Death Echo

by Elizabeth Lowell

“Faroe knew you would understand.”

  Emma laughed.

  “We’ve arranged for a rental car,” Grace continued, “and silent water transportation.”

  “Come again?”

  “Kayaks.”

  Emma made a strangled sound.

  “According to your files, both you and Mac have some past experience with them,” Grace said.

  “Past being the operative word.”

  “Would you rather do an underwater approach? In the dark?”

  “Kayaks it is,” Emma said, remembering the look of the water north of Nanaimo. “Unless Mac objects.”

  “He won’t. This kind of kayak is easier to get into and out of than diving gear. The rental car papers, necessary personal items, cash, and repossession papers will be at the airport.”

  “We’re on a float plane. Water, not paved runways.”

  “Joe assured me that your plane does solid as well as liquid landings,” Grace said. “Call Steele when you control Black Swan masquerading as Blackbird.”

  “What if—”

  “Then call me.”

  Grace disconnected.

  68

  DAY SIX

  PORT RENFREW

  5:25 P.M.

  Lina Fredric paid the truck driver in cash, then watched as he racked the fuel hose after refueling the boat. Fuel in Port Renfrew was by arrangement only, and trucked to the water’s edge; rather like an undeveloped country or a step back in time. The tourist-oriented waterfront was the most modern element of the town. The rest was mostly shacks, rocks, evergreens, water, and the sense of a vast ocean waiting beyond the rocks guarding the harbor.

  The boat Lina had rented from the friend of a cousin of a friend—or perhaps an enemy, considering the dirty interior—was topped off and ready to run. Except for having a bigger kicker and extra fuel cans lashed inside the stern gunwale, the boat was essentially like the Redhead II, with all the benefits of speed and drawbacks of a boat run by anyone with the cash to rent her.

  At least the chart plotter worked. Because most users of the boat had been sport fishermen chasing salmon, radar wasn’t required. In the dense fogs that haunted the west side during summer, pleasure fishermen stayed within view of shore, or went out in packs following someone who had reliable radar.

  “Well?” Demidov prodded.

  Lina stepped down into the boat. “There is a light for night running, if you insist. I can’t recommend it. We have no radar.”

  Demidov looked at the screen of his phone. “I’ll guide us.”

  Right into a tanker, she thought sourly.

  But she was through arguing with Demidov. As far as he was concerned, he had his orders, he had her, and the boat she had scrounged up was fueled and ready to go. Discussion over.

  “Do we leave now?” she asked.

  He looked from the numbers on his phone to the paper chart he had found aboard the Sea Tiger. The scow was more like an alley cat than a tiger, but he’d had worse transportation in his career. The van in Rosario came immediately to his mind. At least the slops bucket on the boat could be emptied overboard with each use.

  “We have an opportunity for food,” Demidov said. “Is that pub still open?”

  “Partially. It seems that some people will endure any kind of weather to avoid crowds. Hikers and kayakers, particularly. The fact that it’s after the first week in October and the weather is dodgy…” She shrugged. “It keeps the summer mobs away.”

  Demidov glanced around. Crowd wasn’t a word he would have thought of in the same sentence as Port Renfrew. It was the end of the road. Literally. Like the car they had driven here, the town had a weary, hard-used air. He had parked the vehicle in an empty lot with keys inside. If someone wanted to steal the car, Demidov wished him luck. There was almost no petrol in the tank.

  “Bring back enough food and water for a day,” he said.

  Without a word, Lina climbed onto the dock and went in search of provisions. Like loose wiring, she clicked in and out of touch with reality. Constant fear was numbing.

  Except when it wasn’t.

  69

  DAY SIX

  TOFINO

  6:42 P.M.

  The evening air was cold, damp, with an edge that told of winter rolling down from the Aleutians. The harbor itself was slick and quiet, a black satin that reflected pieces of the pastel sky when the clouds and local lighting allowed.

  The wide, blunt, plastic kayaks bobbing gently by the rental dock were a scuffed-up red. The color didn’t worry Mac or Emma. At night, red disappeared easily into black, which was why many emergency crews preferred a neon kind of yellow-green.

