“A fishing boat – a trawler. I saw it leave about twenty minutes ago. I thought he was crazy going out before the storm.”
Hunter didn’t ask any questions. With his head, he motioned Logan to follow. They ran together over to the next marina and leaped into a Zodiac with two 75 horsepower outboard motors. Hunter reached under the console and pulled out a hidden key.
“Where are they heading?” he asked.
“Gabriola with the murderer and my daughter Sasha.” Logan opened up the chart.
Hunter started the engines, shaking his head and muttering. “Murder’s been stalking Maggy worse than a fucking albatross.”
Smokey caught up to them huffing and puffing. “Here,” she said, handing Hunter a gun. “I’ve been carrying it on patrols.” She stopped to take a breath, and spoke in a halting manner. “Be careful. There’s a wicked Southeaster brewing.”
48
Music is my life. Maggy Malone
Gilbert’s fishing boat smelled worse than he did: a disgusting mixture of fish entrails, fried spam and cat feces. Maggy breathed through her mouth, so as not to gag. In the corner sat sweet little Sasha, with duct tape on her mouth, her eyes wide with fear and plump cheeks wet with tears. A thick wad of gray duct tape bound her wrists. Her feet were tied with rope to one of the table legs.
The fisherman shoved her onto a chair.
“Take the tape off her mouth,” Maggy demanded.
Gilbert pulled a gun from behind his back and aimed it between Maggy’s eyes. “When we’re out at sea, you can take the tape off her mouth and hands, but the rope stays. I’m not losing her overboard.” His voice remained steady and low, all business and practicality, as if he were talking about transporting a case of oranges. He clicked off the safety on his gun and fingered the trigger.
She nodded.
“So where are we headed?”
“Drumbeg Park, Gabriola Island,” she said.
“Drumbeg?” His body jolted as if he’d been hit with a blast of cold air. “And you know where to look when we get there?”
“Yes.”
Without another word he left them in the putrid smelling cabin and went topside. When he closed the cabin door, she heard a lock click into place. She rushed over to Sasha.
“My name is Maggy. I know your dad.”
The little girl’s swollen red eyes pleaded with her.
“I’ll do everything I can to get us safely away from. . . from the bad fisherman.”
Maggy dabbed at Sasha’s tears with a tissue. They flowed freely and her nose ran. Had Maggy made the right decision contacting Gil, or had she put the child in more danger? The little girl’s body trembled. Maggy took off her own jacket and put it around Sasha as best she could.
Sasha tilted her head in response. She had curly brown hair, freckles and a button nose. An extraordinarily beautiful child. A picture of innocence. Maggy held her.
Sasha stopped crying and relaxed into her embrace. Maggy sang. She didn’t know what else to do. She chose her favorite song from childhood, “Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry. . .”
The diesel engine roared to life adding its nauseous gas to the mix of horrid smells below, and a rumbling noise echoed through the tiny cabin. A mangy, calico cat appeared out of the shadows, stretched and walked up to them. She jumped onto the table beside Sasha and nudged her shoulder. Then she lay down and closed her eyes.
The engine slipped into gear and the boat began to make way. Maggy stroked Sasha’s cheek. The little girl’s eyes had dried, but fear showed in the tightness of her face.
As Maggy stroked Sasha’s hair, she said, “I’m going to take the tape off, honey. I’ll do it fast, but it’s going to hurt.
Wide-eyed, Sasha nodded.
Maggy ripped the tape. Sasha let out a little scream.
“Sorry, there was no easy way.”
“I want my daddy.”
Maggy could hardly hear her above the drone of the engine, and the sound of the waves hitting the hull. She tried to answer her, but her words were lost in the noise. Sasha nuzzled into her.
“Bang.” A wave hit the boat hard. I shuddered off-course. Dishes rattled, and a pot on the stove slid across the top to the far side, caught by a safety bar. The hanging light swung back and forth. Wind whistled through the rigging. It must be a Southeaster.
