North by Northeast

by Cherime MacFarlane

  He executed iron control over his temper. But when he snapped, the blessed thing was well and truly out of the bag. Then he had to deal with the aftermath. Not a good place to be.

  Only he and one other person knew the knife he carried was blooded. It was the first real thing not connected to music he’d bought for himself. The person who thought to relieve him of the keyboard learned the hard way Hamish MacGrough did not give up easily. He was only glad his mother didn't know of it, having died the year before the incident. The man was still alive but wore a scar he would never lose.

  They rolled into Prince Rupert shortly after noon, right on schedule. It would take Lurch and Thud close to eight hours to make the trip back to the Cassiar Highway, then up to Stewart. They purchased two extra gas cans, planning to fill both, in case.

  Before Thud and Lurch left Prince Rupert, they rented a powerboat, one Hamish was quite sure could make better time than the schooner. It was a jet boat. He had no experience with jet boats, but the man at the marina assured him they were no harder to handle than outboard equipped boats.

  The salesman told him the jet boat was much faster. It also had the added bonus of being able to operate in shallow water. He was cautioned jet boats did not like to suck foreign items into the intake. A simple plastic bag could destroy the engine. He needed to be careful when operating the jet boat close to human habitation.

  It had a dinghy and a life raft. Hamish acquired the other items on his list, and they were deposited onboard the boat. After a late lunch together, Hamish and Glen powered up the boat and cast off for the Portland Canal and Stewart, British Columbia. They were on the water by 5:00 p.m.

  Hamish got coordinates from the marina where he rented the boat and a small chart of the area. As soon as they cleared the harbor, he punched the engines. H.M. set them just below redline. In short order, the boat was on step. They were off.

  Hamish put Glen on the proper heading and went below to get his kit together. He had a box of gallon freezer bags to use for double bagging anything needing to stay dry. The knife sheath Hamish purchased contained a cheap knife which he removed. After tossing the knife to one side, he set about converting the sheath to hold his knife.

  He used a piece of cardboard from the box containing the radio and forced it into the bottom of the sheath to shorten it for his dagger. The sgian might be shorter, but in some ways, it was more deadly than the piece of garbage he’d purchased. This was one instance when length was overrated. He might need to get in a little closer, but he had long arms. The shorter blade was more easily concealed and difficult to knock out of his hand.

  He tied the nylon line in a quick-release knot at the top of the scabbard where the belt loops were, and wound the cord tightly around the sheath. When he reached the end of the line, he pulled it back up and tied it off. If needed, the nylon cord would be right at his fingertips in the dark.

  Thud’s goodies would be safe in a diver's pouch. Not wanting to fight with a drawstring which might balk, he had chosen a snap style. It opened with a quick tug. He spotted a bunch of plastic zip ties at the store; Hamish bought them as well. A dozen got stuffed into the pouch. He thought of several uses for the thick plastic ties.

  The wet suit was tight, but they didn’t have his size. He purchased a pair of swimming trunks too. The hood for the wet suit was a bit more difficult. The standard one did not cover enough of Hamish's face for his purposes. He found what the manufacturer called a cold-style hood. It could be positioned so only his eyes showed.

  He inspected the box containing the second life raft he purchased. Hamish wondered if he should take the larger one. As it would be harder to handle, he decided against it. The smaller one was still the best bet for his use.

  With a screwdriver out of the boat tool kit, Hamish went to work removing any identification from the new marine radio he’d bought. First, he pried off the small plate that had the manufacturer's identification on it. That went into the pile of things he planned to throw overboard when he finished.

  The cheap knife made an excellent tool to scratch off anything he thought could lead to identifying the owner of the purchase. He made sure the case of the marine radio couldn’t be identified by any means. Finished with the outside of the radio, he removed the screws that held the case on. A few minutes with the knife and all identification was eliminated from the radio's chassis. There was nothing inside to trace it back to the purchaser, him.

  The lock pick kit was waiting. The master stateroom of the boat had a lock in the odd-looking door knob. Hamish kept the door open, bracing it against one knee. After setting the lock, he worked on getting it open with the lock pick tools. He was rusty, and it showed.

