Her mind might have been numb, but her body wasn’t. She needed to use the toilet. Without electricity, the well didn’t work, which meant no water. Refusing to yield to despair again over something as simple as a toilet, Cassie muttered a pep talk. She’d already had her cry. It wasn’t like she had to run into the woods or use an outhouse. If she had to, she would just use the damn thing and deal with it in the morning just liked she planned to with everything else.
From the looks of things, not much had been changed, so she prayed the bathroom situation still prevailed. Holding the little plate with the candle, Cassie headed down the long dark hallway off the kitchen. The main floor had one bathroom and two bedrooms. Upstairs was identical, but a loft had been added. She placed the plate on the bathroom sink counter and opened the closet door. On the floor sat four gallon plastic jugs of spare water, just in case the power went out. Never before had she appreciated Mike’s consistency, but she did now. She finished up in the bathroom and returned to the main room.
Her back and shoulders ached from being chilled. The short drive in the warm car had barely made a dent in how miserable she felt. If she was ever going to warm up, she needed to get a fire going. With the flue open to the wood burning stove, Cassie rolled up old magazines and stuffed them between the dried split logs. She blew little puffs until they all caught fire. Shadows caused by the flames of the fire danced around the room, darkening the back wall with the stairs that headed up to the loft. Cassie thought about going up but didn’t want to leave the warmth.
Tucked under the stairs, her Dad had built a storage closet. Her mother had complained she couldn’t see a thing because it was so long and deep. Hence rule number two: use the flashlight but put it back. The light was dim but good enough. On the back wall were cubbies stuffed with rolled up sleeping bags. She wondered if hers still existed. Down in the lower left hand corner she found her name made by a label maker affixed to the wood. She grabbed the bag, returned the flashlight, and retraced her steps. The fire roared, but the room still had a chill. Cassie shook out the sleeping bag and placed it on the old Chesterfield sofa where she planned to sleep.
Unable to shake the cramped feeling that had settled in her shoulders, she knelt in front of the wood burning stove. The heat felt good but didn’t relieve the ache. At this point, Cassie knew of only two things that would help: a long hot shower or alcohol. Since a shower was out of the question, she headed to the kitchen in hopes of finding Mike’s stash of anything. Just like her dad, he kept it above the stove in a high cabinet. Just like her dad, he liked a good Irish whiskey. She didn’t. His wife Marliss liked port and specifically, Cockburn.
“It’s pronounced coh-burn, Cassie, not cock-burns.”
At this point, Cassie didn’t give a rat’s ass how to pronounce it; she was just glad to see Marliss had stocked up. There were many things about Marliss she didn’t care for, but her taste in alcohol was not one of them. In Marliss’s snooty British voice, she had informed Cassie that a bottle of decanted Cockburn port should be finished in one setting with lovely dinner guests. Port was to be drunk only with the ideal glass to maximize the tasting and drinking experience.
Cassie hated to inform the perfect Marliss she would not be using the ideal glass this evening, but might or might not finish the port in one setting, still maximizing the drinking experience. Cassie grabbed the bottle of Cockburn’s Fine Tawny, a regular glass, and headed to her sleeping bag where she stripped down to her bra and undies and crawled in.
Snuggled into the down bag, surrounded by the memories of love and comfort of her childhood, she finally felt warm and relaxed. The low embers of the fire lulled her into a sleepy state, but it was the half-finished bottle of port that knocked her out.
Chapter Nine
Jack Wyatt and his former boss, retired Navy SEAL Commander Kip Hendricks, finished up dinner with Dan Williams of the Canadian Border Services at a local pub in Victoria, B.C., near the marina where Kip had docked his boat. They’d cruised over to Victoria from Hartz Island for a dinner meeting with Jack’s Canadian counterpart. The Canadians had spotted Rob Armstrong frequently getting on and off the ferry in Sidney, B.C. Both Jack and Dan were convinced Armstrong was somehow involved with the increase in human trafficking up and down the west coast. The problem was they had no hard facts to prove it. Earlier in the spring, Armstrong had shown up on Hartz Island supposedly to write the great American novel. From day one, no one believed him.