Another wave hit, hard. The boat shook and creaked. The engine droned. The diesel smell made her nauseous. Then another wave. . . and another. The boat bobbed and weaved like a floating cork in the high winds crossing the Salish Sea. Part of her wished she could see the water. She’d never experienced this kind of heavy weather in a boat.
They were below. If the boat capsized she’d need to get them out. If Gilbert got washed off the deck they might only have a few minutes. People become trapped below when a boat goes over and they drown, but not right away. It would take time for all the air to escape. Time enough to contemplate death. She shuddered.
As the boat rocked like a bucking bronco, Maggy searched through the side lockers until she found life jackets. A wave slammed the starboard side and her body smashed against the stove.
She made Sasha put on one of the jackets and then put the other on herself.
We’ll die of hypothermia within fifteen minutes in these waters and no one can reach you that fast after a Mayday call in these conditions. Still, she had to prepare them for a rescue. Sometimes she hated the sailor in her.
Another big wave hit and Sasha heaved. “Daddy,” she cried. “I want my daddy.” Her small voice, amidst the sound of the waves and howling wind, pierced Maggy’s heart. She had to do something.
Her stomach rolled and her head spun like an old LP record. She lived on the sea, and loved to sail, but she’d never go out in weather like this. It was suicidal. Another sign that the murderer was insane.
She grabbed a roll of paper towel and threw sheets of it on Sasha’s vomit. Checking the locker under the sink she found a bucket and put it under Sasha’s head. “It’s going to be all right,” she said, hoping the little girl could hear her. She stroked Sasha’s hair. “It’s going to be alright. Your Daddy will find us.”
If only she believed that. Maggy didn`t believe in being saved by a knight in shining armor, never had. She had to take care of the rescue. There had to be a way.
Another wave crashed into the side. Maggy bent over the bucket.
49
Singing heals my wounds. Maggy Malone
“Thanks, Smokey, over.” Hunter switched off the marine radio.
“He’s got a diesel engine on his fishing boat. He’d make eight knots in good conditions. Less in these conditions.”
Logan nodded. Normally he had no trouble being at sea. He would become slightly nauseous at the most; but he’d never been out in this kind of weather. The storm was picking up quickly.
Chanel 16 on the boat radio spit out the end of a weather warning: “Conditions Environment Canada—changing to gale force winds. . .”
Shit. It felt even worse than that. Way worse. He kept his eye on the horizon to steady his senses and breathed deeply.
He used the radio to hail Smokey. Told her to let Peterson know where they were heading. Hunter, on the helm, nodded his head in approval. It wouldn’t hurt to have backup when they got there. Maggy may hate the police, but he wanted all the help he could get.
Hunter powered through the waves, throttle fully open, heading straight for Silva Bay, the southernmost point on Gabriola Island.
Logan scanned the rising seas. The wind hit them full force on their port beam, pushing them hard to the northwest. The engines worked hard to keep the boat on course. Five foot waves splashed over their port side. “Greenies,” sea people call them. Trouble from the deep.
No boats were on the water. Not even a ferry. No seaplanes in the air. Logan turned up the volume on channel 16, the emergency station monitored by all boats. Just audible above the sound of the wind and the thrashing waves, it crackled, “Marine forecast, issued
by Environment Canada at 8:00 for today tonight and next day. The next scheduled forecast will be issued at 3:30 p.m. Visibility poor. Strait of Georgia, north of Nanaimo: strong gale warning in effect. Winds southeast forty to forty-seven knots increasing to southeast fifty knots. Storm warning by next morning. Chop two meters.”
“How do you think the fishing boat’s going to handle this?” Logan shouted.
Hunter didn’t answer, which said more than he wanted to hear.
“Entrance Island,” the marine emergency station announced, “winds at forty-seven knots and a two-point-five meter chop.”
Shit. They were heading for a full out storm. No one goes out on the Pacific Ocean in conditions like this—unless they have to.
But fishermen don’t get to choose their weather. Hopefully the man would know what he was doing and keep Sasha and Maggy safe.
