“You’re going to have to hit it on the nose today,” Kenny said. He’d stopped prepping bait and was standing near enough to me that he didn’t have to yell. He was turned to the rail, looking over the side. Stephanie was lined up closer to stern, but she was on the same side of the boat and I told her to switch sides.
We couldn’t see much, and I had half a mind to say fuck it and to head back in, but then I saw something in the whiteness ahead. I was about to say something, and then I realized that it wasn’t a buoy, that whatever it was that I saw was moving. I couldn’t make it out through the fog, but it matched the pace of the Kings’ Ransom. We were throttled almost all the way back. It would have been a good walking speed on shore. The thing ahead of us stood dark in the water, and it cut a small wake. A seal, I thought, playing some sort of game with me, and I pushed the throttle up a touch. The seal sped up as well, and I had the sudden feeling that maybe it wasn’t a seal at all, that it was a selkie, that maybe it was Brumfitt’s wife in the water ahead of us, and that if I could only catch her she’d tell me something important. I put my hand on the throttle again, thinking I’d pick it up just a little more, when I heard Kenny call out.
I stopped us in the water and walked over to Kenny. He’d already gaffed the buoy and was holding it up for me to look at. Stephanie stood beside him looking concerned. It wasn’t Daddy’s buoy.
“James Harbor?” Stephanie asked. Yellow with a triple ring of sky-blue and a band of green.
I nodded. “Those are the ones, yeah? What George said he saw the day he got shot. Let’s keep an eye out,” I said. “Or as much of an eye as you can in this fog. You know the drill. Cut it.”
Kenny pulled out his belt knife and cut the rope. He threw the buoy back on the platform, and I watched the orphaned line wave in the water. “You see any of Daddy’s?”
Kenny shook his head. “Figure they probably cut his when they dropped theirs. Must have done it last night after everybody was nicely tucked away. I went for a beer after dinner, and nobody said anything about seeing any James Harbor pots yesterday. It’s been quiet.”
“All right,” I said. I nodded, but I felt my stomach tightening. If I would have pulled Daddy’s traps yesterday I might have seen something, might have been there whenever the boat from James Harbor showed up. Might have been able to find out who it was that had dropped a load of bird shot in George’s face. Now I’d have to tell Daddy that not only did I let his traps sit so that I could go get a beer and a burger, I’d have to tell him that some of them were gone. “We’ll see what we can find.”
If it had been clear, it would have been easy. Daddy’s buoys would have shone like the sun to me, but in the heavy fog, it was hunting and pecking, and we found and cut two more James Harbor buoys in short order. I had to run slow, because of the weather, but I didn’t like it. The fog was weird. There was no thunder or foulness, no sense of anything ominous. If anything, it was the opposite. There was a sort of cleanliness to the fog, and maybe that was what was so odd about it. I couldn’t see much more than a half boat length in front of me, but it was light out. The sun was out there, trying to break through the dampness clouding around us. I actually had sunglasses on—it seemed like the sun was bouncing off every drop of water in the air, magnifying the light.
I was only half paying attention to the water. Mostly I was eyeing the instruments, looking for buoys. With the fog I was running blind, trusting the electronics to keep me safe, to guide my way, and when I first saw the boat in front of us, I tried blinking it away, thinking it wasn’t there. And then I realized that it was there. The boat was solid, and I was about to run the Kings’ Ransom right smack through its middle. I dropped the cup and spun the wheel with one hand, slamming the throttle full in reverse with the other. I heard a thump and a yell from Kenny behind me. Trudy exhaled with a coughing bark and skittered to her feet clumsily.
We had been moving slowly enough that, with the wheel cranked all the way and the engine fighting, we swung neatly sideways and pushed against the edge of the boat, the Kings’ Ransom’s starboard gunwale touching gently against their port. It was actually kind of impressive, the sort of thing I liked to think I could do on purpose. I pushed the throttle into neutral, leaving my boat kissing the other boat.
“Holy shit, Cordelia. What are you doing?” Kenny was back on his feet, rubbing at his hip, and then he looked up and saw the other boat bobbing next to us. Trudy took a few steps over to Kenny and sniffed at where he was rubbing his hip.
