Seawitch (19 page)

Quinton grabbed it off the kitchen table. “It’s a quarter of seven. We have to get going.”

I followed him into the hall to grab the bags and get my boots. “Did you make my phone do that?” I seem to manage the alarm properly only half the time and I didn’t remember trying.

“Yeah. I know I should have asked first. . . .”

I rolled my eyes and kept my mouth shut.

SEVENTEEN

P
uget Sound is a strange thing—almost an inland sea full of islands and deep saltwater crevasses carved by passing glaciers eons ago. In some places the depth at the bottom has never been mapped, only guessed at, and ships or planes that fall into those underwater canyons never come back—not even as broken bits of flotsam. Seattle lies on salt water so deep that it remains cold year round, yet it’s sixty miles or more from the Pacific coast while still touching the same water that eventually passes Alaska and California. Some of its islands are rocky tumbles of cliffs rolled up from the depths, while others are mere piles of sand that sink away at high tide. Orcas cruise by the upper islands in spawning season, following schools of cold-water fish and tipping the occasional tourist into the water when they foolishly get too close. The islands in the south Sound are large and infrequent, while the north end, shared with Canada, is littered with dozens of broken drifts of land wound through with passages and labeled with names like Orcas Island, Deception Pass, and Desolation Sound. It’s seductive in its beauty and sudden isolation but not a safe place for a stranger to go alone.

The voyage out from the marina and into the northern Puget Sound was almost too gorgeous to bear as we headed northwest from Seattle up what Zantree identified as Admiralty Inlet. The boat growled along, rocking up and down with a long, mild swell. The water sliding beneath us was a deep, cold blue that reflected the sun as it slowly dipped toward the summer horizon dead ahead of us, reddening and casting the sky in golds and pinks and finally into slumbering purples as we put in at Port Townsend for the night, just as the
Seawitch
had done in a last-minute change of plan, according to the log. We could have driven and taken the ferry across in a bit more than two hours but we’d soon realized we’d never find Fielding’s cove without a boat and the experience of Paul Zantree. And the trip at sunset had been an unlooked-for delight in the midst of creeping horrors.

Once
Mambo Moon
was tied up at the dock, Zantree laid out a chart on the navigation table in the pilothouse that sat above the slightly sunken galley and below the rooftop flying bridge. He gave us a quick overview of where we were and where we were going, following the path the
Seawitch
must have taken as far as the last log entry where Fielding had stated he was heading for an unnamed cove.

“We’re here at Port Townsend, so we’re in the throat of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. North is Vancouver Island—that’s where the city of Victoria is and if anyone has a mind to get off tomorrow, that’s where I’ll drop you. You can see how the southern point of Vancouver comes down like a tooth. That’s Canadian water, but to the east of the big island it’s U.S. waters for several more miles north and east to the British Columbia coast and the actual city of Vancouver. The U.S. portion of the northern Sound is small compared to the area as a whole but it’s treacherous and the international border runs right about where we’ll be heading, so there’ll be eyes on us and plenty of traffic.

“We’ll go north in the morning, heading for their last recorded destination: Roche Harbor.” Zantree put his finger on the second-largest of the San Juan islands, lying to the extreme west of the group and pretty much due north of us. “That’s up here on the northwestern tip of San Juan Island itself. The harbor’s nicely protected but both approaches can be proper hull scrapers in a storm ’cause they’re both narrow and the cliffs can channel the winds and raise their speed to a killing velocity. Not too likely in the summer, but it can be a wild ride in the winter. We’ll have a clear run across San Juan de Fuca and up this big open area here, Haro Strait. See how it’s running right up between the two big islands, at a right angle to Juan de Fuca? Normally I’d go for the southern passage to Roche from the bottom of Haro, but the position given in the log was on the north end, so for some reason they passed that route and we will, too. It’ll take four to six hours to get in and moored up at Roche, depending on how rough the water is, since we’ll have to go perpendicular to the current until we’re up in Haro Strait, where the current should be in our favor if we time it right. Going to be some hobbyhorsing and crabbing—that is to say, the
Moon
may be rolling up and down the waves coming on the bow or stern and being pushed sideways by the current and wind. So far none of you are turning green around the gills, so I guess you’re going to be OK unless it gets rough. We’re not in the way of any predicted bad weather, but even so, fighting the motion of the boat in a crosscurrent or wind can tire you out when you’re standing or walking around, so get to bed and get rested up. I know this is some serious business but this first part is going to be fun!” he added, his eyes twinkling with glee at the prospect of the cruise.

