“I agree.” West snapped back. “I just… I just don’t understand, that’s all.”
“Look,” Black tried changing his tone. “Remember the psych analysis we had done? Said the bomber or bombers was most likely interested in environmental causes, and of above average intelligence? This kid is at college a year early. Everything fits. You might not like it, but it fits.”
“I said yes OK? Phone it in. Get a team there to pick him up.” West stopped suddenly.
“What?”
“Well if he’s here, setting bombs on Lornea Island, then he isn’t going to be there, is he?” Her eyes widened as her mind started working. “Get onto the port, the ferry companies. We need to stop him if he tries to leave the island.”
Two hours later and a report came through. Two cars had gone to pick up Billy Wheatley at the address given by his father, Sam Wheatley. And while he was registered to that address, and his housemates confirmed he did live there, he was away at the time, and none of them had seen him for a couple of days. Black snapped down the phone, inside the Newlea Police station where they were now waiting.
“They say where he was going?”
“No. They didn’t know. Said he was a bit of a loner. Didn’t tell them where he went.”
Black formed his hand into a fist and squeezed. He looked at West. He began pacing up and down.
“OK.” West said. She looked resigned to something she didn’t want to do.
“We need to put out a public alert. We need to pick him up, wherever he is.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The alert went out as a photograph of Billy Wheatley, taken from records the police already kept – along with a plea for anyone who had seen him to contact a hotline without delay. The number actually reached the switchboard in Newlea police station, in the center of the island, but any credible sightings would be routed immediately to the two FBI agents. For their part, they went to have a very late lunch, West seeking out a diner she vaguely remembered from her earlier stay in the town.
But though they got there, and even ordered food, they never got to eat it. Just as the waitress had left their table Black’s cell phone went. He barked his name, then listened for a moment, then he covered the microphone and relayed the information to West.
“We’ve found him. Ferry company says he drove onto the afternoon sailing.”
“Shit. Has it sailed yet?”
Black asked the question. His face hardened at the answer.
“It’s gone. An hour ago. But it hasn’t docked yet. The boat’s still sailing. He’s on the ferry now.”
West looked pained. “When’s it due in?”
“Forty minutes.” They stared at each other for a long moment.
“Can we get that plane again?” Black asked, not entirely seriously.
“I’ll try.” West pulled out her cellphone and started dialing. At the same time she kept talking. “Phone the ferry company back, get them to slow the boat down – say they’ve got engine trouble, say they’re sinking. Anything to slow them down. I’ll get us there.”
Thirty minutes later they were at the island’s small airfield, and by a combination of offering a large sum of FBI budget, and sheer luck, had managed to commandeer a helicopter and a rather elderly looking pilot, who had taken a painfully long time to climb into his flight suit, and wipe the condensation from the inside of the chopper’s windshield. But he was now finally pouring power into the aircraft’s main engines. They lifted off, circled once – needlessly, as far as West could tell – and then finally started moving eastwards towards the sea, and the mainland beyond. They flew low over the water, and West spent the entire flight scanning below them for the ferry, while Black coordinated the welcome committee on the ground.
“We can land in the port,” Black shouted at the pilot, as the sprawl of Boston began to fill the view in front of them. “They’ve cleared space.” He turned, and continued only to West, having to shout loud to be heard above the noise of the motor.
“We’ve got four agents heading there now. They’re minutes away.”
“Has the boat docked?”
“I can’t get them on the phone.” He checked his watch. “It was due in ten minutes ago.”
They both scanned the water below them, looking cold and grey in the winter light.
“There!” West said, as they rapidly closed upon the land, and the much larger docks here on the mainland. A small car ferry was turning around, almost at its berth now, only minutes away from docking.
“Shit.” Black said. “We’re not going to make it.”
“We better.” West replied.
They landed on the harbor-side, and almost before the two agents had climbed out, the pilot saluted, and then lifted off again. But neither West nor Black even saw him as they were busy bundling into two black saloon cars that drove them to where the ferry was now edging sideways into its berth.
From ground level it didn’t look so small. It was the type with a bow that lifted up to allow cars to drive on board. West remembered it from her earlier trip to the island, years before. She directed one pair of agents to wait by the foot passenger exit, a gangway that was hoisted onto the ship as it was tethered to the dockside. West and Black, and the other pair of agents, waited on either side of the off-ramp at the bow, ready to stop each car as it drove off. With a series of shouts and clangs, the ship settled into her berth, and the bow was raised. Black went to work with the ferry dockhands, giving them instructions to allow the vehicles out slowly, one by one. As they exited the ferry, expecting to drive out of the port and away, they were instead stopped by the FBI agents, who checked the license plates, examined the faces of the passengers, and searched to make sure Wheatley hadn’t
