Death Echo

side. Miles away, two small white boats raced along the shore.

“But we’re a big girl, right?” she asked, lightly turning the wheel, anticipating the next action of boat and water.

“You sure are.” He popped a chocolate cookie into his mouth.

Blackbird rose to meet the choppy waves, slid through, and lined up for another round of whatever the strait delivered.

“Good,” he said simply. “You’re a natural on water.”

She looked pleased. “Thanks. Eat more cookies. It improves your sweet talk.”

“I’m not sweet-talking. People can learn navigation and rules, but a feel for the water can’t be taught. It’s there or it isn’t.”

“Like languages.”

“Or shooting.” He crunched into another cookie.

“About that sweet talk…”

“I’m practicing,” he said. “See? I’m eating cookies.”

“And I’m thinking it would take more than cookies to sweeten your tongue.”

“If we were on calm water, I’d prove how wrong you are.”

She looked at him, knew what he meant, thought about how good he’d felt when she petted him in her arm- candy mode. She took a breath and reminded both of them, “We’re not on calm water. Damn it.”

Then she shut up and concentrated on handling the boat instead of its captain.

43

DAY FOUR

STRAIT OF GEORGIA

2:28 P.M.

Lina felt the increasing strength of wind in the action of the water. A meter high and occasionally higher, the steep-sided, unevenly spaced waves broke over whichever part of the Redhead II was handy. Even seated, with the wheel to hang on to, the open cockpit of the boat was an uncomfortable ride.

Wet, too, despite the cloudless sky.

Her only consolation was that Demidov had to be more miserable than she was. He wore the cheap slickers she used for clients who didn’t bring their own. She was in a medium weight Mustang suit and wore warm, waterproof boots. He didn’t. She was accustomed to being on the water. He wasn’t.

Never know it from looking at him, she thought sourly.

Driving in circles waiting for Demidov to do something was even more boring than trolling in circles waiting for a salmon to bite.

“Where are they?” she finally asked him.

Despite her intentions, her voice came out sharp, demanding.

Demidov glanced at the small, bright screen of the cell phone. “Head five degrees more to the southeast.”

She looked at the compass, then at water.

“I’ll have to tack back and forth on that heading,” she said, “or I’ll take on too much water over the stern. My boat isn’t designed for following seas.”

“Just get us five degrees to the southeast.”

When Lina put the boat into a turn, she made certain he was the one who got whitewashed by the waves. A petty triumph, but with Demidov, she took what victories she could.

Why wasn’t he murdered? So many others were.

But Taras Demidov was still alive. She was stuck with the devil himself until he had no more use for her.

Rather distantly, Lina hoped he left her alive when she no longer served a purpose.

Kill him yourself. Shove him overboard and leave him for the crabs.

She rejected the thought almost as soon as it came. Even in rough water, scanning the strait through binoculars, Demidov had the balance and predatory awareness of a cat. It was unnatural. Unnerving.

If anyone went overboard, it would be her.

It infuriated Lina that she had grown older while he had grown more dangerous, but she wasn’t stupid enough to act on her emotions. In that, at least, she was his equal.

“That’s far enough,” Demidov said abruptly. “Turn off the big outboards and get on the little one.”

“Are you talking about the kicker?”

“Is that the small engine?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then do it.”

Lina bit back her objections. Her gear would keep her dry from the neck down-she hated hats and only wore them when the temperatures dropped below freezing. If she got a saltwater face wash and cold water down her back today, she’d still be more comfortable than the devil who had commandeered her boat.

She cut the big outboards and staggered back to the stern, thrown off-balance by the choppy, unpredictable waves. Not for the first time, she wished she’d replaced the little kicker with a bigger one that had an electronic starter. But she hadn’t. She would pay for that now.

As she reached for the pull rope to start the kicker, water slammed into the boat and spray slapped across her face. She yanked the starter rope once, and again, then again. On the fourth try the small outboard shuddered, belched a cloud of unburned gas and oil that wind swept back into the boat, and died.

Demidov looked sharply at her.

She ignored him and yanked on the starter rope again. This time the engine not only caught, it held. Bracing herself on the stern gunwale, she steered Redhead II with the kicker.

It wasn’t easy, but it could be done.

Barely.

Rather savagely she hoped that Demidov appreciated the uneven, sloppy, stomach-churning ride.

At least it isn’t raining, she thought. It shouldn’t take long for Blackbird to spot us.

44

DAY FOUR

STRAIT OF GEORGIA

2:31 P.M.

Emma was comfortable enough with the wind and water that she had hopped up into the pilot’s seat behind the wheel. More a loveseat than a simple chair, the cushion was big enough for two to use. Once she sat down, the riding-a-horse analogy was even more apt. She let the motion of the boat go through her spine in an invisible wave.

Mac settled on the padded bench seat next to her, close enough for her to feel his warmth. She liked that almost as much as the fact that both of them were relaxed with the silence and one another.

The multitude of pleasure boats that had cluttered the water near Nanaimo had disappeared. The few boats she could see were well off in the distance, much closer to land, leaving white streaks on the water as they slammed from wave-top to wave-top in a run for whatever safe anchorage was within reach.

“How often do they change the weather report?” Emma finally asked.

“Depends.”