Wolfwraith (31 page)

Shadow looked into a couple of the boxes; they contained food and bottled water. He noticed an abundance of crackers and—sardines again! There were also several opened cans and tins in a trash heap, along with assorted, crumpled food wrappers. The place smelled slightly of sardines.

Shadow also felt an aura within the small space. It was evil and familiar, but faint, like the perfume of a woman departed. He touched the empty hook—and felt the now-familiar tingle.

The motor and battery intrigued him. Their presence suggested he had been right about Frank using the water to get in and out of the park—that and the sardine tins in the duck blind. They also hinted he must still be in the park, if the boat was still here, so the old man should be.

Shadow thought for a moment, then backed out of the steeple and closed the door quietly. Reflecting that it was possible someone was watching him, even though he didn’t sense it, he watched his back trail as he walked quickly back to the Wash Woods dock, but saw nothing.

At the dock, he dragged the johnboat to the water and went back to the boathouse for the outboard. It would be noisy he knew, and wished for the stealth of an electric motor but the rangers never used fishing motors. He had no choice, however; it would take days for one man to search the shoreline south on foot through the underbrush and swamps.

He cranked the motor into sputtering life and eased south along the shoreline, noticing a slight chop to the water and a smell of rain in the air. The boat he sought, Frank’s boat, must be well hidden, since it hadn’t been seen in any of the prior searches. He watched closely, but as it turned out, now that he knew what he was searching for, it was easy to find.

Less than a half-mile away, he saw where something wide had been dragged ashore, crushing the shoreline reeds flat. It had been a couple of days, at least, since the boat had been pulled through, because some of the plants had straightened out. But to Shadow’s sharp eyes, it looked like this was a regular event, since so many of the reeds had been snapped off and regrown to different heights. This landing had been used for weeks, at least.

He pulled the johnboat into shore, put out the anchor on a line, snubbed it short, and stepped out of his boat. The track, easy to follow, ended only a few yards ashore. A johnboat, painted in camouflage colors, had been shoved under a rusty piece of corrugated metal roofing that must be the remains of a barn—no, probably a boathouse this close to the water—from way back when. The johnboat could only be seen if approached directly from the bay and even then, it was hard to make out in the shadows. From any other direction, the piece of roofing would appear to be only one more remnant of the old Wash Woods community.

He knelt down and stared into the boat. It was empty except for normal boat gear: spare oars, lifejackets, line, and an anchor. He lifted what appeared to be a tarp, then saw the pole-sleeves that marked it as a tent. It was torn and stained. Shadow sniffed it. Blood. He remembered finding a tent stake in the meadow, way back at the start of all this, and wondering if the tent had been struck in a hurry.

There was nothing else of interest, but the craft’s presence, since the bicycle was also still in the park, meant Frank was somewhere on the cape. Unless he had walked out past all the searchers, which was unlikely.

Shadow reached into the boat’s stern, over the transom, and pulled loose a rubber stopper—the bilge plug—used to drain rainwater from the boat when it was ashore. He put the stopper in his pocket and chuckled. If Frank didn’t notice the missing plug—and it was beneath the rear seat, hard to notice—he’d shove off in a boat that was sure to slowly sink.

Chapter Twenty Six

Hoo, boy, what don’t I have?

Shadow walked back to his own boat, suddenly aware it would soon be nightfall. He slid the boat off the shore and high-tailed it back to the dock. The speeding boat cut into the choppy waves, spraying him with water. A mild rain had begun to fall.

By the time he got there, he was soaked. Swiftly, he stowed the boat and motor where they would be safe from the storm and walked back to his house. It was time to get out, he decided, pulling off his soggy shoes and going directly into his bedroom to finish packing. The light on his ancient answering machine was flashing on the nightstand, which was wet from a fine spray of rain blowing in through the window screen. Pulling the window down until nearly closed, he punched the playback button on the machine.

