The man had pulled the keychain out of his pocket. “It has sentimental value. But I tell you what.” The man looked up. “You can buy it off of me.”
“You want a reward for returning stolen property?”
“I saved his life. That deserves something.”
“He saved your son. You’re even. Where’d you put him?”
“Ah, well. Information costs extra.”
“Did he offer to pay you?”
“Yeah. One thousand Canadian, but all he had on him was five hundred.”
She nodded. “I’ll make up the difference.” She pulled the gemstone out of her pocket, but didn’t show it to them, yet. “Where did you put him?”
“Margaretsville, on the ramp. That’s the last I saw of him.”
Ginny held out her hand for the keychain. When he handed it over, Ginny turned to the woman and took her hand, placing the topaz in the center of it. “This should settle the debt.”
The woman gasped, gazing at the jewel, her husband looking over her shoulder.
Ginny seized the momentary distraction and slipped out. She made for the car, jumped in, and took off. She found her way back to the 101 and headed for Margaretsville.
It took her an hour to get up the coast to the turn off. Margaretsville was another historic lighthouse. Ginny followed the signs and found herself back on the coast, this time in a snowstorm, with almost zero visibility, and both beacon and receiver in her possession. Nonetheless, she parked the car, got out and started searching, calling Charlie’s name and trying to separate the whistle of the wind from the sound a man in trouble might make. She had a flashlight. He would see that, even if he couldn’t hear her.
She kept an eye on the time. Charlie was no fool. He wouldn’t have stayed on the beach to be caught by the rising tide. He’d have found some sort of shelter. She chewed her lip, trying to think.
That blood-sucking pirate had taken Charlie’s cash and beacon, probably his credit card as well. Charlie needed a warm place to spend the night and he couldn’t go far, not on that broken leg. He was here, somewhere.
Ginny soothed herself with the common sense of this line of thought. Best case scenario, he was in a house or other solid shelter, but, in this storm, she would never know it. Worst case scenario, he was lying in a ditch and she still would never know.
She got back in the car and spent another three hours driving up and down the coast road from Margarestville to Port George, then back again, as far as Harbourville. No bodies in the ditch and no Charlie hobbling out of the snow in response to her call.
When she finally decided she could do no better in the dark, with the snow coming down, she made her way into the nearest town, located a bed and breakfast, and settled in for the night.
Ginny hugged the knowledge to her heart that Charlie had survived the whale, had been picked up by the pirate, and had been deposited on the coast—alive—just hours ago. She frowned at the thought of his spending the night in the snow. She wanted to call in every resource available, to mount a full-scale search and rescue mission, but that could not be hidden from the police.
She wished she’d thought to give Charlie the number to Gordon’s spare phone, but she hadn’t expected them to be separated, or him to be separated from the beacon.
The Canadian police had known where to look for Charlie, had set a trap for him. She couldn’t trust the phones, couldn’t trust the natives, couldn’t trust anyone but herself. Jim might have done a better job, but Jim wasn’t here and she was. It was up to her to figure out how to find Charlie and get him safely to Halifax.
Ginny was bone tired, but she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned and dozed, waking frequently, her mind struggling with her missing menfolk and what to do about them. The night seemed to stretch into eternity, but under such conditions, even eternity passes. The darkness slowly turned to dawn and she rose to begin the search again.
* * *
Chapter 45
Thursday Evening
Margaretsville, NS
Charlie limped along the edge of the road, grateful for the help he’d received, but wishing it had extended to a lift into Halifax. His leg throbbed and he was tired and hungry and wanted nothing more than a warm bed and twenty-four hours of uninterrupted sleep.
He had looked up Nova Scotia while in Charlottesville. It was a sort of peninsula that ran roughly northeast to southwest. The main road to Halifax crossed the landmass halfway up. Charlie pulled out his survival kit and located the compass. The road he was on angled northeast.
