“I guess that means I am.”
Al turned to Maris. “Whiskey. Straight. Two shots. Two glasses.” Then he turned to me. “Fucking Longhorn.”
Al shook his head and stared into space. Before he could say more, Maris came back with two shot glasses, which she set down with short, snappy pops that sounded like a tap dancer toeing a wooden floor. Al grabbed one, leaned back, and flipped the caramel-colored liquid down his throat. He coughed and shook his head. He frowned.
“Damn, I hate the way that liquor tastes.” Then he grinned. “But I do like what it does for my nerves.”
While Al eyed the other glass, I took a sip of my beer.
“So this fucker comes into my harbor, calls on the radio, and says, ‘Where’s my slip?’ I just about had a conniption. I told him the rule is you have to raft up to other boats if there’s no space. So what does the fucker say, but, ‘Well, then, make me some space.’ That’s when I lost it and told him—”
I cut Al off. “He could go back out in the strait and ask the devil for a slip.”
Al closed his eyes and tossed down glass number two. His eyes twinkled when he opened them. “Nah. I only tell ’em that when I’m being nice. Look, they built most marinas for boats in the thirty- to forty-foot range. Nowadays your average summer captain has a boat forty to fifty feet long. Many are a lot longer. You do the math. Any way you work it, I come up short on dock space. So rafting’s the only way.”
Al raised his hand. “Maris, I’ll have another.”
She pretended not to hear him.
“Damn woman,” he said. “You’d think things’d be better now that we’re divorced.”
“Maybe she’s worried about you drinking away all of her alimony.”
Al yucked. “Or pissing it away. Say, I’m not one to remember names on credit-card slips. Boat names I’m good at. Yours is the Noble Lady.”
“That’s right.”
“But what’s your name?”
“Charlie Noble,” I said.
Maris finally arrived with another shot glass of whiskey. Al pointed to my glass.
“Say, you want another of whatever you’re drinking?”
“No.” I waved him off.
Al twirled the shot glass between two fingers. “So after Longhorn’s docked, this young fellow comes off the boat into my office. Says he’s there to apologize for his dad. Told him I appreciated the courtesy. Then I told him another boater had just pulled in and asked about their boat. He asked who, and I said you. Well, I didn’t remember your name but I said a tall black guy, and I pointed out your boat. You sure you don’t know them folks?”
I sucked in a breath and thought about taking Al up on a second drink. “I’ve met the son,” I said.
“You owe him money or something? He left my office pretty quick. Didn’t seem too pleased to know you were here.”
“He’s never seen my boat before. Maybe it didn’t suit his chichi tastes.”
Al let out a belly laugh. “Wouldn’t be surprised.”
I pushed myself up from the booth. Then I leaned back in and grabbed my kayak bag.
Al’s eyes got big. “What’re ya carrying in there?” he asked. “A dead body or the loot you owe the son?”
I smiled. “A kayak.”
“Right, a kayak. One of us has had too much to drink, and I just got started.”
I whipped the zipper open and flashed the contents of the bag at Al. He whistled low.
“Well I’ll be damned. A kayak in a bag. What’ll they think of next? Why, you’re not a SEAL or one of them special agent types are you?”
I straightened up and looked down at Al with a hard stare. His lips tightened, and anxiety swept across his face. In my best military voice, I said, “Sir, if I tell you, I will have to kill you.”
Finally, I cracked a smile. Al downed his shot of whiskey, then laughed so hard I thought he’d bring it right back up.
I LUGGED THE KAYAK at least half a mile farther down the road from the bar toward Ediz Hook. On the beach, I stepped behind a rock, then kneeled to open the bag. The aluminum frame and outer skin fit together in a matter of minutes. I grabbed the four-piece paddles, slipping a blade onto the end of each shaft, then joining both shafts together. I stuffed the bag behind the seat and dragged the kayak to the water’s edge.
Little wind swept across the water. I donned my spray skirt and life vest. Then, I slipped into my kayak and paddled off toward the marina. Moonlight shimmered over the water. Stars and streetlights twinkled in the night. Salt smell filled the air as the kayak sliced silently through the sea.
