Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 03/01/11 (5 page)

“I really must go,” Aliana said.

“Wait,” Luke said, waving off her objections, eyeing his grandfather curiously. “Go on, Gus.”

“Kathleen’s family cut her off when we got hitched,” the old man continued. “Mixed-race marriages were frowned on in those days. No one would rent us a room, let alone a house. So I bought this land, built a cabin for us here. Added the boathouse later, started crafting canoes for the tourist trade. Cree war canoes,” he added, smiling. “Tourists didn’t know the difference.”

“Where are you going with this?” Luke asked.

“North,” Gus said simply. “I didn’t take your grandmother back to Cree country because there was no work up there. No life for her. Even now, there’s not much. But as my grandson, you’re a Cree by blood. Entitled to full citizenship. And you have a two-year backlog of orders for boats.”

“You’re saying we could build them in Canada, in Cree country?” Luke asked.

“I don’t understand,” Aliana said.

“Across the great lake in Ontario, the Cree are a nation within a nation,” Gus explained. “American law has no authority there and even Canadian lawmen walk soft on tribal land. It’s magnificent wild country, even more beautiful than here.”

“You were right about the shop, Aliana,” Luke added, glancing around. “It’s too small. I need a new plant and new equipment, but I’m a terrible businessman. I could use a partner with international marketing experience, who loves boats. Do you know anyone like that?”

“Even if I did, they’ve voided my passport. I can’t leave the country.”

“Up here, the border is only a line on a map drawn across the middle of a lake.”

“But the satellites—”

“The Mackinac Regatta begins tomorrow, a three-day sailing race from Port Huron to Chicago. Hundreds of craft will take part and still more will carry judges and spectators. From fifty miles high in the sky, I expect sailboats all look pretty much alike.”

“It’s a very . . . intriguing idea. But I’ve brought too much trouble on you already. I’m sorry,” she said, rising, taking a last look around. “It’s simply not . . .” She broke off, eyeing Gus curiously.

“Not what?” the old man prompted.

“I was going to say it’s not possible,” she said. “But things were even more impossible for you and your Kathleen, weren’t they? So. Just for the sake of argument, maybe you should tell me a little more about this . . . boat race.”

Ridley was sitting at the bar, hunched over his third boilermaker when Larkin stalked into the Northview Lounge in Valhalla. The agent looked sour and surly, both eyes blackening above the bandage across his broken nose. Ridley looked even worse, green around the gills, like he’d been kicked in the belly.

Slumping onto the barstool beside Ridley, Larkin ordered a double scotch, neat, knocked half of it back with one swallow.

“What happened with Sheriff Garrison?” Larkin asked. “Did he give you any static?”

“He did a lot more than that. He’s filed a formal complaint with bureau HQ,” Ridley said. “We’re to report to Detroit first thing Monday morning to explain that cocked-up raid yesterday. You’re facing charges of fabricating evidence and reckless discharge of a firearm. We’re in a world of trouble, Gordie.”

“Balls! It’ll be our word against some hick-town sheriff and we’re federal agents—”

“That’s not the problem! Garrison staged that raid because you claimed you had a tip from a reliable informant.”

“Damn it, the dope was there!” Larkin snapped. “That freakin’ boatman must’ve found it—”

“The dope’s the least of our troubles. On Monday, the Detroit AIC will demand the name of your informant.”

“That’s confidential,” Larkin said automatically. “National security.”

“It’s not confidential from the Agent in Command, you idiot! You’ll have to give up their names, and I doubt very much that your college buddy and his girlfriend will hold up under questioning. Forget about saving your job, Gordie, we’ll be lucky to stay out of jail.”

“Never happen,” Larkin said slowly. “My uncle—”

“Can’t do a damned thing about this!” Ridley finished. “We’re looking at multiple felonies!”

“Sweet Jesus,” Larkin said, as the full weight of the disaster sank in.

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. Bartender!” He held up his empty glass. “Again!”

“It’s all because of Falk,” Larkin muttered. “If he’d stood up for his country, none of this would have happened.”

“You can try that line on the AIC, but I doubt it’ll fly,” Ridley said.

“It’s not a line,” Larkin said grimly, taking a hit of his drink. “It’s the flat-ass truth. And maybe it’s not too late.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If we can deliver the Markovic woman, HQ will forget all about the botched raid. We can still pull this off.”

