Dan’s mind shifted to the black ship. It had looked harmless enough, sitting quietly at anchor. Not much activity except for the one guy he had seen come out of the wheelhouse. The guy who had looked familiar, with black curly hair and an odd rolling walk and the . . . wait a minute. Harry! That was his name. Harry Coombs. Dan had seen the name in any number of files. Had seen the man himself two or three times, although always at a distance, never face-to-face. Harry Coombs was a wheeler and dealer with a long history of questionable associations and activities. He was suspected of trading illegal weapons to terrorist organizations and smuggling drugs for the Mexican cartels, but although the police had come close, they had never managed to nail him with anything. Harry “Houdini” Coombs. The escape artist. The slick con man with the jovial manner, who laughed as he slipped through every net they had set up. What the hell was he doing here, floating around in this isolated archipelago? Must be drugs or weapons. Maybe both. But why would he hang around? That didn’t make sense. The trade would have been made when the canisters were dropped. It would be more logical for Harry and his black ship to get as far from Shoal Bay as they possibly could. Logic said they should have left as soon as they had sunk the canisters. And who the hell was White Hair? If Dan remembered the file correctly, Harry preferred to work alone.
The channel leading to Annie’s boat opened up, steel gray against the solid black of the land, and Dan turned the dinghy into it. It was rougher here with the wind coming in off the open ocean and kicking up a chop, and within minutes he was drenched with cold spray. He thought about slowing down but knew he couldn’t afford the extra time. His sense of urgency had returned with his recollection of Harry Coombs and it increased as he came nearer to his destination. He might not be able to control things, but there were still things he could—and should—do. Like Walker and his friends, he had a role to play. He had both the contacts and the means to reach them, but only if he made it back to Dreamspeaker. He now had more than enough to convince Mike and get him on side, and Mike in turn could use the information on Coombs to get the marine guys in place, and then Dan’s responsibility really would end. But until then he had to keep going. It was no longer just about stopping whatever Harry and White Hair and their buddies were up to. It had become much more personal than that. It was about Walker and the men who had willingly gone with him in order to right a wrong. And it was about Claire and all that had been done to her.
The wind was steadily picking up, and he thought there was a thin veil of cloud forming, too thin to block the stars but enough to dull their brilliance. His wet clothes clung to his body, leeching whatever warmth he still had left after sixteen or seventeen hours mostly spent on the water, and the resulting chill drained the last of his energy. He was shivering as much from fatigue as from the cold, and he knew he couldn’t continue much longer. Yet he also knew that somehow he had to find a way. There had already been at least one death. With Walker and his friends out there, he didn’t want there to be any more.
Despite the hour, light glimmered through the portholes on Annie’s boat, and both Annie and Claire were out on deck to greet him. He wondered if that might be less about welcoming his arrival and more about keeping as far away from Tom as possible, but whatever the reason, he was happy to see them. He turned the dinghy in behind the boat, let it idle up to the planks, and turned off the motor. The sudden silence rang in his ears as he sat there, clinging to the rough wood, his muscles aching and his body stiff.
A beam of light tracked over him. Annie was making her way down the planks, a flashlight in her hand.
“You okay?” She leaned down to peer more closely at him. “Give me the line. I’ll tie you up.”
He reached down, his numb fingers scrabbling in the pool of frigid water that filled the scuppers to find the end of the rope. When he finally managed to grab it and fish it out, cold arrows of pain shot through his hand as he passed it up to her.
“Got the stove going in the galley,” Annie said as she tied the dinghy to one of the planks. “Kettle’s hot.”
“Thanks, Annie.” Damn, that sounded wonderful. “Just give me a minute to get my legs working and I’ll be up.”
“Huh.” She stared at him for a moment longer, then turned and made her way back up to the deck.
