The undersea quake had also claimed a victim. Jake Ma.s.sey, the archaeologist leading the recovery efforts, had been reported as missing at sea. A month had pa.s.sed since that fateful day and his body had yet to be recovered.

More interesting than the quake and the regrettable loss of life was the fact that the former low-level energy field had gone haywire. The electromagnetic field had suddenly tripled in strength. Its signal-if it could be called that-had begun to interfere with radar and radio transmissions, seemingly swallowing up everything electronic in a single gulp. It was as if a big black hole had suddenly opened at the bottom of the sea. No ship could get within ten miles of the location without interference. As the area was one of the most heavily sailed shipping lanes in the world, it was a pain in the a.s.s for seacraft to detour around.

In the grand scheme of things, Blake's job was fairly simple. He'd been sent to question Ma.s.sey's partner about the incident. The feds wanted to know whether Ma.s.sey's crew had seen, heard, or encountered something outside the norm during their time underwater. Given that the seismic activity had taken place at a depth of more than three miles below the water's surface, Whittaker sincerely doubted they would have any useful information to offer.

Blake grimaced and tossed the empty cup onto the floor on the pa.s.senger side. Flicking on an overhead light, he consulted his notes, random chicken-scratched information on a pocket-sized pad.

According to intelligence, Kenneth Randall presently lived on Little Mer with his wife, Tessa. Since the loss of Jake Ma.s.sey, the group had suspended all salvage efforts and the company had gone inactive. An investigation by the U.S. Coast Guard, which monitored recovery efforts in the Mediterranean, had ruled Ma.s.sey the victim of an unfortunate accident.

Still, the A51- ASD had a job to do. And that meant sending an agent to ask a few questions and poke around a little. His conclusions on the matter would be the deciding factor on whether a follow-up was warranted or whether the matter was marked closed.

The barest trace of a smile crossed Blake's lips. Most of the incidents he looked into turned out to be bogus, of no real scientific value. He'd worked for the agency for almost five years and had yet to see anything unusual or out of the ordinary. Logic and science could usually explain away most of the reported phenomena.

Tucking his pad away, Blake ran his fingers through his hair. He caught a brief glimpse of half his face in the rearview mirror, a thatch of messy black hair and bloodshot blue-gray eyes. Lines of disgruntlement puckered his forehead. Shadows lingered behind his gaze, the ghosts of disappointment and disillusionment. One of his irises had a thin streak of amber through the lower half, as though someone had taken an eraser and begun to rub out one color before replacing it with another. People, especially the crazy ones, were frequently unsettled by that odd eye. It was something he used to good effect when employing his best "don't lie to me" agent stare.

Blake glanced at the single bag he'd packed for the trip. Aside from a change of clothes and his Netbook, he carried only a wallet, his cell, and his service weapon. Spending a lot of time on the road had taught him to travel light. He didn't plan to be in Port Rock for more than a day.

The sooner I can leave, the better. He didn't want to hang around his old hometown, rehashing memories that were better left alone. Some things needed to be stay buried.

The deeper, the better.

Opening the car door, Blake got out. The cool breeze winnowing off the bay was like a balm on his flushed skin. A day's worth of sweat clung to his flesh. He felt wet patches under his arms, trickles of perspiration making their way down his spine to his underwear. Sweat fogged his vision as he pushed a sticky hair off his forehead.

He pulled in a deep breath, letting the crisp sea air clear his clouded mind. Stretching his arms wide, he rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve the ache at the base of his neck. He'd wasted enough time. Right now what he needed most was a hot shower and cool, clean sheets.

Grabbing his bag off the pa.s.senger seat, he locked the car and headed toward the brightly lit lobby. Wrap things up tomorrow and I'll be on my way to Boston by six.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Devyn Quinn resides in New Mexico with her cats, seven ferrets, and shih tzu, Tess. She is the author of twelve novels. This is her first novel with Signet Eclipse. Visit www.devynquinn.com.

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