“Okay.”
Jake looked on quietly as Wally and Ella hurriedly performed their nail-painting ritual, in silence. When they were done five minutes later, Wally gave Ella and Jake each a quick hug and a smile, and walked out the door.
THIRTY-TWO
Wally made her way
through town to the Queens Midtown Tunnel and drove east onto Interstate 495, where she would stay for the next two hours until the Long Island Expressway came to an end. She checked the car’s clock, which read 1:30
A.M
. Good. She had a full tank of gas and had picked up three cans of Red Bull to keep her going. She plugged her music player into the car stereo and blasted a mix that Tevin had put together a few months ago. There were some fierce dance tunes by the Swedish singer Robyn, who Wally loved, with some ballads mixed in and some old-school rap. One of the songs was Tevin’s favorite, “Concrete Schoolyard,” a soulful old rap by Jurassic 5.
Wally listened to the song three times, all the way through, and cried during the last one. She then unplugged the player and put the radio on scan until it found a station with good dance music. She left it there, the music cranked up loud enough for passing cars to hear, and swilled down the first of the Red Bulls.
She thought again of Johanna, grateful that Klesko needed her to find the stones or she would certainly be dead already. A feeling kept nagging at Wally; it had been since she encountered Johanna face-to-face at the Navy Yard. Their reunion had been strangely anticlimactic, and not just because it had been followed so closely by Klesko’s violent attack. She had expected that the first encounter with her biological mother would be transformative, an event that would somehow explain and excuse and put to order all that Wally had experienced in her young and stormy life. Dr. Rainer had predicted an intuitive response for Wally when she finally met her mother, a sense of instant recognition that Wally could hold up like a mirror and truly see herself for the first time.
That had not happened. Wally felt as confused as she ever had, as alone as she ever had. Why? Since her earliest years, Wally had been looking to others to inform her sense of self, to provide her with an authentic image of who she was and where she belonged. Now, after the disastrous events of the previous days, Wally saw this quest—directed outward—as childish and futile. To have any meaning, her search for identity would have to be focused within. Claire, Johanna, her adoptive father Jason, that monster Klesko, even her crew—these people were all essential to Wally’s life in one way or another, but they did not define her.
Understanding all that finally, Wally was more determined than ever to save Johanna from Klesko; her search for her biological mother had brought violence and heartache to everyone in her life, and Wally could not allow one more person to suffer for her own recklessness. Within hours, Wally would prove her place in the world the only meaningful way she knew how: through her own actions. This hope for some sort of resolution gave Wally an unexpected feeling of calm. She listened to the music on the stereo and let her mind go numb, just for a while, to shore up her mental strength for all that awaited her.
Two hours passed in what seemed like no time at all. She reached the end of the interstate and veered onto Old Country Road, headed northeast. In less than twenty miles, she arrived at the small marina in Greenport, which she and the crew had visited just days earlier. The ferry to Shelter Island stopped service at midnight, meaning that Klesko and the younger Russian—and their hostage, Johanna—could not have made the previous night’s boat. They might try to find an alternate way onto the island, but Wally guessed they would take the less complicated option and wait for the first morning boat, just before 6
A.M
.
Wally turned off her headlights and eased down Wiggins Street, which led toward the train station and the pier for Shelter Island’s North Ferry. The setting was much different than during Wally’s last visit to Greenport; it wasn’t quite 4
A.M.
yet, so the town was in darkness except for a half-dozen dim overhead streetlights that were positioned around the pier and parking lot area. Wally pulled to a stop about three blocks away from the pier, unwilling to get any closer for fear that Klesko and the younger man—almost certainly waiting near the ferry—would spot her.
Wally quietly slipped out of the Town Car and headed down a side street toward the train tracks—where she was less likely to be seen—then walked toward the pier from the southwest. This approach would bring her through the empty train station and right behind the ferry parking lot. From there she could mark any vehicles that were already in line for the ferry or waiting nearby. As she reached the lot, she saw that there were no cars in line, which was not surprising since the first ferry wouldn’t set off for nearly two hours. About halfway up 3rd Street, however, Wally spotted the Russians’ tow truck. The truck was parked facing the pier, away from the direction of Wally’s approach, so they would not have seen her arrive. Just behind the dark windshield of the truck, Wally could make out the embers of two burning cigarettes. There was only a narrow rear section to the cab—barely room enough to stash a toolbox—and Wally flushed with rage at the thought of Johanna crammed into the space, bleeding, terrified.
