by Dave Balcom
“It’s just a small vessel,” he said with a bit of his normal irony, so he called it “Cappa Larry.”
12
Fergie found us at the boat as noon approached, and he was quick to bring Stan up to date on the Mary Loose.
“I talked with Boise just minutes ago, and he said the RCMP and the Canadian Coast Guard are involved in an air and water search.”
Jan piped up, “I just can’t imagine the terror a mother would feel if she and her family were in trouble on the ocean.”
“It’s just the two of them,” Fergie said. “I had a call from Luke last week, and he said they were coming alone to the reunion this year.”
Liske nodded. “Luke Junior is the new president of Whitman & Co., the third generation president. He is a bit older than the other two. Denise is teaching literature at Portland State; Ray is teaching and coaching football in a small town in Washington. All of our kids are grown and far flung.”
Fergie shrugged. “I’ll start worrying about Luke and Mary Lou when I have reason to worry.”
He took Stan through the new navigational system which was state of the art. Liske was impressed, “You can really see what you can’t see with this baby. It’s like a combination of traditional radar and real-time satellite surveillance... GPS with pictures, even.”
We then took a short run out of the harbor and to the west. Fergie was filling in the trip with points of interest on his GPS screen. “See that flat right there in two hundred and twenty-feet of water? At neap tide, you gotta set up for halibut. They’ll run twenty to fifty pounds, but every now and then you can really get yanked.”
And when we rounded an island he noted, “The next stop in this direction is the tip of the Aleutian Islands.”
As the sun was setting, I had taken a turn at the helm, set the auto pilot, adjusted the speed and marked other boats on the radar. “I like to have everyone aboard familiar enough with the boat to handle it if the need were to arise,” Fergie said conversationally. “The thing to remember is that the ocean is just like the Blue Mountains.”
“They’re both just waiting for a chance to kill you,” I quipped.
“Exactly. Drop your guard and you can be dead before you know what hit you.”
The women had taken a tour and their own turns at the helm, and were having a ball. As Liske maneuvered the boat into its moorage at the yacht club, Boise came striding purposefully down the dock.
“There’s word,” he announced somberly.
“Well?” Fergie asked.
“They’ve been kidnapped. Luke Jr. got a ransom demand today. The RCMP is all over it as are the FBI in the states.
“What do we know?” Liske asked.
“They have given the family ’til two p.m. August tenth to pay twenty-five million dollars or they’ll never see their parents again.”
“Whew!” Liske reacted. “That’s what, three days from now? Can they raise that kind of money?”
Fergie nodded. “It’ll take some time; that’s why they gave them this much.”
“How will the exchange take place?” I asked.
“There’ll be no exchange,” Boise said. “There’ll be a wire transfer of the money, and the location of the parents will be announced.”
“Proof of life?” Liske asked.
“Video of the parents reading that morning’s Oregonian.”
Liske sighed. “I don’t know of anything more bloodless or gutless than kidnapping.”
“Any sign of the Mary Loose?” Fergie asked.
“Didn’t hear or think to ask,” Boise said. “Told you all I know. Thought you’d want to hear it.” He turned and walked away, leaving us in thoughtful silence.
“I’m going to see the RCMP folks,” Liske said. “Jim, you want to come along?”
13
The officer in charge of the Prince Rupert RCMP post was a long-time friend of Liske’s. Stan asked for the officer by name, and after a brief but muffled conversation on the phone, the desk sergeant told us to take a seat.
A few minutes later, a man in his late fifties with graying hair and a big smile gracing a weather-tortured face approached us with his hand outstretched. “Stan, I figured you’d be about. I don’t have a lot to tell you.”
Liske took the man’s hand and motioned towards me, “Meet my friend, Jim Stanton, Milt. Jim’s a retired newsman, asks great questions, and has helped me a time or two.” Turning to face me, “This is Capt. Milton Rafferty. A friend of some twenty years. We’ve fished more than a couple times during my visits.”
