The Hunger of Crows, page 17
“Is that right?” D’Angelo says, again keeping it light. It doesn’t sound like much, but he stores it anyhow. “Well, I should get going. Thanks again for your time.” They shake hands and D’Angelo turns away. He stops at the doorway. “Hey, you got any good sushi in this town?”
“Sushi? I suppose. I don’t go for it myself.” The harbor master looks at D’Angelo like he’s asked him to recommend a proctologist. He seems about to say more when he stops and peers out the window again. “Oh, that’s strange.”
“What?” D’Angelo looks that way and sees a woman in a red raincoat locking the padlock on the cabin of the “C” Lady. She steps over the gunwale onto the dock and walks up the dock toward one of the other marina ramps.
“Hmm,” the harbor master says, “that’s Scott’s wife. I guess the divorce isn’t final yet. I suppose I should let him know I saw her poking around. None of my business, really. But between you and me, I’ve always liked Scottie a lot more than her.” He grimaces with mock terror.
D’Angelo chuckles. “Okay, chief. I promise I won’t tell a soul you said that about her. Ever.”
He heads for the door.
“Good luck with your daughter,” the harbor master says. “I hope you find her okay.”
“My daughter.” He gives the harbor master a sly smile calculated to convince him he’s seen through all of D’Angelo’s hypotheticals. “Chief, you should’ve been police.”
* * *
It’s noon and raining softly again as D’Angelo leaves the harbor master’s office. He crosses the boardwalk and heads down the ramp and onto the docks, deciding to take another glance at the skiff Carla supposedly sank. That was just about the last place she was seen alive. Maybe there’s something there he can use.
As he passes the “C” Lady, he hears something move inside. It would be natural enough for somebody to be inside any boat in the harbor, of course. But he just saw the woman in the red raincoat—the guy’s soon-to-be-ex-wife—lock the cabin. Who locks somebody inside a boat?
He stops and leans over the port gunwale to peer in the big window. A movement catches his eye, directly below the window. A shadow of something four-legged scurrying downstairs to an area under the foredeck. An animal?
Maybe this Crockett guy got custody of the family dog? Or—if he’s not as clean-living as the harbor master implied—maybe the scary wife left a rabid fox in there as a little surprise for him. D’Angelo has certainly seen some divorces get that ugly.
In any case, it’s got no conceivable connection to his problem. He walks on.
A couple hundred feet away, he finds Shire Kiminsky’s skiff. Nobody around now. Also nothing of interest to him. Just a muddy aluminum boat with a very expensive looking trashed outboard. He’s still standing there when his phone rings. Lundren again. D’Angelo doesn’t answer. Again.
A few seconds later a text shows up: Twenty-four hours. We don’t hear from you, I send someone.
If Lundren says “twenty-four hours,” he really means as soon as he can launch one of their people. There are several big military bases and enough active-duty personnel in Alaska to start a couple medium-sized wars. No doubt plenty of ex-military guys have stuck around the Great Land upon their discharge. Maybe liking the huge empty spaces with few prying eyes keeping track of a man. Or his hobbies. Or his weapons.
Who knows how many there are lurking out there, armed to the teeth and itching to do something spooky? If Lundren is in a hurry to send muscle, chances are it won’t be a professional coming from Sidewinder headquarters in Virginia. Or even one of D’Angelo’s own men in Phoenix. It will be some gun-toting survivalist head case from Fairbanks or Wasilla. Even so, D’Angelo figures it’ll take at least a day to get them to Homer. Hopefully enough time to find that photo before they show up.
Well, if Carla is dead, the only way he’s going to find out standing around here is if somebody fishes her body out of the sea and dumps it on the dock. He just doesn’t have time to wait for that to happen. He’s got to do something. Anything.
He silences his cell phone and walks back to the ramp, passing the “C” Lady again. He glances in the windows. No sign of a dog. Nothing moving in there now.
Halfway up the ramp, a big, middle-aged guy comes walking down, his arms loaded with work clothes. He has a pair of those rubber boots pinched between the thumb and forefinger of one hand.