Wally briefly thought she might call the local cops, right then, and have them converge on the ferry landing, forcing a standoff with the Russians. She dismissed the idea immediately. Wally had witnessed Klesko and the younger man in battle up close; Greenport’s cops wouldn’t have a prayer in that fight, and Johanna was more likely to be killed in the crossfire than rescued.
Wally remained hidden in the shadows and continued scanning the area, looking for Claire’s Infiniti SUV, but after thinking about it for a while, Wally realized how unlikely it was that Claire would come directly to the ferry landing. Claire had known—how?—that Johanna would lead the Russians to the Hatches’ house on Shelter Island. Claire would also know, then, that Klesko and the younger one would be there at the boat landing, waiting for the first ferry of the morning, armed and vigilant, with Johanna under their control.
So what sort of plan did Claire have in mind and, just as important, what was Claire capable of? Wally was forced to ask herself, for the first time in her life, exactly what sort of person Claire Stoneman really was. Did Wally even know? Wally was forced to consider that there was a hidden side of her adoptive mother that Wally herself was clueless about.
Wally left the pier area quietly and walked back to the Town Car. She turned on the engine to heat up the car and considered her next step. Did Claire and Johanna have some sort of plan in place, something they had figured out in advance? It seemed possible. There was clearly some sort of bond between Claire and Johanna that Wally had never had a clue about. Wally finally decided to make an assumption: Claire would do what Wally herself would do, which was try to gain some sort of strategic advantage over the gunmen. The best way to do that was to reach the island first and be waiting for them when they arrived.
Wally needed a boat, at 4
A.M.
in Greenport, Long Island. This sounded like an impossible task at first, but then she got an inspiration. She did a Google search on her cell phone and when the directory turned up what she was looking for, she hit the call button.
“Fantasy Island Taxi.” The voice on the other end of the line was very groggy, fresh out of a deep sleep.
“Hi. Uh … I’m so sorry to call you at this hour,” Wally said. “I’m the girl you drove to the Hatches’ house? Last week?”
“Uh … oh. Yeah. Hey. You need a ride? I’m not on the island, and the ferry doesn’t run for another …” There was a moment of silence as he checked his clock. “
Christ
. It’s four in the morning.”
“Yeah, sorry again. And, actually, I do need a ride, but the boat kind. I have to get to the island right away. Do you have any ideas?”
“You’re going back to the Hatches’ place?” the guy said. “Even after everything that happened?”
Wally didn’t understand what he meant by
even after everything,
and she didn’t really have time to figure it out.
“I still need to go there, yes,” was all she said.
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.
“You’re an interesting girl,” said the cabbie. “I’m going to call you back in like two minutes.”
True to his word, he called right back and gave Wally driving directions to a different part of the marina. He also gave her the description of a particular lobster boat at that wharf.
“Guy is about to go out for the morning. He’s expecting you.”
“Thanks again,” Wally said, “and sorry for being a pain.”
“Forget about it.”
Wally put the Lincoln in gear and did a U-turn, heading back up to Front Street, which followed the Greenport coastline but was out of sight of the ferry landing area. She drove northeast, searching along the waterline for the wharf the cabbie had described. Soon she came upon a small working marina where a lone lobsterman was rigging his one-hand-trap boat for its morning tour. Wally parked the Lincoln on the nearby street, grabbed her messenger bag, and walked down to the pier, where she and the lobsterman were the only living things in sight.
“Good morning,” Wally said.
The lobsterman—mid-fifties, wrinkled from a lifetime of squinting, wearing yellow-slicker overalls and a heavy sweater—looked up at Wally, appraising her briefly before returning to his work. If encountering an emo-dressed teenage city girl on his fishing marina at four o’clock on a November morning was a unique experience for him, he did not let on.
