WA T E R F R O M

MY HEART

A Novel

Charles Martin

New York Boston Nashville

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For Moises and Pauline Rick

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the
authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,
living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2015 by Charles Martin
On Digging a Well copyright 2015 by Charles Martin
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading,
and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute
unlawful piracy and theft of the authors intellectual property. If you would like to use material from
the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting
the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the authors rights.
Center Street
Hachette Book Group
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RRD-C
First Edition: May 2015
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Martin, Charles, 1969
Water from my heart : a novel / Charles Martin. First edition.
pages ; cm
Summary: New York Times bestselling author Charles Martins breathtaking novel of love and
redemption. Charlie Finn had to grow up fast, living alone by age sixteen. Highly intelligent, he
earned a life-changing scholarship to Harvard, where he learned how to survive and thrive on the
outskirts of privileged society. That skill served him well in the cutthroat business world, as it does
in more lucrative but dangerous ventures he now operates off the coast of Miami. Charlie tries to
separate relationships from work. But when his choices produce devastating consequenses, he sets
out to right wrongs, traveling to Central America where he will meet those who have paid for his
actions, including a woman and her young daughter. Will their fated encounter present Charlie with
a way to seek the redemption he thought was impossibleand free his heart to love one woman as
he never knew he could? Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-4555-5470-6 (hardcover) ISBN 978-1-4555-5469-0 (ebook) ISBN
978-1-4555-5469-0 (audio download) 1. Man-woman relationshipsFiction. I. Title.
PS3613.A7778W38 2015
813'.6dc23
2014049192

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CHAPTER ONE

throttled down through Stiltsville, the reflection of the moon

shimmering off Biscayne Bay. I loved this time of night. Behind
me, a dark unlit boat slipped into my wake. Id been watching her
on radar. Been expecting them.
The key to having four supercharged Mercury Verado 350
enginesproviding 1,400 horsepower and speeds reaching almost one hundred miles per houris knowing when and when
not to use them. She hit her lights. Four spotlights up top lit
up the center of my forty-four-foot Center Console Intrepid like
noonday. The spinning blue lights above showered us. Agent Russ
Spangler was exSpecial Forces and lived on full moon adrenaline
nights like this. He was currently employing his shock-and-awe
tactic of blinding me with a million-power handheld spotlight.
Wed played this game before. His partner, Special Agent Melanie
Beckwith, had a Napoleon complex and made up for what she
lacked with anabolic steroids and muscles a good bit bigger than
mine.
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While I could outrun them, I could not outrun the Coast

Guard, also on my radar, or the planes they could summon. I
might make it back to the island, but itd be the last run I ever
made and I had no real intention of retiring just yet. If ever a person had a prime, I was in it. The engines behind me were a last
ditch. To use them meant it would be the last time Id ever run this
boat, and at almost $500,000, Id like to use it more than once.
But thats the thing about owning a boat like this: If youre going to own it and stay in this business, you cant get too attached.
Thats pretty much true for anything. And anyone. No attachments. Youve got to be willing to shove what you love off a cliff
at the first sign of agents like Spangler and Beckwith.
In almost a decade of this business, Ive learned much but
one lesson guides me: I hold everything loosely. And that includes
people. My life and those I value dangle on a knifes edge, a
precipice whereif circumstances arise that are contrary to my
freedomone gentle nudge will send them cascading down.
Gone. Over the falls at Niagara. This mind-set also governs what
I enjoy and what I hope to enjoy. Even what I dream. As a safeguard, I live with limited expectation. I tread cautiously. One foot
on the bank. Cards close to my chest. I constantly calculate risk
and reward because at any second, I may have to run, fold, or dive
beneath the surface.
I own nothing and let nothing own me.
I checked my watch. A Marathon dive watch given to me by
Shelly. She claimed Id be late to my own funeral, so shed set
it five minutes fast. The hands were lit by tritium, which glowed
brightly in the night air. I had time. I cut the engines and turned
into the lights. Agents Spangler and Beckwith slid up alongside
me, made all the easier in the glass-like conditions. Spanglers
voice echoed across the water. Hello, Charlie Finn. Imagine my
shock at finding you out here this time of night.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and smiled at Agent Beck2