  "Well, what did ye expect, eejit? Get on with it!" Hamish chided himself.

  After a dozen tries, it came back to him. Another dozen times later, and he believed he could do what was necessary. Hamish double bagged the set and put it into the dive pouch.

  Satisfied he had taken care of all that must be done for the moment, Hamish put his kit away. With two beers from the fridge, he went up to the bridge to check on Glen.

  "Here." Hamish held the beer out to Glen. His bottle was already open, so Hamish took the wheel.

  Glen leaned back in the chair next to Hamish. "I like this thing. Jet boats are a real gas."

  "Aye." Hamish took a quick glance at the gauges. "They're most efficient an quick. But they dinna like sucking up shite, says the man."

  Glen tipped back his beer, took a swallow then grinned at Hamish. "What did the rental guy say this puppy did?"

  Hamish liked the feel of raw power under his hands. The boat was cruising well. "I think it was 40 or 50 knots." Hamish took a drink of his beer as he checked their course.

  "Jeeze! That's about 60 miles per hour. This thing rocks!" Glen was wearing an ear-to-ear grin.

  "Aye, and as a real bonus, we dinna need tae avoid tha shallows. We're making good time. I expect we'll be anchored in Stewart in ah wee while."

  Glen looked starboard of the boat and the coastline which was vanishing behind them at a rapid rate. "By "wee while," what do you mean?"

  Hamish checked his watch to calculate how long they had been running. After looking at the small chart the marina had supplied, he made a slight course correction. "We may beat Lurch and Thud by three hours. As there was ah chance we would need tha Jeep, we had tae split up. Per’aps we should have done this at tha start. I was tae tired tae think properly on Monday. My only excuse is fried brain. I think there was ah reason for nae doin so, but it escapes me."

  Glen reached over. He put a hand on Hamish's shoulder. "We’re on the way now. We'll be where we need to be when we should be. Don't beat yourself up over stuff already done, man. You're doing just fine."

  Hamish took a deep breath. "Thank ye, Glen. Sometimes tha insomnia kicks my arse. I'm not inta taking a bunch of pills; I know where it leads. Most of tha time it's manageable but sometimes..."

  Glen drained his bottle and leaned back in the chair. "I think we all have occasions when sleeplessness gets to us. I’ve had my times dealing with it. It could be a creative thing. God knows I've spent some sleepless night over Francie."

  When his beer was gone, Hamish put the empty into the cup holder. "Och, I do understand well enough. When Lori went intae her post-marital depression, sleep went out tha window."

  "Want a sandwich? I'll go make us something if you can eat it." Glen took the two empty beer bottles from the cup holders.

  "Nae. Thanks. No more beer either. I need caffeine in some form."

  "Got it! I'll see what I can rustle up. Back in a jiffy." Glen left Hamish alone in the wheelhouse."

  Hamish checked his watch and the chart. It was time to slow the boat. They should be near the entrance to the Portland Canal. The chart said the body of water they were in was the Hecate Strait. He needed to find Truro Island, then Somerville Island. The entrance to the channel was to port of Somerville at the head of Pearse Island.

&nb
sp; It was all a maze of islands and passages. Once he got past Pearse Island and into the canal proper, there was a mountain up the channel called Mount Dent. If it was to starboard, they were on the correct course. Shortly after completing the turn they should encounter Hattie Island, which they must put on their starboard side.

  It was not too terribly tricky if he watched the terrain and cut down on the speed. Glen came back with a big mug of steaming tea. Hamish took it gratefully.

  "Ta, mate." He took a sip and sighed. "God, I needed this!"

  He slowed the boat down to a crawl and spotted what he thought must be Somerville Island. Hamish handed Glen the binoculars. "Look tae starboard, about two points off tha bow. There should be ah fairly tall mountain with some snow on it, back in that area. We need tae get intae tha canal before sunset. As I dinnae know tha area, if we’re nae intae tha canal proper we may have tae anchor an wait until dawn."

