Douglas Preston - Impact

"Bullshit! We've got to call the Coast Guard, get some spotter planes in the air--"

" Absolutely not ."

He paused, letting Straw master himself.

"If our man gets even the slightest idea we're looking for him, it's over. He'll see the Coast Guard coming a mile away, believe me, and the same goes for spotter planes flying overhead. He's smart, he's cunning, he's always got his radar on. We can't even risk telling the local police. They're not equipped to handle this. We have a much better chance of finding them, just the two of us, with your knowledge of the coast and my knowledge of criminal behavior. When we do find them, that's when we call in the cavalry. Big time. We won't go in alone. But for now, it's just you and me. You understand? And don't worry about the cost--the government will pay."

Straw nodded. The man was breathing fast. Amazing how people just about lost their minds when it came to their children's safety. Burr was awfully glad he'd never had kids.

"All right," said Burr, grasping his arm. "Let's get going."

Straw nodded, his face slick with sweat. "This is a small town," he managed to say, "rumors go around fast. I better hire the boat while you stay out of sight. We don't have a moment to lose."

"You and I are on the same wavelength now, Mr. Straw," said Burr. "Don't worry: we'll find your daughter, I promise."

65

Harry Burr stood on the deck of the Halcyon , watching Straw at the helm, guiding the boat at full speed through the swell. Lacking time, they had had to rent a larger, slower boat than Burr wanted, but at least it had the advantage of being seaworthy. After leaving the dock at noon, they had followed weather reports over the VHF radio, broadcasting small-craft warnings about an approaching storm. Burr wasn't sure whether a thirty-eight-foot Downeaster yacht like the Halcyon , powered by twin diesels, qualified as a small craft, but he wasn't particularly eager to test the idea.

"Can't make the boat go any faster, can you?"

"I'm already pushing the engine more than I should," said Straw.

He raised a pair of binoculars for the millionth time and scanned the surrounding ocean and islands. Burr was surprised how many islands there were--dozens, maybe hundreds, not to mention rocks and reefs. Some of them were inhabited and a couple had commercial installations on them, but most were deserted. Burr shifted his gaze to the electronic chartplotter in the well-equipped pilothouse. Growing up in Greenwich, he'd spent a lot of time around boats and felt comfortable with them. Still, it had been a while. He carefully observed Straw at the helm so that he could be sure of operating the boat properly once the kill was over and he was heading back alone. The storm would give him a good excuse to explain the missing lobsterman.

"As soon as we round the tip of that island," said Straw, "we'll have a view across the northern reach of Muscongus Bay. Get out the binocs and be ready to look."

"We're passing a lot of islands here. How do you know they're not in a cove somewhere?"

"We don't. We search open water first, then come back looking into coves."

"Makes sense."

Straw was motivated, that was for sure. His hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white, his narrow eyes constantly darting around, seeking other boats. He looked on the verge of cracking.

"We still have plenty of time," said Burr, trying to keep his voice calm. "Don't worry. As long as they're out on the water, he won't strike. He'll need her to operate the boat."

"I know every harbor, cove, and gunkhole from here to Isle au Haut and I swear we're going to search every one of 'em until we find her."

"We'll find her."

"Damn straight we will."

Burr plucked a pack from his pocket and shook out a cigarette. The man was becoming tiresome. "Mind if I smoke?"

Straw looked at him. His eyes were haggard, bloodshot. Poor fellow was thinking too much. "Smoke at the stern, away from the engine. Bring your binocs and keep looking."

Burr went to the taffrail and lit up. They were rounding the point of the island and soon another vast expanse of ocean appeared to the northeast, dotted with islands. The late-afternoon sun shimmered in a golden swath across the blue water. There were several lobster boats moving to and fro, hauling their traps. He raised the binoculars and examined each one in turn.

None were the Marea II .

He inhaled again and wondered just what Ford and the girl were up to, why they had run to sea like this. Some kind of espionage? As usual, he didn't know the real identity of his clients nor why they wanted the hard disk, which made it impossible to understand why Ford and the girl went from Brooklyn to Washington, stole a car, and drove to Maine and took a boat out on the water. All he knew was that Ford had a hard drive worth two hundred grand. And that was all he really needed to know.

66

Abbey pulled the Marea II up to the tiny floating dock at the Owls Head Harbor. Jackie hopped off and tied up. The harbor was deserted, a few boats at their moorings, gulls watching them from the tops of the pilings. The sun had just set and the sky was suffused with wispy orange clouds of the kind her father called mare's tails, which signified bad weather. The tiny harbor was deserted, only half a dozen boats on their moorings.

Wyman Ford picked up his briefcase and stepped onto the creaking dock, smoothing down his rumpled suit and trying to comb his hair into place with his fingers.

"Forget it, you still look like you're coming off a drunk," said Abbey, with a laugh. "Are you going to steal another car?"

"I'm hoping that won't be necessary. Which way is the town?"

"Just follow the road. Can't miss it. You better get going, storm's coming."

"How do you know?"

She glanced up. "Sky."

"Stay on the island until you hear back from me. If you haven't heard anything in five days, it means I've been taken into custody. In that case, take the boat close enough to the mainland to get cell reception and call this number." He handed her a piece of paper. "He'll help you." He paused. "I've decided to go public with this information."

"The shit'll really hit the fan if you do that."

"It's the only way. The world's got to know." Ford took Abbey's shoulder in an affectionate grip, peering down at her from his massive frame, his unruly black hair sticking out every which way, his gray eyes steady. "Promise me you'll stay on the island and lie low. Don't go tooling around in the boat. You've got enough supplies to last you a week."

"Will do." He squeezed her shoulder. "Good luck, Abbey. You've been a great assistant. Sorry I got you mixed up in this."

Abbey snorted. "No problem, I enjoy stealing cars and getting shot at."

He turned and she watched him stride up the gangplank, walk up the pier, and onto the road. After a moment his tall angular figure disappeared around a bend, and she felt a certain odd and unexpected loneliness take hold.

"Well, there goes Mr. CIA," said Jackie. "You fuck him yet?"

"Jackie, cut it out. He's twice my age. You've got sex on the brain."

"Who doesn't?"

They cast off and Jackie lit up a joint as they cleared the harbor, Abbey driving the boat slowly, enjoying the evening. The great bulk of Monroe Island loomed in front, covered with trees. A steady swell broke on Cutters Nubble, a reef beyond the southern end of the island, the cadence of the surf as regular as a slow clock. Abbey made a wide berth around the Nubble, and as they cleared it, a buttery full Moon rose over the limb of the ocean. A group of guillemots winged home low and fast across the water, like flying bullets, while an osprey, far overhead, headed back to his nest with a fish, still wiggling, clasped in its talons.