Dark Moon Walking (9 page)

Claire huddled under a tree as the shore emerged from night. A leaf, mottled gold and brown, drifted down to settle on her shoulder. Summer was over and the chill of fall was in the air. It had been three days now. Three days and three nights. She had no food left. The few cookies and handful of dried fruit had long since been eaten, although she had twice managed to refill her water bottle. She was hungry, she was tired, she was cold, and she was trapped. She was also lost.

She had spent the first day hiding in the rocks, too frightened to stray far from her kayak. Twice she had heard the sound of an outboard. The first time it had come in slowly, moving very close to shore. Like a child trying to will the bogeyman away, she had closed her eyes. Even after the sound of the motor had faded, she did not move until the agony of cramped muscles forced her to.

The second time was late the same afternoon. She had crept up into the trees when she heard it. This time the boat was moving fast and its wash slammed onto the shore, dislodging rocks and driftwood. She had only caught a quick glimpse of the occupants, but that was enough. There could not be another man with hair that white. Her stomach heaved as a cold claw of fear gripped it. The fear was so intense it brought bile to her throat, and she fought off a wave of nausea. This could not be happening. She felt disoriented, alone in a strange world that no longer made sense. She crawled back into the rocks and huddled there until darkness fell again. Then she made her way back to the kayak.

Early the next morning, long before the sun was up, her body aching and her brain numb, she forced herself to lift the kayak from its hiding place. It was impossible not to make noise and she winced at each sound, but she could not stay there any longer.

Once on the water, she headed southeast. In the dark, she couldn't distinguish detail or judge how fast the current was pushing her, but by the time the sun rose she was in a tangle of tiny islets.

She had to get off the water before it got fully light. The first opportunity was a narrow gap between some rocks. It was barely wide enough to allow the kayak through, but at least it gave her some protection. Ahead was a bare hump of surf-washed rock where a single contorted tree clung to life. Exhausted, she clambered up to the flattest point and lay down. Surely they would never find her here.

They didn't. But she heard them, the sound of the outboard motor swelling and fading as they searched, and the sick fear stayed with her. She ate the last of her food and rationed her water knowing there was no more to be found here. The rain the storm had dumped had long since drained off and there was only a thin layer of drying seaweed and a few barnacles beneath her. She would have to move again, but with the dinghy still searching, that was impossible until dark. She had never felt more alone and vulnerable. Nothing in her life—not her education or her work—had prepared her for anything like this. She knew she had to get the fear under control and start thinking rationally but had no idea where to start.

She heard the motor again about an hour after sunset. And then again two hours after that. Surely they would not search all night. She pressed herself against the damp rock and willed herself into stillness.

Unbelievably, she slept, but it was a brief sleep filled with nightmarish images, and she woke sweating and cold. In the darkest hours of early morning, her head throbbing, her body sore, and her belly empty, she slid back down to the kayak, squeezed it back through the narrow gap, and felt the tiny boat turn into the current. There was a darker smudge against the darkness ahead. If she could reach it, and if there were trees and soil, perhaps there would also be a creek. Not that she had a choice. This was the way the current ran, and she did not have the energy to fight it. Besides, she needed the speed it would give her. If she was caught out in open water when the men came again, there would be no need for water. Or for anything else.

Four hours later the tiny boat slid up onto a narrow ledge. Summoning her last dregs of energy, she dragged it up into a cluster of trees and stumbled toward a shallow cleft where she hoped and prayed rainwater might have collected. When she saw the tiny pool fringed by a green ring of moss and fern, she collapsed beside it and wept.

By noon, she had managed to claw her way up a small rise that gave her a view to the east. Instead of the channel she had hoped for, where she might be able to attract help, there were only more islands. And in among them, in a small bay almost hidden from view, was a black ship.

The day had barely started when Dan left Shoal Bay. Once again he debated calling Mike but decided against it. There were still too many unanswered questions. Too many loose ends.

He checked his charts and picked a tiny indentation on the coast of an island a few miles south of Spider Island and Shoal Bay. It would be close enough for Walker to reach and too small for something the size of the black ship to anchor. Walker did not carry charts, but Dan was confident he could give him clear enough directions when they were needed.

He thought about Walker as he steered
Dreamspeaker
through the labyrinth of islands and passes. He realized that he admired the man. Admired what he had done with his life. Not the early stuff. Not the
B&E
s. There was nothing to admire there, but it wasn't important: he was just a kid lost in the city. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, but few managed to turn their lives around the way Walker had done. He was different. Dan had sensed it then. Saw it now. There was an inner core. A steel thread that ran through him. A knowledge and awareness of himself and an acceptance of who and what he was. That knowledge had grown into a belief that sustained him.

Dan tried to imagine the kind of courage it would have taken to go from convicted thief to the quiet, confident man he had just met. Perhaps the admiration he felt came from the belief that he could not have done it himself. Hell, he could barely function now, and it was more than a year since he had lost Susan.

