The boat felt like a trap. Jane shivered, her hands sweaty on the gun they'd given her, nothing to do with being hot or cold, but if she wanted to run away right now, she'd have to play Jesus and walk on water. She'd never learned to swim. Besides, Gary said the water here was cold enough that the shock of hitting it drove air right out of your lungs, and your brain and muscles quit working like in minutes.
She couldn't run away. No matter what she thought she'd seen. Like that time upstairs in the Paramount with Tina and the new girl that wasn't a girl, cutting the heart out of a John while it still beat and spouted blood. He'd shit himself and the room stank of it and then the blood just . . . vanished . . . when the girl touched the stains . . . as if she'd sucked it in through her fingers . . .
She hugged herself, trying to think herself small, tucked into a corner of the . . . what? Cabin of the boat? Since it was open at the back, open half-way along one side and all the way along the other, and mostly just a windshield and roof, "cabin" didn't seem right. Not a cockpit, not a wheelhouse or bridge or any of the other boatish terms she knew.
And she didn't want to ask Gary the proper name. She didn't want Gary to notice she was here. He moved so smooth, so sure, so balanced, doing boat stuff without a wasted step, going up to the front deck and back to the stern and then grabbing the controls, it was like watching some kind of dance. A dance that showed she didn't know a damned thing about boats. Trapped. She'd never touch land again unless he let her.
He knew what he was doing, even if she didn't. It always felt a little strange, watching someone who knew exactly what he was doing and did it well. Most people just fumbled along. She'd seen that, the first time she'd seen him in class. He'd stood out in the room, sharp and clear. Everyone else was out of focus, fuzzy edges and blank early-morning faces. If Gary wasn't hiding, he had the sharpest edges she'd ever seen.
He was going to leave her. They all had. Mom, Dad, Dana, even Cindy had left her. Anyone who mattered, left.
She wasn't actually cold, even with her teeth chattering, not even here on the cold water with the wind blowing in from somewhere north of Nova Scotia. Gary had given her a jacket, synthetic fleece with a windproof shell, that must have cost hundreds of bucks. He said it had been his mother's, ought to fit. She wasn't shivering because she was cold.
She was shivering because he was going to leave her, because she couldn't see a way out of this trap. His father was hurt, had fallen overboard. Gary was going to jump in after him and leave her alone at night on a boat she couldn't run. And he wouldn't come back. He'd taken up the net and didn't plan on climbing back in. None of them ever came back.
I am the cat who walks by myself, and all places are the same to me. She had to remember that. That was how she survived. And she had a gun. All people are the same to me.
He looked good in a wetsuit, dark gray rubber molded to those swimmer muscles, taller and heavier than his father. His sister had looked like that, with a different build like she did different things to stay in shape, but strong. A woman who wasn't afraid all the time. And her Aunt Alice was strong, small as she was, never afraid. But Jane knew she'd never see either of them again. Never feel the uncanny safety of that house again. Things like that didn't happen.
Not in her world.
Gary had said that Caroline put on a mask, that she was scared under that calm surface. That he was scared, just fumbling through, no matter how he looked. She didn't believe him.
He glanced at her, remembering she was there, and she shrank further back into her corner. "We've got to get over to the Perkins landing and pick Dad up. They've left for the winter. There won't be anybody there to see us, but the dock's still in. After the charges blow, we can come back here. Hold on."
The boat lurched ahead, a sudden deep bellow from the exhaust overhead, and icy spray flew as they plunged through swells. She tasted salt, even inside the cabin, but didn't know if it was tears or seawater. He'd put her ashore at that landing, get rid of her. Push her out of the family problem. At least he wasn't going to keep her trapped on the boat. Or kill her.
His father was hurt. He was going to pick up his dad, different person, come back, then help his father. The only reason he hadn't left her already was that ticking time-bomb he'd set on the cliff. He had to get his boat out of danger. The boat meant more to him.
His father had fallen overboard. Gary had said a man could live maybe fifteen minutes, half an hour in this water. His father hadn't had a wetsuit on, hadn't even worn a life jacket. She'd stripped it off along with his body armor when she was bandaging his wound. They'd have to move fast, to get back after the bomb went off and save him. Twenty minute fuse, Gary had said.
She hadn't seen what she remembered. It wasn't possible. A man had fallen overboard. She shivered and hugged herself again, keeping a tight grip on the gun. The loaded gun, full magazine, round in the chamber, safety still on. Just flip that lever, touch the trigger, that was all she'd have to do.