“Running away from home?” D’Angelo jokes.
The guy laughs. “Right now, that sounds pretty good.”
At the top, D’Angelo walks over to a dumpster that reeks of fish. He drops his cell phone into a corner, hears it slide through the pile of bulging plastic garbage bags and hit the metal bottom with a clang. Lundren’s people can still track it, and certainly will. But then D’Angelo will seem to be in the vicinity of the marina. Which will make sense to them a while longer. Now he can move around freely.
But move where? With the truck impossible to approach, he has nothing left do but watch the marina. That’s where Carla was last seen, and that’s where she’s most likely to resurface—so to speak. Dead or alive.
He walks back to his car, scanning the docks below. Even with many of the halibut charter boats out on the water for the day, a steady stream of commercial fishing vessels and private sport-fishing boats and sundry other small craft come and go. None of them look one bit suspicious. Neither do any of the numerous people on the docks. They’re either folks on vacation or working people doing their jobs.
Maybe, if he lives through this, he should retire and spend summers in this beautiful place for the six or seven broiling months when Phoenix is too hot for anything with a four-chambered heart. Working for McKint has made him more money than he needs. He could do some consulting work over the winters, just to stay busy. And summers in the Halibut Capital of the World? That’s starting to sound good. He has to love a place dedicated to a big, ugly, bottom-feeding fish. And most importantly, one that’s delicious.
He could lease one of those little shops there on the spit. Start a restaurant. All takeout. Italian, sure, but seafood only. No meatballs. Yes, there are already numerous fish-and-chips places lining the spit road. Halibut and salmon and cod on every menu. But how about an all-calamari place? A giant squid painted on the sign. He could call it Tentacolis: Authentic Sicilian Seafood. The slogan would be “Don’t ask for the recipe, and nobody gets hurt.”
Sure. One day soon. If he lives long enough.
He slides into the car. And waits.
CHAPTER
31
STILL SHOOK UP from when somebody looked in the window, Carla stiffens when she hears footsteps on the deck again. She risks a peek around the corner of the bunk. Scott unlocks the door and slides it back, carrying a bundle of mostly black or brown clothes and a pair of Xtratufs. He stops when he sees the note on the table. “Carla? You all right?” he calls down to her, still staring at the note.
“I’m fine.” She climbs out of the bunk. “We had a visitor.”
“She didn’t see you, did she? You didn’t talk to her?”
“Take it easy. No. She didn’t know I was down here.”
“Okay.” Scott nods and walks the rest of the way to the top of the stairs and hands Carla the clothes. “Good,” he says. He walks back to the table.
Carla holds out the Carhartt overalls in one hand, the bulky gray hoodie in the other. “Do they sell anything except gray, black, or brown?”
“You’ll want to blend in,” he says, distracted by the note. He leans over the table, his palms on the Formica on either side of the paper like he’s afraid to touch it.
Carla strips off the flannel shirt and the T-shirt she slept in, both still a little damp from her hair-cutting job. She climbs into her equally damp underpants. Her bra is still too wet, so she sets it aside and pulls on the thin fleece top he’s brought her. It’s long-sleeved and fits snugly, the pile fabric seeming to radiate warmth across her torso. “Oh God, that feels good.”
“Sure,” he says, without looking up.
She steps into the heavy canvas overalls and yanks the shoulder straps tight, watching Scott pondering the note. “So how long were you married before you started cheating?”
Scott turns and looks at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“I sort of had to read that note to figure out who she was, coming and going from the boat like she owns it.”
“Well, she did own half. But it sounds like it’s all mine now.” He stops and looks her way. “What makes you think I cheated on her?”
“Well, her heartfelt ‘Fuck yourself’ was my first clue.”
Scott sits at the table, picks up the note, and holds it close to his face as though smelling it. “I never cheated on her.”
Carla scoffs. “Right.” She pulls on the overlarge hoodie and slips her feet into the boots. They’re a little large on her, but manageable.
“No, really, that wasn’t it,” Scott says.