Rafferty shook my hand. “I’m glad to meet you Mr. Stanton.” He turned me loose and grabbed Liske by the elbow and started leading us back to his office. “I figure you’re here looking for information on Luke and Mary Lou, right?”
He put us in chairs around his desk, and flicked a switch as he sat down. He cocked an eye at us, “Tea?”
I nodded, Liske shook his head. He spoke into his intercom, “Two teas, if you might. Can you scare up some coffee?”
“Yessir. It’ll take a minute.”
“Thanks. We’ll be here.”
He looked around at his desk for a second, then grabbed a folder and opened it up. Looking at me, “not for publication...”
“I’m retired and not looking for a scoop.”
He nodded. “Here’s what I got from the FBI. An envelope arrived at the Whitman & Co. offices addressed to Luke Jr. ‘urgent, personal and confidential’ on Monday about noon. The envelope contained a thumb drive; this is a copy. The drive contains a video of the Mary Loose underway. It’s professionally produced.”
He inserted the drive into his computer, and we moved our chairs behind him as we waited while it cycled up on his screen.
The video announcer’s voice contained no clues to ethnicity or regionalism: “Welcome to the current. This footage was shot yesterday, Sunday, at three p.m. Please take your time considering this message, and then, if you want to see your parents alive and whole, you’ll wire transfer twenty-five million dollars to the following account. Got a pencil? Write this down.”
“Is that a valid numbered account?” I asked.
Rafferty nodded, holding up a hand for me to be quiet. The announcer continued.
“Understand this transfer must take place no later than two p.m. Thursday, August tenth. If you do not comply...”
At this point the scene changed to Luke and Mary Lou tied in chairs with the morning edition of the Oregonian on their laps.
“...Have you ever seen a million dollar ear?” A hand had pulled back the hair from Mary Lou’s ear, and another hand with a straight razor appeared in the close up, poised ready to sever the ear from her head.
“If you have not paid this ransom on time, that ear will arrive at your office on August eleventh, and the price of recovery will go up by one million dollars per body part until there’s nothing left to recover.
“If, on the other hand, you comply with our demand, you will receive precise GPS coordinates of your parents’ location, and you’ll be able to bring them home unharmed in any way.
“Please feel free to contact any agency you like, FBI, whatever. There is no chance you will find them without our help; and there’s no chance you’ll want to find what’s left of them if payment is not made on time.”
The screen zoomed to a close-up of the parents’ faces, and then faded to black.
“Goddamit all to hell,” Liske fumed. “Did you see their eyes? What kind of worthless sonovabitch gets off on creating that kind of terror?”
Rafferty turned and put a hand on Liske’s shoulder. “Calm down, mate. You and I both know Luke Whitman is a tough-minded guy, but when they’ve got your wife under the knife, you’re going to be pretty manageable, you know?”
Liske calmed a bit. “I’d love to get a crack at that prick.”
Rafferty nodded sympathetically and sat back in his seat. “Questions?”
“What do we know about their itinerary?” I asked. “I’m no
t much of a boating guy; would they have filed some kind of plan with the U.S. or Canadian Coast Guard?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not like air traffic. They departed Anacortes, Washington, on Friday morning. They’d told friends and family that they were going up the inside passage and were expecting to make Rupert before dark on Sunday.
“They weren’t going to waste much time whale watching,” Liske muttered.
“They were expecting to average twenty-five miles per hour while they were cruising,” Rafferty said. “I’ve heard Luke describe that trip before. He said they always ran up here, and then poked around on the way home, taking a few more days to explore, and stuff.”
Liske nodded.
“So,” I asked, “where do you think they might have been taken?”
“God knows,” Rafferty shrugged. “We know that Mary Lou called home Sunday morning and everything was routine. She was looking to confirm a doctor’s appointment in September. Their housekeeper checked the calendar and confirmed the date.”
“So, where would that have put them on the trip? Say some twenty to twenty-four hours into it?”
