Black Swan (30 page)

    I'd never ridden a mechanical bull, but I couldn't help thinking, this has to be a lot like that.

    The safety harness and tether turned out to be more essential than precautionary. On a dozen occasions, I felt my feet rise off the sole of the boat, my grip on the wheel both savior and hazard as the jerks and jolts threatened to broach the valiant little craft.

    I almost convinced myself that I had control of the helm when water off the blunt forward edge started to spray into my face, blinding me and filling the bottom of the boat to an alarming degree, until I realized the water weight provided some much needed ballast, reducing bounce and the jittery swings that had thus far dominated the trip. I just reminded myself not to allow too much of a good thing to come in over the bow.

    Rather than head back into West Harbor, I struck a course toward the ferry channel that penetrated the far end of the island. This meant a greater exposure to the uniquely treacherous vagaries of the Race, but that was unavoidable. There was no percentage in hugging the shore, especially now that it was in the lee of the storm, and as always cluttered with rocky shoals and other hidden menace.

    The marina boat was no happier with her worsening circumstances, forcing me to slow down another few knots, both to ward off capsizing and reduce the amount of seawater slopping around my feet. Though not soon enough. It wasn't unusual in the Race to have a pair of swells temporarily pile up on each other, amplifying the effects. One of these unholy joinings must have formed right as my attention was on the helm, tossing the starboard corner of the bow up in the air and throwing me backwards into the boat, my hands ripped from the wheel.

    There wasn't much point in calling a wave a motherfucker, but I did anyway, the last words I got out before getting the wind knocked out of me, the tether fully extended and just long enough to allow me to land flat on my back. The boat pitched forward and I rolled into the port side and

watched the foamy green water stream by, inches from my face, and for a few intriguing moments, I was sure we were going over. I gripped the lanyard that freed the tether from my harness, and was about to pull when the boat ripped off in the other direction. The wheel spun at the command of the boiling seas.

    Instead of pulling the lanyard, I grabbed the tether and used it to yank myself back on my feet, took hold of the wheel and tried to regain my bearings. A bleak grey image of Race Rock Light, the old lighthouse that stood a mile off the Fishers' western coast, was on my port side, so I spun the wheel to the left and stole a glance at the landmass before giving the churning waves my respectful attention.

    I knew the seas were more than the wind should warrant, running ahead of the storm as they did with a hurricane moving up the Atlantic. But that would soon change, as the wind caught up and the waves, inhaling the enraged force, fulfilled their gorged potential.

    A hurricane isn't weather, it's a thing. A monster that invades, ravishes, then moves along. It doesn't care what it does to you, nor to itself, as it dies in soggy exhaustion deep in the mainland, or frozen to death in the North Atlantic. All it knows how to do is feast on warm water, curl into itself like a cobra, gather speed and strength to better lay waste all within its swirl. It's a hungry thing, an indiscriminate beast, blind and relentless and ultimately doomed, but impossible to ignore, foolish to deny.

    I had to get to that channel.

    Among the many illusions that afflict sailors is the idea that somewhere nearby the water is much calmer than the unfettered snot you're currently embroiled in. This is borne of both a trick in visual perspective and profound wishful thinking. Knowing both these things well, I still angled in closer to shore, thinking this was a cagey way to outsmart the elements.

    What I got instead was a greater battering, the wave action predictably stronger the closer you got to the shallower water along the coast. I cursed at myself this time and angled back out. I dug my feet into the soggy bottom of the boat, took a better grip on the wheel and drove on through the muck.

    If you stay alive, all torture ends eventually, and such was the case with that race across Fishers Island Sound. Seemingly out of nowhere the opening of the ferry channel appeared, signaled by the red and green markers. As the breakwaters to either side quelled the waves, I torqued up the throttle and shot through the hole.

    I cursed aloud again, though this time less a complaint than a celebration.

    Though calmer than the seas, the channel was far from placid. The trick now was to make it all the way inside without bashing into the breakwaters, or farther down the channel, the tall dock walls. The water ballast, unintentional though it was, worked to great advantage in keeping the boat low in the water, allowing me to keep the throttle up without losing steerage.

    Inside the channel, the water opened up into a harbor just big enough to allow the ferry to turn around and dock. On the other bank were a few houses, with their own docks. I pulled up to the first one and tied off the boat. Finally at rest, I could feel the true wind, blowing in from the northeast, auguring no good.

    I stowed my iridescent yellow foulie in the ditch bag and replaced it with a dark blue, semi-waterproof rain jacket. I used a set of bungee cords to fix the shotgun to the ditch bag, which I put on my back, and walked around the harbor to the ferry office. It was closed, according to the sign on the wall, not to reopen until after the storm.

    I walked up the small hill to the Fishers Island state police barracks and went inside. No one was there. I went

around the desk for a quick check of the holding cell. Ashton Kinuie was lying down on the cot inside the cell, apparently asleep.

    "Don't you ever answer your phone?" I asked.

    He shot upright.

    "Acquillo. Get me some water."

    I looked around the room.

    "Where?"

    "There's a little 'fridge behind the desk."

    I went and got him a bottle of water.

    "What're you doing in there?" I asked, shoving the bottle through the bars.

    "Fuming. When I'm not dying of dehydration."

    I looked down at the keypad mounted on the front of the cell.

    "How do I get you out?"

    "You don't. They reset the combination. HQ will have to send someone over who can override the electronics. Not happening now."

    "Who's they?" I asked.

    He looked up at me with baleful eyes.

