Precious Cargo

by Clyde W. Ford

  “You think clearing customs matters to Kincaid, if he’s illegally transporting immigrants into this country?” Raven asked.

  “I do,” I said. “I think that’s the reason this immigrant-smuggling ring uses his boat in the first place. It looks legitimate. Who’d expect a fancy yacht to be a modern-day slave ship?”

  “In that case, he’s probably got a prearranged clearance number, so he just calls in and doesn’t have to stop at an American customs port. That way he can lie about the human cargo he’s actually transporting without worrying about a customs inspector boarding his boat, or sniffing around it with a dog.”

  “But that means fingerprints and a background check,” I said. “My guess is that Kincaid might not want all that scrutiny. He might prefer to check in at a customs port, schmooze the agents, and be gone.”

  Raven ran his finger along the southern edge of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. “Which means Neah Bay or Port Angeles.”

  “Those’d be my choices. He’s coming down from Canada. The question is, does he stay on the Canadian side of the strait and cross over when he nears Port Angeles? Or does he first cross over to the American side at the western entrance of the strait and clear customs in Neah Bay?”

  “I’ve got another question,” Raven said. “What if we’re wrong about Kincaid and it’s someone else who transported Eliana? Why the hell would a wealthy guy like Kincaid get involved in dirty business like this anyway?”

  I sipped some coffee. “Yeah. I’ve been asking myself the same question. I don’t know if I have the answer, but I bet I know someone who does.”

  “Who?”

  “Janet.”

  “Still leaves the question of where Longhorn might clear customs unanswered,” Raven said.

  “I know what I’d do,” I said. “Clear customs in Neah Bay. Smaller office. Farther out. Maybe the agents aren’t on quite as high an alert as in Port Angeles, where they intercepted Ahmed Ressam entering from Canada with a load of explosives back in 1999.”

  “Noble, you’re crazy. You can’t do it,” Raven said. “Neah Bay’s a hundred miles from here. What does your boat do? Nine . . . ten knots top?”

  “Seven or eight,” I said.

  “It’d take you twelve to fourteen hours to get there. Besides, you can’t leave today. Southeaster’s blowing. It’s already up to fifteen or twenty knots in the islands. It’ll be more in the Strait of Juan de Fuca.”

  “You sound concerned,” I said.

  “I am,” Raven said.

  “I’m touched,” I said.

  “Too many souls lost to the sea already.”

  I put a hand on Raven’s shoulder. “I hadn’t planned on leaving today,” I said. “Forecast calls for high pressure building offshore. I’ll leave very early in the morning, and catch a ride with the current. It’s early summer. Plenty of light. I can make Neah Bay before sunset.”

  “What if Longhorn gets there before you, clears customs, and then leaves?”

  “Maybe I can intercept her on the water.”

  “Big ocean.”

  “Big boat. Longhorn’s over twenty meters in length.”

  Raven nodded. “So there’s a good chance that she’ll report into the Vessel Traffic Service.”

  “Better than a good chance. Coast Guard issued new regs several months ago. Vessels over twenty meters periodically will be required to check in with VTS. If I was the captain of Longhorn I’d play by the rules and check into the system the moment I entered U.S. waters.”

  “Less chance of being boarded.”

  “Uh huh. The new rules make it easier for the CG to know who’s out on the water. They’ll also make it easier for me to know if Longhorn ’s out there. I’ll monitor the VTS channels.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on Cypress beginning tonight.”

  “I’ll call you on your cell phone once I get to Neah Bay, or if I cross paths with Longhorn before then.”

  “Don’t worry,” Raven said.

  “About what?”

  “Plans. Contingencies. Figuring out everything beforehand. Operational planning,” Raven’s voice echoed bemusement. He shook his head. “Reminds me of the SEALs. We planned and planned, but no mission ever turned out as we planned.”

  Raven stared at my chest as though peering deep inside my soul. His unflinching gaze unnerved me. Finally, he nodded.

