Circle of Bones (50 page)

“And if that maniac finds you alone on your boat in the middle of the channel? I’m having a hard time putting that picture out of my head.”

“If he’s going to find anybody, it’s going to be you. You’re bigger, more visible from satellites and it’s possible there is some sort of tracking device on there.” She nodded toward his boat.

“Right. You know I’ll be searching for that damn thing all night,” he said. “Do you have a weapon aboard?”

“No, most of these islands impound your weapons while you’re visiting. And I never wanted to lie on my Customs declarations. Of course, now I’m wishing I had. What about you?”

He shook his head. “No guns. Same reasons.”

“Cole, listen, if we’re all together on your boat and we don’t have any weapons, what makes you think I’d be safer with you? He’s already tracked your boat to Dominica once. They’re on one boat. It’s standard operating procedure not to put all your eggs in one basket. It makes more sense to split up.” 

Theo leaned over the rail above their heads. He coughed and they moved apart. “Riley, I think you’ve hit on a great idea. It’s only a few miles more for us to go out and around the southern tip of the island. After that, it’s a straight shot to the area your man has marked on his chart. It will be rough, though. The forecast is for winds a little north of east at eighteen to twenty knots, stronger in gusts.”

Riley grabbed one of her shrouds and shook it. “She’s a tough old girl. She’ll be fine. It will slow us down, but we’ll get there by morning.”

“And what about you?” Cole asked, his arm around her waist again.

“I know how to take care of myself. You know, we’d better get moving.”

He swung around to face her, wrapped both arms around her waist, and lifted her feet off the ground. Nose to nose, he said, “You know, you are one stubborn lady.”

“Right back at ya, Mister.”

 “You be safe, Magee,” he said and then closed his mouth over hers.

It did not take long for
Shadow Chaser
to disappear over the horizon once they’d rounded the southern tip of the island. That had happened even before it got dark. Now, she and
Bonefish
were alone, pounding into the wind under a double-reefed main and partially rolled up headsail,  making no more than five knots over the bottom. The sea was confused with a large north swell and the smaller wind chop from north of east. The combination made the ocean here feel like a popcorn patch. 

Riley adjusted the lines on her safety harness and pulled up the hood of her foul weather jacket. She sat tucked under the dodger, thankful her autopilot was handling the steering for her so she didn’t have to sit back there behind the wheel where spume filled the air most of the time. The air temperature was warm enough, but with all the spray flying across the boat, she was shivering. Her T-shirt beneath the jacket was already damp from a wave that had caught her without her hood up and doused cold seawater down her neck. She was still only wearing shorts and her feet were cold and puckered from the constant wet. 

“Ah, the joys of sailing, eh Mikey?” Her brother hadn’t ever cared much for foul weather. 

Riley remembered that time when they’d sailed with their father back to Antigua and they had been caught in a squall with full sails up. Her father had ordered Michael to take down the main and Riley had shouldered her brother aside and lowered the sail herself. She knew her brother could do many things in math or science that she would never be able to do. They each had their strengths.

Her father had called her brother a weakling who’d let a girl do his job. His disdain for his son had always been there. That was why she had always “blamed” him for Michael’s death. 

“Oh dad,” she said aloud.
It appears you were the weak one – unable to protect your own son.
And yet, he was her father, too, and in spite of his weakness, he had not deserved to die like that. All last night as she’d traveled south, she had gone over and over it in her mind. The real blame lay with a man she had once slept with, maybe even loved – and the organization.

Riley shuddered and pulled her rain jacket closed under her chin.
Concentrate on the task at hand, marine.

She’d had to take a negative tack, motorsailing to hold tighter to the wind so that she could get clear of the reefs off the eastern side of Dominica. Now, she was trying to pinch up to hold a northerly course to clear Jenny Point.  She’d tack again somewhere in the middle of the Dominica Channel to get around the island of Marie-Galante. It was going to be a very long night.