  Mac watched the pocket harbor of Tofino with the same binoculars he had been using since dawn. Only one fuel dock was still open. It was a fairly large place with an attached store and chandlery. For someone needing fuel and charts, it was a magnet.

  Emma prayed that the store and fuel would draw in Black Swan or Blackbird, whichever nameplate was on the boat. She had a legal document that allowed them to repossess Blackbird’s twin. All they had to do was sneak aboard and take over the ship.

  Yeah, right.

  But that was the best plan anyone had come up with. Certainly the only one that had a chance of keeping a lid on all the need-to-know-only possibilities that Blackbird was the center of.

  She lifted her own binoculars and focused on the gloaming beyond the chain of islets and rocks that protected Tofino from the open ocean. If her memory still worked, another element had been added to the scene.

  A spot on the horizon had become a black-hulled ship.

  “Mac.”

  “I see her. Damn, but she’s a pretty boat.”

  “Too bad she’s gone over to the dark side.”

  He smiled grimly. “We’re about to take care of that. Come on. By the time we get in position, Amanar and Lovich should be fueling.”

  Emma lowered the binoculars and saw Mac frowning at the kayaks.

  “Problem?” she asked.

  “Guess what’s the most dangerous form of watercraft on the ocean, including personal watercraft and aircraft carriers?”

  She looked at the fat kayaks. “Don’t tell me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is that why Faroe put a roll of duct tape in your gear? To keep these afloat?”

  “Handcuffs,” Mac said.

  Emma blinked. “I thought that was what the dental floss was for.”

  He laughed.

  She maneuvered into her plastic tub. There was no spray skirt to keep water out, but her clothes were designed to keep her dry. Dark, one-piece, fitted, stretchy, the special gear was warm and almost as waterproof as a dive suit. Neoprene gloves, reef shoes, a dark knit cap, a delicate headset, waterproof belly bag for personal gear, and a flotation harness completed her outfit.

  Mac stretched against the black waterproof gear he wore. The length was good, the reef shoes fit, and the shoulders were too tight. He was glad no one had thought of waterproof hoods. They pulled all but the shortest hair and made your scalp sweat. The small back-pack and flat flotation harness he wore were simply there, like a wristwatch, unnoticed until needed.

  He eased into his kayak and looked at Emma. She was poised, waiting for him, double-ended paddle at the ready. A wind riffled over the smooth harbor. Though the water was warmer than in the open ocean, the wind smelled like winter.

  Mac and Emma paddled slowly away from shore, waiting for old, unused reflexes to assert themselves. By the time they had crossed the little harbor, neither of them had to think about every shift and motion of paddle and kayak.

  They paddled quietly toward the fuel dock, skirting anchored commercial fish boats, moored freight barges, and the occasional yacht. As they reached a long-line troller that was tied off to a buoy, Blackbird roared up to the fuel dock, leaving the kind of wake that threw boats around. The smaller boats tied to the transient mooring around the fuel dock got the worst ride.

  “Idiot,” Mac breathed into
his headset.

  “I like what that fish captain yelled better,” Emma answered softly. “Not sure I caught that last reference, though.”

  “Something about a chainsaw enema.”

  “Yikes. They grow ’em mean out here.”

  “Flop some of that bullwhip kelp over your bow,” Mac said. “It will help to ride out the wake.”

  She dragged a strand of kelp as thick as her arm over the bow just in time for the first two-foot-high wave. Before the last of the wake stopped throwing the kayaks around, Blackbird’s twin was being tied up at the dock. Amanar stood on the dark swim step and passed a stern line to the attendant while Lovich leaped out and strode toward the store like a man on a mission. He ignored the surly shouts from people who didn’t approve of his wake or his landing speed.

  “One down,” Mac said very softly.

  “One left on the boat,” she said.

  She dumped the kelp off her bow and followed Mac toward Blackbird. With every dip of her paddle, she willed Amanar to step onto the dock, leaving the boat empty. It had been a long, hard ride from Port Hardy. Surely the man would want to stretch his land legs during refueling.