“How?” Ridley demanded. “We don’t even know where she is.”

“No, but I’m betting Falk knows,” Larkin said, slamming his fist into his palm. “If I ask him hard enough, he’ll damn sure tell us.”

“Jesus, Larkin, have you flipped? We can’t roust the guy. We’ve got no warrant, no probable cause for anything.”

“You’re right, we haven’t,” Larkin said, tossing back his boilermaker with a single swallow. “We’ve also got nothing to lose. Drink up, buddy, let’s move.”

“Where’s Falk?” Larkin demanded, as the two agents shouldered past Gus into the shop.

“He’s not here,” Gus said.

“We can see that,” Ridley said. “Where the hell is he?”

“I don’t know.”

From her bed, Razzy growled at the two federal men prowling the room. “That dog’s a slow learner, isn’t she, pops?” Larkin grinned, pulling his automatic. “She’s threatening me again. Now either tell us where Falk and the woman are or I’m gonna finish off your dumb-ass dog. And since I’m a lousy shot, it might take me four or five rounds.”

“You lowlife son of a bitch,” Gus said evenly.

Smiling thinly, Larkin eared back the hammer on his automatic.

“Luke’s in Canada,” Gus said, looking away, his eyes welling up. “The woman’s with him.”

“Where in Canada?”

“Safe. In the Cree nation in Ontario.”

“I expect the federal government can handle a few Indians.”

“Custer thought the same thing,” Gus said, sliding a cell phone out of his shirt pocket, flipping it open.

“What are you doing?” Ridley demanded.

“Calling nine-one-one, to tell the sheriff two burglars are waving guns around.”

“The hell you are!” Slapping the phone out of Gus’s hand, Larkin ground it under his heel.

“We’ll be going now,” Ridley said abruptly. “We’re sorry about the disturbance.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Larkin demanded.

“We’re too late, Larkin, they’ve gone!” Ridley snapped, holstering his weapon. “Let’s go. That’s an order!”

“Hey, Larkin?” Gus called after them. “I almost forgot. Luke left something for you.” Fishing an envelope out of his shirt pocket, Gus passed it to the fed.

Ripping it open, Larkin shook the contents into his palm. A single copper penny. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know, maybe a bribe. The price seems about right.”

“Just keep pushing me, old man,” Larkin snarled. “Your time’s coming.”

“No, my time’s almost over, sonny,” Gus said softly. “So is yours.”

“Don’t look at me like that, Razz,” Gus said, kneeling to check the dog’s bandages after the feds had gone. The Lab stared up at him, her liquid eyes dark with reproach. “I had to tell them. He would have shot you. Maybe both of us. They’re half crazy, those two, and about half drunk. Bad combination. I have to drive to town and tell the sheriff. . . .”

The dog just stared up at him.

“You’re right,” Gus said, rising stiffly. “There’s no time for that. And we’ve had too much law around here already. You rest easy, Razz, I’ll handle this.”

“Why the hell did you back off without searching the place?” Larkin demanded. They were speeding along the coast road to Valhalla in the Blazer, Larkin at the wheel. “Falk could have been hiding on the grounds. Hell, he never leaves.”

“Falk’s not the hiding type,” Ridley said. “The old man said they’re gone and I believe him.”

“They may be gone,” Larkin snarled, “but they haven’t had time to cross into Canada, yet. We can notify the RCMP to grab the Markovic woman at the border, then take her into custody and work a deal with the agency.”

“We’ve got no authorization for that, Gordie, and we’re in too deep already.”

“We wouldn’t be if that freakin’ boat builder cared about this country—what the hell is all that?” Larkin asked, glancing out the side window at the lake. “What’s going on?”

Nearly fifty sailing vessels were already well above the horizon, tacking toward the shore, bucking the crosswind.

“The Mackinac Regatta,” Ridley said. “Biggest sailing race of the season.”

“Jesus H!” Larkin snarled, slamming on the brakes, skidding the Blazer broadside onto the shoulder, staring at the growing fleet of sails. “The woman’s got no passport. She can’t risk a border crossing, they’re going right now. They’ll slip through that mob out there to the Canadian side. We can still grab them.”

“Are you nuts? We’ve got no authority out there.”

“We’re packing all the authority we need,” Larkin said, slapping the butt of his Glock automatic. “There was a motor launch back at the boatworks. We’ll commandeer it, run them down, and bust them both.”