On the grounds that he’d seen the ferry south of him when he was in the water, which implied that Digby was south of him now, then if he walked north he should find the intersection.
He glanced up and down the road, seeing nothing. The route seemed deserted. There were no lights and no houses and no evidence of civilization, except the pavement under his feet. Just the wind and the cold and the lowering sky. He settled his wool cap more securely, pulled the heavy seaman’s coat up around his ears, and set off, counting the steps.
Two thousand steps equaled (roughly) a mile. Charlie had reached one thousand seventy-five before he found a road sign. It didn’t help. All he learned was that he was on NS-221 E. No mention of Halifax.
He rested for a moment and tried to get into Ginny’s head. They were separated, with no way to communicate. He couldn’t even tell her he was alive. What would she think? Probably, that he had drowned.
If she decided he wasn’t dead, or she didn’t want to accept it, she would follow the beacon, expecting to find him, and find the smuggler instead. Charlie felt his skin crawl at the thought of Ginny in the hands of that man.
If she somehow managed to avoid both mistakes, she still wouldn’t know where to look. The only firm point of reference was Halifax. Sooner or later, she would have to go to Halifax.
His best bet was to find the main road and stay on it until she drove by. So, stick to the highway, head for Halifax, and hide unless he saw her. He trudged off.
An hour later he’d changed his mind. The highest priority was no longer trying to get to Halifax, it was finding shelter for the night. Route 221 was clearly rural. He’d seen two farms, but nothing else. The snow had started and the light was going. He scanned the fields around him, selected a likely-looking building and headed off cross-country.
It was a barn and the sounds (and smells) coming from it indicated livestock, which meant heat and drinkable water. He examined the exterior, looking for signs of a security system.
He followed the wall, turned a corner and found a door. No lock, just a latch. He eased it open, alert to a booby trap, but found nothing. No lights, no siren, no dogs. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
He stood very still for a moment, giving his senses a chance to evaluate the situation. The wind whistled through loose boards and somewhere off to the right a shutter was banging against the wall. There was no artificial light, not even an LED, so no electronics, and it was cold. On the other hand, there was hay.
He waited until his eyes adjusted to the interior, then found he could make out shapes. He identified the main door, and the stalls. He could hear animals moving; slow, contented sounds. To his right were bales of hay. He slipped toward them, feeling his way forward, located a good spot, and sat down.
The great thing about hay is that it puts out heat as it decomposes. He had his back up against one bale and another on his left side, a barrier against the wind and cold. He sat there, eyes closed, for a long time, his thirst keeping him awake. Also, his leg hurt.
Another hour and he’d decided he needed water more than he needed stealth. He pulled out his survival kit and extracted the glowstick. It was small, about the size of his index finger, and wouldn’t put out much light, but under these conditions it would seem very bright indeed. He activated it and looked around. Two cows, both ignoring him.
He located a bucket, filled it with snow, and set it on the hay to melt. He scooped a few hand
fuls of snow into his mouth before he closed up again. With the worst of the thirst partially assuaged, he made his way back to his seat, pulled some loose hay out to make a bed, got his emergency blanket out of his survival kit, and settled down to sleep.
He sent a quick prayer of thanks, by way of Mandy, for the rescue and the hay, then composed his soul for the night. Tomorrow, whether he could find Ginny or not, he would have to head for Halifax, though how he was going to do that with no money, on a broken leg, and with the police after him, he had yet to figure out.
* * *
Thursday Afternoon
Dallas, TX
At four p.m., Central Standard Time, on the same day Charlie went into the Bay of Fundy, Angus Mackenzie opened his door to Detective Tran. She refused his offer of coffee, but accepted a seat in the living room.
“How may I help ye, Detective?”
She met his gaze. “I would like to visit the Halifax Homestead. I believe you can make that possible.”
Himself lifted both eyebrows. The wee detective had managed to figure it out, had she?
