I slept too easily, fatigued by the constant jostling and bumping the big power boat had served up as it thrust its way through the water, the twin diesels rumbling below our feet until their silence seemed more deafening than their noise had been. Solis and I had both objected to the layover, but Quinton and Zantree had once again pleaded the tides and took us into port just ahead of the incoming turn. I didn’t really understand it but I gave up arguing when I found my eyes closing in spite of myself. It was barely midnight and the tide was theoretically going out for another two hours—we had plenty of people to stand watch if we kept on—but I cared less and less as the gentle rocking of the boat at the dock put me to sleep.
We were up again by seven thirty, the smell of bacon and coffee teasing me awake. Quinton was out of bed already but I hadn’t felt him leave, since we’d had to share a cabin with separate, narrow bunks, there being only one cabin that had a single large bunk, and that was the owner’s. I gimped and staggered into fresh clothes, leaving my gun on the bunk, and made my way to the galley, where Zantree and Solis were making breakfast.
I lifted an interrogative eyebrow at the detective and he shrugged. “I cook on Saturdays. Ximena sleeps in. Except today.”
“Who cooks on Sunday?”
“Mama Gomez. If she is of a mind to.”
I supposed they ate out if she wasn’t.
Quinton had apparently been out on deck and came in with a small portable radio in his hand and a huge smile on his face. He accepted a cup of coffee from Solis and sat down. “I forgot how much I loved boats.”
“How’s that?” Zantree asked. “How can you miss boats when you live in Puget Sound country?”
“I’ve . . . just been spending all my time in the city. It’s been a long time since I was on a big boat like this, going somewhere.” He looked at me. “That little one on the lake wasn’t the same.”
I was pretty sure part of his enjoyment came from having given his father the slip and I couldn’t blame him for that. I smiled without a word and sipped my coffee—it was a bit bitter and very strong. Solis tried not to watch me drink it, but I caught his glance from the corner of his eye. I wanted to laugh at the idea of reserved Detective Sergeant Solis being nervous about his skills in the kitchen but I kept my amusement to myself.
“So, any ideas on where this mystery cove is yet?” I asked.
Quinton looked at Zantree, who took his time replying, swallowing a mouthful of pancakes before he spoke. “I’m guessing up near Stuart Island, or maybe along the north shore of San Juan. The position you guys provided was a bit rough—right at the top of Haro Strait where the border runs through between San Juan and a group of smaller islands just north of it. The boat could have been within a mile or so in any direction of the mark itself, which is just west of Spieden Channel, at the north end of San Juan Island. That’s a good stretch, wide at each end, and he could have been aiming to turn hard east of south and fetch up at Henry or San Juan island, or go to Spieden or Stuart islands or even go on through the channel toward Orcas. We’ll have to give it a bit of thought once we’re up there. Take the weather and current into consideration to adjust the heading provided.”
“Umm . . .” I started. “I’m not quite sure I follow you.”
“The latitude and longitude info you have is not a specific location, more of a general position and direction of travel—it wasn’t seconds-precise. But the weather’s similar at this time of year, so we should have similar variables once we’re in the area and that’ll help us figure where he was going, once we’re there. The currents are strong up here because the channels between the islands are narrow and a lot of water has to move fast whenever the tide changes, so even if we get the right location we may have to play about or lay over to reach it. Can’t tell much from here just yet.” He looked up at Quinton. “If you want to check anything online, you’d better do it quick—there won’t be any Wi-Fi or cell service for most of the trip. The big islands have antennas but signals don’t always reach ships on the water. The really small islands have no coverage at all; one of the things I like about coming up here is the world leaves you alone.”
“I can certainly appreciate that,” Quinton said.
“How long will it take to reach Roche Harbor?” Solis asked.
“All morning and a bit more,” Zantree replied. “Assuming we have no adverse winds and keep to favorable currents, we should make the dock at Roche by two o’clock or so. Motorboats aren’t as susceptible to wind as sail, but we can still be pushed around and if we get caught in a tidal race or current, we could end up going the wrong way. Since it’s good weather and a weekend, we’ll have to keep an eye out for other vessels—especially tugs hauling barges. If you see the one, start looking for the other, because we don’t want to pass between them; the tow cable sinks just below the water and if you cross over it, it’ll shear your keel off like a knife through cheese. And where we’re headed is right on the border, in the ferry route, so we’ll need to be careful of those, too—ferries have the right-of-way and they can push a hell of a wake, even going slow. Boating is fun but it takes some vigilance to be safe. Like wearing those flotation vests every minute you’re aboard. Everybody good with all that?”
We all nodded. I noticed that Quinton was the only one of us landlubbers with his vest on and felt a little abashed. Having drowned once, I had no desire to do it again.
“Good,” Zantree said. “If you need anything ashore, take care of it now. We’re off in twenty minutes if we mean to have the tide with us all the way.”
The facilities on Mambo Moon were adequate, but I still felt a need to step off and stretch on a surface that moved a bit less before donning my vest and getting under way. I wasn’t sick, but the constant small movement of the boat as it floated and bumped the dock made me respond without thinking, my body making continual tiny adjustments to stance and posture to keep my balance, and a lot of those little movements sent twinges of discomfort along my cracked rib. Stretching out wasn’t going to be pleasant, but if I didn’t try I’d be stiff and out of balance as well as in pain and that would make me an unreliable crew member—something I could not afford to be. I climbed off the boat and walked uncomfortably up the floating dock to the marina’s office building, which sat firmly on dry land.
It was still early enough in the morning that there weren’t crowds of people in the area and the boaters were mostly going about their own business on board their vessels, just as we had been. They left me alone and cast only a few cursory glances at the tall, skinny woman in jeans and sneakers, using the platform railing as an exercise bar. The leg stretches were all right, but the upper-body stuff was killer and my eyes were a little misty with tears of pain by the time I turned and started back to Zantree’s boat. I was swiping the moisture from my eyes as I went, so I suppose I could be forgiven for not paying attention to the shadow that heaved itself out the water and onto the boat’s swimming platform at the stern as I turned the last corner to Mambo Moon. The splash caught my attention, however, and I finished my turn with a wrench that made me hiss and stop short about twenty feet from the boarding steps.