Half-Past Dawn
Authors: Richard Doetsch
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HALF-PAST DAWN
A
LSO BY
R
ICHARD
D
OETSCH
The 13th Hour
The Thieves of Heaven
The Thieves of Faith
The Thieves of Darkness
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Richard Doetsch
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Atria Books hardcover edition September 2011
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Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-4391-8397-7
ISBN 978-1-4391-8399-1 (ebook)
F
OR
V
IRGINIA
,
M
Y BEST FRIEND
,
I LOVE YOU WITH ALL OF MY HEART
.
Each man is the architect of his own fate.
—A
PPIUS
C
LAUDIUS
I am not an adventurer by choice but by fate.
—V
INCENT VAN
G
OGH
It is what a man thinks of himself that really determines his fate.
—H
ENRY
D
AVID
T
HOREAU
HALF-PAST DAWN
CHAPTER
1
F
RIDAY
, 6:00
A.M
.
H
ALF-PAST DAWN, THE WORLD
slowly came to life. The sun crept along the freshly cut grass, over the scattered toys on the back lawn, and through the rear windows of the modest colonial house, the country kitchen filling with morning light as it danced over cream tiles and a wide-plank oak floor.
A tall man walked into the kitchen, his black hair mussed and astray, his lean, muscular body wrapped in a blue robe. His face was strong and intelligent, but carried a certain toughness, while his dark brown eyes had the appearance of seeing far more years than the thirty-nine he had lived.
A Bernese Mountain dog ran to his side, and he crouched down, running his hands through the large dog’s black, brown, and white coat, rubbing his belly and behind his ears. “Hey, Fruck,” he whispered. He always loved giving his pets obscure names that never failed to become conversation starters.
He reached into the fridge, grabbed a Coke, popped it open, and drank half of it as if it were desperately needed air for his lungs. He wasn’t a coffee guy, never had been, preferring his caffeine jolt cold
and sweet. He looked around the kitchen, at the overflowing garbage he had promised his wife he would take out more than a day ago, at the ever-growing stack of bills by the phone, and finally, at the lack of bagels, cream cheese, and newspaper on the counter.
Heading through the hallway of the small house, he opened the front door to find the newspaper on the slate step. He picked it up, tucked it under his arm, and took a long, deep breath of the summer morning air. There was a crispness to it, fresh and clean and full of hope. Fruck charged by him, through the door, and out onto the lawn, jumping around in hopes of an early-morning romp. But that would have to wait.
Jack went back to the kitchen, tossed the newspaper onto the counter, and opened the garage door. He shook his head in bemused understanding as he saw his wife’s freshly washed blue Audi parked there. He walked over to it with a smile on his face, opened the door, looked at the gas gauge, and laughed. Empty. Which explained why
his
white Chevy Tahoe was gone. It had been a forever pet peeve; she would drive on fumes before pulling into a gas station. The following day, without a word, Mia would snatch his car, leaving him to roll the dice on making it to the gas station and come up with an explanation for why he was late for work again.
Mia had always been a morning person, up at 6:00, down to the deli by 6:15 for coffee and bagels, back home, lunches made, the girls packed off to the bus by 7:00 and gone. Mia had probably been up at 5:30, accomplished a day’s worth of work, and was already on her way to the city.
Jack Keeler hadn’t seen 5:30 except from the other side of sleep, when he would crawl into bed and pray for the sun to skip its rise for the day. He always seemed to hit a second wind at 9:00 p.m., his mind kicking into overdrive as thoughts about work and life suddenly became clear. But at 6:30 every morning, his body would wake, whether it had taken in eight hours of sleep or two. Of course, the pain factor would determine if it was a one- or two-Coca-Cola morning.
He grabbed a second can from the fridge and headed upstairs, peering into Hope and Sara’s room—the pink beds made, toys tucked away, the room cleaner than it had been in weeks. The five-and six-year-old Irish twins were inseparable and loved nothing more than climbing all over Jack at night when he arrived home from work. It had been a ritual since they could crawl and was topped only by their love of the ocean.
Jack cut through his bedroom and into the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, thoughts of the day began to filter in: what awaited him on his desk, what needed to be dealt with. Leaning over the sink, he finally looked into the mirror … and was confused by what he saw.
Above his right eye was a scabbed-over wound, a wound he had no recollection of getting. He ran his finger over it, the sharp, stinging pain shocking him. He leaned closer to the mirror to examine it and noticed the other scrapes along his cheek and neck—not as dramatic but surely something he would have remembered getting.
As he began to probe his memory, something on his left wrist caught his attention. A dark marking on his skin peered out from beneath the sleeve of his terry-cloth bathrobe. Fearing another wound, he quickly slid the sleeve up, only to reveal the last thing he expected.