“What do you need?” Nicole asks.
I read out the number. “I need to know where that phone is. Now.”
“On it.”
I start driving north, toward Daly City, toward Kenny Pao’s place. It’s all I can think of, because I know they’re not in Guerneville. Daly City doesn’t feel right either. But where?
I’m on I-280, going ninety-five miles per hour, fat raindrops pelting the windshield when Nicole calls back. “The phone is pinging from the same spot as the others, Lina—”
“Guerneville?”
“No, not there. The other spot. Right where Ivy and John Murphy’s phones were on the day the kid showed up. From the middle of the ocean. The exact same spot.”
With horror, it dawns on me. A different stage set. “I need the GPS coordinates.”
“They took another kid?”
“They took my son.” I screech across three lanes to take the next exit at Skyline.
“Shit. Sending now.”
Focus. “Can you send me coordinates every five minutes? I need to know if he moves.”
“I think so.”
“Make it happen. Please.”
“I will.”
I press the gas pedal harder, weaving in and out of traffic. I need a boat.
I use voice activation to call a dozen people who might be able to help. I call Timofey, George’s Russian friend from the Dolphin Club. I call Kyle’s personal phone. Why is no one answering? I head toward Pillar Point Harbor. Maybe I can rent something, a fishing boat, a charter, a dinghy, anything. Finally, my phone rings. Twelve frantic messages I’ve left on twelve different phones, and it is Timofey who calls me back.
“Lina.” The sound of his voice, that distinctive voice—professional, a former Russian intelligence officer, a man who knows how to get things done—gives me hope. “I got your message. Are you ready to copy?”
“Ready.”
“I have a friend. Let’s call him Ivan. He will meet you at the pier in El Granada. He is waiting now. Slip ninety-three. The boat is named Odessa Dream.”
“Timofey, thank you.”
“It is my pleasure.”
The tires of the Jeep squeal as I speed down the backside of the San Bruno Mountain into Pacifica, through the Montara tunnel. Another text comes in from Nicole, another set of coordinates. They’re moving out, farther into the ocean. At the pier, I skid into a parking spot and grab my bag. At slip ninety-three, a short man with dyed black hair is standing in the rain beside a fishing boat, the name in cursive across the back, Odessa Dream. A small, well-worn, working boat. There are deep-sea rods stacked all along the back rails.
“I’m Lina—”
“Names are not important,” he says with a halting accent. Ukrainian, I think. “You are a friend of Timofey.” He motions me onto the boat, unties us from the dock.
“Coordinates?” he asks, moving toward the wheelhouse. I read out the second set from Nicole. Ivan steers us out of the harbor. Once we’re pointed toward the deep sea, he pushes the throttle to full and consults his charts. It’s cold and windy, the boat bouncing wildly on the choppy waves. My stomach lurches, my mind flashing back to a brutal week I spent on a trawler off Long Island, dragging the ocean for airplane parts and worse. All those body parts, bones in the sand being dragged to the surface. All these cases from my past, following me like ghosts.
Focus. I step out of the cabin. A spray of cold, salty water hits me in the face. I move toward the front of the boat and look down the coast, but I can’t see anything. All of the other boats have already returned to the harbor, escaping the coming storm.
My phone vibrates. There’s a new text from Nicole. The phone is no longer moving. The coordinates are the same as they were ten minutes ago.
Rusty is waiting for me. He baited me, he knows I’m coming, and now he waits.
I go back inside the cabin. “What should I expect when we arrive?” There is no fear in Ivan’s voice.
“My son has a phone that pinged to these coordinates. He’s been kidnapped.”
“Hang on.”
I grab the railing to steady myself. Ivan pushes the throttle, and the boat picks up speed, lurching beneath us.
“Who are we dealing with?” Ivan’s calm demeanor tells me that this is not his first rodeo either.
“One man, working alone. Big. Mean. Armed and dangerous.”
“Okay.”
“I need you to get me close to the boat. But not too close.”
