to the mainland, we can get to Mackinac Island. Look, you could almost walk underwater to it. From there we can take the ferry to either side of the straits to help confuse our trail.' Pleased, I tucked a curl out of my way.
Jenks rose, setting the book next to me on the bed. 'It has a lot of ifs.'
'It's one big if,' I admitted. 'But we don't have time for a week's worth of recon, and if we start asking around, they're going to know we're here. It's our best way to get on the island undetected. And I'd rather be out of sight underwater making my escape than on top of the water where they can follow us. We can come up anywhere on shore and disappear.'
Jenks snorted. 'How very James Bond of you. What if Nick's beat up so bad he can't swim?'
I felt a flush of worry. 'Then we steal a boat. It's an island; they must have boats. That's not a bad idea in itself. We could boat all the way to Toledo if we have to. If you have a better idea, I'm listening.'
Head down, he shook his head. 'It's your run. Just tell me where to stand.'
My first wash of relief that he would go along with it was short-lived as I started to make a mental list of what we'd have to do for the prep work. 'New sleepy-time potions,' I murmured, my fingers soothing Rex into sleep while Jenks went to check on Jax's progress. 'A real map. And we need to do the tourist thing; talk to the local fishermen over coffee and find out what the boat patterns are coming off and going to Bois Blanc. You want to do that? You like to talk.'
'Tink's panties, you're starting to sound like Ivy,' Jenks complained lightly, leaning over the table and pointing out a mistake to Jax. I blinked, then turned from the sight of his eighteen-year-old butt in those black tights of his. Married pixy—my new mantra. 'And that's not necessarily a bad thing,' he added as he straightened.
I looked at the hotel phone, wanting to find out if they were open yet for the season or we would have to hang around a week, but I remained where I was with Rex. It was probably a human-run establishment and would be closed for the night. 'No mistakes, Jenks,' I said, feeling cold but for where Rex lay. 'Nick's life might depend on it.'
Eleven
The wind was bitter despite the bright morning sun, and I squinted at the horizon, holding onto the side of the boat as we jostled out to the wreck site. Jenks sat beside me in the lee of the cabin, both amazed and appalled that he could see his breath and wasn't freezing to death. It hadn't seemed this cold when we were on the dock, but it was frigid out here, with the water still holding the cold of ice, even through the rubber of the wet suit. When in hell were they going to give us our warmth amulets?
'You okay?' Jenks asked, his voice raised against the chortling engine.
I nodded, taking in his cold-reddened hands wrapped about his lidded coffee, trying to eek out some warmth from it as we bounced on the choppy waves the wind had whipped up. He looked nervous, though I didn't know why. He'd done well at the practice pool yesterday. I patted his knee, and he jumped. Cringing, I turned to watch the other passengers—high school students on a field trip.
We had lucked out yesterday. My call to Marshal's Mackinaw Wrecks got us an afternoon of practice at the high school pool and a place on today's boat. I still hadn't managed to talk to Captain Marshal, and it was down to the wire now. The man, whose day job was as the high school's swim coach, had been very nice as he treaded water and painstakingly coaxed Jenks in past his knees, but everytime I tried to talk to him about why I wanted to go out on his boat, someone, usually his assistant, interrupted. Before I knew it class was over and Marshal was gone, without my having gotten more than a good look at him in his Speedo and a bad case of the flushing stammers as I tried to gain his attention and his help. The guy probably thought I was a flaky redhead. I knew his assistant, Debbie, did.
Today was the season's first run, traditionally taking out the high school dive team to find what the last winter's storm had unearthed before the currents could cover it again. Come Friday and the first of the fudgies, all the real stuff would be carefully cataloged, and the nails and buttons planted for the tourists would be in place. Ethical? I didn't know. It would be disappointing to spend this much money and have nothing to show for it, even if it was fake.
