It was barely dawn when Maggie awoke with a start. Then the horror came flooding back to her. I can’t stay here. It had stopped raining and in the increasing light, she could see the trail that she’d climbed in the dark. From the ledge of rock she was standing on, the path led upward more steeply through thick salal with tall firs and arbutus overhead. Looking downward, she caught a glimpse of the sea below. In the night it seemed that she had climbed for miles, and it came as a shock that she wasn’t as far from the house as she had hoped. There were two boats at the dock now, and she thought she recognized one of them as the Seagull. “I was right about Collins.” Then she saw a move ment below on the path. They’re coming! As she plunged into the salal, the voices of her pursuers wafted up to her in the still morning air.
The higher she climbed, the steeper the trail became. She pulled herself up using the roots and rocks lining the path, her breath rasping in her throat. Oh, God help me! she found herself praying over and over to a God she wasn’t at all sure existed. She pulled herself over the rim of another rock ledge, and not realizing that she was out in the open, she paused momentarily to reconnoitre. There was a sharp crack and something splintered the boulder just to the right of her, sending shards of rock flying, one of them gashing her cheek. Instinctively, she let go of the root she was holding to touch the blood that was trickling down her face. The laugh from below made her frantically search for the root again and use it pull herself to the relative safety of the salal engulfing the next part of the path. Taking a quick look down through the brush, she saw that Cuthbertson and another man were already standing on the ledge where she had rested only fifty feet below her. Cuthbertson was holding something to his shoulder. A rifle! Hanging onto a strong root with her left hand, she reached over to a large rock imbedded in the earth and wrenched it free. It went scudding down through the underbrush, taking a shower of pebbles with it. The yell from below told her it had found its mark, but she knew that it wouldn’t hold them up for long.
In sheer desperation, she found the strength to pull herself even higher up the slope, and glancing upward, she could see that the rough trail veered slightly to the left. She had to get there before Cuthbertson used his rifle again.
His sarcastic voice floated up to her. “There’s nowhere to go, Maggie.”
She hesitated for a split second before reaching for another rock. “Damn you!” The muttered words rasped out of her dry throat as her scratched and bleeding hands wrenched more rocks and gravel out of their holes. Her feet in the over-large boots searched for footing as she resumed the climb, and then the left boot started to slip off. Desperately, she clenched her foot to keep it on, but it was no use. The boot went sliding down the slope and she cringed as she heard the crow of laughter from the men below. Another crack of the rifle and the zing of the bullet hitting the ground just above her made her cry out in terror. Her feet went from under her and she found herself swinging in the air, hanging onto a large root by one hand. Reaching over to a boulder to steady herself, she scrabbled in the gravel to regain her footing. She didn’t even try to stop the second boot joining its companion, but the sound of the two men laughing even harder just gave added impetus to her determination to escape. The muscles in her arms screamed in pain as she pulled herself up and around the curve in the path.
She lay on her stomach momentarily and drew in great gulps of air, but the sounds of the two men scrambling up behind her quickly got her to her feet. Sobbing, she clambered up the remaining boulders onto a narrow animal track and began to run. But although the going was easier, her bare feet marked every stick and stone, and she realized it would be much easier for her pursuers in their boots.
The track, weaving in and out of the towering salal, monster ferns and other straggling bushes, was almost tunnel-like, but every now and then she caught glimpses of blue sky and sunlight filtering down through the trees, and she realized that the path lay just below the ridge that formed the summit of the hill. Gasping and holding her side, she ran faster, but the tree roots caught her feet, and she lost time as she climbed over the broken branches that littered the path.
Thwack! The bullet ricocheted off a large fir tree. They were closing in on her now. Oh, my God! Oh, my God! In spite of her exhaustion, she picked up speed. It seemed that she had been on the track for hours, climbing over fallen logs, wading through streams and slipping down gullies. But after awhile there was no more shooting. They were probably so confident of getting her in the end that there was no need for them to hurry. They could save their ammunition to finish her off.
Suddenly, the trail divided. One path continued below the summit and the other, she could see, plunged downhill. Sliding downward on the loose gravel, she felt her feet going from under her and grabbed at the small trees and bushes that lined the path. When she hurtled out into the open, she found that she was on the edge of a sloping cliff. Where could she go? The voices of the two men quickly made up her mind for her, and she launched herself downward on her backside toward the sea crashing on the rocks below.
