“Let’s shove off already,” Harley said, “before the weather gets here.” The next few days—if days were what you could call the murky gray episodes that separated the long stretches of darkness—were supposed to be stormy. But if you waited around for good weather in Alaska, as any local could tell you, you’d be waiting around forever.
The boat, called the Kodiak, belonged to Eddie’s uncle, who was usually too lazy to take it out. It was nearly thirty years old and it wasn’t much to look at, but since it had originally been built as a Navy launch, it had a very stiff hull, and a heavy steel rudder shoe that could withstand any kinds of trouble—rocks, logs, grounding—that the Bering Strait could throw at it. As on most Alaskan fishing ships, the cabin windows were Lexan and mounted to the outside, so that even the worst waves couldn’t blow them out. In his cups one night, Eddie’s uncle had bragged that it could withstand a complete swamping for twelve hours without sinking. How he would know such a thing had puzzled Harley—had they swamped it to find out?—but he didn’t ask then, and he didn’t care to find out now.
In the cabin, he let Eddie hang on to the wheel—after all, it was his uncle’s boat—while Russell slouched in the corner with a beer.
“Keep it at half throttle till we’re well away,” Harley said, “then head northwest.”
“I know where St. Pete’s is,” Eddie sneered.
“And you,” Harley said to Russell, “get your ass out on deck and look for bergs.”
“Why don’t you get out there and freeze your own ass off?”
Harley could have removed the gun that was strapped under his anorak and made his point that way, but he didn’t want to make things any worse than they were, and he didn’t want to resort to any extreme measures until he had to. Russell defiantly took another long slug from the beer can, and it occurred to Harley that having him out on deck as lookout was a bad idea, anyway. He’d probably fall off the boat.
“Fuck it,” he said, “I’ll do it myself.” Addressing Eddie, he said, “Take us around the west cliffs, then to the leeward side for a berth.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Bligh.”
Harley slipped a pair of binoculars around his neck, put up the hood on his coat, and tightened the Velcro clasps at the sleeves, then stepped out on the slippery, ice-rimed deck. He hadn’t been out at sea since the wreck of the Neptune, and he found there was a new sense of anxiety in him. It shouldn’t have come as a shock. But now, when he looked around him at the rolling black waters, all he could think of was the night he’d been sure he would be swallowed up in them and lost forever. He thought about how close he’d come to winding up as just another one of those names inscribed on the plaque in the Lutheran church. His hands clenched the railings now, the same way they had clenched the top of that coffin. At first, he had kept the lid propped up in his trailer, next to the snake tank, like a trophy. But then it had spooked him, and he had stashed it under the bed.
Which only made things worse.
Finally, in desperation, he’d stuck it in the crawl space under the trailer where there was a bunch of other old timbers. He’d have just heaved the damn thing back into the sea if it weren’t for the fact that he was convinced it would be worth something, to someone, someday. When that Dr. Slater had told him he should return it to the island, he’d actually given it some serious thought; the main reason he couldn’t do it now was because it might give that asshole some satisfaction if he did.
The moon was out, which was a lucky thing, since the strait was choppy that night and huge chunks of ice were grinding and rolling through the channel. Off in the distance, the two black slabs of Big and Little Diomede lay like watchdogs at the gateway to Siberia. There wasn’t another boat in sight, but the sky was speckled with stars as sharp and bright as needles. Looking up, Harley’s eyes filled with tears, not because he was overwhelmed with emotion but because the wind was so cold and so relentless. He wiped them away with the back of one glove, but they sprang right back. He made his way to the bow and took hold of the search lamp there. The boat rose and fell on the swells, spray flying up and freezing on his lips and cheeks. He spread his legs on the deck to keep his balance and peered into the blackness, following the beam of the light.
Were there other coffins out there, carrying their awful cargo up and down the waves, bumping up against the ice floes? If there were, he prayed he wouldn’t see them. He’d had enough trouble since finding the first one.
