Death Echo

44

DAY FOUR

STRAIT OF GEORGIA

2:31 P.M.

Emma was comfortable enough with the wind and water that she had hopped up into the pilot’s seat behind the wheel. More a loveseat than a simple chair, the cushion was big enough for two to use. Once she sat down, the riding-a-horse analogy was even more apt. She let the motion of the boat go through her spine in an invisible wave.

Mac settled on the padded bench seat next to her, close enough for her to feel his warmth. She liked that almost as much as the fact that both of them were relaxed with the silence and one another.

The multitude of pleasure boats that had cluttered the water near Nanaimo had disappeared. The few boats she could see were well off in the distance, much closer to land, leaving white streaks on the water as they slammed from wave-top to wave-top in a run for whatever safe anchorage was within reach.

“How often do they change the weather report?” Emma finally asked.

“Depends.”

“On the weather?” she asked sweetly.

“On how bad they missed the forecast the first time.”

“I don’t know much about weather, and less about water, but…” Her voice faded into the hiss and smack of waves against the hull.

“Yeah.” Mac looked at the whitecaps, measured how much spray lifted into the air. “The wind looks closer to twenty than fifteen, much less ten. The gusts are at least twenty-five.”

“Still want to go to Campbell River?” she asked.

“Is your stomach kicking?”

Emma looked surprised. “No. Should it be?”

“Some people get seasick on a floating dock.”

“Guess I’m not one of them.”

“We could take a lot more wind than this and be perfectly safe,” Mac said. “Unless you’re uneasy-”

“As in puke green?” she said, smiling.

“Yeah.”

“I’m not.”

“So kick the throttles up a notch and keep going.”

“How much is a notch?” she asked.

“Take it up to twenty knots, more if the motion doesn’t bother you. We’ve got time to make up.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said, and hit the throttles.

The sound of the diesels deepened. The wake behind the boat churned out even more white. Surprisingly, the ride didn’t change much, neither smoother nor rougher. The fuel consumption sure shifted, though.

“We’re filling up the tanks in Campbell, right?” she asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“We eat a lot more diesel at this speed.”

“Wait until you see it above twenty-four knots. Sucks diesel like water flushing down a head,” he said.

“Expensive.”

“If you can afford Blackbird, the cost of the fuel it takes to run her is small change.”

As Mac spoke, he reached across Emma for the binoculars that were held snugly in a grip near the pilot station.

“Looking for logs?” she asked.

“If I have to use glasses to find them, the logs are too far away to worry about.”

“Good to know. I’ve been wondering.”

He grunted.

After a moment Emma straightened in the seat and leaned over the wheel, staring into the water ahead.

“Is that a boat out there?” she asked. “Just to the left of the bow.”

Mac was already watching the shape through the binoculars.

“Twenty-eight-foot motorboat. Red gunwale stripe. Fisherman’s special. You want to see something suck fuel? Try opening the throttles on those two big Yamahas strapped to the stern of that boat. Probably go twenty-two knots, maybe twenty-four. Hell of a butt-breaking ride, though. Especially in this chop.”

“Is that why the boat is going so slow? It’s barely moving.”

“I noticed.”

Mac refocused the glasses.

Redhead II all but disappeared as a wave broke against its side. Someone with wild, wet red hair was hunched over the steering arm of the kicker, getting whitewashed as often as not.

The boat wallowed like a half-beached log.

“They’re on the kicker but no fishing gear is out,” Mac said. “Steer an intercept course.”

Emma started to ask about kickers and fishing gear, but Mac leaned across her and lifted the radio microphone out of its cradle. Before he could use it, the radio crackled to life.

“…calling the black-hulled yacht off Nanoose,” said a man’s voice. “I have a visual of you.”

“Blackbird here. I didn’t catch your name. Switch to six-eight.”

A few seconds later, on the new channel, a man’s voice said, “Blackbird, we’re having trouble with a fuel filter or the electrical system. Hard to be certain in this water. Can you assist us?”

It wasn’t a request Mac could or would refuse. He was the only boat within sight, he had the skill and the means to aid the smaller boat, and the weather was going downhill. Marine law-and simple decency-insisted he do what he could to help.

He focused the glasses on the stern of the pitching boat, where her name was written in bold script.

“Redhead II,” he said, “stand by for assistance. Can you turn her into the wind?”

“I think-yes, the captain says we can.”

“That will make it easier. Stand by on six-eight, please.”

“Thank you.”

Staring at the boat ahead, Mac held the microphone, then said, “I’ll take it from here.”

“Good.”

Emma shot out of the pilot position. The thought of steering Blackbird close to another boat in this water was enough to lift the hair on the back of her neck. Mac, on the other hand, seemed to take it for granted.

“Call Faroe,” Mac said as he took the wheel. “Have him check the registration on a Canadian pleasure boat, about twenty-eight feet, called Redhead II.”

Maybe it’s not the idea of getting close to the boat that’s making my neck tingle, she thought.

“Are you suspicious?” she asked.

“Aren’t you?”

“Now that I’m not busy running the boat, yes.”

“If you can, get a photo of both people on Redhead II,” he said, easing back on the throttles.

“Dumb arm-candy taking shots for the folks back home?”

