A Blast to Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 3rd Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series

by Charles Dougherty

  "We'll definitely do that," Connie said. "Thanks for the suggestion."

  "You're welcome. I'd better get the rest of the tables set; nice talkin' to you. Just holler if you need a refill."

  "You bet," Paul said.

  "You know what?" Connie asked, after the woman had left them.

  "What?"

  "I think I'd like to go back to the boat. I've got a PDF of a brochure roughed out. I want to clean it up and put it on a memory stick. We'll come back and show it to the manager. If she thinks it's good enough, she can save a copy. She could probably print it out for people. Or maybe she knows a place in town where we could print a few copies."

  "That's fine with me. I'll fix us a quick lunch while you do that."

  Paul saw that the waitress had left their check under one of the extra mugs on the table. He stuck a few small bills under the same mug, and they thanked the woman on their way out.

  "Y'all come back, now," she said, as they left from the side door.

  As they finished their lunch, Connie said, "Hey, as long as we're here and I've got the computer set up, I might as well send the pictures of that motorcycle to O'Brien."

  "Yes. Good for you," Paul said. "I'd forgotten about them, thinking about your brochure."

  "I stuck the memory card from the camera in the PC; I wanted to put a couple of the shots from this morning in the brochure. I was thinking a shot of the inn might encourage the manager to share it with their guests."

  "Smart," Paul said. "I'll call O'Brien while you finish up your brochure. You going to send the email now?"

  "All right, I'll do that first, before I start on the brochure. Tell him hello for me," Connie said, moving to the chart table where her laptop was open, the first page of her brochure on the screen.

  Paul took his cellphone up into the cockpit and placed the call. He gave O'Brien the motorcycle's license plate number from memory and told him that Connie was emailing the photos as they spoke.

  "Great! Glad you thought to snap the pictures," O'Brien said. "I'll send them on to the Bangor office; maybe that guy at the boatyard will recognize it. Then we'll really know something."

  "Connie's idea; she was taking pictures anyway," Paul said. "She sends her best."

  "Tell her I said hello," O'Brien said. "Let's see, here. I got a hit on that license plate already. It's registered to a guy named Gabriel Ferraras, way up in Fort Lee, New Jersey. That doesn't track."

  "Doesn't track?" Paul asked.

  "Sorry. Just thinking out loud. The activity on that cellphone's been concentrated down in south Jersey, around the Philadelphia area."

  "Where's Fort Lee, relative to that?"

  "Up north. Fort Lee's right across the river from Manhattan. Besides, we've got a possible match on a motorcycle down in the Princeton area. That's where the phone's been used most often."

  "The right kind of motorcycle?"

  "Yeah. It's the right make and model, but who knows about the color and the other details? We might as well get the guy up in Maine to take a look at the one you spotted. Never can tell."

  "Hey, Bill?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm still troubled by all the coincidences," Paul said.

  "You and me, both. Something specific bothering you?"

  "Yeah, maybe. I didn't want to get Connie going; she thinks I'm paranoid as is, but since she's below, I'll tell you. I'm pretty worried. If this is the motorcycle, that would mean this character has tracked us all the way down here, somehow. Connie explained away Annapolis, but ... you see what I mean?"

  "Well, yeah. Kinda. I don't mean to take sides between you and Connie, but don't panic just yet. Let's see if the motorcycle is the same one, first. Okay?"

  "Yeah; you're right. I was assuming that it was; I should know better than to do that."

  "Anything else? Sorry to rush you, but I need to go snag a sandwich before my next meeting."

  "Maybe. There was a guy in St. Michaels. I thought he was a 'maybe' match for the sketch you sent, the one from Maine, but Connie pointed out the hair wasn't quite the same, and he was clean-shaven."

  "Hmm," O'Brien said. "Both those things are quick changes for somebody in disguise. How sure are you?"

  "Not very, but then I saw that motorcycle this morning, and the probability went up in my mind."

