Seawitch g-7

by Kat Richardson

  “Thank you. I have great respect for Mr. Purlis’s pockets.”

  “Quinton,” I corrected without thinking, shaking capsules into my palm.

  “Truly?”

  “He prefers it.” I swallowed the capsules dry and gagged a little, but held back my lunch.

  Solis waited, frustrated at being unable to thump my back with my broken rib, until I stopped choking. “I don’t understand the meaning.”

  I gasped a little and handed him the pill tube. “Nickname from his mother’s maiden name.”

  Solis frowned.

  “Quinn’s son,” I explained. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t look up J. J. Purlis and get that info for himself. If he hadn’t already.

  He mulled it for a moment and then he laughed. “I see.”

  Had I ever heard Solis laugh before? I wasn’t sure. It was a sharp sound, short and rough, like something rarely used that had rusted and broken along the edges. I smiled back at him and stood up. A plume of mold and dust swelled into the air around me and I gave a sudden, violent sneeze.

  Big mistake. The rib stabbed me and the world wavered and went black around the edges for a moment before the darkness closed in entirely. I could feel myself falling even as my sight blanked and then . . . nothing except the sudden fear of hitting my injured rib again before I lost consciousness.

  SIXTEEN

  Up and down. . . . Were we still on Seawitch? I felt woozy and my chest ached. So did my knees and my back and my butt. . . . “Who hit me?” I mumbled, feeling a stabbing sensation in my back and left side. Broken rib. Right.

  “A ghost.”

  I made a noise like a whale in heat—or I think that’s what the sound was like because it was loud and terrible and had a lot of moaning in it. I tried to sit up but someone pushed me back down before the busted rib could force the issue. It smelled like Quinton. I pried my eyes open and checked. Yup, Quinton.

  He smiled at me from his position on the edge of my rear passenger seat.

  “Where am I and how’d I get here?” I asked.

  “Well . . . Solis paged me to your phone so I called you, and he answered and told me you were hurt but didn’t want to go to the hospital. Since you were unconscious he figured you didn’t have a say but I might, so I said I’d be right there and here I am.”

  “But . . .”

  “Hang on. We’re still at the marina, before you ask. We—that is, me and Solis and a guy named Paul Zantree—carried you to the Rover to take you to the hospital. But you woke up. It’s only been a few minutes.” He could see I wasn’t convinced. “I was in the neighborhood,” he concluded, throwing his hands up in a theatrical shrug.

  “Liar,” I muttered. His aura was jumping around and flashing a bit of yellow and orange, which was his lying-for-convenience color. I can’t always tell with strangers, but I know Quinton well enough to recognize it with him. I also know cornering him in front of others will not bring answers. I nodded for the sake of onlookers—in this case Solis, who seemed a bit anxious, that rare emotion I’d never caught on him before this adventure began.

  Quinton took that as a cue to help me sit up. Even with aid, my breath still caught on the pain in my chest and back as I moved. “I think you now hold the dubious distinction of being the only woman ever to pass out from sneezing,” he said.

  “Time in the Grey, being smacked by ghosts . . . may be . . . extenuating circumstances,” I replied between gasps for breath.

  “I blame the cracked rib.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. A doctor would be a good idea.”

  “No insurance. . . .” They’d canceled my coverage after my last major hospitalization.

  “We’ll fake it.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “It’s an outpatient urgent-care thing—not even emergency. It’ll be a couple of grand, max. We’ll find a way to cover it. You can’t finish up this case with a broken rib and no help.”

  “Can, too.”

  “If you think I know the proper field dressing for a broken rib, guess again. Besides, a few painkillers would be a good idea. You can get some sleep and we’ll tackle the rest of the problem in the morning.”

  I shook my head. “I know. Take me home. Do as I say. I’ll be fine.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Solis outside the truck. “She’s being stubborn, like I said she would.”

  “I could arrest her for impeding an investigation,” Solis suggested.

  “Bullshit,” I gasped. “My investigation.”

