Death Echo

“Beats waiting tables. I love being outside with boats.”

“Ready,” Mac called from the other side of the yacht.

“Coming on,” the dockhand said as she flipped a lever on one of the pumps. The dial began to spin, fast.

Another smaller yacht nosed in behind Blackbird. The dockhand went quickly to catch the lines.

Emma watched the dial on the fuel pump for a time. She was just reaching for the shutoff lever when the dockhand appeared, turned off the pump, and went back to feeding hose to the second boat.

“One hundred,” Emma called to Mac.

Moments later he appeared with the nozzle and heavy hose trailing. “New job?” he asked Emma.

The dockhand teleported into place, took the nozzle, then began dragging hose back and coiling it out of the way.

“Just a helping hand,” Emma said. “Poor kid has her work cut out for her.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans. “Permission to come aboard?”

“I’m on a short clock, but I can spare a few minutes.” He called out to the dockhand. “Go ahead and take care of the other boat. I can wait for the fuel ticket.”

She waved and looked grateful. The other customers were fishermen, eager to get out on the water.

Short clock.

Emma noted the military phrase as she headed for the stern of the boat. She grabbed the yacht’s stainless- steel rail, felt the grainy residue of salt spray, and lowered herself to the swim step. Her weight was nothing compared to that of Blackbird; the boat didn’t bounce or jerk as it accepted her.

Yet she sensed immediately the difference between dock and deck. Blackbird was alive with subtle motion.

Years peeled away and she was ten again, fishing with her father on the Great Lakes. She shook it off and concentrated on the mission.

“You aren’t staying in the marina?” she asked Mac.

He’d already decided to tell her the truth, because she could easily find it out anyway. Nothing like appearing helpful to catch someone off guard.

“I’m a transit captain,” he said, waving her toward the steps leading up to the deck. “I’m being paid to deliver this boat to the commissioning yard in Rosario.”

She walked onto the deck and looked around. “What’s a commissioning yard?”

“The hull and most of the interior of the boat is built in Shanghai. The navigation electronics, water maker, satellite linked chart plotter, TVs, radar, computer uplink, speakers, dishwasher, washer-dryer, stove, microwave, refrigerator, freezer, CD, DVD, and all the other expensive toys are added in the commissioning yard.”

She glanced at him. “So what kind of navigation system are you using to get to Rosario?”

“Paper charts and experience.”

He gestured her into the main salon.

“How long will the final work take?” she asked, looking around at the covered furniture-and the open panel on the breakers.

He shrugged. “Depends on how jammed up the commissioning yard is. Why?”

Emma stuck to the role she had developed over the last year on her St. Kilda assignment. “Have you ever worked for someone really, really, really rich?”

“No.”

“That kind of money makes people impatient,” she said. “My client wants a yacht like Blackbird and he doesn’t want to wait a year or more for it. That’s how long the list is. A year, minimum, no matter what kind of money you have.”

“So he’s going to make the owner an offer he can’t refuse?”

She rolled her eyes. “Nothing that physical. Just a lot of green. Bales of it.”

Mac decided it was barely possible that her story was true. “Nice finder’s fee for you?”

“You bet.” She wandered toward the open panel. “The boats I’ve handled have been from one to eight million.”

“Relatively modest, for the kind of wealth you say your employer has.”

“He has five other boats,” Emma said, running her hand over the beautiful teak wheel. The cover story came easily to her lips. All those years of lying for a living, people dying, everybody lying, and no one gave a damn. “His wife saw a picture of a boat like Blackbird in a yachting magazine and decided that she had to have it. Yesterday.”

“Why?”

“Blackbird is small enough for the two of them to handle alone. Roomy enough for a captain if she changes her mind. And luxurious to the last full stop. You can get bigger boats for the money, but you can’t get better.”

Emma crouched down, rubbed her hand over the glorious teak, and glanced casually at the electronics panel.

The scratch was right where it should be, which meant Blackbird’s twin was still missing.

Good news or bad?

Both, probably. Luck seems to go that way.

Mac said nothing while Emma straightened and moved on to the galley. He decided he could get used to watching her.

“I doubt that Blackbird would go for much more than two, maybe three million after she’s commissioned,” he said. “Depends on the electronic toys and the demand in the marketplace.”

“And on how stubborn the present owner is about selling.” She shrugged, then faced Mac. Nice wasn’t getting the job done. Time for something else. “Price isn’t my problem. Getting the boat is. So just who owns Blackbird and how do I get hold of him? Make my life easy and I’ll see that you get paid for your time. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Sell your time?”

Her eyes were clear, green, patient, cool.

Stubborn.

Mac’s smile was thin. He knew all about stubborn. He saw it in his mirror every morning. The razor edge of her tongue didn’t bother him. He’d been insulted a lot worse for a lot less reason.

But it meant that he didn’t have to play the amiable and easy game any longer.

“Yeah, that’s what I do,” he said, smiling. “Sell my time.”

This smile was different. It had Emma wishing the gun in her backpack was in her hand.

“How much time do you have on your clock?” she asked.

Blackbird moved restlessly, responding to a gust of wind. Mac didn’t have to look away from Emma to know that the afternoon westerlies had strengthened. The overcast was now a faint diamond haze.

Time to get going.

“I’m delivering the boat to Blue Water Marine Group,” Mac said. “Today.”

“In Seattle?”

“Rosario. San Juan Islands.”

That could be checked. And would be.

“Is Blue Water Marine Group a broker?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

Emma throttled a flash of impatience. “Do they own this boat?” He shrugged.

“Do you have their telephone number?” she pressed.

“I use the VHF. That’s a radio.”

She told herself that she didn’t see a gleam of amusement in his nearly black eyes, but she didn’t believe it. She hoped he couldn’t see the gleam of temper in hers. She felt like a dumb trout rising for pieces of indigestible metal.

“I’d like to go with you to see how Blackbird rides,” she said evenly.

“I don’t want to sell my boss a pig.”