“In Canada, that’s certain,” Rafferty nodded. “They were in Canadian waters twenty minutes after they shoved off. We know that the Mary Loose has the capacity for round-the-clock travel, but it wasn’t Luke’s style. They found an anchorage someplace along the coast, and shoved off early the next morning; you can count on that.”
“But nobody’s reported seeing them?”
He shook his head. “If they have, I haven’t heard of it. Really, my role in this is more that of a friend than an investigator. We have specialists in this kind of thing, just like the FBI has, and they’re on it.”
“So, how did the thumb drive arrive, regular mail? Courier?”
“It was dropped off in the lobby of the building. The security officer who accepted it said the delivery guy was well-dressed and in a hurry. He couldn’t give us much in the way of a description. He asked the guy what the envelope contained and the guy just said ‘plans.’”
“So that means they had access to today’s Oregonian in time to shoot the video and get the file to Luke Jr. by noon? They may have to be in U.S. waters, Captain.”
“You can buy the Oregonian and fly a float plane to Prince Rupert by eight a.m. on Monday. We checked. We haven’t found such a plane; but it could be done.”
“What do we do?” Liske asked.
“Nothing you can do, Stan. Try to enjoy your visit. I’ll keep you posted on any developments, but your moping around won’t help anyone.”
“Easy for you to say, Milt. But this has pretty much sapped my enthusiasm for fishing or whale watching.”
“I get it, Stan. I certainly do, but there’s not much anyone can do until the ransom is paid.”
“Can they pay it?” I asked.
Rafferty nodded. “They’ve already committed to paying it. That kind of money isn’t very liquid, so it’ll take time to arrange. I’ve been told it won’t be a deadline kind of deal.”
“Then we’ll see if our kidnappers can be trusted to hold up their end.”
Rafferty nodded. “If it goes down right, the last thing the pirates want is to spend the rest of their lives on the run. No, if they get their money, they’ll make sure Luke and Mary Lou are alive and well when we get to them.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said. “I sure do.”
As the bulky policeman rose out of his chair, he nodded glumly, “Me too.”
14
When the downrigger tripped the first time, the rod that had been bent under the combined tension of the downrigger weight and the reel drag didn’t straighten up. The strike was so fast and so violent the rod stayed bent to the water and the reel started screaming as it gave up line to the charging Chinook salmon.
Liske snatched the rod out of its holder and handed it to Jan as the fish’s first mad run settled a bit. “Mrs. Stanton, you want to give this a go?”
I was sitting in the captain’s chair behind the wheel outside of the cabin as the auto pilot kept the boat on course. I noticed that the electric-powered downrigger, now free of the fishing line, had automatically started winding its cable back on its reel. It stopped as the twelve-pound weight reached the surface.
Jan wasn’t as efficient with the salmon on the end of her line. It took off again and all she could do was hang on and shake her head. “I’ve caught Chinook before on Lake Michigan,” she said. “But I’m never prepared for their strength. They’re incredible!”
But in ten minutes, the constant pressure of the bent rod took its toll on the silver and black fish. As it came to the surface for the final time, it rolled onto its side and Liske slid his landing net under the fish’s jaw and at the same time Jan lowered her rod tip and the fish slid into the net.
“Well done!” Liske cried as he brought the fish aboard. “It’ll go twenty-plus pounds. A real beauty.”
The day had started with Liske and I tending three crab traps we’d placed around the harbor the night before. Each one gave us a legal-sized crab or two, and he hadn’t lied: Breakfast would never be the same again without fresh Dungeness crab.
Then we’d headed the Cappa Larry out to sea, targeting a spot Fergie had suggested off the mouth of the Skeena River near Smith Island, some ten miles south.
By the time the tide changed, we had four salmon in the box, and we were anchored in forty fathoms on a flat area nearby.