Rounding the breakwater, I hugged the shore, staying out of Longhorn ’s line of sight. I slowly worked my way up and down the fairways, slipping between boats and the dock when I could. One fairway from Longhorn, I stopped. Poking the kayak’s nose out and peeking around the corner, I noticed the radar arm no longer revolved. A few lights lit the inside of Longhorn. A lone guard patrolled her decks.
I waited for the sentinel to walk toward the stern, then I paddled hard toward White Rhino’s bow. The front portion of both hulls flared up and out, forming an arched tunnel wide enough for me to fit through. Once between the boats, I slipped my paddle under a bungee cord on deck and used my hands to push off on the hulls. I wasn’t sure how far back to travel. Eliana’s story suggested that immigrants might be held in an area at or below the boat’s waterline.
Longhorn’s engines and machinery probably sat toward her stern, placing her staterooms, and maybe her below-deck holds, farther forward. Ten feet in from the bow, I put my ear low on her hull. The thin fiberglass transmitted a diesel generator’s steady throb. Muffled, laughing voices also traveled through the hull. I guessed at where a forward stowage area might be, then I tapped lightly, but rhythmically, on the hull. Three short taps. Three long taps. Three short taps. Antiquated Morse code for S-O-S.
I didn’t expect that immigrants would know Morse code, but the rhythmic pattern might grab their attention. I tapped again. A guard’s footsteps echoed through the hull, growing louder. I risked the crew also hearing my taps.
I pulled my ear away and pushed myself farther back along the tunnel between the hulls. Through the narrow gap, I watched the guard lean over the bow railing. He looked my way, then looked out toward the strait. He raised his arm and flicked a finger. A glowing ember fell, and a cigarette butt hissed as it hit the water twenty feet away.
The guard resumed his rounds, walking toward the stern. I used my fingers to work myself back toward the bow, tapping as I went. Three short. Three long. Three short. I put my ear against the hull, but I heard only the generator and the distant voices. I tapped out code once more. This time, a door on the main deck snapped open. A man yelled, “Tommy, Mr. Kincaid says he keeps hearing something tapping against the hull. Is a log banging against us? Maybe near the bow?”
“Don’t know,” Tommy said. “But I’ll walk up there and have a look.”
I worked myself deeper into the gap between the boats. Overhead, a flashlight blazed on, and a moving circle of luminous green swept the water only a few feet away from me.
“I don’t see nothing,” Tommy said. “You want me to lower the skiff and have a look?”
“Nah. Too much trouble to go through for a fucking log,” the other man said. “Let’s wait.”
A door on the deck snapped closed, and Tommy’s footsteps faded toward the rear of the boat again.
Maybe Kincaid hadn’t picked up any illegal immigrants on this trip. I inched my way back toward the bow. Or maybe he’d already dropped them off at Neah Bay, Clallam Bay, or some other secluded cove. I’d try tapping one more time.
A current had developed in the marina, funneling between the hulls, pushing me aft, making it hard for me to move forward using just my fingers. I pressed my palm firmly against the smooth surface of the fiberglass, searching for a little more traction. I made a fist of my other hand and I tapped again. In desperation, I must have rapped too hard. Above me, a door crashed open.
>
“Lower the skiff, Tommy,” a man said. “Kincaid wants us to find out what the hell’s knocking against the hull.”
I pulled my paddle from beneath the bungee cord, but the narrow space between the hulls didn’t offer enough room to put the blades in the water. So I rested it lengthwise along the top of the kayak.
Mooring lines groaned in the rising current. I thrust my hand against Longhorn’s hull, trying to maintain my position. A winch whined, then stopped.
“A little more to the right,” the man said.
The motor turned on again.
“Got it. Got it. Now lower the fucker.”
With a splash, the skiff dropped into the water. That’s when I heard the feeble knock from the other side of Longhorn’s hull. Three short. Three long. Three short. I jammed my ear to the hull. The skiff’s engine roared to a start. Pain shot through my knuckles as I rapped out code with all my strength.
“I heard it. I heard it,” Tommy said. “Near the bow. Between the boats. Damn log could be caught in there.”