“Coming up on the starboard side,” Eddie announced over the bullhorn, as if he was some tour guide. “Welcome to St. Peter’s Island.”
Shit. Harley wanted to brain him for making so much noise. The whole idea had been to stay under the radar. What if the Coast Guard was already lying low in some cove?
He waved up at the wheelhouse, gesturing for Eddie to keep it down, and after a quick scan of the waters ahead, turned off the bow light. They were just beyond the breakers, and if Eddie didn’t do something stupid—which was always a possibility—they’d be okay.
The Kodiak plowed ahead, while Harley removed the lens cap from the binoculars, and swept them over the island. The beach, as usual, was shrouded in spray and mist, but in the moonlight, he could just make out a ladder of steps, carved into the side of the rugged cliffs and leading all the way up to a jagged promontory. He’d sailed past this island many times in the Neptune I and the Neptune II, always giving it a wide berth, but tonight their course was taking them closer to the shore than ever before. As the Kodiak rounded the island, with no sign of the Coast Guard, the Navy, or one of those damn choppers anywhere in sight, Harley put the bow light on again and caught the great glistening back of a killer whale, just rising from the waves, its blowhole spouting like a geyser. It took several seconds before the whale submerged again—time enough for Harley to reflect on the guts those old Inuit hunters must have had to take on a creature of that size and power in nothing but flimsy kayaks, with a handful of harpoons. He’d have been afraid to take it on with an Uzi. It was hard to believe that the natives he knew now—those guys like fat Geordie Ayakuk who hugged a desk in the community center, or the old rummies that hung around the Yardarm cadging drinks—could possibly be their descendants. Man, what the fuck had happened to them?
A cloud passed before the moon, a sign of the storms that were undoubtedly on their way, and Harley turned the searchlight toward the island, looking for some safe—and secluded—harbor. But even on this side, rocks jutted up from the sea, and white water foamed over the hidden reefs. People who didn’t know anything about sailing always thought that the closer you were to shore, the safer you were. But Harley knew that they were dead wrong. The open sea gave you room to maneuver, time to think, and if you’d read your charts right, the chances that there was something deadly lurking right under your hull were pretty slim.
No, the worst disasters happened as you approached the shore, especially if that shore was as dangerous a destination as St. Peter’s Island. In addition to the boat Harley had already lost to these waters, he knew of at least a dozen others that had been driven too close to this coastline by snowstorms and rogue waves and overpowering winds; he had seen sudden riptides grip a boat and completely take control of it, dragging it helplessly in whatever direction it wished, before dashing it against a picket of jagged rocks. You could run the engine all you wanted, you could put on every sail you had, but if the Bering Sea wanted a piece of your ass, it was going to get it.
Up in the wheelhouse, he could see Eddie and Russell hunched over the wheel. Each of them was holding a beer can now and laughing uproariously at something. Christ, if only he had anybody he could actually rely on. He’d needed some help on this gig, and in some ways these two were the obvious candidates. Since getting out of the Spring Creek penitentiary, Russell had been working part-time for the refinery—and was always short of beer money—and Eddie lived off the dough every resident got each year from the Permanent Fund, courtesy of the big oil companies that operated in Alaska. When neede
d, he supplemented his income with plumbing or selling pot.
More to the point, neither of them would be missed for a few days.
But the Kodiak was getting perilously close to shore now, and Harley figured he could no longer leave Eddie at the wheel—not if he wanted to keep the boat in one piece.
Sweeping the searchlight back and forth across the cliffs, he saw flocks of kittiwakes startled into flight, and steep, impregnable walls slick with ice. A ripple of white foam indicated an underwater reef off the port side. The boat was halfway around the island from the Russian colony, and there was no sign of another beach. An inlet or cove was the best he could hope for; they’d have to drop anchor and use the Kodiak’s skiff to go ashore.
Fixing the searchlight in place, he went back up to the bridge, and the minute he came through the door, the wind howling at his back, Eddie and Russell, looking vaguely guilty, stopped laughing.
“What was so funny?”
