Impact wf-3

by Douglas Preston

  Burr adopted a deep, concerned tone. "May I come in?"

  Straw stepped away from the door. He was already shaking. "Yes. Please."

  He followed Straw into the living room and took a seat, unbidden.

  "My daughter, is she all right?" Straw asked again.

  Instead of answering, Burr let an excruciating amount of time pass and then said: "Mr. Straw, what I have to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but I need your help. This is all strictly confidential, and you'll soon understand why."

  Straw's face had lost all its color. But he held his composure.

  "I'm in charge of a case involving a serial killer who's preyed on young women for years, mostly in the D.C. area but also in parts of New England. His name is Wyman Ford. He's very polished. He's good. He's got a lot of money and dresses well."

  "Ford? Wyman Ford? My daughter just took a job with a man by that name!" He rose from his chair.

  "I know that. Let me finish. What this particular perpetrator does is persuade young ladies to accept a job as his assistant. The employment is vague but involves some sort of government secrecy or classified work. He keeps them around for several weeks and then he kills them."

  "Good God, he's got my daughter!"

  "We believe she's fine. She's not in immediate danger. But we have to find her. And we have to do it quickly and quietly. When this killer has the slightest inkling someone's on to him, he kills and disappears. It's happened to me before. So we've got to be absolutely quiet and cool and move with exceeding care."

  "Oh my God, my God!" Straw paced the room, fists clenched, knuckles white. "That man gave her a job about a week ago. She went off to Washington. Then they came back and borrowed my boat. I'll kill him, the bastard."

  Pay dirt. "Borrowed your boat? Where did they go?"

  "I don't know! They took it and left me a note. I didn't actually see her. Oh my God." He clutched his head in his hands.

  "May I see the note?"

  Straw rushed into the kitchen and came back out with a piece of paper, handing it to Burr.

  Dear Dad,

  I don't quite know how to write this but I've borrowed your boat. Again. I'm really sorry. I know it doesn't sound good, but believe me it's necessary. I can't tell you where we're going but I should be back in a week or two, I hope. I'll be out of cell range but if I get a chance I'll give you a call. I'm fine, everything's fine, don't worry. Please don't tell anyone we're on the boat. I'll take good care of it.

  Love,

  Abbey

  He read the note with a furrowed brow, placed it on the side table. "That's him, all right. Do you have any guesses as to where they might have gone, or why?"

  Straw's face was contorted as he tried to speak. "North. She would have gone north. Fewer people, more islands. They have to be somewhat offshore, out in the islands, because she said they've got no cell reception. Close to shore the phones work."

  "But why? What are they doing with the boat?"

  "God only knows--you probably have a better idea than me!"

  Burr checked himself.

  "Oh my God, I can't lose my daughter!" His voice cracked. "I can't! I already lost my wife--!" He made a choking sound, coughed, trembled violently.

  Burr rose and grasped his arm. "Mr. Straw, you've got to get ahold of yourself."

  Straw nodded, swallowed.

  "You've got to trust me that I know what I'm doing. Can you do that?"

  Straw nodded dumbly.

  "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to engage us another boat--a really good one. You're going to captain it, and we'll go out there and find her together."

  "Bullshit! We've got to call the Coast Guard, get some spotter planes in the air--"

  "Absolutely not."

  He paused, letting Straw master himself.

  "If our man gets even the slightest idea we're looking for him, it's over. He'll see the Coast Guard coming a mile away, believe me, and the same goes for spotter planes flying overhead. He's smart, he's cunning, he's always got his radar on. We can't even risk telling the local police. They're not equipped to handle this. We have a much better chance of finding them, just the two of us, with your knowledge of the coast and my knowledge of criminal behavior. When we do find them, that's when we call in the cavalry. Big time. We won't go in alone. But for now, it's just you and me. You understand? And don't worry about the cost--the government will pay."

  Straw nodded. The man was breathing fast. Amazing how people just about lost their minds when it came to their children's safety. Burr was awfully glad he'd never had kids.