  “Spirit Walker,” Raven said. He smiled while nodding. “Yes, Spirit Walker.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Spirit Walker?”

  “Someone who goes where the Spirit calls even if he can’t hear his name. Noble, take one step in the direction of truth, and truth will take two steps toward you.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” I said.

  I removed the coffee cups from the chart and let it roll up. I carried the chart up into the pilothouse and slipped it into its holder. On the way back down, I felt the Noble Lady tip to starboard, and when I got to the galley I didn’t see Raven. I looked out the window in time to catch him disappearing behind a large sailboat as he turned from my dock and headed down the main walkway toward the gate.

  I flipped open my cell phone and called Janet. She agreed to lunch. Then, with a few hours to spare, I pulled my guitar from its case and launched into the English Suite. It’s a funny thing, not practicing for several days. My fingers took me through the Prelude, and the only time I screwed up was when my mind tried to override what my body already knew. Beginner’s mind. Beginner’s heart. Beginner’s hands. The crisp, buoyant melody brought with it hope that joy still proceeds even amid life’s sorrows. I finished the Prelude and laid the guitar across my lap.

  What the hell. I picked up my cell phone and called Kate. She answered, but at first I only heard conversation in the background. Then she said to someone nearby, “Pardon me, Sir, I need to use the head.”

  I chuckled. A minute later, Kate whispered, “I’m in the head. I had my phone on vibrate in case you called. Look, I can’t talk long. But I’m really glad to hear your voice. What’s up?”

  “I miss you,” I said. “That’s the only reason I called.”

  A long pause followed.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “No,” Kate said. “I need to be with you soon.”

  WHEN I WALKED INTO AVENUE BREAD, I waved to Janet, who sat at a round glass table in the far corner of the restaurant. Her tepid wave surprised me. I walked over to the counter and ordered a turkey sandwich on toasted multigrain bread. After I paid, I went to sit down next to Janet.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She seemed near tears. “Ben and I had a fight.”

  “So what’s new? I thought you both liked to fight because you both liked to make up afterward.”

  Janet shook her head slowly. Her eyes looked red, as though she’d been crying. “No. We had a real fight.”

  “About what?”

  “About who I am, and who Ben is.”

  “And who are you both?”

  “I’m passionate and wild,” Janet said.

  “I thought that’s what Ben liked about you.”

  “I don’t know,” Janet said. “He’s . . . well, he’s even-keeled and steady.”

  “I thought that’s what you liked about Ben.”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  From behind the counter, someone called Janet’s name, then mine. I walked over and grabbed two baskets, one with my sandwich, and the other with her salad. I slipped the plastic basket in front of Janet.

  “This really about you being wild and Ben being steady?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s about both of us being scared.”

  “Because the relationship is progressing?”

  “Yes. And I don’t want to give up a part of me to be with Ben.”

  “And Ben is afraid of losing a part of himself to be with you.”

  “You should be a therapist,” Janet said.

  “I was married to a strong-willed woman, and I now have an equa
lly strong-willed girlfriend.”

  Janet chuckled as she stabbed some lettuce with her fork. “Damn you,” she said. “I’m starting to feel better already. I wanted to stay angry with Ben longer, for what he said.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “That he wanted me to cut down on my activism if we’re going to be together.”

  “To which you took offense.”

  “Damn right.”

  “And then he got defensive.”

  “You know the dance.”

  “I’ve done it. And I think you know there’s only one solution.”

  Janet stabbed another piece of lettuce. “Compromise.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “That means both of us giving up a little of ourselves to be with the other.”

  “Uh huh. It’s the new math. One plus one equals one and one plus one also equals two.”

  “Confusing.”

  “Ever been in a relationship that wasn’t?”

  Janet shook her head, and her hair flew wildly. She sighed. “Damn relationships. . . . I hate ’em and I love ’em.”

  “Confusing,” I said.

  “Apart from being my therapist, what did you want to talk about?”

  “Confusion,” I said. “In particular, I’m confused about Dennis Kincaid, and why a man with money may be involved with illegal immigrants.”