  He shrugged. “True. But we need to find the cove mentioned in the logs—and by the ghosts. I need Blaine with me. We have reason to believe time is short.”

  “I can find the cove,” Quinton said, “if you have a latitude and longitude. And I can pilot a boat but I don’t have one.”

  A new, shaggy head hove into view over Solis’s shoulder. “We’ll take mine. You guys don’t know your way around the Sound—if you’ll pardon my saying so—and this isn’t a place to go messing around where you don’t know the tides and currents. Kills people, and I think there’s been plenty of that.”

  Solis turned and I could see that the owner of the shaggy head was Paul Zantree. “How’s Ms. Blaine doing out here?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  He peered at me and snorted. “You’ll manage but you’re not going to like it. So, are you going to do the smart thing and take an old hand or be a bunch of damned fools? And did you talk to that girl before she took off?”

  “Girl?” Solis asked.

  “On Pleiades. The Knight girl. She took off late last night—no one saw her go, but the hatches were all open when her neighbors went by this morning and her stuff was all gone when they checked on her. The place is kind of wet and mildewed, too. The owners are going to be pissed when they get here. And, damn, she looked like Shelly, but Shelly would never have left a boat in a state like that. I knew you guys were interested in her, and now she’s gone. So . . . did you talk to her? Did she know Shelly?”

  That might explain the lack of magical energy around the boat this morning—and Zantree’s sharper memory of Jacque and Shelly Knight now that no strange tendrils of olive-colored energy were ringing around his head. I wondered what had scared her off: me, the otters, or the ghosts.

  “She claimed no relationship and refused to answer other questions,” Solis replied.

  I caught Solis’s eye. “Running.”

  He nodded. If she was connected to Shelly Knight and the mystery of Seawitch—and there was every evidence that she was—we’d have to get to the cove as soon as possible. It seemed highly likely that she was heading back to the place the mystery had lain hidden for so long. She hadn’t taken the sailboat, so she had some other way to get there. “We’ll need a boat,” I reminded him.

  “I told you we’ll take mine,” Zantree repeated.

  Solis assumed control of the conversation. “You have a date to go fishing with your grandchildren.”

  Zantree looked pugnacious. “They canceled. Can’t make it out here. I got nothing to do and a lot of questions to answer about my old friends, so why not help you guys? You do need my help.”

  He wasn’t crazy about taking a civilian, but I could see him make up his mind. “We do. But Ms. Blaine is injured.”

  “Well, get the woman to a sawbones, then! And where are we headed when you get back?”

  “Somewhere near Haro Strait?”

  “Up in the San Juans? That’s a full day or more, depending on tide and weather.”

  “Can you still take us?”

  “Not for six hours.”

  Solis and I frowned. Quinton made a face. “The tide’s the wrong way around, isn’t it?”

  Zantree nodded. “Coming in. We’d be against it all the way up to Port Townsend. Barely make headway, even on an iron wind off twin Cummins. Better to go out with the next tide and hitch a ride on the outgoing swell. Take about the same time, give or take a couple of hours.” He came closer
and stuck his head in the truck to look at me. “You go get a doctor to look at you and if he says you’re seaworthy, get your gear and be back here by seven tonight. We’ll cast off at eight when the tide turns. OK?” He was grinning like his pirate self again.

  Solis frowned in concern. “I must come, too. And there will be some paperwork. Can you accommodate all three of us?” I guessed Quinton had already made it clear he was going to stick to me like gum on a sneaker sole.

  Zantree looked at the lot of us and grinned wider. “Hell, we raised three boys on that boat. I got room for all of you. And I’m not afraid of a little paperwork. Bring it on, and bring your woolies, too—it’s cold as a witch’s tit out there at night. Oops! Pardon me, Ms. Blaine.”

  I shook it off. “Seven. See you then.”

  Zantree saluted and trotted off, whistling happily.

  I glanced at the men and they returned blinking expressions, as if they’d been swept up in a twister and deposited again without harm in the middle of Oz. “We have a timetable,” I reminded them.

