by Chris Orcutt
“I’ll email him about it,” she said. “But there was one other thing. I found out where Malone’s funding comes from. It’s a nonprofit called International Psychology Research Foundation, based in Dubai. There’s no company website, but I called a guy I know at Treasury, and he said a prince in the Saudi royal family bankrolls it.”
I was gazing out the terminal window. The fog was drifting across the brick-paved wharf.
Then, behind me, a man’s voice said, “Hang up the phone.” Something hard jabbed into my lower back.
“Look,” Jen said over the line, “I wish I could do more, but I have to go.”
“Yeah, me too. Bye.”
I hung up. The voice behind me said, “Where is the girl?”
Whoever this guy was, he had a faint accent—French, maybe. My palm gripping the suitcase handle felt clammy, and I became aware of the strength in my arm. In a flash I recalled a story my paternal grandfather used to tell me. Once, while waiting for a train in Boston’s South Station, he was standing with his suitcase exactly like I was now, when a man came up behind him, jabbed something into his back, and demanded his wallet. I hoped grandpa’s story was true, because I was about to do likewise. I jerked my head toward some vending machines.
“There she is now,” I said.
The second I felt him turn, I wheeled around with the suitcase, putting all of my shoulder strength into whipping it up and behind me. It was like I was executing a powerful tennis backhand with the world’s heaviest racquet. I braced myself for a gunshot, but the next thing I knew, the suitcase connected with the man’s head, cold-conking him where he stood. Carried along by the momentum of the suitcase, I was still spinning around when he crumpled to the floor.
It turned out he was holding a gun on me: a Colt .45 ACP. I took it, along with the ID from his wallet. He had a Quebec driver’s license, with an address in Quebec City. His name was Jean-Luc, he was 42 years old, and he was balding with a dark goatee. I stripped the gun and threw the pieces in separate garbage bins. Jean-Luc was beginning to stir when Sally emerged from the ladies’ room and gaped at him on the floor.
“Is he okay?”
“Sally, take the suitcase and come with me,” I said.
“What happened?”
“No questions. Let’s go.” I grabbed her arm and ushered her toward the exit.
“Did you hit him?” she asked.
“I’ll explain on the ferry,” I said.
As we stepped outside, I put an arm around her and kept the other inside my jacket, on my gun. In the dense fog, I couldn’t distinguish anything more than fifty feet away, which made me nervous. I scanned the wharf. Aside from a flock of seagulls, spectral in the fog, fighting raucously over a scrap of bread, and a couple of ferry deckhands sharing a cigarette by the loading ramp, the wharf was empty. A shrill blast from the ferry horn echoed across the lot.
“That’s the warning signal, Sally,” I said. “We have to move.”
As we approached the ramp, the deckhands put out their cigarette. Handing them our tickets, I noticed their bloodshot eyes and the musky smell in the air. It wasn’t tobacco they were smoking. I hustled Sally onboard and upstairs to the outdoor balcony seating area, where I peered around the bridge at the stern. I wanted to see who boarded after us.
“This sucks,” Sally said. “Just great—we’ll get all the way to Provincetown and the beach will be socked in by fog.”
“Actually,” I said, “I think once we’re out on the water, the fog will disappear.”
“Hmmph,” Sally said. “Well, what are we standing out here for, Dakota? Let’s go inside and snuggle.”
“In a minute, Sally. Be patient.”
The deckhands were attaching the stern chain when, far away out of the fog, two voices shouted for them to wait. As the voices drew nearer, two men materialized out of the fog, jogging toward the ferry. One of them was Jean-Luc, holding the side of his head; the other was a very tall, broad-shouldered redheaded man. His hair was so glaringly bright that it acted like a beacon through the fog. On women I found this particular shade of fiery red positively mesmerizing; but on men it made me cringe. When the deckhands stopped hooking up the chain and waited for the men to board, I knew we had a problem.
“Sally, honey”—I tugged her by the wrist—“come with me. Quickly, and no arguments.”
“What’s happening?”