“’Tis an inhospitable time o’ year fer sightseeing. May I ask wha’s behind this request?”
“I wish to see Miss Forbes, who I understand is staying there at present.”
Himself frowned. “Oh, aye? And wha’ do ye need Miss Ginny for?”
The detective’s eyes remained steadily on his, cool and apparently sure of his response. “I am hoping to close the case on Charles Monroe. To do that I must interview the eyewitness.”
“Eyewitness?”
Detective Tran gave him a bland expression. “Perhaps you have not yet seen the video footage showing Mr. Monroe sacrificing himself to save a boy from drowning. Miss Forbes shows clearly in the images. Since there is only one Homestead in Nova Scotia, I assume she is there.”
Tran leaned forward. “I need her testimony. If I am able to confirm the death, I can close the books on the case, which I think you will find a desirable outcome.”
The Laird’s eyebrows drew together. “’Tis never desirable tae lose a clansman.”
“No. I should think not. Will you arrange it?”
“When do ye wish tae go?”
“Tomorrow. I plan to stay just the one night and fly back on Saturday.”
Angus studied the woman’s face. She was right. A quick end to this manhunt would be good for everyone involved. “I’ll mak’ th’ arrangements.”
He rose and escorted the officer out, watching her get into her car and drive off before closing the door.
A formidable woman. She left him with a uneasy feeling about the fate of his grandson and Ginny. He’d already talked to the lawyers and been assured they were safe, as long as Charlie wasn’t found alive. So why did the look in that woman’s eye give him the feeling the lawyers were wrong? He picked up the phone and started making calls. No mere guest this one. She would need careful handling.
* * *
Thursday Night
Halifax Homestead
Jim pulled onto the Homestead grounds and found a parking spot near the door. The snow was coming down steadily, had been for hours. He’d been checking with the Homestead at intervals, hoping to hear that Ginny had arrived safely, but no such luck. Still no word from her and still no response to his phone and text messages.
He was tired and frustrated and confused. Why hadn’t she shown up?
He’d been able to confirm she got off the ferry and rented a car. A bit of asking around had also located a barman who’d seen her, had recognized her from the TV footage and been kind to her. Jim almost hugged him, but settled for a truly hearty handshake and the purchase of an expensive bottle from behind the bar.
So she was warm and fed and mobile as of one p.m. What had happened after that? Where had she gone? Why hadn’t she come on to the Homestead? She should have been here by four at the outside. Instead, she had vanished.
Jim trudged up to the front door and let himself in. He’d given the information on the rental car to Reggie. His other idea he’d taken directly to Himself.
The main road, NS-101, was a standard highway, well-traveled, even in bad weather, and with traffic patrols. If Ginny’d had an accident, someone should have noticed. Himself agreed it was worth a try and promised to follow up, but pointed out that asking those kinds of questions would draw official attention. Why not give her another day? She was probably just waiting out the storm.
Jim had argued, insisting that, since Charlie was dead and Ginny was missing, the delay didn’t make sense. Himself had been sympathetic, but firm and Jim had reluctantly agreed to give Reggie a few hours to see what he could do.
But he didn’t like it. Especially when the wind managed to cut through his coat, reminding him of the dangers of hypothermia. She might be fine, lying snug in a bed somewhere. Or she might be lying unconscious on the side of the road. How was he to live with himself if she could have been found, could have been saved, if only he’d known where to look? His only comfort was that he had not been troubled by the Sight—no feeling that Ginny was in danger.
There ought to be some way to reach her though, some way the police couldn’t use, to find her. Something he knew that no one else did. He fell asleep with the sick feeling he was missing something, overlooking something, something obvious, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. It haunted his dreams and when he woke, he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all.
* * *
Thursday Night
Dallas, TX
It was approaching midnight and Angus Mackenzie peered over Reggie’s shoulder, watching him work.
“You realize,” Reggie said, “there will be hell to pay when Jim finds out.”
