The People, his people, had lived here, fished these waters, walked these beaches, for thousands of years. Like them, he had come to love and respect this world. He knew every bay, every cove and every inlet, not only by its shape and depth, but by its scent and the rhythm of its swells. He knew what lived there and where it lived. He knew the pattern of the seasons and the surge of the tides.
There were mornings when the tendrils of mist rising from the water wrapped around him and almost stole his breath with their soft caress. When the frolicking play of a family of river otters held him rapt and spellbound. When the wheeling flight of a flock of gulls, pure white against a hard blue sky, made his heart sing.
There were evenings when the canopy of stars, brilliant against the black depth of the night, shone so brightly that it frosted the trees with silver light and lit the ground around him.
There were days when the orcas leaped from the ocean, huge and magnificent, water sheeting from their smooth, muscular bodies, and his world stilled in awe.
Like his ancestors, and like the creatures he shared this land with, he too killed, but only for food, and he wasted nothing. He had learned long ago, on the harsh asphalt streets of the city, that violence was never an answer. And this was violence. Of that he was completely sure.
Claire shared his world and shared his appreciation of it. A white girl from a different culture, she had effortlessly gained his respect with her warmth and her work and her simple lifestyle. Her values echoed his own and those of his people. She had given him the gift of her friendship when few others would have considered it. He would not turn away from her now.
Whether or not Claire was still alive, he had to find her. He had to find out who was doing this. He had to find out why. Most of all, he had to get his world back into balance and restore the harmony that was both his sanctuary and his birthright.
He had left Dan and Annie last night, slipping away into the darkness. They all agreed that he should be the one to continue the search for Claire. She would not be likely to respond to a stranger in a strange boat, and Walker had an intimate knowledge of the waters and currents and hidden coves of this crowded archipelago that no chart or GPS could possibly duplicate. Dan would check out the black ship for himself. He could easily plot a course that would take Dreamspeaker past Shoal Bay and, because he had already been seen and had spoken with the two men in the inflatable, his presence should not raise an alarm.
Dan had given Walker a hand-held marine radio he said was tuned to some restricted duplex channel, saying it was a hangover from his time on the force and was only accessible to the police and from the single-sideband radio he had on board Dreamspeaker. Walker didn’t know anything about radios, but he liked the idea that he and Dan could use it to talk without risk of being overheard, while Dan had said he liked the idea that Walker could call for help if needed. At the same time, Dan cautioned him against using it unless it was really important. If the marine police were near enough to hear it, they would not be pleased, and they would ask some hard questions about how Walker had come to have it. Dan said he figured he could come up with a story that would cover his ass, but he would rather he didn’t have to. Walker understood his caution but wondered again about the pain he had seen on Dan’s face when he talked about his former career.
He found himself relieved to know that Dan was no longer on the force. He had not been entirely comfortable with the idea of the police coming in, but he knew he could not take on the black ship alone. Plus, he had figured he could disappear once Claire had been found. Now he didn’t have to worry about it. Dan was just a friend who would try to keep an eye on the black ship and could help out if needed. And although it felt strange, Walker had to admit he felt good about having a friend, someone to talk to and call on.
Now he let the rhythm of the waves work their magic on his spirit. He had not slept. Once dusk had stolen the last of the light and the horizon had merged the ocean with the sky, he’d angled his canoe out into the current and let it carry him toward his destination. As the sun rose higher, he moved in closer to shore and started to chant in time with his paddle.
Ahead of him a fish jumped, breaking the surface of the water. As he watched, an image of Sisiutl, the three-headed sea serpent, formed in the waves. Walker remembered the carved cedar mask that hung on the wall in his mother’s house. That Sisiutl was painted in intricate patterns of red, green, and black. This Sisiutl was formed from ripples of silver water, but it was still Sisiutl. The legends said the serpent had once transformed himself into an invincible war canoe to help an ancestor. Perhaps he had come to help again. Walker hoped so. One glance from the serpent could turn an adversary into stone.
Dan hauled anchor before dawn. The moon was low, its pale light illuminating the faint mist that rose off the water to float like layers of gauze above it. He wanted to reach Shoal Bay just before sunrise, when there was barely enough light to see. Experience told him that was the best time to catch people unaware. It was also the best time as far as the explanation he had come up with went. If he was really heading back south as he had told the two men at Annie’s boat, he would certainly start out early.
He debated trying to call Mike but decided against it. Even if he could reach him via the satellite phone, his ex-partner wouldn’t be able to do much. Without hard facts, he would find it impossible to convince the brass to send anyone up. Dan was no longer a member of the force—he had quit more than six months ago. That wasn’t a long time, but it was long enough to make him an outsider, and any information he provided would be suspect. He didn’t doubt Walker’s story, but there were too few details. Maybe once he had seen the black ship for himself he would have something more.
He slowed the engines long before he reached Shoal Bay, staying well out in mid-channel. It was important that nothing seem unusual, although simply being seen was not really a concern. He set the radar to close range and switched on the recorder. It would not give him enough detail to positively identify the black ship again later, but it would help.
