Excerpt From Chapter Three:

After a shipwreck, Sir Robert wakes up in a strange cottage, only to find Loralee, the love of his life, whom he thought had been dead for a decade…

“I don’t understand. What is this place?”

“It’s an island. Very few know of its existence.”

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of this confusing dream come to life. “But, why would you be here, and why would you be sorry? Unless…”

The words wouldn’t come. My racing mind pitched in to help. Unless she didn’t want to marry me after all.

Wrenching pain I’d kept tucked inside broke free, and I clambered to my feet. Loralee followed suit, backing herself into the small dining table.

I tried, but could not hide the bitter anger in my words. “How could you do this to me? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?”

Her eyes widened. She clutched the table with one hand and her robe with the other. “What you’ve been through? I didn’t want this. I was forced here.”

“What do you mean, forced here? Where are your shackles?” My voice roared through the little cottage as I gestured around me with one arm. “Where are the bars? This looks like no prison I’ve ever seen.”

Her voice cracked the air, rivaling with my own. “I was betrayed, forced into exile. Don’t you understand? I never wanted to leave you. I never wanted anything so much as I wanted you.”

Pacing away, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I had to calm myself, to let the weight of this discovery, the improbability of her explanation to sink into my water-logged brain.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at her just yet, so I stared at my bare feet instead. “Why didn’t you tell me, write to me?”

“I tried. I begged the supply ship crew to bring my letters to you. They always took them, but never brought one in return. I suspect they destroyed them, but I had no way of knowing.” She sucked in a shaky breath as though trying to hold back her tears. “I never stopped loving you.”

Turning back to face her, I felt like a mindless beast. Here I was, raging against the love of my life when she’d all but been brought back from the dead.

“Loralee.” I eased toward her. She cringed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Without a word, I leaned in and pressed my forehead to hers, allowing myself to breathe in her scent for the first time in a decade. We stood suspended like that for a while, lost in time, and emerging from a purgatory neither of us had imagined ten years ago. I would have been content to stand like that forever, but Loralee burst into tears and wilted to the floor.

I followed her down and opened the quilt to wrap us both inside. I held her tight while she cried.

While I cried.

I finally got enough breath to speak again. “What did you mean by forced here? They told me you were…” I couldn’t say it, not with her warm and so very alive against me.

“I know.”

The weight of it all came crashing down on me. “This is my fault, isn’t it? You’re here because of me.”

She made no attempt to wipe her cheeks, but shook her head and stared at the rafters as though entreating the gods. “No, it’s not your fault. Not at all. There is so much to explain, I don’t know where to start.”

I couldn’t comprehend any of it, so I focused on the here and now. “You found me on the shore?”

She nodded.

“The crew, Francis…did you find anyone else out there?”

“No, I had Xax-, I mean, no, I searched but didn’t find anyone else.”

The familiar weight of grief squeezed my chest, and a few more tears escaped before I could stop them.

She pulled me close and whispered, “I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved him. We all did.”

“We all grieved for you. You’ve been here…all this time?”

“Yes.”

“By the gods, Loralee, I’ve missed you so much.” I put my wet cheek against hers and pressed my lips to her soft skin. “Part of me died the day I thought you… please…just tell me how you ended up here.”

Loralee took a few deep breaths and finally pulled away from me. She caressed my cheek and smiled weakly. “I’ll make us a pot of tea. And then, I think we should start at the beginning, back to the Great Plague and when we first met. Do you remember that?”

Smiling past the sadness, I covered her hand with mine and closed my eyes. “How could I ever forget?”

She had the day off and she was lonely in Taos so she took her laptop and her sketchpad and sat in the shade at the Hard Wire Café. She was sketching a guy for money because she was broke.

He was handsome, with a great tan and a gorgeous smile. When he left her with a twenty she felt even lonelier. She bought a coffee, sweet iced latte, and hung out—was he gone forever or what?

An hour passed, then two. She did another sketch—ten bucks, thank you—and then the handsome guy was back.