The airport was somewhere along this shore, but Riley didn’t see any planes taking off or landing. She stuck her face outside the dodger and scanned the shoreline, but the boat reared up and then slammed down into another trough and more spray splattered across the canvas sounding like buckshot. Forget trying to spot the airport, she told herself. They probably shut it down at night anyway. Most of the runways at these small island airports left little margin for error. Neither did their rocky windward coasts, she thought.

Once she was a good five miles beyond the point, Riley stood up, stretched and made her way below, moving from handhold to handhold on the heaving boat. She wanted to check her radar again. Even on the twenty-four mile range, aside from
Shadow Chaser,
she hadn’t seen a thing. So far, so good. Maybe this idea of going up the ocean side of the island had thrown them off their tail. Or maybe Cole and Theo were dealing with them about now. She had tried contacting the guys on the other boat by radio earlier, but they were out of VHF range and they weren’t reading her on the SSB channel they had chosen to monitor, either. It was a shame that they hadn’t been able to buy new cell phones while they were in DC.

She slid into the chart table seat, turned on the radar at the panel and waited for the image to appear. With her autopilot, chart plotter and refrigeration all running, she needed to conserve her battery power. She’d shut off the engine several hours ago. She considered making herself another cup of coffee on the propane stove while she waited for the radar to warm up, but decided against it. She was already feeling jittery enough. Solo night sailing did that to her. 

A message appeared on the radar telling her to push the power button to start up the antenna. She watched as the green line made the sweep around the black screen. A large green blob sat off the north end of Dominica. It looked like a big rain shower. The blob changed shape with each sweep round the screen, but a small bit in the lower left hand corner stayed solid. As she watched, she decided that hard blob might be moving.

Riley changed the range on the radar from twenty-four miles down to twelve. Using the buttons on the front of the screen, she moved the cross hair symbol over the radar target and marked the spot. The green target moved away from the X she had drawn. Yes, it was definitely moving. And fast. Too fast for a freighter. She judged the distance between her and the target to be something around ten miles. And shrinking. Maybe a cruise ship would move that fast. 

She stood up and pulled herself up the companionway ladder until she could see through the dodger’s windows to the sea ahead. Scanning the horizon as the boat crested a wave, she thought, no way a cruise ship could be that close and still not be visible. After assuring herself that she couldn’t yet see anything off her bow, she climbed down and slid back into the seat.

Riley stared at the radar. They were only about eight miles off now and closing at a speed close to fifteen knots. That meant they were less than thirty minutes away even in this confused sea. And they were on a collision course.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

Aboard Fast Eddie

March 30, 2008

9:30 p.m.

“Christ, Pinky,” Spyder said. “Can’t you do that over the leeward side for Pete’s sake? The fucking wind is blowing your chum all over my jacket.”

He watched his brother clutching the gunnel of the boat, his head dangling over the side like a bar of soap on a rope. Spyder buried his nose in the crook of his own elbow. God, the smell was enough to make him get sick even though he’d never been seasick a day in his life. Didn’t matter whether he was on a swordfish boat or a shrimper, Spyder could take the smells of rotten fish, diesel, you name it. But puke? Shit, no. 

“Listen Bro,” Spyder yelled towards the back of the red racing jumpsuit his brother wore. They had found a pair of these all weather suits on board the big Donzi race boat, and they had both climbed into them when it had started to rain earlier. “The boat rolls a hell of a lot worse when we slow her down. She don’t pound so bad, but she rolls like a bitch,” he yelled. “That’s what’s making you sick, man.” He had no idea if that was true or not, but Spyder loved opening up those big throaty engines and letting the
Fast Eddie
show off her stuff. When the boat flew over flat water and he flexed his knees with the motion, it almost felt as good as sex. Almost.

Even with all the noise, Spyder heard the sound of his brother’s retching one more time. He turned away lest the wind carry the vomit into his face. 