  "All right," said Burr, grasping his arm. "Let's get going."

  Straw nodded, his face slick with sweat. "This is a small town," he managed to say, "rumors go around fast. I better hire the boat while you stay out of sight. We don't have a moment to lose."

  "You and I are on the same wavelength now, Mr. Straw," said Burr. "Don't worry: we'll find your daughter, I promise."

  65

  Harry Burr stood on the deck of the Halcyon, watching Straw at the helm, guiding the boat at full speed through the swell. Lacking time, they had had to rent a larger, slower boat than Burr wanted, but at least it had the advantage of being seaworthy. After leaving the dock at noon, they had followed weather reports over the VHF radio, broadcasting small-craft warnings about an approaching storm. Burr wasn't sure whether a thirty-eight-foot Downeaster yacht like the Halcyon, powered by twin diesels, qualified as a small craft, but he wasn't particularly eager to test the idea.

  "Can't make the boat go any faster, can you?"

  "I'm already pushing the engine more than I should," said Straw.

  He raised a pair of binoculars for the millionth time and scanned the surrounding ocean and islands. Burr was surprised how many islands there were--dozens, maybe hundreds, not to mention rocks and reefs. Some of them were inhabited and a couple had commercial installations on them, but most were deserted. Burr shifted his gaze to the electronic chartplotter in the well-equipped pilothouse. Growing up in Greenwich, he'd spent a lot of time around boats and felt comfortable with them. Still, it had been a while. He carefully observed Straw at the helm so that he could be sure of operating the boat properly once the kill was over and he was heading back alone. The storm would give him a good excuse to explain the missing lobsterman.

  "As soon as we round the tip of that island," said Straw, "we'll have a view across the northern reach of Muscongus Bay. Get out the binocs and be ready to look."

  "We're passing a lot of islands here. How do you know they're not in a cove somewhere?"

  "We don't. We search open water first, then come back looking into coves."

  "Makes sense."

  Straw was motivated, that was for sure. His hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white, his narrow eyes constantly darting around, seeking other boats. He looked on the verge of cracking.

  "We still have plenty of time," said Burr, trying to keep his voice calm. "Don't worry. As long as they're out on the water, he won't strike. He'll need her to operate the boat."

  "I know every harbor, cove, and gunkhole from here to Isle au Haut and I swear we're going to search every one of 'em until we find her."

  "We'll find her."

  "Damn straight we will."

  Burr plucked a pack from his pocket and shook out a cigarette. The man was becoming tiresome. "Mind if I smoke?"

  Straw looked at him. His eyes were haggard, bloodshot. Poor fellow was thinking too much. "Smoke at the stern, away from the engine. Bring your binocs and keep looking."

  Burr went to the taffrail and lit up. They were rounding the point of the island and soon another vast expanse of ocean appeared to the northeast, dotted with islands. The late-afternoon sun shimmered in a golden swath across the blue water. There were several lobster boats moving to and fro, hauling their traps. He raised the binoculars and examined each one in turn.

  None were the Marea II.

  He inhaled again and wondered j
ust what Ford and the girl were up to, why they had run to sea like this. Some kind of espionage? As usual, he didn't know the real identity of his clients nor why they wanted the hard disk, which made it impossible to understand why Ford and the girl went from Brooklyn to Washington, stole a car, and drove to Maine and took a boat out on the water. All he knew was that Ford had a hard drive worth two hundred grand. And that was all he really needed to know.

  66

  Abbey pulled the Marea II up to the tiny floating dock at the Owls Head Harbor. Jackie hopped off and tied up. The harbor was deserted, a few boats at their moorings, gulls watching them from the tops of the pilings. The sun had just set and the sky was suffused with wispy orange clouds of the kind her father called mare's tails, which signified bad weather. The tiny harbor was deserted, only half a dozen boats on their moorings.

  Wyman Ford picked up his briefcase and stepped onto the creaking dock, smoothing down his rumpled suit and trying to comb his hair into place with his fingers.