Even as he thought of it, he felt the familiar shaft of grief. She had been his anchor. No matter what his day had brought, he had known she would be there at the end of it. He had clung to that knowledge in the midst of the worst times, when nothing seemed to make sense and the sound of gunfire and racing engines and screaming almost overwhelmed his sanity.

He had always enjoyed his work on the force, first on the street and then as a detective, but when the opportunity to move into the anti-terrorist squad appeared, he didn't hesitate. He savored the challenge of out-thinking his opponents, enjoyed the thrill of the chase, delighted in the adrenalin rush it provided. Truth be told, he loved the danger. It was a natural high that had been addicting. Riding the edge, nerves taut, blood pumping, feeling the thrill. Then coming down with the rest of the guys over a few cold ones. Or more than a few. Then he met Susan.

She had been twenty-eight, three years younger than him. A teacher working at a school for the deaf. She had come to the station to help question a witness, a profoundly deaf boy who used sign language to communicate. She was small and dark, her black hair pulled back in a failed effort to control an unruly mass of curls. He was attracted to her looks, but it was her personality that entranced him: a mix of intense energy and languid grace. She was vivacious, outgoing, and confident, but she channeled it all into a gentle warmth that immediately put the boy—and everyone else—at ease.

He phoned her the next day and asked her out for coffee. The day after that it was dinner. Within a week he was spending every possible minute with her. Three weeks later he was a fixture in her house, and two months after that, they were married.

She sold her apartment and they bought a house together. Suddenly he found himself spending all his time off painting and sanding, working on projects he had never bothered with before. Together they searched second-hand stores for furniture. On those rare summer afternoons when he wasn't working, they would sit in the garden, relaxing in the shade of a huge crab-apple tree. He was happy. Content in a way he had never known and never expected. He had the best of both worlds.

Not once did he imagine that any part of the job could reach her. Not once did he consider that the violence he sparred with every day could touch her. Until it did. And then it was too late.

He tried to survive it. He told himself that she would want him to continue working. He could even hear her voice telling him it was not his fault. That he was one of the good guys. That his job was important. But none of it worked. After eight months of trying, he put in his resignation.

He had already sold the house. He couldn't go back to it. He couldn't stand the thought of opening the door. Even to turn the corner to the street brought back memories of the evening he had found her sprawled across the table, her white dress dark with blood. He'd spent the months after her death crashing in hotels or sleeping in his car. He drank too much and ate too little. He avoided friends and colleagues alike.

It was Mike who had finally pulled him out of it. He had found Dan in a pub one night and taken him back to his apartment. The next morning he had fed him breakfast and driven him down to a marina. He knew Dan's love of the ocean. Knew much of his childhood had been spent on a fishing boat. Knew that a boat might be something that could give Dan back a sense of purpose. Maybe even give him a reason to live again.

Even sitting neglected at the dock, the boat they found was perfect. She had wide decks, a high bow, and a graceful sheer. A conversion from fish packer to pleasure boat was more than half finished, and it had added bronze ports below deck, a wide teak cap rail, and an extended cabin. And there was even a faded For Sale sign tacked on her hull.

Despite his depression, Dan could not resist her. He and Susan had dreamed of sailing down the coast to Mexico. This boat would have been perfect. He bought her that same day, and two days later he moved the few belongings he still owned aboard. Mike checked in on him every few days, brought food, and stocked the galley. On days off, he brought some of the other guys from the squad to help with the work.

Dan threw himself into finishing the conversion. He used the money he got from the house to equip her the way he wanted. Only thirty-seven, his sixteen years on the force had given him a small pension. That, plus his savings, would be enough to live on. The rest he put into the boat.

Eleven weeks after he bought her, he carefully painted her new name on both her bow and stern. Two days after that, he let go the lines and pointed
Dreamspeaker
north.

A wave smacked the bow, and Dan shook off the memories that threatened to engulf him. Now was not the time for reminiscence. There was work to do. A missing girl who was being hunted by gunmen. Sunken containers to check out. A strange boat to investigate. He shook his head at the irony. He had given up police work, but here he was, doing it again—and at the request of an ex-con!

He steered
Dreamspeaker
into the tiny cove using the depth sounder and
GPS
as well as the chart to guide him. There was not enough room to swing at anchor, so he took a stern line ashore and tied it to a tree. Even if a wind came up, he was protected by a hook of land that almost closed the entrance. In fact, if the black ship passed right outside the cove, there was a good chance its crew wouldn't notice him. As soon as the boat settled her bow into the wind, he headed for the bridge and the radio.

Walker answered his call immediately. “She was here. I found her trail.”

Dan breathed a sigh of relief. So the girl had not been on her boat when it sank. She had gotten away. But if Walker could find her trail, maybe others could too.

“How easily? You think the guys in the dinghy could find it?”

“Probably not. It's just scratches on the rocks and some crushed barnacles and stuff.”

“You sure it was her?” Dan regretted the question as soon as he asked it. Of course Walker would be sure.

“Yeah.”

Dan shook his head as he considered the amount of knowledge wrapped up in those simple answers. “Any idea when she left? If she's out on the water, she'll be pretty easy to spot.”