“Of course.” He returns to his charts, his depth finder, and his GPS. “Look in the hold. You will find my daughter’s wet suit. It is a little big for you and only a chill factor of five. You will not be comfortable, but you will survive.” His eyes skim over the back of my shirt, where the bulk of my holstered weapon is visible. “Freezer bags in the cupboard.”
Down below, I find several wet suits, flotation devices, an array of fishing gear and crab netting. On the wall is an old, tiny picture in a wooden frame—Ivan and a girl, his daughter. “Natalia, 1997” is scrawled in black ink across the bottom.
I struggle into the wet suit. I take my gun out and seal it in a freezer bag. Then I place the gun in the small of my back and zip the wet suit over it. I find a pair of flippers and a hoodie and return to the wheelhouse.
Ivan smiles. “No one has worn that in a very long time.” When I turn to the side, his eyes rest briefly on the bulge of the gun. “Be careful. I wouldn’t want you to get a hole in Natalia’s wet suit.” He winks.
Nicole texts again. This time, the coordinates have shifted, leading us farther out to sea. The wind whips up. We’ve been on the water for twenty-six minutes when a shape appears. Ivan slows the boat and picks up his binoculars. In the distance, several hundred yards away, is a recreational fishing vessel. Ivan turns the wheel, cuts the motor, and drops anchor. He hands me the binoculars.
“Your friend is not a fisherman.”
“No,” I say, scanning the water. “How do you know?”
“The angle, the condition of the boat, his clothes.”
I look through the viewfinder, but at first I see nothing. It’s far away, the waves are wild. I catch a flash of yellow and adjust the focus.
There.
Rusty is standing on deck, messing with something at the far end of the boat. He isn’t looking this way. I judge the distance. Swimming won’t be easy. It will take most of my strength just to get there. But I don’t want to risk going closer. I need the element of surprise.
Ivan looks at my feet. “Those fins are too small. One moment.” He heads downstairs and returns with two long fins. “For speed. They are for abalone diving. The weather will get even worse. You need to be careful. He will not see you go into the water if you do it from the rear starboard.”
“Thank you, and I’m sorry. I don’t want to make trouble for you.” Who knows what it took for him to get to this country, what it takes for him to stay here? I sense that what he’s doing for me comes with considerable risk, yet he does it without question.
“Trouble does not concern me.”
I struggle to get into the fins and the tight hoodie. The boat rocks up and down with the waves. I brace myself for the cold water, trying not to think about the vastness of the ocean, the sharks, all the unknowns. I focus only on Rory. I take two steps toward starboard, sit on the railing, and tilt backward into the sea. The icy water shocks my skin as it permeates the wet suit. As I put my head down and begin working my way toward the boat, choppy waves rise up, filling my mouth with briny water.
The long fins are difficult to maneuver at first, but after a few floundering strokes I manage a methodical, consistent motion. My speed picks up. I glance behind me to see Ivan is stacking crab pots. If it weren’t for the fact that all of the other fishing boats have gone in to escape the weather, he would look perfectly norma
l.
I keep craning up over the crest of the waves, trying to get a look at Rusty’s boat. It’s at least twice the size of Ivan’s. I don’t see Rusty. I don’t see Rory.
I pump my arms, my legs. My shoulders burn. When it feels as if my legs will give out, I turn onto my back and begin a steady backstroke. The distance between the two boats shortens. I’m moving fast, but is it fast enough? How much time do I have? Am I already too late?
Rory, please be okay.
About fifty yards out, I slow down and tread water, looking at the boat, looking for Rory. Still nothing. At the rear, a ladder is affixed to the railing.
Something brushes against my legs. Something substantial. I look around, frantically. I think of a story I read on SFGate recently about two surfers who were attacked by sharks not far from here. One survived. I peer beneath the water, looking for the phantom gray thing. The ocean is dark, impenetrable, and the cold, salty water burns my eyes.
65
If a highly infectious disease strikes a ship’s captain and officers on the open sea, what percentage of the crew must approve before the diseased officers can be thrown overboard? Discuss the ethical implications of this decision.