“Come to a party,” he said. “Artists and writers, Colony People. Our kind, okay?”

The guy drove a silver Humvee.

She kicked off her sandals and settled into the comfy seat smiling. The guy had this really great profile.The Humvee climbed up, past the Pueblo, and crossed through a gate into Never-Never Land. Roofs, aspen trees turning, a lawn so green it came from England.

The first person she met gave her a drag. The smoke invaded her brain, curled like a cat. The people were beautiful, some her age, some younger. The food was out of this world.

Smoked meat, soft and succulent. “Have another bite, hon?” What is this meat, anyway?

There was wine, beer, tequila shooters, Scotch whiskey so smooth it raised your hopes for a better world. A world for starving artists like herself.

She danced around the campfire, barefoot. Her feet were tough from pounding New York streets.

A pretty girl, Tammy with a Texas accent and a bouncy blonde ponytail, whipped off her blouse and kept dancing— torchlight on bare tits, sell that sketch, make a killing.

Another girl, another blouse, and another. Blouses tossed like leaves in the wind, until she was the only one left, the only girl not on display. So she said, “What the hell?” and they clapped their hands, chanting, as she flung her blouse away and then….

It was a typical February Day. Locals referred to the month as Febrero Loco, crazy February, because the daily weather was as unpredictable as a roulette wheel. It was unseasonably warm and just to be on the safe side, the air conditioning at Buffalo Thunder Casino, north of Santa Fe, was cranked up.

The casino was gearing up for the upcoming Valentine’s Day, pulling out all the stops with promotions geared toward attracting patrons with the cherry red Toyota Camry give-away. Blackjack modules formed a large circle around the Craps and Texas Hold’em tables. The electromagnetic field and the thousand flashing lights could easily illuminate an entire city. Waitresses attired in short frilly skirts and low cut tank-tops stopped at each console to offer cold sodas, water and coffee, and friendly smiles to encourage tips.

She walked through the automatic doors, the strong odor of cigarette smoke assaulting her senses. Vanity precluded her from wearing sorely needed eyeglasses and she squinted her eyes in hopes of seeing a familiar face, preferably male and old enough to buy her a drink. She navigated her world in a blur, peering out of heavily made-up brown eyes and beneath thin, perfectly arched eyebrows. Dark red lipstick and a heart-shaped face framed by recently touched-up auburn hair completed the picture. She was dressed in black pants, a sparkly jacket and stiletto heels. The first was to hide the extra ten pounds she carried and the second was to give her four-eleven height a boost.

She found her favorite slot machine in a corner next to the lounge, where she could sometimes score a few drinks and maybe a place to stay for the night. Of late, she frequented the casinos on Highway 85staying until closing and hitching a ride back to Santa Fe, where she hung out in the laundry rooms of motels on Cerrillos Road. She was not a hooker. She was a forty-year-old woman down on her luck, having burned all the bridges behind her. She was desperate to win a jackpot to get her back on her feet.

She glanced through the corner of her eye at the man playing next to her. He was exactly her type—brown-skinned, tall, sleeveless t-shirt to show off bulging biceps, tattooed arms, long hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. Before the night was over, they were snuggled in a corner of the lounge, sipping rum and Cokes. If she played her cards right, she had a good idea where the evening was going to end up.

Prologue:

On the day the rebellion was finally quelled, Vanessa Kovalic emerged from her grandmother’s apartment and joined other survivors on the street. Tacked to every tree and taped to streetlights, storefronts, and abandoned cars was a flyer printed on a single sheet of white paper.

It read:

THE BULLETIN

Edenton, New York Volume 1, Issue 1

Where there is no need, there is no greed Citizens of Edenton, before we lost all communications, we learned rebels on the mainland released a bio-weapon.

Known as the Blue Flu, the weapon is wreaking havoc and millions of our brethren are dying. Through God’s grace, we have been spared and may be the last hope for humanity.

We advise you to stay away from birds as they are potential carriers of the Blue Flu. We are under absolute quarantine. No one may come ashore or leave the island. Arrangements have been made to supply the city and keep it safe.