Dazed, bruised and bleeding, she came to rest on a small stretch of pebble beach. The incoming tide crashed over her legs, and Maggie, lying on her back, looked up at the watery sun peeping through the low scudding clouds. What was the use of running anymore? They would get her eventually. She had nowhere to go. She had nowhere to hide. All they had to do was shoot her where she lay.
“Damn you!” she cried. “I’d rather drown.”
She rolled onto her bleeding knees and forced herself upright. Stumbling over the slippery green rocks showing so clearly through the icy water, she waded deeper and deeper until the rocks fell away beneath her and she started to swim.
• • •
NAT GAZED HELPLESSLY at Cubby’s empty berth. “You did your best to tell me about the bastard, Maggie,” he said out loud. “I was too dumb to see what you were getting at.” The ghostly grey mist hanging over the deserted yard and the slight breeze that rocked the boats gently at their moorings gave the whole place a look of unreality. He shivered, turned on his heel and started up the ramp to his car. “Collins,” he muttered. “That’s who I need to talk to.”
He parked in the first available RESERVED FOR RESIDENTS spot, bounded up the steps to the apartment building’s entrance and leaned on Collins’ buzzer. While he waited, he caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the polished brass mailboxes and saw an unshaven, hollow-eyed man looking back.
“Who the hell is it?” Phillip Collins’ voice came over the intercom.
“Southby.”
“It’s damn near four in the morning!”
“Lemme in.”
“Get lost!”
“It’s important.”
“Call in the morning.”
“Look, Collins, it’s about . . .” Nat realized that he was talking to a dead receiver. He leaned on the buzzer again.
Collins’ irate voice answered. “Go away or I’ll call the cops.”
As Nat reached for the buzzer again, the entrance door opened and a bleary-eyed man carrying a lunch pail shuffled out into the chill morning. Nat grabbed the door before it swung closed and raced for the stairs. He took them two at a time to the second floor and hammered on Collins’ door.
It opened suddenly and Collins, wearing only striped boxer shorts, stood glaring at him. “I warned you, Southby . . .”
“Let me in.” Nat pushed past him into the foyer.
“What the hell’s going on?” Collins still held the door open.
“Quiet!” a man shouted from the doorway of the adjoining apartment. “Some of us want to get some sleep.”
“All right,” Collins said in resignation, closing the door, “but it had better be good.”
“Just tell me,” Nat said, grabbing the other man’s arm, “are you in on this scam with your wife’s aunt or not?”
“Scam? What the hell are you talking about?”
“This baby racket. Smuggling. Whatever it is.”
“Who is it, Phillip?” A blonde twenty years younger than Collins—her hair mussed, puffy face smudged with last night’s makeup—appeared, clutching a pink satin robe around her self.
“Go back to bed, Steph,” Phillip Collins snapped. “I’ll deal with this.” Then, turning to Nat, he said, “You’d better explain.”
“Maggie Spencer is missing.”
“Maggie Spencer?” Collins asked, mystified.
“And the Larkfield woman has something to do with it.”
“Aunt Violet?” Stephanie Collins came further into the room. “She couldn’t be.”
“Your aunt is capable of anything,” Collins said scathingly.
Nat turned to the woman. “Larry’s your brother. Right?”
“So what?”
“There’s at least three of them in this thing—Cuthbertson, your brother and your aunt—and Maggie stumbled onto it.”
“Who the hell is Maggie?” Collins demanded.
“My secretary, that’s who! And I need your help.”
“What can I do? I don’t know anything about it!” Collins answered in exasperation. “And what’s all this got to do with you and your secretary?”
“We got called in to find Ernie Bradshaw’s cat, then your boat got smashed up, and old Ernie was murdered . . .”
“But Larry explained about the boat, honey,” Stephanie interjected, gazing anxiously at her husband.
“I bet he didn’t explain that he was smuggling pregnant teenaged girls across the line with it,” Nat answered her.
“Larry wouldn’t do that . . .”
“Shut up, Steph! Let him get on with it.”
As quickly as possible, Nat explained the situation. “And Maggie figured it out and that’s why they took her,” he ended up.
“My brother wouldn’t be mixed up in anything like that.” Stephanie Collins turned to her husband. “Tell him he’s wrong, Phillip.”
“Your brother’s a rotten little bastard,” Phillip Collins said to his wife. “I should’ve known he was up to something illegal.”
“You’ve never liked him,” Stephanie cried. “You think you’re too good for my family.”
“For Chrissake,” Nat interrupted, “let’s get on with it.”
