"The first two are covered. Where's Friday Harbor?"
"San Juan Islands." Crowder pointed to a maze of islands, all highly irregular in shape. It looked as if there were three or four big ones and dozens of small ones. "One of the ferries from Anacortes to Sidney, in B.C., stops a couple places in the San Juans, including Friday Harbor."
"But we've got that covered."
"Yeah." Crowder frowned at the map. "But there's one that stops at Friday Harbor before going on to Point Roberts."
"Where does it start?"
"Right here. Port Townsend. Over on the Olympic Peninsula."
All they had over there was one team, at Port Angeles, covering the ferry that went to Victoria. Plus, once they decided Susan was going to Canada, they hadn't been checking the main highway over there, US 101, or much of anything, for that matter. Warburton had thought the only way to Canada via the Olympic Peninsula was through Port Angeles, since he had asked only for international ferries.
It was a serious lapse on Crowder's part—he should have thought of the border crossing at Point Roberts—but Warburton wasn't going to take him to task for it. Not right now, anyway. He addressed Crowder and Blackstone.
"I don't want you to mention this to anybody. Not even Howard, yet. You know we've been picking up chatter, there's been some leaks from some of our employees, naturally, and some notice of what's going on along the border. The news and the police are just starting to get wind that somebody's looking for something the size of an elephant. But I may still have a chance to wrap this up quietly. I'm going out to take a look for myself. If there's a newsman waiting when I get there, I'll know how he found out, understand?" "Don't worry," Blackstone said. Warburton nodded, and went outside to his helicopter, thinking he would retire after this one was over, and never set foot in another helicopter again. He was getting too old for this shit.
There was a motorcycle in the backseat of the chopper. Warburton wrestled it out, pulled on a warm black leather coat and helmet, and headed out. It had a good muffler on it, making no more than a powerful purr as he moved down the deserted streets. Halfway there it started to rain again, the low-pressure system he had been watching and worrying about all night moving in from the Pacific just now arriving here in the western part of the state. He flipped down his visor.
He arrived at the park, killed the engine, and coasted down a slight slope, going by the office, and laid the bike down in shadows. He walked down the rows of sleeping juggernauts and almost missed the one he was looking for. The red stripe was gone, and the long dimple in the side had been painted over.
Smart girl. He had expected no less.
He raised his infrared glasses and looked at the back wall. It looked like somebody had painted the outline of a seven-foot-tall mammoth on the side of the trailer in bright green. As he watched, the mammoth's trunk curled up toward his mouth.
He scanned along the trailer and when he got to the bedroom, perched out above the bed of the pickup truck he saw, for the second time that night, the infrared figures of a couple making love.
Enjoy it while you can, kids.
He got out his phone and called Howard.
"WARBURTON has found them," Howard said.
Andrea looked up from the magazine she had been reading, trying to stay awake. After she had set them on the right track she had completely lost interest in the search. Again, she was far from sure whose side she was on, though she felt she had owed it to Howard to give him her advice.
"Crossing the border?"
"No, but you were right. They plan to cross in the morning." He explained it to her as they left the plane and walked the short distance to the helicopter. A wind was rising, and she could see storm clouds to the west. Not her idea of a good night to fly, but she wasn't too worried about it. They got aboard and lifted off quickly. They passed out over water and then Howard, sitting beside her in the backseat, looked thoughtful. They were wearing earpiece/mike units so they could talk over the noise of the chopper. Howard keyed the pilot.
"It's on Whidbey Island, sir. The Admiralty Inlet to Puget Sound lies between them. Say ten air miles."
Howard smiled.
"Let's arrive in style," he said to Andrea, then punched a name into his telephone. "Hello? Frank? It's Howard Christian... yeah, I know what time it is. I wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important. What it is, I was wondering if I could borrow your boat?" He held the phone away from his ear and grinned at Andrea. "Okay, charter... you owe me, Frank, and now I'll owe you... okay, you talk to my pilot now, and call the harbormaster, get him out there with the keys. Talk to you later, Frank."
THE boat was an eighty-foot Bertram with twin 1500 horsepower engines. Howard was not much of a nautical man, though he owned a larger yacht than this at Bahia Mar, Lauderdale, and sometimes puttered around the inland waterways of Florida in it. He knew how to pull away from the dock and he knew how to pull into the dock, what was so tough about that? Besides, this rig could literally drive itself. You could input a destination and it would plot the best course and keep a radar eye out for traffic. No need to look for channel markers or worry about tides or depth or weather. If there was a problem, the boat would tell you about it and tell you what to do.
Howard and Andrea boarded, cast off, and pulled slowly away from the small marina at the north end of Whidbey Island, threaded through a passage marked on the electronic chart as Deception Pass, and then moved into moderately choppy seas down the west side of the island and into the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
Halfway there Warburton called.
"They're moving. I'm behind them, they should get there in five minutes. I'll meet you there."
"See you in twenty minutes."
THEY drove the trailer down a ramp and onto a pier jutting out into the sound. It looked new, or recently refurbished; all that federal money, Warburton guessed. The pier was four lanes wide, paved, and had a stout barrier at the end where the ferry would dock in a few hours. The truck and trailer pulled up to the barrier and cut its lights and engine. The first departure was at six A.M. There were no other vehicles parked on the pavement.
Warburton got off his motorcycle at the top of the ramp and walked slowly down toward the trailer. There were two empty lanes to the left of it, where cars would pull off the ferry. Near the barrier was a stairway leading down to a small dock that should accommodate Howard's boat when it arrived. Warburton wasn't sure the boat was a good idea, but it was better than landing a helicopter here in the middle of the night, which was sure to attract attention. And anyway, this was how Howard wanted to do it, and he was the boss.
"Howard...," Andrea said.
"Just a precaution, darling," Howard said. He knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he knocked again. The curtain covering the window in the door was raised, but they couldn't see anything inside. Warburton held up the pistol, pointing toward the sky. The door opened, and steps extended themselves hydraulically.
"Come on out, Susan," Howard said into the darkness.
"What if I call CNN?"
"Then I look foolish for a while, and you both go to jail. Is it worth it?"
Susan snapped on an outside light and an inside one. She and Matt were standing there, hastily dressed, barefoot. Susan was crying. Matt had no expression.
"Can I say good-bye to him?"
"I'll give you one minute."
Susan moved toward the back of the trailer. Howard didn't like the look Andrea was giving him. Well, what was I supposed to do, let her get away with it? He had expected to feel a lot better about this, but the sense of triumph of only a few moments ago seemed to have washed away in the rain. Why did she have to cry? I'm not a bully. I've been bullied, until I got too big to push around.