CHAPTER 1
Spencer stoodunder the shadowed overhang, unmoving as he gazed out across the vast expanse of inky black ocean. He never tired of the sound of waves slapping against the hull as the ship cut through the water, and still marveled at the star-filled sky above his head that wrapped the ship like an infinite blanket. The few deck lights behind him did nothing to take away from the brilliance of the firmament, making him feel small, but intimately connected to the immeasurable universe.
This was his favorite time of night, his favorite watch. As the vessel made its way through the currently calm seas, he had the deck entirely to himself. His eleven shipmates were mostly in their bunks, with the exception of the first mate who remained at the helm.
Of all the jobs Spencer had performed as a Merchant Mariner onboard the MV Atlaua, this was the one and only task that gave him time to think, to reflect. And right now, the stakes were high. His two-year contract on the merchant vessel was ending in a few days, and he had decisions to make.
What should his next step be?
Spencer snorted. How fitting that this decision should come as the ship he’d called home for the last seven-hundred-and-twenty-eight days, off and on, approached his native state of Maine.
Spencer sighed, slapping his hands on the railing. Fate had a fucking funny sense of humor.
He took up his rounds again.
Walking against the gentle roll of the ship with ease, he approached the stern of the two-hundred-and-seventy-two-foot vessel where a small submersible hung athwartship from an A-frame lift, awaiting its next job. The name on the hull, oddly, was Endora. He bet there was a story there. They’d picked up the two-man sub in Florida, and were traveling at nineteen knots to deliver it to the site of an old, unused lighthouse off the coast of Spencer’s home state.
As Spencer understood it, the operator—traveling separately from the equipment—had been tasked by some corporate bigwig to do an undersea survey of an abnormally long pier leading from the monolith. The outlier, almost bridge-like, had been constructed in the fifties using a simple non-continuous construction in order to support heavy equipment that had been needed for a nearby, underwater project at the time. But because the supports under the span were of non-ductile concrete—a type with no supporting rebar—their efficacy was now questionable. Rumor had it that the ancient beacon still sat securely atop its rocky outcropping, but the surrounding seabed had eroded with time which had made the pier, suspect. That would not do for a company that wanted to buy the property, then ferry out heavy components to erect several cell-towers in and around the lighthouse.
Not Spencer’s worry. It was the crew’s task to simply deliver the goods, to and from, putting the sub in, then taking it out.
He was sure the pilot of the craft knew how to do his job.
The Atlaua would stay for the approximately three days it took for the researcher to complete his assessment, thenSpencer and his shipmates would hoist the sub back up with the enormous, cantilevered lift before heading into Searsport for supplies and refueling. They’d bid farewell to the sub-owner and take on the next job with which they were tasked.
That’s where things would get dicey for him.
Spencer would have two days of leave-time to decide whether to re-sign with the Merchant Marines and ship out again, or instead, head home to Bangor.
He was seriously conflicted.
The hush of the night, which was normally a balm to his soul, wasn’t enough to settle his mind this evening. Time was getting short and he was no closer to a decision. He paused, lifting first one, then the other foot to the gunwales to stretch his calf muscles.
What the hell was he going to do?
His brothers would be pissed if, after a two-year absence he showed up out of the blue looking for work, but once they roasted him; gave him endless shit, they’d still welcome him with open arms.Despitehim having left without a word.
His parents? They’d be over-the-moon. Spencerhadstayed in touch with them sporadically over the past two years, assuring them he was fine so they wouldn’t worry.
None of his family, however, knew exactly where he was or what he had been doing.
He'd needed that.
Autonomy.
All his life, Spencer, being the sixth boy in a succession of eight, had been under a microscope in his family. Not only by his parents, but by all his brothers, aboveandbelow him. His parents had worried that, as the quietest one of the bunch, he wasn’t getting enough attention. His older brothers had arrogantly decided he should walk in their footsteps. Theyounger two had looked to him for a way forward that didn’t emulate the others.
He’d both assuaged and failed them all.
Generally affable, and considered the most non-confrontational of the clan, hehadfollowed his big brothers’ career paths. After working at the family lumber mill during high school—a requirement for each sibling—Spencer had enlisted in the Army. Not the Marines, Navy, or Airforce like three of his elder siblings. The Army. But even though he’d chosen his own branch to serve, Spencer had quickly determined that military life wasn’t for him. He’d completed only one tour of duty before opting out.
Upon separating from the Army—during the two-years of active reserves and four years of inactive reserves the Army required—he’d gone back to school. This time, he’dalsofollowed Mason and Kyle’s career trajectory. He’d graduated with a degree in Criminal Justice and joined the Bangor PD where Kyle already worked.
When Mason, who was captain of the Orono PD had, just a little over a year ago, assembled his Downeast SWAT team, it had been a no-brainer for Spencer—then living with Kyle in a Bangor apartment—to become a member of that elite group. But…it hadn’t been enough.
Spencer had still felt like his life wasn’t being fulfilled.
Attempting to bring something to the table that was uniquely his own, he’d taken more classes, dug deeper, and had eventually become certified in hostage mediation. The new hat had helped for a while, but before long, a deep dissatisfaction with his life’s trajectory had reared its ugly head. Again.