“You’ve got to believe me, Southby,” Collins said. “I didn’t know anything about this!”
“But you must know where the hell they could have taken her!”
“We don’t even know this Maggie person,” Stephanie said, shrugging.
“Where does Cuthbertson go when he’s out fishing? Does he own a summer place? A cabin or something like that?”
“No,” Stephanie answered quickly. “He doesn’t have anything like that.”
“Yes, he has, you little bitch!” Collins turned on his wife.
Stephanie’s face paled. “No, I . . . I . . .”
“I know about your little . . . junket with Cuthbertson.”
“But I . . .” Stephanie stammered.
“Going to visit my sister,” Collins mimicked.
“For Chrissake,” Nat snapped. “Stop bickering. Where is it?”
Stephanie crossed her arms over her chest and looked toward the window. “I don’t remember.”
Collins grabbed her arm and put his face close to hers. “Tell him where the place is, or I’ll . . .” He let the sentence trail off.
“You’re hurting me,” Stephanie whimpered, trying to pull herself away.
“It can’t be more than a few hours away,” Nat interjected. “He was back here with his boat the morning after Maggie disappeared.”
“Tell him, Steph,” Collins said, pushing her toward Nat.
“It’s on an island.”
“Where? What’s the name of the island?” Nat demanded.
“I don’t remember,” she sobbed. “He’ll kill me.”
“And I’m going to kill you if you don’t tell him where it is,” Collins said in a low voice. He turned to Nat. “I’ll get a map from my desk.”
“It’s only a little island,” she said, turning to Nat.
“Please try and remember where,” he pleaded.
“We stopped at this place near there for groceries. Pender Harbour, I think it was called.”
Collins returned with a survey map and spread it on the table. “Now, Steph,” Collins said, grabbing his wife roughly by the arm, “point to where the island is.”
“There’s so many,” she wailed.
“How long did it take you to get from Pender Harbour to the island?” Nat asked.
“I dunno. About twenty minutes, I suppose,” she answered.
“Is it a small house? Big one? What?”
“It’s big.”
“Can you see it from the sea?” Nat asked in exasperation.
“There’s lots of trees.”
“Did you see it from the sea?”
“It was dark. He only turned the dock lights on after we landed,” she answered sullenly.
“What are you going to do?” Collins asked, letting go of his wife’s arm.
“Right now,” Nat said, striding to the telephone, “I’m calling Mark Farthing. He’s with the homicide squad.”
“You can’t bring the police into it,” Stephanie Collins pleaded. “What about Larry and my aunt?”
Nat looked with loathing at Stephanie’s tear-streaked face. “I think they deserve everything they get.”
Nat had to hold the phone away from his head when Farthing heard his voice. “Now what?” he shouted.
“I know where she is.”
“Who?”
“Maggie. If you listen, I’ll fill you in.”
“Make it fast.”
“There isn’t much time, Farthing. Please just listen . . .”
“You can use my boat,” Collins offered. “I’ll get changed and come with you.”
• • •
THE HEAVY SWELLS OF the incoming tide and the weight of Maggie’s clothing hampered her efforts to swim. The nylon floater jacket would have to come off. Treading water and inadvertently taking huge gulps of seawater, she struggled to get her arms out of the jacket and watched it drift away. Among the logs floating in the tide was a branched tree adorned with seagulls, and she swam to it and grabbed at a jutting branch. The gulls rose, shrieking at her intrusion, and Maggie, scared that they would alert her pursuers, plunged deep under the derelict tree and came up cautiously on the other side among its branches. Looking back toward the shore, she could see the two men standing on the cliff’s edge, peering out to sea. Numb with the intense cold and choking on the salt water as she bobbed up and down on the waves, she watched them confer. Cuthbertson pointed down to the beach, and the other man—who she was now sure was Larry Longhurst—promptly slid down the steep slope and started to search along the narrow strip of beach. Her focus was on Longhurst when there was a sudden shout from Cuthbertson and she saw him point out to sea. Oh my God! The jacket. She watched him raise the rifle and fire.
Terrified, she submerged again, hanging onto a tree branch. She held her breath as long as she could, then, cautiously resurfacing, she glanced around. To the right of the cliff was a headland and beyond it a small cove. Keeping her head low and forcing herself to swim slowly, she began to push the rolling log toward the headland.
• • •
NAT PUT THE PHONE DOWN. “Farthing will be here in twenty minutes.”