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with. Giving her my best Humphrey Bogart. Of all the gin

joints . . .
She jumped onto my boat, tying off my bow to her stern. She
smiled and said nothing. I nodded. Looks like that weight lifting
program is really paying off.
She pointed. Stand there and be quiet.
The Drug Enforcement Agency and Coast Guard and Game
and Fish Commissions possess expanded search authorities so
theyre a little more liberal in their violation of my constitutional
rights. They also knew I wasnt about to take them to court or
call my attorney. So theyand their German shepherd, Molly
spent the next thirty minutes tearing my boat apart. Sniffing for
anything resembling residue. I folded my arms and watched with
curiosity. I was really impressed when Agent Spangler slid into his
diving gear and inspected my hull. About forty minutes in, the two
agents disassembled my center console, leaving Molly sitting faithfully at my feet. I scratched her head and let her lick my hand. She
put one paw on my thigh and leaned into me. When they werent
looking, I fed her dog boneshaped treats. After almost two hours
of grunting and sweating and finding nothing, they reported to
someone in some office on the other end of their cell phones and
then cast off my bowline and departed without a word.
Somebody had tipped them off that I was running tonight, and
they were rightI was, but that same someone had also tipped
me off that theyd tipped them off. It pays to pay more and
Colinmy business partnerpays more. Spangler and Beckwith
had been dogging me for the better part of five years. As had the
team of Miller and Marks before them. And while Id run enough
to fill up this boat twenty to thirty or even fifty times, Id never
been caught. And I wasnt about to get caught tonight.
Casually, I cranked the engines and watched in muted amazement as Spangler and Beckwith disappeared north. Humming
quietly to myself, Na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, hey, hey, hey . . . , I
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slid silently into the maze of canals that fed into the bay. I slithered through the darkness past the hundred-foot yachts and $20
million mansions where the whos who of Miami parked their lives
on display. Id made drops at many of these homes, but one of the
things that made me successful and still at it was the fact that what
started with me stayed with me. I knew how to keep a secret, and
I knew what to risk and how.
I serpentined through the maze, knowing that Beckwith had
planted more than one hidden GPS receiver on this boat. Theyd
installed the first months ago, and wed been playing this game of
cat and mouse ever since. The show tonight was to plant a second
as the first must have been giving conflicting signals due to salt
corrosion. Of course, that muriatic acid I poured on it might also
have had something to do with it. Never could really tell.
Miller and Marks had started this. That time I found it a few
days later, so I sold the boat to a guy making a pass through the
Panama Canal and up the other side. They thought I was making
a pickup in Mexico. They sent boats and helicopters and planes,
and that failed sting operation cost them a pretty penny. They
were not happy. The guy who bought the boat said they were
more than a little surprised to find him marlin fishing off the coast
of Mexico and that Agents Miller and Marks had started throwing
blows when they discovered it wasnt me. They were even more
surprised a few hours later when, upon their return, they found
me on my porch in Bimini, swaying in my hammock, staring out
across the horizon with a cup of coffee in my hand and a devilish
smile pasted on my face. Coffee?
Now I stared out across the water, the rumble of the engines
beneath me. While I didnt own this boat, I did possess a rather
strong affinity for her so Colin had allowed me to name her. I
called her the Storied Career. Tomorrow Id turn forty, and if anything has been true about my life, its been storied.
I tied off, checked the radar, and knew Spangler and Beckwith
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hadnt gone very far. They werent the only ones with a GPS
transponder. Two could play that game. We ran a tight ship, but
our model was a little different. We ran a boutique firm, operated on the honor systemas much as there was honor among
thievesand worked to reduce the variables. We sold only to
clients we vetted. We accepted payment only via wire transfer to
offshore accounts. And we determined the drop point. And we
never, ever, absolutely ever dropped it when they wanted it or
where they wanted it, and we didnt tell them where it was until
after wed dropped it. If they had to have it right then and right
there, we were not their supplier. This model had kept us in the
business, and it had kept Beckwith and Spangler sniffing at our
heels and always three steps behind.
I shut the engines and turned on the coffeepot. I knew theyd
work up quite an appetite tearing up my boat, so I pulled a box of
doughnuts from my bag and left it in a false floor in one of the forward hatches beneath a pile of greasy life jackets. Wouldnt take
them long to find it. I sketched a smiley face on a yellow sticky
note and wrote, Help yourself. On the rear deck near the engine, located in another false floor beneath one of the live wells, I
left a bowl of food for Molly. Her favoritevenison and lamb.
I pulled up the float indicating the crab trap and unrolled my
wet suit. The water wasnt too cold, but the flat black color didnt
show up as well under water as my pale skin. I slid into it, pulled
the regulator over my mouth, slipped into the water, pulled on
my fins, and began the half-mile swim. I took my time. My tanks
had been retrofitted with dual Pegasus Thrusters. These were underwater propulsion devices that pushed me along at 170 feet per
minute. Up top that equates to about two knots. I also held on to
an H-160 thruster, which was similar to holding on to a torpedo.
The combination of these sped me along underwater silently and
unseen and kept my legs fresh in the event that I needed them.
I snaked my way through the canals, spotted the flashing bea5