As the wind picked up, dense streaks of foam formed along the top of the black water in the direction of the wind. The waves grew so high they started to crest and topple over, tumbling and rolling over, and over, creating a hell of a bumpy ride. Spray messed with their visibility. On a good day a boat like this could make fifty knots and make the crossing in an hour, but the elements were against them.
Hunter held the helm firmly, his jaw clenched, navigating through the tumultuous sea as best he could. He would steer their craft through a trough between six foot waves for as long as he could, and then let the boat rise over a big wave and down the other side. Then he would get back into another trough. Spray drenched them. The cold wind and even colder ocean water chilled him to the bone.
Logan held on to the side of the hull and prayed. He hadn’t done that since he was ten when his dog was run over. But he didn’t know what else to do. God, help us. God help us all. I’ll do anything, anything. Please, help us.
What else could he say? Did he deserve redemption? Maybe not. He prayed for grace. If he had paid more attention to people and worried less about business he would be a more deserving man. Maybe all this had happened because he’d fucked up his life. He hadn’t kept track of his brother, or at least not close enough. He hadn’t put his family first in his life.
But Sasha, sweet Sasha, deserved to be saved even if he didn’t. And hell, he wanted a chance with Maggy.
Hunter might be an asshole, but he was a damn good man to have at your side when the seas got rough. Despite the worst conditions imaginable, they made way towards Gabriola and stayed afloat.
Please, God, I know you save the wicked, the lost and the lonely. I’m all those things. Forgive me for my rotten ways and my crooked soul. Lend me a hand.
Another greenie crested the side of the boat . . . and another. Logan held on with all his might, fighting the water that threatened to wash him overboard. A strange sense of peace filled him from inside, a resignation that he would die, but maybe not today . . . As long as there is life there is hope.
The life jackets were probably stored in the aft locker, but he wouldn’t risk moving around. Besides, if they were swept overboard they would die of hypothermia. No one would be able to get to them in time. Unless he had a full survival suit on, he’d be a goner. The lockers weren’t large enough to hold full suits. Stay put and hold on.
Logan had no choices left. He had to trust that . . . Trust? How could he trust a God who had let his brother be murdered, who’d let his marriage fall apart, who’d let his innocent daughter be kidnapped? He exhaled slowly.
Another greenie. It hit the radio washing the receiver off the stand. Shit. All they needed was a broken radio.
Yeah, he had to trust that this time things would work out.
The sound of the wind imprinted itself on his heart. Could any boat withstand this force for long? The energy of the storm kept building.
Hunter looked crazed, like a wild pirate daring the elements. But the guy could make any facial expression he wanted as long as he got them there.
Another greenie, and the wind tossed them aside like a child’s toy boat in the bath tub. In a gust of wind coupled with the smash of a wave, Hunter lost his grip on the steering wheel. Logan kept his left hand on the side of the boat and used his right to grab Hunter’s arm, keeping him in the boat. Logan’s gut clenched. Hunter gripped the side of the wheel again and righted himself.
As the vessel turned southeast into the wind, Hunter regained control of the helm. Logan released him. Too close. Hunter had almost gone overboard and Logan couldn’t make this trip alone.
Hunter pulled hard on the wheel, returning the boat to its heading, as the wind howled around them. Logan didn’t need to look at the chart to know that Hunter was heading for the Commodore Channel. Two small islands to the southeast of Gabriola, Acorn and Gaviola islands, would break the weather, and they’d be able to cruise through the passage to Drumbeg Park. They were only making half the pace they would in good conditions, but they moved forward.
Logan kept the image of Sasha and Maggy safe in his mind. His stomach rolled with the waves. The spray made it hard to see, but as they crested the next wave he finally glimpsed land.
It seemed impossible, but the wind picked up even more. If only the damn radio hadn’t stopped working. Hell what did he need a radio for? There were no longer gale-force winds. They were in the thick of a storm now. The waves had long, overhanging crests and rose nine feet. Dense, streaks of foam gave the sea a white appearance. The tumbling of the waves made it look heavy. Visibility worsened. Could they make land?