As soon as he passed the eastern point of the bay, he knew all his efforts were wasted. The wharf was empty. The black ship had left. Shoal Bay was deserted.
Dan swung the wheel over hard. He had no idea if or when the black ship would return, and there were still the men in the inflatable to worry about, but he could always say he just wanted to see if they had found their friend. Besides, this was an opportunity to check out the sounds Walker had heard. From the description he had given, the small boats had been going from the ship to the shore. They had to have been unloading something.
He turned Dreamspeaker so she was bow out and tied her to the wharf. If he hurried, he could use the dinghy to explore the shore before the sun rose high enough to steal the shadows from the bay. That gave him at least a small sense of security.
The tide was low, exposing the gravel beach. He cruised slowly along it, from the head of the bay to the outer point, but saw nothing out of place. Then he reversed his course and tried again a few feet farther out but with the same result. It didn’t make sense. He needed to talk to Walker again. Try to figure out what he was doing wrong.
The first rays of the sun were hitting the water as he turned back toward Dreamspeaker. They reflected off a row of small black buoys that floated just below the surface. No wonder he had not seen them. He let the dinghy drift up to them and peered down through the clear water. At the base of each tether was something dark. Maybe a metal box or cylinder. He reached down and cautiously tugged at one of the buoys. Whatever was down there was too heavy to be easily lifted. He was going to need help.
EIGHT
Claire huddled under a tree as the shore emerged from night. A leaf, mottled gold and brown, drifted down to settle on her shoulder. Summer was over and the chill of fall was in the air. It had been three days now. Three days and three nights. She had no food left. The few cookies and handful of dried fruit had long since been eaten, although she had twice managed to
refill her water bottle. She was hungry, she was tired, she was cold, and she was trapped. She was also lost.
She had spent the first day hiding in the rocks, too frightened to stray far from her kayak. Twice she had heard the sound of an outboard. The first time it had come in slowly, moving very close to shore. Like a child trying to will the bogeyman away, she had closed her eyes. Even after the sound of the motor had faded, she did not move until the agony of cramped muscles forced her to.
The second time was late the same afternoon. She had crept up into the trees when she heard it. This time the boat was moving fast and its wash slammed onto the shore, dislodging rocks and driftwood. She had only caught a quick glimpse of the occupants, but that was enough. There could not be another man with hair that white. Her stomach heaved as a cold claw of fear gripped it. The fear was so intense it brought bile to her throat, and she fought off a wave of nausea. This could not be happening. She felt disoriented, alone in a strange world that no longer made sense. She crawled back into the rocks and huddled there until darkness fell again. Then she made her way back to the kayak.
Early the next morning, long before the sun was up, her body aching and her brain numb, she forced herself to lift the kayak from its hiding place. It was impossible not to make noise and she winced at each sound, but she could not stay there any longer.
Once on the water, she headed southeast. In the dark, she couldn’t distinguish detail or judge how fast the current was pushing her, but by the time the sun rose she was in a tangle of tiny islets.
She had to get off the water before it got fully light. The first opportunity was a narrow gap between some rocks. It was barely wide enough to allow the kayak through, but at least it gave her some protection. Ahead was a bare hump of surf-washed rock where a single contorted tree clung to life. Exhausted, she clambered up to the flattest point and lay down. Surely they would never find her here.
They didn’t. But she heard them, the sound of the outboard motor swelling and fading as they searched, and the sick fear stayed with her. She ate the last of her food and rationed her water knowing there was no more to be found here. The rain the storm had dumped had long since drained off and there was only a thin layer of drying seaweed and a few barnacles beneath her. She would have to move again, but with the dinghy still searching, that was impossible until dark. She had never felt more alone and vulnerable. Nothing in her life—not her education or her work—had prepared her for anything like this. She knew she had to get the fear under control and start thinking rationally but had no idea where to start.
She heard the motor again about an hour after sunset. And then again two hours after that. Surely they would not search all night. She pressed herself against the damp rock and willed herself into stillness.
Unbelievably, she slept, but it was a brief sleep filled with nightmarish images, and she woke sweating and cold. In the darkest hours of early morning, her head throbbing, her body sore, and her belly empty, she slid back down to the kayak, squeezed it back through the narrow gap, and felt the tiny boat turn into the current. There was a darker smudge against the darkness ahead. If she could reach it, and if there were trees and soil, perhaps there would also be a creek. Not that she had a choice. This was the way the current ran, and she did not have the energy to fight it. Besides, she needed the speed it would give her. If she was caught out in open water when the men came again, there would be no need for water. Or for anything else.
Four hours later the tiny boat slid up onto a narrow ledge. Summoning her last dregs of energy, she dragged it up into a cluster of trees and stumbled toward a shallow cleft where she hoped and prayed rainwater might have collected. When she saw the tiny pool fringed by a green ring of moss and fern, she collapsed beside it and wept.