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con above me, dropped my gear, and squirreled out of my wet

suitletting it fall forty feet to the ocean floor beneath meand
surfaced next to the Pathfinder, which Id packed and docked
three days prior. I untied the bowline, shoved off. Thirty minutes
later, I was staring at the dock where the basketball team, the rapper with his entourage, the pop artist with her management team,
the hedge fund owner with all the girls he could buy, and onequarter of Miamis elite were partying. If they wanted to suck their
money up their noses, that was their right, their privilege, and
their problem. I simply provided an overnight delivery service. If
I didnt, someone else would. Supply and demand.
I slid up next to the dock beneath the rocking boom-boom of
a party in the house. In the dark, I unloaded and stacked several
packages inside a hidden floor cavity beneath a rolling locker on
the dock. Id been here before. A good customer. Having returned all the furniture to neat and tidy and just as Id found it, I
texted delivery confirmation, jumped back in my boat, and disappeared.
An hour later, I swam beneath the mangroves en route to the
Storied Career. Four other DEA boats had surrounded her. She was
lit up like a runway. As if the second search would turn up what the
first did not. Staring from a distance, Agents Beckwith and Spangler marched about in a spitting frenzy, flinging four-letter words
and whatever wasnt tied down in my boat. Molly stood on the
stern, muzzle deep in a box of doughnuts. She must have gotten
to the powdered first because her normally black nose and mouth
were pastry white. A half mile down the street beyond the boat,
the marquee of an all-night pizza joint flashed. I routed around the
boats, bought a large pizza, and returned to the boat, holding the
box on my shoulder. Hi, guys. Pizza? They didnt like that much,
either. But since they had neither drugs nor cash nor evidence that
I had or had had any of the above, there wasnt much they could
do other than cuss a little more and tell me to get lost.
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Which I did.
I snaked my way through the canals, docked at a marina, and
then made my way on foot to my Beach Cruiser. A few miles later,
I let myself in Colins back door. When they built their house,
Marguerite had custom cabinets installed in the back hall. Lockers of sorts for the kids, where they threw all their school and
sports stuff, including smelly shoes or jackets, when they walked
in the back door. Once I became family, Colin had one added for
me. And like most everything Colin Specter did, there was more
than one reason for this.
I slipped my hand inside the top shelf of my cubicle, in the
back corner, whereinvisible from the fronta small sleeve, or
pocket, had been built. Just large enough for a cell phoneor a
SIM card. It was one of many such places. My fingertips found the
new postage-stamp-sized card; I quickly replaced it in my phone,
dropped the old card in the trash can leading into the back of the
house, and slid the phone back in my pocket.
Something Id done a hundred times before.
Maria sat on the couch. Pigtails. Ribbons. Evidence of her
mothers makeup. Pink leotard fresh from ballet. Knees tucked
into her chest, popcorn resting on her knees, watching our favorite movie. I sat next to her as the nuns on the screen began
to sing about their problemMaria in the convent. The real
Mariathe one on the couch next to mesat, foot tapping, and
did not need an invitation to join the singing now filling the airwaves of the living room and kitchen. Knowing full well she had
our attention and that the curtain on the stage of her life had
now parted, she stood on the couch and belted out the beginnings of a beautiful singing voice. Eyebrow lifted, a sly smile
spreading across her face, her mischievous voice asked the nearly
half-century-old question of the self-titled song regarding how
one might solve a problem like Maria.
Maria and I first watched The Sound of Music when she was
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four. In a pinch, Colin and Marguerite had asked me to babysit,

