by Ritu Sethi
He touched her shoulder. “Nothing is going to happen.”
Heat from his fingers radiated through her taffeta dress, burning her skin. She shook her head, not knowing what else to say because she knew nothing else.
Things were not as they seemed. It was as though each of them played their assigned part in a play—a play directed by the mysterious Stitcher.
“You taking Slope with you?” Lew asked.
Gray glanced towards the sergeant, who appeared to be reciting something self-importantly to Sita.
“No. I want to take an unofficial look inside that boat. Slope’s on Vivienne’s radar, remember? He could be smuggling the art himself.”
“At least, Slope carries a gun, Son. You dealing with shady criminals, right?”
“More than one shady criminal. Our little town seems filled with them.”
A flush traveled up Emmy’s face; a pebble lodged in her throat.
He spoke so calmly. Why wouldn’t he listen? Why wouldn’t either of them listen?
“Something awful is going to happen,” she blurted. “Something ugly and unexpected.”
She wasn’t usually this dramatic, and he must know it. Seymour wasn’t around anywhere, or he’d back her up.
Gray rubbed a hand across his face.
By the door, his colleague, Vivienne, shuffled her feet and glared in their direction.
“You shouldn’t take your eyes off the ball for a second, Chief Inspector,” Emmy said. “Your wife and daughter are here, aren’t they? Not for a second.”
He said nothing and nodded. He even exchanged a look with his dad.
But he still left.
CHAPTER TWENTY
T HE WIND JOLTED Dad’s truck while it rumbled down the winding, water-logged road. Each swish of the wipers kept the windshield clear for half a second before the buckets of rain obscured the view once again. Gray may as well be driving underwater for all the visibility he had. The town lights were far away. Under the low-lying, charcoal sky, only Gray’s headlights shone in the darkness.
The last time he and Slope had traveled this cliffside road down to the cove, the gray sea had glimmered in the distance, flanked by snow-capped mountain ranges on either side.
Tonight, nothing beyond twenty-feet of rain-splattered black asphalt remained visible—the treacherous and steep journey a reminder that man had scarcely tamed the rugged British Columbia terrain since the early pioneers logged wood for ships in the 1820s.
Gray breathed in the damp air, tinged with Vivienne’s lemon and lilac scent—familiar and comforting amidst the frenzy of recent events.
What a relief to have her by his side—his colleague and friend—instead of always worrying. Vivienne’s pointed features sharpened. Her hands gripped the door handle and cushion of her seat.
“Stan and Diego plan on leaving tonight,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”
If the hoodlums planned to leave without their engineer, that meant they had discovered her true identity. And if that were the case, thank heavens she was safe. But it wasn’t over yet, he reminded himself. It wasn’t over yet.
“How do they plan on sailing in this weather?”
“Beats me. They told me to get some supplies, and when I returned, both motel rooms were empty. Hopefully, the yacht hasn’t already left.”
A torrent of moving water flash flooded the road before them, and swerving, Gray dodged the sweeping current.
“Where did you learn about boat engines?” Gray relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. “I never knew about that back in Montreal.”
“We all have a past, Chief Inspector. All of us.”
Meaning, she knew better than to mention sailing in his presence—after what he had done and what he had lost.
The old wound stung, new and fresh. What the hell. Amazing how it swam below his consciousness, awaiting a weak moment to resurface—but he had no time for this.
“If the gang of smugglers are leaving, and let’s presume you’re right and Slope heads the gang, where did they hide the loot? You said you searched every inch of that boat.”
“Je ne sais pas.”
“I don’t know either. Where did they hide it? Priceless artifacts must be kept dry and away from prying eyes.”
Vivienne stroked her chin. A single plucked eyebrow lifted. “What about this Farrah you told me about? She owns an art gallery— a perfect place to stash the goods.”
“Which could mean she’s part of the operation. An obvious choice, if Slope needed an insider.”
The road flattened and the mist separated.
