by Jenna Kernan
“You think he’s on a shrimp boat?” he asked.
“I think the son of a shrimper knows about shrimping.”
“Where do they dock?” he asked.
“All over the Gulf of Mexico,” said Tina. “Tampa has a shrimp dock. He could sell their catch but…”
“What?” he asked.
“The closest place for commercial fishermen to fuel up is here in Crystal River.”
“She’s on a shrimp boat,” said Demko. “We need to find out the name of his family’s boat.”
Demko spoke to the owner of the commercial marina a little after seven in the morning. The docks were empty except for the piles of ropes and nets, shipping containers and dollies.
Demko ran up the empty dock, his footsteps pounding on the wood decking. Behind him, a paunchy man stepped from the office, on the concrete pier.
“Son, this is private property,” he said.
“Where are all the shrimp boats?” asked Demko.
“They leave at three in the morning. Dawn and dusk are the best time for catching shrimp.”
Demko raked a hand through his hair and retraced his path.
“I’m Detective Clinton Demko. And you are?”
The man adjusted his belt, tugging his trousers up farther on his extended belly. Dressed in a workman’s shirt and jeans, only the man’s age distinguished him from the two men coiling rope farther down the pier.
“I’m Andy McGrail. This here dock and boat repair belongs to me and my boys.”
“You have any boats here last night from Louisiana?”
“Yes, indeed. What’s this about?”
“Kidnapping.”
McGrail’s hands slid from his hips. “Kidnapping?”
“Yes. A federal officer.”
“You best come into the office.”
They followed him, pausing before a crowded counter littered with papers and logbooks. A huge rubber shrimp acted as a paperweight, despite having lost one of its antenna.
McGrail checked a log. “Thought so.” He glanced up to Demko. “You got some identification?”
Demko provided it.
“Sarasota. You’re a bit out of your territory.”
“I’m on a federal task force. You know about the serial killer in Ocala?”
He nodded. “Been following the story. My missus is obsessed with it.”
“He might be on one of those shrimp boats. Louisiana?” Demko said, repeating his query.
“Yes. We had a shrimper out of there. Docked two nights. That’s unusual, unless something needs fixing. Then add to that, he didn’t motor out of here until after four in the morning.”
“This morning?” asked Demko.
“That’s right.”
“Four hours ago,” said Juliette.
“What’s the name of the boat?” asked Demko.
“Let’s see,” said McGrail.
“It’s Miss Faro,” said Tina, turning her phone to show the Instagram feed of Leonard Decristofaro.
“All these boys are like family. Talk to each other on the radio, know each other for years, though mostly they never actually meet. Heck, we got shrimpers from Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, all over the Gulf Coast. They’ll know where to find Miss Faro.” McGrail lifted his radio. “You want me to call this boat?”
“No!” Demko stayed his hand. “Don’t want him to know someone is looking for them.”
“Okay. No radio,” said McGrail, placing the handset back on the cradle.
“How far out could a boat that size get?”
“Little ones like that?” He motioned to Tina’s social media stream and the image of Miss Faro. “Sixty miles offshore. International waters. Course, they go slow when they’ve got the butterfly nets out, say two knots.”
“And you saw them at four?”
McGrail nodded.
“How many on board?”
“Two men or three men, I think. One real little. Had something wrong with his head.”
“What?”
“Looked… I don’t know. Misshaped, shiny.”
“Mr. McGrath, could that have been a woman wearing something, like a mask?”
He scratched his knuckles over the white whiskers coming in on his cheek.
“Now that you mention it. The walk, the size… maybe.”
“How far could that boat get by now?” asked Juliette.
“Top speed on a boat like that? Sixteen knots. Don’t figure they’d push much faster. Older trawler, you know.”
“In miles?” asked Juliette.
“Twenty an hour,” supplied Tina.
“Correct, in calm seas, like this.” He waved toward the window. “But they’d have their towing booms out and bags in the water.”
“So we’re looking for a shrimper not shrimping,” said Demko. “We need a boat and captain. Something that can catch that shrimper and someone who knows how to operate a boat.”
“I got friends who run fishing charters out of Sarasota,” said Juliette. “I’ll call around.”
“No. I’ll call Sarasota PD,” said Demko, referring to his own department some one hundred miles south. “They’ve got a marine unit. They’ll find us a vessel.”
“With a Zodiac and scuba gear,” said Juliette.
“I don’t know how to scuba,” said Demko.
“I do,” said Juliette.
“Shouldn’t we call the coast guard?” asked Tina.
“Decristofaro sees the coast guard and he’ll kill her and dump her in the Gulf.”
Thirty-One
The chopper swept them from Crystal River to Sarasota where, with the help of the Sarasota Marine unit, they had a charter fishing boat waiting for them. With luck they’d be just ahead of the shrimper. The thirty-five-foot offshore fishing boat had three outboard motors and four hundred gallons of fuel. Better yet, the captain was a narcotics detective who headed the marine patrol and his copilot was an experienced drone operator. Once Demko explained the situation, he was all in.