“Look, it’s none of my business. I’m sorry. I—”
“She wanted a baby,” he says. “We’ve been … I mean, we were married eleven years. I think I gave her the impression I wanted kids too. She’s thirty-nine, and she feels like it’s getting late, you know?”
Carla knows, all right. Wanting children isn’t a problem she’s had. But she can certainly feel for another woman pushing forty and second-guessing everything she’s done up to that point in her life. “Scott, look, I was being a smartass. It’s my default mode.” She tugs the hem of the hoodie down on her hips. “How do I look?”
Scott studies her from the table. “Good. You look like the usual deckhand or young fisherman.” He tosses her a black nylon watch cap. “Put this on over your bandanna and then pull the hood up.” He stops abruptly. “Hey, you cut your hair.”
“You noticed.”
Scott nods. “Good idea. Once we get you settled in at my house, maybe we can do something to change the color.”
“You keep hair coloring around the house?”
Scott frowns, thinking about something. “Listen, I’m thinking maybe we should get ahold of Shire and tell her what’s going on. When you’re safe. Maybe get her to pick up some dye or whatever.”
She doesn’t want to reveal how much the idea buoys her spirits. Shire’s confidence. Shire’s competence. Shire’s sheer Alaskan gutsiness. But they’ve already decided not to get her and the girls involved. “You could go get dye. Why bring Shire into this?”
Scott scratches his head, thinking. In spite of the moment, she finds it charming. He’s like a big kid sometimes. “I think she may be who we need to get to your truck. Volker will let her into the truck—if we could think up some excuse. Maybe to find something of hers in there?”
It makes sense, and she really would feel better with Shire helping. But …
Scott snaps out of his thoughts. “Hey, we’ll talk about it on the way to the house. We gotta get out of here.”
“Sure.” She’s acting like this is all in a day’s work, but the thought of walking out into the marina in broad daylight is almost too much. “I don’t know if I can do this, Scott. What if D’Angelo’s out there?”
Scott picks up a yellow rubber raincoat and walks to the top of the stairs. “Let’s keep moving. Put this on. It’s bulky enough to hide your chest.” He hands her the raincoat. “If he’s here in Homer, he’s seen the commotion over Shire’s skiff. He’s going to think you’re dead. Really.” He looks out the window and scans the docks as if he doesn’t at all believe what he just said. “Come on. We’ll walk up the ramp and straight to my truck. It’s parked by the ice cream place. Just keep your head down and don’t talk. Act like a sullen teenage deckhand, and nobody will suspect a thing. Wear these.”
He hands Carla a pair of inexpensive plastic mirrored sunglasses.
“It’s cloudy and sort of raining out there,” she says, holding them up.
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll look like another cool young twerp. Those guys would wear their shades at midnight in a monsoon. Now, let’s get out of here.”
He waves her up the stairs and helps her into the heavy raincoat. “Yellow. Great. Well, at least I won’t die wearing orange.” She’s joking to keep the creeping tension at bay a little. Her jaw has gone tight; the skin behind one knee twitches.
“You look right for this place. You’re going to be fine.”
He looks at her more closely. Differently, too. He’s starting to go for her. She knows the look. This isn’t the time for that, but still, it helps somehow. “Sure,” she says. “I’m going to be fine.” She wishes she believed it. She puts the sunglasses on.
He slides back the cabin door, scanning the marina again, his brow taut with concern. “You ready?”
She glances at the note on the table, trying to get her mind off what’s out there ahead. “Scott, what’s a hoochie?”
“What? What are you talking about?” He keeps looking across the docks, up the ramp.
She tells herself to keep talking, keep joking. “Your wife says she isn’t letting you keep her favorite hoochie. Is it a sex thing? A boat sex toy or something?”
“Boat sex?” He looks like the question pains him. “It’s a fishing lure! A rubber squid imitation, for Christ’s sake.” He leads her out onto the aft deck and slides the door closed on its runners. “Boat sex. Jesus.”
Scott helps Carla climb over the gunwale of the “C” Lady and onto the dock. Buried under the big yellow raincoat, the hoodie, and the canvas bibs, she really does look like any other young deckhand or fisherman. At first glance. She tells herself this is going to work.
