I walked down and looked through the little window in the door. I could see a big cabin cruiser inside. It had to be at least a thirty-footer.
I tried the door. It was locked. The only other way in was the big overhead door leading out to the water. The door probably came down right to the surface, maybe with a couple of inches to spare. If I really wanted to, I thought, I could dive into the channel, swim underwater, and come up inside the boathouse. Yeah, sure, I could do that.
I took a quick look around, picked up a rock the size of a softball and broke the window. I reached inside and fumbled around with the doorknob. The door swung open.
The boat had been parked nose out. The lettering on the back read Ruth’s Revenge. I walked around the gangplanks on all three sides, looking her over. The boat was wrapped up tight, like it hadn’t been taken out in weeks. But of course that may have been a deliberate ruse. One other thing I did notice-either this boat was built to ride low in the water, or else it was holding a very heavy load.
As I unsnapped the cover on the starboard gunwale, I remembered another boat, about this size, owned by a man who was now very much dead. He had used it to smuggle high-end kitchen appliances into Canada without paying the tariffs. At the time, it had seemed like some major-league criminal activity to me. But if this boat here was holding what I thought it was, it would make the appliance scheme look like kid’s stuff.
When I had unsnapped enough buttons, I stepped down inside the boat. There was a little table on the rear deck with four chairs around it. There was an ashtray still overflowing with butts. A cooler filled with empty beer bottles. A short ladder led up to the top deck, but I wasn’t interested in going up there. Instead, I opened the door to the cabin and looked inside.
When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw the crates. They were stacked in the cabin, as many crates as you could possibly fit in there. I grabbed one and pulled it down, slid it back to the rear deck so I’d have a little more light. It was made of rough wood, about four feet long, two feet wide, two feet deep. Like a miniature coffin. I didn’t think I even had to open it, but I did anyway, just to confirm what I already knew.
I pulled off the top of the box, moved the loose packing material, and saw the dull gray metal inside.
One web, one spider. That’s the way it works. Or so I thought.
I thought I was caught in one web myself, the spider a man named Gray. I thought Natalie was in another web entirely, the spider a man named Laraque. Kneeling beside this crate, in this boat, inside this boathouse, on this peninsula fifty miles south of Paradise, I came to know, finally, that there was only one web after all. One web with two spiders on opposite ends.
All those Mounties and OPP’s and American ATF agents helping out on the task force…I wondered if any of them had any idea this was going on. That this was at least one major source for Laraque’s guns. A key piece to their puzzle was sitting right here in this lonely boathouse, in a pleasure boat seemingly abandoned for the summer.
Not that they could use it. I was sure Gray knew exactly what he was doing here. A boat that belonged to someone else, sitting in a boathouse across the street from his summerhouse. Purely a coincidence, he’d say. Without a hard link, they couldn’t lay a glove on him. Like Laraque, Gray had enough money and power to make himself untouchable.
In any case, I still didn’t believe Gray had anything to do with Natalie’s death. Not directly. She was no threat to his end of the web. No, everything was pointing in the other direction. More and more each day.
But now, instead of having to go find Laraque…I had a new idea.
I climbed out of the boat, left the shore and came back up to the house. I peered in one of the back windows, saw no signs of life whatsoever. I tried the back door. It was locked. Once again, a delicate lock-picking operation was called for, so I found another rock and broke the window on the door, reached in, and opened it. I went to the kitchen and started looking in the drawers. I knew there had to be another key here, somewhere.
It felt strange to be in this house, but it was better than the alternative. The last thing I wanted to do was to go back across the street, have that smell hit me again, maybe even have to go upstairs looking for the key. I went through every drawer, was about to try the next room, when I saw the hooks on the wall. They were right above a poster showing every species of fish in the Great Lakes. On one ring there were two keys attached to a float. I grabbed them and left.
I went back down to the boathouse, found the switch for the overhead door, and hit it. It was a like a big garage door opening, except instead of a driveway there was water. It was late afternoon now, and the low sunlight came streaming in as the door opened.
I untied the boat, took the cover off, got in and climbed up to the top deck. I put the key in and started it, remembering a second later that you’re supposed to let a boat air out for a while if it’s been in such a confined space. But what the hell. The engine came to life and nothing exploded. I inched the throttle forward and the boat started to move.
I kept it straight as it cleared the boathouse, then I turned the boat to the right, toward the open water. I knew how treacherous the channels were around here. With all the little islands, all the sudden shallow areas where you could so easily grind the propeller into the rocks…I was going to need some help.
I turned on the GPS. The screen looked blank at first, then I saw a line start to form, drawn from the top of the screen toward the center. At the bottom there were several sets of numbers. One pair had to be my latitude and longitude. The other number, it was getting smaller…twenty then fifteen then eight…
It’s the depth, you idiot! I looked out at the water, and even in the fog I could see the large rock jutting up past the surface. I swung the boat hard to the left. When I looked back at the screen, the line had taken a turn, as well. The depth crept back up over twenty feet.
It’s drawing my route, I thought, every inch of the way. But how’s that going to help me? Then I saw a thick band appear on the edge of the screen. It got closer and closer to the central line. As I looked closer, I could see that the band was actually a thick accumulation of many thin lines, woven together like a rope. It was a history of every route this boat had taken. As long as I stayed in the band, I’d be retracing a safe passage.
I let out a long breath. This definitely made my life easier, at least for a while. I watched the depth hover in the twenties as I passed one small island after another, the rocks and trees floating by in a fog that was getting thicker by the minute. How anyone could have ever found his way through this maze without help, I couldn’t even imagine.
At first, I was thinking I’d need to find a hiding place for the boat, a dead-end channel maybe. But that idea didn’t last long. I could hardly see where I was going, for one thing. Even if I found a spot I could get to, I’d have no idea if the boat was really hidden. Not to mention the fact that I’d have to find my way back to Vinnie’s truck.
The next idea was to find a secluded island, somehow get the crates off the boat, one by one, like a pirate hiding his treasure. Then take the boat back empty.
Another totally stupid idea, I thought. You’ll never get close enough to the shore. What are you going to do, swim back and forth with the crates on your back?
I kept going. It took me about thirty minutes to clear the last island. The depth started dropping quickly, until a few minutes later it was over a hundred feet to the bottom of Lake Huron. Nothing like Superior, which can go down over a thousand feet, but more than enough for what I was about to do. The final idea, the one I had in the back of my mind the whole time.
I cut the engine and let the boat drift. Then I started grabbing the crates from the cabin. One by one, I dragged them out to the rear deck. I wasn’t sure why I felt I needed to open them, whether it was some kind of morbid fascination, or maybe just a confirmation of exactly what I was sending to the bottom of the lake. The first few crates all contained handguns. In the faint glow of the boat’s running lights, it was hard to say exactly what kind of guns these were, but I was pretty sure I was seeing some Colt automatics, some Brownings, some Smith amp; Wessons. Good solid, concealable handguns, with the ammo packed right inside each box-from. 22 through. 380,. 45, nine-millimeter. Everything you needed to start your own little war.
Each gun hit the water with a muffled splash and disappeared in an instant. It was hard work throwing the guns overboard, dragging out the next crate, opening it. Eventually I got into the more exotic weapons, the machine pistols and the mini-assault rifles, all with several magazines apiece. Some of them looked like toys they were so compact, and I knew from experience they’d sound no louder than a sewing machine.
I had taken three slugs from a gun just like this one, I thought as I threw it over the side. I put a little