I dragged her downstairs, through the passenger cabin, to a bathroom, where I stepped inside with her and shut the door. She pawed my chest and stood on her tiptoes to kiss me.
“A smelly bathroom on a boat, Dakota? I’ve heard of the mile-high club, but never the sea-level club. Well…if you insist…” Grinning, she fumbled with my shirt buttons.
“Stop it, Sally.” I pushed her off me. “We don’t have much time. I’ll explain everything in detail later, but right now I need you to be quiet and listen. My name is Dakota Stevens, but I’m not an academic. I’m a private detective. I used to work for the FBI. Your father and the FBI Director hired me to get you away from Malone. That man you saw on the floor inside the ferry terminal? He’s a hit man, and I’m pretty sure he’s working for Malone. He and another man are boarding the ferry as we speak, and I think they’re after you. I can keep you safe, Sally, but only if you do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
“Hit men? Why do they—”
“Hush, Sally. I have to step out now. As soon as I leave, lock the door, and don’t open it for anybody except me—no matter what.”
She stared dumbly at me. Her face was pale. I slapped her cheek.
“Ow! Dakota!”
“Sally,” I said, “what are you going to do?”
“Lock the door when you leave and…don’t let anybody in.”
“Except me. And don’t talk or make any noise.”
The ferry horn blasted, and the hull shuddered with a loud, low vibration. We were underway. Sally clawed at my jacket.
“Dakota, don’t leave. Please. I’m scared.”
“Hey, it’ll be okay.” I kissed her and jounced one of her curls in my fingers. “By the way…I really do love your hair.”
She gave me a brief, tight-lipped smile.
“That’s my brave girl,” I said. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”
I opened the door and peeked up the passageway. The door to the bow was open. A salty cool breeze, tinged with the tang of marijuana, wafted in. I craned my neck for a better view. The two deckhands who’d been at the stern were sitting Indian-style on the ferry deck between the gunwale and a pickup truck, smoking their joint again. I looked the other way, into the passenger cabin. A pair of elderly women sat near the window, chatting. At the far end of the cabin, the door to the stern was open, but I saw nothing outside.
I slipped out of the bathroom. As soon as I heard the door lock behind me, I pulled my gun. Concealing it against my hip so I didn’t frighten the old ladies, I hustled through the passenger cabin to the stern door. I crouched and peeked outside.
Across the stern, Jean-Luc and the big redhead were leaning back against the port-side gunwale, surveying the cars on the deck. Fog drifted past them like smoke. Big Red muttered something to Jean-Luc and marched toward the bow between the cars.
Jean-Luc was smoking a cigarette. When he turned around and peered down at the water, I tiptoed out the door. Directly outside against the bulkhead was a life jacket locker. Holstering my gun, I carefully opened the locker, slid out a life jacket, and crept up behind Jean-Luc. I got within six feet of him before his shoulders tensed up.
As he started to turn around, I rushed in, bear-hugged him around the thighs, and heaved him over the gunwale. He landed hard on his side in the water, making a loud splash, but the roar of the engine and the churning of the propellers muffled the sound. He surfaced, shook a fist at me. I tossed the life jacket down to him. No sooner had
he clutched it to his chest than the fog consumed him.
One down, one to go.
Drawing my gun and concealing it in my jacket pocket, I set out between the cars, toward the bow. I needed to find Big Red before he found Sally. Now that we were some distance into the harbor, the ferry picked up speed, causing the fog to swirl around the bulkhead and the cars up near the bow. One second I’d see a car, and the next it would vanish in the fog.
When I rounded the bulkhead corner, the deckhands were still sitting on the deck, smoking their joint. I peeked into the starboard passenger cabin. Sally’s bathroom door was still closed. I didn’t hear any noise in there or see Big Red, and he wasn’t up on the balcony level, so I deduced he must be in the port-side passenger cabin.
I crossed the deck to the door. It was closed, but there was a glass porthole. Big Red was in there all right, yanking doors open and scanning the seating area. I waited until he reached the stern door. As soon as he grabbed the doorknob, I ran on tiptoe to the bulkhead corner just outside the stern door. Hanging on the superstructure above me was a large lifesaver. I took it down carefully and held it in my left hand while steadying my gun hand.
