Joe shrugged. “Some folks freeze up. I’ve seen people hide in closets instead of running out of a burning building. And last year we plucked those yachtsmen from the mast of their boat. Remember how they hung on until we forced them to let go?”
“True,” Kurt said. “But in those cases, people were hiding from the danger, hoping desperately that it would stay away from them. The people in the building are hoping—irrationally, of course—that the closet door will keep the fire away. That if they don’t see it, the fire won’t get them. The sailors you’re talking about climbed higher and higher. They’d have been smarter to get a raft off before the boat went under, but they were still trying to keep away from the danger. If the helmsman is telling the truth, this guy went down below and into the water after they hit the rocks.”
“That is odd,” Joe said.
“So is the captain’s injury.”
Joe glanced over at the man, who had his head down on a table while the nurse took out a suture kit. “We’ve all banged our heads on low-hanging pipes and hatchways,” he pointed out. “If I ever go bald, you’ll see a collection of scars on my noggin that go all the way back to my Navy days.”
Kurt had a few of his own. “What part of your head?”
Joe ran his fingers through his hair, feeling for the scars. “Front and center mostly. One bad one, right on top.”
Kurt nodded. “And yet our captain is getting the back side of his scalp stitched up.”
“You think someone clubbed him?”
“Could be.”
“Who?”
“Who else?” Kurt said. “The missing passenger.”
Joe sat back, suddenly uninterested in the food. “Can’t we just bask in the glory of this rescue like regular people? Does your suspicious mind have to work overtime?”
“Sorry,” Kurt said. “When things don’t add up, I look for reasons why.”
“It’s a bad habit,” Joe said, shaking his head. “One I’ve tried to break you of for years.”
Kurt shrugged and took a sip of the coffee. “I’m incorrigible. What can I say?”
Joe had finished the haggis and began stabbing the chips with his fork. Not satisfied with plain potatoes, he poured out a large glob of ketchup and began dunking the chips. “Since we’re doing the paranoid thing,” he said, “I’m wondering why that trawler was out in the storm in the first place. This cyclone has been all over the news for days. Plenty of time to head south or hole up somewhere.”
Kurt nodded. “And yet they pressed on to Dunvegan.”
“So, what’s in Dunvegan?”
Before Kurt could respond, the fire shifted in the hearth, its flames tugged to the side by a draft that swept through the pub.
Kurt looked over to see the front door closing and three men standing in the entrance, shaking off the rain. They spoke with the hostess and made their way to the bar, taking seats at the far end.
Kurt studied them. They looked out of place. It was their clothing. They wore heavy wool sweaters, which were perfectly common to inhabitants of the area, but the ones these men had on looked fresh and new instead of well-worn and broken-in. And then there were the shoes.
“How are your boots?” Kurt asked Joe nonchalantly.
“Comfortable,” Joe replied.
“Glad to hear it,” Kurt said. “Are they clean and dry?”
“Not since we left London.”
Kurt’s were no better. He’d come to Scotland with two pairs of boots. By the end of the first week, both were covered with mud and perpetually damp. With fifteen days of rain out of the last twenty, it had proven impossible to keep footwear either clean or dry.
The shoes of every other patron in the tavern were in similar condition to Kurt’s and Joe’s and yet the new arrivals wore dress shoes with a half-decent shine and only the slightest hint of muddy residue around the edges of the soles. “I’d say they’re not from around here.”
“Neither are we,” Joe pointed out.
“Yes, but we’re local heroes now,” Kurt said.
“True,” Joe said. “What are you thinking?”
“You wondered why that trawler would be heading north to Dunvegan in the storm, I wondered why a passenger would run belowdecks on a ship that had been holed and was flooding. Both acts make little sense. Unless . . .”
Joe finished the sentence for him. “. . . Unless there was something valuable on that boat that had to be delivered to Dunvegan, something that had to arrive regardless of the weather.”
Kurt nodded. As usual, he and Joe were reading from the same script.
“And if you were the customer waiting for this important delivery,” Kurt asked, “and you heard the ship was diverting to another port nearby, what would you do?”
“I’d come to collect the package myself.”
Kurt nodded once more, then sat back, keeping his attention focused on the men at the bar. So far, they’d done nothing but look at a menu.
“You realize it’s none of our business,” Joe said.
“What’s not your business?” a voice asked.
Kurt turned to see a young woman who’d arrived beside their booth seemingly out of nowhere. Her hazel eyes sparkled with green and were accented by dark mascara, contrasted with ash-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore gray jeans and a cashmere sweater visible under an olive-colored raincoat. Her feet were shod in shiny black rain boots.
“The sinking ship,” Kurt said. “It was none of our business, but we got involved anyway.”
“So, you two are the gents of the hour,” she said. Her accent was more suited to London than a small Scottish town. Her makeup and style were more city than country too. “Morgan Manning,” she said, offering a hand. “Roving entry-level reporter for UK News 1.”
Kurt smiled and shook her hand. “Kurt Austin,” he said. “This is Joe Zavala.”