It took him longer than a minute and he had to use the planks to pull himself upright, but he finally managed first to stand and then to move. He hadn’t realized how long he had been sitting in the same position—and the cold wind hadn’t helped. He would have to get back to his judo. He had let it slide since he’d moved aboard and he was paying the price physically and mentally. He flexed his shoulders a couple of times, rotated his spine, and cautiously stepped onto the planks. Thank God Annie had tied a rope from the railing down to a conveniently located log. Without it to hold on to, he was not sure he could have made it.
When he finally reached the deck, Claire was waiting for him, her arms wrapped around her body to keep herself warm.
“You must be frozen,” she said, looking at his wet clothing. “Annie says she can probably dig you up something to change into.”
“Sounds good—although I’m not sure I’d fit into anything of Annie’s—unless it’s a dress.”
She snorted. “Does Annie look like someone who would own a dress?”
He chuckled and reached out to put his arm around her shoulders, turning her toward the cabin. “Doesn’t seem too likely, does it? Let’s see what she has in mind.” The casual embrace felt awfully good.
The warmth of the cabin wrapped around Dan like a soft blanket as he stepped inside. It felt wonderful, although it made his clothes feel even wetter and colder, if that was possible. He briefly considered joining Old Tom, who was still sitting in the same place at the table, hunched as far into a corner as he could get, but he didn’t want to soak the cushions with his wet clothes and there was still that eye-watering smell to deal with. Instead, he stood awkwardly in the doorway, dripping on the wood floor, until finally Annie came to his rescue.
“I’ve got a shirt and pants might fit you,” she said. “Come on up front.” She started forward, then turned to look past him at Claire. “You want to make the tea? It’s up there in that cupboard.”
Annie dug out the clothes and pointed him to the shower. Heated by the wood stove, the water was blissfully hot, and Dan reveled in the warmth that cascaded over his shoulders. He would have liked to let it run for hours, but he forced himself to limit it to a brief rinse. There would be time for indulgence once he got back to Dreamspeaker and got hold of Mike.
The pants were a pair of gray, elastic-waisted sweatpants. They were old, loose at the waist, and several inches too short in the leg, leaving his ankles bare, but they were clean and dry and comfortable. The shirt was a “wood shirt,” one of her ubiquitous lumberjack shirts in faded green-and-black plaid, and it was tight across his shoulders, but it too was clean and dry and felt wonderfully warm. He toweled off his hair, stuffed his wet clothes into a plastic bag, and made his way back to the galley.
Annie’s trademark cup of tea was waiting for him, along with a plate of cookies. Belatedly, he remembered the bag of cookies she had given them earlier. It must be floating around in that pool of water in the bottom of the dinghy. He had forgotten all about it.
Mercifully, Tom was quiet, his eyes tightly closed, but he was still rocking compulsively, his arms wrapped tightly around his thin body. Dan noticed that Annie had opened all the ports in what was probably an effort to clear the pungent smell of sour body odor, but it had been only partially successful, and both she and Claire were standing near the open door, about to move back outside to where the air was fresher.
“You and Walker take care of things?” Annie obviously didn’t want to mention the body, perhaps afraid that it might either upset Claire or set Tom off again.
“Yeah,” Dan said. “It’s safe for Tom to go home. His cove is clear again.” He glanced at the hermit, who appeared not to have h
eard, then at Claire, who had turned to stare out into the night. He knew he needed to explain to her what he and Walker had done with—and for—Robbie, but now was not the time. He took a sip of the hot, sweet tea. “I need to get home too. I’ve got to talk to a friend of mine.”
“You’d have to be crazy to go tonight.” Annie gestured into the darkness. “Darker than a coal mine at midnight—and that wind’s not gonna let up till morning.”
They had moved out of the cabin and were standing on the lee side of the boat, where it was relatively quiet and calm, but they could feel the slap of the waves coming up through the hull and the deck rocked under their feet.
“Can’t be helped,” Dan said. “I don’t have much choice.” He felt better about his chances now that he had dry clothes and a warm drink.
