Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 835 & 836, March/April 2011

“Then what’s the problem?” Larkin asked. “If he was armed—”

“Oh, I can live with popping that kid. Bad as it was, he was damn sure trying to kill us. It’s the others that bother me, the poor bastards who were probably lost, looking for water. Nobody gave a damn about them, not their government, certainly not ours. But I remember them. Can’t sleep sometimes, remembering them. So I took a Section Eight discharge and came home to the lake country. There’s plenty of water here. If you’re thirsty, you can drink all you want. But I don’t do government work anymore, guys. I never will again. Have a nice day now, hear?”

Luke turned to go back to his work, but Larkin grabbed his arm, jerking him around.

“We asked you politely, mister, but you’d better wise up. Nobody gets a pass from the War on Terror. One word from us and the IRS can shut down your little jerkwater shop and tie you up in court for the next ten years.”

“That’s a lot of trouble for a bug that won’t hear anything.”

“Just do as you’re told,” Larkin said, pulling Luke closer, face-to-face, “or you’ll have more trouble than you ever dreamed of.”

“You don’t know what trouble is, sport,” Luke said softly, flipping the chisel into the air, snatching it by the haft, and pressing the blade lightly against Larkin’s necktie. “Not even when you’re in it.”

On reflex, Larkin started to reach for his gun.

“I wouldn’t do that, young fella,” Gus said with a chuckle, stepping around the corner of the building, an old Winchester carbine cradled casually in his arms. “Don’t lose your head.”

“Everybody stand down!” Agent Ridley snapped, raising his hands. “We came here looking for cooperation, Falk, not trouble. If you won’t serve your country—”

“I’ve paid my dues, mister. In blood. This is my country now, forty acres and a workshop. And the only orders I take are for boats. Go away. Leave us alone.”

Ridley read Falk’s eyes, ice blue and just as cold. “Sorry you feel that way, Mr. Falk. If you change your mind, you can reach us at this number.” He laid a business card on the workbench. “Let’s go, Gordie.”

“You should have backed my play,” Larkin complained. They were in the Blazer, on the road back to Valhalla. “We could have busted them both for assault.”

“They aren’t suspects, Gordie, they’re citizens. We had no grounds for an arrest.”

“Lying to a federal agent’s a crime. Falk’s military records didn’t mention anything about sniper school.”

“The rest of it fits,” Ridley said. “Falk was assigned to an intercept unit near the border, and a Section Eight discharge for mental instability isn’t something a guy would brag about. I’m ninety percent certain everything Mr. Falk told us back there was the flat-ass truth.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t lean on him,” Larkin argued. “We can order an IRS audit, have the bank cut off his credit—”

“There’s no time for that! HQ says the Markovic woman is a ‘ significant witness.’ They need dirt on her in a hurry. Falk made head shots on a half-dozen people he wasn’t even mad at. He’s not somebody we can push.”

“Then we go at him another way.”

“How?”

“He said the Markovic woman would test the boat. If she’s on the water alone, and we find drugs on board, it’s open and shut. If Falk’s with her, all the better. We collar him, too.”

“You mean plant dope on board?” Ridley said, staring at this partner. “Our instructions are to plant a bug.”

“You’re the one who says HQ wants her in a hurry.”

“Jesus, you’re crazier than I thought. Didn’t you learn anything from that cocked-up shooting in Detroit? You wounded two civilians trying to bust a trucker smuggling cigarettes, Gordie. You’d be in jail yourself if your uncle wasn’t a deputy commander at Quantico.”

“But he is,” Larkin said flatly. “And if the bureau dumped a screw-up like me up here, what does that make you, Ridley? What’s your great sin?”

“I... have a... bit of a drinking problem,” Ridley admitted.

“So now we’re both stuck here in Siberia. Look, all the bureau cares about is results. My uncle still jokes about framing mob guys back in the day, and the War on Terror’s a bigger threat than the Mafia ever was. This Markovic broad is our ticket back to the world.”

“I’m only saying we have to be careful,” Ridley cautioned. “Another foul-up and we’ll both be unemployed, no matter who your uncle is.”

“Then help me do it right! Cover for me on our other cases, I’ll stake out Falk’s place. The first time he leaves, I’ll plant... whatever needs planting. When Markovic tests the boat, we’ll take her down, and be on the first plane out of here. Just leave it to me.”

Ridley eyed his young partner doubtfully, chewing his lip. Larkin had powerful family connections in the Justice Department. He was also a hothead.

But he was dead right about one thing. The Bureau didn’t transfer agents up to the big lake country to further their careers. Professionally speaking, they were both marooned. And Ridley had already been stuck up here for two years.

“All right,” Ridley nodded, swallowing his misgivings. “I’ll fake the paperwork on our other cases to cover you. The hills across from Falk’s cove are all state forest. Set up your observation post there. Do your binoculars have a built-in range finder?”

“Sure, why?” Larkin asked.

“Because if I were you, partner, I’d make damn sure I didn’t get any closer than fifteen hundred yards.”

For the next five days, Luke worked on the Penny , full-time, personalizing the rigging to match Aliana’s slight stature, artfully painting the name and a gleaming coin logo on her stern and both outriggers. Ordinarily, he found his work totally satisfying. After Iraq, he’d been so glad to get home to the lake country, he was sure he’d never leave.

But now, standing on the back deck with his morning coffee as the sun rose over the bay, he felt uneasy. Haunted. And not by the kills he’d made in a faraway desert.

He kept seeing flashes of the sloe-eyed woman, her raven hair riffling in the lake breeze, the concern in her eyes as she bandaged his hand. He felt oddly diminished by her absence, as though greeting a sunrise without her was unnatural now.

Maybe he’d been living alone in the boondocks with Gus for too long. Or maybe the army was right to give him that nut-job Section 8 discharge.

Or maybe it was the golden weather. In the lake country, July is more the end of spring than the onset of summer. In the shadowed forests, lingering traces of snow were still melting, trickling off to join the freshet streams wending their way home to the rocky shores of the Great Lakes. A final act of renewal in a season of change.

Aliana Markovic returned with her entourage a week later, rolling into the boatyard in the twin Navigators. Her bodyguards were every bit as thorough on their second visit, prowling the grounds like bloodhounds sniffing for prey.

Only Deacon seemed more courteous. Instead of rummaging through the shop, he simply escorted Aliana in. She was wearing a simple capri sunsuit, with an aqua headscarf, and Luke felt his breathing go shallow at the sight of her. He looked away, and realized Deacon was eyeing him curiously.

“Is anything wrong, mister?” the African asked.

“You tell me,” Luke said. Then told them about the two ATF agents.

“What did they want?” Deacon asked.

“Information about Miss Markovic.”

“And what did you tell them?” Aliana asked.

“The truth.” Luke shrugged. “You’re a customer, buying a boat. You don’t seem surprised they were here.”