He went below and crawled into the forward bunk. If anyone came for him, they could find him here.
In seconds, he was asleep.
When he woke, the cabin was filled with moonlight. He got up, threw water on his face in the sink, then went on deck.
The marina was 1 a.m. quiet. He could hear faint music and television noise coming from some of the boats, but the pier was empty.
He unplugged and stowed the power hookup, cast off the lines, started the engines. Reversing out of the slip, he turned on his running lights. Once in the seaway, he steered northwest, opened the throttle, and felt the engines respond. Soon, the lights of the island were out of sight. High above, the moon was the color of bone.
Forty-Six
After she dressed, Tracy made coffee, brought the mug outside. It was 9 a.m., the grass still damp, a low fog in the woods.
The uniform in the New Hope cruiser was talking on a cellphone. He looked at her, and she waved to let him know everything was all right. He went back to his call.
The rental Honda the insurance company had given her was parked alongside the house. She leaned against the fender, got out her cell, checked her messages for the fourth time that morning. No missed calls. She scrolled down to Devlin’s number. Her thumb lingered over Redial.
The phone buzzed alive. She almost dropped it, spilled coffee as she fumbled it to her ear.
“You sleeping in?” Alysha said.
“Just getting organized. Heading out soon.”
“Be ready to work. Things are hopping.”
“What?”
“Word from D.C. is at least three senators are going to call for a select committee to investigate Unix and its government contracts. Maybe a special prosecutor as well. Twenty minutes ago, a fax came through from Harlin’s office. He’s suspending his reelection campaign. My bet, he resigns by the weekend.”
“Let me guess. To spend more time with his family.”
“His words exactly. You’d think they’d have come up with a better go-to cliché by now.”
“Dominoes,” Tracy said.
“Falling fast.”
“Anything new from Virginia?”
“Eric says still no sign of Kemper, and he’s not the only one looking. Said the house was crawling with law—state and federal. He couldn’t get past the gate. Any word from Devlin?”
“Not yet.”
“Farrow and four of his men turn up dead, and our guy’s in the wind. I wish I were as confident as you those two things are unrelated.”
“Doesn’t feel right. Something else was going on there. I don’t think he was involved.”
“Think or hope?”
“Both.” Wishing she felt as sure as she sounded.
“Rick says if he doesn’t turn up, one of us needs to go down there and look for him.”
“In Florida?”
“Yeah. I told him in that case, it should be you. Any other angles you can think of we should be chasing?”
“I gave Dwight Malloy the Bahamas address we found. I felt like we owed him something. Or at least I did. He said he’d pass it on.”
“My guess is the feds will send someone down there. Why do I feel none of this is going to end well?”
“Your unerring reporter’s instincts. Tell Rick I’m on my way.”
In the car, her phone buzzed again, a number she didn’t recognize. She put the call on speaker.
“Hello? Is this Tracy Quinn?” A young woman’s voice.
“It is.”
“Hi, Tracy. This is Samantha Battle from Action Ten News? Great stories this week. We’re doing a spot on our five-thirty, following up on Unix Technologies, and how it’s connected—if it’s connected—to those shootings in town a while back.”
“You should be talking to Alysha Bennett,” Tracy said. “She’s the main reporter on the story now. You can reach her at the Observer.”
“I’ve tried. She wasn’t very cooperative.”
“Keep trying,” Tracy said. “But I don’t think I can help you.”
“Actually, what we’re most interested in is your own story, of how you were attacked. What you wrote is just so compelling. I’m sure our viewers would love to know more. Could you come down to the station today, talk about it on camera? It would be great exposure for you.”
“Not interested. But thanks.”
“We can take care of transportation and any—”
“No, really. Thanks, though.”
“Can I ask why?”
“I just don’t think I’m up for it.”
“Why are you print people so hard to get along with?”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re all on the same team, aren’t we? Why do you always act like you’re better than us? No wonder newspapers are failing.”
Tracy had to laugh. “Samantha,” she said. “You have no idea.”
By 10 a.m., the Higher Tide was back in its slip. Devlin was exhausted, but too wired to sleep. He activated his phone, saw six missed calls, five from Tracy Quinn. The sixth was a local exchange, a number he didn’t know.
He got Quinn’s number on screen, hit Callback. She picked up on the first ring.
“You’re alive,” she said.
“More or less.”
He could hear voices around her, ringing phones.
“When you go missing like that,” she said, “you get people worried. Especially me.”
“Sorry. Decided to take a little trip. Didn’t know I needed permission.”
“A trip? In the middle of all this? This broke big, in case you didn’t see. Just about every media outlet in the country’s been calling us. Has anyone tried to contact you?”
“Not yet. But I think I’m done being a source for anyone for a while.”
“This thing’s nowhere near over.”
“Maybe it is, for me.”
“You don’t get away that easy,” she said. “I’ve still got a cop parked outside my house at night.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Are you in Florida?”
“Why?”
“Don’t disappear on us again. You need to stay in touch.”
“I will. You know how to reach me.”
“And don’t do anything foolish.”
“Too late for that,” he said.
After they disconnected, he clicked through to his last voice mail. It was from Dr. Stefano at the walk-in clinic on Singer Island, asking him how he was, reminding him to come into the office to go over his X-ray results and blood work. He touched his shoulder. Soon he’d have another scar to show her.