Hunter kept his eyes steady on the horizon with the throttle fully open. His never stopped to look back or look at a chart. The man motored by instinct.
The waves continued to bounce them in every direction, until they made the entrance of the channel. Hunter used the GPS on his cell phone to navigate through the treacherous Gabriola shoals. Wind bursts whipped through them, carrying the boat shuddering to the south. It felt as if an angry Poseidon was trying to blow them back out to sea.
And then they were on the inside, between Gaviola and Acorn Islands. He’d sailed through here many times and knew the slim passage well. It had been two hours of hell, fighting the wind and the sea. But it was over now. Here they were protected. The wind still blew hard, but the force of the waves broke on the small islands. The swells grew smaller. Logan breathed fully for the first time since he’d jumped into the boat. Sea water drenched his body.
Hunter knew these waters as well as he did. They’d follow this passage through the flat top islands and then head north to hug the shores of Gabriola. They would pass by Breakwater Island and then navigate around Rogers Reef. Once they were clear of that they’d either risk motoring into the storm and head straight for Drumbeg Park or take shelter at Kendrick Island until the wind died down. What they did would depend on how much worse the storm became, and how crazy Hunter was at the helm. He was ready to risk it all.
Maggy had written Drumbeg on the mirror, but the murderer could have taken them anywhere, especially in this storm. He could be anchored somewhere safe, or . . . Shit. there was no way of knowing what the asshole would do. Who could get into the head of a man who’d killed three people?
The motors droned on. Still—no sign of the fishing boat or any other boat on the horizon.
50
Music is my universe. Maggy Malone
Maggy held Sasha in her arms as the fishing boat crashed into wave after wave and plummeted down their sides. The only thing worse than being in a storm at sea, was being below deck, in a storm at sea They were tossed in every direction, like running shoes in a washing machine. The boat shuddered in the sheer force of the wind. All the time, the diesel motor droned. Its nauseous fumes enveloped them in a toxic swill, making it hard to breathe.
“It’s going to be okay,” she’d say each time they were tossed, hoping the little girl believed her. The fear of capsizing grew and held her mind captive. Vivid images of sea wrecks drowned her thoughts. When she stopped vomiting her stomach clenched into a knot and stayed that way. Her head thr
obbed, her mouth dried, but she held it together. Her biggest worry was that Gilbert would be washed off the deck and the boat would be without a captain and at mercy of the sea.
After what felt like an eternity the motion of the boat calmed. The engine droned through the chuck with a smooth precision, no longer tossing as it met every wave. She stroked Sasha’s hair. Did she dare hope?
The motor chugged on. After about twenty minutes they came to a stop. Where were they? Through the porthole, she could see land about two-hundred meters to the port side. No dock in sight, but there were big steel rings attached to a twenty-foot wall of sandstone sculpted by the sea. It must be the side of a cliff. Would he moor here and wait out the storm? She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry.
The boat slowed. The clanking of an anchor chain mixed with the whistling of the wind. The boat motored a little further and then stopped. He had set anchor.
Gilbert’s heavy footsteps went up to the bow, and then to the stern. No point trying to escape. Sasha’s muscles relaxed and color returned to her face. They’d made it to a safe harbor, and after that horrible storm Maggy couldn’t help but feel some elation. They’d weathered the worst Mother Nature could throw at them.
But there was still the threat of the marlin spike.
The cabin door burst open and Gilbert appeared in a soaking wet slicker with a scowl so nasty it would chill Jack the Ripper. “We have to wait out the storm,” he said.
“She’s been sick. Do you think we could . . . ”
Scowling he grabbed the bucket they had used and returned topside to toss it. When he returned, and threw it on the floor.
“Aren’t we going to Drumbeg Park?” Her voice sounded shakier than she wanted it to.
“We’re less than a nautical mile away. I’ve anchored behind Kendrick Island. When the storm eases we’ll make the crossing in my runabout.”
“That close?” she asked trying to gauge his mental state by his reactions.
Black Cat Blues Page 21