While the machine pronounced the date and time of the call—four twenty three in the afternoon—he reached up in the closet for his old duffel bag, and began pulling clothing from drawers. Lorene’s voice came on.

“Shadow, are you there?” A pause. “Damn, I hope you haven’t evacuated yet. You need to give me a call as soon as possible. I’ve got information on Frank Waterfield saying you were right on the button. Call me at the office—481-2230 or on my cell 783-9456. Bye.”

Shadow glanced at his watch. Damn, almost eight. Would she have left by now? He knew the police and firefighters and such would stay, but F.B.I.?

He called her cell phone first. No answer, so he left a short message and then called the second number.

“Agent Walker.”

“Lorene, it’s Shadow. I got your message. What do you have?”

“Hoo, boy, what don’t I have? You were right about him being a nut case. He’s been in and out of mental counseling for years. Schizophrenia with acute paranoia. Supposedly he’s under control because of medication, but I don’t think he’s been taking his pills. He stopped showing up for his regular appointments eight months ago and his prescriptions would have run out long ago.”

“I know. I’ve got more...” Shadow began, but Lorene forged on.

“You were also right about him being a surveyor, or at least an engineer, although that was twenty years ago; he hasn’t worked since then. He’s got money, though, an inheritance, plus disability social security.”

“Listen, Lorene, I have to tell you...”

“I also—what?” she said. “I missed that. What did you say?”

“I found his hideout and I think he’s still in the park.”

“Holy shit! You’re not kidding, are you?”

“No. I found his bicycle and some other stuff in the old church steeple. He cut a hidden door into it and he’s been camping out in there like it was a tent. Searchers probably walked right past him several times.”

“You actually found his bike? In the steeple? What else was there?”

“Food, water, a radio, shit like that. But there was a surveyor’s transit, too, for what it’s worth.”

“Jesus Christ—the old cemetery—I have to see it! Are you at home? I’ll be right there—don’t go anywhere—maybe forty, forty-five minutes.”

“I’m getting ready to leave. We’re evacuating, remember?”

“Shadow, you can’t do that! I have to process the area, get some forensics people in there.”

“You can do that after the hurricane.”

“Like hell! It might not be there after the storm. Listen, let’s try this—there’s a forensics guy here in the office, I’ll bring him. We’ve got to at least get a look. If the tide comes over the cape—and I understand that’s common—it’ll wash away any evidence or the wind might blow the steeple to Bumfuck, Egypt. The hurricane won’t be here until tomorrow and I have to see it now!”

Shadow hadn’t considered that the storm might destroy the steeple.

“Okay,” he said. “I see your point. We can’t lose this, like the bike track. I’ll wait here for you. But we can’t mess around too long; we might get stranded.”

“I wasn’t planning to evacuate anyway. I’ll bring you back to the Federal Building in Norfolk after we get done there—it’s solid brick and on high ground. Oh, I can see the interstate from the office and it’s clear coming your way, so I’ll have no problem getting to you. Everyone is heading inland; there’s no rain and the wind is hardly blowing yet.”

“It’s raining here, but...okay, I’ll tell you what. Meet me at the refuge headquarters and I’ll bring you and this other guy in. Once the wind picks up, the interior roads won’t be safe; tree limbs will be coming down and you won’t be able to get back out in a car. We’ll take the beach, unless the surf has washed over.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in...”

The phone went dead. It surprised him; the wind was hardly worth mentioning. Oh, well, a weak branch could have come down across the wires and taken out the phone line to Wash Woods. No big deal, they’d finished talking.

He stripped off his wet clothes and put on a clean uniform. Over that, knowing the rain would be increasing as the storm neared, he donned a foul-weather suit from his closet, a two-piece affair with bottoms like waders and a zip-up jacket and hood. Next, he pulled on a pair of mud boots.

When he got into the truck and reached for his keys in his trouser pocket, he couldn’t reach them. He got out of the truck and twisted about until he could get his arm inside the ungainly raingear and grab his keys. Then, he slid back in and drove away.