In response to the rebellion – staged by members of the People’s Protest – and the effects of the Blue Flu on the mainland, a new government has been formed. Under its guidance, we will implement a New Social Order. Together, we will eradicate greed and ensure equality. From the ashes, we will build a society free from strife.

All citizens are required to work. Managers will assign jobs based on prior experience. The managers are our drivers, for they will steer us where we need to go. Workers, united as equals regardless of race or gender, will be provided with food, clothing, and other necessities. Those who fail to report immediately, work, or comply with the new mandates will be cast out. The Fallen will not share our resources or benefit from our protection.

Finally, law enforcement departments have merged. They will be housed under one roof, known as the Watch Tower.

Watchers are establishing a safe zone so workers can perform their duties unmolested. Families and married couples may petition to relocate inside the Zone.

Join us in praying for our fellow man in these sad times.   With God’s help and yours, we will overcome the challenges ahead.

The Administration

Vanessa’s mouth fell open and she paled. Young, frightened, and unsure, she followed the crowd through silent streets toward the new sorting office. The staggered progression was like a funeral procession, only no one shed tears for the dead.

Prologue

“Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked in the still, quiet courtroom, packed to capac- ity. The trial of the State of Virginia versus Sheppard Granger had lasted for five weeks, and the eight men and four women had deliberated for sixteen hours.

“Yes, we have, Your Honor.”

“Will you hand the verdict form to the court, please?”

Within seconds, the bailiff presented the form to the judge, who took a moment to read the document before handing it in turn to the clerk who faced those in the courtroom.

Sheppard Granger showed no emotion as the clerk began reading what would be his fate. At one point, he was tempted to glance over his shoulder to look at his three young sons—Jace, sixteen; Caden, fourteen ; and Dalton, who would be turning twelve in a few days. He hoped and prayed that, no matter what the jury decided, they would believe he was an innocent man. There was no way he would have killed the mother of his beloved sons.

Instead, he listened as the clerk spoke the words… “Of the charge of first degree murder in the death of Sylvia Granger, we, the jury, find Sheppard Granger guilty.”

Sheppard suddenly felt his knees weaken, but he re- fused to go down, and he refused to glance back at his sons. His father, Richard Granger, would know what to do now. Richard would now become responsible for his grandsons, and he would be there for them since Sheppard would not.

The judge was talking, addressing the court. But whatever he was saying Sheppard couldn’t hear for the pounding in his head. As far as Sheppard was concerned, nothing else mattered. Only one thought repeated itself in his head with blinding clarity—his life as he’d once known it was over.

PART I

We do not remember days; we remember moments. –Anonymous

Chapter One
Fifteen years later

Hoping it wasn’t obvious that he was watching the time, Jace Granger took a sip of his wine and looked straight ahead at the huge clock hanging on the wall, directly above the entrance of the upscale Los Ange- les restaurant. He’d been there for exactly one hour and twelve minutes, and was biting at the bit to call it a night.

He appreciated his friend Alan Carter’s concerns about his solitary life, but blind dates had never been Jace’s thing, and he had known after the first ten min- utes that he’d made a mistake by letting Alan talk him into one tonight. No doubt Angela Farlow was a looker—he would give her that, but so far it had been one hell of a night. For starters, she talked too damn much. She had a lot to say…a lot about practi- cally nothing.

Jace took another sip of his wine and listened…or at least pretended to do so. The last couple of times he had tried interjecting his own thoughts and views, she had unabashedly cut them down, letting him know what she thought of any opinions other than her own.

Noticing a lull in the conversation, Jace shifted his gaze from the clock back to her and saw the sultry pout that touched her lips.

“Why do I get the feeling that I’m boring you?” she asked in a low tone.

Because you are, he was tempted to say. But being the gentleman that he was, instead he said, “On the contrary, I happen to find you anything but boring,” plastering a smile on his face. “In fact, I find you sim- ply fascinating.” Now, that wasn’t a lie. He doubted there were many women like her. Hell, he hoped not.