Nothing made sense. Gary hadn't gone in after his father, hadn't thrown a life vest overboard, or a rope, or jumped into the little dinghy tied at the stern. And his father had swum away, dove and swum underwater. Hurt.
The sun was setting, clear yellow sky over the town, and she saw flashing red lights snaking through the woods, the blue lights of cops, all converging on dense smoke and a leaping orange glow that had to be that guesthouse. Gary's family didn't mess around. Seriously dangerous.
Like his father hadn't messed around when he'd wanted to scare her off. Her finger twitched at the trigger guard of the gun. It was Rolls-Royce or stretch Mercedes class compared to any she'd ever touched before, more proof she didn't belong. More proof that Gary would dump her at the first chance.
He cut the engine back to idle and spun the wheel, bringing the boat around in a smooth curve close to a floating dock and long ramp suspended from the stone face overhead. He squinted at the water, at the gap and their motion, moved a lever and then blipped the throttle again, kicking the stern back and out.
The boat danced under his hands. Skill. It drifted to a stop, rising and falling with the swells, five feet, four feet, three feet from the float and gently, gently bobbing closer. Current, she guessed. Or wind. Wind and water flowed in his blood, his family's blood, they'd been sailors and fishermen since forever.
A shadow slipped down the ramp, across the float, jumped the gap, landed sure-footed like a cat. Another Morgan. She could have guessed by how hard he was to see, the smooth decisive way he moved, the way he rode the deck without thinking about the swells under him. She recognized his face from the photo of Gary's "father" in the obituary column, his Dad, Daniel Morgan. He glanced around, saw the blood, the discarded shirt and body armor and life jacket, counted standing bodies. All in one flick of his eyes. Morgans thought fast.
Gary nodded. "Someone shot Ben. Arm hole in his vest, entry and exit wound, no froth in the blood, so I think it missed his lung. Says he got the bastard."
Daniel stepped toward the door, the hatch, down to the little forward cabin. Cuddy, Gary called it. Gary shook his head. "He isn't there. Went overboard."
Then Gary paused. Shook his head. "He Changed, Dad. Climbed up on the gunwale, pulled off his boots, and Changed. Dove. Swam away."
His father froze like a stalking cat with one paw raised, tail twitching, staring at Gary. "You're kidding me."
"No."
Just the single word. Daniel stared at Gary for a moment, a minute, longer, you could almost see him thinking through a puzzle. The boat rose and fell in the water, rubbing and groaning against a line of old tires on the float. Jane heard a "thump" off in the distance, toward the fire and smoke, Gary cocked his head and checked his watch. He closed his eyes and his lips moved, counting. That must have been the first bomb he'd left.
A deep hollow boom echoed across the water, Gary smiled, and he backed the boat away from the dock again. "He's hurt, Dad. Hurt and confused. You'll have to follow him. Find him. Like you showed me the currents, the landings, and where the ghost nets lurked."
His father, no, his dad, nodded. This name bit was going to get confusing. Better call them Daniel and Ben. Not that she'd have to worry about it for long. She didn't fit in with this family of strong people, people who knew what they were doing, dangerous people who didn't chew their fingernails up to their elbows, living with constant fear. People who answered a threat with guns and bombs, people with cannons mounted on their roof.
What would Tina do, what did Tina do, with people who knew that much about her?
Tina killed people who learned dangerous things about her. Jane had learned to be damned careful around Tina. It'd been scary, hearing someone had finally killed her, but she'd felt relief as well. One less demon lurking in the shadows that haunted Jane's life.
Now she knew dangerous things about Gary, about the Morgans. Jane ran her fingers over the cold metal of the gun they'd given her. It worked, she knew that, she'd fired it on their range and it had never been out of her hands since then. She'd loaded it with bullets from the same box that Gary had used, loading his pistol.
Ben had tried to kill her. And that was before she knew this much. Gary wouldn't leave her, he'd kill her. Either Gary, or Ben, or Daniel. She couldn't trust them.
The boat plowed through swells again, back toward the setting sun and thickening plumes of smoke. She smelled fire and bitterness on the wind, shattered rock and explosives and greasy half-burned oil staining the salt air and tang of seaweed, the faint reek of fish that wafted up from the deck. A yellow blotch stained the cliff, centered on a black mouth and fresh bare scorched rock. Gary cut the engine again, and they drifted in the heaving swells.