    "Two white guys wearing black ski masks. Only one of them spoke. They got the drop on me. To be honest, I thought they were going to kill me. Instead, they put me in the cell and reprogrammed the keypad like it was something they did every day."

    "How long you been in here?"

    "Two days. I've been trying to sleep to conserve energy, but I was getting very thirsty. They only left me one bottle of water. You can live a long time without food, but not without water."

    I went back to the little refrigerator and took out all the water that was in there, about eight bottles. I shoved them all in his cell.

    "They can at least get some more cops out here," I said.

    "Maybe. You got a cell phone? This is going to be embarrassing."

    I went outside to spare him the audience and looked around. The wind was up another half-notch, and multi-colored leaves were filling the air. No one was on the street, no cars, no people. The old buildings and the too-cute cottages within eyeshot were dark and hunkered down, wary beneath the standing hardwoods that had all grown up since 1938.

    I went back inside.

    "Eight to ten hours," he said. "The weather's got everyone in a panic. As always, this island's just an annoying pimple on the ass of the East End."

    "So now what?"

    "A burger would be a good idea. With a big salad on the side."

    Another dilemma. The closest place to buy food, the only place you could buy food if you didn't count the Swan, was the general store. It was halfway between the barracks and where I'd originally stashed the dinghy, way too exposed a route. I didn't want to endanger Two Trees anymore than I had already, and I couldn't contact the Swan, so that left a single option.

    I called Gwyneth Jones.

    "How're you with conspiracies?" I asked her when she answered the phone.

    "JFK was killed by a lone gunman, crazy as that sounds."

    I asked her if she could go to the general store, buy a bunch of canned goods, and a can opener, plastic dinnerware, paper cups and plates, fresh fruit and bottles of water, plus a toothbrush and toothpaste, liquid soap, a washcloth if they had one, and to secretly bring them to the ferry dock.

    "With another storm on the way, nobody'll think twice about the purchases. When you get here, park behind the ferry office." Which I could see from the barracks. "I'll walk down and meet you."

"I thought you were long gone."

"That's what I want everyone to think," I said.

"That sounds conspiratorial."

    When she got off the phone I conferred with Kinuei about what else he'd need. He told me where to find a big Maglite flashlight, a handheld VHF and a box of batteries. Then the matter of the shotgun came up. I reached in my pack and pulled out the Glock, and two boxes of ammo.

    "Unless you order me to give it up, I'd like to hold on to the shotgun for now," I said.

    "What're you up to, anyway? Level with me and I'll see what my answer is."

    So I did, mostly. I gave him the basics—that I'd managed to locate Axel's approximate whereabouts, gone there and extracted him, just ahead of Hammon and his hired guns— and then Axel and I made our way through a variety of means across the island to where I had secured my dinghy, then on to the sailboat, on which we escaped to New London. Leaving out all the illegalities made for a much sketchier story than I'd have wanted. He noticed.

    "On what basis can you assert that these men were attempting to kidnap the young man rather than simply trying to locate him on behalf of the family?"

    "Axel was hiding. When I found him, the last thing he wanted to do was go back to them."

    "Why?"

    I took a deep breath.

    "I don't know for sure," I said, truthfully. "But clearly there's extortion of some type involved. Oh, and by the way, you think it's a silly coincidence that a pair of highly skilled operatives got you locked up in your own jail? That you're only here because Trooper Poole got beat up?"

    He frowned at that, for obvious reasons.

    I'd been checking for Gwyneth every few minutes, and was happy to see her pull into the parking lot right at that moment. I told Kinuei not to go anywhere until I got back.

"Don't enjoy this too much," he said.

    I jogged down the hill to the parking lot and knocked on the window of her old Citroën. She rolled down the window through which she handed two heavy bags of provisions.

    "Here's the receipt," she said.

    I doubled the amount she'd paid out, folding the bills in such a way that it wouldn't be apparent until she paid closer attention. I didn't know whether she'd accept the commission or not, but I didn't want to spend the time debating it.

    "Are you going to become the Robin Hood of Fishers Island?" she asked. "Robbing from the über-rich and giving to the merely well-off?"

    I told her she might not be that far off.

    "Good," she said. "Make sure I'm on the receiving end."

    I waited for her to scoot away in the improbable little car, then hiked back up the hill to the barracks. I transferred the goods through a little door meant for the purpose. He opened two of the larger cans and dumped the contents on a paper plate. I let him eat until he was ready to talk again.

    "So why'd you come back here?" he asked through a mouthful of cold beef stew.

    "They're still out there searching for me and Axel. I think they'll assume we're still on the island, especially as the weather gets worse. When they discover he's gone, it'll be bad for the remaining Feys. But I have some time. If my hypothesis is correct."

    "You have a hypothesis? What is this, physics lab?"

    "Sort of," I said.

    "Are you going to tell me?"

    I shook my head.

    "It's just a guess. I need to play it out."

    "Then give me the shotgun," he said, putting his hand through the little door. "For my sake and yours."

    There wasn't much to do at that point but comply. And part of me took his words to heart. There's a reason why I

hate guns. They've been known to go off in ways that no one would have predicted, or preferred.

    I stuck it through the hole along with several boxes of shells.

    "You can keep the towel," I said. "Help with cleanup."

    He didn't know about the security guard's S&W .38, and didn't need to. I wasn't keen on completely disarming, dislike of guns or not.

    I asked him if there was anything else I could give him before I left. He shrugged.

    "My self-respect? Probably not."

    "Don't be too tough on yourself," I said. "Those two are world-class hard cases."