Beneath my ear, the hull echoed once more with a weak reply. The outboard motor telegraphed the skiff’s location on the opposite side of the hull, traveling forward. Tommy’s footsteps moved toward the bow along the side deck above. I ripped my ear from the hull and glanced over my shoulder to see the nose of the skiff turning the corner at Longhorn’s bow.
twenty-four
I let go of Longhorn’s hull. The current shot me back along the tunnel between the boats, like a bullet from a rifle barrel. When I exited the tunnel, I plunged a paddle blade in the water and held on. I didn’t have time for a stroke. Fast water pushed against the blade, forcing the kayak to carve a turn around the stern of White Rhino. Finally, I gripped the paddle tightly and dug water, heading into the shadows of a nearby fairway.
Out of sight of Longhorn’s skiff, I held onto the edge of a dock. I gave myself time to catch my breath and allow my heart rate to drop. Then I pushed off and wove my way through the maze of boats and docks. The full moon glowed overhead. The ebb tide had returned. It flushed me from the marina, past the breakwater and toward Ediz Hook.
Back on the Noble Lady, I lay on my bed in the dark, hands clasped behind my head, looking up. Framed by the skylight overhead, stars moved slowly across the sky, first one way, then the other, in time with the gentle rolling of the boat.
I could go to the local police and ask them to search Longhorn. “I tapped on the hull of a boat . . . a few taps came back . . . you need to search it, then arrest the owner for transportation of illegal immigrants.” Somehow I didn’t think that would go over too well. If I were local law enforcement, I’d sooner arrest the person who came to me with such a preposterous story.
I could call ahead and have someone intercept the boat. Maybe my buddy, San Juan County Sheriff Ed Sykes. I could hear Ed. “I need a little more to go on than you ‘think’ a crime’s been committed. I need some solid evidence.”
Solid evidence meant more than a few taps from the inside of Longhorn. It made sense for me to stay in Port Angeles, keep an eye on Longhorn, then head out behind her when she left.
A SHAFT OF BRIGHT LIGHT filtering through one of the stateroom portholes awoke me with a start. I pulled myself up and peered out the porthole. A heavy fog had rolled into the harbor. I looked toward Longhorn. I blinked my eyes several times and looked her way again. Then I bolted out of bed.
I jumped into my clothes and raced upstairs, shoeless, into the pilothouse. I cranked the Noble Lady’s engine over, then I hurried downstairs. While the engine warmed, I slipped on my tennis shoes, tucked my shirttail into my pants, and put on a fleece jacket. Longhorn’s radar arm rotated, a sure sign of her impending departure.
I went back up into the pilothouse and turned on the GPS, radar, and VHF. Then I grabbed my binoculars and watched Longhorn. No mooring lines attached her to White Rhino. Exhaust spewed from her aft. Water gurgled near her bow. She slid slowly sideward, away from the dock. Her big engines groaned. She spun around like a giant pointer on a board game and slipped into the fog, headed toward the breakwater.
I scurried down the pilothouse steps and made my way through the galley onto the rear deck. I stepped off the Noble Lady onto the Queen. I’d bent down to unravel my stern line from a cleat on the Queen’s deck when a heavy, rough hand clamped down on my shoulder. My body shuddered.
“Hey, buddy, where d’ya think you’re going?”
I spun around to face Calvin, the beer-bellied fisherman holding onto me. Behind him, his other shipmate stood, glaring. I slapped Calvin’s hand away.
“I’m untying my boat.”
I reached down for the mooring line. Calvin jammed his fleshy palm into my shoulder. I stumbled away from the cleat.
“Like hell you are,” Calvin said. “Some of our gear is missing. Brady and me think maybe we oughta take a look on your boat for it.”
“Like hell you are.” I mimicked the vague hint of a southern accent in Calvin’s voice. “No one comes aboard the Noble Lady uninvited.”
At the edge of my vision, Brady’s tall, slender body disappeared to my right and behind me. These guys hankered for a fight. Why? I spun around. I backed against the gunwale of the Queen. Calvin launched a right hand toward me, dumping the heft of his body into the punch. I sidestepped him and threw my elbow into his upper back, sending him sprawling into the Queen’s gunwale.
No sooner had Calvin flown by than Brady came at me. Not in a heated rush, but coolly, like a man who’d fought before. He moved from side to side eyeing me, sizing me up. I dropped into a crouch and held my hands up in loose fists, moving away from the gunwale so I could keep both men in view.