“Do you want my boat?” Collins asked.
“No. He says the Coast Guard just got their first Sikorsky helicopter and they’re itching to use it. But he wants both of you along for the ride.”
“No!” Stephanie cried. “Not me.”
“We’re both going,” Collins said to his wife, pushing her toward the bedroom. “Get your clothes on.”
Nat watched the two of them go down the hall, then, sinking into a leather armchair, he closed his eyes. The sharp ring of the phone on the table beside him had him on his feet in an instant. “Yeah,” he barked into the instrument.
“Sarge says to be down on the street when he gets there. And bring your map.”
As he replaced the receiver, Nat looked up to see Collins coming back into the room. “She’s putting on her makeup,” he said in disgust.
Nat zipped his jacket and the two of them started for the front door, neither of them noticing that the red extension light was glowing on the telephone. A few minutes later, Stephanie came down the hall. “Do I have to go, Phil?” she whined. “You know how I hate planes.”
“You’re going,” he answered and held the door open for her.
“You’re the only one who can identify the place,” Nat said.
“Not from the air,” she wailed.
“Come on, let’s go,” Nat ordered.
On the way to the Richmond airport, Farthing leaned over to Stephanie. “I’m counting on you to show us where this island is.”
“I keep telling you guys it was dark when I was there.”
“How long were you there? A few hours? Overnight?”
She gave a sideways glance at her husband, who was sitting beside Nat. “Overnight,” she mumbled.
“Then you did see the place the next morning!” Farthing said triumphantly.
“I . . . uh . . . I stayed in the cabin coming back. It was cold.”
“You must have known something was going on between your brother and Cuthbertson,” Farthing persisted.
“Why should I?” she answered quickly. “It was just me and Cubby there.”
“How far did you say it was from this island to Pender?” he asked.
“I already told you. I don’t remember.”
Farthing leaned back in the seat. “I hope for your sake, Mrs. Collins, your memory returns once we’re in the air.”
It was six-thirty by the time they arrived at the airport. On the way, Farthing had been on the radio, making last minute arrangements for the helicopter and talking to the Coast Guard in Pender. The rotors were in motion when they pulled into the terminal. At any other time, Nat would have been thrilled at the prospect of his first flight in one of these remarkable new craft, but all he wanted now was for this monster to get off the deck. The bright yellow aircraft seemed immense as they climbed aboard through the five-foot sliding door into the main cabin. The pilot made a quick introduction to Sandman and Kepler, his two crewmen, who in a matter of minutes had Nat and the Collinses buckled into the fold-up seats that faced each other on either side of the long, wide body. Farthing took one of the front seats near the pilot, the map spread out over his knees.
Once airborne, Herb Sandman walked to the rear and lifted down one of the black wetsuits hanging there on pegs.
“What are you doing?” Nat shouted above the noise of the engines.
“There might not be a place to set down on the island. Got to be ready to go in by sea,” Herb shouted back.
“I’m coming,” Nat said, unbuckling and jumping up from his seat.
“You done any diving?” Herb said, looking dubiously at Nat’s rotund body.
“All the time,” Nat lied. “Gimme a suit.”
“I’ll see if it’s okay first,” Herb said, and he staggered up the aisle to the front.
Nat could see both the pilot and Farthing vigorously shaking their heads, but not waiting for the outcome, he lifted down the largest wetsuit he could find and was already struggling out of his clothes when Herb returned.
“They said no,” Herb said.
“I’m going. Now help me into this thing.”
“But . . . but they said . . .”
“Listen, I’m going. It’s my fault she’s in this mess. I’m going with you, so just get that straight.”
Sandman shrugged. “Okay. But it’s going to be tight,” he said. “Here, hold on.” He reached into an overhead compartment, and taking down a can of oil, thrust it into Nat’s hands. “You’d better douse yourself with this.”
Glancing self-consciously at Stephanie and Phillip Collins, Nat stripped to his skin and began lathering himself with the oil.
Stephanie studiously ignored him by looking out of the window, but Phillip reached over, took the can of oil and rubbed it over Nat’s back and legs, then helped to squeeze him into the suit. But even well lubricated, Nat didn’t get suited up until they were nearing their destination. The zipper refused to go all the way.
Sandman glanced at his watch. “We should be over the area by now,” he said as he unstrapped one of the inflatable lifeboats from the bulkhead. He dragged it to the sliding door and placed it next to the winch and sling, ready to be lowered.