  Mac checked Blackbird. The dock attendant had already handed one thick delivery hose up to Amanar, who was positioning it near one intake. The attendant trotted back to the pumps and flicked it on. Soon the hose was humming with fuel being pumped into the thirsty Blackbird.

  “Figure about twenty gallons a minute,” Mac murmured. “Figure twenty minutes, if they’re topping off, twice as long if they’re running low. A little extra time thrown in for counting all the cash. Twenty-three minutes, minimum, unless the attendant goes slow to punish them for the rude landing.”

  “Plenty of time for a silent approach,” Emma said softly, “if Amanar gets the hell off the boat.”

  “Big if. Those two might not be trained, but they’re meaner than the average boat jockey.”

  It didn’t take long for the port tank. Amanar grabbed the hose, shut the fuel port, and moved the hose to the starboard tank intake.

  “That was fast,” she said.

  Mac was silent.

  Emma looked at his outline. Relaxed, motionless, waiting for whatever happened next.

  Sniper at work.

  I don’t have the patience to be a sniper, she thought. I’d rather kick Amanar’s butt overboard and get on with it.

  Or is that the “Coastguard Cocktail” talking?

  She had taken the two pills Faroe had included in her belly pack gear. The first pill relaxed the long muscles of the gut so seasickness wasn’t an issue. The second one was speed, pure and simple. It cut through any mental fuzziness caused by the first pill.

  And made her a bit edgy.

  She waited quietly anyway. The fuel dock was well illuminated. Other boats were within calling distance. Some had cabin lights on.

  Damn, I hope Grace’s decoy works, she thought.

  Emma reached for her cell phone in the waterproof belly pack and waited next to Mac, two shadows among the deepening shadows of Tofino harbor sliding into night.

  “Breathe,” Mac murmured through his mic. “Slow and easy.”

  Emma realized that she had been holding her breath.

  Stupid newbie mistake, she told herself.

  She breathed, slow and easy.

  By the time the refueling was winding up, she was almost as relaxed as Mac. As the fuel hose left Blackbird, Emma hit the send button on her cell phone. If the insurance company didn’t call the dock number as arranged, it would be a lot harder to get aboard. And it wouldn’t be real silent.

  A buzzer sounded above the door of the fuel dock office. The attendant trotted inside and picked up the phone on the second ring. He spoke for a moment or two, then called out, “Anyone named Lovich here?”

  “Go,” Mac said.

  70

  DAY SIX

  TOFINO

  6:59 P.M.

  While Lovich walked from the lighted chartroom that was part of the chandlery, Mac and Emma paddled out from behind the cover of the troller. They saw Lovich take the phone with an impatient movement.

  Then Emma kept her head down, away from any illumination that might make her eyes light up like an animal’s along a dark road. Mac was doing the same.

  Damp air carried noise very well. Lovich’s voice came in staccato barks.

  “—hell you talking—”

  “Stupid son of a bitch, you’re crazy if—”

  “—think I’m as dumb as—”

  Emma guessed he would descend to the level of chainsaw enemas real quick.

  “Amanar!” Lovich finally yelled. “Get over here and talk to this—”

  The rest of his words vanished beneath the sound of a cabin door slamming aboard the yacht. The stern gate leading to the swim step opened with an oil-me screech and then closed. Hard.

  Emma held her breath. A glint of gold along the boat’s side caught her eye. Warily she looked up. If there had been any doubt about the boat’s identity, the nameplate removed it.

  BLACKBIRD.

  “Do you believe in resurrection?” she asked very softly into her mic.

  “No. Death and lies? Oh yeah. I believe.”

  Mac was glad that they didn’t need to worry much about being absolutely quiet. Amanar was thundering over the dock like a buffalo, Lovich was screaming curses, and everyone in the harbor who could hear was riveted on the mouthy newcomer at the fuel dock.

  For Mac and Emma, the black hull of the yacht provided a perfect screen from the action on the dock.

