Without a Trace… (A Novel of Suspense)

Without a Trace...

A dream vacation turns dangerous

when a young wife and daughter

disappear...

by

Jason Melby

Published by: ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-153-9

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Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2011, 2012, 2013 Jason Melby. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

www.jasonmelby.com

Editor: Dave Field

Cover by Kim Killion www.hotdamndesigns.com

eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

Thank You.

Also by Jason Melby

A Dangerous Affair

A Romantic Suspense/Thriller

Enemy Among Us

An Espionage Thriller

The Gauntlet

A Thriller

To my magnificent twin sons:

You are the greatest gifts I could ever have.

I love you both more than life itself.

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

~Martin Luther King, Jr.

Chapter 1

Victor Mendoza stepped over a strangled woman's body and emerged from the treeline beyond the moonlit backdrop of high-rise resorts and coastal landscapes laden with palm trees and cactus, near Aruba's sandy shoreline. Clad in a black wetsuit and with a grease-smeared face, he moved with purpose across the powder-soft sand toward the shimmering essence of turquoise water forming the Caribbean Sea. He carried a canvas duffel bag in one hand and a scuba tank in the other. Long black hair draped down the back of his neck between his shoulder blades. Rippling muscles lined his tattooed forearms, emblazoned with the image of an eagle clutching a U.S. Navy anchor, trident, and flintlock pistol.

He placed the scuba tank upright on the beach extending out of sight in both directions along the eastern edge of the narrow island. Rolling surf lapped at his ankles while divi-divi trees swayed from the force of constant trade winds sculpting the chest-high shrubs into various Bonsai patterns.

He retrieved the dive equipment from the canvas duffel and secured the steel scuba cylinder to the BCD—buoyancy control device. From the bottom of the bag, he removed a pair of black dive fins. He slung the tank on his back, sliding both arms through the BCD before standing first on one leg and then the other to secure the fins on his feet as he looked out at a yacht anchored several hundred yards from shore.

Treading backward through the water, he bit gently on the regulator in his mouth and inhaled his first breath of compressed air. In front of him, the mountain of Hooiberg loomed above the center of Aruba's landscape, providing him a final glimpse of the island paradise he'd enjoyed for the last few days.

Within minutes, he began moving with grace and power underwater, his well-rehearsed scissor kicks a polar opposite to the cumbersome motion of walking backward on sand. He swam with the current, which pushed him farther out to sea. Then he descended to a depth of twenty feet and equalized the pressure in his ears. Below him, moonlit schools of yellowtail fish circled colonies of dome-shaped brain coral while hundreds of blue tang darted back and forth near tube sponges and clusters of reddish-brown gorgoneas.

When he reached his destination, he ascended from his shallow depth, blowing tiny bubbles to release the compressed air from his lungs before he surfaced at the motor yacht's stern. He discarded his mask and scuba gear, then glided toward the hundred-foot vessel's extended swim platform. He recognized the name $ea-Note painted in green letters across the transom.

He climbed the boarding ladder. Above him, a British flag extended from a brass-mounted pole above the starboard gunwale. Dripping on the deck's carpet liner, he felt the massive boat sway gently from the endless waves brought on by steady tradewinds. Beside him, a queen-size sun pad doubled as a roof to the covered garage housing a sixteen-foot runabout.

Masking the sound of his own movement, he listened for conversation and other telltale signs of life while he approached the lower helm station.

Once below deck, he caught a whiff of brandy blended with the lingering scent of Cuban cigars. He found the spacious salon devoid of crew or passengers as he crept around a leather sofa arranged in an L-shape configuration beside a lacquered teak settee. Across the room, a ceramic elephant lay upside down at the base of a built-in entertainment center.

In the galley, teak cabinetry with holly accents surrounded the microwave and full-size refrigerator freezer. An overhead rack of wine glasses hung upside down above a wet bar with an open decanter and a brandy snifter with lipstick on the rim.

