Free Bzrk Apocalypse by Michael Grant

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    with a spreadsheet on his screen and a scotch in his hand. Instead he
    was at the wheel, yelling instructions to the kid, Antonio, who some-
    times crewed for a day.
    And also seeing things. Definitely seeing things. He frowned and
    peered off toward the Golden Gate, open water ahead, trying to figure
    out just what he was seeing.
    “I think I’m seeing things,” Janklow said. He forced a laugh. No
    one heard either the remark or the laugh.
    No one heard him say that it was as if a window . . . no, two win-
    dows . . . had opened in his head.
    Antonio saw him stagger back from the wheel and raced back to
    take over.
    “You okay, Mr. J.?”
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    “I’m . . . Nah. Nah. Yeah. Oh, shit.”
    And then suddenly Janklow was racing up the mast, hand over
    hand, like a much younger man.
    Everyone saw this. The state senator’s assistant yelled something
    and pointed. All eyes turned to look at Janklow, now thirty feet up,
    his sparse hair flowing in a wind that was too strong for those below
    to make much sense of what sounded a lot like disconnected, wild
    ranting.
    And then Janklow fell. Although it looked very much as if he
    actually leapt.
    He plunged straight down into the sea.
    Pandemonium. All the passengers jumped up and began yelling
    to Antonio to turn the boat around, turn the boat around .
    But sailboats are not so easy to turn around when under wind
    power. So first Antonio—without help—had to lower the sail and
    start the engine. Only then, a quarter mile away from Janklow, could
    they turn back and effect a rescue.
    Janklow could be seen. He was in the water, waving his hands
    wildly, but more as if he was a little kid splashing in the tub.
    As the boat drew up alongside, the state senator had the presence
    of mind to throw a life vest to Janklow, while his wife berated him for
    being so careless.
    But Janklow just laughed; a wild, manic sound that sent chills
    up his wife’s spine. And then, pushing himself along the side of the
    boat and refusing all proffered hands, Janklow went to the stern, dove
    down, and came up with his face shoved straight into the churning
    propeller.
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    It would be listed as an accidental death, not a suicide.
    “I’m looking at the spreadsheet right now,” Lystra Reid said. She had
    a phone propped against her ear and a pad open before her. Tiburon
    police officers and California Highway Patrol detectives were milling
    around the marina of the Tiburon Yacht Club. They had taken state-
    ments from everyone on the Janklow boat. Lystra had little enough to
    say, and none of it useful, and the detectives had let her go.
    But rather than take off immediately, Lystra savored a bourbon
    rocks and split her attention between the mild chaos of the investiga-
    tion and the neat order of her spreadsheets.
    “Yes, I am very much aware of some of my off-book expenses,
    and no, I won’t enlighten you further, Tom. One of the reasons I don’t
    take the company public, yeah, yeah, is because I like to spend my
    money without being second-guessed. It is, after all, mine.”
    At the age of nine, Lystra had been sent away. Her father had
    finally decided that he could not raise her properly. His own busi-
    ness was falling on hard times; the carnival business was fading fast.
    Her father’s act—he was a trick shooter and put on an impressive if
    threadbare show with guns, knives, and hatchets—no longer drew
    enough of a paying crowd for the carny life to make much sense.
    He’d sat her down and explained it all to her. She would be going
    to a good, decent family that would raise her properly, with school,
    and friends, and all of that.
    “You won’t be my dad anymore?” She hadn’t cried. She’d felt sick
    with betrayal, but she hadn’t cried.
    Her father, his lined face half hidden in the gloom of the
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    Louisiana dusk, had said, “I won’t be with you. I won’t be seeing you,
    I . . . I have to find some way to make a