Impact (30 page)

“I’ve no choice. Because I think you may be right—that thing could be a weapon. The fate of the Earth might be at stake.”

Abbey nodded.

“This island’s as safe as any place for you now. Just lie low and I’ll be back in contact with you in five days or less. You’ll be okay?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

He turned and grasped her arms. “You’ll take me to the mainland this evening, at dusk, when the boat is less likely to be spotted.” He paused, murmured, “A weapon . . . that’s exactly what it is.”

64

Harry Burr parked his New Beetle in front of the Wand-o-Matic Laundromat and stepped out of the car. It was one of those shabby mini-malls with a dozen storefronts, half of them empty, no security, a hangout for teen punks. A good place to ditch a stolen car; no security, few shoppers, and lots of empty storefronts. It might have been weeks before someone finally noticed. It was Ford’s bad luck—and Burr’s good—that some dumb-ass kid doing donuts had clipped the truck.

He strolled around the parking lot, getting a feel for the place. The white pickup was gone, of course, hauled off. The question was, where had Ford and the girl gone from here? Thanks to the Web he had a pretty good idea of where to find out. The girl was from these parts and her father lived nearby. Burr figured he was as good a place as any to start.

He gave a little laugh and lit up an American Spirit, inhaling deeply. Things seemed to be falling his way after all.

He finished the cigarette and tossed it on the ground, got back in the Beetle. The town of Round Pond—what a jerkwater name!—could be found about twelve miles down the road, according to his GPS. He was pretty sure good old George Straw could tell him something useful about his daughter’s whereabouts.

The road to Round Pond wound this way and that through woods and past farms until a few glimpses of a harbor appeared on the right, along with a bunch of old white houses. As he pulled into a small farmhouse set back from the harbor, the GPS informed him, in a clipped British accent, that he had arrived at his destination. He parked behind a red pickup truck. Shoving the Desert Eagle into a briefcase, he exited the car and went up on the porch, rang the doorbell.

He heard heavy footfalls and soon the door opened. You could tell this was country, he thought, when the dumb-asses opened the door without even bothering to check who it was. Burr was surprised to find a white man standing at the door, a truculent-looking fellow with a weatherbeaten face and pale blue eyes, dressed in a checked shirt, suspenders, and jeans. Girl must’ve been adopted—or maybe it was a mixed marriage.

“What can I do for you?” he said, in a friendly way.

He held up his shield. “Mr. George Straw?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Lieutenant Moore of D.C. police, homicide division. I wonder if I could take up a minute of your time.”

The face shut down. “What’s it about, Officer?”

Burr liked that “officer” bit. It showed the man had respect for the law.

“It’s about your daughter, Abbey.”

The shut-down look vanished and Straw’s face betrayed the fear of a father for his child. Good. “What about my daughter? Is she okay?”

Burr adopted a deep, concerned tone. “May I come in?”

Straw stepped away from the door. He was already shaking. “Yes. Please.”

He followed Straw into the living room and took a seat, unbidden.

“My daughter, is she all right?” Straw asked again.

Instead of answering, Burr let an excruciating amount of time pass and then said: “Mr. Straw, what I have to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but I need your help. This is all strictly confidential, and you’ll soon understand why.”

Straw’s face had lost all its color. But he held his composure.

“I’m in charge of a case involving a serial killer who’s preyed on young women for years, mostly in the D.C. area but also in parts of New England. His name is Wyman Ford. He’s very polished. He’s good. He’s got a lot of money and dresses well.”

“Ford?
Wyman Ford
? My daughter just took a job with a man by that name!” He rose from his chair.

“I know that. Let me finish. What this particular perpetrator does is persuade young ladies to accept a job as his assistant. The employment is vague but involves some sort of government secrecy or classified work. He keeps them around for several weeks and then he kills them.”

“Good God, he’s got my daughter!”

“We believe she’s fine. She’s not in immediate danger. But we have to find her. And we have to do it quickly and quietly. When this killer has the slightest inkling someone’s on to him, he kills and disappears. It’s happened to me before. So we’ve got to be absolutely quiet and cool and move with exceeding care.”