He decided to take the beach up to the refuge. When he crested the dune crossing, the ocean looked like Neptune was throwing a temper tantrum. Close in, mighty breakers crashed ashore, with foamy tops dancing in the wind. Farther out, in the light from his headlamps, gray hills rose and fell like the backs of gargantuan beasts.

He turned left and drove north, keeping well above the highest point the surf reached. It would have been faster going on the wet sand close to the sea, but he worried a large crest might catch him unawares and wash the sand from beneath his tires. He stayed with the slower, safer route.

He saw no one on the beach, of course. He couldn’t even see the lights of the resort strip to the north or any slowly-moving lights of ships as he usually did. Only the far off, unmanned Chesapeake Bay Light blinked occasionally, maintaining its vigil even though the maritime traffic it normally guided had moved away, out of the path of the incoming hurricane.

Shadow turned on the AM/FM radio and found a station with continuing coverage of the storm. He learned it was still weakening slightly. That encouraged him. It didn’t sound like it would be too dangerous a storm but Adelaide was predicted to come ashore near the state line, which put False Cape dead in its path. It was also speeding up, expected now in mid-morning.

He changed to a music channel and cracked open the window, enough to let a little air in. He must still have some sardine oil from the duck blind on his finger; he could detect a faint smell of it. He sniffed his fingers but they seemed clean. He was probably imagining it. He hated that smell.

When he came abreast of the passage through the dunes for the refuge, he turned left and let the wind push him up the side of the sand hill. The parking lot was empty as he came down onto the blacktop on the other side. The refuge wardens had also evacuated. Lights were on in the parking lot, though, and on the building’s wide porch.

The headquarters sat near the northern base of the cape, which was very narrow at this point. He could see the bay writhing with thrashing little waves, as if somebody was shaking a shallow pan of water.

He pulled up in front of the refuge headquarters and parked. To the north from here there was a paved road, so Lorene should have no trouble getting this far and she’d easily see him under the lights. When he shut off the engine, along with the radio, he became aware of the swooshing sound of the wind about him, carrying gusts of rain along with it.

Thinking about all he’d found, Shadow was sure he’d cracked the case and felt quite proud of himself. Lorene would be pleased, if not impressed. Now that False Cape Frank’s hideout was known and his boat disabled, they were sure to catch him.

He didn’t expect Lorene for at least a quarter of an hour, maybe longer if she’d had to stop to pick someone else up. For the first time, he regretted not having a cell phone; it would probably work this far north.

A crackling noise from the discarded candy wrappers in the back seat of the truck was his only warning, coming an instant before a powerful arm snaked around and clamped down on his throat, gripping him in the crook of an elbow. His attacker’s other hand appeared in front of Shadow—holding a knife an inch from his eye—and he caught a strong whiff of sardine oil.

He reached down for his pistol, but it was inside his rain gear. Jesus! He had no way of getting it. What an idiot! A powerful, unrelenting pressure constricted his throat—a chokehold, just like they teach in the police academy.

He struggled, but couldn’t thrash around much with a knife held at his eye and was quickly growing weaker. Dreamlike, his last thought was he should have realized the sardine smell on the way up the beach hadn’t been on his clothing. He’d changed his uniform.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Well, ain’t you the feisty one?

Shadow awoke with a light, cold rain misting his face. Someone held him beneath the armpits, dragging him backwards. He could see he was being hauled away from his truck, but why? It took him a moment to remember. Sardine breath!

He struggled and felt cold metal dig into his wrists, behind his back. Handcuffs! Probably from his own gun belt. His ankles were also bound and his upper body was soaked. Frank must have stripped him of his raincoat, but not the pants. Sure, he’d taken the coat off to get Shadow’s cuffs. That would mean Shadow’s gun belt was gone too, of course.

The truck disappeared from view as Frank dragged him behind the refuge headquarters building. He was taken past a large outdoor air conditioning unit and dropped.