Annie didn’t agree. “Won’t help if you get lost or flipped or sink. And you’d have to fight that wind all the way. Take you till morning to get there.” She looked out into the night. “Might as well stay here and sleep for a couple of hours. You can still leave before dawn. Wind might be down by then too. You’ll probably get back quicker that way than if you leave now.”
Her argument made sense and Dan realized he didn’t need much convincing. In spite of his need to get back to Dreamspeaker, he knew what she was suggesting was the wisest course and he found himself surrendering willingly to her urgings. Minutes later, Annie led him back through the galley to the salon, where two long cushioned settees beckoned. By the time Annie came back from her stateroom with a pillow and a blanket, he was already asleep.
TWENTY-THREE
Walker sank quickly under the waves. He was sat'sam, the spring salmon, his body sleek with silver scales. The black water wrapped him in its embrace, enfolded him, caressed him. He moved through it, powerful muscles surging through its currents. This was his home.
His hand touched the smooth black hull and he rose to the surface. He was at the stern, hidden from anyone on the deck by the curve of the transom. Just below him, twin propellers sat idle on the end of their shafts. On either side, through-hulls provided passage for the exhaust.
Walker had told Percy and the others to give him half an hour. More than that and hypothermia would claim him. As it was, his skin had lost feeling and he could feel the cold cramping his muscles. Soon it would penetrate deep into his bones, burn along his sinews, sear his nerves. Then it would send shards of ice into every cell. The myth of sat'sam could only sustain him for so long.
He had long since stripped off his clothes, wanting the speed and freedom that bare skin would give him. His only burdens now were the long strands of bull kelp he had tied to a rope he had wrapped around his waist and the knife he had strapped to his wrist.
There was no sign of movement on the black ship, although he thought there would almost certainly be someone on watch. Most likely they were sitting in the comfort of the bridge, watching the radar for intruders. On a night like this, it made sense: it was too dark outside to see anything without the help of technology. Fortunately for Walker and the rest of his small group, technology was much too sophisticated to notice something as primitive and small as a wooden canoe. Or a swimmer. And for that he was very grateful.
He slid under the surface again, feeling his way along the hull to the propellers. There were two of them, attached to pod-like structures that hung beneath the hull. It was impossible to see through the night dark water, so he worked by feel, praying that the numbness creeping into his fingers would hold off long enough for him to finish. Strand by strand, he pulled the kelp from his waist and wove it around the blades, wrapping it tightly around the curved metal and up and down the shafts. He lost count of the number of times he came up for air, but finally he was finished. He had built up a smooth, intricate covering and tied it off by weaving the ends back in. Satisfied, he moved on to the exhausts. They were larger than he had expected, and there was a heavy mesh screen just inside each one. It was an odd configuration and one he had never seen before. He figured it might explain why the engines were so quiet, but it meant there was nothing he could do there. Again he moved forward, his hand sliding along the hull till it found another opening. He wasn’t sure what it was for, but it was big enough to reach his hand into, and his fingertips touched heavy rubber. It was some kind of valve or through-hull, a flap that allowed waste or water out but blocked it from coming back in. He took the knife and pushed it in as far as it would go. Cutting the rubber would be impossible, but if he could jam the flap open, it could cripple the ship, even sink it.
He had done all he could do. The dangerous tendrils of fatigue were already creeping into his brain, weaving dream into reality and reality into dream. Sisiutl, the sea serpent, beckoned him down to the depths, and the pale face of Bukwas, king of ghosts and lurer of drowned spirits, laughed at him through the waves. For a moment he thought he could feel the brush of soft hands caressing his hair, and then all of them were willing him to sleep.
He shook his head and fought to clear his mind as he pushed off for the shore. He had left Percy with the canoe, hidden among the rocks. Percy would be watching for him and would come if he signaled him, but any signal that would alert Percy could also alert the men on the black ship, and he could not, would not, do that.
Walker sucked in a lungful of air and slid under the water. Silently he prayed to the Creator, willed himself to transform once again into the magnificent sat'sam, giver of life, strong and sleek, girded with muscle, armed with scales. He was too cold to feel his muscles respond.