With his youthful physique, Jenks fit in, looking good in the rented wet suit and his red local-yokel knit hat down tight about his ears. Cheeks ruddy with cold, he sipped at his coffee, so thick with sugar it was syrupy. God, he looked good enough to eat, I thought, then flushed and crossed my legs at my knees despite making it harder to keep my balance.
'Want some coffee with your sugar, Jenks?' I asked, and he froze as a wave dropped us.
'You going to ask Captain Speedo before or after you get in the water?' Jenks shot back.
I gave him a soft thwack on his leg to burn off a burst of angst. He didn't jump this time and I felt better, not minding that he was quietly laughing at me.
While Jenks snickered, I turned to Marshal. The captain had been watching me from the corner of his eye since I boarded. Unlike the rest of us in wet suits, he was wearing only a black Speedo and a red windbreaker, his bare, comfortably muscled legs showing goose bumps. Clearly the man was cold but too much of a stud to admit it. Bracing myself against the bouncing waves, I opened my mouth to attract his attention, but Debbie called to him, drawing him away again.
Damn it. I slumped back down in my seat. What in hell was wrong with me?
Forcing my breathing to slow, I waited for his assistant to finish asking him whatever deathly important question she had. The sun glinted prettily on the water, and I found myself thinking this was an ungodly time to be out here, much less awake. Jenks was fine, seeing as he was usually up long before sunrise, and I could hear him muttering, 'Nine forty-eight, nine forty-eight,' as he tried to shift his internal clock. The thrum of the engine was lulling me into a drowsy state despite the caffeine and the nap Jenks had made me take yesterday.
Trying not to yawn, I straightened, my hand straying to my waist pack with my charms and splat gun safe in their zippy bags. A good deal of yesterday had been spent in the almost unusable kitchen. I'd purchased a disposable copper insert for spelling at a discount store, and Jenks traded maple syrup for everything else I needed to craft the sleepy-time charms and the scent disguise spells.
The paint ball gun shop had been the hardest to find, being 'left where the old post office used to be, past the Baptist church that burned down in 'seventy-five, and right at the Higgan's farm turnaround. Can't miss it.'
Between yesterday's predive class, grilling Jax for details, my six hours spelling, and the three hours we spent at the Mackinaw Fort doing the tourist thing, I was mentally and physically tired. But the oddest thing by far had been watching Jenks teach Jax how to read.
The little pixy was picking it up faster than I would have thought possible. While I stirred my spells, Jenks and Jax had watched Sesame Street, of all things, the music and puppets seemingly making a direct line to the pixy mentality. One song in particular seemed to have wedged itself into my head, the tune-worm settling firmly around my cerebral cortex like an alien from an SF movie.
Seeing my foot tapping to its catchy beat, I stilled it, wondering if I'd be stuck with the tune the rest of the day and what Elmo would find wrong with this situation. The splat gun in my fanny pack? The six-foot pixy beside me? Take your pick, Elmo, and try not to giggle.
Bois Blanc Island was taking on definition, the top of a lighthouse peeking over the trees making me glad I was going in underwater. We had already passed the no-automobile Mackinac Island, and the huge bridge was to the left and behind us, spanning the narrows between the two peninsulas. Yeah, narrows. It stretched over four freakin' miles. An ocean-going tanker was passing under the bridge, looking like a mouse under a chair.
The bridge was enormous, and according to the place mat under my burger last night, it came in only feet shorter in height than Carew Tower, the support towers being five hundred feet up and two hundred feet down to bedrock. It was the third longest suspension bridge in the world, the longest in the western hemisphere. It was a big sucker, claiming five men's lives in its construction, one never found; hitting water at that height was like hitting a cement parking lot. I'd expect to see something like it in a big city, not out in the boonies where moose and wolves crossed the ice in the winter.
I lurched when the thrum of the engine dropped in pitch and the boat slowed, rocking as our own wake rolled under us. The six guys clustered at the back of the boat jostled and pushed, showing off for Debbie, all done up in her rubber wet suit. Her chest looked like a Barbie doll's, whereas mine was more like her little sister Ellie's. I