  "Yeah, I can see how that would do it. Tell you what. I'll push for Bangor to get those photos in front of the guy at the boatyard ASAP; they could even email them to the yard office, maybe. If we get a match, then you can start to worry. How's that sound?"

  "Makes a lot of sense. Enjoy your sandwich."

  "Yeah, thanks. Talk to you later."

  Connie and Paul had stopped at the inn as soon as they came ashore. The manager was expecting them, the waitress having mentioned them to her after they left this morning.

  "I was hoping you'd come back," she had said, when Connie introduced herself.

  Connie told her about the brochure, and the two women had huddled over a computer, talking about it, while Paul stood looking out the window at the few people idling away the afternoon along The Strand. The manager had kept a copy of the file, but she also told Connie where to find a card and gift shop with a color printer. Connie had agreed to get a few paper copies made, which they would drop off on their way back to the boat later in the afternoon.

  The elderly man in the card shop to which she had sent them was happy enough to print two dozen of the trifold brochures, but apologized that he only had an inkjet printer. "It'll take a while," he'd said. "Reckon y'all might as well go on about your sightseeing and stop back in an hour or two. I'll be here; ain't going' nowhere, so whenever you get back's fine."

  As they strolled the quiet streets, stopping often for Connie to take pictures, Paul told her about his conversation with O'Brien.

  "Sounds like he didn't think this was the motorcycle, then," Connie said. "That's a relief. I was a little worried."

  Paul's eyebrows went up at that. "You were worried? I'm the paranoid one, according to you."

  "Well," she said, taking his hand as they walked along, "think about it. If that had been the motorcycle, it would mean somebody followed us all the way here. It wouldn't have been any trick for somebody to figure out we were going to Annapolis, but we didn't tell a soul we were coming here."

  "You didn't mention it to the people in the marina office in Annapolis when you paid our bill?" Paul asked.

  "No. It didn't come up. Why do you ask?"

  "Before I talked to O'Brien, I had myself convinced that somebody did follow us here. I was wracking my brain for an explanation of how they could have done it."

  "Uh-huh," she said. "Well, I didn't mention it to anybody. Did you?"

  "No."

  "So are you still worried?" she asked.

  "I'm waiting to hear from Bill."

  "You are still worried, aren't you?"

  "You know me, Connie."

  She smiled at him. "Yes, and I love you, my old worry-wart."

  He grinned for a moment. "I love you, too." He looked into her eyes for a few heartbeats, and then spoke. "If that is the motorcycle, the only explanation is that there's some kind of tracking device on Diamantista II."

  Connie's eyes went wide, and then she doubled over, laughing. She regained control and saw that Paul looked puzzled. "You really know how to make a girl feel special," she said, laughing again at his hurt look.

  "I'm sorry. You know — "

  "Oh, don't apologize. I'm teasing you. I'm worried, too."

  "Think the brochures are done?" he asked, looking at his watch. "It's been an hour and a half."

  "Let's go see. I'm ready to get back to the boat. I'm thinking a nap before the cocktail hour sounds enticing."

  The brochures were indeed ready when they stopped in the little shop a few minutes later. They dropped half of them off with the manager of the inn; Connie had ordered a few extra to keep on hand.

  "I'll get some more done the next time we're in a big
town," she said to Paul, as they walked across The Strand from the inn to the town dock.

  "Maybe Norfolk," Paul said, as he climbed down into their dinghy.

  "Right," Connie said, taking his hand and climbing down. "We'll be right downtown; I'm sure there's a place that'll run off a couple of hundred on a color laser printer while we wait."

  Paul was unlocking the chain that secured the dinghy to the dock when she tapped him on the shoulder.

  "What?" he asked, fumbling the key into the padlock as the dinghy rocked in the wake of a passing boat.

  "The guy from St. Michaels," she said in a soft voice.

  "Yeah? What about him?" He freed the lock and pulled the chain from around the piling, dropping it in the dinghy as he straightened up.

  "He's sitting on one of the benches up there on The Strand, taking pictures of Diamantista II."

  "I just got back to my office," O'Brien said. "You guys must be psychic or something. Haven't even had a chance to sit down. What's up in Oxford this afternoon?"

