"...if they don’t go ashore we'll have to wait," one man was saying.
"We can't," the other replied. "If we don't move soon, it'll be discovered—"
Will stepped closer, hoping to get a look at them.
"Did you hear that?" one said.
"Hear what?" the other asked.
"A noise... Like a thump."
As Will scurried across the deck to where the kayak was tied, a ray of light shot over his head. He dropped to the deck and waited.
"Give me the gun," the man with the light said.
Will lowered his leg over the side and braced his foot on the ladder.
"Over there!" the other man shouted.
Light shot from the opposite direction, flooding Will's face and blinding him. "Hold it!" the man yelled. "Don't make any quick moves. I have a gun."
Trapped in the light, and with a gun pointed directly at him, Will removed his foot from the ladder and raised his hands.
"What are you going to do with him, Nate?" Will heard the other man say.
"I don't know," the man called Nate replied, "but we can't let him go."
Will knew, from the timbre of their voices, that the men were old, but with the light aimed in his eyes, he couldn't see their faces. Although he wasn't a match for a gun, if the moment was right, he knew he could subdue two old men.
"Don't let him come aboard," the other man said.
"We don't have much choice," Nate replied.
"What about the ones on the Isadora?" the other man said. "If we hold the guy here, they're sure to come looking for him."
Will caught the shakiness in the man's voice. The old man was nervous as hell. Feeling more confident, he said, "Well, what's it going to be?"
"Okay, come on aboard," Nate said, "but don't do anything funny. This gun's cocked and aimed at your head."
Will climbed onto the deck. "That's far enough," Nate said. "Myles, get the rope."
"What rope?" the man called Myles asked.
"The one tied to the crab pot."
"We don't have that anymore," Myles said. "We left it in Campbell River."
"Here, hold this." Nate pressed the gun into Myles's hand.
"No... Wait!" Myles reached for Nate's arm, but Nate shrugged his hand off and ducked into the cabin. Seeing the gun trembling in Myles's hand, Will rushed him and raised his leg sharply, sending the gun skidding across the deck. Will whirled around and lunged after it, grabbing it with both hands as he skid to his belly, realizing at once it was… plastic?
Raising himself to his feet, he waved the gun at Myles, and said, "What did you plan to do with this?"
Myles sighed. "We thought it would give us a chance to get away if we got caught."
"Who are you?" Will demanded.
Before Myles could respond, Nate stepped onto the deck, a coiled rope in his hand. Will recognized Nate at once as someone he'd seen at the marina on several occasions, no doubt the same old man Nellie found on the boat. "We might as well tell him," Nate said. "He'll find out sooner or later."
Myles rubbed his grizzled chin and heaved a heavy sigh. "I suppose," he agreed.
Nate looked at Will. "I'm Nathan Greeley. I skippered the Isadora for Vernon Sinclair for over twenty years. This is my brother, Myles."
"Why are you following us?" Will asked.
"I left something personal in the safe on the boat," Nate replied. "I wanted to get it without you thinking I was trying to rob you."
Will eyed him, dubiously. "Something personal, like what?"
Nate shrugged. "My journal."
Will was even more skeptical of the man. "Why didn't you simply announce who you were and come aboard and get it?" he asked. Clearly the guy was lying. He glanced from a weathered, whiskered face, to a lean, slightly unshaved one. A more harmless-looking pair he couldn't imagine. Still, he suspected there was more to it than what the old men were leading him to believe. "Where, exactly, is the safe?" he asked, surprised that with all of the work he'd done on the boat, he hadn't discovered it.
Nate shrugged. "That's the problem. I couldn't find it when you were docked in Port Townsend so we followed you to Campbell River, and as it turned out, the safe is where it was before, behind a board inside a locker in the master stateroom. But the boards have been nailed tight and varnished, so we couldn't get to it."
"If you are telling the truth," Will said, "I suppose you can come aboard. But if you make one move toward Mrs. Reid or her son, I'll throw you both overboard and leave you to the sharks." Will was fairly certain he'd do just that, if Nellie or Mike were harmed.