“Well,” she said, smiling all over the place at the compliment. “I’ve talked enough about me. Now I want to hear about you. Alan tells me the two of you went to law school together and that, as a government attorney, you’re in charge of making sure the great state of California stays on a straight and narrow path.”

She rested her chin on her hands. “What made you want to work for the government instead of going into private practice? Alan said you graduated from UCLA at the top of your class.”

Jace forced his body not to tense, something that usually happened whenever he was questioned about his decision to work in the public sector instead of the private, where he could have become a millionaire if he’d set his mind to it. Little did she know he had been groomed for just that kind of life and had intentionally walked away a long time ago.

His shoulders mimicked a careless shrug before giving her the same spiel he gave anyone who had the audacity to inquire. Briefly and thoroughly, with a not-so-smooth edge, he basically told her that he preferred working for the people instead of kissing asses for any amount of money. He really didn’t expect people to un- derstand and didn’t really give a damn if they didn’t.

He took a sip of his drink and smiled inwardly. The woman was finally at a loss for words, and he under- stood her dilemma, honestly he did. She thought the same way his ex-wife did. Eve’s belief had been that the more money you had, the happier you were. All he had to say to that theory was bullshit.

It didn’t surprise him when his date suggested they end the evening. That was fine with him, since the last thing he wanted was to become involved with another woman who had the same mindset as his ex-wife.

An hour later, he was entering his condo, grateful the evening with Angela had ended and that his path wouldn’t cross hers anytime soon. He figured she was probably on the phone with Alan at that very moment, giving him a piece of her mind about setting her up on a blind date with a man who evidently hadn’t any plans of making anything of himself.

Jace pulled off his jacket and was about to take it to the closet and hang it up when his cell phone rang. He wondered if it was Alan calling him already. He checked caller ID and saw it wasn’t Alan but his grand- father. It had to be past midnight in Virginia, and he wondered why the old man was calling so late.

“Yes, Granddad?”

“Jace?”

He frowned. It was not his grandfather’s deep, authoritarian voice but that of a woman. A woman whose voice he recognized immediately as the fam- ily’s housekeeper’s. “Hannah?”

 “Yes, it’s me. You need to come home immediately.”

His heart nearly stopped at the thought of return- ing there, a place he hadn’t thought of as his home for years. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s your grandfather. He’s had a heart attack, and it doesn’t look good. It’s serious, Jace.”

Jace drew in a deep breath. His strong, robust grand- father? Heart attack? But he knew Hannah. She had been housekeeper to the Grangers for years. She wasn’t one for theatrics or drama. If she said it was serious, then it was. He rubbed his hand down his face. “All right, I’m on my way.”

“What about your father, Jace? Can you get word to him?”

“Yes, I’ll contact Warden Smallwood right away.”

“All right. I tried calling Caden, but I couldn’t leave a message. His voice mail box is full, and I have no idea how to reach Dalton. He changes phone num- bers probably more than he changes his underwear,” she quipped.

Jace couldn’t help but smile. Hannah was still Han- nah. “I’ll get ahold of them, don’t worry.” He pushed to the back of his mind the memory of the heated ar- gument between him and his brothers when they were together last year.

“But I am worried, Jace.”

He knew she was and he could hear it in her voice. The usual no-nonsense tone was diluted with distress. Something that was uncommon for his grandfather’s unflappable housekeeper. “Okay, just take it easy. We don’t need you in the hospital, as well. Granddad’s at St. Francis Memorial, right?”

“Yes, on the Ava Granger wing.”

“Okay,” he said, trying not to think about the fact that his grandfather was in the part of the hospital that had been dedicated to Jace’s grandmother over twenty years ago. Jace could remember that day well, especially the ceremony. They’d all been there. His grandfather, his brothers, his father…and his mother.

He immediately pushed the thought of his parents from his mind. To think about his mother meant re- membering how she had died and that the law had decided his father had been the one responsible for ending her life.