“Yep,” was all he said to Wally.
“Our mutual friend says you might be able to take me across to the island?”
“Ferry leaves in a few hours.”
“I can’t wait that long.”
“I got traps to check, dearie.”
The lobsterman was giving Wally his gruff down-easter act, and she didn’t have time for it. She pulled a fistful of twenty-dollar bills out of her bag.
“This is around five hundred dollars,” she said. “Please. It really is an emergency. No one else can help me.”
Now the lobsterman looked up, the authentic desperation in Wally’s voice getting his attention.
“Please, sir,” she repeated.
The lobsterman took a moment to reappraise Wally.
“Keep your money. Where on the island you need to be?” he asked with an exaggerated sigh.
Wally pulled out a map of Shelter Island—the one she had bought on her first trip there—and studied it for a moment under the single, dim light hanging over the dock. “It’s a house on a place called Coecles Inlet—did I say that right? I really have to get there now. It’s an emergency, I swear to you.”
“That’s near ten miles,” mused the lobsterman. “We’d best take the whaler.”
Within minutes
, Wally and the lobsterman were aboard a twenty-one-foot Boston whaler, making the Shelter Island crossing at a crisp thirty-three knots. The water was quiet, and the air was cold but still. Sunrise would not come for another couple of hours, but there was enough ambient light to read the heavy, looming clouds above.
“Snow coming soon,” the lobsterman shouted over the growl of the outboard, and he was right. Ten minutes into their run, snow began to fall in the still air; large dry flakes fluttered down slowly, only to disappear in the ocean waters.
Wally was grateful for the speed of the whaler. It was probably only three or four miles from Greenport to the Hatches’ house as the crow flies, but the route to the beach on Coecles Inlet followed a circuitous course around two points on the island, and the total distance was every bit the ten miles that the lobsterman had said. Twenty-four minutes into the crossing, the lobsterman rounded the spit at Ram Island—Wally followed their progress on her map—and steered the whaler southwest, into the narrow mouth of Coecles Inlet. The waters of the inlet were shallow and calm, and stretched out to a full five square miles. There were no houses at all on the beaches of the inlet since it was protected land, which belonged to the Mashomack Preserve. The only signs of habitation were at the farthest reaches of the inlet, where they were headed now at a reduced speed, around twenty knots.
Wally pulled a flashlight out of her bag and held the map up for the lobsterman, shining the light to illuminate their destination: it was the beach closest to the Hatch home, which was the last private property abutting the virginal conservancy land.
“This spot here,” Wally said. “I think there’s a dock.”
As he steered the boat across the dark waters, the lobsterman took just a quick glance at Wally’s map, confirming the destination.
“The Hatches’ house?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Shame what happened.”
“What’s that?” Wally asked. The lobsterman looked at Wally and saw that she had no idea about the murders of the Hatch brothers. He briefly ran down the information for her, not having to shout quite as much since their speed had now reduced to ten knots for their final approach to the dock on the Hatch property. Wally did her best to process the information without emotion.
“How long ago was that?” she asked, and when he told her, Wally realized that when she had seen the Russians in the Hatches’ house, ten days earlier, they had been there to kill the brothers. The thought made her sick. Should she have done something differently? Should she have called the police to report a break-in?
“It ain’t just you this morning, dearie,” the lobsterman said, nodding in the direction they were headed.
Wally looked ahead to the dock, now just fifty yards away, where the falling snow had blanketed the shoreline of the inlet in white. Wally could see the outline of a small skiff, maybe fifteen feet long, tied off at the dock. Had the skiff brought Claire here? Wally wondered how Claire had found a boat in the middle of the night, but the more she thought about it, the clearer it became. This sequence of events—from the appearance of Klesko in America to, Wally anticipated, a showdown at the Hatches’ property—was a worst-case scenario that Johanna had prepared for and shared with Claire. The boat was part of the plan, stored somewhere near Greenport and standing ready. Whatever their plan was for this worst case, Wally hoped it was a good one.