"Mrs. Reid?"
"Vernon Sinclair's niece," Will clarified.
"Little Cornelia," Nate said, his voice softening with affection. "She's here?"
"She and her son," Will replied. "Come on, you can meet them." He stepped onto the deck to tie the kayak to the cruiser, and as he did, he heard the deep throb of a diesel engine and realized there was another vessel near the Isadora. Concerned, he motioned for Nate to hurry. A few minutes later, the muffled drone of the diesel engine seemed distant, and Will was relieved that the craft was moving away.
As they headed toward the Isadora, Will said, "Did one of you follow Nellie from Oregon?"
Both men shook their heads. Which made Will's stomach tighten. The car had been stolen, and two boats had been following them. He already knew why one of them had, which left the other out there, with someone aboard who had no doubt followed in a stolen car, and who was carrying a gun.
Nate pulled the small cruiser alongside the Isadora and hopped onto the deck, leaving Myles to tend the boat, while Will hoisted the kayak aboard. After securing the kayak, Will motioned for Nate to follow. As they approached the salon, Will caught the sound of a man's voice coming from inside. His heart began to hammer, and a cold sweat broke on his brow. Alarmed, he swept open the door. And stood in stunned silence.
Sitting in a chair, eyes wide with fright, mouth gagged, and hands bound behind her, was Nellie, a large baldheaded man with bushy black brows standing over her, and a gun, which Will had no doubt was real, aimed directly at her head. Impulsively, Will started for the man.
"Hold it!" the man said, pressing the muzzle tight to Nellie's temple. "Unless you want to see her skull and its contents splattered all over this room."
Will froze. "Just... get that gun away from her head," he said, his heart pounding so hard it felt as if it might burst. He shifted his gaze from the steely glint of the barrel, and looked into a pair of emotionless, pale blue eyes. "What do you want?"
"Vernon Sinclair." the man said.
"Vernon Sinclair's dead," Will replied.
"Like hell!" Anger flared in the man's eyes, and corded veins bulged in his temples. "I've been tailing you for days, and I know you're headed for Sinclair's hiding place." His thumb stroked the handgrip of the pistol, as he said, "I don't have a lot of patience. Now, either talk and talk fast, or this woman's not going to see the light of day."
Will looked at Nellie's ashen face. He tried to give her some sign of hope, some reassurance as he thought desperately of something to do, but he felt helpless, completely powerless. In an attempt to take the man's attention off Nellie, he said, "What makes you think Sinclair's alive?"
"He’s alive alright," the man said. "And you're going to take me to him." A smirk of derision crossed the man’s stony face. "You’ve got about fifteen seconds to make up your mind." His finger curved around the trigger.
"Damn you to hell!" Will drew in a ragged breath to steady the erratic beating of his heart, and said, "If Sinclair's alive I swear to God we don't know anything about it."
The man looked at Will, cold and hard. "You're lying."
"Why the hell would I lie—" his eyes shifted to the gun "—with that aimed at her head?"
"I don't know. Maybe you're a fool," the man said. The smooth snick of the cylinder rotating into place broke the momentary silence as the man cocked the gun, shoving the muzzle harder against Nellie's tem
ple. "Nine... eight... seven..." Nellie closed her eyes and Will had the horrible sick feeling that she was waiting to die... certain it was about to happen...
CHAPTER 9
"Wait!" Nate cried. "You're right. Vernon Sinclair is alive. But these people don't know anything about it. Now... just lower the gun and I'll tell you where he is."
"That's better." The man shifted the muzzle from Nellie's head and un-cocked the gun. "Make no mistake she was almost a dead woman. Now, start talking."
Nate gave a heavy sigh. "He’s living north of here, across Queen Charlotte Strait and up Strathmore Sound, near Ocean Bay."
When Nate offered nothing more, the man said, "There's a lot of wilderness over there and that's pretty damn vague. I want to know exactly where Sinclair's hiding out."
Nate's eyes dropped to the man's thumb, which was restlessly stroking the handgrip of the revolver. "That's the best I can do," he said. "The exact location's hard to describe. I could show you about where it is on the chart, but you’d never find it."