“Jace, it will be good seeing you again, although I wish the circumstances of your coming home were different.”

He wished the circumstances were different, too. “I’ll catch the next available flight out, Hannah. Hold down the fort until I get there.” He clicked off the phone and immediately called the airlines. He knew how to reach his brother Caden, but getting in touch with Dalton would be a challenge.

Moments later, after securing a flight, he went into the bedroom to pack.

DATELINE: ATLANTIS is a contemporary fantasy featuring a female Indiana Jones who dives underwater and accidentally discovers what just might be the lost world of Atlantis. After she and her photographer document fabulous pyramids and other structures under the Caribbean sea, they return to their newspaper in the Los Angeles area, only to have all their evidence stolen. The sea rolls back and reclaims the buildings, and the photographer is kidnapped by unknown criminals

The simple news assignment becomes more complicated with each turn and takes the Amaryllis Lang (pen name: Amy Quigley) to Chicago, Florida, Mexico and the Bahamas.

An ever-skeptical reporter, the Amaryllis Lang finds that her search for humanity’s first family (in the possible Atlantis) dovetails with her own search for her own lost roots. Long ago someone murdered her archeologist parents—and they may be the same villains who are working against her own efforts to bring the Caribbean discovery to light.

In the midst of the tension, a testy romantic triangle develops. Plus, the pressure never stops as editor Noel Wright III keeps badgering her for a Pulitzer Prize-winning story. After escaping the villains’ traps with her life intact, Amaryllis emerges a more open-minded adventurer, a better journalist, and an adventurer who is never afraid to let a historical find change written history.

She dives underneath the waves. Next to her is the tip of a giant stone structure. It widens as it plunges down to the ocean floor, filling her line of sight. She surfaces and swims toward the top of the rock. Amaryllis fights for breath as the waves roll up toward her chin and away. She dives again. The structure is a pyramid, without a doubt. It can’t be a natural formation. Its lines are too regular. The stones used to fit the pyramid together are huge—twenty-ton boulders at least—yet they are meshed with knife-edge precision. She can’t get her fingernail between them. Another thing occurs to her: this pyramid is not built in steps, but is smooth-sided like the monuments of Egypt.

She bobs up and down, diving and surfacing for a quarter of an hour, finding more impossible things. These walls, unlike those of the Maya structures they found on land, are still smooth. They are weathered and pitted, but not covered over with barna- cles and seaweed. She sees the remnants of writing carved into the rock near the top, but can’t tell what language it is. It has neither the pictorial intricacy of Maya glyphs nor the simplicity of Roman characters. It has a modern aspect, clean and stylized, proportionally balanced, as if it were a font designed by an adver- tising agency. Yet, some of the figures recall the ancient themes of the American Indians: swirling vortices, men with large heads, hunting dogs. The most prominent of all symbols is a cross in- scribed with concentric circles.

Amaryllis’ strength is nearly gone, but she dives once more if only to give the fullest of reports to her cohorts sleeping back onshore. She slips below the surface and feels along the eastern wall, pulling herself down. She is looking for a dark square she glimpsed before, gaping and black. It yawns at once before her, its edges wavy in the ocean swells. A sea turtle darts in front of her, and she constricts her lungs. She streaks to the surface, gulps a huge lungful of air and immediately she’s at the opening again. Seconds disappear as she measures the portal. It’s just big enough to slip through, but will she be able to get back out? A shining gem illuminated by a sun ray catches her eye. She swishes inside.

With lungs screaming, she scans a tiny chamber, carved from top to bottom with ancient writing. Gold glints from porticos on the sides. A painting is still visible on the ceiling. A carved hand, claw-like and strong, rests on a pedestal in the center of the space. The red hand holds a stone so beautiful, she can’t bear to leave it. In the filtered sunlight that passes through the door- way, the gem dazzles like Venus in the night sky. The morning star—the guide that Amaryllis can rely on. She grabs the jewel.
Through the door, up to the surface, sucking in the air—she’s free.