Daniel glanced over the pile of bloody clothing, the first-aid kit, discarded gear, and shook his head. He turned to her. "Gary would have stowed that stuff. You bandaged Ben? He came back hurt and you patched him up?"
She nodded.
Daniel grinned to himself and shook his head again, some kind of private joke, she guessed. "Describe the wound. How much blood, how was it flowing, was the exit hole bigger than the entry, where were they, that sort of thing."
She thought about wounds she'd seen, cuts, stabbings, the mess a smashed bottle made of a drunk's face. "Not a lot of blood, a flow rather than a spurt, and it slowed down a lot when he stopped moving." She touched her left armpit, front and then rear, felt bone under each spot. "Holes about the size of a pencil, both places, pretty much the same."
He nodded, chewing on his lower lip. "Might have punched through the ribs, might have deflected around. With that angle, it doesn't sound too bad. Ben's a tough old goat. I'm more worried about blood in the water, and sharks."
And she was more worried about him, about Ben. She knew too much. The boat felt like a trap.
Daniel was stripping off his clothes. He glanced in her direction, shook his head, and turned his back to her. Her fingers tapped at the gun again, the short heavy black gun with a silencer and full-automatic fire. She could shoot them, shoot both of them, and nobody would know, Ben would die out there alone. She could figure out how to run the boat by trial and error, get back to that dock.
Maybe. Her trigger finger slipped inside the guard, her thumb toyed with the safety.
Daniel dove into the water, naked, no life jacket, another man going to drown. It didn't make sense. And then his skin darkened, turned gray, his legs and arms shrank, his torso lengthened. Jane froze, unable to breathe or move or even scream. Black dots swam in front of her eyes. A seal swam in front of her eyes. Just like she'd seen before. But she couldn't have.
"Oh . . . my . . . God."
Gary held her, his warm strong body against her back, supporting her, ignoring the gun. She shook all over, hot and cold and instant sweat, and if he hadn't held her up her knees would have collapsed under her. They'd been replaced by some kind of jelly. He helped her to the corner of the cabin, folded down a seat, pushed her into it, gentle and quiet and non-threatening.
"Yes, you did see that. It's real. Now I have to get us out of here. Dad will follow Ben, protect him, help him. We've got an island out beyond the bay, where they can get clothing and medical stuff and gear. Just sit. Don't think about it."
She didn't want to think about it. That part was easy. Except she couldn't not think about it. She was still shivering and having trouble with her breathing. Her fingers kept tap-dancing along the side of the gun.
"Can you do that?" The words just popped out, and she winced. She shouldn't have asked. Dangerous.
He worked controls, gear and throttle and wheel, she was starting to learn things, and the engine growled again and the boat changed from wallowing to purposeful as it cut through the waves. They headed away from land, toward a gap in the dark line of islands that showed the flat open horizon beyond.
"Yes."
She barely heard his voice over the engine and the thump of water against the hull. He sounded, what, ashamed? Afraid? Afraid of her?
"If you think you can stand up, I'll show you how to run this thing. It's easy. Easier than driving. Boats are simple. It's the ocean that's complicated."
Something different to think about. Something that didn't involve seals. And her knees worked, and she stood in front of him, inside his arms, human arms, strong arms that comforted, and he showed her the wheel and the compass and how to hold a course, varying equal amounts to either side so that the boat averaged a heading, slightly into the wind of where he wanted them to go.
Throttle was easy, just set it, you didn't have to hold it, gears were just forward-neutral-reverse. Radio, emergency channel, just push the switch and talk. Lights, he left those off. It was illegal but they didn't want anyone seeing the boat, the Maria. Depth sounder, radar screen, fuzzy green blotches of islands and coast, hard bright green pinpoints of a couple of other boats, he showed her the curving green line she should follow to find the harbor, some dark sections that looked clear but she shouldn't go through there because of rocks and shallow water.
She drove the boat. He watched. Her legs felt stronger, as if she didn't need the wheel in her hands to hold her up. They passed between two islands and headed out to sea, and darkness rose out of the east in front of them and over them.
"Okay, cut the throttle. Gear into neutral. I've got some cleanup to do." And they wallowed again, engine idling, drifting downwind in a gentle breeze that wouldn't bring them to anything for what looked like hours.
