twenty-five knots on her nose and there were small craft advisories.
She slowed to seventy to maintain control. In the aftermath of the warm front, winds were blustery and seas were still building.
She was headed dead on toward the Fisherman's Bay navigation lights. With no lights on the boat she had taken off into the black abyss. She squinted trying to see the outlines of land, looking for something other than electronic security, but she could see nothing.
There was a plane flying low, probably looking for her. She decided to take a chance on a burst of speed. Her foot went to the floor. The wind blasted her face. The boat rocketed and then the props screamed. Off on the throttle, she told herself, then hard on it just before she scuffed the next wave. The boat landed so hard it hurt, but she kept on it to one hundred miles per hour. Any second she expected to lose control and die. Off on the throttle when she flew, back on it before she hit. She did it four times and then could stand it no more.
She cut to seventy, keeping the boat down. She could only hope that her wake would not phosphoresce. And that she didn't hit a log.
It was 3.1 nautical miles from inside Friday Harbor to the entrance of Fisherman's Bay on Lopez Island, but she had taken a substantial detour to Orcas. It took just over four minutes to get from the Wasp Islands back to calm water near the outer marker of Fisherman's Bay. Instead of slowing down in the calm water near the entrance, she punched it to one hundred miles per hour again, hurtling toward the channel and aiming for the marker like a rifleman lines his sights. Indeed she was traveling faster than a hardball pitch.
Ideas and images sped through her mind as if they were detritus on the sea-words moving on to the next words: Colored lights reflecting. Gauges. Heading. Swell. Bad bounce. Flash, flash, flash. Things on the water. Line up. Line up. The channel. The buoy. The reef. Throttle back. Line up. Okay. Hit the throttle.
The boat came into the narrow passage at fifty knots. It might as well have been an F15 breaking the sound barrier for the grand entrance. The trick was not to kill somebody else with this outrageous nighttime helmsmanship. Even at fifty knots, in this narrow channel, nearby boats would be split-second images in the night. Fortunately, she had been in through the snaky entry to Fisherman's Bay many more times than she could count-it was still the boat-driving challenge of a lifetime. More difficult in some ways than the run through the Wasp Islands.
The police boat was far out in the San Juan Channel looking for the disappearing race boat when she sped into the twisting ribbon of water. Close proximity to the land would mask her presence on their radar. The steep beach on one side and mudflats, a stone's throw away on the other, made it impossibly treacherous. Her hands gripped the wheel and fingernails sank into rubber. Brain and boat were fused. Entire yachts riding anchor passed in eye blinks.
The slightest deviation from the required course would send her hurtling to her death.
Her hands made every minute correction and her mind willed it past the inner buoys.
She had been inside the harbor only a couple seconds when she dropped the power. Her wake washed up on the beach and the sound of her homicidal engines was calmed.
Without a doubt she had brought shadows to the windows of the houses that lined the entrance. She glided toward the dock with frightening speed, throwing a massive wake as the stern settled. In seconds she had motored stern first into a slip with the finesse of the most seasoned of skippers. With the boat still completely dark she waited in the glow of the dock lights behind the only sizable yacht in the first dock complex of the bay.
The point was to make sure the deputies realized that she could have dropped a passenger.
After a moment she was distracted by shoes on the dock ramp and saw two men escorting a woman down to the floats. Something about them gave her pause and then she saw the woman turn and try to run. They grabbed her, obviously manhandling her.
Instantly she knew it had to be some of Frick's thugs. And she knew the woman was Sarah James.
Dear God, she thought. Watching her friend was agony. Sarah was an attractive woman, the kind who, by no effort of her own, would stir men like these. Like Rafe Black. One man held Sarah around the middle while they dragged her to the boat. There was something on Sarah's face, over her mouth. Probably tape. As she watched the pathetic spectacle, Haley gasped and bit her knuckles to keep from shouting. Somehow she needed to help Sarah, but she didn't have a gun-they did. And even if they didn't, she couldn't overpower them. It was hopeless.
Then she remembered the flare pistol.
Virtually every boat had one. Haley looked for the orange container under the dash and found it. Quickly she unscrewed the top from the bottom. It was roughly football-shaped but flattened on the ends. She found the pistol and loaded a shell.
The men had dragged Sarah near their boat and were trying to force her in. Haley looked toward the channel and saw the chase boat streaking into Fisherman's Bay. She had to decide. She watched them struggling with Sarah and she began to weep. One flare shell with two men would not work. If she stayed, she would not get Opus Magnum out of the slip. With two boats she could be pinned. If they got desperate, they might start shooting. It boiled down to Sam's life, to Ben's life. The whole plan was at risk if she abandoned Opus. It was a horrible weighing of desperate circumstances. If it were just her own life at risk, the choice would be easy.
Now the police boat was coming fast toward the docks. The men on the dock, seeing the deputies' boat, seemed to hunch and shrink as they finally struggled to put Sarah in their boat. Obviously, regular deputies manned the sheriff's boat and Frick's ploy would be blown if they observed the crime Haley had just witnessed.
If real deputies saw it, she knew they would immediately rebel and Frick would lose control. She could only hope.
Haley remembered Sam's hand on hers and his quiet insistence that she follow the plan, no matter what. But Haley could not help herself. She had to try to free Sarah. Sam's words haunted her. He was counting on her.
Try to save her now or later?
'Oh God.' She whispered her anguish.
Fortunately, the police boat was going for the second dock in front of the big resort, having missed her hiding place entirely. She shot the flare over their heads so they would know they were seen; then she fired the engines and actually screamed her anguish. The men with Sarah jerked their heads in surprise. Then she put a heavy foot on the throttle and the boat leaped out from beside the sleek yacht lying quiet in the night.
Like a cheetah it accelerated with shocking force that threw her back against the seat.
Turning hard over, she heeled the boat on its side and raced behind the startled deputies in the chase boat.
One of them reached for his gun and her heart went cold.
'We have a situation over at Lopez,' Khan said.
'What the hell now?'
Frick took the phone. The deputies fetching Sarah James were on their cell. They had her securely in their custody, but there was other news.
'Opus Magnum went into Fisherman's Bay at the dock. It hid and got past one of the sheriff's boats. We saw it leave, but we can't be sure someone didn't get off.'
'Are you telling me they could have unloaded someone there?'
'Yes, sir, on the docks at Lopez. Do we bring the woman now or search the boats at the dock? We don't think anybody got up the gangplank.'
Frick sighed his disgust and thought for a moment. 'How many boats to search?'
'Maybe ten, fifteen.'
'I think it's a ploy. Bring the James woman here now.'
There was a burst of white light streaking across the sky right over their heads. For a second Sarah thought the police had arrived. Then it was black, but for the halogen dock lights, and she could barely discern the outlines of Frick's well-known ocean racer among the boats at dockside. Frick.
'Walrus Face,' with the mustache, twisted her arm behind her back. They had been abusing her ever since they caught her coming out of the forest. She cursed herself for not remaining in the forest, but she had wanted to make it to the rendezvous point set by Nelson Gempshorn.
Walrus Face also had garlic breath, and it was hot on her neck, smelling like the leftovers from an Italian restaurant. He moved her body around like it was a twig. His weight and strength, the size of his viselike hands, made her feel helpless. Something from a television show flashed through her mind and she acted on it, stomping on his instep, throwing an elbow into his gut.