“Better that no one catches you and wonders why you’re taking pictures.”

“My camera’s zoom will be a snotty bitch to use out here.”

“I have faith in you.”

Emma wanted to roll her eyes. Instead, she punched Faroe’s number on her phone.

A voice answered immediately.

“Hi, Emma. This is Lane. Dad and Mom are on other lines. Since you didn’t roll over to Steele, he’s busy, too.”

Emma looked at her phone. “You sound just like Faroe. Can you take a message?”

She heard a swivel-type office chair squeak and rattle across a tiled floor.

“Sure,” Lane said. “Ready.”

“Are you up north pretending to be on vacation?”

“Nope. San Diego. I’ve got university classes, but not today.” His voice said just how much he loved being left behind.

Quickly she relayed Mac’s request, and added, “I’ll be sending jpgs ASAP and will want the people in them identified double-ASAP.”

Lane grunted, sounding so much like Faroe that she couldn’t help smiling. If she could have a kid like Lane…well, the idea of a family suddenly appealed. She wondered idly how Mac felt about it.

“Processing boat ID as we speak,” Lane said. “Want me to call back with the info?”

She looked out over the bow of Blackbird. They were closing quickly with the smaller boat.

“Only if it’s in the next two minutes,” she said. “After that, send to my computer. Or Mac’s. Whatever. Just get it to us.”

“Gotcha. Dad’s line just opened. If he has any questions, he’ll call in the next two minutes.”

The connection ended with an abruptness that reminded her of Faroe all over again.

“Faroe’s son is running the boat’s name for us,” Emma told Mac.

“He any good?”

She stared at him, then realized he’d been part of St. Kilda for only a few days. “He’s as good as our researchers. And that means really good.”

All Mac said was, “Get your camera and be ready to shoot through the window. If that isn’t close enough, show yourself. They might not like it, but they can hardly object. If they’re legitimate.”

Emma went to the canvas purse she had brought aboard. While Mac cautiously maneuvered closer to the other boat-and then closer still, until Emma held her breath-she turned on her camera. She felt like a witness watching two trains slide toward collision.

Silently she hoped Mac was as good as she thought he was. Otherwise it was going to get ugly for the little boat.

Not to mention unhappy for Blackbird and its crew.

She stood in mid-cabin and focused through the least spray-washed window she could find. The figure of a woman braced next to the small outboard jumped and jittered in the focus.

Emma switched to the electronic motor drive, hoped her battery could take the hit, and did her best to keep one or another of the two people in the field of focus. The clicking sound that told images were being taken came so close together it was like a single ripple.

She switched off motor drive, braced her feet farther apart, and reviewed the photos. No single one was good, but there were enough separate parts in focus with all the shots that a good ID program should be able to work its electronic miracle among St. Kilda’s huge databases.

“I’m sending the jpgs,” she said.

“Make it fast. I may need you on deck.”

“Making it fast, Captain, sir!” she shot back.

He grinned.

With practiced motions she plugged her camera into her computer, created a new file, downloaded the photos, and sent them MOST URGENT to St. Kilda. In the background she heard Mac try-and fail-to raise the Redhead II.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, closing up the computer and putting away the camera.

“They’re not answering.”

“Maybe the electronic problem took out their radio.”

Mac made a sound that could have meant anything. “You have your good deck shoes on?”

“Yes.”

“See if you can shout across to Redhead II.” A wave sprayed against the port windows. “Unless you’d rather sit here holding station with Blackbird?”

She looked at the scant yards separating the gunwales of the two boats and said, “No, thanks. It’s all yours.”

“You’ll need a jacket.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom.”

Mac shut up and concentrated on keeping enough, but not too much, separation with the other boat. He could have used the joystick. Probably should have. He just preferred the old-fashioned way. New toys meant new problems as well as new solutions. For now, he’d take the devil he knew.

He opened the pilot door to let Emma out. The outside air was beyond fresh and bracing. It was cold. The damp edge of salt spray didn’t help.

Emma ignored the temperature. She braced herself on the railing, remembered her arm-candy role, and called out, “What’s up with your radio?”

The woman steering with the kicker said nothing, simply looked at her companion. The man stepped up to the rail of the Redhead II. For the first time Emma got a clear look at his whole face.

I’ve seen him before, she thought. Or someone who looks a lot like him. Mug shots? Long-distance surveillance?

“What I have to say to you is too sensitive to be put out over a public radio,” he said.

At first Emma thought she hadn’t heard correctly. Then she knew she had.

Mac had really good instincts.

“What?” she yelled.

“Follow me to calmer water. There we will discuss Shurik Temuri, Stan Amanar, Bob Lovich, and the extreme danger you are in.”

She gave Mac a do-you-get-this-dude look through the open cabin door.

He caught the other captain’s eye and made a wind-it-up motion with his hand.

The woman staggered from the kicker to the cockpit and fired up the big outboards.

Mac gave Redhead II plenty of room before he followed.

Emma came back into the cabin. “It’s not like we have a whole lot of choice. Shurik Temuri is someone we have to know more about.”

“Yeah. An opportunity we can’t refuse.”

Mac hoped they were doing the right thing. Because the wrong thing was a fast way to die.