At twenty yards, I take one final breath, go deep, and propel myself forward. My fingers touch the boat. Relief, dread, a rush of adrenaline. I stay close to the hull. Rusty can see me only if he comes out on deck. The wind whips the waves, blowing spray into my face. The salt burns my eyes, my lungs ache. Despite the frigid water, I’m warm from the swim, my heart beating fast.
I push myself along the side of the boat toward the ladder. When I come up, I see the name of the boat written in gold cursive from one end to the other, Rodeo King, and then underneath, Bodega Harbor. I reach down to pull off the fins. I pull off the hood. I fold the ladder down into the water and hook my foot onto the bottom rung. I stay hunched down, out of view.
With my free hand, I find the dangling cord that attaches to the wet suit zipper. I pull it down just enough so that I can reach the plastic bag. Hooking one arm around the ladder, I open the bag and remove the gun. I carefully slide the gun up higher on my back, still concealed, but more easily reachable. I have only one magazine, twelve rounds, and another in the chamber. Service ammo, sealed tight, hollow point.
I pull myself up and peer across the deck. It doesn’t look like a working boat. It’s more of a yacht than a fishing outfit. The deck is spotless, scrubbed clean and waxed, slick with rain. Black vinyl seating lines both sides. Deep-sea fishing poles are attached to the deck, but they’re so pristine they’ve probably never been used. Netting and perfectly coiled ropes are arranged beside two swivel chairs. A bright yellow kettlebell attached to a metal chain rests incongruously between the chairs. The only thing on deck that looks used is the bar area. A communications antenna and a weather station line the roof. The helm is up two steps, behind a wooden door. Most likely, inside the bridge there are stairs down to one or two cabins below deck.
I climb the ladder and hoist myself up. I stay low, hoping to avoid any mirrors or cameras. I move forward, cringing every time the wet suit squeaks. I approach the door of the bridge in a crouch, grateful for the noise of the wind and the sea, the thump of the ropes, the creaking of the hull. I position myself with my feet spread shoulder width, trying to counteract the sickening, roiling motion. Other than this boat and Ivan’s far in the distance, I haven’t seen a single vessel on the water.
From the motion, it occurs to me that Rusty has dropped anchor. Across the rising waves, through the rain, I can see the empty beach in the distance. The starboard side is parallel to the beach, making the rise and fall more extreme.
Third act, just like he said. What’s the plan? I consider taking my gun out, but the timing isn’t right. Not yet. I’m 98 percent sure Rusty is in there, facing the door, waiting for me, gun drawn. Rory took the phone, but Rusty let him take it. He wanted me to follow. He is expecting me.
If this turns into a duel, Rusty owns the advantage. I can’t let bullets fly until I know where Rory is. Safety rule number three: know your target and what’s behind it. No, Rusty needs to believe I’m unarmed.
I reach out and slowly turn the door handle. I open the door a sliver and peer inside. Rusty is sitting in the captain’s chair, facing the door, just as I expected. “Don’t be shy, Lina. Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Behind him, the wheel, controls, and miles of choppy sea. But no Rory.
66
Is it quicker to travel to Africa from Florida or from Maine? Are our perceptions a tool or an obstacle?
Rusty is wearing bright yellow pants, a tight polo, and brand-new boat shoes. In his right hand, he holds a Ruger SR9. Eleven rounds if he bought it in California. He uses the gun to wave me into the room. The heat in here is a shock after the cold of the ocean, the wind.
“Come in, darling, come in. I love the wet suit. Nice costume, very authentic.”
I step through the door and into the cabin and see the source of the heat—two space heaters, one on either side of the chair. Rusty’s face is slick with sweat. On a table to his left sits a mug of coffee.
My heart jumps: there is Rory’s backpack on the counter next to a maritime chart. Beside the backpack is Rory’s iPhone and the Samsung in the orange Giants case.
“Where’s my son?”
Rusty gives me a disappointed look, the barrel of his gun trained on me. “Don’t rush me. You promised the third act would be the best. I hate to break it to you, honey, but I’m the one directing this production.”