  “Right,” Quinton said, crawling out of the rear and getting into the front seat of my Rover. He turned his head to Solis. “Back here at seven?”

  “D dock,” the sergeant corrected. “I shall see you both there.”

  * * *

  We wasted some time at my doctor’s office because Quinton insisted. Dr. Skelleher confirmed I had a cracked rib and asked if I wanted an X-ray. I said no, since we knew what it was and taking its picture just wasted time. He said no one tapes up ribs anymore, since it doesn’t help and only leads to shallow breathing and pneumonia, which made me stick out a sarcastic tongue at Quinton. I should take it easy, the good doctor continued, have a large and potentially black-market lucrative pill—or smoke some tobacco alternative, as he put it—if the pain was too much to stand, and otherwise come back if I started spitting up blood or had more-than-ordinary difficulty breathing. “Ordinary difficulty” made me laugh, which hurt a lot, but I didn’t mind too much. Skelly is weird and probably skirting legality and the medical board, but he gets the job done—and he’d referred me to Ben and Mara Danziger long ago, which probably saved my sanity and my life. I gave Quinton the “I told you so” face as we left and headed back to my place to pack up some clothes and make sure the ferret had enough food and water for a couple of days. We also left a message with my neighbor, to cover any possibility of the trip lasting longer. Then I took a nap while Quinton searched maps online for the latitude and longitude I’d cribbed from Seawitch’s log book.

  I woke to the sound of whispers; for once they didn’t come from ghosts but from living people in my kitchen. It’s a bad idea to discuss secrets in a kitchen or bathroom; there’s not much cushy furniture or swags of curtains to absorb voices and the walls and floors are usually hard and slick, reflecting sound like crazy for any sharp-eared eavesdropper like me to hear without much effort. I lay on my right side and listened for a minute, making no effort yet to get up and see who was talking to Quinton in such an urgent and demanding murmur. It was a voice washed clean of accent and deliberately modulated so the consonants were softened and the words mushy.

  “. . . enough time to—” Quinton was objecting in a low voice.

  “You’re done.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Again? Aren’t you tired of that fiction yet?”

  It didn’t sound like my neighbor Rick or any of our small number of mutual acquaintances. As I listened, I thought it was a voice and tone deliberately hard to understand at a distance. With that and Quinton’s recent worries in mind, I had a good idea who it had to be, even though I’d never seen or heard the man before that I knew of. I eased out of the bed, breathing carefully and quietly through my nose even when I had to bend and twist, which sent a kick of pain through my chest and back. Maybe pneumonia wouldn’t have been so bad. . . .

  On my bare feet I padded carefully down the short hall to the living room, making sure I was between the kitchen and the condo’s main door. I didn’t want our guest to bolt until I was ready to let him. I needed a good look first.

  The man had dark brown hair without a hint of red or blond or even gray in it. I could see only his back—a decidedly well-muscled back above an athlete’s narrow hips under the dark rugby jersey and jeans he wore. Something in his stance suggested he was older than Quinton. He was a touch shorter, too, so my boyfriend saw me just fine over the man’s head. Quinton tried not to change his expression, but his gaze had flickered to me and that gave us away. The other man spun around, remarkably lithe, and spat out a swearword as he launched himself at me.

  Quinton lunged after him. “No!”

  James Purlis hit me at a run. It was more of a glancing block as he passed, meant to shove me out of his way, and the blow fell on my right side, not my injured left, but I still buckled and fell from the sharp eruption of pain. He was out the door and gone before I could struggle back to my feet.

  Quinton didn’t chase after him. He stopped at the open door and gazed out for a moment, then returned to help me up.

  “Nice guy, your dad,” I said, coughing a bit on my ragged breath.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he gave me a second take. “How did you know he was my dad?”

  “He looks like you.”

  “He does not,” Quinton shot back, indignant.

  I tried not to laugh, because it hurt, but I sniggered a bit, anyway. “He does. And who else . . . would it be? Sneaking in. Shoving me. Threatening and belittling you. Had to be him.”