Except for a few misty patches swirling around the islands and coastline, the weather had cleared. “Good Sunshine Coast weather,” the pilot said to Farthing. “Sun, rain and fog.”
The tightness of the wetsuit was restricting Nat’s breathing, and as he stared down on the grey, choppy waters, he lowered the zip another couple of inches. “Please don’t let us be too late,” he muttered to himself.
• • •
RETCHING AND SHIVERING, Maggie pulled herself up slippery green rocks into the shallow water of the cove. High eroding tides and strong winter winds had created large hollows in the banks, which in turn had bared the gnarled tree roots of the scrub evergreens fighting for existence above. It was to one of these hollows that Maggie managed to drag her aching body, and she lay, wet and shaking with the cold, curled in a fetal position, to wait for her nightmare to end. Since the cove faced away from where the two men were searching, she knew that for the moment she was relatively safe. She closed her eyes.
“Poor Emily. Hold on, little cat. Harry will feed you.” She scrubbed a hand over her face. “Sorry, Harry,” she muttered and drifted into a fitful sleep.
The sensation of water lapping over her feet brought her suddenly awake. She tried to sit up and pull herself closer to the wall of the hollow, but she was too exhausted. Instinctively, she knew that she was suffering from hypothermia, but she lacked the means or will to do anything about it, and she let unconsciousness overtake her.
Unable to find her, the two men had given up the search along their stretch of beach and had made their way back to the house. “We’ll take Seagull and check out that jacket,” Cuthbertson said as they neared the dock. Steadying himself, he placed the rifle in the aft cockpit and then climbed in behind the wheel.
“What for?” Larry answered him. “She’ll be drowned by now.”
“Use your loaf, man,” Cuthbertson said, looking with loathing at the younger man. “If that jacket’s keeping her afloat, somebody else could find her.”
“Yeah. See what ya mean,” Larry said. He untied the bowline and climbed in after Cuthbertson. The powerful engines surged into life as Larry leaned over to untie the stern line.
“Now what does that bloody woman want?” Cuthbertson said irritably, watching Violet running down the path, waving her arms at them. “What’s she saying?”
“Turn the goddam motor off,” Larry yelled over the noise.
“Just go up and find out what she wants.”
Reluctantly, Larry climbed out of the boat and loped up the ramp to meet Violet. Cuthbertson watched the two talking and then Larry ran back to the boat.
“They’re on to us, man!”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“My sister was on the phone. It’s that fucking dick.”
“You mean Southby?”
“Yeah. He’s got you figured.”
“He can’t do a thing from there!”
“He’s on his way. With the cops.”
“Bloody hell,” Cuthbertson said. He slammed the boat into gear, and it rocketed from the dock with the bow high in the air, cutting through the waves and leaving a creamy wake behind. Larry, who was about to leap into the boat, fell into the water instead. Violet came screaming down the path, and rushing to the edge of the dock, threw herself down and extended her hand to her nephew. Choking on the salt water, Larry heaved himself up onto the dock, where he lay gasping for breath.
• • •
MAGGIE, IN HER semi-conscious state, was unaware that she had rolled out of the scant shelter of the hollow and that the sea, now at full spate, was lapping over her violently shivering body.
• • •
FARTHING STARED DOWN at the small islands that dotted the Strait. “How can we be sure which one it is?” he asked over the intercom.
The pilot pointed to two fairly large islands apart from the others. “There’s only houses on those two,” he said. “I know. I fish in these parts, and I’ve checked them all out.”
Farthing nodded. Carrying the map, he walked back to where Stephanie Collins was huddled against the bulkhead. “Recognize either of these?” he asked, pointing down to the islands.
“No,” she answered, not bothering to look.
“I want you to have a good look. The pilot will go down closer for you.” Giving Farthing a venomous look, she turned sullenly away from him to gaze out of the window. “Do you recognize anything?” Farthing said again in exasperation.
She shrugged. “No.”
Stifling the urge to shake her, he worked his way back to his seat. The pilot, having circled the two islands, now headed east into the sun that had risen just high enough to crest the coastal mountains, casting golden patches across the peaks. The men, binoculars pressed against the glass, found the light so dazzling that they were momentarily blinded. Completing his turn, the pilot headed west again, and Nat rubbed his eyes and took another look through his glasses.
“Hey! Farthing, look!” he yelled. “There’s a boat going like a bat-out-of-hell.”
Up front, Farthing indicated to the pilot to descend, and he leaned out of the window to have a closer look. “There’s only one man in it. Could be anyone.”