Joe shook her hand as well. “We’re roving world travelers who can’t seem to mind our own business.”
“How can we help you?” Kurt asked.
She took a seat next to Joe and pulled a recorder from her coat pocket and placed it on the table. “You can change my luck,” she said. “I’ve been sent up here on assignment. A crushingly poor assignment, to be honest with you. Get some footage of the storm, my boss said. Find some locals who want to ride it out—which appears to be all of them, mind you—and report on the damage to the coast, blah, blah, blah. All of it really boring stuff.”
“I’d watch,” Joe insisted.
“I wouldn’t,” she replied. “It’s total tripe. We could film one storm and replay the footage every time another one comes in and no one would know the difference. But a trawler getting caught on the rocks, a couple of heroes risking life and limb to save the crew—now, that’s a story.”
Kurt went to cut the conversation off, but she was too quickly onto the next part of her pitch.
“Now,” she said, “I’ve got some bloody great footage of the waves pummeling that boat, and even a shot of one of you riding out there, but I need something to tie it all together. To begin with, who are you and what are you doing here?”
Though he normally made a rule of avoiding reporters, Kurt found her hyperactive curiosity charming. He knew part of it was an act, but he’d seen worse.
She pressed a button on top of the recorder.
“We’re American, as you can probably tell,” Kurt said. “We work for NUMA—that’s the National Underwater and Marine Agency—out of Washington.”
“Yanks,” she said. “I got that part already. Not the least from your accents as much as that monstrosity of a truck you’re driving around in. And the ketchup . . . Do you really need to put that much ketchup on your chips?”
Joe looked down at his plate. It was swimming in the red sauce. “It’s healthy. Lots of lycopene.”
“Right,” she replied. “But what are you doing on the Isle of Skye?”
Joe spoke up. “We’re looking for the wreck of an ancient Viking ship believed to use copper plating as armor. It might not exist. But if it does, it would predate other metal-clad ships by several hundred years.”
She seemed to find the idea suspect. “Is this really what the United States government spends its gobs of money on?”
Kurt jumped in. “No,” he said. “We happen to be on vacation. Spending our own money. Which, unfortunately, doesn’t add up to gobs.”
“Not even half a gob,” Joe insisted.
“And so far, we haven’t found any sign of the ship.”
Joe interrupted. “We have found copper artifacts with Nordic runes on them, but that was inland.”
“So, no luck on your historical search,” she said. “But you did turn out to be in just the right place at just the right time to risk your necks on that rescue mission.”
Kurt sighed and took a sip of the coffee. “It happens more than you’d think.”
“I, for one, found the risk well worth it,” Joe said, trying to get Ms. Manning’s attention back his way. “If you could have seen the look in those sailors’ eyes as I reeled them in on the cable and helped them finally stand up on dry land—”
“You pulled them in?” she asked. “With your bare hands?”
Joe paused. “Well, the winch did most of the work, but I—”
“He had to press the button,” Kurt said with a smile. “Injured his finger doing it. We might have to amputate.”
“Very funny,” Joe said.
The reporter turned back to Kurt. “So, you were the one who rode out to the boat. What did you find when you got on board?”
It was an odd question—oddly phrased, at least. “A crew of sailors needing rescue.”
“Any cargo?”
“It’s a fishing boat,” Kurt said.
She laughed. “That’s what I meant. Did you see any fish? Catch of the day, that sort of thing?”
“Didn’t make it down to the hold,” Kurt said. “And, as I understand it, they weren’t fishing, just making for Dunvegan.”
“Why stop here if they were heading for Dunvegan?”
Kurt shrugged. “I’d assume the storm forced them to put in here. But you’d be better off asking the captain or his crew.”
She looked over her shoulder, then turned back to Kurt. “Great idea,” she said. With the quick hands of a magician, she snatched the recorder up, switched it off and put it away.
With a smile that could melt butter, Morgan Manning stood up and produced a business card. “I want to hear more of your story later. That’s my mobile number at the bottom. If you think of anything else, give me a shout. I always answer on the first ring.”
Kurt took the card and smiled politely as she walked away.
Joe looked upset. “Are we so flush with women that we’re actively sending them away?”
“We do when they’re distracting us,” Kurt said. “Look around. Tell me what you see. Or, better yet, what you don’t see?”
Joe scanned the room slowly. “The men with the polished shoes have vanished.”
“So has the captain,” Kurt added.
“That can’t be a good thing,” Joe said.
“Nope,” Kurt said, finishing the coffee and standing. “It’s not. You get to the truck and use the satellite phone to call for help. I’m going around the back. Be discreet. I have a feeling we’re not the only ones on high alert at the moment.”
Chapter 7
As Joe left the McCloud Tavern by the front door, Kurt made his way to an alcove next to the kitchen. Boxes of produce and pallets of beer lined one wall while the slope of the stairs ran above him on the other. At the far end stood a black-painted door with a four-paned glass window in the upper half. It was closing slowly.
Kurt reached it before it closed and kept it from latching.