By noon, she had managed to claw her way up a small rise that gave her a view to the east. Instead of the channel she had hoped for, where she might be able to attract help, there were only more islands. And in among them, in a small bay almost hidden from view, was a black ship.
The day had barely started when Dan left Shoal Bay. Once again he debated calling Mike but decided against it. There were still too many unanswered questions. Too many loose ends.
He checked his charts and picked a tiny indentation on the coast of an island a few miles south of Spider Island and Shoal Bay. It would be close enough for Walker to reach and too small for something the size of the black ship to anchor. Walker did not carry charts, but Dan was confident he could give him clear enough directions when they were needed.
He thought about Walker as he steered Dreamspeaker through the labyrinth of islands and passes. He realized that he admired the man. Admired what he had done with his life. Not the early stuff. Not the B&Es. There was nothing to admire there, but it wasn’t important: he was just a kid lost in the city. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, but few managed to turn their lives around the way Walker had done. He was different. Dan had sensed it then. Saw it now. There was an inner core. A steel thread that ran through him. A knowledge and awareness of himself and an acceptance of who and what he was. That knowledge had grown into a belief that sustained him.
Dan tried to imagine the kind of courage it would have taken to go from convicted thief to the quiet, confident man he had just met. Perhaps the admiration he felt came from the belief that he could not have done it himself. Hell, he could barely function now, and it was more than a year since he had lost Susan.
Even as he thought of it, he felt the familiar shaft of grief. She had been his anchor. No matter what his day had brought, he had known she would be there at the end of it. He had clung to that knowledge in the midst of the worst times, when nothing seemed to make sense and the sound of gunfire and racing engines and screaming almost overwhelmed his sanity.
He had always enjoyed his work on the force, first on the street and then as a detective, but when the opportunity to move into the anti-terrorist squad appeared, he didn’t hesitate. He savored the challenge of out-thinking his opponents, enjoyed the thrill of the chase, delighted in the adrenalin rush it provided. Truth be told, he loved the danger. It was a natural high that had been addicting. Riding the edge, nerves taut, blood pumping, feeling the thrill. Then coming down with the rest of the guys over a few cold ones. Or more than a few. Then he met Susan.
She had been twenty-eight, three years younger than him. A teacher working at a school for the deaf. She had come to the station to help question a witness, a profoundly deaf boy who used sign language to communicate. She was small and dark, her black hair pulled back in a failed effort to control an unruly mass of curls. He was attracted to her looks, but it was her personality that entranced him: a mix of intense energy and languid grace. She was vivacious, outgoing, and confident, but she channeled it all into a gentle warmth that immediately put the boy—and everyone else—at ease.
He phoned her the next day and asked her out for coffee. The day after that it was dinner. Within a week he was spending every possible minute with her. Three weeks later he was a fixture in her house, and two months after that, they were married.
She sold her apartment and they bought a house together. Suddenly he found himself spending all his time off painting and sanding, working on projects he had never bothered with before. Together they searched second-hand stores for furniture. On those rare summer afternoons when he wasn’t working, they would sit in the garden, relaxing in the shade of a huge crab-apple tree. He was happy. Content in a way he had never known and never expected. He had the best of both worlds.
Not once did he imagine that any part of the job could reach her. Not once did he consider that the violence he sparred with every day could touch her. Until it did. And then it was too late.
He tried to survive it. He told himself that she would want him to continue working. He could even hear her voice telling him it was not his fault. That he was one of the good guys. That his job was important. But none of it worked. After eight months of trying, he put in his res
ignation.
He had already sold the house. He couldn’t go back to it. He couldn’t stand the thought of opening the door. Even to turn the corner to the street brought back memories of the evening he had found her sprawled across the table, her white dress dark with blood. He’d spent the months after her death crashing in hotels or sleeping in his car. He drank too much and ate too little. He avoided friends and colleagues alike.
It was Mike who had finally pulled him out of it. He had found Dan in a pub one night and taken him back to his apartment. The next morning he had fed him breakfast and driven him down to a marina. He knew Dan’s love of the ocean. Knew much of his childhood had been spent on a fishing boat. Knew that a boat might be something that could give Dan back a sense of purpose. Maybe even give him a reason to live again.
Even sitting neglected at the dock, the boat they found was perfect. She had wide decks, a high bow, and a graceful sheer. A conversion from fish packer to pleasure boat was more than half finished, and it had added bronze ports below deck, a wide teak cap rail, and an extended cabin. And there was even a faded For Sale sign tacked on her hull.
Despite his depression, Dan could not resist her. He and Susan had dreamed of sailing down the coast to Mexico. This boat would have been perfect. He bought her that same day, and two days later he moved the few belongings he still owned aboard. Mike checked in on him every few days, brought food, and stocked the galley. On days off, he brought some of the other guys from the squad to help with the work.
Dan threw himself into finishing the conversion. He used the money he got from the house to equip her the way he wanted. Only thirty-seven, his sixteen years on the force had given him a small pension. That, plus his savings, would be enough to live on. The rest he put into the boat.
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