Blow Hole Cove magically appeared before them—its choppy black waves jumping in violent bursts, jostling the thirty-foot yacht like a bathtub toy. A solitary light twinkled from the deck.
This was not going to be easy.
Gray pulled into the lot and slammed the drenched brakes. The truck stopped just short of hitting a boulder.
He’d only opened the car door an inch when the wind slammed it back. Pushing harder this time, he stepped out into the onslaught. Within seconds, the surf and spray soaked his face and plastered his pants to his legs.
Vivienne was right beside him, holding a flashlight. Getting on the swaying boat would be—
He hesitated.
But she’d already reached the boat. She held her arms up sideways to balance on the rickety plank leading to a ten-step ladder.
Gray followed closely, his heart in his throat, ready to catch her if she fell. The plank wobbled under their weight, but they quickly made it to the far end.
Water slapped his head and body while, before him, her narrow hips climbed one rail at a time. Once or twice, the wet denim back pockets of her jeans grazed his cheek, the contact sharp, abrasive.
She heaved on board, her head haloed by the single light on deck.
Gray followed, placing one foot on the swaying deck while simultaneously gripping the rail—his claw hand now dead white, his jaw clenched like a steel trap.
A yacht…in a storm. He was on a yacht in a storm.
“Let’s make it quick,” Vivienne yelled over the roar of the sea. Her short bangs clung to her blotchy skin. A steady stream dripped down the tip of her nose. “Who knows how strong this pile of wood is. I don’t want to be on board if the mast snaps or the boat overturns. Anyone planning to go out in this weather is a goddamn idiot.”
Gray couldn’t move.
His legs turned into logs; he couldn’t let go the rail.
The sea before him roared, as it had once before. The boat swung in all directions, like a wild, untamed dragon under his feet. Any second, he and Vivienne would fall off, and she would drown as Craig had, and he would jump in after her but not be able to see through the all-encompassing ink. Not be able to feel with his wild, useless grasps clutching at nothing.
Blood hammered through Gray’s. He was drowning himself, and he couldn’t breathe—like Craig—just like Craig.
Vivienne jumped in front of him and grabbed both his arms.
“Oh God! I didn’t think. You haven’t…not since…and in a storm—”
He tried to breathe, got a partial breath but not enough.
Time slowed, and so did everything else: the sea now silent, Vivienne’s body stilled, the angry dragon under his feet rocking gently, as though putting a baby to sleep—before it yanked him downward.
The deck fell out from under his feet; his heart smacked against his ribs. The swaying morphed into a ferocious convulsion which ripped the creaking boards, shook the rails, and blurred everything.
Vivienne’s voice called from afar. “I shouldn’t have brought you. We’re getting off—”
Three years, he hadn’t stepped on a boat.
“Gray, let’s go. We’ll find another way.”
A high-pitched shrieking echoed, “Daddy... Daddy. Help me. Help, Daddy, I’m scared.”
Followed by a thunderous crack and flash…and underwater silence. Wretched, horrific silence. His heart might rip out of
his chest. This can’t be happening. Things like this don’t happen. Oh God, they don’t happen.
Vivienne’s shouting ripped through his haze, and he was back on the shaking yacht, before the waves. He couldn’t change the past; he could never undo it.
More air entered his lungs.
He felt hot, so unbearably hot. His right hand let go the rail, and the purple, snake-like scar on his wrist slithered across his skin, sharp, painful, and cutting through his flesh.
“Chief Inspector. Snap out of it!”
Vivienne’s pinched face was close, swaying with the boat. A ton of lead-filled his legs.
Her nails dug into his arms. “We can’t stay here. The two men might be below deck. I’ll take you back and come return alone.”
The sound of the surf rose, almost unbearable. Air filled his lungs, and he paced his breathing. She pulled him along, and he took a couple of steps.
What the hell was he doing? He’d never had this crippling an attack before? They might be in immediate danger.
Humiliation flooded his face, followed by an inner surge.
