Minutes ticked past.
Only as the ferry turned past Wing Point and angled up Eagle Harbor toward a shimmering Winslow did she move her search to the parking decks. Everyone on the ferry had to get off.
She descended through the smell of oil and the sea. There were two levels of parked cars on either side of a single open hold for vehicles. She checked the two upper side wings first, walking the long rows of parked vehicles, amazed at how many drivers chose to ride out the thirty-five minutes dozing behind the wheel or listening to NPR. The hold was dull paint and dim lighting, vehicles bumper to bumper, all aimed toward the bow. Vehicle after vehicle. Face after face. No Flek.
She reached the lower center hold, facing well over a hundred vehicles. Time running out. The water churned violently at the bow, noisy in her ears and tangy in her throat. She approached one of the ferry personnel and took full advantage of his interest in her. "Listen," she said, raising her voice above the engine noise, "is there any law preventing a woman from asking a few of these good people for a lift?"
"Not as far as I'm concerned," the man replied. "When we dock, these cars roll. Don't be standing out there then, I'll be yelling at ya."
"Thanks," she said.
"There's a couple taxis," he told her.
"Thanks," she said again.
The information about the taxi caused her to reconsider her plan. If she spotted him, then maybe the taxi would do. She could follow. Then again, maybe someone else would beat her to those taxis. Or maybe Abby Flek wasn't in a car, despite her conviction at this point that he had to be. He was in possession of a fairly large rifle, perhaps stolen goods as well. It seemed unlikely he would travel on foot.
A thought occurred. Boldt had been shot at the night before, sometime around 11 P.M. Bryce Abby Flek had taken the 8:30 ferry to Winslow—Osbourne had evidence supporting this. The next day, this same morning, Flek had ridden a ferry back from Winslow to the city. Granted, there were numerous return ferries, but what were the odds that Flek had returned that same night to take a pot shot at Boldt? It seemed unlikely, if not impossible, to her. She reached into her purse and grabbed her phone—she wanted to tell Boldt immediately. But as she prepared to dial, she looked up to see that most, if not all, of the vehicles were now occupied. Out the bow, the well-lit dock at Winslow quickly approached. If she were to do this, it had to be immediately. She had only the one chance.
* * *
She returned the phone to her purse, rehearsed a few opening lines, walked to the center of the four rows of vehicles and started down the aisle in front of her. She looked left to right, catching sight of every driver. She approached only men, and did not confine herself solely to this center aisle.
She tapped on a window and waited for the driver to roll it down.
"Excuse me," she said, "do you happen to know who won the Mariners' game?"
The stranger's hopeful expression faded from his face and he answered, "They aren't playing today."
"Oh," she said. "Well, thanks anyway."
She moved on, crossing past the front bumper of a minivan and settling on a black BMW. Knock, knock. "Excuse me," she said, "do you know if there's a Costco in Poulsbo?"
"I doubt it," he answered.
"Thanks anyway," she said, and continued on.
The ship smoothly slowed. She wanted to be seen making as many appeals as possible. For this reason, she moved laterally, port to starboard as well as working her way back toward the stern. She was midships when she spotted Flek. He sat behind the wheel of an old model Cadillac or Plymouth. A gas hog.
She approached the passenger side and knocked. The thing had a Landau roof that looked like burned coffee grounds—too many years in the elements.
He turned the key and put down the window electronically. "Hey there," he said.
"Excuse me," Daphne said, a little flirtatious, a little hopeful, a tiny bit cautious, "you wouldn't be heading north by any chance, would you?" The island's only major road ran north toward the bridge at Agate Passage.
"Suquamish," he answered. "You need a ride?"
"Poulsbo," she replied, affecting disappointment. She had a destination now—the Port Madison Indian reservation town of Suquamish. He'd been smart enough to leave the city each night, smart enough to hide in a place that neither Boldt nor anyone else ever would have thought to look for him—past the affluent enclave of Bainbridge into the isolation of a reservation town.
"There's a casino the other side of the bridge. Pretty well traveled. I could leave you there," he offered. "Or I'll tell you what," he said before she could respond. "It's nothing to run you into town. A couple miles is all. Hop in."
"You sure?" Her heart fluttered in her chest. No matter what the police side of her believed about seizing such an opportunity—and it warned to err on the side of caution—the psychologist hungered for a chance at conversation with this man "in the raw"— unaware of who she was, his guard down, his true personality exposed. Her own ambitions had threatened her before, but as a scientist she could justify this in any number of ways, none of them very reasonable if she'd been forced to listen to herself. At that moment, she knew she could refuse him and walk away—she could lift the car's registration as she passed to the rear. She could call Boldt and organize a manhunt. But conversely, it might prove tricky ever finding him again. Perhaps it was a friend's car, perhaps a joy ride he would ditch within the next few hours.
Boldt could still be notified. The manhunt could still take place. Suquamish was tiny. It wouldn't be too difficult to find this old car. Or perhaps they could lay a trap for him back at the ferry landing. Perhaps she would pull her weapon and walk him into the Poulsbo Police Department and claim the collar herself. Sanchez was her case, after all. But none of that mattered right now. First she had a decision to make.
She opened the door and climbed in. "Thanks," she said, laying her purse on the seat next to her. Then reconsidering, she set it on the floor. "It's awfully nice of you."
"How could I say no?" he asked.
A flicker of fear. Did he know her? Something in the way he had said it. The ferry arrived at the pier with barely a nudge, and the deckhands busied themselves. The psychologist sensed the danger. Who had trapped whom? she wondered. The door handle cried out for her to grab hold and get out of the car while she still could. It grew in size, begging for her to use it.
"None of those others would help you out?" he said.
Had he sensed her reluctance and constructed a good line to ask?
"They all live on-island," she replied, that door handle still calling to her.
The cars up ahead started their engines, and the foul smell of exhaust filled the old car nearly instantly. Eldorado—the glove box read. He pulled the transmission into gear. As he did, she heard the familiar click of all the doors locking at once. She didn't look. She didn't want to make a point of it, but she knew he'd locked the car, or the vehicle itself had done so automatically upon leaving PARK—but it seemed to her it was too old a car for that safety feature.