  "Yes, I see it." Glen lowered the binoculars. "Geeze! This is tight. I get what you mean."

  Hamish negotiated the turn, steering the boat on a course paralleling what he hoped was Pearse Island.

  "From what I see, there's another entrance, but this is tha one tha manager marked at tha marina so we will take it. Wild place, this."

  After easing the throttle back, Hamish made the turn at the head of Pearse Island. The light was gone when they entered the canal. It was probably less than a mile wide. Hamish gave Glen the big spotlight that came with the boat. They kept to the center of the channel using the light. Hamish understood why it came along with the rental.

  Place names on the chart were unusual; Tombstone Bay was to port just past Hattie Island. Swamp Point lay to Starboard, past Tombstone Bay. Long and narrow, the canal pressed deep into the middle of two mountain ranges, the Halleck and Carr Mountains. Glen and Hamish wondered at the wildness of the area. The most amusing part of the whole trip was, by keeping to the center of the channel, they were traveling on the border between two countries.

  When they reached the head of the canal, Hamish anchored out on the Canadian side of the bay. It would not do to be too close to shore. It would invite questions best avoided. They put the skiff over the side, so when Lurch and Thud got there, they could ferry them over to the boat.

  Hamish went below. The forward stateroom was separate from the galley and settee area. An additional open area had benches which converted to bunks. Two fold-down upper bunks increased the number of people the boat accommodated. Tired, he wondered if he would be able to sleep. The bunk in the stateroom looked inviting. Without giving it any further thought, Hamish tumbled into bed fully clothed. The gentle rocking of the anchored boat lulled Hamish to sleep.

  Glen heard nothing from below. When he went below to check on his friend, Hamish was sprawled out on his back in the bunk. Glen closed the door. He got a beer and made his way into the wheelhouse. When Lurch and Thud got there, he would power across to pick them up. H.M. needed to get what rest he could. It had been a long haul.

  ***

  Hamish was lost in a dream. He sat at his piano in the glen. The melody he called Lori flowed from the speakers. The feel of the keys beneath his fingers was almost real, but he knew it wasn’t real. It was like he was standing outside of his own dream. The sensation of balancing on his favorite piano stool was almost real. There were lyrics to the melody he thought of as her song. This time, he would write them down. Then, as soon as he saw Lori, he would perform the entire song for her.

  He came awake instantly, knowing she was near. He rose from the bed and quietly opened the door of the stateroom. Everyone else was sacked out in the bunk area. Through the windows, he glimpsed the sky. It was a silver gray pearl as it waited for the sun to rise. He bypassed the stairs to the wheelhouse and went on deck.

  Far down the canal, he saw a ship. Sails slack in the growing light, it moved slowly toward him. Hamish knew what ship it was and who was on it.

  He felt electrified. Goose flesh formed on his forearms, the hair crawled on the back of his neck. Soon, there would be a confrontation in this bay at the back of nowhere. The water lapped gently against the side of the boat he stood on. It was the lull before the storm.

  Hamish moved backward into the shadow of the cabin to make himself harder to spot. The gun-metal gray water seemed to part for the classic schooner. It was a beautiful old boat. It was too bad he would damage it. How great the destruction was something he couldn’t control. There were too many variables. No matter, damage was a given in the situation.

  Someone joined him on deck. Hamish looked over to see Thud standing in the companionway. Thud glanced over at Hamish then quickly moved to stand beside him.

  "Something felt wrong," the Irishman muttered.

  "Aye," Hamish whispered.

  As he watched, the ship came within fifty yards of where they stood. Hamish watched as it swung into a turn which would take it back to the Hyder dock. One porthole was blacked out.

  "Thud!" Hamish grabbed his arm. "See tha porthole, fourth one from tha bow?”'

  "Oh, aye." Thud nodded. "That's where she is. Why’s he keeping tha porthole blacked out?"

  The schooner drifted gently to its berth. Two men made it fast to the pilings. The Sunny Day was in port.

  "Control, Thud. He wants tae exercise control. Make his victims sweat. Feckin shite hole has ah yen tae play God. He has picked tha wrong woman this time. This is tha end of tha feckin line, one way or tha other."

