Harley stumbled backwards, as the otter scampered up the beach, its tail swishing, before abruptly changing course, turning toward the water again and slipping silently into the icy wash.
It was all over in a matter of seconds, but it took Harley a minute or two to calm down again and get back to work.
Damn otter. He vaguely recalled some legend about otters, some native bullshit, but since they were probably bad luck—like everything else out here—he didn’t try too hard to remember it. On the Vane’s Holy Writ broadcasts, Charlie was always trying to prove how the Inuit stories had something to do with Jesus, but Harley didn’t buy it. He thought his brother was just trying to con a few more bucks out of the locals.
With frozen fingers, he freed the clamps holding the boat to the davits, then, tugging the braided rope, dragged it down to the water.
The bright yellow boat bobbed on the surf like a rubber ducky, and it took him three tries before he could hoist himself, boots and pants dripping wet, onto its fixed seat in back, and get the motor running.
Turning the boat parallel to the shore, he took it away from some jagged rocks, and slowly out to sea. He knew that no one in his right mind would be trying this, which was precisely why he’d probably get away with it. The fog was so thick it was like churning through clam chowder, but it would dissipate once he got a little farther from the island. His plan was to run parallel to the cliffs, then due southwest to Port Orlov. But he wasn’t so dumb that he’d sail it right into the harbor; no, he was going to put in at the old family wharf a few miles away, then, when everything had blown over, maybe he could strip the boat and sell it for parts.
The spray was blowing into his face and even when he wiped it away with his sleeve, he couldn’t see much better—his coat, too, was sopping. And he was starting to feel truly shitty. He coughed, and he didn’t like the sound of it. What he needed was a good hot meal at the Yardarm, and Angie Dobbs back in his bed. Yes, a little Angie in the night would cure whatever ailed him.
His progress was slower than he thought it should be, and he gunned the engine higher.
Although the boat was carrying so little weight that it should have been skimming along, the current was either stronger than he estimated, or the prow was weighted down somehow. The wind was howling so loudly in his ears that it seemed like he could hear voices; it would have been okay if it had been Angie telling him how good he was in bed, or Charlie—the old Charlie—telling him how to pull off an easy con.
But it wasn’t, and they weren’t.
It sounded more like Eddie, asking him why he’d cut the goddamned rope … or Russell, screaming as the wild animals had taken him apart.
Fuck Eddie. Fuck Russell. They’d taken their chances. Harley wasn’t their keeper.
The boat bucked a wave, and Harley clutched the throttle tight.
Christ Almighty he was cold. He pulled the loose tarp all the way up to his waist.
And in the billowing fog that engulfed the boat, he could swear that for just one instant, he saw them both—his two accomplices—sitting toward the bow, waiting for him to ferry them back home. Deadweight, he thought, as always.
When he blinked, they were gone—Harley knew an hallucination when he was having one, and this damn island seemed to specialize in them.
But when he blinked again—oh, sweet Jesus—there they were again, looking at him like it was all his fault somehow.
Chapter 43
It was the hardest call Slater had ever had to make, but with lives hanging in the balance—Eva’s for sure, and possibly Nika’s, too—he called Dr. Levinson in D.C. Apparently, he had caught her at a dinner party, and until she had moved into a private study, he could hear the sounds of clinking glasses and cutlery in the background.
As succinctly as he could, he told her what was happening on the island, and with every word he uttered he could imagine the expression of mounting disbelief, and anger, on her face. She had gone to bat for him at the court-martial, she had given him this golden opportunity to redeem himself, and he had blown it sky-high. When she finally spoke, he could hear the steel in her voice.
“So you have not one, but two, compromised team members?” she said. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he might make a third.
“Yes. And I will need them to be evacuated immediately to a mainland hospital, where a strict quarantine can be established.”
“Why didn’t you call for it already?”
“I did, but we’re having a priorities problem. It looks like the Coast Guard may need a kick in the pants from AFIP headquarters, or an assist from the Air National Guard.”
“Consider it done.”
He thanked her.
“Don’t thank me, Frank. You know what this means, don’t you?”
He could guess, but she told him, anyway.
“Once we get this straightened out, I’ll want you back in Washington for a full debriefing. When we’re finished with that, your civilian status with the AFIP will be considered terminated.”
The same as his military status had already been withdrawn.