He got the Percocets from the galley drawer, popped one with a palmful of water. It felt like a deep ache had settled into his whole body.
He went down into the bow bunk, stretched out. As he started to drift, he thought again about the doctor. What was her first name? Deandra. He remembered her perfume. Something like violets.
Forty-Seven
When she found Devlin, he was on the deck of his boat, shaking ice into a cooler. Two days since she’d spoken with him, her calls going right to voice mail. She’d caught an early flight from Philly to West Palm that morning, picked up a rental car, and driven to Riviera Beach.
“You should answer your phone,” she said.
He squinted up at her on the dock, shook in the rest of the ice, closed the cooler lid. “Sorry.”
“Surprised to see me?”
“Not really.” He brushed ice from his hands. “How’d you find me?”
“I’m a reporter, remember? You said you’d stay in touch. I took you at your word.”
“What can I do for you?”
“We’re still looking for Roland Kemper.”
“Can’t help you with that.”
“They found four bodies on an island he owned in the Bahamas. But not his. Has the FBI contacted you?”
“No, why?”
“They’re assisting the Bahamian police. If you haven’t heard from them yet, you wi
ll.”
“It’ll be a short conversation. I have nothing to tell them.”
“Anything you want to tell me?”
“Like I said on the phone, I think I’m done with all that.”
A woman came out from the cabin. “Ray, where’s the—” She stopped when she saw Tracy. “Oh, I’m sorry. Hello.”
The woman was a little older than her. Long black hair with a streak of silver. She wore shorts and a halter top.
“Hi,” Tracy said.
“Tracy, this is Deandra. She’s a doctor. Deandra, this is Tracy. She’s a reporter.”
“A reporter,” the woman said. “That must be interesting.”
“Every minute of the day,” Tracy said. “You going on a trip?”
“Just a run down to the Keys,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t help you more.”
“You know I don’t give up that easily, right?”
“I do.”
“We’re still working on this story. And you’re still part of it.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But not today.”
“I have your cell number. And if you change it, I’ll find your new one.”
“I don’t doubt you will.”
Tracy looked at the woman, then back at Devlin, and said, “Safe travels.”
“You too,” he said, and then she turned and walked back to her car.
Devlin watched her go, knowing everything she’d said was true, that he hadn’t seen the last of her.
“What was that all about?” Deandra said.
“Nothing to do with me,” he said. “Not anymore.”
Tracy got back in her rental. All this way for nothing, she thought. Maybe she’d try to get down to the Bahamas, do as much reporting from there as she could. She needed to regroup, think it through.
On the console, her cellphone began to buzz. When she answered, a woman said, “Is this Tracy Quinn?”
“Who’s this?”
“My name’s Amanda Dutton. I’m from the Washington Post, and I—”
“I don’t think I can help you,” Tracy said. “And anyway, the person you want to speak with is Alysha Bennett. You can reach her at—”
“No, actually it’s you I’d like to talk to.”
“Why?”
“Sorry, I should have been more clear. I’m the Post’s senior editor for Recruitment and Development. We’d like you to come in, meet with a few of our editors, maybe talk about some job opportunities.”
“Job opportunities?”
“Yes, we’ve been following your work in the Observer. I can’t promise anything, but we’d like to talk at least, see if you might be a good fit here. If you’re interested, that is.”
Tracy said nothing.
“Hello? You still there?”
“Yes.”
“Thought I’d lost you for a moment.”
“No,” Tracy said. “I’m still here.”
“Can we schedule a visit for sometime next week? What day would be good for you?”
“Any day,” Tracy said. She felt herself smiling. “Any day at all.”
Devlin steered the Pacemaker out of the inlet, headed south. Deandra sat on a deck chair, her eyes closed, face turned toward the sun.
The port engine started to miss. He gave it a little more throttle and the noise faded. The sky was cloudless, the water calm.
He thought about Bell, waiting on the dock for him, the day it had all begun. Roarke at the bar, the look in his eyes when Devlin had first walked in. Chase on the boat as they headed out to the island, moving silently over the night sea. All of them gone now.
“Everything okay?” she said.
He turned to look at her. She was watching him.
“Something crossed your face,” she said. “Like you were someplace else for a while. Someplace bad.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m right here. Where I want to be.”
She sat back, closed her eyes again. “This is nice.”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Josh Kendall, Nicky Guerreiro, Reagan Arthur, and everyone else at Mulholland Books/Little, Brown for helping me bring this one home. Thanks also to my agents, Robin Rue and Joel Gotler, for their patience and support.
About the Author
Wallace Stroby is an award-winning journalist and the author of seven previous novels, four of which feature Crissa Stone, the professional thief dubbed “crime fiction’s best bad girl ever.” His first novel, The Barbed-Wire Kiss, was a Barry Award finalist for best debut novel. A native of Long Branch, New Jersey, he’s a lifelong resident of the Jersey Shore. Visit his website at wallacestroby.com and follow him on Twitter @wallacestroby.
Also by Wallace Stroby
The Devil’s Share
Shoot the Woman First
Kings of Midnight
Cold Shot to the Heart
Gone ’Til November
The Heartbreak Lounge
The Barbed-Wire Kiss
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