Demko planned to leave Tina and Juliette. But Juliette reminded him that she was the one with the medical training. Tina agreed to scout from the air in the police helicopter, and to coordinate with their ground support, engaging the FBI after they’d spotted their target.
Tina and her pilot were in the air before they’d left the bay. They continued west, unsure whether to turn south in the direction of their travel or north to intercept. The possibility of missing them by guessing incorrectly kept them angling west.
“Tina?” Demko used the agreed-upon radio frequency, unsure if their phones would prove reliable.
“I’m here. We’re looking north.” There was a pause. “We got one, but the nets are out. Want us to keep going?”
“Get the name.”
“Hang on.”
He waited for the endless minutes.
“It’s… Reel Lady Jane.”
“Keep going. Call when you get something.”
The radio silence was deafening as they continued.
“Clint! Clint! Over?” Tina sounded breathless.
“Here, Tina.”
“I’ve got her. Miss Faro. I can see the boat.”
“Stay back. Don’t let them spot you.”
“Roger.”
“Any sign of Nadine?”
“No. Just the shrimp boat and… I can’t see anyone on board. We’ve passed it and then came around. Want me to make another pass?”
“No. Give me your position and head away.”
“Yes. Okay.” Tina relayed what the pilot said. “He says we’ve got another hour fly time. We’ll move out of sight and stand by.”
Their captain gunned the motor and swung them to the north.
“Five nautical miles,” he said.
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
After ten minutes, the copilot, a patrol officer with two years in, retrieved a large case.
“A drone?” asked Demko.
“Yup. New toy and I’m
one of two trained to operate this baby.”
“How far can it go?”
“Five miles.”
“I don’t want them to see it,” said Demko.
“Or hear it,” said Juliette.
“Can’t hear it over their engines and I’ll stay just below cloud cover.”
He had the white drone set up in moments. It lifted into the air, heading north below low clouds.
Demko, Juliette and their captain watched the computer screen as the green water turned blue as it deepened.
“There it is!” said Juliette.
On the screen appeared a sky view of a shrimp trawler.
The operator worked the camera and the image enlarged.
“Don’t get too close,” said Demko.
“Zooming,” said the drone operator.
“I only see one man in the wheelhouse.”
Demko looked at the small image.
“That him?” asked the copilot.
He narrowed his eyes, squinting at his target. “Yes.”
Juliette peered at the screen. “Where’s Nadine?”
“Likely below decks,” said the operator.
“When he spots us, we need to look like a charter fishing outfit.”
“How will you get on board?” asked Juliette.
“We have to get close enough to jump.”
“You’ll land in the water.”
The captain spoke up. “I can skim the side.”
“Juliette, radio Tina. Tell her we made a positive ID on Lionel Decristofaro and to call in the coast guard and FBI.”
“Are we waiting for them?”
“No. We’re hitting him right now.”
The sedative’s effects still clung to her, making concentration difficult. When Lionel dragged in the fisherman, Nadine was seeing double and couldn’t lift her head.
Now she pushed herself up on one elbow and closed an eye, making it easier to focus.
The man lying on the floor below her wore dirty coveralls, a tan canvas work shirt and one rubber boot. His other foot was bare. His full dark beard covered much of his cheeks and his wavy hair grew in a wild cap.
Nadine inched across the vinyl mat to get a better look. Her wrists were taped before her, as were her ankles. The pointed shape of the compartment and the up-and-down motion told her this was the front of the boat.
What was her best course?
During her FBI training, an instructor had advised to take an inventory of available resources.
She had only the flannel shirt. The compartment was empty, and the twin berths were padlocked shut. The only other obvious resource was the unconscious man. Nadine worked her legs off the compartment and eased to the floor. She spent the next few minutes searching him and recovered a red folding multitool from his front pocket.
Jackpot.
The awkward position of her bound hands increased the difficulty in both opening a blade and wielding the tool, but Nadine was determined. With a knife, she might escape this room and find a better weapon to confront Lionel.
She knew from the man’s arrival that beyond the door were three short steps and then cloudy skies. The width of the compartment meant this was a small vessel, perhaps thirty-five feet.
She could barely recall coming on board. Everything in her mind was fuzzy.
Nadine sat with her back braced against the berth and the open blade of the multitool clutched between her bare feet as she sliced through the tape wrapping her wrists.
Every second she expected Lionel to return. If she could just get her hands and feet free, she could defend herself. And if she could reach a radio or cell phone, she could bring help.
At last the tape gave way. Nadine used her teeth to rip away the bonds. Then she turned to her feet, making quick work of the tethers.
Free at last, she turned to the unconscious man. This was his brother. Is that what he’d said? A second search yielded nothing to identify him or prove useful.
Then she studied the coveralls. In a few minutes she had dragged them off and slipped them on, grateful for the adjustable suspenders that allowed her to wear the overlarge gear.
What next? Force open the cabinets and see what might lie inside or work on the door. Likely there would be ropes and gear. Might she find a grabbling hook or club? Nets?