“Aye, but it canna be helped.”
“We could tell him where she is.”
“We could tell him where th’ car is.”
“And the beacon.”
“Aye, and th’ beacon, and th’ receiver.” Angus sighed. “Is there any way tae tell if ‘tis the lass or Charlie or someone else we’re seein’?”
Reggie shook his head. “Here’s what I can tell you. The beacon was activated at eleven twenty-nine a.m., Atlantic time, which is fifty seven minutes after Charlie went overboard. GPS coordinates put the activation just over twenty-one nautical miles out from Digby, in the Bay of Fundy. The signal then moves up the coastline to a point off Margaretsville. It sits there for about twenty minutes, then heads back to Digby where it stays until six p.m. local when it starts back up the coast, this time on land. It wanders a bit over the next three hours, then finally settles at the coordinates for Middleton, Nova Scotia. One hour later, it goes dark.” He took a breath.
“The receiver I gave Ginny went live at two p.m. It follows the beacon back to Digby where the two signals merge. The receiver follows the same route as the beacon, then, five minutes after we lose the beacon, the receiver also goes offline.”
“Wha’ does it mean?” Angus asked.
Reggie looked up at him. “At a guess, whoever has possession turned them off.”
“Th’ same person has them both?”
“Yes.”
“And tha’ person is staying in Middleton.”
“It looks like it.”
“Wha’ aboot th’ car?”
“I accessed the third party database that tracks the rental car locations. They collect the GPS coordinates in case someone has a wreck or steals the car. It’s supposed to be confidential, but the security is almost non-existent. Using the information Jim gave us about the make, model, and year, I was able to get the Vehicle Identification Number, then locate the file. That car followed the same path as the receiver.”
“Which implies it’s Ginny wha has possession o’ the beacon and th’ receiver.”
“Now, yes, it does.”
“I dinna follow.”
Reggie turned his chair around and faced the Laird. “The receiver went live in a location on the Nova Scotia coastline. The beacon went live out in the middle of the B
ay of Fundy. If Charlie activated the beacon and it was in his possession when the beacon met the receiver in Digby, then the two of them are together.”
“Meanin’ Charlie is alive.”
“Meaning Charlie may have been alive for some period of time after he went into the water. But if they met up in Digby, why didn’t they drive straight to Halifax? And why did the two devices and the car spend time going up and down the Nova Scotia coastline?” Reggie lifted an eyebrow. “It’s at least possible the person who brought the beacon ashore wasn’t Charlie. That person might also have met up with Ginny, conked her on the head and taken possession of both devices and the car.”
Angus shook his head. “That doesnae make sense. A stranger wouldna’ know about th’ beacon and wouldna’ care if he did. He might steal th’ car, but why go up and doon th’ coastline then? I’m thinkin’ ‘twas Ginny huntin’ fer Charlie.”
“In which case, Charlie got separated from his beacon and Ginny did not find him when she followed the signal. I wonder what she did find.”
“And wha’ about th’ Bed and Breakfast?”
“Someone using Ginny’s credit card checked into a B&B in Middleton.”
“But she’s no answerin’ th’ phone.”
“You told her not to.”
Angus sighed. “Aye. I told her tae call only if ‘twas an emergency.”
Reggie nodded slowly. “Which implies she has a very interesting way of defining ‘emergency’.” He chewed on his lip. “If we assume it was Ginny in possession of both devices and the car, trolling the coastline for Charlie, then she hasn’t found him, but she must think there’s a chance she will, or she’d have gone on to Halifax. Which means she either knows or is hoping he’s still alive.”
“Which means, we must keep th’ secret a while longer.” Angus sighed. “I prefer tae believe she’s safe, holed up in th’ cottage in Middleton, but I see it might not be so.” He laid a hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “Find a way tae get a message through, Reggie. I need tae know it’s her.”
* * *
Chapter 46
Friday Early Morning
Viking Vengeance Page 29
