Rogue Justice (12 page)

Zora threw him a withering look. "No. We talk here or we don't talk at all."

The man nodded, clasped his hands together on the table. "Okay, have it your way, captain. You see, it's real simple. I'm here to make you a business proposition."

"Yeah? And what might that be?"

"I want to hire you and your crew. And I'm willing to pay you a lot of money for your trouble, over half a million dollars in fact."

"Half a
million
. You must be joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Zora took a sip of beer. She felt a slow rage building inside her, but said nothing.

"Let me spell it out for you. First, there's a cash payment, one hundred fifty grand, half up front, the other half upon completion of the assignment. Second, I'll cover the cost of your one-time fishing license, the IFQ, I believe you call it. That would be another three hundred thousand, if I'm not mistaken."

Jesus,
w
hat's with this guy?

The Independent Fishing Quota ran her ten dollars a pound for a thirty thousand pound quota. There was no way he could have known that number without greasing some palms at NOAA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

And how did he get to them?

"On top of that," he added. "I'll pay off the note on your boat, get the bankers off your back. I understand things have been rather tough up here lately, for you and everybody else."

Zora shifted uncomfortably in her chair. He was right again. She'd hauled in less than a ton of herring on her last run, nowhere near her allotment. "How the
hell
do you know all this?"

"Let's just say the people I work for are very good at what they do," the man said, preening a bit. He then reached for his brief case, opened it, and pulled out a green folder. "During my layover in Juneau, I downloaded this dossier on you. Rather impressive, wouldn't you say? There was so little time to pull it together."

Zora's face flushed red with anger. She tried to process this, reign in her emotions, hold off from decking the guy. "Look, I don't know what your game is, mister, but I don't like it.
Nobody
shells out that kind of cash to go sport fishing. So, the only other thing this can be about is smuggling dope, which means you've got yourself the wrong girl. I don't
do
drugs. I don't
deal
drugs. And I sure as hell don't
smuggle
drugs."

"No, I can assure you it has nothing to do with anything of the kind."

Zora took another long pull from the stein, never lifted her eyes off him. "Okay, you've got sixty seconds."

"They warned me you were a handful."

"Fifty."

"Okay, look, here's the deal. I need you to capture a whale."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. A
killer
whale, to be precise. Big one, at least five tons."

Zora threw him an incredulous look and for several moments they sat unmoving, like enemies glaring across the battlefield. Then she pulled a twenty dollar bill from her pocket and slapped it on the table. "Sorry, pal, you've
still
got the wrong girl. But let me give you a little advice, okay?" She slammed her elbows down, flashing her middle finger. "Number one, you don't go out and capture an orca for sport, like you would, say, a marlin or a sword." Next, she held up an index finger. "Number two, it's not only illegal, it's immoral. And even if it wasn't, you do not mess with an animal that powerful. Killer whales eat great whites for breakfast. I don't suppose
that
was part of your dossier?"

The man held her gaze but remained quiet.

"Didn't think so. You might try talking to the Japanese whalers, though. The words moral and illegal aren't in their goddamn playbook."

"I appreciate the tip, captain, but that option's already been ruled out. Same goes for the Russians. Now I need an answer."

Zora felt a wave of anger roll through her body.

What part of
"
no
"
doesn't this idiot get?

"We're done here," she said, pushing back hard from the table.

The man reached out, grabbed her forearm.

Zora instantly jumped to her feet, yanked her arm free. "Try that again, asshole, and I'll knock you into yesterday." The sudden commotion caught the eye of two bad-boy dart players who seemed ready to pounce on the stranger. Zora waved them off.

"Look," he said, straitening his collar. "I get that you're not for sale, captain. I respect that. I really do. But what about those poor orphans? Are you telling me they don't need the money?"

Zora threw him another fierce look, inched back into her seat. "What did you say?"

He leafed through the file, pulled out a sheet of paper. "It's all right here. Says you went to Nepal in 1998, at which time you met the Dalai Lama. A few years later, one of the villages you visited became overrun by Maoist insurgents. Terrible slaughter, lots of children orphaned. So you returned, befriended a young girl named Nasha. Like many of her friends, the little urchin was living on the streets, scavenging for food. No chance of ever getting an education, of course." The man hiked an eyebrow. "How am I doing so far?"

Zora gave him a cold stare, her heart thundering in her chest. Getting to the Feds was one thing—their hands were always out—but how in hell did he ever find out about her charity work? She'd been told that that information was strictly confidential, kept under lock and key.

"So you vowed to build a children's home, provide all the basic needs—food, clothing, books, healthcare, and the like. The price tag was one hundred fifty grand, enough to cover the architectural, construction, and start-up costs. You had absolutely no idea where the money would come from but then fate intervened. Or, should I say the publisher at
Vanity Fair
? He agreed to cover all those costs and then some, in exchange for exclusive rights to that high-seas adventure of yours. And the stunning photo spread, of course. Very noble of you, captain."

Zora shook her head, disgusted. She was going to mention that the transaction had been executed anonymously, through a private trust, but figured why waste her breath. He already knew that.