  “Faster,” he said and dug his paddle deep into the water.

  She tried to keep up with him, but his upper body strength was easily three times hers. By the time he reached the swim step, she was thirty feet behind.

  Mac’s kayak tenderly nudged Blackbird’s hull. With one hand he reached out and caught the three-foot-tall chromed rail at the edge of the swim step. When he was certain of his grip, he let his paddle slide away into the water.

  Emma glided close enough to touch him.

  “Shove my kayak toward the middle of the harbor,” he said very softly into his mic. “Send the paddle after it.”

  Before she finished dumping the excess gear, he grabbed the chrome rail and levered himself onto the swim step as easily as a gymnast mounting flying rings. But she knew that it wasn’t easy. It was a wrenching exercise in naked strength.

  No way, she thought. I can get up on the swim step by myself, but it’s going to be messy.

  “Hey, Spiderman,” she said in quiet disgust to her mic. “You going to beam me aboard?”

  “You’re mixing your superheroes.”

  “I figured it would take two.”

  He made a low sound that could have been laughter. Then he caught the bow of her kayak and drew it alongside the swim step, holding her steady.

  “Send your paddle toward the middle of the bay,” he said.

  She aimed her paddle on top of the water and shoved it off into the darkness.

  “Now grab my wrists,” he said.

  She locked her fingers around his wrists and felt his own hands clamp around hers. Without being told, she drew up her knees. Before she could take a breath, he lifted her clear of the kayak and steadied her on the dark swim step.

  “Good?” he murmured.

  “Yes. Go.”

  With a lithe movement, he levered himself over the gunwale and its rail. Then they locked wrists again. He brought her aboard with barely a brushing sound. It was certainly a lot quieter than the squeaky gate would have been.

  Mac touched her lips and his own in a gesture asking silence.

  She nodded.

  Both of them duck-walked along the port side of Blackbird, keeping themselves out of sight of the dock.

  In the background, Amanar joined his cousin in a cussing duet. Whatever the insurance agent was telling them, they didn’t want to hear it.

  Mac reached into his small backpack and pulled out a fold
ing knife. He thumbed it open and gave it to Emma, handle first.

  “Stay down.” His voice was a bare thread of sound. “When I give the signal from the bow, cut us loose at the stern.”

  She looked at the knife’s serrated blade, then tested its edge very lightly with her thumb. The wicked little teeth tugged at her skin, nearly drawing blood. She nodded approvingly.

  Mac touched her elbow, then scuttled across the aft deck, keeping his head below the gunwale.

  On the dock, Amanar began repeating himself at a higher volume. Anything that wasn’t stone deaf would know what he thought about the size of the caller’s brain and gonads.

  At the starboard rail, Mac straightened a little and ran, head low, to the bow.

  Emma glanced again through the stainless hawsehole toward the fuel dock. Her breath stopped when she saw Lovich glance in the direction of Blackbird.

  If he saw anything out of place, he didn’t point it out to Amanar.

  Mac looked at the bowline and wanted to curse along with the cousins. I knew this was too easy.

  Unlike the stern line, which led directly from the inside cleat through a hawsehole and from there to the dock, the bowline had been looped back on itself through the hawsehole. It was under too much tension to work free.

  Mac needed the knife he’d given to Emma.

  From the stern, she watched as he grabbed the line with both hands. She could sense the effort as he tried to pull in enough slack to back the twisted loop off one horn of the cleat.

  No good.

  The shouts from the fuel dock were getting fewer and further between.

  They’re winding up, she thought. Time to go.

  She crouched low and duck-walked toward the shelter of the salon. Once there she straightened enough to move fast. Within seconds she was crouched beside Mac in the shelter of the bow. She passed over the knife handle first.

  Swiftly he laid the blade to a taut portion of the mooring line. The braided nylon was under strain, holding the yacht to the fuel dock. The knife passed through the heavy line like it was cold butter. When there were only a few threads left, he handed the knife back to Emma.

  “Same for the stern?” she breathed.

  “No. Clean through. I’ll signal.”