Suddenly, Collins jumped from his seat and pushed past Nat. “That’s my boat!” he yelled. “That shitty little bastard has taken Seagull again!” Collins was apoplectic. “I’ll kill that little . . .”
Nat leaned over Farthing’s shoulder. “It’s that son of a bitch Cuthbertson at the wheel!”
“You sure?”
“But where’s Maggie?” Nat made to open the sliding door. “If he’s harmed her . . .”
Herb grabbed him. “Let’s do this right,” he said calmly, making a circling signal to the pilot.
Cuthbertson, glancing up at the helicopter, made a bid to outrun it, but then, realizing that it was still gaining on him, he cut the engine back and reached for his rifle as the helicopter began to circle over him again. He saw the two men in the open door and recognized Nat. “You meddling son of a bitch,” he muttered as he raised the gun.
Nat and Herb, standing ready in the open door, ducked as they saw Cuthbertson raise the gun to his shoulder. “We’ve got to stop him,” Nat shouted.
Herb nodded. “We will,” he said grimly. Then he made a down motion to the pilot.
Cuthbertson’s shot went wild, and dropping the rifle to the deck, he reached for the controls again and pushed the craft to its limit, wheeling hard to the left, but the boat was no match for the copter’s manoeuvrability. He looked up just in time to see Herb kicking a huge cargo net overboard. “What the hell . . . !” He was knocked off his feet as the net fell over him and then became entangled in the motor. It spluttered, and then kicked back with a loud bang. The boat reared up, then subsided in its own swirling wash.
“My boat,” Collins wailed. “What have you done to my boat?”
“It can be fixed,” Herb said grimly. “Anyway, that’ll keep him quiet until the Coast Guard picks him up,” he said. “Now let’s go and find your Maggie.” He gave a thumbs-up signal to the pilot, who immediately flew in the direction of the boat’s wake toward the largest of the occupied islands.
Farthing, who was on the radio giving the Coast Guard directions for picking Cuthbertson up, was startled when Collins suddenly yelled, “There’s the little bugger. There, on that dock!”
Nat and Herb immediately trained their binoculars to where he was pointing. “Violet’s there, too,” Nat yelled back. “But where’s Maggie?”
Larry, looking up to see the helicopter coming toward them, jumped up in panic and ran toward Cuthbertson’s boat.
“Wait for me!” Violet screamed at him as he jumped aboard.
“They’re taking the other boat,” yelled Nat. “We’ve got to stop them.”
But as they neared the dock, they saw Larry jump out of the boat again, carrying something. He turned to face the chopper. “Look out,” Herb yelled. “He’s got a gun!” The bullet zinged close to the open doorway, making everyone in the helicopter duck.
As the pilot veered away, Nat could see Violet still standing on the dock, screaming at Larry as he headed up a narrow trail leading into the bush. “We’ve got to catch him,” Nat shouted. “Can you get us closer?”
“Too many trees,” the pilot yelled back. He swung the craft back over the water and then began to fly along the shore in the direction that Larry had taken.
Farthing reached for the radio. “I’ll call for extra help.”
“But what about Maggie?” Nat was beside himself. “We’ve got to find her!”
“Calm down, Southby,” Farthing yelled at him. “The police cutter will be here soon and they can search the house. We’ve got to see where that little punk has gone.”
“Open beaches ahead,” the pilot called out as he hugged the rocky edge of the island. “Watch for him coming out into the open.”
Nat grabbed Herb’s arm. “Look,” he yelled. “There’s someone over there.”
Herb reached forward and indicated to the pilot to go down lower.
“Is it Larry?” Farthing cried.
“It’s someone lying on the beach.” Nat leaned out of the open door. “Farthing! I think it’s Maggie.”
“I can’t get any closer,” the pilot yelled. “Herb, you’ll have to jump.”
“Too many rocks,” Herb answered. “Take me out further and I’ll jump with the life raft.” He beckoned Nat to help.
Moments later, the life raft landed with a splash, with Herb jumping after it into the choppy grey sea, quickly followed by Nat. It seemed an eternity before he stopped descending into the cold black water, and he thought his lungs would burst. Then, to his relief, he began to rise toward the light. Spluttering and choking on the salt water, he broke surface, only to waste precious minutes orienting himself in the direction of the beach.