  Janet slipped her fork under a piece of blue cheese and delicately balanced it on the tines as she lifted it to her mouth. Then she leaned over the table, and in a contrived, high-pitched, syrupy voice that sounded like that of a gossip columnist, she said, “Darling . . . Dennis Kincaid has no money.”

  twenty-one

  “Kincaid is nearly broke,” Janet said. “We thought we’d negotiated a buyout of his Chuckanut Ridge properties for $14 million. Then, at the last minute, he raised the price to $18 million. It sounded suspicious. We had our lawyer, Nancy, check deeper into his background to see if he’d pulled a stunt like this before in Texas. What she discovered floored us. . . . Sorry, I’ve got to eat.”

  Janet paused for some more salad. I took a healthy bite of turkey sandwich. Not enough mustard. I got up and had the woman behind the counter put a good-sized dollop into a tiny paper cup. When I got back to the table, Janet dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

  “He was a wealthy Texas developer. But apparently Daddy Kincaid had a huge weakness. He liked to gamble in casinos south of the border. Nancy said she checked with lawyer friends in Texas, who told her that Kincaid had lost most of his wealth to gambling, and what he hadn’t lost, he owed to those from whom he’d borrowed plenty.”

  “That’s the reason he wanted to either develop or sell this Bellingham property.”

  “It was all that remained of his real estate empire.” Janet laughed. “I guess it was hard to place this property on the gambling table. Who down there has heard of Whatcom County?”

  “Maybe the coyotes,” I said.

  “But all they do is howl,” Janet said.

  “Not these coyotes. They transport human beings across the border from Mexico, and I bet they made Mr. Kincaid an offer he dared not refuse.”

  I explained to Janet what we’d heard from Eliana. Her face turned red as she listened. Afterward, she pounded the table, which caused our baskets and water glasses to jump. A few people at adjacent tables turned toward us. It didn’t faze Janet.

  “The bastard won’t get anything now,” she said. “We’ll take that property from him for trafficking in human beings.”

  “That may be jumping to a conclusion,” I said. “We don’t know for sure that he’s involved.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him or Bud.”

  Janet stabbed what remained of her lettuce, while I told her what I planned to do. Afterward, she placed her hand on top of mine.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  “I’ve already got a good lady going.”

  “Kate?”

  “No, I—”

  “The Noble Lady, of course,” Janet said. “Just remember that the strait can be treacherous, especially on summer afternoons when the land heats up, the hot air rises, and colder ocean air rockets down the strait to replace it. Pull in somewhere if you need to.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll remember that.”

  “When can I expect that you’ll return?”

  I smiled. “Ma’am. Are you requiring me to file a float plan?”

  “Yes, Commander, I am.”

  “If I’m not back in three or four days, call the CG.”

  “I will.”

  I rose to leave. Janet rose as well. Outside of Avenue Bread, she gave me a big hug.

  “Are you going back to the gallery?” I asked.

  “No, Ben’s at the station this afternoon. I’m going over there to needle him about being a jerk.”

  “To make him more angry than he already is?”

  She smiled mischievously. “No. To make him angry enough so he’ll want to make up.”

  I threw up my hands and shook my head.

  On the way to my car, my cell phone rang.

  “Ray Bob was arrested for assault and battery of a sex-trade worker,” Ben said.

  “Sex-trade worker?”

  “Hey, I’m with Janet. I’m trying to become politically correct.”

  “No conviction?”

  “Case was thrown out because the sex-trade worker refused to press charges after the arrest or to testify against Ray Bob.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m leaving for Neah Bay early tomorrow morning.”

  “Going after Longhorn?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You got a plan?”

  “Investigating. Gathering evidence.”

  “Call if you need backup.”

  “I will. I just had lunch with Janet. She insisted that I file a float plan with her.”

  Ben said nothing.

  “By the way, I want to give you a heads-up,” I said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Janet’s on her way over to see you.”

  “She is? Is she angry?”

  “You asked her to give up a part of herself to be with you. What do you think?”

