David Sakmyster - The Pharos Objective

“Pity, hatred, fear-whatever you feel about me-I don’t care, so long as you give me what I need.”

Caleb struggled again, then gave up and looked around. “So he was here for how long?”

Waxman made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Seven, eight years? And he was convinced he was in Iraq. We had film on the walls, sand everywhere, we pumped in the sounds of the desert, battle. Brought in Middle Eastern men to perform the beatings and torture, it was all perfect.”

“But he was my dad,” Caleb whispered, and a smile formed out of his rage. “He knew, and he tried to tell me, but I was too young to understand.” I wasn’t ready. Caleb thought again of his last vision of the sea and the waves, and a boat forever on the move. And suddenly, with a chill, he understood. “So, you knew all along. Knew it wasn’t Alexander’s gold.”

“Of course.”

“Then, my father knew…” Again Caleb saw that boat from his most recent vision and the father talking to his son. In a flash, he saw another boat, then a ship, then a galley, then a swift clipper-a succession of maritime vessels down through the centuries, all with some form of white and red coloring, at different ports, on different seas. Sometimes at night, with burning lanterns on their masts, lighting the way, always moving, always afloat.

“You’re sure slow, kid.”

Caleb’s heart was thundering, his flesh crawling. He was slow. How had he missed it? With all the focus on his mother, and caring for Phoebe, he didn’t realize what the visions were showing him.

“It’s me,” Caleb said at last. “You wanted me, after Dad died.”

Waxman’s voice shifted lower. “Unfortunate that he couldn’t survive… the stresses.”

“Or did he make you mad?” Caleb asked. “Maybe give you the wrong sequence for the codes?”

Waxman ignored him, and by his refusal to respond, Caleb knew he was right.

Good for you, Dad!

Finally, Waxman spoke. “For a time I’d hoped your father had chosen Phoebe. She would have been much easier to deal with, and just as capable-”

“-of keeping the secret,” Caleb finished. I can’t believe it. Dad left me all his work, all those documents, maps and drawings. And the stories, all those stories. “It’s us,” he said at last. “We’re the Keepers. The true Keepers. The descendents of Metreisse.”

“Your grandfather was one,” Waxman said. “Then he passed the secret on to your Dad, and he should have given it to you.”

“But he didn’t.” Caleb tried to glare through the light. “You took him too soon, and he didn’t have time.”

“Sorry about that, but I wasn’t getting any younger, and your Dad resisted too much. Something I hope you won’t do, for your sake, and for your sister’s.”

There it was. The threat he had been anticipating, but dreading. His time in the Alexandrian prison had been sufficient preparation for anything, he thought, and he was confident he could coax his consciousness from his body to escape whatever physical agony Waxman could inflict for as long as necessary. But he couldn’t protect Phoebe. And he had to. He couldn’t let her be hurt again.

“So, kid. What’s it going to be?”

Caleb made up his mind. Dad’s shown me the way. He would trust in fate. He would trust in the lighthouse. Smiling, he told Waxman he knew where the eighth key was, and he would take him to it. All the while, he kept repeating to himself the one mantra he could now call his own.

The Pharos protects itself.

Sodus Bay — December 17

Hide the secret in plain sight.

Caleb stood on the hill overlooking the bay at dawn. The small farmhouse lay covered in a thin layer of snow, and icicles hung from the lighthouse railing, forty feet up. Phoebe sat in her chair in the kitchen, and Caleb could see her through the open door, watching carefully. Two men stood at her sides, wearing dark glasses. Caleb got the message, loud and clear.

“Your dad never spoke of a ship,” Waxman said, squinting through his own dark glasses down the hill to the ice-covered bay glinting with sunlight, sparkling in the frosty air.

“Maybe,” Caleb said, his lips curling up, “you never asked him the right questions.”

Waxman turned his head and glowered. “Well? Are we going?”

Old Rusty creaked and groaned as Caleb set foot upon her deck, treading carefully on the icy surface, with Waxman following. His breath cascaded around his face, and his hands shivered in his coat pockets. But his soul was soaring despite the threat to Phoebe. And he smiled.

At last Caleb arrived, standing on his legacy. He couldn’t help laughing, and wanted to spin and leap about like a young boy. He longed for those days chasing Phoebe around the deck, hiding behind the red-and-white-striped masts, ducking into the wooden deckhouse. So many memories. And then Dad, urging us to play here. He knew it would stick in our minds. He had talked this ship up as their property, a member of the family, even though it had been decommissioned and docked for good. Its red hull was streaked with barnacles and muck, the paint chipped, the steel rusted. The masts were bent and covered with seagull excrement. Old Rusty had sat here all this time, waiting patiently.

“What’s its name?” Waxman asked, and for a moment Caleb shuddered.

“Don’t know,” he said truthfully. “Old Rusty is all we ever called her. And boats are feminine, George. She’s not an ‘it.’”

“Shut up and take me to the key.”

Caleb bowed and swept his arms toward the door to the deckhouse. “After you.”

Following Waxman, Caleb glanced up the hill, and could see the tiny figures in the kitchen. Phoebe watched nervously. He waved to her.

She’ll understand, he hoped.

“There it is,” Caleb said, pointing to the large gold-plated key, about six inches long, hanging over the cast-iron stove. The deckhouse interior was a mess. After they had closed down the museum, the items in here just collected dust. The windows were grimy, caked with dirt and sand, and now ice. The compass over the steering wheel was shattered, the tiny bunk bed cots brown and molded.

I used to nap there, he thought with disgust. Phoebe on the top. After playing all morning, they would make hot chocolate and sip their drinks and tell each other grand stories about their naval conquests in the East Indies or some exotic port, and then they would snooze for an hour before running back up the hill for dinner.

Waxman warily pulled the key from the wall, as if expecting a booby trap, some vicious metal contraption to slice off his hands. Caleb was surprised he didn’t make him take it down.

Waxman slipped the key into his pocket, after first looking it over. “Doesn’t look that old,” he said.

“Probably re-cast several times,” Caleb said. “Although I wouldn’t know. I only just figured this out. Thanks to you.”

Waxman frowned, unsure if Caleb was complimenting him or still hiding something.

Go on, Caleb thought. Take your prize and go.

“Phoebe dies if you’re lying to me,” he promised.

“I know.”

Waxman eyed Caleb carefully. “I still don’t trust you.”

“Sorry. What more can I do? This ship is the legacy Dad left me. There’s the key.”

“We’ll see.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, tapping the gun in his other pocket, “you and your sister are coming with me.”

Before they left, Caleb said goodbye to his mother. Elsa sat cowering in the corner, but he convinced her everything would be fine. They would be back soon, and if she could just continue to care for Mom, he would be grateful.

So he knelt by his mother’s bed and he kissed her forehead, ignoring Waxman clearing his throat in the doorway. “We’ll be home soon,” Caleb whispered. “I love you.”