  The boat was once again moored. Lori knew the difference between being at anchor and being berthed. The vessel was tied to a pier. At least the motion at this dock didn’t slam the ship around as much as the previous one. The lack of movement had one bad connotation: wherever they were, significantly less traffic went by. The harbor they were now moored in was isolated. Juan refused to tell her because he knew they would be somewhere far from other people.

  "Please, God. I don't know what to do. Help me, please."

  The prayer was short. Lori wondered what her grandmother might do in the same situation. Her prayer may have been a bit longer. Then again, her grandmother did tend to keep things simple. She hoped God didn’t mind a terrified cry for help.

  She tried not to think about Hamish, what he could be doing at this moment or what he felt. But Lori found it too difficult to keep her thoughts away from him. She did know he would be angry. So upset anyone trying to speak with him would not be able to understand what he said. His brogue would surely be out of control.

  At the bottom, under the anger, would be the fear. She imagined it was the same fear she experienced. Would she ever see him again? Would she ever hear the softly whispered endearment, "luv"?

  Lori wanted to feel his hands on her. Those beautiful long fingers of his made her body sing as his keyboard did. The mobile mouth which coaxed her into things, she wanted to kiss it one more time. Lori missed his gentle manner which overlaid a backbone of steel. She found thinking about Hamish to be a pleasure and a self-inflicted torture. She missed his wit and his slightly offbeat humor which, as often as not, he directed at himself.

  Juan brought breakfast and left quickly. He refused to look at her. Things were about to go from bad to worse. She would need to use her wits to stall off whatever the rat bastard wanted.

  The more she considered the matter, Lori kept returning to one conclusion. Day had no sexual interest in her. If he didn’t seek a ransom, only one thing remained, her art. That was the only thing he could want. Did he desire a particular picture? Was he angry because she sold one he lusted after? Surely the man was wealthy enough to pay for anything he might crave.

  The legends, stories she heard of artists being killed after making a masterpiece, flitted into her mind. Lori suddenly perceived exactly what the madman wanted. He wanted the very best from her hand, from her soul. Then he would hide it away, and she wouldn’t live to paint more.

  She ran into the bathroom, tearing off her clothing as she went. Lori turned on the shower and threw herself in the stall
. With her back to the tiled wall, she cried where no one could hear her. Lori sobbed until there were no more tears to cry. Then she got up off the floor, dried her eyes and got dressed. Determined to keep Day from seeing her terror and sorrow, she bathed her eyes with cold water to erase the evidence of her breakdown.

  Lori MacGrough stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She straightened her back and attempted to stand as tall as possible.

  “I am Lori MacGrough,” she reminded herself. “I am Hamish MacGrough's wife.” His family had endured centuries of abuse at the hands of the English and their own countrymen. None backed down. She refused to give Day what he wanted.

  What could he do to make her give in? Break a bone, starve her, or kill her? If he did any physical harm to her, she could not paint his damned private masterpiece. She would take a page from Hamish's book, her wits were all she had left to fight with. The brain God gave her was her last hope.

  Oh, yes, she was frightened, scared to death. Her body trembled, but inwardly. Concealment worked two ways. He deliberately concealed what he wanted, in an attempt to break her spirit. She might not be able to make him pay for the crime he committed against both her and Hamish, but she would not go down easy. She would conceal the fear and dread the bastard wanted her to feel.

  There were footsteps in the corridor; the time to face the beast had arrived. When Juan came for her, Lori was ready. The crewman led her into the sitting area. A small galley stood to one side for use by guests. A microwave and mini fridge provided warm drinks or cold ones.

  The settee in front of her sat one step above the floor, as if on a dais. Oh, my, pretentious, are we? Lori thought to herself.

  Casually dressed and seated, with a cup in his hand, Day sat watching her. The great man was about to acknowledge his captive and grant her an audience. Lori did a slow boil. Who does this piece of shite think he is? She asked herself. Compared to her man, this mouse-colored stick was a rat hiding in a sewer. Her chin came up a notch.