He opened a sliding drawer and chose a paring knife nestled in a velvet-lined tray. He checked the port stateroom first and found an empty berth with a hanging locker fronted by an oval mirror. An open door revealed an empty storage compartment where a damp towel hung from a brass rod above the toilet bowl. Dental floss spatter painted the mirror above the shallow sink.

He moved stealthily, proceeding to the starboard stateroom and pressed his ear to the polished maple door.

Inside the narrow cabin, he found an empty bed with a comforter folded neatly at one end. Sheets hung limp over one side. Above the bed, a full moon peered through a porthole, casting natural light on a flat screen television on the wall.

He gripped the knife in his right hand and touched his left to the brass knob on the panel closest to him. He exhaled between pinched lips, pulling the panel open to reveal an assortment of female clothing on wooden hangers. He stabbed the knife toward the back and inspected the lower space to find boat shoes, swim trunks, and a bottle of sunscreen lotion in a tote bag.

Convinced the room was empty, he continued through an aft companionway, extending to the master stateroom. Sweat trickled down the side of his face, following the contour of his chiseled jaw until a drop of perspiration fell away from his skin and landed on the carpet.

Veins twitched along his forehead when he entered the master stateroom to find the sleeping couple sprawled naked on satin sheets, oblivious to the stranger in their presence.

A gold watch glittered on the headboard's built-in night table while an empty Dom Perignon bottle floated in a bucket of ice water. Silk roses extended from a crystal vase, their pink, symmetric petals in full bloom, basking in the light of immortality.

Awakened by a hand on her pillow, the woman opened her eyes and briefly glimpsed the knife-wielding stranger before a sweeping incision slashing from her trachea to her jugular vein silenced her attempt to scream.

Startled by his wife's thrashing movements, the husband awoke with a six-inch slit below his chin, grasping at his own throat in a desperate attempt to stop the bloody flow.

Victor wrapped the bodies in separate sheets and hauled his victims through the side deck near the helm. There, he tied mooring lines around their ankles and weighted the corpses with anchor chain. One heave, and he watched the bodies sink below the surface before he rinsed his hands at the transom shower and settled in the captain's chair at the helm.

In front of him, rows of rocker switches lined a walnut backdrop filled with radar panels and analog gauges assembled in a logical fashion. Radio and navigational aids complemented the independent throttle levers designed to control the twelve-hundred horsepower diesel engines.

He raised the anchor from its tenure at the bottom of the sea and brought the big motors to life. Then he eased the throttles forward to bring the ten ton vessel on plane en route to the Gulf of Mexico.

Chapter 2

Ashburn, Virginia

Steve Chambers sat at his computer and stared out the window of his second-floor study while snowflakes cascaded through the barren branches of an overgrown oak tree in his neighbor's yard. Beyond the tree, a cloud of condensation brewed from the dual exhaust pipes on his neighbor's yellow Mustang convertible. The baritone sound from the small-block V-8 reminded Steve of the '68 Cobra Jet he'd driven in college before emissions control became a four-letter word.

He didn't envy his neighbor so much as wonder how a single dad could afford all the toys in his garage and put two kids into college on a government salary.

He bumped the mouse to deactivate the asteroid field streaking toward him from the center of his PC screen. He tapped the space bar with his thumb and focused his attention on the word essay centered in twelve-point Arial along the top of the blank page. White space filled the screen. The same white space that had lingered there for more than an hour while he watched the snow blanket his neighbor's yard.

He ran his hand through his light brown hair. A touch of salt and pepper above his neatly trimmed sideburns betrayed his age. His mother's side had blessed him with a warm smile, which he imparted to his wife Leslie every night when she returned from work. From his father's side, he inherited chestnut-brown eyes, soft and comforting at times, yet commanding in the presence of the men in his former naval unit.