  "Forget it, you still look like you're coming off a drunk," said Abbey, with a laugh. "Are you going to steal another car?"

  "I'm hoping that won't be necessary. Which way is the town?"

  "Just follow the road. Can't miss it. You better get going, storm's coming."

  "How do you know?"

  She glanced up. "Sky."

  "Stay on the island until you hear back from me. If you haven't heard anything in five days, it means I've been taken into custody. In that case, take the boat close enough to the mainland to get cell reception and call this number." He handed her a piece of paper. "He'll help you." He paused. "I've decided to go public with this information."

  "The shit'll really hit the fan if you do that."

  "It's the only way. The world's got to know." Ford took Abbey's shoulder in an affectionate grip, peering down at her from his massive frame, his unruly black hair sticking out every which way, his gray eyes steady. "Promise me you'll stay on the island and lie low. Don't go tooling around in the boat. You've got enough supplies to last you a week."

  "Will do." He squeezed her shoulder. "Good luck, Abbey. You've been a great assistant. Sorry I got you mixed up in this."

  Abbey snorted. "No problem, I enjoy stealing cars and getting shot at."

  He turned and she watched him stride up the gangplank, walk up the pier, and onto the road. After a moment his tall angular figure disappeared around a bend, and she felt a certain odd and unexpected loneliness take hold.

  "Well, there goes Mr. CIA," said Jackie. "You fuck him yet?"

  "Jackie, cut it out. He's twice my age. You've got sex on the brain."

  "Who doesn't?"

  They cast off and Jackie lit up a joint as they cleared the harbor, Abbey driving the boat slowly, enjoying the evening. The great bulk of Monroe Island loomed in front, covered with trees. A steady swell broke on Cutters Nubble, a reef beyond the southern end of the island, the cadence of the surf as regular as a slow clock. Abbey made a wide berth around the Nubble, and as they cleared it, a buttery full Moon rose over the limb of the ocean. A group of guillemots winged home low and fast across the water, like flying bullets, while an osprey, far overhead, headed back to his nest with a fish, still wiggling, clasped in its talons.

  "Man, look at that," said Jackie, gazing eastward at the full Moon. "Looks like you could almost touch it."

  Abbey eased the throttle forward, turning the wheel, and set the Marea II toward the Muscle Ridge Islands, a line of black humps on the horizon, four miles distant. It all looked so peaceful, so perfect, so timeless . . . It seemed surreal that somewhere up there, on a distant moonlet, there might be a weapon taking aim, right now, at the Earth. And that in a split second, all of this could be gone.

  67

  Burr tossed the cigarette into the wake and looked around once more with the binoculars. The sun had set and most of the fishing boats had disappeared, but here and there he could still see the odd boat, loaded with traps, churning along toward some home port or other. From time to time he'd spied a lone motor yacht or sailboat cruising along--but no Marea II. He hadn't realized just how big the coast was and how many damn islands there were. And it seemed likely that they had gone to ground anyway or were doing whatever the hell it was they were doing, far from prying eyes. For the first time, he began to worry that he might not complete the assignment.

  He lit up another cigarette, his eighth. Usually he paced himself, smoking no more than seven a day, but this was a bad day.

  He strolled into the open pilothouse and stared at the chartplotter.

  "Where are we now?"

  "We're just leaving the north end of Muscongus Bay."

  "Where to?"

  "Penobscot Bay opens up on the far end of the channel."

  Burr grunted, inhaled. "It's almost dark. I think we should find a place to hove to for the night."

  "We're not going to hove to. We're going to keep looking. We got radar, we got GPS. We can cruise these islands all night, looking for boats in out-of-the-way places."

  Burr grunted. "How are you going to see it in the dark?"

  "Full Moon tonight. On the water under a full Moon it's almost like day."

  He glanced up. "What about this storm?"

  "We'll deal with it when it comes. This is a fine, seaworthy boat."

  "Good enough."

