William Tyree - The Fellowship

The fog seemed to lift some. The boat picked up speed. Captain Zack pointed to a black silhouette in the distance that was peppered by a few residential lights.

“That’s Vashon. Which side of the island we headed to?”

Ellis reached into her pack, retrieved the piece of hotel stationary with the address written on it, and handed it to him. “Don’t guess that’s of any help.”

He held it under the light for a moment “Sure is.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, that’s Dane Mitchell’s place. One of the big gated homes on the west side of the island. Dane’s got his own little dock out there. We can motor right up to it.”

Bingo. Mitchell had been listed as Borst’s life partner on her Wikipedia page. Ellis asked the captain if he knew Mitchell, raising her voice above the grinding drone of the Harbercraft’s 90-horsepower Yamaha engine.

“It’s not like everyone’s got their own boat out here. And it’s a pretty tight community among those that do.”

“Have you met his partner?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s got a funny name. Is it Worst?”

“Borst. Vera Borst.”

“Ah yeah. Met her just once or twice. Nice lady, seems like. Said Seattle reminded her of her hometown. Oslo, ain’t it?”

“Amsterdam, I think.”

“Ah yeah. Amsterdam. Dane used to be a lot more chatty before she came along. He’d stop and talk boating. For a while he was into crabbin’, and he’d pick my brain on it. Other times he might come and share what he caught. But he’s kept more to himself since she came here.”

“Why is that?”

He shrugged. “People change. And a lot of times, they get changed by other people.”

“You think she changed him?”

Captain Zack nodded certainly. “I got the impression from someone on the island that Vera is a real religious lady. And a politician too. That surprises me, you know, with him being a man of science an’ that.”

Just like Drucker said, Ellis thought. Scientists and politicians. A match made only at Eden.

They went faster now, making good time across the still waters. As they came nearer, Ellis saw that the island was much larger than she had imagined. The shoreline did not appear to be heavily developed. Captain Zack took them to the north side, and then slowed, pointing to a three-story Cape Cod-style home built into a densely foliated hillside.

“That big’un there. They’ve pretty much got this stretch of shoreline to themselves. Real private.”

The Borst place was fully aglow with orange light. Windows on every floor were lit up. Ellis had the unnerving feeling that she was being watched.

The Harbercraft crawled toward a jetty that extended about 40 feet out from the shore. There were already boats on either side of it. “That’s a little peculiar,” Captain Zack said.

“What?”

“That one there is Dane’s boat.” He pointed to a 22-foot boat of the type Ellis associated with recreational sea fishing. He motioned at the other, which was nothing but an aluminum skiff. “Don’t recognize that other’n. That registration sticker on the front is about rubbed off. It’s not like Dane to be out of compliance.”

He piloted the boat to the end of the jetty, cut the motor and lassoed a rope around one of the boat anchors.

Ellis stowed the Seahawks blanket in its storage compartment. “I appreciate you coming out here. I know most people wouldn’t have gotten out of bed for this.”

“I needed the money.” He climbed out onto the jetty and offered Ellis a hand. “All the same, I’d feel much better if I could see you to the door.”

Me too, Ellis thought.

Vera Borst Residence

Vashon Island

The front door of the three-story home was ajar. A heavy coat rack was overturned in the foyer. Captain Zack extended his hands to both sides of his body as he stepped back, as if to shield his high-paying customer from harm. “We should call the cops and get out of here,” he suggested quietly.

Ellis pulled her Beretta M9 from her shoulder holster. She had become competent with the weapon during her service in the Army. Although Glocks were favored among her coworkers in the intelligence community, Ellis had stuck with the Beretta for familiarity’s sake. The sight of the weapon startled Captain Zack. He took a step back, as if deferring the situation to her.

Ellis’ mind filled with Speers’ inevitable scorn. She had come here without permission, and without backup, less than 24 hours after Drucker had been killed right under her nose. At times like this Ellis took comfort in a mantra put forth by one of her old yoga teachers: The Zen master acts from the heart, not the mind.

She turned to Captain Zack, knowing she could not risk another civilian dying on her watch. “I have to ask you to get back in that boat.”

“Lady, there is zero chance of me doing that. I am not leaving.”

“Fine. But at least leave the boat motor idling. If anyone comes out of the house without me, get away as fast as you can.”

She watched Captain Zack retreat down the path. Hopeful that he would keep his distance, she went in through the open door, staying low, clearing the first room with her back against the wall. Pieces of broken figurines were crushed around the stairwell. Every light in the house seemed to be switched on. Someone was evidently searching for something.

She crept into the living room, keeping her back to the only windowless wall, and then regrouped for a moment behind an armchair that was covered entirely in cowhide. The house smelled like apple wood and was furnished with cozy sitting chairs arranged around a fireplace that was European in size, reaching nearly up to Ellis’ sternum. Art depicting various biblical scenes hung on the wall.

The home’s back porch floodlights were on, illuminating a manicured, sloping hillside dominated by a life-size sculpture of Jesus that had been erected within a fountain. Jesus’ eyes gazed downward, and his hands were outstretched, palms facing the heavens, as if he were imparting wisdom on followers gathered around his feet. Water poured through holes in either palm.

A tortured wail drifted throughout the house. It sounded more canine than human. Ellis couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was coming from the ground floor.

Having cleared the living room, she got to her feet and crept to the dining room. There she got down on her hands and knees and crawled under a long stainless steel table large enough to seat 12 guests. She peered through the doorway to the kitchen, where a man’s feet — barefoot and sprawled — jutted out from behind a food prep island. A broad streak of red blood painted the floor, extending around the corner. The body had been dragged there from another room.

Keeping low, Ellis crawled toward the body until she was only inches away from the man’s head. She recognized Dane Mitchell from the profile picture on his University of Washington faculty page. Vacant eyes peered through wire frame glasses. His bare arms and shoulders were etched with several inch-long lacerations. His hands were blue and the meat around his wrists looked more like ground beef than human flesh.

Another excruciating cry crackled through the air, remaining more or less constant. A woman, for sure. Borst, probably. They had tortured Mitchell to death first, and had dragged the body upstairs to make room for her.

Ellis followed the blood-streaked path through the house while still maintaining the careful clearing posture — back to the wall, pistol outstretched in front — that she had first learned in the Army. The training was all wrong for this, she knew. This situation was completely off-script. Her training had always been working in teams or in pairs. This was the type of situation where she was supposed to retreat to a surveillance position and request backup.