He rested his wrists on the foam pad in front of the keyboard and pounded the keys with his fingertips. His thoughts poured from a stream of consciousness, bantering about in his head while the muscles in his fingers worked frantically to keep up. Tired of waiting for the perfect opening to present itself, he brainstormed random sentences, drawing on previous experiences with the hope of adding value to his essay.

He'd been alone in his study since breakfast, procrastinating by reorganizing the file folders in his cabinet. He'd sorted mail, paid bills, and reviewed a portion of last year's tax return to check for hidden exemptions he might have missed. Anything to distract him from sitting in front of the computer and engaging in the final phase of his interview process.

With Leslie at work and his stepdaughter in school, he had the house to himself. The quiet time brought peace of mind and gave him the opportunity to collect his thoughts without distraction from the teenage menace disguised as a high school sweetheart.

He'd interviewed twice for a teaching position at George Washington University. Now his fate teetered on the outcome of a single essay, an essay he'd spent days mulling over in his head, waiting for the perfect words to jump out and plant themselves on paper.

His stomach rumbled from a light breakfast and a morning workout that had depleted his mental energy.

He got up from his swivel chair and stretched his arms. A head rush met with momentary blindness. Spending hours hunched over the computer had left his muscles tighter than after spending a night in a submarine rack.

He touched the half-scale reproduction of a U.S. Navy Mark V diving helmet he kept on an antique credenza. Decommissioned from service in 1979, the copper helmet with its hinged faceplate had been a gift from Leslie at a surprise retirement party the year before. He picked it up and blew dust off a section of copper tubing protruding from the back. The simple design of the awkward device had proved its mettle in 1939 when Navy divers employed the Mark V to rescue thirty-three crewmen stranded aboard the U.S.S. Squalus submarine at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

In the foyer downstairs, sneakers chirped on the hardwood floor, followed by someone bounding up the stairs toward the bedroom across the hall.

Steve rubbed his forehead as Lady Gaga blared from his stepdaughter's room. He knocked on Sarah's door. Could you turn it down a notch? He knocked again, more forcefully this time. Sarah, turn it down!

The music stopped. The door swung open. At five-foot-two and barely a hundred pounds, Sarah's frame almost disappeared against the stocky build of her six-foot, three-inch stepfather. Don't go postal on me, she pleaded.

Steve pointed to the headphones on the dresser beside a high school tennis trophy and an eight-by-ten photo of the varsity gymnastics team. He'd purchased a new iPod for Sarah's sixteenth birthday under the mistaken assumption his message would get across. He knew a car would have met with less resistance, but he couldn't justify spending money on a teenage driver with a license still warm from the laminating machine. Are your headphones broken?

Sarah grabbed the headset. They hurt my ears.

How would you know?

I've worn them.

When?

Sarah put the headset on and rolled her eyes. She inspected her ruby red fingernails to avoid her stepfather's gaze.

Did school get out early? Steve asked.

"No. I just cut class to come home and spend quality time with you."

Steve shook his head at the blonde-haired, blue-eyed princess with braces. He could see her bed wasn't made and her desk was in disarray—both minor issues in the grand scheme of life, but acts of defiance nonetheless. Why do you always take a sarcastic tone with me?

I'm not sarcastic. You just ask stupid questions.

Did you have practice today?

It was cancelled.

Did you bring the trash cans in?

Mom said I didn't have to.

I asked you to grab those this morning.

"Why can't you do it?"

Because I'm busy.

Steve pointed to the cigarette lighter partially hidden behind a box of pink tissues on Sarah's nightstand. Don't let your mom catch you smoking.

* * *

Sarah dialed down the attitude. She could tell by Steve's expression he had the advantage again. She hated that about him—the way he could see through her deceptions. When's Mom coming home?

Soon.

Not soon enough, Sarah thought. Katey invited me to stay at her place tonight.

You better ask your mom.

But I have to call Katey with an answer in five minutes.

Then she'll have to wait, Steve countered. Besides, you have school tomorrow.

Sarah pointed to the television on her wall. A news reporter stood knee-deep in snow. I wouldn't bet on it.

