“Dammit.”
Kopae had the tripod.
Alexa couldn’t take photos and hold the umbrella at the same time. She would have to be quick in the drizzle.
Rookies sometimes douse. Alexa knew over-spraying could compromise DNA. She positioned her back to the wind, stepped a foot closer, and sprayed lightly. The wind carried the mist forward. Immediately, a light blue luminescence glowed in the dim light. She wished Kopae could see. She set the bottle down, whipped out the camera, and took several photos. Then she took a swab sample and stepped back and sprayed again. More glowing blue. She repeated, theorizing this was a blood trail. She stepped closer to the stairs and sprayed again. A blue-green Picasso abstract. Then she sprayed the top stair.
Blue.
She took a picture of the top rung before it faded. She listened for Kopae—where was she?—and scampered down the spiral. She judged the quickest path from the stair to the dock-side rail and sprayed again.
Bingo. Had Andy, bleeding from the gut, been thrown in the same cold water where she had been chummed? But what about Kana Duffy’s theory that he had been thrown overboard near Ringaringa Beach? She jumped nimbly onto the dock and sprayed the wood.
Jesus. A glowing smear.
Andy had been dragged along the pier. Her eyes rose to Darla Jo chafing at its lines. She had an ounce of spray left. Kopae had the spare bottle. She sprayed the dregs, leaving a glowing bread crumb trail to the rusting trawler.
A wave sent sea froth into her eyes. Andy Gray had been dragged from The Apex to the trawler. Warren was probably the murderer. She quickly took photos and then searched for Kopae’s bright yellow slicker, but the dock was empty. Where the hell was the constable?
Raindrops pelted her slicker. The black band of clouds had arrived. Alexa swiped her eyes and cinched her hood. Free hands made her realize the crime kit was on The Apex. All she had was the camera looped around her neck and an empty spray bottle. No Kopae. No radio. They were making mistakes. A man shouted. She jumped and scanned the pier again.
No one was coming.
Then she heard a woman scream. From the bowels of Darla Jo. Kopae was in trouble. Officer down, officer down! She longed to shout. She jumped the three-foot gaping chasm onto the ghost town deck, fell to her knees, goddamned poncho heeding her frenzied crawl, and pressed beneath the porthole.
Angry voices.
A scuffle.
Another shout, followed by a blood-icing scream.
Then came only the sound of rain pelting her poncho.
Five terrified breaths broken by an engine belching to life. Alexa pivoted to see churning water fan from the twin motors. Blue smoke and diesel fumes wafted in the air. The trawler shuddered and the door to the cabin flung open, hitting Alexa in the forehead. A tall man emerged. Alexa bit back a cry and scooched behind the door, thankful her slicker was dark. She sank to a tight ball and listened to the clanking, muttering, and cursing trailing the man as he moved about the deck. When she heard him on the other side of the cabin, Alexa rose and peeked through the porthole. A dim light, an old-fashioned ship’s wheel, a tattered stool, no Kopae.
Her phone. She had her phone. She struggled to remove it from her pocket and felt like tossing it overboard when she saw no service available.
Useless piece of crap.
A rope flew past, and the man came barreling to the dock side. She wedged behind the door and watched through the crack as he grabbed a pole and pushed the boat from the dock. He swept to the far end, loosened another rope, tossed it on board, and came straight at her. God almighty. Sean Warren was the tall fisherman who had given her a ride from the ferry and shown her around Grogan’s boat this morning. He must have grabbed Kopae on her way to the car.
On a small island, everyone knows everyone, but no one recognizes evil.
He came straight at her. Alexa was doomed. But he swept by, entered the cabin, slammed the door.
Did he think Kopae had been alone? The thought gave her hope.
Exposed, Alexa flew to the rail, the poncho flapping like wings, the camera banging her chest. Dismay. Six feet of heaving seaweed between her and the pier. She glanced at the blurry beach, hoping to wave for help, flash the camera as SOS, but its gloomy desolation made her heart sink. Jump, she thought. She had survived the cold black water once. A clap of thunder and gust of wind chased her from the rail, made her flatten herself against the cabin, her gloved hands groping wood.
She whipped the gloves off, threw them to the ground, swiveled to the gleaming porthole, and risked another peek.
Jaw set, one hand on the wheel, Warren faced forward in the three-sided glass wheelhouse as Darla Jo plunged through the bay. Behind him, Alexa made out a set of bunks, a small black stove, a clothesline with a towel swaying for attention. A ceiling light bulb. A ladder disappearing down a shadowy hatch. A hatch in a fishing boat was where the fish were stored.
Kopae. Down the hatch.
Alexa crouched, her stomach roiling as Darla Jo crested a wave. Warren was insane to be headed out in a storm. Ragged panic tried to paralyze her. She searched her brain for a plan. She was not helpless. Think, she commanded.
Her main advantage was Warren didn’t appear to know she was here. Kopae had probably told him she was alone.
Smart.
Alexa, back against the cabin, was thankful a small eave sheltered her from the worst of the rain. Wallace knew their location. Well, their previous location. He’d probably checked in and was alarmed they had not answered the radio. And Bruce would by now realize Warren wasn’t headed home for a cozy cuppa. They would search Darla Jo. Which would be missing.
Time was fleeting.
Warren had a plan. Alexa thought she knew what it was. Feed Kopae to the sharks. Like Andy Gray. She couldn’t wait for rescue.
Her best bet was to overpower Warren. She crept backwards, to the bow, searching for a weapon. Her eyes went to the pole Warren had used to cast off, but it was narrow and long. Alexa was worried her swing would be off. She grabbed a rusting smokestack attached to a metal box, wrestled, but she couldn’t pry it loose. She yelped when a gull—a storm-bird?—flew at her as Darla Jo hit a broadside wave and listed. She stumbled and stubbed her toe against a wooden hatch protruding from the deck. She studied it, her heart pounding, and decided it was a back door to the cargo area below. The hatch was straddled by a hand-cranked winch and pulley hook that looked as if it could lift a laden net from the sea.
She lunged for the trap door handle, pulled with might, her gaff wound gaping with the effort, the metal handle slick with rain.
Oof. It groaned open.
The stench of rotting fish flooded the air. There was no ladder, no light. Just a black hole.
Alexa sat on her butt, swatted the slicker out of the way, swung her legs so they dangled over the abyss, positioned herself, and dropped.
Thunk.
She landed on something rubbery and cold. Slid off. Scrambled to her knees. The keel listed. Alexa crawled forward, the damn camera swinging from her neck, her hands groping the slimy floor, until she felt the wooden side. She stood gingerly, hoping not to crack her head, and groped along the wall. Something sharp pierced her finger.
“Ow,” she cried.
A muffled moan came from the opposite side. A flash of lightning through the hatch lit the hold. Alexa didn’t know what was more horrifying: Kopae netted like a dead fish, or three monstrous shark jaws.