Death Echo

“Gotcha. Dad’s line just opened. If he has any questions, he’ll call in the next two minutes.”

The connection ended with an abruptness that reminded her of Faroe all over again.

“Faroe’s son is running the boat’s name for us,” Emma told Mac.

“He any good?”

She stared at him, then realized he’d been part of St. Kilda for only a few days. “He’s as good as our researchers. And that means really good.”

All Mac said was, “Get your camera and be ready to shoot through the window. If that isn’t close enough, show yourself. They might not like it, but they can hardly object. If they’re legitimate.”

Emma went to the canvas purse she had brought aboard. While Mac cautiously maneuvered closer to the other boat-and then closer still, until Emma held her breath-she turned on her camera. She felt like a witness watching two trains slide toward collision.

Silently she hoped Mac was as good as she thought he was. Otherwise it was going to get ugly for the little boat.

Not to mention unhappy for Blackbird and its crew.

She stood in mid-cabin and focused through the least spray-washed window she could find. The figure of a woman braced next to the small outboard jumped and jittered in the focus.

Emma switched to the electronic motor drive, hoped her battery could take the hit, and did her best to keep one or another of the two people in the field of focus. The clicking sound that told images were being taken came so close together it was like a single ripple.

She switched off motor drive, braced her feet farther apart, and reviewed the photos. No single one was good, but there were enough separate parts in focus with all the shots that a good ID program should be able to work its electronic miracle among St. Kilda’s huge databases.

“I’m sending the jpgs,” she said.

“Make it fast. I may need you on deck.”

“Making it fast, Captain, sir!” she shot back.

He grinned.

With practiced motions she plugged her camera into her computer, created a new file, downloaded the photos, and sent them MOST URGENT to St. Kilda. In the background she heard Mac try-and fail- to raise the Redhead II.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, closing up the computer and putting away the camera.

“They’re not answering.”

“Maybe the electronic problem took out their radio.”

Mac made a sound that could have meant anything. “You have your good deck shoes on?”

“Yes.”

“See if you can shout across to Redhead II.” A wave sprayed against the port windows. “Unless you’d rather sit here holding station with Blackbird?”

She looked at the scant yards separating the gunwales of the two boats and said, “No, thanks. It’s all yours.”

“You’ll need a jacket.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom.”

Mac shut up and concentrated on keeping enough, but not too much, separation with the other boat. He could have used the joystick. Probably should have. He just preferred the old-fashioned way. New toys meant new problems as well as new solutions. For now, he’d take the devil he knew.

He opened the pilot door to let Emma out. The outside air was beyond fresh and bracing. It was cold. The damp edge of salt spray didn’t help.

Emma ignored the temperature. She braced herself on the railing, remembered her arm-candy role, and called out, “What’s up with your radio?”

The woman steering with the kicker said nothing, simply looked at her companion. The man stepped up to the rail of the Redhead II. For the first time Emma got a clear look at his whole face.

I’ve seen him before, she thought. Or someone who looks a lot like him. Mug shots? Long-distance surveillance?

“What I have to say to you is too sensitive to be put out over a public radio,” he said.

At first Emma thought she hadn’t heard correctly. Then she knew she had.

Mac had really good instincts.

“What?” she yelled.

“Follow me to calmer water. There we will discuss Shurik Temuri, Stan Amanar, Bob Lovich, and the extreme danger you are in.”

She gave Mac a do-you-get-this-dude look through the open cabin door.

He caught the other captain’s eye and made a wind-it-up motion with his hand.

The woman staggered from the kicker to the cockpit and fired up the big outboards.

Mac gave Redhead II plenty of room before he followed.

Emma came back into the cabin. “It’s not like we have a whole lot of choice. Shurik Temuri is someone we have to know more about.”

“Yeah. An opportunity we can’t refuse.”

Mac hoped they were doing the right thing. Because the wrong thing was a fast way to die.

45

DAY FOUR

ROSARIO

3:04 P.M.

Good work, Lane,” Faroe said over the phone. “Thanks.”

“I told you I’d be more useful if I-”

“Get a degree,” Faroe cut in. “Your mother and I both agree on that. Emphatically.”

Lane groaned or growled. It was hard to be certain.

“I’ll let you know if I find anything else useful,” Lane said.

Grumbled, actually.

Faroe was glad he wasn’t on visual. He didn’t have to hide his smile. He’d felt just like Lane when he was young.

And Faroe was determined that Lane wouldn’t make the same mistakes his daddy had.

“Just don’t tell Steele that I whispered through a couple of his databases,” Lane added.

Faroe came to a point. “You did what?”

“I’ll make a patch before class tomorrow. When I give it to Dwayne, I’ll tell Steele. No one will be able to use that route again.”

“I’m impressed. Frightened, actually.”

Lane snickered. “I had help.”

“Your ‘swarming’ buddies?”

“One of them. She’s uber.”

Faroe hesitated, but couldn’t help saying, “She’d damn well better be uber quiet.”

“I didn’t tell her anything that would point to St. Kilda Consulting. We give each other puzzles all the time, then race to see who gets there first, and how. If it will make Steele feel any better, she found the same way in that I did. Usually there are two or three paths, at least.”

“You’ll be the first to know Steele’s mood. Get that patch made yesterday and talk to him yourself.”

Faroe hung up and rubbed his eyes. “This ‘vacation’ is going to be the death of me.”

“What now?” Grace shut Annalise’s bedroom door behind her and hoped their cranky daughter would take a nap. Her sleep schedule was all over the place.