and knowing next to nothing about children, especially young
ones, I plugged in what I thought would help pass the time. It
worked and weve watched it a hundred times since. Now, at
twelve, Maria knew her lines as well as the original cast members.
Jumping from the couch to the pool table, Maria spun, pirouetted, and plid herself across the tabletop, leaving petite, powdered footprints on the felt, quite oblivious to the effect her
animated hands might have on the hanging light fixture. Her
problem in gaining much reaction from the crowd rested in
the fact that we adults had joined in so many times prior that
wed grown bored of the same and, in a desire for levity amid
the monotony, begun to devolve into a confederacy of rhythmchallenged idiots. Doing so, we morphed into our own version of
the now-hallowed song. From the kitchen, Colin and Marguerite
sang out some sort of cheesy, offbeat rap duet while I feigned total
beat ignorance, tapping and snapping badly out of time while
singing with as much melodic acumen as a howling coyote.
Monkeys with pots and pans had more rhythm.
After little more than a single verse, Maria, hands on her hips
and sensing that the room had descended into total musical chaos,
raised an eyebrow, pursed her lips into a frown, and returned to
her popcorn and the couch with a deflated exhale and a practiced
look of measured disdain. Throwing a handful of popcorn into
her mouth, she blew a strand of hair out of her face while texting
a friend on her iPhone. Her fingers spoke one message, her mouth
another. You people are so old.
I laughed. Yes, we are.
Cradling the popcorn bowl, she sat cross-legged on the couch,
stuffed her mouth, and then rubbed her greasy hands on my shirtsleeve.
I scooted closer to offer some of my signature comedic attempts, which once elicited bladder-busting belly laughter and
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tears, but now at the knowing age of almost-a-teenager, she

would have none of it. She raised her maturing, stop sign hand
and spoke without ever taking her eyes off her phone. Talk to
the hand.
I laughed, kissed her forehead, and turned toward the kitchen,
but not before dumping the remains of the half-eaten bucket of
popcorn on her head.
Uncle Charlie! She jumped up, stamping a foot. A vision
in pink. I cannot believe you just did that! Eyes wide, she
protested with a rather exasperated level of drama. I just had my
hair colored . . .
I love that girl.
Then I guess that proves what we already know . . . , I said,
laughing and walking backward toward the kitchen.
She looked at me confused. What?
I offered a fist bump to Colin, who knew what was coming
next. That you do, in fact, have a problem.
Uncle Charlie!
I escaped into the kitchen beneath a barrage of raining popcorn. I raided the fridge, ate some leftoverswhich as godfather
to both Maria and her older brother, Zaul, was my pseudoparental right. Not one to stew long, Maria soon appeared, offering me a glance ofand the chance to admireher bedazzled
book bag, which I appropriately praised. From there, she held my
hand and led me around the corner to the door of the laundry
room where, on a hanger, she had displayed a new bathing suit her
mom had bought her. Hand on her hip, eyelids blinking in rhythm
with her foot. Dad says I have to take it back.
It was about the size of a napkinmore string than fabric. I
turned to Colin and nodded. Good call.
She gently slapped me on the shoulder. You are not helping
me.
I held it in my hand. It doesnt cover anything. Besides, its
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white. I stretched the fabric in front of my eyes. Like almost seethrough.