"Then you can take me there." The gunman eyed Nate, suspiciously. "You've been tailing this boat as long as I have and I want to know why."
A single drop of sweat rolled down Nate's temple. He hesitated for a moment then said, "To tell Mrs. Reid about her uncle, that he was alive."
The man looked at Nate dubiously. "How come you know so much about Sinclair?"
Nate's eyes shifted nervously as he replied, "I'm his personal servant and he sent for me."
"And the other man?"
"I just hired him and his boat to bring me here."
"Then get rid of him. Tell him to put your things on deck, that you'll be staying aboard. And make it fast! Like I said, I don't have a whole lot of patience."
While the gunman stood on deck with the gun hidden beneath his jacket, yet aimed at Nate, Nate relayed to Myles instructions to unload his belongings, and told him he’d be staying aboard the Isadora. Will listened, hoping to hear Nate give Myles some kind of a signal, but Myles didn't seem to question Nate's request, and shortly afterwards, Myles tossed Nate's bag and other belongings onto the deck, then turned and headed back toward Campbell River.
When Will and Nate stepped back into the salon, Mike's muffled voice rose from behind the closed door to the fo'c'sle. "Let me out you big oaf," he yelled, his angry kicks hitting the door with a thud. "You can't keep me in here."
The gunman looked at Nate and gestured toward the fo'c'sle with the barrel of the pistol. "Shut that kid up or I'll do it permanently—not you!" he interjected, when Will started to move. "Him." He cocked his chin and looked beyond Will at Nate. "Now!"
Nate walked over to the fo'c'sle but found the door locked. He looked at the gunman, shrugged and waited. Keeping the gun pointed at Nellie, the gunman moved to the door, shifting his eyes briefly while he shoved the key into the lock to unlock it, then stepped aside to let Nate pass. "Don't do anything funny," he said to Nate.
Nate moved quickly, pushing Mike back inside when he tried to leave. On closing the door, Will could hear Mike's impatient words at being shoved back.
The gunman turned the key in the lock, and said through the closed door, "You'd better make it clear to the boy that this isn't a game. I don't have a lot of patience with kids." With the gun, he motioned towards the wheelhouse, and said to Will, "Get up there and set a course north." His eyes narrowed. "And don't do anything foolish like contacting the police. I've killed a half-dozen people. One or two more won't make a hell of a lot of difference."
Will knew he had to get Nellie to the relative safety of the bridge, and he hoped the man didn't know too much about night-time navigation. Holding the man's steely gaze, he said, "It's open ocean when crossing the strait and the water's rough, and since I can't monitor the instruments and the charts and watch for drift logs and deadheads at the same time, I’ll need the woman on the bridge." When the man said nothing, Will added, "If we hit a deadhead it'll go right through this hull, and finding Sinclair will be irrelevant."
The man was silent for a few moments, seeming to ponder the situation, then he said in an menacing voice, "Okay, take her. But the kid's dead if either of you tries to pull anything."
***
Will removed the gag from Nellie's mouth and untied her wrists and ankles. Once free, Nellie flexed her stiff muscles and stood beside Will, the nearness of him solid, reassuring. She looked at the gunman's stony face. Goosebumps rose on her arms, and her skin felt cold and damp as she eyed a jagged scar that stood out white against the man's ruddy cheek. After an uneasy silence, she asked, "Can I check on my son?"
"Look, lady. This isn't a goddamn party," the gunman said in an agitated voice. "Get the hell up there, both of you—" he gestured with his head toward the bridge, "and take me to Sinclair." Moving a chair adjacent to the door of the fo'c'sle, he settled back. Resting his hand holding the revolver against his legs, he angled the barrel toward the door, his finger tucked around the trigger. "I might doze off," he added, "but if anyone tries to jump me, I'll shoot first and ask questions later. And I'll be aiming through that door."
Will nudged Nellie up the ladder to the bridge. When the engines were turning and water lapped against the hull once again, he leaned toward Nellie, and said in a hushed voice, "The man aboard the small cruiser is Nate's brother. Since he didn't ask any questions, I’m sure he knew something was up and will get help to us. Meanwhile, we'll head out and hope the man downstairs falls asleep. It's our only chance."