Chapter 3

With the benefit of an early leave policy and the nod from a generous boss, Leslie Chambers left the parking lot in the federal building on Constitution Avenue in time to see construction workers place orange cones along the center of the right hand lane. The effort slowed traffic in all directions, leaving her with no choice but to stay in the left lane and drive her 2005 Camry two blocks out of her way.

She circled back for an hour, inching her way through snow-covered roads jammed until she found the interstate entrance and a ten-mile stretch of highway resembling a giant parking lot.

The road felt slick beneath the set of new Bridgestones as she merged into traffic, ignoring the hostile stares and occasional obscene gestures from other drivers. In front of her, the driver of an early model F-150 jockeyed for position around slower vehicles while an old Camaro with Maryland plates drifted sideways.

She checked the radio for a traffic report and smacked her hand on the steering wheel. A sea of brake lights swept across all lanes of traffic. The inevitable beltway bog-down had struck again. More than forty miles from home, she tapped the brakes to stop behind a dump truck hauling sand. She stared over the concrete barrier separating the outer loop of the beltway from the inner lanes hugging the perimeter of Washington D.C. and saw every lane of traffic moving in the opposite direction, not fast, but moving. She mumbled obscenities under her breath as an orange VDOT truck plowed a path for the traffic across from her.

She kept her foot on the brake and lowered the sun visor to check her makeup in the vanity mirror. Her button nose beckoned for a little powder and her lipstick looked dry.

She took her compact from her purse and applied a touch-up to look good for Steve. Then she adjusted the vent to blow air at her legs while a Subaru sedan cut between her car and the dump truck in front. She took her foot off the brake and continued in the stop-and-go traffic plaguing the interstate for miles. In her rearview mirror, a young driver in a Lexus 400 flirted with his eyes. Dressed in a purple tie, a black leather jacket and gold necklace, he swayed to the music thumping from a pair of subwoofers in his trunk.

She switched the intermittent wipers from slow to fast while the engine purred beneath the hood. She had plenty of gas and no room to drive. She wanted to lay on the horn and blast her frustration at the cars in front of her, but the effort would prove futile. And for all the noise and anger, she'd still be sitting in the same traffic in the same lane on the same side of the gridlocked road.

A stick of gum from her purse provided a mild distraction. Chewing the sugar-free spearmint erased the aftertaste from her last cup of coffee at work. An attempt at blowing a bubble produced a crack from the gum's tiny air pocket she'd formed with her tongue. Her legs itched from the pantyhose she wore underneath her wool skirt. Her bra strap chafed her shoulders. Her lower back ached from sitting in the same cramped position.

Tired of negotiating the brake pedal in three-inch heels, she slipped off her dress shoes and worked the pedals in her stockinged feet.

The gum's flavor disappeared along with what remained of her patience, leaving a bland taste on her tongue and her psyche. She craved something more, something to keep her hands occupied.

Don't go there...

But the seed was planted.

Subdued for the last few months, the once-dormant voice she'd worked so hard to suppress now emerged like an evil twin from somewhere in her subconscious mind; a place where the Marlboro Man liked to hide.

She turned the heat down and cracked a window. The icy air sent a chill through her body, a chill encouraging her to light a cigarette. And as much as she tried to fight the urge, she couldn't.

She'd weaned herself from the patch two months ago. Six months prior, she'd stopped chewing the nicotine gum her doctor had prescribed for her, on account of how it upset her stomach.

She tapped the steering wheel with her nails. Sitting in traffic for hours was nothing new to her. It was an act she'd performed a thousand times before. But today was different. The stress was worse, and her resistance waned before she rummaged through her purse and dumped the contents on the seat beside her.