I slept too easily, fatigued by the constant jostling and bumping the big power boat had served up as it thrust its way through the water, the twin diesels rumbling below our feet until their silence seemed more deafening than their noise had been. Solis and I had both objected to the layover, but Quinton and Zantree had once again pleaded the tides and took us into port just ahead of the incoming turn. I didn’t really understand it but I gave up arguing when I found my eyes closing in spite of myself. It was barely midnight and the tide was theoretically going out for another two hours—we had plenty of people to stand watch if we kept on—but I cared less and less as the gentle rocking of the boat at the dock put me to sleep.

We were up again by seven thirty, the smell of bacon and coffee teasing me awake. Quinton was out of bed already but I hadn’t felt him leave, since we’d had to share a cabin with separate, narrow bunks, there being only one cabin that had a single large bunk, and that was the owner’s. I gimped and staggered into fresh clothes, leaving my gun on the bunk, and made my way to the galley, where Zantree and Solis were making breakfast.

I lifted an interrogative eyebrow at the detective and he shrugged. “I cook on Saturdays. Ximena sleeps in. Except today.”

“Who cooks on Sunday?”

“Mama Gomez. If she is of a mind to.”

I supposed they ate out if she wasn’t.

Quinton had apparently been out on deck and came in with a small portable radio in his hand and a huge smile on his face. He accepted a cup of coffee from Solis and sat down. “I forgot how much I loved boats.”

“How’s that?” Zantree asked. “How can you miss boats when you live in Puget Sound country?”

“I’ve . . . just been spending all my time in the city. It’s been a long time since I was on a big boat like this, going somewhere.” He looked at me. “That little one on the lake wasn’t the same.”

I was pretty sure part of his enjoyment came from having given his father the slip and I couldn’t blame him for that. I smiled without a word and sipped my coffee—it was a bit bitter and very strong. Solis tried not to watch me drink it, but I caught his glance from the corner of his eye. I wanted to laugh at the idea of reserved Detective Sergeant Solis being nervous about his skills in the kitchen but I kept my amusement to myself.

“So, any ideas on where this mystery cove is yet?” I asked.

Quinton looked at Zantree, who took his time replying, swallowing a mouthful of pancakes before he spoke. “I’m guessing up near Stuart Island, or maybe along the north shore of San Juan. The position you guys provided was a bit rough—right at the top of Haro Strait where the border runs through between San Juan and a group of smaller islands just north of it. The boat could have been within a mile or so in any direction of the mark itself, which is just west of Spieden Channel, at the north end of San Juan Island. That’s a good stretch, wide at each end, and he could have been aiming to turn hard east of south and fetch up at Henry or San Juan island, or go to Spieden or Stuart islands or even go on through the channel toward Orcas. We’ll have to give it a bit of thought once we’re up there. Take the weather and current into consideration to adjust the heading provided.”

“Umm . . .” I started. “I’m not quite sure I follow you.”

“The latitude and longitude info you have is not a specific location, more of a general position and direction of travel—it wasn’t seconds-precise. But the weather’s similar at this time of year, so we should have similar variables once we’re in the area and that’ll help us figure where he was going, once we’re there. The currents are strong up here because the channels between the islands are narrow and a lot of water has to move fast whenever the tide changes, so even if we get the right location we may have to play about or lay over to reach it. Can’t tell much from here just yet.” He looked up at Quinton. “If you want to check anything online, you’d better do it quick—there won’t be any Wi-Fi or cell service for most of the trip. The big islands have antennas but signals don’t always reach ships on the water. The really small islands have no coverage at all; one of the things I like about coming up here is the world leaves you alone.”

“I can certainly appreciate that,” Quinton said.

“How long will it take to reach Roche Harbor?” Solis asked.