“Didn’t show up on the gear,” I said. He stared at me and I shrugged. This wasn’t a stripped-down speedboat from a television show, but an honest-to-god lobster boat, and it should have popped up on my screen.
“Whose boat is it?” Stephanie asked.
I looked closer, the fog making it hard to see even to my own rail. “Don’t know. Is it one of ours?” We were quiet for a few seconds, and there was nothing but the sound of a few gulls, my engine in neutral, and the rub of our rail on theirs. We’d look an odd sight to any passersby, the two boats side by side, though with the fog, any passersby would just pass on by, not even noticing the two boats wedged together.
“What do you want to do, boss?” Kenny asked. There wasn’t much to the ocean, just enough swell to remind us that it was still there, a soft bump of the boats against each other. I knew what I wanted to do, which was get the hell out of there, but then Kenny spoke again. “You know what Woody said.”
“Daddy’s not here,” I said. “Tie us up.”
Kenny looked sideways at me and then started putting out bumpers, laying line, connecting the Kings’ Ransom to the other boat. Stephanie jumped alongside him, and I let them go about their business, turning instead to dig through the lockers in the cabin. Daddy and Kenny and news of ghost ships this spring, and James Harbor pissing in our waters, had put me enough on edge that by the time Kenny and Stephanie had us tied off, I was ready to hand Kenny a pistol.
I kept the shotgun for myself.
“I’ve got to be honest here,” Stephanie said, looking more at the guns than at either Kenny or me. “I’m thinking that if the instinct here is to get out a rifle and a handgun, maybe we should just call in the Coast Guard or something.”
“It’s a shotgun,” I said. Stephanie looked at me blankly. “You said ‘rifle.’ It’s a shotgun.”
Kenny popped the clip out of the pistol, took a look, and then snapped it back in. “The nuances of firearms aside, Cordelia, I think Stephanie’s greater point was that she would prefer to stay on the Kings’ Ransom and call in the cavalry. That’s what Woody said to do if we came across anybody from James Harbor.”
I realized that I was pushing myself into a situation I didn’t want to be in so that I could show that I was the one calling the shots. I hadn’t wanted to sail in this fog, and I sure as shit didn’t want to be boarding a James Harbor vessel, but I’d managed to back myself into a corner. I couldn’t figure out a way to change my mind without letting Stephanie get into the habit of second-guessing every decision I made, so I stepped up on the rail, balancing myself with one hand on the roof of the cabin. “There’s a reason I gave Kenny the pistol, not you, Stephie. Stay here with Trudy and keep a hand on the radio. We’re just going to take a look.”
I didn’t check back to see what Kenny was doing. I just took the short hop onto the deck of the other boat. It wasn’t much of a jump, but I still managed to land awkwardly, banging myself in the shin with the shotgun. I was still rubbing at my shin when Kenny jumped down beside me.
The first thing we saw was a pair of lobster buoys. Yellow with a triple ring of sky-blue and a band of green. There were also a few lobster traps on the deck with buoys loose on top, but the traps were an odd assortment, like the crew had cobbled together their kit from cast-offs and mismatches. Kenny grabbed one and tipped it up on its edge.
“This one’s shot,” he said. “Head’s gone, the mesh is barely connected.” He fingered the bridle on another, the rope frayed and
ready to be replaced. “Maybe just cleaning up some old traps? Hobby fishing?”
I shook my head. “No. Same colours as the James Harbor buoys we just cut. Nobody would poach our waters as a hobby. Camouflage?”
“What do you mean, camouflage?”
“Doesn’t seem right, does it?” I said. Kenny kicked at one of the traps and then looked at me. “Maybe they aren’t the old guard in James Harbor, maybe they’re looking for a way to supplement their income, and they ended up here because they thought we wouldn’t make a fuss.”
“And the old traps?”
“Something to give cover to a casual glance? A wave and a pass to the Coasties, to other boats.”
“So, are they here for drugs or lobsters?”
