Anne Bonny's Wake. Dick Elam

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      “Anne Bonny’s Wake sails through the North Carolina waters I knew as a boy, as a sailor, and now as a coastal newspaper publisher. Like author Nicholas Sparks, [Elam] captures the beauty and local charm of our waterway.”

      —LOCKWOOD PHILLIPS past president of the National Newspaper Association

      “A terrific debut novel that combines the page-turning action of a thriller with the sense of place found in the best Southern literature.”

      —TOM YOUNG author of The Mullah’s Storm, Silent Enemy, and Sand and Fire

      “Dick Elam’s compelling novel blends vivid details with quick action. Superbly written and fun reading. Looking forward to the sequel.”

      —ELISE SUGAR MCGINNIS North Carolina author and production crew

      “When a mysterious mermaid-woman climbs aboard Professor Hersh’s boat, he’s naturally intrigued—and soon drawn into her web of danger and deceit. In his debut novel of suspense, Dick Elam creates a page-turning romantic thriller full of twists and turns that build to a satisfying conclusion.”

      —ELLEN MANSOOR COLLIER author of the Jazz Age Mystery series

      “Dick Elam is a marvelous storyteller. Anne Bonny’s Wake is full of intrigue and great characters. It would make a wonderful TV series; there’s nothing like it on the air!”

      —VICKI LOPER producer at Kahunas production company

      “I love it from the beginning to its end. I know nothing about sailing or boats and don’t swim—the shower can be terrifying—but I’m able to visualize the reality of being on the Anne Bonny with Maggie! Although I don’t know sailing, I do know subtlety, double entendre, and innuendo, and Anne Bonny’s Wake drips hot with these as well as intrigue.”

      —RICHARD C. MORGAN JR., PHD president, Return on Investment in Education (ROIE)

      © 2016 Dick Elam

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

      This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

       Anne Bonny’s Wake

      Brown Books Publishing Group

       16250 Knoll Trail Drive, Suite 205

       Dallas, Texas 75248

       www.BrownBooks.com [phone]

      A New Era in Publishing®

      ISBN 978-1-61254-955-2

       LCCN 2016938293

      Printed in the United States

       10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      For more information or to contact the author,

       please go to www.DickElamBooks.com.

      To: Sheryl, Cynthia, Michaela, Rebecca, Margo, Brenda. All talented, strong-minded, beautiful daughters.

       CHAPTER 1

      I paid closer attention to the weathercast when I heard:

      “North winds in Pamlico Sound today: blowing ten to fifteen miles per hour . . .”

      “Possible thunderstorm activity forecast for the evening . . .”

      With today’s predicted winds, today’s sail to Oriental would be no problem. I should dock long before dinner. An easy four- or five-hour sail.

      When I hung up the Anne Bonny radio, my hand brushed the urn. I rubbed the brass. Missed her. For a week, I had cruised the North Carolina Intracoastal Waterway, docked at old anchorages, visited old friends. Same sailboat. But not the same, not without Annie. I’d discovered that you can’t, really, go home again.

      Smelled for gas fumes. My nose read “all clear.” On damp mornings, when I light the stove to make coffee, I don’t want to spark a gasoline fire.

      The screwdriver I inserted helped slide the hatch cover open. Before the sun dries the wood, the hatch wood runners swell. When we had owned the Anne Bonny, I’d rigged a rope handle to help open the hatch. Gone. Rotted after four years. This absent-minded professor remembered to enter a repair note into the “Log of the Anne Bonny.”

       5/24/82 At anchor, sunrise, Bear Creek. To Oriental, Mon. buy stretch cord. new hatch rope

      When I’d chartered the boat last week, the agent had complimented me: “You owned the sloop before I bought her. Well, you had fixed her up right much,” he said.

      Scratches told me the Anne Bonny hadn’t seen many lovers since I sold her. When I tugged back the overhead hatch cover, the wood squeaked. I removed the three Plexiglas hatch covers, all scratched, the top panel still fairly clear. Climbed up into the cockpit. My toes squished the morning dew. I found the sponge and mopped a place to sit. One cruising-alone reward was to sail into a quiet cove, set your anchor, and enjoy nature’s silence.

      Gray clouds rode at anchor off Anne Bonny’s beam. The clouds parted to allow a patch of blue sky. A hint of orange rose below the clouds. It would be sunrise in a couple of minutes.

      When I went below to make instant coffee, I filled the dented, aluminum teapot with water, placed the whistle on the kettle spigot, lit the stove, and climbed back up the steps. Didn’t intend to wait below ten minutes until the pot boiled.

      Sunrise reflected on still waters. Pine trees cloaked Bear Creek, but the rising sun backlighted the pines and cast shadows on the quiet waters. Nice May morning.

      Circles in the water announced feeding fish. A gluttonous croaker, or maybe a bluefish, helped enlarge the concentric ripples. The ripples marched toward the Anne Bonny bow.

      But the fish ripples never reached the front of the boat.

      Small ripples met oncoming ripples, and surrendered. Advancing ripples marched, double-time, toward where I sat. I leaned to look. Saw nothing forward, so I leaned across the cockpit and peered into Anne Bonny’s shadow.

      Flinched.

      A swimmer. A visible face. Black eyes, framed by an ivory face.

      Our eyes locked. I stared at dark eyebrows, brunette hair. The head moved along the port side, reached the back corner of the boat.

      Hersh, I told myself, that’s a woman.

      The woman glided in a “silent swim”—the stroke practiced by commandos, spies, and poachers. Curious, I thought. Why so mysterious? Doesn’t she see me looking at her?

      She turned her mouth to catch air. She swam behind the stern, took another breath, curled her red lips. I saw white teeth, a slacked lower lip. I peered through the safety lines and watched her pull herself to the back of the boat. Long, wet hair clung to her bare shoulders.

      When she pulled to the back of the boat, I saw she wore cut-off denim jeans that hugged her hips.

      With one hand, the woman grasped the wire backstay that ran from the top of the mast to a stern strut extension. I saw supple arms, bent knees, toes that touched the stern.

      Her eyes darted left, then right, and over her shoulder. When she looked back at me, her eyes smiled, her mouth corners laughed. I must have looked astounded more than perplexed.

      I smiled.