Just thinking about the man, sitting outside the fo'c'sle, his gun aimed at the door, Nellie's throat felt so dry she had to swallow before words could come. "I'm so worried about Mike," she said. "He’s so impulsive. There’s no telling what he’d do if the gunman got impatient with him."
"Well, there's nothing we can do for him without jeopardizing his safety," Will said. "With any luck, he'll go to sleep soon. And the old guy's with him."
Nellie tried to visualize Mike curled in his berth, Captain Nate reassuring him that everything would be fine, while telling him the stories he'd once told her. But the image did little to relieve her anxiety. There were still so many unanswered questions. She had no idea why Captain Nate had been tailing the Isadora, and when he'd first stepped through the door to the salon, she'd felt certain he was somehow connected with the gunman. But after hearing his admission about Uncle Vern, she knew the men were on opposite sides.
Still, nothing made sense. He'd said Uncle Vern was alive, which couldn't be. No one could have survived the plunge into the ocean. But then, his body was never recovered…
"You'd better look busy in case the gunman comes to check on us," Will said, motioning for her to get back to the chart table. "I don't want him taking you down there again. I couldn't take a repeat of what was happening when I got here."
Nellie started shivering, the gunman's words gripping in her mind. She vaguely remembered what happened after the countdown, other than the feel of the hard cold bore of the pistol against her temple. At that point, everything seemed to swirl dizzily around her, and the man's voice became distant. For an instant her lungs were screaming for air, and she thought she was going to faint. Yet surprisingly, when the man moved the gun from her head, she felt only a kind of dull relief. But she knew the reality of it all would hit later, like now...
Her teeth started chattering, and a cold sweat broke out on her brow. "I don't... know what's... happening," she said, "I'm so cold." Feeling lightheaded, she took several deep breaths and gradually it began to pass.
Will slipped his arm around her and pulled her to him. "We'll be fine," he reassured her, holding her tight. "He doesn't want us, he wants your uncle. Pull yourself together. You'll need all your strength later."
Nellie had no idea what later would bring, but for now, she couldn't seem to think beyond the moment. Her heart began to pound frantically as her mind whirled between the terror of what had been, and what might yet come—thoughts of what would become of Mike if something happened to h
er... who'd take care of him. She looked up at Will, and said, in a wavering voice, "If something happens to me, call my mother, Anita Sinclair, in Seattle—"
"Stop talking like that," Will snapped. "We're going to get out of this. It’s just a matter of time." He released her to spin the wheel sharply, turning windward so the waves wouldn't batter the boat from side to side. Unlike the quick choppiness of the water in Johnstone Strait, they’d encountered the first swells of open sea, and Will knew they'd entered Queen Charlotte Strait. "We may be in for a rough ride," he said. "The wind's picking up and it can be rough going crossing the strait, especially near the cape."
"I wish Mike was wearing a seasick patch," Nellie said, her statement seeming ludicrous when she considered the magnitude of their situation.
"It may be a blessing in disguise he isn’t," Will replied. "It'll give him something else to think about besides what's going on out here."
They headed further into open sea, and the Isadora began to rise and fall with the relentless movement of the ocean swells. The barometer continued to fall, and after a while the wind freshened, until the sea churned with ragged peaks that bucked and twisted the boat constantly. A swell washed over the bow, swallowing it momentarily. Will checked the compass heading and glanced at the barometer, noting that the pressure was falling rapidly.
"The wind's picking up," he said. "We may be heading into a gale. I've got to batten down the hatches before all hell breaks loose up here, so you'll have to take the wheel."
Nellie looked at him, alarmed. "I don't know what I'm doing," she said, her voice anxious. "It's been years since I steered this boat, and never in rough water."
"Just keep us heading into the wind," Will explained. "I won't be long... I don't think."
As he turned to go, Nellie reached for his arm, and said, "Please don't try anything while you're down there, not with Mike up front."
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