Once the table was cleared, Dan pulled out several documents and CCTV photos and spread them out. The men examined the photos and studied the documents.
“You can see by the figures we’ve had an increase of human trafficking, but worse, child prostitution. And who knows how many cases have gone undetected. In the last nine months, we’ve been tracking ‘escort service’ photos posted on several Internet sites starting out in Vancouver, but then the pictures of the same girl wound up in Los Angeles,” said Dan Williams. “I’ve got a Filipino girl in custody, not talking, scared to death. We think she is sixteen, posing as an eighteen year old. She came in under the radar to work in our Live-in Caregiver program, but, in reality, the company was nonexistent for her. They had her working in, I suppose you could say, the caregiver department.”
“And then they’re sneaking them over the border,” Jack said, “because initially, it’s easier for them to get into Canada.”
“That’s right. We have the British Commonwealth rules, and then our own trade policies like the one with South Korea that makes it easier than USA policies.”
Jack shook his head in disgust. “They prey on their own. We busted a Korean national smuggling twenty women a month into the United States from Canada. Who knows what they were promised, but they ended up working in massage parlors and brothels to pay their smuggling debt,” Jack explained to Kip. “Seattle has a huge problem, and it’s growing.”
“They’ve been beaten, threatened with their lives, and any family left behind will get the same treatment if they talk.” Jack took out his iPad and did an Internet search. “Let’s see what’s happening in Vancouver.” He held up the photo of a young Asian girl. “According to her information, she is nineteen. What do you think?”
“Fifteen, sixteen maybe,” Kip guessed. He took out his smart phone and searched different sites, swearing under his breath.
“Look at her eyes. They’re dead and she’s trapped. Put in a different city and see if you can find her advertised for Victoria,” Dan said. “Their pimps are moving them around for maximum money and keeping their exposure down in one city.”
Kip held up the screen for the two men to see. “Different name but same photo. I see what you’re talking about.” He looked over at Jack. “What’s going on in Seattle and Tacoma?”
“From the photos of the girls posing, it looks like the Seattle area has a mix of ethnic backgrounds. Vancouver is showing a larger Asian group, but I don’t think this is necessarily true,” said Jack. “I think it depends on what social media site they can get away with advertising on.”
“Dan, what are you thinking about with Armstrong?” asked Kip. “I met him in March when I was here tracking the ships coming in from Indonesia. Something about him bothered me then.”
“He’s making a lot of visits into Canada. Why? We’ve got him on CCTV and no record at Customs to coordinate with his timing.”
Jack nodded his head in agreement. “I think he’s sex trafficking the girls in from Canada. The money is not in writing the great American novel like he claims he’s doing. A pimp can make anywhere from $150,000 to $200,000 per girl. You add in five to ten girls to that figure, you have well over a million bucks a year. Sick.”
“With Hartz Island being so close, he could easily slip in and out, deep into the night, never detected,” said Kip. “All you need is a low-riding craft that radar doesn’t pick up.”
The men f
inished their meeting with a promise of keeping in touch. Jack and Kip headed back to the marina.
Cruising back to Hartz Island, Kip asked, “Do you want to take the helm?”
“Sure.” They switched places. Jack glanced over at Kip, who flexed his hand for several minutes. “Do you think it will ever get back to normal?”
“What?”
“Your hand.”
“Hell, I don’t know. Now that the weather is damper and cooler, it cramps up. I still can’t hold my gun very well.”
Jack studied his old boss from his Navy SEAL days and wondered how he would cope with the lingering disabilities incurred in Indonesia. Kip had been tracking down a terrorist camp, where they trained young Jihads, when he’d been purposely pushed into the street and hit by a speeding motorcycle. Someone was hoping for death instead of injuries.