Here we go again, Spyder thought. When they first took off in the
Fast Eddie
, his brother had started puking as soon as they’d got out into the channel.  Spyder had slowed down, but once they got in the lee of the island, he’d opened her up again. Pinky was okay on the flat water. Still, by the time they got down to the south end of Dominica, it was almost dark and there was no sign of the doc or the bitch. Pissed him off. 

That was when Pinky got out the GPS machine again. They seen she was on the other side of the island headed north. Pinky wanted to know how the hell he knew it was her boat and not the doc’s. He told the freak that ain’t no way they’d be going no five knots in that big trawler. So Pinky says, then let’s follow her. Spyder knew for damn sure what would happen if they tried to take that route in the open ocean. Back to the vomiteria. 

Then Pinky suggested they could cut her off just as easy at the north end. So they’d headed up the flat, sheltered water on the leeward side of the island. Since he was feeling better, Pinky went below and found some cold beer and packages of crackers and chips. Only once they rounded the point, they’d run into that squall and here they were with Pinky spewing his guts over the side again. Those vinegar potato chips had smelled bad enough the first time around.

Spyder turned the wheel to point the boat into the swells and tilted his head off to one side so the windshield no longer blocked the rain-scented wind from his face. The beaded braids that dangled down either side of his face flew back and fluttered against the side of his head. God he loved how this boat made him feel. He pictured what he’d do to the bitch once he pulled up in this black bomber and got his hands on her. He was gonna tear her wide open. Show her not to mess with him. 

“Damn,” Pinky said, as he pushed himself up and collapsed into the padded passenger seat.

“‘Bout time,” Spyder said. “You ready to go now?” He was ready to open that sucker up and start pounding those seas. 

Pinky’s hand flew out and grabbed Spyder’s forearm. Shit! He had no idea the little freak could squeeze that tight. His long fingernails seemed to be cutting right through the rain jacket.

“Fuck, Pinky. You’re hurting me!”

“Listen,” his brother hissed.

Spyder had to lean in close to that puke face to hear.

“There’s no way we both gonna jump from this boat to hers out here in this ocean.”

Spyder started to interrupt, but his brother dug those fingernails into him again.

“Jesus, cut it out!” Spyder wailed.

“I said listen. You might be able to do it, but you ain’t leaving me alone on this boat. What we gonna do is, we gonna follow her. Keep far enough back she can’t see us. She either gonna lead us to the doc, or if she stops somewhere, we take her. Once she tells us where the doc is, you can do whatever the hell you want with her, bro.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY

Aboard the Bonefish

March 30, 2008

11:25 p.m.

The target on her radar screen was moving again after stopping for about ten minutes right off her beam. Now they were heading for her boat, but no longer making much speed. They were about five miles off. She should be able to spot their lights by now. 

Leaving the radar on, Riley pulled herself back up the companionway stairs, timing every step so that the boat’s extreme motion worked with her instead of against her. The bow lifted again on an extra large wave and then crashed down into the trough, flinging buckets of cold spray across the cockpit and making the hull, mast, and rigging all shudder at impact. She bent her knees and ducked her chin down into her rain gear. Rivulets of water streamed off the bill of the baseball cap she wore under her hood and she shivered. The boat always handled this pounding better than she could.

She crouched under the dodger and scanned the horizon off her port bow through the dodger’s spray-splattered plastic windows. She reached inside the cabin and pulled the binoculars from the teak holder. Standing and risking a dousing, she took a peek over the top of the dodger. She found that even through the glasses, there was no sign of a light or shadow on the horizon.

The boat had to be running dark. No lights.

She sat down on the cockpit seat on the low side of the companionway and leaned her head back against the dodger’s stainless tubing frame. Closing her eyes for a minute felt so good. She was bone tired. Riley hadn’t eaten a regular meal since that sumptuous feast on Niko’s yacht over twenty-four hours ago. Surviving off granola bars, trail mix and coffee was taking a toll. Her stomach was protesting with an acid burn. To make matters worse, this was her second night at sea, and she’d had only four hours bunk time that morning. The body was like a machine, and she knew she’d been treating hers badly. Too little sleep, too little decent food.