“Does it matter?” I poked the shotgun at one of the yellow buoys. They were actually kind of smart-looking with the triple ring of sky-blue and the band of green. It wouldn’t be that hard to figure out who was fishing these colours. “Drugs or just piss-bags from James Harbor, we know whomever it is working these colours isn’t shy about trying to shoot somebody who is cutting their lines.” The shotgun felt cool and comfortable, and I remembered what Daddy had said to me: if I ever had a gun in my hands I better be ready to pull the trigger. Even though it was silent other than the hum of the Kings’ Ransom in neutral, Kenny and me breathing, and the water, I thumbed the safety off. Kenny looked up at the click.
“Well, that sure sounds ominous,” Kenny said.
“No point having them if we aren’t ready to use them,” I said.
“Just so you know, Cordelia, if you accidently shoot me, I’m going to be pissed,” he said, but I heard him click off the safety on the pistol. He took a few steps over to another pile of traps and kicked at them.
I shuffled toward the stern and peeked in the engine compartment. “Whoa. Whoever owns this boat is either compensating for the smallest dick in existence, or is seriously concerned with going fast. No lobsterman needs this much horsepower.” I looked up at Kenny, but he was turned away from me, poking at the pile of traps, the gun in his hand hanging down at his side.
I heard Stephanie moving around on the Kings’ Ransom, a clink of something, maybe the thermos on a cup. If anything, the fog had settled thicker in the last few minutes, and I could barely see past Kenny’s back.
“What the fuck are these?” he said.
“Lobster traps.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” he said. “They’ve got packages inside them. Drugs?”
I went over to where he was standing. These traps, unlike the ones we’d first seen, were new, but there were no bait bags. They were kitted out with bricks so they’d sink right down, but inside two of them—the rest were empty, as far as I could tell—were duffel bags. “Got to be,” I said. “Doesn’t seem like the best place to stash your luggage. Open it up?”
Kenny stuffed the pistol into the pocket of his jacket and then popped open the trap. The bags were puffed out and lumpy, but clearly not stuffed completely full. Kenny tugged at one, but it wasn’t going anywhere. “They’ve got the bags rigged in there real good. Zip ties through the grommets and the handles.” I looked closer and saw what he was talking about. The zip ties were black, and blended clean with the bags. “Not going to be slipping out with the waves,” Kenny said. He unzipped one of the bags, and I could see that all that was inside was bubble wrap and torn plastic wrap. Kenny worked his hand through the mess and then shook his head. “Nothing in there. Just plastic. Old wrapping? What are we thinking? Pot, coke, meth?”
“James Harbor, right? So, meth.”
“You even know what meth looks like?”
“Nope. You?”
“Nope, but I’m assuming we’ll know it if we see it,” he said, and then he spun around and pulled the pistol out of his pocket, pointing it forward, into the fog.
I moved up beside him, the shotgun up at my shoulder, and kept my voice as low as I could. “What?”
He touched his lips with his finger, and then pointed to his ear. There were only the sounds I would have expected: the low hum of the motor on the Kings’ Ransom, the movement of the water, birds. Kenny looked over at me, but I shrugged.
He motioned with his head toward the Kings’ Ransom and mouthed the words, Let’s get out of here, but I shook my head. He stared at me and then shook his head, and mouthed something that I thought might have been, Stubborn bitch. I mouthed back, You know you love it.
I stepped past him, keeping the shotgun at the ready. I tried to keep my steps light as I walked forward, but even so, I heard the sound of my footstep change, turn hollow, and I looked down. Wasn’t obvious, but I was standing on some sort of a panel. Kenny looked down, too, and then picked up a rotted-out lobster trap that covered a ring-pull. I stepped off while Kenny moved the trap aside. Quietly as I could, I pulled up the hatch.
What was interesting to me wasn’t that there was a cargo space—every boat is fitted with nooks and crannies to stash gear, and as soon as I saw the duffel bags in the traps I figured this boat would be fitted out with something more hidden than most—but that there was nothing in the compartment space at all. Nothing. It was dead clean. There wasn’t a scrap of old net or a crapped-out pair of overalls, or anything that would hint that an honest-to-god fisherman used this boat. And there weren’t any suspicious packages in there, either.