“Nothing,” Eddie said.
Harley figured that the joke had been at his expense. Eddie stifled another laugh, and now Harley knew for sure—and he saw red.
“Lighten up,” Russell said, a bit blearily. “Have a beer.” He held out a can and Harley smacked it out of his hand so hard that the can hit the binnacle and cracked the anemometer screen.
“Fuck,” Eddie shouted. “My uncle’s going to see that!”
Russell’s shoulders hunched, and his fists clenched. Eddie saw it, too, and leapt between them, his arms outstretched.
“Hey, guys, chill out. Come on now, come on. We’re all friends here.”
“Are we?” Harley said, glaring first at one, then the other. “Because if we’re such good friends, we’re gonna have to get something straight. This is my gig, and I don’t want a couple of drunken stoners fucking it up.”
The beer can was rolling around the floor of the wheelhouse, spraying foam through a dent. The wheel, unattended, was turning slowly.
“Who said I’m drunk?” Russell challenged him, weaving on his feet.
Harley smiled, acting like it was all okay now, then spun around, throwing out one leg in a classic martial-arts move that caught Russell behind his knees and dumped his ass on the floor. He landed with a thump that jolted the whole cabin, then he lay there, propped up against the chart table, stunned.
“What the fuck?” Eddie said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“And you,” Harley said, “get out on deck and keep watch.” Harley moved to take control of the wheel, but Eddie grabbed it again, refusing to budge.
“It’s my uncle’s boat.”
Harley shoved him, and Eddie stumbled into Russell, who was just getting to his feet. They both went down, and Harley whipped around, the gun out of his belt now. Eddie put out both of his hands, and said, “Whoa there, pardner! Put that away before somebody gets hurt.”
Harley waited a few seconds, just to make sure Russell wasn’t planning on anything further.
Russell opened his own hands, as if to show he had no weapon and no bad intentions. “Jesus, Harley. Get a grip.”
Harley was just putting the gun back in his belt when the boat lurched, and they heard a grinding noise like a tin can scraping on cement. Harley turned and saw that the loose wheel had spun again, and through the window of the bridge he saw that the bow was pointing straight toward the cliffs, no more than forty yards away. But the boat wasn’t moving, and unless he was sorely mistaken, they had just run aground on one of the many reefs he might have seen coming if he hadn’t been so distracted.
“Goddamn!” Eddie shouted, leaping to his feet and going for the throttle. Before Harley could stop him, he had thrown the boat into reverse, and the grinding had come again, even louder this time … but the Kodiak still didn’t move.
“Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn!” Eddie hollered, stamping his feet as he went in circles around the cramped space in the bridge. The boat was jammed on a reef, teetering this way and that like a car perched atop a snowbank. “You are bad luck!” he shouted, pointing a finger at Harley. “You are such bad luck, man!”
Even Harley was temporarily at a loss. Was he bad luck?
Eddie was just about to try the throttle again when Harley stopped him. “You’ll rip its guts out,” he said.
“What else can we do?”
“We can wait,” Harley said. “Maybe the tide will give us a boost. Russell, go below and see if we’re taking on water.”
For once, Russell took an order and stumbled down to the hold.
Eddie, fuming, glared at Harley, who turned around and stared at the small portion of the island illuminated by the bow light. At water level, he saw a bunch of tide pools, frothing white, then disappearing, and above them a jumble of rocks, piled halfway up the side of the cliff. That much was a lucky break. The rocks looked climbable, and the remaining slope was pockmarked with caves and crevices and ledges.
“They told me not to do this,” Eddie muttered, shaking his head. “They told me not to go to sea with a Vane.”
“Who told you what? You were supposed to keep your mouth shut about this. Who did you tell?”
“Nobody,” Eddie said, retreating. “I didn’t tell anybody. It’s just something everybody says, down at the docks.”
Harley couldn’t be too surprised. His family had lost two boats already, Charlie was in a wheelchair, and for all he knew they’d just beached a third.