“Is Jeannie expecting you back at a certain time?”
“No, she said to stay out as long as we needed.”
“If that’s the case, get the charts out and key in the coordinates to the GPS for the bay out in front of Armstrong’s rental. Once we cross into U.S. waters, we can come back around. You want to call it in?” Jack waited while Kip called in the change of course. “That was Armstrong in those photos. The Asian in the background was with him, I’m sure of it. He showed up twice in the surveillance pics. The night Jeannie and Montana were spying on him, there was another man at the house. While you were recuperating, both women, separately, ran into Armstrong on the ferry. Each time, there was an Asian man with him. Whatever is going on is dark.” Jack peered out of the wheelhouse. “Just like tonight.”
Once in American waters, Kip took over the steering. He dimmed the wheelhouse lights for better night vision. Jack retrieved a pair of high-powered night vision binoculars and scanned the waters.
“I’m shutting off the engines. We can float with the current. We’re far enough out no one would think anything of it.”
Jack studied the waters around them. “I don’t see any other boats around. What do you think about flipping off the bow and stern lights?”
“We can.” Kip flipped the switch and they rocked in darkness. “The wheelhouse window slides open if you want a clear look. According to GPS coordinates, we should be near.”
Jack positioned his body in the open window. The sounds of the water filled the cabin. Kip kept an eye on the water and the radar.
“Someone is standing on the deck smoking a cigarette,” said Jack.
“You’re shittin’ me. Can you see the face?”
“No, their back is to the water. Plus, they have a coat and hat on. I’m pretty sure it’s a man though.” Jack continued to watch. “He just left to go back in. Somebody has returned. The little red security lights are now lit. This gives me more reason to hang around.”
“How was your Los Angeles trip? Did you get what you wanted?”
“Not really. I promised Mike Ryan I’d try and find his sister. He’s in Japan working and living, and she hasn’t returned any e-mails or phone calls to him for some time. She sort of fell off the radar.”
“Has something happened to her?”
“Yes and no. Somehow she got hooked up with that Russian the FBI arrested, Sergei Koslov.”
“Holy crap, that’s not good.”
“I know. That slimeball bastard. When the FBI gets through with him, they’re going to find his hands in a lot of shit. I think they’ve barely touched what he’s involved with.”
“Is she in on it?”
“No. God, I hope not.”
“Not good. I’m going to restart the engine and come-about. How much longer do you want to stay out here?” Kip reached for the key.
“What time is it now?”
“Midnight.”
“Little bit longer.”
At one a.m., they called it quits and headed back to the marina. The chill of being out on the water got to them. The first thing Jack did when he climbed into his Chevy Tahoe was crank up his heated seats to high. He followed Kip out of the marina and down the road until they came to a fork. Kip veered left, and Jack went right. Surrounded by trees and darkness, Jack cut the speed, looking for the row of dilapidated mail boxes. Catching sight of the rusted, leaning boxes, he turned onto Blue Heron lane and stopped. Now that he knew someone was at Armstrong’s, he needed to take precautions. He was tired, and the most he felt like doing was flipping off his bright lights and shielding his face when he passed the rental drive.
He bounced down the dirt drive and across the little creek. Jack thought about all the times he and Mike had snuck up to the island, thinking Mike’s parents would never catch them. They always did. He parked the SUV under the covered parking area and grabbed his overnight bag with the attached sleeping bag and then headed to the house. Jack had swung by earlier and picked up the keys from the real estate agent who kept an eye on the property. The agent had offered to come over and turn on the electricity, but Jack had nixed the idea. Mike had upgraded the water heater to the European style of heat on demand, so by the time Jack flipped on the circuit breaker for the house, walked into the kitchen, and laid out his stuff, the water was hot. He looked forward to the long shower.