He looked through the window. The view was blurred by the continuing rain and distortions in the hundred-year-old glass, but he could see the captain arguing with one of the new arrivals as they walked around the side of the building and stood under the shelter of the eave.
Kurt eased the door open, creating a small gap. The cold air poured in and the words of the conversation came along for the ride.
The captain was pleading. “Listen to me, Slocum. There was nothing we could do. The storm came on too fast.”
A pistol was produced. “Barlow doesn’t like excuses, but perhaps he’ll listen to you in person.”
As the man spoke, a van pulled onto the pavers next to the tavern and stopped. The side door slid back, revealing the helmsman, bound with duct tape and gagged with a gray cloth.
“Leave my crew out of it,” the captain said. “They have nothing to do with this.”
Slocum shook his head. “Your incompetent crew are the only way to be sure you cooperate. It’s just this one, at the moment, but we’ll kill them all if you resist. Now, get in!”
The captain bowed his head and began trudging toward the van. The man with the gun turned to follow, staying far enough behind to prevent any attempt to disarm him.
Kurt used the moment to his advantage. He slipped through the door and sprinted across the patio. At a full run, he raced up onto a low wall and launched himself through the air.
One of Slocum’s men saw him out of the corner of his eye. “Look out!”
Slocum turned, but Kurt’s flying leap was already in progress. He came down on the gun-toting man before he could react, tackling him to the ground.
The impact sent Slocum tumbling backward. His hand smashed against the pavers and the pistol flew from his grasp.
Kurt went for the pistol, but the driver jumped from the van, raising a double-barreled shotgun.
Changing course, Kurt dove for the nearest cover, back behind the short wall.
The shotgun discharged and buckshot rattled off the old brown bricks. Kurt was unharmed. Expecting trouble from the second barrel, Kurt army-crawled to the far end of the wall and looked around the corner.
The captain had rushed to the van, where he’d pulled the helmsman free, only to be clubbed by the shotgun-wielding driver. The helmsman ended up on the ground as the captain was thrown into the van in his place.
By now Slocum had gotten up, hobbled over to retrieve his pistol and was limping toward the van. His men were reaching for the helmsman. “Leave him,” Slocum shouted. “We have to go.”
Kurt jumped up, ready for another run, but was forced back again as bullets tore into the damp ground in front of him. With little choice in the matter, he dove behind the wall once more.
Additional shots kept him pinned down. He had no idea where the incoming shells were being fired from, but sticking one’s head up was a poor way to find out.
While Kurt stayed down, the van’s engine revved loudly as the wet tires spun. The unmistakable sound of a vehicle backing up at high speed followed.
By the time Kurt risked a glance, the van had skidded to a stop, made a three-point turn and sped off on the road in front of the tavern. It fishtailed briefly, then straightened and raced off to the north.
With the area clear, Kurt ran to the helmsman lying on the ground. At almost the same time, Joe came around the corner. “What happened to being discreet?”
“I was never very good at that.”
Kurt pulled the gag from the helmsman’s mouth. It was soaked with bitter-smelling liquid. “Chloroform.”
Kurt tossed the rag aside. The scent was pungent and he had no wish to smell it, let alone allow any of it into his system.
“He’s out cold,” Kurt said.
Unlike in the movies where two seconds of chloroform knocked a person out for hours, one usually had to breathe it in for an extended amount of time to pass out. “Th
ey must have had him for a while before they came to get the captain. How’d we miss that?”
“We were being distracted,” Joe pointed out. “By a nosy reporter.”
Kurt looked up. Morgan Manning should have been out there filming video and pouncing on what would be a highlight-reel scoop, but instead she was nowhere to be seen. “She’s either the world’s worst reporter or something else altogether.”
By now the bartender and some of the patrons had come outside, including several of the rescued crewmen. Kurt waved them over to their mate. “Help him up and get him inside.” He turned to the barkeep. “Get the police out here. You’ll need an ambulance too. No telling how much of that anesthetic he’s inhaled.”
“I called the police already,” the bartender said. “But the nearest barracks are in Dunvegan, and the road between here and there has been washed out.”
Kurt stared through the rain. Dunvegan lay to the north, in the exact direction the van had driven. “If those men were trying to get back to Dunvegan, is there any other way for them to get there?”
“Only the Highlands path,” the bartender said. “It’s not much of a road, more of a winding track through a sheep pasture. It goes around the doon—the big hill. And Clagmore Castle is up there. And on the far side is East Brach.”
“You can get back to Dunvegan that way?”
“It’s rough country,” the bartender said. “But if you were willing to go across it, then I suppose you could.”
“Something tells me they’re going to risk it,” Joe said.
Kurt was already up and moving. “So are we.”
Chapter 8
Kurt and Joe were belted into the front seats of the Ford F-150 as it charged diagonally across the big hill—or doon, as the bartender had called it. The footing was uneven, but the heavy-duty suspension and large tires handled it well. The higher they went, the less soggy things got.
“This hill is shaped like the back of a turtle,” Joe said. “Aside from the ruts where the water’s running, it’s not bad driving.”
Journey of the Pharaohs Page 5