Around the corner, the door banged shut. Big Red lumbered toward the stern looking around. The fog swirling between us was so dense that, even less than ten feet away, all of him except his flaming hair became a dark shape in the soupy gray-white mist. Briefly I considered heaving him overboard like his buddy, but Red outweighed me by a good fifty pounds, and any kind of grappling with this big boy could go horribly wrong for me. Instead I waited until he was looking sternward, and then I snuck up behind him in the fog. When I was six feet away, I leveled my gun at his back.
“Hands up, Red. I have a gun aimed at your spine.”
He complied.
“Now turn around. Slowly.”
He did. His face was heavily freckled, and he wasn’t smiling. Obviously I couldn’t shoot him, but somehow I had to convince him that I would shoot him, so he’d jump off the boat instead.
“You’ve got two choices,” I said. “Either you jump off the boat with this”—I held up the lifesaver—“or I shoot you off the boat with this.” I aimed the gun at his head. “If I were you, I’d choose the lifesaver.”
He frowned. Clearly he wasn’t happy with his choices, but after a few seconds’ deliberation, he nodded at the lifesaver.
“Good choice,” I said. “By the way, I don’t like male redheads. There’s something creepy about you guys, like you were bred in a government experiment that took a turn. No offense.” I jabbed the gun at him. “Now go, and I’ll throw the lifesaver over the side to you.”
Scowling, he slung his heavy legs over the gunwale, lowered himself down and let go. When I heard the splash, I ran over to the gunwale and winged the lifesaver down. The lifesaver was heading straight for his head when the fog swallowed him up. Hopefully I hit him, the big schmuck. I holstered the gun and ran back to Sally’s bathroom. Vomiting sounds emanated from inside. I knocked on the door and announced myself. Sally’s voice faltered.
“Duh…kota?”
“Yes, it’s me, Sally,” I said. “You can open up now. The bad men are gone.”
The door squeaked open. I slipped inside.
“I’ve been puking the whole time,” she said.
“Seasick?” I said.
“I guess.” She ran the faucet and washed out her mouth. “What happened to the men? Did you kill them?”
“No, I didn’t kill them. They’re fine. Swimming back to Boston as we speak.”
“What?!”
“Get yourself together, come out in the passenger cabin, and I’ll tell you about it. See you in a few minutes.”
Grabbing her suitcase, I went out and commandeered a bench against the bulkhead with a view out the window. I put the suitcase on the floor. Just as I’d predicted, now that we were out in Massachusetts Bay, the fog was lifting, giving way to azure skies. P-Town would be beautiful.
Sally emerged from the bathroom looking slightly less green but still nauseous. She staggered down the corridor, steadying herself with her hands against the walls. When she reached me, I laid her on her side and rested her head on my lap. I removed her glasses and stroked her hair.
“We’ve got about an hour until we reach Provincetown, Sally,” I said. “Close your eyes, stay quiet and I’ll tell you everything. This whole thing started when the FBI Director summoned me to Washington, D.C. to meet your father…”
24
A Postcard New England Indian Summer Day
To her credit, Sally was remarkably resilient. Within minutes of stepping onto solid ground—the pier in Provincetown—her stomach settled and she was her usual perky, flirtatious self. Surprisingly, however, she didn’t broach the subject of the men on the ferry, nor did she want to discuss what I’d told her during the trip. It was as though all that happened a lifetime ago and was now forgotten.
Sally might have forgotten about the two attackers, but I hadn’t. Strolling away from the pier, I kept her close as I formed a plan of where to go and what to do for the next few hours.
I bought us a picnic lunch of lobster rolls, coleslaw, potato salad and bottles of iced tea, then rented us a couple of bicycles, the larger of which had a big basket on the back. I put her suitcase in the basket, hung the bag with the picnic lunch from my handlebars, and led Sally on a brief tour of Provincetown.