  Quinton was uncomfortable and he squirmed a bit under my gaze, keeping his eyes on the floor. “I don’t look like him,” he muttered as he helped me into a chair.

  “I said he looks like you,” I replied. “Same beard. Bet he’s been letting his hair grow lately. Dyed it recently, too. Not the look I imagined for him.”

  “Oh? How’d you picture good old James the First?”

  “Bigger. Conservative. Dramatically silver-haired. Mean.”

  “Well, that part’s accurate. He’s a prick.”

  “Really? He seemed like such a nice guy.”

  Quinton gave me a Bronx cheer. “Funny, Blaine.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wants me back in the business, like I told you, though he tried to play the family card to get me there. He says my mother is upset about my untimely demise.”

  “Awww, how sweet. Did he really think that was going to work?”

  “No. The lies and manipulation were just a fun little side trip before he tries to use you for leverage against me next. Mom knows I’m fine. And I’m not going back.”

  “Does he know we’re leaving town for a few days? Is that why he came?”

  “He didn’t know. He assumed based on operational protocol that I’d run soon. I guess he didn’t want to lose me again. He doesn’t know how fast I can move.”

  I gazed at him, breathing in shallow sips, and felt both our mixed-up feelings: fear and anger and desperation and hope all tangling and knotting between us. “Are you planning to keep going? To Canada? It’s not far from the strait once we’re up there. . . .” I didn’t want him to say yes but I’d back him if he did.

  He snorted half a laugh and returned an incredulous grin. “No! To hell with him.”

  The relief was like cool water pouring over me. “Good. Because . . . Chaos would be heartbroken . . . if you left.”

  He laughed out loud this time. Then he crouched next to me and put his arms around my shoulders gingerly. “I’d miss her, too. But I’d miss you more.”

  “You are so predictable.”

  “Another reason why you love me.”

  I stifled a giggle and leaned my head onto his shoulder so I could kiss him. Then my phone started making noises and nipped that in the bud.

  Quinton grabbed it off the kitchen table. “It’s a quarter of seven. We have to get going.”

  I followed him into the hall to grab the bags and get my boots. “Did you ma
ke my phone do that?” I seem to manage the alarm properly only half the time and I didn’t remember trying.

  “Yeah. I know I should have asked first. . . .”

  I rolled my eyes and kept my mouth shut.

  SEVENTEEN

  Puget Sound is a strange thing—almost an inland sea full of islands and deep saltwater crevasses carved by passing glaciers eons ago. In some places the depth at the bottom has never been mapped, only guessed at, and ships or planes that fall into those underwater canyons never come back—not even as broken bits of flotsam. Seattle lies on salt water so deep that it remains cold year round, yet it’s sixty miles or more from the Pacific coast while still touching the same water that eventually passes Alaska and California. Some of its islands are rocky tumbles of cliffs rolled up from the depths, while others are mere piles of sand that sink away at high tide. Orcas cruise by the upper islands in spawning season, following schools of cold-water fish and tipping the occasional tourist into the water when they foolishly get too close. The islands in the south Sound are large and infrequent, while the north end, shared with Canada, is littered with dozens of broken drifts of land wound through with passages and labeled with names like Orcas Island, Deception Pass, and Desolation Sound. It’s seductive in its beauty and sudden isolation but not a safe place for a stranger to go alone.

  The voyage out from the marina and into the northern Puget Sound was almost too gorgeous to bear as we headed northwest from Seattle up what Zantree identified as Admiralty Inlet. The boat growled along, rocking up and down with a long, mild swell. The water sliding beneath us was a deep, cold blue that reflected the sun as it slowly dipped toward the summer horizon dead ahead of us, reddening and casting the sky in golds and pinks and finally into slumbering purples as we put in at Port Townsend for the night, just as the Seawitch had done in a last-minute change of plan, according to the log. We could have driven and taken the ferry across in a bit more than two hours but we’d soon realized we’d never find Fielding’s cove without a boat and the experience of Paul Zantree. And the trip at sunset had been an unlooked-for delight in the midst of creeping horrors.