  "Remember I mentioned seeing the guy in St. Michaels that was a 'maybe' match for the one in the sketch?" Paul asked.

  "Yes. What about him?"

  "He's sitting up on the river bank, maybe a hundred yards from us, taking pictures of the boats," Connie said, through clenched teeth.

  "Well, okay. How far apart are Oxford and St. Michaels?"

  "Four hours, give or take," she said.

  "Sorry, Connie. I meant by land. I think they're only a few minutes by car. I remember there's a ferry — "

  "The Oxford-Bellevue ferry," Paul said. "The landing's right here at us, practically."

  "Okay," Connie said. "I'm looking at a map in one of the tourist brochures I picked up. It's maybe 15 or 20 miles, if that."

  "That's what I thought; my ex and I spent a few long weekends over there, back when. Oxford's one of the places people go on bicycle trips from St. Michaels. We even looked into renting bikes. So I don't think you should assume this guy followed you, necessarily."

  Connie's jaw relaxed, but Paul was frowning.

  "Any word on the motorcycle?" he asked.

  "I don't know. Like I said, I just got back to my desk. Hang on; let me check the email."

  They could hear the clicking of a keyboard.

  "Yep, here's one from the RA in Bangor. Let's see ... okay. Nothing yet. They sent the pictures to the boatyard office, and everybody's on board, but the guy had the afternoon off. Some kind of doctor's appointment or something. He'll be back in the morning, so there's not much we can do but wait."

  "Damn," Paul said. "It would be nice to know."

  "You guys staying in Oxford tonight?"

  "Yes," Connie said. "We're planning to leave early tomorrow morning and sail across the Bay to Solomons Island."

  "Nice place," O'Brien said. "I remember when it was just a little village. It's really built up now; it's almost a D.C. suburb."

  "That's good. Think there'll be an office supply or copy shop there that can print some brochures for us?" Connie asked.

  "Oh, yeah. No doubt."

  "Great," Paul said. "So you'll give us a call when you hear about the motorcycle?"

  "You bet. I'll call you tomorrow morning, either way. You still have the sat phone?"

  "Yes, why?" Connie asked.

  "You may be out of cell range, out in the middle of the Bay. It's spotty out there. Same number from before?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay. Turn it on in the morning. I'll call you on that when I hear something."

  "Thanks, Bill," Paul said.

  "Thank you. You have a nice evening, and don't worry so much. We'll get this sorted out. Goodnight."

  "Goodnight," Connie and Paul said as he disconnected.

  21

  Rashid woke up when the first light of dawn crept through his window. He had spent a restless night, waking often to look out at the river. This sleepy little stretch of waterfront would be a much more likely spot for someone to work on the yacht without attracting attention. Although he still thought that was improbable, he was a professional, and he had his orders. He sat up on the edge of his bed and stretched before he went to the window.

  Pulling the curtains aside, he was surprised to see activity aboard the yacht at such an early hour. They were uncovering the sails, and the dinghy had been hoisted onto the foredeck. While he watched, the woman went back to the cockpit and bent down for a moment. He saw a puff of smoke from behind the boat and then a pulsating stream of water shooting out. He lifted the window and heard the soft rumble of a diesel engine.

  The woman stepped behind the helm and gave the man a nod. He moved to the front of the boat and picked up something. With a glance back at the woman, he turned, looking down at the anchor chain. Rashid could hear the clanking sound as the chain ran through the windlass, and the boat began to creep forward. Within two minutes, the man was crouched, lashing the anchor in place, and the woman was steering the boat down the river.

  Rashid turned on his computer and connected to the inn's Wi-Fi network. He took his time, pausing to check his email and finding nothing there. He composed a short message to Kareem Abdullah, advising him that the yacht was on the move again, but that all was well. Judging that enough time had elapsed for the yacht to have reached the junction of the Tred Avon River and the Choptank, he clicked his way to the tracking website and logged on. His timing was perfect. He frowned as he saw that the yacht had turned to the west. He had been expecting them to go to Cambridge, a few miles up the Choptank to the east. He had thought that they were sightseeing, killing time before they had to be in Norfolk. Maybe they had gotten bored after two tiny towns and did not want to see a third.