"Everybody came out a winner, right?" he added, seeming to enjoy the moment. "The building got built, and the magazine scored a fabulous scoop."

"You're one sick son of a bitch, you know that?"

The man narrowed his eyes, stiffened his spine. "Look, if you don't want the money, think of what it could do for the
kids
?"

"We'll manage without the likes of you. Now, I really need to go." Zora stared at the man for a long moment, caught something different in his eyes, something she hadn't noticed before. Disappointment? Resignation? A bit of empathy, maybe? It was hard to say.

"I'm afraid not, captain." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. He then pulled another sheet of paper from the bottom of the stack, slid it across the table like it was a dinner menu.

Zora took one look and was immediately welded to her chair, a stab of terror coursing through her body. "My
mother
. What the—"

"Don't worry, she's fine, for the time being anyway."

"You fucking bastard!"

"Look," he said, leaning hard on the table. "I don't like this any more than you do, okay? I really don't. Now why don't we go for that walk, work this thing out civilly."

Zora heard the man's words, but they didn't register, not really. Her world had suddenly taken a dizzying, dark turn that felt heavy, suffocating. She sat for a long moment, her eyes on fire. Then she jumped to her feet, grabbed her poncho from the chair, and bolted for the front door. As she left the building, the kilted firefighters launched into a lively rendition of
Scotland the Brave
.

Chapter 13

29 March, 6:15 PM AKDT

Sitka, Alaska

Zora moved briskly down Katlian Street, the town's main drag, the buttery smell of popcorn wafting up from a rolling food cart parked on the corner. The busy road twisted along the waterfront, a ramshackle collection of shops, canneries, and warehouses that had once been the heart of Sitka's thriving commercial fishing industry. Those heady times were long gone, though at the end of the day, most everyone's attention still turned to the sea, out where the fishing boats finished their work and began the tedious journey home.

A block north of the bar, she stopped in front of a rusted-out old building, its faded metal sign hanging precariously by one hinge. It made an annoying, high-pitched squeaking sound, like fingernails raked over a chalkboard. A few other hardy souls wandered by, braving the heavy drizzle. Otherwise, the sidewalks were empty.

Zora felt dead inside, wasn't exactly sure how to play this. She thought about her mother, how two years earlier, a vibrant, youthful woman of seventy-two began misplacing things. Answers to simple questions could no longer be brushed aside as "senior moments." Over time, Stella Flynn became a helpless prisoner to memories lost, her mind a terrible tangle of confusion, her past a mystery.

A battery of behavioral assessments and cognitive tests had followed.

The diagnosis: "Primary degenerative dementia of the Alzheimer's type."

There was no cure.

Zora arranged for live-in help, even moved in with her mother for a while. Some days, Stella would tease with a twinkle and a wry comeback, but mostly she remained a complete stranger. The disease eventually progressed beyond the moderate stage with no way to avoid the inevitable—an assisted living residence. Tranquility Manor was pleasant enough, the staff compassionate and professional. The location, in central Utah, was similar to the scenic mountainous terrain of Stella's beloved Idaho. And that was fine too. Yet for Zora, the picture that had formed in her mind was dark and absent all hope. Burning with shame and guilt, she had sobbed for hours after leaving her bewildered mother behind at the home. It was the final stop on a tortured journey.

All that came back to her now as the man approached.

Zora turned to him with fire in her eyes. "Okay, what do you want?"

"Is that question really necessary, captain? What I
want
is an answer."

Zora clenched her teeth, shot daggers into his eyes. She felt a flash of rage unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. Something deep inside her seemed to snap like a piano wire. "Listen, you hurt my mother in any way and I swear it's the last goddamn thing you'll ever do. I'm telling you—" She caught herself, refusing to give in to her anger, or fear.

"I can assure you, captain, no harm will come to your mother. Certainly not if you agree to our proposal."

There was that look again, not exactly an apology but something that seemed close. She wasn't sure what to make of it.

The man continued. "Listen, I read about the facility where your mother is living. From what I can tell, it seems like a rather pleasant little community."

"It's not a community, it's a home," Zora said, toning down her anger a bit. "And Mother's in the assisted living program." She flashed to better times, on the wonderful stories her mother used to tell about her younger days, back when her name was Stella Featherstone, long before her name became Flynn, long before she became mom. Then reality slammed that door shut. "Living
hell,
if you ask me."

"Yes, terrible disease, that Alzheimer's," the man noted. "She's quite a lady, your mother, at least she was in her younger days, anyway."

Zora began moving again, quickening the pace. The man hustled to keep up. "Yeah, I'm sure you know all about
her,
too."

He shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Yes, captain, I do my homework." Then he proceeded to tell just how well he'd done it. "Her name is Stella. She's a retired English teacher, seventy-four years old. Quite the athlete at one time, wasn't she? Among her many accomplishments, she was one of the first women to navigate the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon." He hesitated as if undecided about what to say next. "Your father was no slouch either.
His
name was Zach, a gentleman farmer and Idaho river runner."

Zora closed her eyes, felt a suffocating pressure, like she was being sucked into a black hole. She wanted to cut the man's throat, bit her lower lip instead.