“I’m fine,” he yelled. “We move forward.”
“Non—”
“There’s no time.”
She shook her head. “This is my fault. I didn’t think.”
“Neither did I. Let’s go below deck. Now.”
She bit her nails and moved alongside him, not letting go his arm during each slippery step on the swaying deck.
The cabin appeared dark and unoccupied. He opened the door and papers covering a table flew all over the room. It took both their weights to close the door behind them.
Safely inside, she switched on the cabin light. The air felt unnaturally still; his ears rang in the relative silence.
Gray examined the floor for hidden boards. “You search that side; I’ll focus here.”
But the search provided no result.
“Are you sure there’s no hidden compartment accessible from above deck?” he asked.
“None. I’ve checked every square inch of this tub.”
Gray rubbed a rough hand across his stubble. It felt good to get the feeling back in his fingers. “It makes no sense. If they planned to smuggle artwork out of the country, they must have a hiding place.”
She seemed to give it some thought. “What if this isn’t the vessel they normally use. If only one piece of art needed hiding—the picture you found--why not hang it on the wall? But these walls are bare.”
“Where is that piece of art now? That’s what I don’t understand.”
He paced the plank floor, remembering something long forgotten. “This place wasn’t always called Blow Hole Cove. I remember another name, abandoned thirty years ago—Smuggler’s Cove?”
“Oui?”
“Our town has a notorious past most residents are almost proud of. Smugglers circled up and down this coast in the eighteen hundreds, used it as a spot to stash their goods.”
He recalled the last time he was here, with Slope. It didn’t take long to retrace those steps in his mind.”
“A cave.” Gray snapped his fingers. “I noticed a narrow slit along the far rock wall, under an overhanging ridge.
“An interim hiding place for stolen art?”
“Until someone retrieves it, and they take it out to sea. But consider what we know: the crew plans to leave today—without you—and yet, the yacht’s still here. The culprits are waiting for someone.”
“Someone who’s supposed to board before the three of them leave? That’s suicide.”
Gray recalled the most recent weather report and shook his head. “The storm’s hit earlier than expected. Initially, all reports said it would miss our coast entirely. Whoever made this plan didn’t foresee the change in conditions. They took a risk—”
“And now they’re stranded,” Vivienne said. “But who is it?”
Gray felt the walls of the small cabin moving in. He had to get out of there before another anxiety attack took hold.
“When I know that, I’ll be able to identify the Stitcher.”
“What?” Vivienne shook her head. “You’re sure the two crimes are connected?”
He recalled again the art critic’s car found a few miles from Emmy’s farm. The old photograph he’d shown Dad.
“We have to get to that cave,” he said. “Now.”
Once on deck, Gray switched on the flashlight. They retraced their steps, backed down the ladder, and crossed the wobbly plank.
Waves crashed the pebbled beach, and Gray ran to the edge of the nearby cliff where he’d seen the cave entrance.
Darkness made it harder to find, and he felt along the protruding rock edge while Vivienne flashed the torch.
Sharp edges of sandstone and shale—sharp enough to cut—lined the face of the cliff, the granitic surface a product of thousands of years of enduring sea and wind, and collisions between the mountains and the hot ocean plate.
“There!” Gray pointed to a break in the rock.
The ten-foot-tall crack in the side of the cliff was wide enough to accommodate an average-sized man. He squeezed through before Vivienne followed, trying to ignore that pungent scent of bat-droppings. Hoping a shoal of bats didn’t fly into him.
Five feet in, the crevice ballooned open into a cavern with sweat-beaded stone walls; wafts of fresh sea air made it inside in bursts.
Here, sailors had hidden their bounty from the law. Perhaps, some of them eventually helped settle the town with their ill-gotten gains.
Dad mentioned something about a James sprouting from an accessory shoot of the family tree—one possessing a fortune of dubious means and a propensity for leaping before he looked—which explained a lot.