The return of warmth to his legs came with stabbing pains that shot along his nerves and set them on fire. His back arched with agony, and his hands reached out like claws in an effort to stop Percy from rubbing life back into them. A rivulet of blood crept down his chin and started to meander down his neck from the split his teeth had opened in his lip as he fought to stop from screaming.
He was more dead than alive when Percy fished him out of the water, dragged him up on the shore, and covered him with a blanket, but he knew he needed to get the circulation in his legs going enough to let him get back into the canoe. They needed to get out of the bay.
Three more canoes were waiting for them around the point. They slid out of the darkness as soon as Percy and Walker threaded their way through the rocks and turned into the channel. Percy steered alongside the first and Walker forced his aching body to lean close to it.
“It’s quiet. The crew boat is tied alongside. Two lines. Keep it between you and the black ship.” He spoke in a whisper, even though they were out of sight of the two boats. Sound carried well over water, and the night was quiet. No point in taking a chance.
Percy released the canoe he had been holding on to and let himself drift as he watched it move into the night, followed by its two companions. Further talk was unnecessary: they had discussed their options earlier and knew what they were going to do. But that didn’t mean there was nothing more to be done, and both men lifted their heads and spread their arms wide, offering up a silent prayer to the Creator, calling on the ancestors to lend their blessing to this enterprise.
As soon as the three men had disappeared, Percy turned his canoe east and slid his paddle deep into the water. He had done all he could. It was time to get back to camp. Walker sat huddled in the bow, his head bowed and the blanket wrapped tightly around his trembling body.
The three canoes crept around the point and slid in among the same rocks that had hidden Percy. They rested there for a minute or two, then one at a time moved out, each paddler watching the canoe before to see if it caused any sign of activity on the black-hulled ship that lay at anchor in the middle of the bay. Nothing stirred. No light showed in any of the windows. No sound drifted across the water. No shadow moved along the decks.
They joined up again on the far side of the crew boat. They had made the first move without a problem, but this was when they were most vulnerable and they could not afford even the slightest misstep. If they were discovered now, i
t would not only mean they had failed, it would also put them and the four brothers who were still over in Shoal Bay in jeopardy. And if Walker’s guess was correct, maybe many others too—men they didn’t know, people they had never cared about. White people. City people. People who had never cared about them and even some they may have robbed down there in the city they had left behind.
They were nervous, but it didn’t show. This was exactly the kind of adrenalin rush they had lived by in the city and they knew how to control and direct it. They moved with speed and caution and, although few of them were ready to admit it, a kind of eager anticipation that they thought had been left far behind. These were, after all, the very same skills and actions that had gotten them into trouble just a few months ago, and it was bizarre and a little unsettling to be offered the opportunity to use them again, this time on the side of justice, to help others rather than themselves. The first man to silently scale the smooth metal surface of the hull reached the deck. He was grinning as he turned to help the next.
It took only moments for the two men to climb the rail and flatten themselves on the narrow side deck, where they blended into the darkness and the shadows. They lay there, motionless, until they were sure they had not been noticed and then one of them reached an arm back down to grasp a water-filled plastic bottle that was being passed up from the canoe below. He passed that to his partner and reached for another. More followed, until each man had three bottles. The smaller of the two men then eased his body over the cockpit coaming and dropped silently into the well. Again he waited, listening for the slightest sound, straining to detect any movement, but nothing stirred. Satisfied, he lifted his head till it was barely above the lip, then slid his hand forward along the deck until his fingers touched the raised metal of a filling cap. Perfect. He rubbed his fingertips lightly over the surface and felt the groove that ran across the center. The blade of the knife he carried in his jeans pocket was polished and honed, and in anything other than this pitch-dark night he would have worried about it throwing off a reflection, but that would not be a problem here. Sound, however, might be unless he took care to avoid it. He dug the knife out, opened it up, and reached his hand out along the deck again.
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