“Oh my God, my
God
!” Straw paced the room, fists clenched, knuckles white. “That man gave her a job about a week ago. She went off to Washington. Then they came back and borrowed my boat. I’ll kill him, the bastard.”

Pay dirt
. “Borrowed your boat? Where did they go?”

“I don’t know! They took it and left me a note. I didn’t actually see her. Oh my God.” He clutched his head in his hands.

“May I see the note?”

Straw rushed into the kitchen and came back out with a piece of paper, handing it to Burr.

Dear Dad,

I don’t quite know how to write this but I’ve borrowed your boat. Again. I’m really sorry. I know it doesn’t sound good, but believe me it’s necessary. I can’t tell you where we’re going but I should be back in a week or two, I hope. I’ll be out of cell range but if I get a chance I’ll give you a call. I’m fine, everything’s fine, don’t worry. Please don’t tell anyone we’re on the boat. I’ll take good care of it.

Love,

Abbey

He read the note with a furrowed brow, placed it on the side table. “That’s him, all right. Do you have any guesses as to where they might have gone, or why?”

Straw’s face was contorted as he tried to speak. “North. She would have gone north. Fewer people, more islands. They have to be somewhat offshore, out in the islands, because she said they’ve got no cell reception. Close to shore the phones work.”

“But why? What are they doing with the boat?”

“God only knows—you probably have a better idea than me!”

Burr checked himself.

“Oh my God, I can’t lose my daughter!” His voice cracked. “I can’t! I already lost my wife—!” He made a choking sound, coughed, trembled violently.

Burr rose and grasped his arm. “Mr. Straw, you’ve got to get ahold of yourself.”

Straw nodded, swallowed.

“You’ve got to trust me that I know what I’m doing. Can you do that?”

Straw nodded dumbly.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to engage us another boat—a really good one. You’re going to captain it, and we’ll go out there and find her together.”

“Bullshit! We’ve got to call the Coast Guard, get some spotter planes in the air—”

“
Absolutely not
.”

He paused, letting Straw master himself.

“If our man gets even the
slightest
idea we’re looking for him, it’s over. He’ll see the Coast Guard coming a mile away, believe me, and the same goes for spotter planes flying overhead. He’s smart, he’s cunning, he’s always got his radar on. We can’t even risk telling the local police. They’re not equipped to handle this. We have a much better chance of finding them, just the two of us, with your knowledge of the coast and my knowledge of criminal behavior. When we do find them, that’s when we call in the cavalry. Big time. We won’t go in alone. But for now, it’s just you and me. You understand? And don’t worry about the cost—the government will pay.”

Straw nodded. The man was breathing fast. Amazing how people just about lost their minds when it came to their children’s safety. Burr was awfully glad he’d never had kids.

“All right,” said Burr, grasping his arm. “Let’s get going.”

Straw nodded, his face slick with sweat. “This is a small town,” he managed to say, “rumors go around fast. I better hire the boat while you stay out of sight. We don’t have a moment to lose.”

“You and I are on the same wavelength now, Mr. Straw,” said Burr. “Don’t worry: we’ll find your daughter, I promise.”

65

Harry Burr stood on the deck of the
Halcyon
, watching Straw at the helm, guiding the boat at full speed through the swell. Lacking time, they had had to rent a larger, slower boat than Burr wanted, but at least it had the advantage of being seaworthy. After leaving the dock at noon, they had followed weather reports over the VHF radio, broadcasting small-craft warnings about an approaching storm. Burr wasn’t sure whether a thirty-eight-foot Downeaster yacht like the
Halcyon
, powered by twin diesels, qualified as a small craft, but he wasn’t particularly eager to test the idea.

“Can’t make the boat go any faster, can you?”

“I’m already pushing the engine more than I should,” said Straw.