He pulled out a bucket on a rope, dipping up seawater and sluicing bloodstains from the deck, from the dinghy bobbing behind them. He reached over the stern and then over both sides of the bow, pulling off white vinyl sheets with name and port and registration numbers, climbed into the dinghy and did the same. He climbed up on the cabin roof and changed a pot buoy mounted there. Changed back all the things he'd changed after they left harbor. He grinned down at her.
"The name and numbers belong to a guy three harbors down the coast with a similar boat, who has a habit of setting traps in other people's water. If any nasty people ask questions about his boat seen off Pratts Neck, it serves him right."
He opened up his float bag and pulled out an aluminum case, it had to be the flint he'd gone in after. He sat and stared at it.
"You going to open that?"
He shuddered and shook his head. "No way. That's Pandora's box, Bluebeard's Closet." He shook his head again, and then nodded to himself. He set the case on the back of the boat, the transom, picked up his pistol, and fired three shots into the center of the case. It jerked with the impacts and fell overboard and he fished it up again and set it on the transom. He squatted and stared at it some more as if he expected it to twitch.
And then he took his gun, his float bag, guns and grenades from the dinghy, all the other stuff he'd just gathered, and pulled out a lump of some kind of mesh or netting, and spread it into a bag. He loaded everything into it. He picked up the case and stared at the paint where it had been sitting. Red stain. Blood, like he'd already washed away. He dipped the case overboard to rinse it and then added it to the pile of weapons. He slopped more seawater over the stain until the paint shone clean.
She wondered if she'd burned out some kind of circuit, that blood from a busted piece of stone didn't send her screaming. She just watched him.
He looked up at her. "I need that gun now. We're in a restricted area, a firing range, bombing range from World War II, live ammo — nobody goes diving, setting nets, or dragging for scallops. It's not even safe to anchor here. It's a perfect place to dump stuff you don't want found. All this goes overboard."
She froze. That would be a perfect place to dump a body. Weighted down.
Gary looked up from his work, saw her hesitation. "Family policy — any gun, any tool we take on a job, we destroy it. Goes for clothing, gloves, everything. Possible evidence. Cheaper that way. Lawyers cost too much."
Jane stared at him and scrunched back into her corner, braced against the roll of the deck, guarded from all sides, safe. Ice settled in her chest. He wanted to take her gun away. If Tina had ever asked that, wanted to take Jane's gun or knife, Jane would have known what came next. Death. Tina could be all smiles, your sister, your mother, your lover, and cut your throat the instant you relaxed. The instant she felt threatened. And Jane knew too much about the Morgans. She was a threat.
Gary squatted there on the deck, hands open and relaxed, the same sort of deceptive calm and friendliness. He looked up into her eyes. He shook his head, face turning sad, and nodded.
"You're still afraid. Afraid of me, afraid of all of us. You're still a barn cat." He nodded again. "Keep the gun. Give it to Aunt Alice when you feel safe. She'll know what to do with it."
And then he finished loading the mesh bag with expensive weapons, with Ben's body armor and clothing, with a couple of radios, with other stuff. He was trusting her. He turned his back to her and stripped off his wetsuit, adding it to the load. He turned his back on her and her gun.
Trust. Caroline had said to trust him, trust Aunt Alice. Nobody else. But I've never trusted anyone. Not since Mom and Dad. I don't dare trust anyone . . .
God. Give the gun to Aunt Alice, she'll know what to do with it. The instant I think I have a grip on this, it twists around in my hands. Aunt Alice knows about this stuff. She seemed so strong, so calm, so safe. I haven't felt that safe since . . . I can't remember. Ever.
Trust Gary. Trust Aunt Alice.
He trusts me.
I have to start somewhere. Even if it kills me.
Jane unwrapped her fingers from the gun's grip, one by one, forcing them to relax. Her hands shook, and she didn't dare check the safety or clear the weapon. She gritted her teeth. She took one step out of her corner, and then another, and then another, until she stood behind Gary and knelt down on the deck and reached around and added her gun to the pile in front of him.
And let go of it.
She let the slow heave of the deck move her until she leaned against his bare back, warm and sweaty from the wetsuit, smelling his male sharpness and the gasoline of the boat and the tang of the sea. He held still. She rested her cheek on his shoulder and closed her eyes and shuddered and let the tears come, silent and shaking until she had to cling to his back to hold her up.
Tears felt better this time.
He stayed. He didn't leave me. He chose me instead of his father.
He didn't leave me.