“Transferring?” I whispered to Kenny. “Were they dropping off for somebody else to pick up, or were they picking up?”
Kenny took the hatch from my hand and shut it carefully. “Seems like an awfully complicated way to move drugs from one boat to the other.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “No Coastie would look twice at a boat hauling traps.”
“But we would,” Kenny said. “This a James Harbor boat. We see them dropping or hauling in our waters, and it’s a different matter. Why are they carrying the same buoys that we’ve been cutting? This doesn’t make any sense. Are they carrying drugs or are they working the water?”
“They’re drug smugglers. That’s for sure. Not the smartest boys on the sea,” I whispered. Then I shrugged. “Maybe they’re working part-time as lobstermen, part-time selling drugs. Whatever. Let’s worry about that later and check the rest of the boat first.”
I moved forward two more steps, and the cabin wavered in front of me, but once I was under the roof the fog seemed lighter, and it was obvious there wasn’t much to see in the cabin: the key was still in the ignition, the gas tank showed they had plenty to keep moving.
I opened one of the lockers. Slickers, boots, a sweatshirt, a fire extinguisher. Next locker had fishing gear, some line, a water-stained porn magazine. I could feel Kenny’s side against mine, and I glanced back at him. He still kept the pistol up, scanning around, though I didn’t think he’d be able to see anything in the whiteness.
I reached out to the last locker and was about to open it when I noticed that my boot pulled sticky from the deck. I looked down and saw that the wetness I was standing in wasn’t a puddle of water.
“Kenny,” I whispered. I tried to keep the stress out of my voice, tried to keep from screaming, but I had the shotgun up and pointed at the locker.
In retrospect, I realize how silly it was to be pointing at the locker. The blood was clearly pooling from it, and by the amount of blood on the deck, it seemed obvious that whatever I had to worry about, it wasn’t in there.
“Kenny,” I whispered again. “I could use a hand over here.”
I didn’t want to look away from the locker to see what Kenny was doing: I kept the barrel of the shotgun pointed up and in front of me, could see the way it was trembling in my hands.
“Easy, now, Cordelia,” Kenny said in a whisper. I could feel his breath on my ear, something that at any other moment would have thrilled me. “I’m going to move past you and open that locker, but I want you to back up a spell, take your finger off that trigger. Don’t want you shooting me.”
I backed up. My feet pulled sticky from the
deck again, and I could smell the blood. I took my finger off the trigger, but kept it close. Kenny shuffled forward gingerly, each step making a ripping sound as his feet moved through the puddle. He reached out to the latch and then looked at me and gave a nod. I nodded back. And then he opened the locker.
The body in the locker hadn’t spent any time in the water, but it might as well have; whoever had shot him had put a couple of bullets through the back of his head, and when the bullets exited, they ripped his face to shreds.
When Kenny opened the locker, the body fell out sideways on the deck with a heavy thud, his head almost landing against Kenny’s boots, and I barely stopped myself from pulling the trigger on the shotgun. Kenny started puking right away, and I must have let out some sort of a yell, because at the same time that Kenny was bent over and vomiting, I heard Stephanie calling out to me.
Instead of answering, I stepped around the body. His hands were pinned behind him, tied together with plastic zip ties. It was the same kind that held the duffel bags in the traps, the sort that electricians used and that most of the guys I knew kept handy around their boat and in their garage for odd jobs. I could see where the band dug into his skin, and then I realized something that made me even more uneasy, though I would have thought the fact that he was zip-tied and had a couple of bullets through the back of his head would have been enough: three of his fingers had been cut off. The skin was raw and crusted with blood, and I could see the ragged tip of bone. That was enough, and I started vomiting, too.
I heard Stephanie calling out again, and this time, after wiping my mouth with my forearm, I called back and told her to stay put. There wasn’t any sense in having her see this, too, and all I could think about was that whoever did this might be slinking around through the fog with their gun out, waiting to put a bullet in the back of my head or Kenny’s, and that we could just as easily be lying in a puddle of our own blood as this poor son of a bitch was.
The Lobster Kings Page 21