  “I think I’d better call 911.”

  AT THREE THIRTY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I backed the Noble Lady from her berth. We glided over liquid darkness past rows of quiet halyards and hulls hunkered down in the shadows of slips. Rounding the breakwater, I saw the pulsing green light of the channel buoy. I set my coffee cup aside and strained out the window to find the two unlit red channel buoys.

  A mariner’s mantra played in my mind, “Red. Right. Returning.” But since I was leaving, that meant I needed to find and keep the red buoys on my left. I’d exited the harbor so many times I didn’t really need them to guide me. But I finally spotted both red buoys bobbing gently well off to port. Something I never really understood is why the Coast Guard didn’t put a flashing red light on at least one of these buoys so they’d be easier to find in the dark.

  Past the buoys, I fiddled with the engine until the rpm’s felt just right. We cruised along at seven knots. I set the Noble Lady on autopilot, opened the pilothouse door, and looked behind me. A pale blue glow backlit the hills surrounding the city, and overhead a full moon had yet to dissolve in the morning light.

  Full moon, ebb tide. I’d meet swift currents today. I’d timed my passage to take advantage of them, particularly the ebb that would flush me down Bellingham Channel into Rosario Strait, and from there out into the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

  I gripped my coffee cup tightly. I caught myself checking and rechecking the water temperature, oil pressure, and fuel gauges. I scanned the radar screen several times, even though it showed no other traffic in the bay.

  A body of water is like a piece of music. A good mariner learns its tempos and rhythms, its harmonies and discords, practicing the passage until it becomes second nature. I’d never been out on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. So today I’d be sigh
t-reading a body of water for the first time.

  I angled slightly left, past the flashing red buoy that marked the shallow area where Bellingham Bay met Hale Passage. Then at the southern tip of Lummi Island, I turned west and cruised past the Devil’s Playground.

  In the distance off the starboard side, the sky had brightened, marking the horizon over the Strait of Georgia with a rose-colored band. Ahead, the hulking mass of Cypress Island loomed.

  The Noble Lady lurched under me, as though she’d stepped on a fast-moving conveyor belt. I checked the GPS. The ebb moved us at nearly eleven knots. Small, sharp wavelets blanketed the water around us, reminding me of thousands of tiny shark fins.

  Fortunately, no wind fetched the wide expanse of the Strait of Georgia. Wind meeting current here, after a long haul down the strait, kicks up a nasty chop, earning Devil’s Playground its fiendish name.

  The fragment of a dream replayed in my mind. While at the helm of the Noble Lady, I’d spotted someone flailing in the very waters I passed now. I maneuvered the boat closer only to find Eliana struggling to keep her head above the chop. She wore no life jacket. The current in the Devil’s Playground pushed the Noble Lady away from her. I finally managed to turn around for a second rescue try. But Eliana slipped under the dark waters and I never saw her surface again.

  I sighed, then I pounded the wheel with my fist.

  Her name was Melinda Corazon, a Mexican immigrant looking for a better life in America. Her parents had come here before her, and when they sent for her the coyotes steered her into a life of prostitution to pay back the money her family owed. That’s all the Bayneses asked of me—to find out about the woman they’d brought up on their anchor.

  “No más. No más.” I heard Eliana’s soft voice in my mind. I dropped my head into my hands and rubbed my forehead. I’d made her a promise about stopping Frank Abadi and this human trafficking and prostitution ring. Searching for Longhorn in the Noble Lady might seem crazy, but it was a step I could take to fulfill that promise. What did Raven say about taking one step toward the truth? The truth will take two steps toward you. I sighed again. I hoped he was right.

  The sea, however, wouldn’t let me wallow in second-guessing or regret. The current twisted the Noble Lady to starboard, pulling me from my thoughts, forcing me to shut down the autopilot, grab the wheel, and steer the boat. A turn to port at Bellingham Channel had me looking at lights flickering along the shore of Guemes Island to my left. To my right, the dark bulge of Cypress Head protruded from Cypress Island.