I began with the seemingly endless gauntlet of shops, galleries and restaurants along Commercial Street—the main drag in P-Town. Several shops were closed for the season; these were obvious from the dry leaves and litter banked up in front of their entrances.
We coasted down the length of Commercial Street to a small, bayside cove and a complex of seaside bungalows formerly known as Mayflower Cottages. The summer before my junior year in college, I had worked here as a handyman for a German immigrant named Klara, whose father had been the chauffeur for German Field Marshal Rommel. I was confident her story was true because she’d shown me a picture of herself as a toddler standing with her father and Rommel in front of a convertible Mercedes-Benz sedan.
From Klara’s place, I led Sally across Route 6 to the entrance for Race Point Beach. We pedaled down the beach road through the scrub pines and sand dunes to the Atlantic side of the Cape. Parking the bikes, we walked out on the beach together, bringing the suitcase and lunch. To the north, the beach was deserted; to the south, about half a mile away, a couple of kids and their parents were flying a kite. There were no footprints on the sand. In fact, aside from some seaweed and driftwood left at the high tide line, this stretch of beach was pristine.
Sally proved well-prepared for our outing, having packed two big beach towels, sunscreen, swim towels and a digital camera. Without warning, she quickly shed her skirt and top, nearly giving me a heart attack until I saw she was wearing her maraschino cherry swimsuit underneath.
Once we spread out the towels, she asked me to put sunscreen on her. I did, but in brisk, fatherly fashion so she wouldn’t get ideas. We sat and ate our picnic lunch while breakers crashed lazily down at the shoreline. Seals surfaced in the cresting waves, eyed us curiously, and dove back underwater. Delighted with this serendipitous encounter, Sally snapped photos of them.
It was a postcard New England Indian summer day—clear skies, temperature in the low sixties, and a gentle and steady offshore breeze. The lobster rolls, mostly tail meat, were delectable. When we got to the coleslaw and potato salad, because they’d given us only one fork Sally kneeled beside me and fed me from the containers. After lunch, I made a pillow of my leather jacket and lay on my back. Sally lay on her side and cuddled against me. As she took hold of my hand, her BDSM collar glinted in the bright sun. I reached out and gently lifted it off her collarbone.
“Doesn’t this thing bother you, resting on your collarbone like that?”
“Sometimes,” s
he said. “Like if I run, and it bounces up and down, it can hurt. I get bruises once in a while.” She touched my gun in its shoulder holster. “What about this thing? Isn’t it uncomfortable having it under your arm all the time?”
“Sometimes.”
I looked out to sea. Miles offshore, an oil tanker crawled along the horizon. Oil made me think of Saudi Arabia, and then I thought about what Jen had said—a member of the Saudi royal family backed the company that funded Malone’s study. Sally tapped my shoulder.
“Dakota?”
“Yeah?” I said.
Sitting up on her elbow, she rested her head on her palm and stared at me.
“All that stuff about Geoff, those other girls, the man that was killed—was that true?”
“Yes.”
“I just can’t believe Geoff would be involved in stuff like that. Abducting girls? Human trafficking? He doesn’t seem—”
“The evidence is pretty strong,” I said. “I’ve told you the truth about everything, Sally.”
“That’s a lie.” She jabbed me in the chest.
“What are you talking about?”
“Me…how you feel about me,” she said. “Pretending you like me. You’ve been lying about that the whole time, haven’t you?”
“Hold on a second.” I turned on my side and mirrored her pose: my arm bent at the elbow, resting my head on my palm. “Yes, I’ll admit, at first I was pretending I liked you. I was hired to lure you away from Dr. Malone, and I needed to make you interested in me. But…”
“But”—her eyes sparkled—“you’ve fallen in love with me?”
“Not quite,” I said. “Just like it’d be absurd for you to say you’ve fallen in love with me. Not after a few days, right?”
She shrugged. “Mm, I guess.”
“Let’s put it this way…you’ve grown on me, Sally. A lot. I’m attracted to you and…your youthful exuberance.”
She glanced at the towel, swallowed, and locked eyes with me again.