Brady threw a few jabs my way. Nothing serious. I got the feeling he’d done so only to measure his reach. His long arms did give him an advantage. Meanwhile, Calvin had pulled himself off the gunwale. His footsteps rang heavily on the aluminum deck. He wandered out of sight, which left me facing Brady.
Brady feigned with his right, then swung a fast left hook. I whipped my right arm up and blocked it, but he came at me quickly with a right jab. I dipped my head, but his fist caught the side of my face. My cheek stung. My ear rang from the blow. He smiled as though proud of himself. Sometimes it takes getting hit to get into a fight, particularly one you’d rather walk away from.
Brady tried a right-hand feign again. When his left arm shot out, I dropped even lower, swung to one side, and kicked hard and fast. My heel caught him at the top of his thigh, close to his groin. He winced. His leg began to buckle. I stood up quickly. He threw a feeble left. I grabbed his wrist and let his body follow through with the motion of his punch. A short upward jab with my palm under his armpit and a downward tug of his arm sent him flying toward the back of the Queen. He hit the metal deck with a thud. I turned around, looking for Calvin.
Suddenly, a fishing net descended over me like a spider’s web.
“Got him, Brady,” Calvin said.
I fought to loosen myself, but each movement only further ensnared me in the net. Calvin came at me with a volley of punches. I dropped to my knees, covering my body as best I could. Calvin sent his boot into my side several times. I winced with each blow. Hot flashes of pain coursed through me.
“He paid us to delay him, not to kill him,” Brady said.
“Didn’t you see what the fucker did to me?”
Calvin sent another boot my way. It caught me in my lower rib cage. I went face down onto the deck. Calvin pounced on me. The rounded flesh of his belly pressed me further into the deck. He pummeled my back with his fists, and a fiery pain shot through my body. I walked my fingers along the metal deck, searching for the edge of the netting.
“Leave him there,” Brady said. “Man’s got a fast boat. This guy won’t catch up to him now.”
“Bastard threw me into the gunwale,” Calvin said. He stood up and kicked me again.
My fingers found the doubled-over edge of the net, and I worked my hand free. I rolled over on
to my side and curled into a fetal position. Calvin swung his leg to kick me again, but this time I swung my hand with the edge of the net up and caught his ankle just as his boot plowed into my body. I grimaced, but I held on. I yanked with all my strength, pulling his leg out from under him. He plummeted to the deck and fell in a seated position with a clunk. He yelped in pain.
I kneeled on the deck, trying to step out of the net. Brady pushed off the gurdy and dived at me. He drove me down to the deck again, onto my back. I still had a portion of the net in my hand. I wrapped it around his head and his neck. I pulled hard. He raised his hands to get it off, and the moment he did I rolled him over onto his back. I slammed my forearm into his throat. He coughed, wheezing and choking as he struggled for a breath.
I wriggled out of the net. My body ached from top to bottom. I stood bent over, breathing hard. Blood oozed from a gash in my forehead where Calvin had kicked me. I looked down. Brady writhed on the deck, with half of his body caught in the net. Calvin sat, red-faced, tears streaming down his cheeks. Chances are he’d broken his tailbone with a fall like that. I thought about landing a kick in the middle of his fat gut. Instead, I jumped behind him and caught his neck in a chokehold.
“Who?” I asked.
He remained silent. I tightened my hold a notch. He grabbed for my forearm. I tightened my hold even further.
“Who paid you?”
He pointed out of the harbor. He tried to speak, but little air came from his mouth. I eased up.
“Longhorn.” He muttered in a raspy whisper.
I flexed my arms quickly, then let him go. Calvin grabbed his throat. He struggled for a breath.
“Next time, think twice about how you welcome someone who rafts up to your boat,” I said.
twenty-five
A spasm of pain shot through me. I squeezed my eyes closed. Then I gritted my teeth and returned to the Noble Lady’s mooring lines. It took me much longer than usual to untie her. When I went to push her away from the Queen, a stitch of pain knifed into the side of my body. I tumbled over the gunwale onto the Noble Lady’s rear deck.
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