The chances of finding a forgotten smoke were bleak at best since she'd trashed her last pack more than a month ago at Steve's request. He'd gone ballistic about the doctor finding spots on her lungs. They're not cancerous, she'd argued with him, but she knew he was right. Now none of it mattered as she clung to the notion that at least one cigarette must have fallen out from the pack and hidden itself beneath the clutter from her Gucci bag. Loose change rolled on the floor while she poked at a breath mint case, a tube of lipstick, pens, sunglasses, napkins, and a gold hoop earring she thought she'd lost. She opened the glove compartment for the half pack of cigarettes she'd hidden beneath the owner's manual. Hiding cigarettes from Steve had been a cat-and-mouse routine since she'd started dating him.

She dug frantically, pawing over napkins, straws, and a tire pressure gauge, until finally, beneath the rubble of yellow Jiffy Lube receipts, she found the hidden soft-pack of Marlboro Lights. She took a deep breath, enjoying the almost religious experience as she stared triumphantly at the pack of cancer sticks. She'd found the Holy Grail; the golden chalice from the belly of a sunken galleon.

She could smell the aroma of fresh tobacco when she poked her fingers inside the pack. Then her eyes told her what her trembling fingers already knew: the pack was empty except for tobacco crumbs and a scrap of rolled notebook paper. She pinched the paper between her fingers and read the note: You'll thank me later.

Dammit! she said out loud.

When traffic finally cleared, she put her foot on the gas pedal and accelerated to thirty-five miles-per-hour. She kept both hands on the wheel and merged near the Silver Spring exit. The Mormon Temple loomed in the distance like a castle on a hilltop, its rising spires indelibly cast against a backdrop of suburban landscape. Then the traffic slowed again, forcing another parade of red tail lights.

She stuffed her wallet back in her purse along with the rest of her sundry items, including a wrinkled vacation brochure she'd found on a bulletin board at work. Lured by the sexy marketing, she scanned the one-page flyer from Hot Spot Vacations, which featured Hollywood models posing as tourists on a beach surrounded by palm trees and turquoise water beneath clear, blue skies. The caption read: Come to Mexico, Where a Land of Enchantment Awaits You.

She imagined herself floating in the warm water, basking in sunshine while a tropical breeze swept over her glistening tan. She could almost taste the tequila in her salted margarita. She wanted a vacation. She needed a vacation. She deserved a vacation. Steve could dive, and she could shop. Sarah could park herself by the pool and stay out of trouble.

* * *

Steve climbed the basement steps two at a time and sprang for the kitchen as the smoke detector chirped from the ceiling. He grabbed an oven mitt from the counter and opened the oven to catch a blast of smoke in his face. He swatted the air with the insulated glove, his eyes burning as he tried to salvage the charred remains of a frozen turkey dinner.

He gripped the curled edges of the foil pan and dumped the dinner remnants in the garbage disposal to hide the evidence of his culinary experiment gone wrong, then flicked the hood fan on high.

The smell of burned food brought Sarah downstairs in her baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirt. What happened?

Nothing, Steve said sheepishly.

You burned dinner again.

I tried to save it, but the food was too far gone.

Did you set the timer?

I never heard it beep.

When's Mom coming home?

Soon.

Can we get pizza tonight?

No.

Why not? You cremated what was left of Mom's turkey.

Steve retrieved two cans of soup and a box of crackers from the pantry. We'll go with plan B.

I'm not eating soup and sandwiches two nights in a row.

Steve took the opener from the kitchen drawer and started on the first can. I thought you had homework to finish?

Not anymore.

What about your geometry assignment?

I've got all day tomorrow. Sarah watched Steve dump the concentrated soup in a shallow pan barely deep enough to hold it. You know you have to add water?

Steve glanced at the directions printed on the side of the can. I know.

Is Mom having dinner with us?

Depends on when she gets home.

Sarah took the eight-ounce ladle from the center drawer and handed it to Steve. Why can't we just order pizza?

Because pizza costs money.

So does soup.

Steve rinsed the empty Campbell's can in the sink. I'll call you when dinner's ready.

Sarah pointed to the vacant stove element glowing red beside the smaller burner with the saucepan.