“All morning and a bit more,” Zantree replied. “Assuming we have no adverse winds and keep to favorable currents, we should make the dock at Roche by two o’clock or so. Motorboats aren’t as susceptible to wind as sail, but we can still be pushed around and if we get caught in a tidal race or current, we could end up going the wrong way. Since it’s good weather and a weekend, we’ll have to keep an eye out for other vessels—especially tugs hauling barges. If you see the one, start looking for the other, because we don’t want to pass between them; the tow cable sinks just below the water and if you cross over it, it’ll shear your keel off like a knife through cheese. And where we’re headed is right on the border, in the ferry route, so we’ll need to be careful of those, too—ferries have the right-of-way and they can push a hell of a wake, even going slow. Boating is fun but it takes some vigilance to be safe. Like wearing those flotation vests every minute you’re aboard. Everybody good with all that?”

We all nodded. I noticed that Quinton was the only one of us landlubbers with his vest on and felt a little abashed. Having drowned once, I had no desire to do it again.

“Good,” Zantree said. “If you need anything ashore, take care of it now. We’re off in twenty minutes if we mean to have the tide with us all the way.”

The facilities on
Mambo Moon
were adequate, but I still felt a need to step off and stretch on a surface that moved a bit less before donning my vest and getting under way. I wasn’t sick, but the constant small movement of the boat as it floated and bumped the dock made me respond without thinking, my body making continual tiny adjustments to stance and posture to keep my balance, and a lot of those little movements sent twinges of discomfort along my cracked rib. Stretching out wasn’t going to be pleasant, but if I didn’t try I’d be stiff and out of balance as well as in pain and that would make me an unreliable crew member—something I could not afford to be. I climbed off the boat and walked uncomfortably up the floating dock to the marina’s office building, which sat firmly on dry land.

It was still early enough in the morning that there weren’t crowds of people in the area and the boaters were mostly going about their own business on board their vessels, just as we had been. They left me alone and cast only a few cursory glances at the tall, skinny woman in jeans and sneakers, using the platform railing as an exercise bar. The leg stretches were all right, but the upper-body stuff was killer and my eyes were a little misty with tears of pain by the time I turned and started back to Zantree’s boat. I was swiping the moisture from my eyes as I went, so I suppose I could be forgiven for not paying attention to the shadow that heaved itself out the water and onto the boat’s swimming platform at the stern as I turned the last corner to
Mambo Moon
. The splash caught my attention, however, and I finished my turn with a wrench that made me hiss and stop short about twenty feet from the boarding steps.

For a moment I thought the creature on the low platform was a sea lion—it was as long as a man, dark brown, and oddly lumpy. I hurried forward, pressing my hand to my side to suppress the pain in my ribs, as I saw Solis pop out the aft door to see what had caused the boat to lurch to the rear. I came even with the thing just as Solis looked over the rail. Quinton stuck his head out of the door also and called out, “What is it? Are we clear to start the engines or not?”

“There is something on the . . . the rear platform,” Solis called back, not quite sure what to call that part of the boat, I guessed.

The creature looked around, moving its large, misshapen head even as its body seemed to writhe and change shape. It spotted me and let out a moaning noise that sounded a lot like “Moooove!”

Quinton ran out and stared down, too. “Holy shit! What is that?”

The creature was still writhing and morphing from a large furry lump to something vaguely human-shaped and kept its agonized gaze on me as I jumped from the dock to the swim platform, hoping I wouldn’t miss or lose my balance and fall in the water. I made it and crouched down, wincing and gasping as I grabbed on to the handrail of a steel ladder attached to the rear of the boat.

I stared at the thing, seeing it tangled in flaring coils of red and gold energy twined with the thinnest threads of bilious green and dimming lavender. The creature shrugged and squirmed as if it were trying to shed its skin. “Harper . . . Blaine,” it breathed, exhaling an odor of fish and brine laced with the burning tang of something magical.

“You’re the one from the other night,” I said. It didn’t look quite like it had when it stuck its head out of the water next to
Seawitch
and barked my name, but the voice—such as it was—was the same and the mutant head and body were all too similar.

It nodded its too-big head as its jaw popped and crackled into a harder, more square line. I could see a white scar running over the right side of its face now. Similar white weals like the marks of a rope or whip showed through the brown fur on its body, gleaming with filaments of red and violet energy—perhaps the residue of whatever had reached out from
Pleiades
that night and nearly hit me, too.