  Rashid estimated that he would have another three or four hours to wait before he could guess at their next destination. He expected that they would turn south once they entered the Chesapeake Bay. That might take them a couple of hours. Even then, he would have to wait until they at least committed themselves to a course to one shore or the other before he could pick a likely stopping point. If they opted for the western shore, that would mean he would have to backtrack to Annapolis and then head south, a journey of a few hours. He wouldn't be able to beat them to their destination this time. He would have to use Boutros. After breakfast, he would send a text, alerting the imbecile.

  "I've always heard that summer on the Chesapeake meant light air, but this is hopeless," Connie said.

  "Guess the sailing's in the spring and fall, huh?" Paul asked.

  "I guess. Last time I was here, I left in late fall; cold fronts were beginning to come through, and there were some nice northerlies. I wasn't around during the summer. Glad we've got plenty of fuel."

  "The extra capacity was a good idea, since we had to replace the tank anyway," Paul said. "We should have maybe a 1,000-mile range with the 200-gallon tank. We need to remember to check our burn rate when we get around to filling up; I'm guessing at a little under two gallons an hour."

  "Right. We just need to remember to fill it before we set out for the islands. Rick said we had 100 gallons; that should get us through the summer," Connie said. The boatyard in Maine didn't sell fuel, but they had transferred what had been in the old tank to the new one after they installed it. Rick Peterson had reminded them when they settled the yard bill that they should fill up before they set out for the Caribbean.

  As they left the Choptank and turned south, Connie tweaked the autopilot. They would follow the main shipping channel down the Bay until they were able to turn up into the Patuxent River.

  "Have you been to Solomons Island before?" Paul asked.

  "No. When I left here before, I was chasing a good weather window to get across the Gulf Stream and catch the back end of a cold front to make my easting. I sailed non-stop from Annapolis right on out of the Bay and took up a course to 25 degrees North, 65 degrees West."

  "That's right. I remember now," Paul said. "And then you diverted to Beaufort when — "

  He was
interrupted by the ringing of their satellite phone. He picked it up, glancing at the caller i.d. screen as he answered it in hands-free mode.

  "Good morning, Bill. We're both on the horn."

  "Good morning. Sounds like I hear the diesel; where are you?"

  "We just left the Choptank; we're easing into the main channel, headed south."

  "Still planning on Solomons, then?"

  "Yes," Paul said.

  "Okay. That's good. I've got some news; you flexible on your plans?"

  "Sure. What's up?"

  "That was the motorcycle. The one you saw in Oxford, that is."

  Connie's face blanched; her knuckles turned white as she gripped the rail over the steering pedestal. "How — "

  "We must have a tracker aboard," Paul said. "Shit. Was that the guy?"

  "Maybe. We don't really know who he is or what he looks like, remember?"

  "Right. You going to have him picked up?"

  "It's in process," O'Brien said.

  "Okay. How the hell are we going to find a tracking device on this thing? I can think of about a million places to put it, and that's without even trying," Paul said.

  "That's why I asked if you were flexible. You ever heard of Patuxent Naval Air Station?"

  "Only from seeing it on the chart when we were plotting our course last night," Connie said. "It's right across the river from Solomons Island."

  "That's right. It's an odd place," O'Brien said. "There's all kinds of secret stuff going on there. They'll fix you up with dockage tonight, if you're agreeable."

  "Okay, but I — "

  "And they've got some people with the tools and the talent to find your tracking device. That's assuming our boy won't tell us about it, once we nab him."

  "Seems unlikely that he'll talk; I mean, Abe and Mo sure didn't."

  "Yeah. This time, we'll be ready."

  "How can you — " Connie said.

  "Don't ask, Connie," O'Brien said. "I don't even want to know. There are some pretty scary people headed for Oxford right now. They probably won't be reading him his rights."