Russell, panting, appeared in the hatchway. “It’s not too bad. The hull’s holding.”
“For how long?” Eddie said in a panic.
“Your uncle always said she could be swamped for twelve hours without sinking,” Harley said.
“Swamped? Didn’t you hear what Russell just said? She’s holding. Man, don’t put your family curse on it. Let’s just get out of here.”
“That’s exactly what we’re not going to do,” Harley said. “We’re going to drop anchor, with enough slack to let the boat drift off the rocks with the next tide.”
“And do what until then?” Eddie shot back. “Sit here and wait?”
“No. We’re going onto the island, and get started. How else are you gonna buy your uncle a new anemometer?” Zipping up his coat, Harley said, “Get your gear together, both of you. I’ll get the skiff ready.”
Out on deck, he walked the length of the ship but didn’t see much damage except to the paint. Provided she didn’t spring a leak, she would stay where she was until the currents, and some clever engine maneuvers, freed her again. He dropped anchor and watched as the chain played out for no more than a few seconds. Stepping to the bow, he maneuvered the light around, picking out the best route through the rocks and tide pools. It wasn’t going to be easy to get the skiff through unscathed, but he could do it, even with the deadweight of Russell and Eddie on board. It was only as he flicked off the searchlight, in order to see the wet walls of the cliff without the reflection glaring off them, that he glimpsed on the ridgeline what looked like a yellow light, gently swinging. He blinked, thinking it was just an aftereffect of the bright bow light going off, like a strobe, but when he looked again, the yellow glow, more like a lantern suspended in midair, was still there.
Chapter 21
On the morning that Rasputin’s body was to be buried, Anastasia and the other members of the royal family bundled into two long black touring cars and drove from St. Petersburg to the imperial park at Tsarskoe Selo. There, a grave had been dug near the site where a church was later to be erected in his honor.
Anastasia had never seen her mother so bereaved. At the news of Father Grigori’s murder, she had utterly broken down, fearing that her son Alexei had lost his most potent protector. And when she learned that the deed had been done by Prince Yussoupov and, worse yet, Grand Duke Dmitri, a Romanov relation, she had almost lost her wits altogether. Anastasia and her three older sisters had taken turns watching over their mother.
Looking out the window now, Ana saw endless, snow-covered fields, lined by white birches and punctuate
d, like print on a white page, by scribbles of crows. It was a beautiful morning, with a sun so bright and a sky so blue Fabergé himself might have enameled the scene. Icicles hanging from the eaves of the occasional farmhouse glistened like diamonds. Under her own blouse, Ana wore the emerald cross the monk had given her at the Christmas ball. That was the last time she had seen him alive, and she had not taken off the cross ever since.
The body itself had not remained hidden for long. In their haste, the conspirators had left one of Rasputin’s boots lying out on the ice of the frozen Neva. The corpse had floated not far off, and when another hole was cut through the ice to retrieve it, the starets was found to have been alive even after being submerged in the river. One of his arms had wriggled free of the ropes and was frozen stiff as if raised in a benediction, and his lungs were filled with water. For all the poison in his bloodstream, the bullets in his body, and the bruises from the beating, the monk had died in the end by drowning.
Once the cars had entered the park, and the Cossack guards had closed the gates and resumed their endless patrols again, Anastasia saw that wooden walkways had been built across a frozen field. The cars stopped, and Tsar Nicholas himself stepped out of the first one, his wife leaning heavily on the arm of her close friend, Madame Vyrubova. The Tsaritsa Alexandra was dressed entirely in black, as were they all, but carried in her arms a bouquet of white roses plucked that morning from the greenhouse at the Winter Palace.
In the distance, a motor van was parked by an open grave, its engine still running, a plume of gray smoke rising from its exhaust. As Anastasia drew closer, picking her way carefully over the freshly placed boards, she saw the foot of a coffin—a simple one, made of white oak—resting in the back of the van. Her mother went straight to it and asked one of the attendants to open it.
Looking uncertain, the attendant glanced at the Tsar, who nodded.
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