“For what?”

“Assaulting a federal officer,” Larkin said grimly, backing the SUV around, making a U-turn. “Falk already attacked me in front of witnesses. If I rough up the Markovic woman, he’ll try it again, guarantee it. And it’ll be the last mistake that half-breed ever makes!”

Matting the gas pedal, Larkin roared back toward the boathouse. Clutching the armrest, Ridley stared at his partner. Larkin’s eyes were wide and wild, so consumed with rage he could barely keep the speeding SUV on the road.

Ridley knew he should tell him to slow down, knew he should get the hell out of the car and run like a scalded dog. But he didn’t.

Because back at the bar, Larkin said one true thing. Grabbing the woman was their only chance now. They had nothing left to lose.

From the surveillance satellites wheeling high overhead, the Great Lakes looked like the Spanish Armada had risen from the deeps to take a hard run at Chicago. Over two hundred sailing vessels were strung out in a twenty-mile skein for the annual Mackinac Regatta. Battling the stiff onshore winds, the boats were veering and bucking like a herd of wild mustangs thundering over the plains.

As the leaders began rounding the tip of the Michigan mitten, a small trimaran began threading its way through the fleet, skillfully avoiding any interference with the racing craft.

Focused on maintaining headway against the wind, the racers paid no attention to the
Penny
. She was clearly not competing, since her course was more easterly, bearing toward the Ontario shore. And the couple nestled in the stern were obviously in no hurry at all.

Roaring into the boatyard, the two feds piled out of the SUV while it was still rocking, pistols drawn. Larkin was hoping for some static from the old man, but he was nowhere in sight. The wounded dog growled at them from the doorway, but made no move to rise as the agents sprinted past her to the powerboat moored at the end of the dock.

Leaping into the launch, Larkin fired up the motor as Ridley freed the mooring lines and scrambled aboard. Gunning the powerboat out of the cove, Larkin tossed his binoculars to Ridley.

“Find ’em!” he shouted over the howl of the engine. “They’re out here somewhere!”

But all the damned sails looked alike to Ridley, as Larkin roared out into the bay, plowing through the outer ring of racers, leaving sailboats rocking in the launch’s wake, earning curses and shaken fists.

And then he spotted them! The bat-like craft was already a third of the way through the northbound fleet, bearing northeast.

“There!” Ridley yelled, lowering the glasses, pointing out the
Penny
. Falk spied the powerboat at the same time, and stood up to shield the woman.

“Federal officers!” Larkin yelled, pulling his automatic, firing a round in the air. “Halt where you are!”

Luke started to winch down the
Penny
’s sails, but didn’t move quickly enough for Larkin. The fed opened fire again, and these weren’t warning shots. He was aiming at Luke, shooting to kill. Wild slugs kicked up tall splashes on both sides of the
Penny
as Larkin struggled to steady his aim in the bucking motor launch. Other racers were shouting now, veering their crafts away from the gunfire.

Letting go of the wheel, Larkin stood up, grasping his weapon in a two-hand hold. Leveling his sights on Falk, he began squeezing the trigger—and a halo of red mist suddenly sprayed from his right ear. Stumbling sideways on rubber legs, Larkin toppled out of the launch, plunging into the waves with his pistol still clutched in his fist.

Ridley stared at Luke and Aliana, who were clearly unarmed. Then he wheeled around, scanning the other boats around him, filled with stunned, staring witnesses.

There wasn’t a weapon in sight. Yet his partner was sinking slowly into the deep green waters, dead as a stone, a look of utter surprise frozen on his face.

Ridley hadn’t drawn his own weapon and made no move to now. Instead he raised his hands in the air, circling slowly to show he meant no harm. Taking the wheel of the launch, he brought the boat about, heading back to the spot where Larkin had gone under.

The dozen yachtsmen who saw Larkin fall assumed he was just a drunk, that the whole scene was some kind of crazy charade. They looked on, waiting for him to flounder to the surface, sobered by the icy lake.

When he didn’t, several men leapt overboard, trying to find him. But they were too late. Larkin was already far below and still sinking. A yachtsman dialed 911, but it would take nearly an hour for a police boat with divers aboard to motor out to the fleet.

In the furor, nobody noticed the trimaran moving off, working its way through the racing boats on an easterly course.

“I don’t understand,” Aliana said, manning the helm while Luke reset the sails. “What happened back there?”