“Is he here?” I feel the cold of my gun against my back.
“Yes, the boy is indeed here.” A pause, an evil flicker in his eyes, “Oh, he’s fine, mama, I’m no monster.” He thinks for a second. “Or am I?” His hand never leaves the Ruger. “I forgot to mention, last time we met, how absolutely beautiful that girl’s skull is. Gave me the shivers when I shaved her head. Strong personality, that one. A fighter. Do you believe in phrenology?”
“No.” I feel the rage simmering, but I must remain calm, focused.
The boat drifts, pulling against the anchor. “But I digress. Really, we’re here for one reason. I need to teach myself a lesson once and for all. The lesson is this, Lina: If you want something done right, do it yourself. It’s hardly rocket science. The more people involved, the more it will get fucked up.”
He catches my eyes. “Yes, Lina, I did my homework. L-i-n-a.”
I don’t respond.
“I’m not saying it was easy. A lesser man might’ve failed. The internet barely knows your name. You are one off-the-grid retro-chic woman. But I did a deep, deep dive, eventually learned quite a bit about you,” Rusty smiles, clearly impressed with himself. “I had to go to the microfiche. I found a ‘hometown-girl-makes-good’ story about some award you won. Cute little picture of you and W in the Rose Garden. You might be able to clean the interweb, but once something makes the local press it’s there for good. And once Rusty finds a little bone, he never lets it go!”
I nod, acknowledging Rusty’s professionalism. It seems important to him.
“Anyway,” he says. “Where was I? Oh yeah, rule number one: no moving parts. No. Moving. Parts.” He shakes his head, droplets of saliva stick to his lips. His calm demeanor has vanished. He’s more dangerous this way but also more vulnerable. More likely to make a mistake.
I glance again to the left, where Rory’s backpack and the phones lie on the counter. When Rusty notices, he smiles. “I told Rory to bring his Apple and an Android. I wanted to cover all my bases, make it easy on you. When you showed up at that spot in Guerneville where I lost my phone, I figured out your trick. Surely you know there were cameras there? Hindsight may be twenty-twenty, but true vision is digital. The miracle of technology, of course, is that all of them are watching us. Not the gubment, but the corporations. You may be my problem, darling, but you and you
r set are no longer the problem.”
“True.”
“When I dropped in at the school this morning and persuaded your son to come with me, I was delighted to see those phones, just sitting there for the taking. To be honest, I hadn’t worked out precisely how I would lure you out to the boat for act three, but the universe smiled on me.”
I’m watching Rusty, waiting for him to look away, waiting for him to take his hand off the Ruger. He doesn’t. He’s enjoying his moment in the director’s chair.
“If you’re wondering, Lina, Rory didn’t seem too compliant, looked like he was about to cause a fuss, until I showed him my friend here”—he wiggles the Ruger—“and told him I don’t have any qualms about shooting up a school.”
“I don’t think you’d go that far.” I’m stalling for time, listening for Rory. “If that’s who you were, you wouldn’t have sent the other kids back.”
“You’re right. Not my style. What would I get out of that? School shootings are so last Tuesday. And I genuinely wanted to see you again.” He raises his eyebrows. “We have unfinished business. I hate unfinished business. So, we took the phones and waited. It wouldn’t be a party without you.”
The boat is drifting sideways. When a swell hits, Rusty has to steady himself with his other hand. “The phones were clever. The rest of it was a bit Nancy Drew. The boy on the beach leads back to that dunce John Murphy, obviously. The moment I saw him on the dock, I knew I should’ve done it myself, like I did with the twins. In our line of work, is it not the golden rule?”
“It is.”
“Murphy led back to the tweaker, Travis.” Rusty looks at me, almost as if he’s trying to see if I’m impressed by his crafty detective work. The fact that he hasn’t mentioned Ivy improves my opinion of both Travis and Murphy. They didn’t give up her name.
“Which one of them do you think cried the most?” he asks.
The Wonder Test Page 31