Herb had already reached the life raft, rolled himself over the side into it and unfastened the oars from its side. He paddled over to where Nat was choking, spluttering and attempting to swim toward the shore. Herb extended his hand.
“There’s no way I can climb into that thing,” Nat said, shivering with the intense cold that had seeped through the opening of the suit. “You get to Maggie.”
“Hang on to the raft,” Herb called to Nat. “I’ll row.”
Heavy swells made the going painfully slow, and although Nat had shown bravado in donning the wetsuit and jumping into the waves, it had been many moons since he had been for a swim in a pool, let alone the sea. As he laboured toward the beach, he regretted the extra weight he’d put on since he left the force. He even regretted his cherished cigar smoking.
As they neared the beach, Herb rolled out of the raft beside Nat so that together they could haul it carefully over the hidden rocks. But the huge breakers that crashed onto the shore created strong undercurrents that sucked their feet from beneath them and made them slip and slide on the slimy green stones. Eventually, dragging the raft behind them, the two men, bruised and gasping for breath, crawled to where Maggie lay. “Maggie!” Nat cried as he knelt down beside her. “Is she dead?” he asked Herb. “My God, is she dead?”
Herb rested his head on her chest. “No, she’s still alive. Come on, we’ve got to get her out of the water.” Gently, they lifted and carried her higher up the beach.
“She’s so cold,” Nat said, gathering her to him.
“She needs warmth,” Herb replied. “Get her wet clothes off.” And he ran back to the raft for the emergency blanket. After rolling her into the blanket, Nat held her as close to him as possible and tried to impart some warmth from his own shivering body.
“Hang on, Maggie,” he murmured to her. “Help’s on the way. You’re going to be all right.”
“They’re coming,” Herb said, pointing out to sea.
Through the light mist they saw a police cutter speeding toward them, and in the distance, the sound of rotors heralded the return of the helicopter. As the cutter pulled close into the shore, an officer jumped from the deck and waded toward them through the breakers. “Have you seen Longhurst?” he demanded as he stumbled up the stony beach.
“Forget him,” Herb ordered. “Just get this woman on board so we can transfer her to the helicopter. There’s not much time.”
Corporal Ritchie quickly knelt down beside Maggie and felt for a pulse.
“Blankets,” he yelled to his partner. “On the double.” Then he turned back to Nat. “She’s in a bad way,” he confirmed as he wrapped the extra blankets around her. “Kappa, you radioed the chopper yet?” he yelled to the man who was manning the boat.
“They’re ready to lower the stretcher in about two minutes,” Kappa called back. “Get her into the boat.”
Nat insisted on helping to carry Maggie over the stones and into the waiting police boat and hovered over her as they moved out into open water. He watched in fear from the deck as the stretcher was lowered and she was quickly fastened into it and hauled to safety. “Do you think she’ll make it?” he asked Herb anxiously as the helicopter flew off.
“I honestly don’t know, Nat,” Herb replied.
“You both need some warm clothing,” said Corporal Ritchie. “Kappa, get them some dry gear.”
As difficult as it had been getting into that tight wetsuit, Nat found it ten times worse trying to take it off. Eventually, as they neared Cuthbertson’s dock, and with some help from Kappa, he was finally dressed in some jeans (tight and short in the leg), a T-shirt and sweatshirt (overly large) and runners that actually fit. He was ready to join in the hunt for Larry.
“We’d prefer you to wait on the dock,” Ritchie said as they clambered out of the launch. “He’s got a gun.”
“I’m coming,” Nat answered.
Ritchie shrugged. “Okay. But I warn you, keep behind me.” He turned to Kappa. “You and Herb go up to the house after the woman.” He led the way onto the trail.
Climbing up the rocky trail behind Ritchie, his feet slipping on the loose stones, Nat wondered how Maggie had managed to get down to the beach. She must have come this way, he thought. But how could she have done it alone? He realized what an awful ordeal she had gone through and knew that he was at least partly responsible, because he hadn’t listened to what shed been trying to tell him. They took a breather on a large ledge and looked back to where they could see the dock. Ritchie flicked on his walkie-talkie and spoke to Kappa. “They’ve picked up the Larkfield woman,” he said, slipping the thing back into its case. “They’re searching the house now.”
“Why didn’t Larry take Cuthbertson’s boat?” Nat asked. “They could’ve got away.”
“No ignition key,” Ritchie said, laughing grimly. “Come on, let’s get going.”
