highway. Soulmates forever, he said to himself. After that, he told her what had transpired in her absence, filling in the details that Driggs had been unable to provide.
It was almost sunrise when they reached Mackerel Cove on Bailey Island in Casco Bay, ten miles northeast of Portland as the gull flies, forty miles on narrow roads by car. Wilson backed the Range Rover under the limbs of a large pine tree so it wouldn’t attract undue attention. He removed the two handguns and placed them in his bag.
Thankfully, there was a beehive of activity and plenty of chatter on the pier as local lobstermen gassed up their boats, hauled supplies on board, and gulped down their morning coffee. Wilson had worked on Bailey Island as a lobsterman’s apprentice for a couple of weeks one summer during college, and had returned on occasion to visit. The familiarity helped. As they walked into the Mackerel Cove Marina Store, Wilson asked for the owner, Mo Bobicki.
Mo was a heavyset blonde-haired woman who ran her marina store and restaurant with tender loving care. She was also a woman who told you exactly what was on her mind.
“Wilson? You’re early this year,” she said as she stepped around the corner from the restaurant. “We don’t usually see you until July or August. What’s the occasion?”
“You might call it an early escape from the insanity down south,” Wilson said, smiling at Emily. He introduced Emily and then reminisced briefly about the last time he stayed at the Marina.
“You know the loft’s not available until after May 1st,” Mo said with a wry smile on her face. “The only reason we’re open at all is the unusually warm weather this season. Lobstering started early this year.”
“Are you willing to make an exception for a loyal customer?” Wilson asked, expecting she’d say yes. Maintaining the friendly chitchat was draining him of what little energy he had left. He could imagine how Emily felt after her ordeal. But he didn’t want Mo to see any of the fatigue or turmoil inside them.
“It hasn’t been cleaned. We only have a limited staff.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of everything,” Emily said, apparently sensing Wilson’s need for help.
“You remember how to start the wood burning stove?”
Wilson nodded.
“Okay. It’s open,” she said, noticeably anxious to return to other duties. “I’ll have someone come up later with fresh towels and linens.”
58
Wilson — Bailey Island, ME
Perched above the marina store and restaurant, the loft’s three walls of windows offered a panoramic view of everything from the single highway onto the island, to the lobster boats in the bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond the cove. We’ll be safe here, Wilson thought.
Emily went to the bathroom to take a shower, while Wilson sat down at the small round table overlooking the pier to call Hap Greene. He punched in the numbers on the cell phone he’d taken from the Range Rover. He’d tried Hap’s emergency number earlier, but there’d been no answer. This time he was relieved to hear Hap’s voice. “It’s Wilson.”
“Are you okay?” Hap asked.
“We’re fine. What about our families?”
“Everyone’s safe. Emily’s parents and her three sisters are under protective surveillance on Martha’s Vineyard. We flew her sisters and their families in last night.”
“What happened at the apartment?” Wilson asked.
“Tate and his partners had an informant inside the FBI. An agent named Switzer. He’s in custody, but there’s bound to be others.”
“Is Driggs okay?”
“Superficial wound to the side of his head, but he’s fine.”
“What about Tate and the others?”
“Kamin blew himself to pieces with plastic explosive in his Manhattan apartment. Malouf and Tennyson are in custody,” Hap said, pausing a moment. “Tate and Swatling have disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Wilson said loud enough for Emily to hear him from the bathroom.
“Unfortunately,” Hap said quietly.
“Things are under control, right?”
“We weren’t in charge there, but we are here.”
“Now what?”
“Arrests of the CEOs and their facilitators of vice have begun and will continue throughout the day, as fast as the federal judges can issue warrants. Everything’s happening a day earlier than planned. The FBI’s trying to keep a lid on the press until tomorrow morning.”
Suddenly, Wilson realized that Hap hadn’t asked him where he was. Then it dawned on him. “You’re tracking us, aren’t you?”
“Yes. You’re somewhere on the coast, northeast of Portland, Maine. We’ve been tracking the Range Rover. I have three of my people on their way to you right now. They should be there in an hour.”
There was silence on Wilson’s end as alternate reactions dashed through his mind. Then he asked, “What makes you think Tate hasn’t compromised one of your guys? Or that the men you sent aren’t being tracked?”
“They’re the best I have,” Hap said.
“Not good enough, Hap. We won’t be here when they arrive. Just make sure my family’s safe. Tell Kohl and Johns the same thing.”
“Wilson…”
Wilson pushed the end button before Hap could finish.
“You remember Boothbay Harbor, don’t you?” Wilson asked as he entered the bathroom. They’d hung out there over a long weekend during their college days.
“How could I forget?” Emily said, smiling playfully as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her.
It was great to see her smiling and with only a towel around her, but they didn’t have much time. “Believe me, I wish we could take advantage of this moment, but the FBI’s been compromised. And they’re tracking the Range Rover.”
“Who’s tracking it?” Emily asked, her eyes suddenly on fire.
“Hap is, but the FBI knows everything he’s doing. He has three men on their way to protect us. But given the circumstances, I don’t think it’s in our best interest to stay around waiting for them.”
“I agree,” Emily said.
“I’m going to drive the Range Rover to Boothbay Harbor. The Marina has a lobster boat. Hopefully it’s available. If not, I’ll pay double a day’s catch to one of these guys,” Wilson said, pointing to the hubbub on the pier. “Can you take the boat to Boothbay and pick me up at the main pier downtown?”
“Of course. Will the emergency tires get you there?” Emily asked, knowing that the tires were full of bullet holes.
“The vehicle computer says we’ve got forty miles left. That’ll do.”
“Why don’t we drive together and rent a boat there?” Emily asked as she quickly dressed.
“As much as I hate the idea of being separated from you again, getting a boat in Boothbay could take time we don’t have. This way, I’ll ditch the Range Rover in town and find cover somewhere near the main pier. You can drop anchor offshore until you see me. Then we can get lost anywhere,” Wilson said insistently. He wasn’t going to put her in harm’s way again.
“I’m not crazy about you driving to Boothbay by yourself,” she said with a frown, running her fingers through her wet hair.
“I don’t think we have a choice. We’ll only be safe once we get rid of the Range Rover,” he said, putting his arm around her and walking to the door. “This way, you won’t be put in harm’s way again, and they won’t try to
