me.” He scanned the crowd, settled on a familiar face. “Doug, we dreamed of a comfortable job like this back in med school, didn’t we?”

His old friend nodded pensively, his face wrinkled with smile.

Mortimer took a deep breath, as though inhaling the past. “You always said I’d be better at the top of the food chain because I’d be too afraid of being chewed up by anyone at the bottom.”

Laughter purred through the room.

“In science, we’re told to keep on asking why. In fertility, we’ve also learned to ask why not. In honor of BioLife and its vital contribution to our community,” he closed his eyes, savored the moment, “let us keep on doing that.”

The night wore on as napkins unraveled, olives sunk to the pits of martini glasses, and Mortimer Archer took a final sip of scotch. The ice at the bottom of his glass, the rocks, jiggled then fell silent as his head lolled back and his eyes closed to a world that he would have said was kind. Drool wet the corner of his lips, just barely, as a quartet of strings played on.

The dead weight of his head pushed the rest of him into an awkward slouch—a pose that had provoked speculation. Too much to drink? Or had the alcohol wreaked havoc with his heart medication? When others had failed to wake or breathe life back into him, they assumed heart failure.

Outside, against a black sky, a pregnant moon cast an iridescent glow on the water surrounding the ship. Restless, it tugged at the ocean as Mortimer Archer’s heart stopped.

Meanwhile, Dr. Brian Dante lifted the corner of his napkin to his lips, and rubbed away a dot of crumb.

 
Chapter One

The fog was a veil over Simone Dante’s car. Her wiper blades swept the glass wide and smooth, snow angel arms that did nothing to help her see, only provoked the question. Should she drive home alone?—and then its counterpoint—what’s the worst that can happen? Twenty years had passed since high school and, still, she couldn't shake the party ritual of being the first to arrive and the first to leave.

The parking lot was muted, raw. She pulled out and adjusted her rearview mirror, the cars misty and enmeshed in color, watery grays. The drive back to Southborough could feel either long or short, all a matter of perspective, Anne would say. Her best friend preached often about attitude and positive thinking, how it determines our paths, our destinies even. Simone, a part time believer, was skeptical tonight. In the fog of an unfamiliar New England town, something sinister seemed to coat the air. She turned up the heat.

At the stout oak tree she took a left; recalling the right she had taken there earlier. The tree sat squarely in its small yard, claiming the plot with elephant trunk branches that were swollen and twisted in age. From there, she remembered the road stretching on for a mile or so before reaching a stop sign. She drove on, past the shabby old shed in the yard to the left and, after that, the cluster of hung sunflowers to the right.

A few more small ranches, another stretch of barren road, more trees, and finally, the stop sign appeared. Had she gone straight through or taken a right there? Uncertain, she banked on intuition and went straight through, her forehead suddenly moist, hinting at panic and the more obvious: She would need the written directions.

Leaning into the passenger side, she single-handedly popped open the glove compartment door and rifled through the eclectic stash inside: stale lollipops, broken sunglasses, and charcoal pencils. They had to be there, she had used them on the way up. Had they slipped out of the car earlier? She continued to search and drive until her car, off kilter, bumbled and swerved over the curb.

She spun the wheel back to center as the glove compartment coughed its junk onto the passenger seat and Brian’s face, disappointed, entered her mind.

Dr. Brian Dante, fierce in his logic, married Simone Donnelly, his opposite, of all people.

Brandishing the half-moon necklaces, Anne had toasted to them on their wedding day seven years ago. "He completes you and you him," she had said with a wink, her faith contagious.

“Please raise your glasses to my best friend and the only man meant for her.”

Simone had believed her.

And now, imagining the moment, she adjusted her attitude and shifted back into drive. She'd be home with her family in no time, she told herself, tilting the rearview mirror, the road a fat moving snake behind her.

Where were the nocturnal animals? She could picture them in Joey’s wildlife books, the skunk raising his tail to the coyote, the raccoon visiting the brook at the same time each night, at the same exact spot. The raccoon was, literally, a creature of habit. Each time she faced him on page six, Joe would speculate of his nature. What time did he get to the brook? and why?

Perhaps, she thought, she ought to head back to the class reunion where she could confirm the routes that Chet Michaels (1993’s class valedictorian) had skillfully described at the bar, straws and coasters his visual aids. Had he not been so darn creative, she would have concentrated on his words. Instead, she sat nodding in phony comprehension, marveling at his counter display and sipping wine.

No, she decided in haste. Revisiting the class reunion was a terrible idea, one that would place her in the tired role of damsel in distress, a character she had dismissed in her twenties along with an empty modeling career. A sign would appear and she would find her way home without asking for directions.

She pecked at the radio channels, listened to snippets of song and talk before finally settling on a familiar tune, one that had just been played at the reunion. Her mind danced back.


“Still modeling, Simone?”

Katrina Davis’s cocktail, tipsy in a loose clutch, joggled to the question. “You look hot as usual.”

“I’m a bit old now,” Simone confessed, “but my photography has taken off and I’d much rather be on the other side of the camera anyhow.”

“God, you’re modest. Look at you!”

“My priorities have changed, that’s all.”

"Priorities?" Marly Richardson, spiky and vocal, appeared from nowhere, the wide space in her front teeth as mysterious as the tattoos she flaunted on the hump of her belly. “Wait until those models have kids. They won’t look like sticks anymore, trust me. Look at my dolphin," she yelped, "it’s stretched out to a freakin’ whale!”

Simone smiled at the memory of Marly, at the permanence of her. Along with the rest of her high school friends, Marly had illuminated shades of her past. They were the girls she had shared lockers with and the boys she had cried over. Twenty years gone and, still, they were the same people: the high school sweethearts, married and divorced; the year book editor, still writing for the newspaper; the addicts, from pot to cocaine. She sorted through their problems in her mind and thought of her own, marginal in comparison.

Chet’s voice rang in her head—the careful enunciation, the distinct Syracuse accent—“It’ll be a laht’ easier to hahp’ on Route 44 West here.”

In search of the route, she flicked her high beams on then off, creating tunnels of fog that narrowed and widened to the jumping light. She sped up, fear fueling her. The steering wheel vibrated beneath her fingers. The engine roared in protest. Then, like an answered prayer, a fuzzy-lettered sign appeared, a caterpillar of word in the fog, a word that made her slow down and squint. Route 3.

“Damn wrong route,” she cursed, wrist-ramming the wheel’s face, provoking the horn’s ridiculous hoot back. Her svelte evening gown stretching with her, she tore her pocketbook from the backseat, groped for her cell phone, and squeezed the power button. Still uncharged. She tossed it aside.

It wasn’t reasonable to expect people to drive out this far, she hissed under her breath. Why would the class secretary have booked the class reunion so far from their home town? As though answering her plea, another sign popped into view. She slowed down, noting the sign’s arrow above the street’s name: Cranberry Road. Turn right, she mumbled to herself before the name actually sunk in. Turn right! This was the road that led to her highway home, the shortcut.

She leaned back and flicked her blinker on. Signaling no one.