Prince got the Cessna clear of the slip, moving at a speed that definitely violated the no-wake speed limit inside the boat harbor. Liam blinked his eyes again to clear them, and saw Larsgaard just coming out from between the two sets of floats. TheBay Roverheeled over on its right side and the wake foamed up behind the stern. Prince responded by opening up the Cessna's throttle. The rock face of the breakwater loomed dangerously close to the tip of the left wing. “Watch out!” he yelled.
“Get ready!” she yelled back.
TheBay Roverspeeded up. Forgetting where he was, Liam yelled, “Faster!”
“We're almost up on the step as it is,” Prince yelled back. “We go any faster we'll take off, and there's no room!”
Larsgaard looked over his shoulder, saw the Cessna bearing down on his port stern and pointed the bow of theBay Rovertoward the entrance of the breakwater. At that moment another boat, a Grayling bowpicker returning to its slip from the fuel dock, crossed the bow of theBay Rover.Its skipper stared at the oncoming boat with the float plane in hot pursuit, mouth open and apparently incapable of thought or action. Larsgaard heeled theBay Roverhard aport and slammed the engine into neutral and then reverse, at the same time Prince cut the throttle on the Cessna, abruptly slowing their forward motion.
That was all it took. Liam's hands lost their grip on the strut and he was catapulted off the float and onto Larsgaard's deck, which was passing inches in front of the Cessna's still-rotating propeller. He retained just enough sense to tuck and roll, and everything would have been fine if his somersault hadn't achieved momentum and rolled him over the opposite gunnel, which caught him painfully in the small of his back but didn't stop him from going over the side.
The cold, dark water of Kulukak's small boat harbor closed over his head, and for a moment all he could think of was what the salt water was going to do to his freshly cleaned and only other uniform. Son of a bitch.
He swallowed water and battled his way to the surface, to find the gunnel of theBay Roversix feet away, engine idling, boxed in by the Grayliner, the Cessna and the breakwater. Two overhand strokes brought him within reach, and he heaved himself up and over the gunnel and onto the deck. He looked up to see Walter Larsgaard standing over him, boat hook raised. He met Larsgaard's eyes and from somewhere found the air to gasp, “Walter Larsgaard, you are under arrest for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution.”
Larsgaard stood where he was for a long moment. Liam gulped in more air and continued, “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right…”
The boat hook came down, and Larsgaard held it out, in the manner of a soldier surrendering a sword. Liam accepted it automatically.
“… to have an attorney present during questioning. If you desire to have an attorney and cannot afford one, an attorney will be provided for you.”
“What am I being prosecuted for?” Larsgaard said.
Murder, Liam thought, murder times seven, or else why were you running? “I'll think of something,” he said. “Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Liam got to his feet, shoes squelching, uniform a soggy memory of its former sartorial splendor. The Newenham posting was hell on uniforms.
“I'd like to take the boat back to the slip,” Larsgaard said.
“Fine,” Liam said, waving a hand, an expansive gesture ruined when he had to cough water out of his lungs. “Take her on back.”
Larsgaard gave him a curious glance, and for a moment Liam thought he might smile. “I can't believe you came after me riding the pontoon of a float plane.”
“I can't, either,” Liam said wearily.
Although it wasn't like anyone had given him a choice.
It was a silent, soggy flight back to Newenham. Prince flew the plane, Larsgaard stared out the window, Sandowski made one abortive attempt to deliver his report and Liam dripped.
In Newenham they drove straight to the local jail, a compact building consisting of the dispatcher's office and six cells. Larsgaard went into the one across from Frank Petla, who was suffering from what looked like a monumental hangover. “Frank?” Liam said, standing in front of the barred door.
Frank opened one eye, saw Liam and groaned. “Oh man, leave me alone.”
Liam looked at his watch and calculated. It was noon, and he was hungry, not to mention damp. Frank hadn't technically been in custody until about seven the night before. Liam, who knew a sudden and irresistible desire for a greasy cheeseburger and even greasier fries, decided to update Bill on his progress.
He turned to go and saw that one of the opposite three cells was also full. Moccasin Man, he thought. That was his nickname for the tall man with a dark mane of hair that hung halfway down his back, who wore beaded moccasins and a matching beaded belt. Evan Richard Gray, one of Newenham's three dealers, three prior arrests for selling marijuana, no convictions. Probably all the women on the jury were hoping he'd ask them out if they let him off.
Prince shifted behind him and Liam turned and headed into the dispatcher's office. “Mamie, who brought Gray in?”
Mamie, a short, plump, harassed-looking woman with flyaway brown hair, skin still suffering the aftermath of a bad case of teenage acne and eyebrows plucked to a perpetually surprised expression, said, “Roger Raymo brought him in this morning. What?” she said into the phone. “Bobbie, you have to press charges this time, and you have to testify, or pretty soon the guys won't even bother coming out there.” She listened. “All right, I'll expect you this afternoon. All right, I'll tell Roger. All right, Bobbie.” She hung up the phone. “Bobbie Freedman. Cam keeps beating up on her, and she keeps calling us, and then she won't testify against him after we arrest him.” She blew the hair out of her eyes and looked at Prince. “I don't believe we've met?”
“Diana Prince, Mamie Hagemeister. Trooper Prince has been newly assigned to the area. Mamie's the dispatcher we share with the city police.”
Prince looked around the office, divided into two halves, one with Mamie's desk and an array of phones and radios, and the other with two more desks and filing cabinets. “Where are they?”
“Out on patrol,” Mamie said.
“Or asleep,” Liam added. He saw Prince's look. “There are supposed to be six of them. There are only two, Roger Raymo and Cliff Berg.”
She nodded, and said, “I'll introduce myself to them as soon as I can.”
Good luck, Liam thought. “I'm going to change into some dry clothes and then have lunch at Bill's.”
Prince nodded again. “I'll go back to the post and run Petla and Larsgaard through the computer.”
They went back to the Blazer. Sandowski was sitting in the back seat, his briefcase on his knees. “Forgot about him for a minute,” Liam murmured, and climbed into the driver's seat. He looked up to meet Sandowski's eyes in the rearview mirror. “So, Mark. Anything you can tell me yet?”
Sandowski looked indignant. “I would have told you on the plane, if you-”
“Your report, Mark.” Liam smiled.
Sandowski looked down and cleared his throat. “The boat was set on fire first.”
“How?”
“Offhand, I'd say the arsonist induced combustion with an inflammatory substance. That is indicated by the high degree of carbonization-”
“English,” Liam said.
“Oh.” Mark gave a nervous smile. “Somebody poured gas all over the place and lit a match. They started in the galley. That's why the big charred patch in the middle of the floor.”
They had to have been dead by then, or at least unconscious. There had been no sign of restraints, and nobody sits still while someone pours gas all over them. “From the fuel tank?”