More eyelid batting. Thats the point. Have you seen my competition?
I lifted her chin. Honey, you have no competition. Theres not
another twelve-year-old on the planet that can hold a candle to
you. Besides, you dont want the guys who only want you for how
you look in this thing.
It worked with Mom and Dad.
Marguerite laughed. Shes got a point.
Colins voice again. That is so untrue. I deny that completely.
You hooked me with the way you play piano. I never even saw you
in that white-and-blue-striped bikini with the little strings on the
side.
Marguerite, over my shoulder. Colin Specter, you wouldnt
know middle C if it hit you in the face.
Maria did not look convinced and stood waiting for me to join
her side. I tried a second time. Look at it this way: Skin cancer is
a big problem these days and your dad and I are helping you with
that.
She tugged on my hand, leading me toward her newest painting. Yeah, youre helping me all right. Helping me become the
biggestshe formed an L with her hand and pressed it flat
against her foreheadloser on the beach.

Growing up in my family, life had been rather dysfunctional.

In fact, I didnt have much family life. Walking through Colins
house, listening to the voices and the laughter, being accepted as
one of the family, holding Marias hand, and being asked by her
parents to raise and take responsibility for her and her brother
in the event of their deaththese were the richest moments
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Water from My Heart

of my life. And every time I walked in here and ate the popcorn and kissed Marias forehead and laughed with Marguerite at
Colin and helped myself to any and everything in the fridge and
propped my feet up on the coffee table and washed the dishes
and took out the trashI lingered and sucked the marrow out
of it.
Colin and I seldom exited the same door, so when they left
through the front, I slipped out the back hall, where I bumped
into Zaul in the mudroom taking out the trash. Hey, big guy.
I hugged him, or tried to. He was stiff. Distant. Thick with
muscle and steroids and the stench of stale cigarette smoke. Just
shy of eighteen, gone was the affable, curious kid. He was wearing
a flat-billed ball cap cocked to one side. He raised his head in a
half nod. Charlie. Noticeably absent was the word Uncle.
Itd been a while and I was genuinely glad to see him. Your
dad said you were hanging out with your sis tonight.
Zaul held the overfilled trash bag with one arm, and I realized
just how muscled hed become. A nod. Thought maybe wed go
for a moonlight stroll or something in the Yellowfin.
The Yellowfin was Colins twenty-four-foot flatboat powered
by a three-hundred-horsepower Yamaha. Perfect for a glassy night
like tonight. It also had state-of-the-art electronics so theyd have
a difficult time getting lost. Good choice. Love that ride. Especially this time of night.
He nodded and attempted a smile. He pointed above himself.
She likes to stand up in the casting tower and . . . He shrugged.
Be Maria.
His shoulders were angling downward under the weight of
something unseen. His eyes were dark circles and his voice raspy
and tired. The trash was dripping on the floor. Id better get this
cleaned up.
He disappeared into the garage while I exited out the back beneath the shadows. I stood long enough to let my ears and eyes
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adjust to the night and then crept down to the dock with the picture of Zaul weighing heavy on me.

I made the forty-four-mile crossing in Storied Career in a little less

than an hour, slept fitfully, and as the sun rose over the Atlantic,
I found myself on the porch, hovering over my coffee and staring
both my fortieth bithday and my wedding in the face. While those
were cause for celebration, a wrinkle had formed between my eyes
as I stared at my left wrist. My naked left wrist. The watch Shelly
had given me was gone. Id lost it somewhere in the last twentyfour hours and I had no idea where.
And that was bad.

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