It was a crapshoot.
She turned to the door, trying the latch and finding it locked. The hinges seemed a better option. All she needed to do was remove the pins.
Using the plier tool, she wiggled the pin. Once she gained a half inch, she beat the closed multitool against the pin like a hammer in time to the crash of waves against the hull, hoping to disguise her work. When the last pin dropped to the deck, she paused to stretch her cramped hand and examine her blistered palms. The torn skin stung, and clear fluid dampened her hands.
Then she tugged at the door and eased a gap between the hinges and frame and slipped out. She paused at the bottom step and selected the largest blade, extending the four-inch steel.
Her mother had killed eight couples in total with a blade this size: a carpet knife, the handle flecked with blue paint.
Now Nadine stood at the start of a journey that included using this blade to attack or kill Lionel. She paused at the ice that crystalized along her spine. If she plunged this blade into his body, what irrevocable damage would she be doing to herself?
She pressed her back to the rail and shivered, paralyzed with indecision. Suddenly she was afraid for herself in a whole different way. She wasn’t a killer. But was she prepared to kill if forced? Was she prepared to live with the scars to her soul that came with taking a human life?
If she were not prepared to defend herself, was she prepared to die?
A worse possibility dawned. What if there was no damage to her soul? What if she felt nothing at all after killing a man, or what if she enjoyed it?
She dropped the blade.
Nadine considered returning to the cabin. She did not want to kill Lionel. Nor did she want to die. What she wanted was to live to see Clint and tell him what she should have told him from the start, that she loved him and wanted to share her life with him.
She retrieved the blade.
Her bare foot slipped onto the next step, creeping toward this showdown with a slow deliberate tread of a gunfighter at high noon.
The boat lurched, throwing her violently back down the stairs. The crash and shudder told her that they’d struck something, or been struck.
Nadine fell, her shoulder slamming into the door, throwing it farther askew.
Out here, what could they hit? There was nothing but water… and other boats?
The shout from above brought her scrambling to her feet.
She gripped the knife and dashed up the stairs, pausing like a gopher to glance about from her burrow. Lionel leapt down from the wheelhouse, charging past her.
Nadine emerged to the deck to see Demko airborne as a sports fishing boat scraped along their side behind him, heading in the opposite direction. He landed hard as the vessels detached, sending their craft tilting. The rolling deck threw him against the winch.
Nadine stumbled and the knife skidded away back down the stairs.
Lionel regained his footing first, shouldering the shotgun. Nadine saw her future flash before her eyes as she rushed forward, lifting a metal rake and howling like a banshee.
Lionel turned, swinging the barrel away from Demko and spotting her too late. She brought the rake down on his arm. The long handle struck the weapon as the metal teeth of the rake-head sank into his shoulder.
He roared and used the barrel of the shotgun to knock away her rake, then seized the head in his opposite hand. He thrust and she toppled, striking the gunwales and sliding to the deck.
Lionel glanced back to Demko, lifting his shotgun.
She flinched at the rapid pop, pop, pop of Demko’s weapon. Lionel staggered, the barrel floating upward as he fired.
Nadine screamed at the blast, scrambling f
orward in time to see Demko fall.
Thirty-Two
Three bloodstains bloomed on Decristofaro’s shirt. The shotgun clattered to the deck as he swayed. Demko saw his spread of bullets. Each one had struck the center of the man’s chest. His opponent had minutes left before death.
The pain in his shoulder took a moment to register. Seeing blood on his shirt shocked him. The blast had been high. He was certain.
Where was Nadine?
There she was, pausing at Decristofaro as he reached for her, his hand grasping. She stepped back, clear of his grip. He said something, but the ringing in his ears from the shotgun blast made it impossible for him to hear.
Her lips moved, but there was no sound, and then she was past the bleeding man, running to him, falling beside him, her arms around him, clinging, sobbing.
He held her tight, closing his eyes to savor the feel of her, the smell of her and the familiar silk of her hair.
“Got you,” he said.
“Clint, I’m so sorry.”
“No need.”
“I never should have dragged you along.”
“You stopped him, Nadine. We stopped him.”
There was a bump as the two boats scraped against each other again.
Demko lifted his gaze to the fishing craft and her captain, high above the deck, at the wheel as Juliette threw a rope over to them.
“Nadine!”
She lifted her head and then hurried to grab the line, tying it awkwardly to the winch, allowing the two boats to touch.
Juliette scrambled from the sleek fiberglass hull over the wooden gunwales of the shrimp boat. She rushed to Nadine and hugged her, and the second in command headed to the wheelhouse. A moment later, the engine cut. The two women rocked back and forth, reunited sisters as the waves lapped the side of the boat.
Demko smiled. When he sat up, the twinge of pain made him gasp. He tugged at the sleeve of his shirt and located the cause of the shooting agony ripping through his muscle. A shard of wood stuck through his skin like the plug in a cork.
He lifted his opposite hand.
“Don’t do that!” shouted Juliette as he tugged the sliver free and blood poured from the wound.