“This is really a fun type of fishing,” Liske chortled as he broke out the halibut gear. “Lots of guys say that landing a halibut is like hauling in a four-by-eight sheet of plywood hooked in the middle, but that’s not really true. If you fish the neap tide, with little or no current, you can use relatively lightweight tackle and sinkers.
“You’ll really feel these flat fish fight on this gear, believe me.”
He impaled bait fish heads that he’d cut off the fish we used to catch crabs the night before on the tip of each twelve-ought barbless hook. Then he sprayed the cut-bait with a scent attractor and told us to lower it to the bottom. “Once you’re on bottom, raise it a foot or so. Then just hold on.”
In minutes, Betty gave a grunt and her rod was bent double and dancing under the influence of a thirty-pound halibut.
“Don’t tell me they don’t fight,” she yelled with exhilaration. “This is great!”
After an hour of constant action, we had eight of those fish in the boat and Liske had us cruising around Stephens Island looking for whales on the open Pacific.
“This is a classic Prince Rupert day,” he said to no one. “I could do this the rest of my life.” Suddenly, he went attentive at something he heard on the radio. He jumped out of the outside wheel seat and went into the cabin where he could turn up the volume on the radio.
“What was that?” Betty asked her husband.
Stan held up his hand, palm outward, for silence. Then we all heard, “Roger, Carleton, loud and clear.”
Liske interpreted quickly, “The Carleton is a freighter...”
“Coast Guard Prince Rupert, this is the Carleton, we’re just north of Goschen Island. There’s a cruiser just south of the island that is sailing in a one-mile circle and drifting with the tide. We had it on radar for several hours and it never deviated.”
“Copy that, Carleton. Were you close enough to make an ID or note any activity?”
“Negative. We didn’t deviate from our course, but at one point we had a visual, and we saw no activity. It is as weird as anything I’ve ever seen.”
“Size of the vessel?”
“Estimate fifteen meters.”
“Roger, Carleton. We’ll take it from here. Prince Rupert Coast Guard out.”
Stan tuned his radio to another frequency in time to hear: “This is Prince Rupert Coast Guard calling unknown vessel navigating in circles off the Southeast end of Goschen Island. Come in, please.”
Then again.
Liske turned to me. “Let’s take a
look. That’s just about ten miles south of here.” He took the controls from Jan who had been sitting in the interior Captain’s chair, disengaged the auto pilot and pushed the throttles forward.
The Orca leaped up on its step and quickly climbed to twenty-five miles an hour and sliced through the gentle waves as the Coast Guard came up on the international hailing frequency: “Notice to all craft in the area of Goschen Island,” and rattled off the coordinates. “There is a report of a vessel turning one-mile circles in what may be distress. All vessels in the area should be aware, and any who may be close enough to approach should do so with caution.”
Stan picked up his microphone, “Prince Rupert Coast Guard, this is the Cappa Larry out of Prince Rupert. We’re en route to inspect the unidentified vessel off the southeast corner of Goschen Island, over.
“Roger, Cappa Larry. Meet us on sixteen?”
“Roger, tuning sixteen; Cappa Larry out.”
“Cappa Larry, this is Prince Rupert Coast Guard on channel sixteen, over.”
“Roger, Coast Guard, Cappa Larry is three miles north of Goschen Island. We have a vessel on radar in the general area of the reported erratic behavior, but this vessel appears to be dead in the water, over.”
“No turning?”
“Roger, nothing noticeable on radar. We’re five minutes away.”
“Coast Guard is standing by.”
I was in the bow of the boat as we came up on the boat from the Pacific side, and it was clear at first look that the boat was adrift. As Stan slowed, the Orca dropped off its step and then surged a bit as its wake caught up before it glided toward the boat. The name Mary Loose on the stern sent a chill down my spine, and I turned to see if Stan had noticed it.
“Coast Guard, Cappa Larry, over.”
“Coast guard here.”
“We are approaching the boat. It’s the Mary Loose out of Anacortes, and it is clearly adrift.”