The sand rolled under Gray’s feet. An eerie howling traveled from the cave’s mouth towards the darkened abyss ahead. Vivienne breathed fast and hard behind him, her mouth almost at his ear, and the gentle swell of her breasts at times brushing his back.
“I want to get the hell out of here,” she said, her whisper loud in the closed space.
“Me too. Look along the walls. They must have hidden something in here, or else why park the yacht nearby? Why plan an escape from Smuggler’s Cove?”
Now, her breath brushed his neck, making his hairs stand erect.
A shuffle from the left made him turn. Before he could swing the flashlight, two shadowed figures pounced out of the darkness; one hit Gray over the head.
Pain shot through his skull and light sparked behind his eyes. No time to stop, even as his knees buckled, and things went black—only for a moment before reality returned.
He lifted the flashlight. Mossy, bleeding walls showed in the oblong light, and he ran.
Vivienne struggled to her feet a second after him, her panting coming close behind him.
Outside the cavern opening, the cold air hit him like a shovel.
Two ghostly silhouettes shot across the beach and onto the paved lot before turning a sharp corner towards the road. One of the men carried something in his hands.
Gray went after them, hearing Vivienne’s shouts but not able to make out the words.
The wind direction shifted and pushed Gray from behind, easing the pain in his head and the burn of his thighs.
Wetness slid down his cheek from where he’d been hit. All that mattered was catching them and finding what they carried.
He turned the corner and nearly slipped on the rain-slick asphalt. Portions of the road lay pooled and flooded, making each step treacherous. Twice, his ankle turned in a pothole camouflaged by the muddy water, and with a little luck, the heftier and slower of the two men who carried the parcel would suffer a similar fate.
From Gray’s thoughts to the other man’s feet, it happened: the man missed his footing and dived into a pothole, teetered for a second before falling flat on his face with a splash.
The crook had the good sense to throw the object clear—a large, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string—towards
his partner, two strides ahead, but the other man didn't see.
He instead turned towards a dilapidated truck by the side of the road, giving Gray a first clear glimpse of his face.
It was Stan, the captain, from Vivienne’s boat. Close up, he resembled a wide-jawed Neanderthal with supraorbital ridges and eyebrows you could camp under.
He glared at Gray before noticing the fallen package midway between them on the road. Gray raced towards it, seeing Stan do the same.
Three meters from the object, Gray leaped forward and stretched one arm out towards the parcel—just as Stan’s weight crashed onto his back. And two fists made contact with Gray’s face.
He felt his tooth cut the inside of his mouth, let go the package, and flipped Stan onto his back before returning the favor with a solid punch of his own. The fake sea captain lay dazed in a muddy puddle.
“Don’t move,” Vivienne yelled, aiming a gun at Stan. She stood drenched, feet wide apart, trying to keep her balance in the wind and rain.
Gray spit out salty blood, wiped his mouth with his hand. His head felt crushed inside a vice. To his right, the other man from the yacht lay unconscious in the puddle, face down.
“Chief, Diego—”
Gray pushed up, stumbled to where Diego lay and turned him over. Hopefully, he hadn’t already drowned.
The man wasn’t breathing.
“Keep Stan covered,” he told Vivienne. “I’m going to try and resuscitate his accomplice.”
But there was no need. The sprawled man spluttered and coughed almost immediately. Diego opened his eyes. His head fell back when he saw Vivienne with the gun.
“Good,” Gray said, stumbling towards the rapidly soaking parcel. “I don’t like thugs escaping justice, even through death.”
After grabbing the large package, he shot towards Stan’s truck, got into the cab, cut the string with his teeth, and removed the wrapping.
“What’s in it?” Vivienne shouted, still covering the two men.
The paper clung to the surface, but water hadn’t yet penetrated the canvas.
“A painting,” he replied.
He examined the abstract scene—familiar, and at the heart of this case.
As Gray expected, it was the same painting as on the faded black and white snapshot found in the victim’s Vancouver apartment.