  He went to the gunwale and finished up the cigarette. It was getting dark and there was no sign of the approaching storm. He tossed the butt overboard. In the distance he could see the dim outline of another lobster boat, crossing the far end of the channel--appearing from behind a large island and heading out instead of in. He quickly raised the binoculars. It was just light enough to make out the name painted on the stern.

  Marea II.

  Making an effort to control his excitement, he examined the boat more carefully. He could barely make out what looked like two figures in the pilothouse. Ford and the girl. This was an amazing stroke of luck. The boat was heading for a cluster of islands east of the channel.

  Burr had already worked out in his head what he would do when he found his quarry. He reached into his holster and pulled out the Desert Eagle. No need for the noise suppressor, which was damned awkward, they were at least a mile offshore. He walked up behind Straw, who had just lifted the binoculars to look at the boat. A quick intake of breath.

  "See that boat?" he cried. "It's the Marea II! They're heading for the Muscle Ridge Islands." He swung around. "All right. We did it. Your plan worked. Now we call in the cavalry and get that son of a bitch." He reached up for the VHF.

  Burr gently placed the muzzle of the gun against the back of his head. "Do exactly what I say, Straw, or I'll kill you."

  68

  As the Marea II slipped into the cluster of islands, Abbey throttled back to four knots. Little Green lay almost in the center of the grouping and it had only two approaches, one from the northwest and another from the east. Both were tight, with sunken rocks and reefs all around, and the approach took a high degree of caution. Twilight had descended and the first stars were appearing in the night sky.

  The islands passed by, dark and silent. With her eye fixed on the chartplotter, Abbey maneuvered the boat through the winding channels until Little Green came into view, a long island forested in spruce, with a half-moon cove in the middle and a meadow above, at the far end of which stood the old fishing shack.

  She carefully brought the boat into the cove and Jackie dropped anchor. It splashed into the water and the chain rattled out of the locker. As soon as the anchor was set, Abbey killed the engine.

  In the ensuing silence she noticed the distant sound of another boat, somewhere among the islands to the west of them.

  They got into the dinghy and rowed to shore. Inside the shack, Jackie turned on lights while Abbey put kindling in the small stove.

  "Hamburgers?" Jackie asked, rummaging in the cooler.

  "Sounds good to me."

  Abbey lit a fire in the woodstove and
adjusted the dampers. The kindling crackled to life. She went to the door and breathed in the night air, which was heavy and still. There was the smell of damp grass, wood smoke from the stove, and the sea. A faint hiss of gentle waves lapped the strand--and, off in the distance, the persistent throbbing of a boat engine. It seemed to be coming from behind the adjacent island, moving very slowly.

  Abbey turned in the door and spoke calmly to Jackie, so as not to alarm her. "I think I'll go out for a walk."

  "Don't be long, these burgers are almost done."

  Instead of walking along the shore, Abbey slipped into the moonlight-flecked woods and headed toward the western end of the island, toward the sound of the boat. At the tip of the island she paused at the edge of the trees, remaining in shadow, and looking out over the water in the direction of the sound. The air was humid. The tide had turned and was flowing back in, the currents curling and gurgling past the island. A mackerel sky was advancing from the northeast but it hadn't yet reached the Moon, which glowed almost painfully bright in the night sky.

  The sound seemed to be coming from behind an adjacent island. It was probably just a yacht looking for an anchorage--recreational cruising of the coast was popular in the summer. She chided herself for being paranoid.

  A dark shape of a boat, about four hundred yards distant, passed across a gap between two islands. She felt a sudden chill: the boat had doused its running lights. It vanished behind the next island and after a moment the sound of the engine stopped.

  Abbey listened intently, but the wind was starting to come up and the sighing in the trees covered any faint sounds. She crouched in the darkness, waiting. She tried to calm herself down; she was spooked because Ford was gone. The killer could not possibly have followed them to Maine, let alone traced them to Little Green Island. It was probably some yachtsman who had had one martini too many and forgot to turn on his running lights. Or maybe they were drug smugglers. Marijuana smugglers often used this wild stretch of coast to bring boatloads of weed down from Canada.