Seawitch

“Up in the San Juans? That’s a full day or more, depending on tide and weather.”

“Can you still take us?”

“Not for six hours.”

Solis and I frowned. Quinton made a face. “The tide’s the wrong way around, isn’t it?”

Zantree nodded. “Coming in. We’d be against it all the way up to Port Townsend. Barely make headway, even on an iron wind off twin Cummins. Better to go out with the next tide and hitch a ride on the outgoing swell. Take about the same time, give or take a couple of hours.” He came closer and stuck his head in the truck to look at me. “You go get a doctor to look at you and if he says you’re seaworthy, get your gear and be back here by seven tonight. We’ll cast off at eight when the tide turns. OK?” He was grinning like his pirate self again.

Solis frowned in concern. “I must come, too. And there will be some paperwork. Can you accommodate all three of us?” I guessed Quinton had already made it clear he was going to stick to me like gum on a sneaker sole.

Zantree looked at the lot of us and grinned wider. “Hell, we raised three boys on that boat. I got room for all of you. And I’m not afraid of a little paperwork. Bring it on, and bring your woolies, too—it’s cold as a witch’s tit out there at night. Oops! Pardon me, Ms. Blaine.”

I shook it off. “Seven. See you then.”

Zantree saluted and trotted off, whistling happily.

I glanced at the men and they returned blinking expressions, as if they’d been swept up in a twister and deposited again without harm in the middle of Oz. “We have a timetable,” I reminded them.

“Right,” Quinton said, crawling out of the rear and getting into the front seat of my Rover. He turned his head to Solis. “Back here at seven?”

“D dock,” the sergeant corrected. “I shall see you both there.”

* * *

We wasted some time at my doctor’s office because Quinton insisted. Dr. Skelleher confirmed I had a cracked rib and asked if I wanted an X-ray. I said no, since we knew what it was and taking its picture just wasted time. He said no one tapes up ribs anymore, since it doesn’t help and only leads to shallow breathing and pneumonia, which made me stick out a sarcastic tongue at Quinton. I should take it easy, the good doctor continued, have a large and potentially black-market lucrative pill—or smoke some tobacco alternative, as he put it—if the pain was too much to stand, and otherwise come back if I started spitting up blood or had more-than- ordinary difficulty breathing. “Ordinary difficulty” made me laugh, which hurt a lot, but I didn’t mind too much. Skelly is weird and probably skirting legality and the medical board, but he gets the job done—and he’d referred me to Ben and Mara Danziger long ago, which probably saved my sanity and my life. I gave Quinton the “I told you so” face as we left and headed back to my place to pack up some clothes and make sure the ferret had enough food and water for a couple of days. We also left a message with my neighbor, to cover any possibility of the trip lasting longer. Then I took a nap while Quinton searched maps online for the latitude and longitude I’d cribbed from Seawitch’s log book.

I woke to the sound of whispers; for once they didn’t come from ghosts but from living people in my kitchen. It’s a bad idea to discuss secrets in a kitchen or bathroom; there’s not much cushy furniture or swags of curtains to absorb voices and the walls and floors are usually hard and slick, reflecting sound like crazy for any sharp-eared eavesdropper like me to hear without much effort. I lay on my right side and listened for a minute, making no effort yet to get up and see who was talking to Quinton in such an urgent and demanding murmur. It was a voice washed clean of accent and deliberately modulated so the consonants were softened and the words mushy.

“. . . enough time to—” Quinton was objecting in a low voice.

“You’re done.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Again? Aren’t you tired of that fiction yet?”

It didn’t sound like my neighbor Rick or any of our small number of mutual acquaintances. As I listened, I thought it was a voice and tone deliberately hard to understand at a distance. With that and Quinton’s recent worries in mind, I had a good idea who it had to be, even though I’d never seen or heard the man before that I knew of. I eased out of the bed, breathing carefully and quietly through my nose even when I had to bend and twist, which sent a kick of pain through my chest and back. Maybe pneumonia wouldn’t have been so bad. . . .

On my bare feet I padded carefully down the short hall to the living room, making sure I was between the kitchen and the condo’s main door. I didn’t want our guest to bolt until I was ready to let him. I needed a good look first.

The man had dark brown hair without a hint of red or blond or even gray in it. I could see only his back—a decidedly well-muscled back above an athlete’s narrow hips under the dark rugby jersey and jeans he wore. Something in his stance suggested he was older than Quinton. He was a touch shorter, too, so my boyfriend saw me just fine over the man’s head. Quinton tried not to change his expression, but his gaze had flickered to me and that gave us away. The other man spun around, remarkably lithe, and spat out a swearword as he launched himself at me.

Quinton lunged after him. “No!”

James Purlis hit me at a run. It was more of a glancing block as he passed, meant to shove me out of his way, and the blow fell on my right side, not my injured left, but I still buckled and fell from the sharp eruption of pain. He was out the door and gone before I could struggle back to my feet.

Quinton didn’t chase after him. He stopped at the open door and gazed out for a moment, then returned to help me up.

“Nice guy, your dad,” I said, coughing a bit on my ragged breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Then he gave me a second take. “How did you know he was my dad?”

“He looks like you.”

“He does not,” Quinton shot back, indignant.

I tried not to laugh, because it hurt, but I sniggered a bit, anyway. “He does. And who else . . . would it be? Sneaking in. Shoving me. Threatening and belittling you. Had to be him.”

Quinton was uncomfortable and he squirmed a bit under my gaze, keeping his eyes on the floor. “I don’t look like him,” he muttered as he helped me into a chair.

“I said he looks like you,” I replied. “Same beard. Bet he’s been letting his hair grow lately. Dyed it recently, too. Not the look I imagined for him.”

“Oh? How’d you picture good old James the First?”

“Bigger. Conservative. Dramatically silver-haired. Mean.”

“Well, that part’s accurate. He’s a prick.”

“Really? He seemed like such a nice guy.”

Quinton gave me a Bronx cheer. “Funny, Blaine.”

“What did he want?”

“He wants me back in the business, like I told you, though he tried to play the family card to get me there. He says my mother is upset about my untimely demise.”

“Awww, how sweet. Did he really think that was going to work?”

“No. The lies and manipulation were just a fun little side trip before he tries to use you for leverage against me next. Mom knows I’m fine. And I’m not going back.”

“Does he know we’re leaving town for a few days? Is that why he came?”

“He didn’t know. He assumed based on operational protocol that I’d run soon. I guess he didn’t want to lose me again. He doesn’t know how fast I can move.”

I gazed at him, breathing in shallow sips, and felt both our mixed-up feelings: fear and anger and desperation and hope all tangling and knotting between us. “Are you planning to keep going? To Canada? It’s not far from the strait once we’re up there. . . .” I didn’t want him to say yes but I’d back him if he did.

He snorted half a laugh and returned an incredulous grin. “No! To hell with him.”

The relief was like cool water pouring over me. “Good. Because . . . Chaos would be heartbroken . . . if you left.”

He laughed out loud this time. Then he crouched next to me and put his arms around my shoulders gingerly. “I’d miss her, too. But I’d miss you more.”

“You are so predictable.”