He raised a pair of binoculars for the millionth time and scanned the surrounding ocean and islands. Burr was surprised how many islands there were—dozens, maybe hundreds, not to mention rocks and reefs. Some of them were inhabited and a couple had commercial installations on them, but most were deserted. Burr shifted his gaze to the electronic chartplotter in the well-equipped pilothouse. Growing up in Greenwich, he’d spent a lot of time around boats and felt comfortable with them. Still, it had been a while. He carefully observed Straw at the helm so that he could be sure of operating the boat properly once the kill was over and he was heading back alone. The storm would give him a good excuse to explain the missing lobsterman.

“As soon as we round the tip of that island,” said Straw, “we’ll have a view across the northern reach of Muscongus Bay. Get out the binocs and be ready to look.”

“We’re passing a lot of islands here. How do you know they’re not in a cove somewhere?”

“We don’t. We search open water first, then come back looking into coves.”

“Makes sense.”

Straw was motivated, that was for sure. His hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white, his narrow eyes constantly darting around, seeking other boats. He looked on the verge of cracking.

“We still have plenty of time,” said Burr, trying to keep his voice calm. “Don’t worry. As long as they’re out on the water, he won’t strike. He’ll need her to operate the boat.”

“I know every harbor, cove, and gunkhole from here to Isle au Haut and I swear we’re going to search every one of ’em until we find her.”

“We’ll find her.”

“Damn straight we will.”

Burr plucked a pack from his pocket and shook out a cigarette. The man was becoming tiresome. “Mind if I smoke?”

Straw looked at him. His eyes were haggard, bloodshot. Poor fellow was thinking too much. “Smoke at the stern, away from the engine. Bring your binocs and keep looking.”

Burr went to the taffrail and lit up. They were rounding the point of the island and soon another vast expanse of ocean appeared to the northeast, dotted with islands. The late-afternoon sun shimmered in a golden swath across the blue water. There were several lobster boats moving to and fro, hauling their traps. He raised the binoculars and examined each one in turn.

None were the
Marea II
.

He inhaled again and wondered just what Ford and the girl were up to, why they had run to sea like this. Some kind of espionage? As usual, he didn’t know the real identity of his clients nor why they wanted the hard disk, which made it impossible to understand why Ford and the girl went from Brooklyn to Washington, stole a car, and drove to Maine and took a boat out on the water. All he knew was that Ford had a hard drive worth two hundred grand. And that was all he really needed to know.

66

Abbey pulled the
Marea II
up to the tiny floating dock at the Owls Head Harbor. Jackie hopped off and tied up. The harbor was deserted, a few boats at their moorings, gulls watching them from the tops of the pilings. The sun had just set and the sky was suffused with wispy orange clouds of the kind her father called mare’s tails, which signified bad weather. The tiny harbor was deserted, only half a dozen boats on their moorings.

Wyman Ford picked up his briefcase and stepped onto the creaking dock, smoothing down his rumpled suit and trying to comb his hair into place with his fingers.

“Forget it, you still look like you’re coming off a drunk,” said Abbey, with a laugh. “Are you going to steal another car?”

“I’m hoping that won’t be necessary. Which way is the town?”

“Just follow the road. Can’t miss it. You better get going, storm’s coming.”

“How do you know?”

She glanced up. “Sky.”

“Stay on the island until you hear back from me. If you haven’t heard anything in five days, it means I’ve been taken into custody. In that case, take the boat close enough to the mainland to get cell reception and call this number.” He handed her a piece of paper. “He’ll help you.” He paused. “I’ve decided to go public with this information.”

“The shit’ll really hit the fan if you do that.”

“It’s the only way. The world’s got to know.” Ford took Abbey’s shoulder in an affectionate grip, peering down at her from his massive frame, his unruly black hair sticking out every which way, his gray eyes steady. “Promise me you’ll stay on the island and lie low. Don’t go tooling around in the boat. You’ve got enough supplies to last you a week.”

“Will do.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Good luck, Abbey. You’ve been a great assistant. Sorry I got you mixed up in this.”

Abbey snorted. “No problem, I enjoy stealing cars and getting shot at.”

He turned and she watched him stride up the gangplank, walk up the pier, and onto the road. After a moment his tall angular figure disappeared around a bend, and she felt a certain odd and unexpected loneliness take hold.