Once inside the house, Jack didn’t bother with any lights but headed down the hallway to the bedrooms. He stopped first at the bathroom to turn on the shower and then went into the bedroom. He placed his Sig P229 and his badge on the nightstand along with his wallet. It had been some time since he’d done any fieldwork, and his agents had been complaining the P229 was too big. He had to agree. Jack still preferred his Glock over the Sig from his SEAL days.
He rolled out the sleeping bag and then stripped down, quickly heading to the shower. Within minutes the tension eased from his broad shoulders, the hot water pounded his backside. Jack twisted and turned to loosen his muscles. Trying to ignore the ache and cramp in his right knee, he adjusted the shower head to pound away on all the scars. His doctors had recommended knee replacement, but he wasn’t ready. Still emotionally attached to this knee that had cost him his University of Washington Husky football scholarship and then later his Navy SEAL position, Jack wasn’t having anything replaced. In truth, it was the fear of the knife.
Finished, he toweled off his hair. He flipped off the light, opened the door, and stepped into the dark hallway. His body tensed, not so much from the cool air attacking him, but from the sounds in the kitchen. Jack swore he heard someone curse. Definitely a drawer opened and then closed. Stepping back into the bathroom, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, then slipped into the first bedroom, behind the door. He listened and watched through the cracked door. Jack guessed it was some dumbass kid looking for stuff to sell to support a drug habit. He would find out soon enough.
Something had woken her. Her heart raced. Had she been followed here or was it just a bad dream? Now fully awake, Cassie flipped over on her back and listened to the sounds of silence, trying to figure out what it could have been. And then she heard it again; the whir of the refrigerator motor coming on. How could that be? Mystified, she peeked over the top of the high-backed sofa, but everything looked the same.
Still unsure, Cassie moved swiftly to the wall that hugged the kitchen and peeked around it. Other than the sound of the refrigerator, nothing had changed. Doubting her brain function, Cassie reached over the half-wall and opened the refrigerator door. The light blinded her. She jerked back and swore, then shut it quickly. Had her brother installed special timers? Probably some simple explanation she’d laugh about later.
But for the moment the way her heart pounded, she needed to be real. What if one of Sergei’s thugs had found her here? She thought it all through and her reaction was no way. His thugs didn’t have the endurance to have followed her—campsites, back roads, slow driving. If she had been followed, they’d have accosted h
er sooner—any one of the nights she’d slept in the truck. They were bullies that could barely think on their own. Trying to read a ferry schedule would have been too much for those pigs.
If she didn’t check it out, she’d never get back to sleep. “Why can’t anything ever be easy,” she mumbled, trying to figure out a plan of action. Just to be on the safe side, she got the butcher knife out of the drawer and made a few practice slashes.
After checking the lock on the kitchen door, she stared down the long dark hallway. One footstep at a time, she hugged the wall. Her heart pounded and her hand shook, so she gripped the knife with all her might. With just a few steps from the first bedroom, she stopped. Warm moisture in the air settled on her bare arms, chest, and face. Unless ghosts had moved in, someone had used the shower, she was sure of it. But how could they? Cassie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to stop her shaking and clear her mind on what to do next. She had come this far and wasn’t going to quit.
Fear knotted inside her but she still stepped inside the doorway of the first bedroom. Cassie gripped the big knife with both hands, taking a warrior stance. Her feet were kicked out from under her and the knife flew across the room. She was grabbed, body slammed, and then her body was locked next to her attacker. So great was the pain and shock, it momentarily paralyzed her. It happened so fast she could only think it was Sergei, but then the scent of spicy soap permeated her fear. This man had just taken a shower, and by the feel of his chest, he was shirtless. Anger combined with rage from the last couple of months living with Sergei’s abuse fueled her. Cassie had had enough. With all her force, she head butted her assailant and kicked with all her might, slamming her heel to his knee, getting in as many hits as she could.
“What the fuck?” he growled.
Deep Into The Night (Hartz Island Series) Page 6
