The Kodiak plowed ahead, while Harley removed the lens cap from the binoculars, and swept them over the island. The beach, as usual, was shrouded in spray and mist, but in the moonlight, he could just make out a ladder of steps, carved into the side of the rugged cliffs and leading all the way up to a jagged promontory. He’d sailed past this island many times in the Neptune I and the Neptune II, always giving it a wide berth, but tonight their course was taking them closer to the shore than ever before. As the Kodiak rounded the island, with no sign of the Coast Guard, the Navy, or one of those damn choppers anywhere in sight, Harley put the bow light on again and caught the great glistening back of a killer whale, just rising from the waves, its blowhole spouting like a geyser. It took several seconds before the whale submerged again—time enough for Harley to reflect on the guts those old Inuit hunters must have had to take on a creature of that size and power in nothing but flimsy kayaks, with a handful of harpoons. He’d have been afraid to take it on with an Uzi. It was hard to believe that the natives he knew now—those guys like fat Geordie Ayakuk who hugged a desk in the community center, or the old rummies that hung around the Yardarm cadging drinks—could possibly be their descendants. Man, what the fuck had happened to them?
A cloud passed before the moon, a sign of the storms that were undoubtedly on their way, and Harley turned the searchlight toward the island, looking for some safe—and secluded—harbor. But even on this side, rocks jutted up from the sea, and white water foamed over the hidden reefs. People who didn’t know anything about sailing always thought that the closer you were to shore, the safer you were. But Harley knew that they were dead wrong. The open sea gave you room to maneuver, time to think, and if you’d read your charts right, the chances that there was something deadly lurking right under your hull were pretty slim.
No, the worst disasters happened as you approached the shore, especially if that shore was as dangerous a destination as St. Peter’s Island. In addition to the boat Harley had already lost to these waters, he knew of at least a dozen others that had been driven too close to this coastline by snowstorms and rogue waves and overpowering winds; he had seen sudden riptides grip a boat and completely take control of it, dragging it helplessly in whatever direction it wished, before dashing it against a picket of jagged rocks. You could run the engine all you wanted, you could put on every sail you had, but if the Bering Sea wanted a piece of your ass, it was going to get it.
Up in the wheelhouse, he could see Eddie and Russell hunched over the wheel. Each of them was holding a beer can now and laughing uproariously at something. Christ, if only he had anybody he could actually rely on. He’d needed some help on this gig, and in some ways these two were the obvious candidates. Since getting out of the Spring Creek penitentiary, Russell had been working part-time for the refinery—and was always short of beer money—and Eddie lived off the dough every resident got each year from the Permanent Fund, courtesy of the big oil companies that operated in Alaska. When needed, he supplemented his income with plumbing or selling pot.
More to the point, neither of them would be missed for a few days.
But the Kodiak was getting perilously close to shore now, and Harley figured he could no longer leave Eddie at the wheel—not if he wanted to keep the boat in one piece.
Sweeping the searchlight back and forth across the cliffs, he saw flocks of kittiwakes startled into flight, and steep, impregnable walls slick with ice. A ripple of white foam indicated an underwater reef off the port side. The boat was halfway around the island from the Russian colony, and there was no sign of another beach. An inlet or cove was the best he could hope for; they’d have to drop anchor and use the Kodiak’s skiff to go ashore.
Fixing the searchlight in place, he went back up to the bridge, and the minute he came through the door, the wind howling at his back, Eddie and Russell, looking vaguely guilty, stopped laughing.
“What was so funny?”
“Nothing,” Eddie said.
Harley figured that the joke had been at his expense. Eddie stifled another laugh, and now Harley knew for sure—and he saw red.
“Lighten up,” Russell said, a bit blearily. “Have a beer.” He held out a can and Harley smacked it out of his hand so hard that the can hit the binnacle and cracked the anemometer screen.
“Fuck,” Eddie shouted. “My uncle’s going to see that!”
Russell’s shoulders hunched, and his fists clenched. Eddie saw it, too, and leapt between them, his arms outstretched.
“Hey, guys, chill out. Come on now, come on. We’re all friends here.”
“Are we?” Harley said, glaring first at one, then the other. “Because if we’re such good friends, we’re gonna have to get something straight. This is my gig, and I don’t want a couple of drunken stoners fucking it up.”
The beer can was rolling around the floor of the wheelhouse, spraying foam through a dent. The wheel, unattended, was turning slowly.
“Who said I’m drunk?” Russell challenged him, weaving on his feet.
Harley smiled, acting like it was all okay now, then spun around, throwing out one leg in a classic martial-arts move that caught Russell behind his knees and dumped his ass on the floor. He landed with a thump that jolted the whole cabin, then he lay there, propped up against the chart table, stunned.
“What the fuck?” Eddie said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“And you,” Harley said, “get out on deck and keep watch.” Harley moved to take control of the wheel, but Eddie grabbed it again, refusing to budge.
“It’s my uncle’s boat.”
Harley shoved him, and Eddie stumbled into Russell, who was just getting to his feet. They both went down, and Harley whipped around, the gun out of his belt now. Eddie put out both of his hands, and said, “Whoa there, pardner! Put that away before somebody gets hurt.”
Harley waited a few seconds, just to make sure Russell wasn’t planning on anything further.