“There’ve been several people on this trail,” Nat commented as he reached up to grab a rope-like root. He pointed to the holes where stones had come loose and now lay scattered on the ledge. “And look at all the broken roots and branches.”
“I wonder what these hiking boots are doing here?” Richie said, picking one up. “By the look of this terrain, you need ’em on.”
Nat’s mind slipped back to the image of Maggie lying on the beach with bloodstained feet. “Let’s get on with it and find that little bastard,” he said.
• • •
LARRY HAD REACHED THE FORK in the path. He had heard the coming and going of the helicopter and police boat while he had been running along the trail and felt quite confident that they would be too busy chasing after Cuthbertson and Violet to bother about him. Somewhere on the north end of the island was the cabin that Cuthbertson had told him about. He would hole up there until everything had died down.
• • •
NAT WAS FINDING IT TOUGH going to keep up with the younger, fitter man, and when he eventually reached the flat trail, Ritchie was well ahead of him. The pain in his side made him slow down to a walking pace. He noted the broken branches and recently trodden plants on the narrow animal track and wondered how far Larry had got since he took flight. After all, he thought, the island can’t be that big. Where could he possibly hide? He came to an abrupt stop. The trail had suddenly divided and in his preoccupation he, hadn’t seen which way Ritchie had gone. He decided on the upper one and broke into a run again. After about ten minutes, he realized that the muddy path was getting much narrower and even disappeared every now and again as it ran through dense salal, salmonberry bushes and ferns. He began to wonder if he had made a mistake and should turn back to where the path had divided. Then, rounding a bend, he saw a huge tree trunk lying across the path. Panting and sweating with exertion, he braced his hands on it to give himself a breather before retracing his steps. His hands touched mud. There were muddy footprints and skinned bark leading over the log. One set! Larry had come this way! Hanging onto the broken branches, he heaved himself up and over, and with renewed determination, regained the trail again.
The path led down a gentle slope, and as Nat pushed his way through the brush, he heard the sound of breakers crashing on the rocks in the distance. Sunlight and occasional patches of blue sky filtered through the thinning trees ahead, telling him that he would soon come out into the open. He forced himself to slow down and to tread as quietly as possible.
The old wooden shack nestled against a wall of rock came as a complete surprise. Its broken windows were draped with wild honeysuckle, an old shake roof was covered with moss, and a rusty stove pipe stuck out of one end of it. The wooden door was partly open. Cautiously, Nat moved toward it.
“Stay right where you are.”
Nat whirled. Longhurst was standing about fifteen feet away, beside a lean-to covering a pile of firewood. There was a revolver in his hand and it was pointed at Nat.
“Don’t be stupid, Larry,” Nat said, taking a few paces toward him. “The cops’ll be here soon.”
“Back off.” The hand holding the gun was shaking. “You can’t fool me, old man.”
“Hand over the gun, Larry.” Nat took another step forward. “They’ve picked up Cuthbertson.”
“Don’t come any closer.”
“They’re onto you, Larry.”
“They can’t prove anything.” Longhurst waved the gun at Nat. “Get into the shack. Go on!”
“They’ve also picked up your aunt,” Nat said quietly, taking a few more steps. “She’ll spill everything.”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Longhurst screamed. “Get into the fucking shed.”
Nat took another step closer and Longhurst’s gun hand began to waver. With a yell, Nat sprang forward and lunged for the .38, sending the younger man crashing to the ground. But Longhurst was up on his feet immediately, giving Nat a smashing blow in the face. With a roar of pain, Nat lowered his head and rammed it into the other man’s stomach, sending him and the gun flying. They fell to the ground, rolling and smashing at each other with their fists as each tried to gain control. Nat saw the gun just feet away and tried to roll toward it, but his tired body was no match for the younger man’s. Larry smashed his fist into Nat’s face, grabbed the weapon, and with a sudden twist was astride him, pinning him to the ground.
“Now what, old man?” Longhurst said, grinning, pointing the gun downward. Gathering all his strength, Nat tried to push Larry off and make another grab for the gun. The sound of the report as the bullet went through his shoulder nearly shattered Nat’s eardrums. He fell back, dazed, and looked up into Larry’s cold eyes as he lifted the gun once more and pointed it at Nat’s head.
The pain of the bullet wound in his shoulder flooded over him in waves as he twisted under Larry’s weight, trying to push him off, so it took awhile for Nat to realize that the next shot he heard was sending Larry reeling backwards instead of sending him to the next world.
“Bloody amateurs,” he heard Ritchie say as he passed out.