5

THEY MOVED QUICKLY OUT ONTO the bay, passed Dougal’s Island, then turned southwest toward the Eastern Shore Islands Wildlife Management Area. Their destination was no surprise. The maze of islands gave perfect cover for smugglers. There were a thousand coves to hide in. Ten thousand.

“How far out?” Garrett asked.

“About ten miles according to the source. It’s a small fishing boat, but they’re apparently fully equipped—EPIR, WSR, GPS, pulse Doppler—heading southwest, probably planning to turn into one of the bays and unload whatever their cargo is for transport to Halifax.”

“Where’d the tip come from?”

“You kidding?” Tom stood at the wheel, spray from the bow flying past him. Garrett wore the yellow slicker Tom had given him. Most tips proved to be bogus—and always anonymous—but they all had to be followed up.

“Anyway,” Tom said, “Not too many fishing boats sport all that hardware these days. Not enough legit business to pay for it. That alone’s a sign it could be for real.”

It was four in the afternoon and the spruce-covered islands were beginning to thrust their shadows across the ocean, like accusatory fingers, though the sun wouldn’t set till after eight. There was plenty of time to check things out—provided they could locate the craft in the surrounding archipelago.

Tom pored over the map as he steered. “I bet they’re heading for Rupert’s Island. It’s got a deep-water channel between two rocky ridges. Perfect cover for a cargo transfer.”

Garrett nodded, though it all seemed like a long shot.

It took thirty minutes to reach the island. Tom angled the cutter along the sliding rock ledges that plunged straight down into the depths and past a small spit attached to a tiny peninsula.

Garrett scanned the horizon with high-powered binoculars. There was something barely visible in the distance. “What’s that?” he said.

Tom followed his finger. “It’s an oil rig, past Lighthouse Point. Went in about two years ago. Part of the Sable Island group that discovered oil in the ’90s.”

“I didn’t know there were any in this close.”

“That’s the closest one to the mainland, and it’s probably seven or eight miles from here. Outside territorial limits. It raised something of a stink, I can tell you, being so close to the wildlife area and all. But it was included in the original contract and no one could stop it.”

He throttled down until they were almost silent as the cutter rounded the point and they saw the boat. She was at anchor, a forty-footer crammed, as Tom had said, with radar and antennas. They could make out what looked like a much smaller craft tied up to one side.

“They’ll see us any second,” said Tom, “if they haven’t already picked us up on radar. Might as well announce ourselves.”

He pressed the throttle and the engine roared to life as they bore down on the boat. Thirty yards off her port side, Tom cut the engine back and turned on his loudspeaker.

“Attention fishing craft. This is the Coast Guard. We are coming aboard to inspect you.”

Suddenly, the engine on the smaller boat sputtered. They heard a series of sharp popping sounds, and a few moments later, the sleek-looking speedboat tore past them, angling away into the islands at very high speed.

“Son of a bitch!” Tom thrust his own throttle to maximum, and they raced after the other craft, but it took only a minute to realize that even the powerful cutter was no match for the incredible engines of the speedboat. He cut power with a muttered curse and turned sharply back to the fishing boat.

“Holy Christ!” Garrett stared at the speedboat that was now just a speck in the distance. “They must be doing seventy miles an hour in that thing.”

“We’re always outspent in that department,” Tom said flatly. “Those SOBs have more money than we do and they spend it on power. It’s their escape hatch—that boat is top of the line. Hell, they’re probably ten miles away already.” He picked up his radio phone. “I’ll call it in, but no one’s going to find them.”

They angled in to the larger craft; Garrett jumped aboard and tied the cutter fast. Despite all the expensive equipment, the boat itself was nondescript, stripped down, practically devoid of any attempt to provide comfort or décor. The owners clearly didn’t want to attract attention and were prepared to abandon the craft if need be—so why waste money on niceties?

“Think they already offloaded their cargo?” Garrett asked.

“Possible. Though there wasn’t much time between the tip and our arrival. That speedboat couldn’t hold more than two or three people. There’s got to be something here to justify abandoning the larger boat.”

They quickly searched the wheelhouse. It had been stripped of papers, permits, everything. Garrett went below and came back shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” said Tom, exasperated.

“Perhaps …” suggested Garrett, “they planned to pick something up instead of dropping off. Maybe we got here too soon. But if that was the case, why run off?” He raised his hand. “You hear something?”

Above the pounding of the surf against the side of the ship, there was a faint sound, like a low murmur.

“It’s coming from over there.” Tom pointed to the far end of the front deck, where there appeared to be a large white tarp. They hadn’t noticed it at first because it was the same color as the deck.

Cautiously, they approached the tarp. The heavy canvas seemed to be moving slightly, sort of twitching. Tom pulled his revolver out. He nodded to Garrett, who reached down and threw the covering to one side.

Tom took a step back. “Mother of God!”

Garrett just stared, unable to move. Lying facedown on the cold decking were the bodies of four young girls. They had each been hastily shot once in the back. They wore shorts and simple shifts on top. They all had long, black hair and olive skin.

One of the bodies quivered.

“This one’s still alive!” Garrett dropped to the deck and turned the girl over, cradling her in his arms. She was clearly Asian, not more than thirteen years old. Her eyes flickered open and stared at him blankly, then the light went out of them forever. He felt for a pulse, knowing it was a waste of time. Gently, he lowered her body next to her companions.

“Sick bastards.” Tom leaned on the railing, looking like he was going to throw up. “Why’d they have to do that?”

“No loose ends. The girls might have been able to finger them or at least give information about their pipeline. These kids were probably destined for the escort services in Halifax. From what we’ve seen lately, Asians have been increasing in popularity.”

Garrett stared out at the evening sunset. It was beautiful and peaceful and made a mockery of the scene on the deck. “I can’t stomach this,” he said bitterly. “If we hadn’t shown up, these poor girls might still be alive.”

“Maybe,” said Tom. “But after a few weeks of what life had in store for them, they might have preferred to be dead.”

He knelt, put one hand on the head of one of the children for a moment, then pulled the tarp back over the tiny bodies.

“I can probably navigate her back to port,” Garrett said quietly, “if you follow behind in case I have any trouble.” He thought about Tuttle’s comment that he’d be able to spend more time on his boat in his new job.

This wasn’t the sort of recreational boating he’d had in mind for his retirement.