Scott hands her a duffel bag containing her damp clothes. “Just walk beside me now, like we’re talking about the boat and fishing. Real calm like. We go up the ramp and straight across the parking lot. No stopping till we’re in my truck.”
Carla throws the duffel strap over one shoulder. Scott carries a white kitchen bag bulging with fillets from the sockeye he caught yesterday.
The tide is very low, and the ramp slants down to the floating docks at a precipitous angle. Luckily, no one is using it at the moment. Scott turns to Carla. “Remember, you’re a moody teenage mope. Keep your head down like you’d rather be anywhere else on earth than here.”
“I would rather be anywhere else.”
“Shush.”
They are halfway up the ramp when he stops suddenly. Carla peeks around him and sees Shire at the top, stepping onto the ramp from the parking lot. “Oh no.”
She’s alone, thank God. No sign of the twins. If they recognized her, they’d start clamoring for sure. On the narrow ramp, there’s no chance of avoiding Shire. Scott goes up just ahead of Carla. Over his shoulder he says, “Shire’s coming down, straight at us. Get close behind me and do like I do.”
“I know, I see her,” Carla whispers.
Scott waves to Shire. Again, over his shoulder, he says, “Don’t say a word until I tell you.” They meet Shire halfway.
Shire says, “Scott, did you hear about Carla and my skiff?”
“Yeah. I heard.” He sounds calm. “I have to show you something,” he says, “but you cannot react right now, here in public. Promise?” He sets his free hand on Shire’s arm. “I mean it. Don’t do anything excited. Understand?”
Carla feels her heart slamming on every beat.
“What?” Shire says. “I mean, sure. I don’t know. What’s going on?”
“There’s a kid standing behind me. A new deckhand. Just look at his face,” Scott says. “You hear me? Don’t do a thing, Shire. Don’t say anything more than hello. I don’t want to attract any attention. Okay?”
“What the fuck, Scott?”
“I’m serious as shit, Shire. Do I look like I’m joking?”
Shire’s voice levels. “Okay. Calm down. I’m cool.”
Scott turns and pulls Carla alongside him. “Everybody stay calm.”
Carla pushes the sunglasses down an inch and looks over the top of them at Shire.
Shire’s face freezes. “Carla? Oh my God! What the hell?”
Carla opens her mouth to say something, but Scott squeezes her shoulder, hard. He says, “Carla’s in trouble, Shire. I’m taking her to my place on the river. Go down to your skiff or whatever you were doing just now, and then meet us up at the house later. We’ll explain everything.”
He starts to turn away, still gripping Carla’s shoulder.
Shire grabs his wrist. “Scott, I’ll call you.”
“No! No phones. Just come in person. Alone. No kids.”
“Should I call the police?” Shire whispers.
“No, no, no. No police. Just come. And before you make the turn onto my road, you look in the rearview. If there’s anyone behind you at all, you keep driving all the way to Anchor Point. Go into the inn or the gas station or something.”
“Carla,” Shire hisses, “what have you done?”
A couple fishermen are coming down the ramp from the top. “We gotta go.” Scott steps aside and pulls Carla with him. “Go on down to the skiff, Shire. We have to get out of sight. Now.”
He plods on up the ramp. Carla stays very close behind. They pass the two fishermen coming down and make it up to the boardwalk. They walk through the milling tourists perusing the galleries and gift shops to the parking lot. Carla gets in the passenger seat of Scott’s truck, head still down, as instructed. To anyone watching, she will hopefully look like a young guy with his attention glued to a mobile device. What could be more normal than that?
As Scott starts his truck, Carla glances across the parking lot at her Toyota, still parked behind the Orca. It’s right there. Scott looks that way too.
“Can we get the picture?” She holds up her truck keys.
Scott looks at her truck again. He looks around the parking lot. He seems to be considering pulling up next to Carla’s truck, jumping out, and reaching in to grab the photo out of her headliner. There’s nobody in sight there behind the Orca at the moment. It would take only a few seconds. They won’t have to involve Shire. “Can you do it?” she asks.
