Death Echo (10 page)

NEAR
ROSARIO

4:10 P.M.

T
he Learjet turned in the late afternoon sunlight and lined up for its final approach to the asphalt strip at the Lopez County Airport. The co-pilot stuck his head through the open cockpit doorway.

“Short-runway landing coming up,” he called back into the cabin. “Come and get this sweet little thing before she ends up as part of the electronics.”

“I’m on it,” Joe Faroe said before his wife could get up.

He put aside his laptop and went forward to grab his daughter, who was examining every ripple and shadow on the plane’s floor. He swung her up easily into the crook of one long arm.

“Did you find any yummy cigarette butts or globs of things better left unidentified?” he asked her.

She drooled and patted his mouth.

“Haven’t you ever heard of don’t ask, don’t tell?” Grace said without looking up from the computer on her lap.

“Don’t you listen to her, sweetie,” Faroe said. He lowered Annalise into the special airline seat and fastened her restraint. “You always want to come to Daddy and tell all, especially about boys.”

Grace shook her head. “You just keep dreaming, darling. You’re cute.”

Faroe stretched, then sat in the seat next to Annalise and fastened his own seatbelt. “You’re the only one who thinks so.”

She flashed him a look out of dark eyes that made him wish he was alone with her. In bed.

“That’s because I know you so well,” Grace said.

He smiled slowly. “I love you.”

“Same goes. And the light of your life is chewing on her restraint.”

He looked over at Annalise. “Gumming it, actually.”

“Bleh.”

“Good for her immune system,” Faroe said.

Grace rolled her eyes. “Give her a cracker.”

“She’ll just turn it into mush and smear it over everything in reach, including her loving daddy. They’ll bill us extra for cleaning the plane. Why don’t they make kids’ chewies as tough as the ones for dogs?”

“Do you know what dog chewies are made of?”

“Pig ears.”

“And bull pizzles.”

“What?” Faroe asked.

“Penises. From male bovines.”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“Not.”

“Cover your ears, sweetie,” Faroe said to Annalise as he reached into the bag beneath her seat. “Your mama’s talking dirty. Here you go, beautiful.”

Chubby fingers wrapped around the thick cracker Faroe held out. She shoved a corner of it into her drooling mouth and gummed blissfully.

“You strapped in?” he asked Grace.

“The instant I got back from the head.” She finished the document page and went on to the next as the pilot announced the upcoming landing. She had one more recommendation to file before she could devote her full attention to the brushfire presently burning St. Kilda’s ass. “Someone should just blow that place to the darkest reaches of hell.”

“Which place?”

“Silnice hanby.”

“The Highway of Shame,” Faroe said.

“Where young girls sell themselves to old men and sadists for a handful of rotten food,” Grace said wearily. “Then there are all the weapons, nuclear and otherwise, that trundle along that freeway to hell. Not to mention the traffic in children destined for foreign whorehouses.”

Faroe looked at his daughter and silently vowed it would never happen to her.

“It’s why we keep working bad hours,” Grace said, understanding her husband.

“It’s never enough.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s never enough. But it’s all we have.”

“I still want you the hell away from Seattle.”

“We’ve been over this so often I feel like a digital recording. If you’re here without me and Annalise, it’s news to anyone who’s watching you. Deal with it, Joe. A lot of bad people care about where you are and what you’re doing.”

“But—”

“As the unforgettable Alara said, if we go in soft, we have a fallback position.”

“I don’t like it having you and Annalise here. If Alara is right, it’s too damn dangerous.”

“You think I like having Annalise here?” Grace looked at their sleeping child. “But liking it doesn’t matter.” She let out a long breath. “I believe in St. Kilda. So we do what we can do. If that goes to hell, we do something else.”

“Fast,” Faroe muttered.

And pray that fast was quick enough.

ROSARIO

5:30 P.M.

E
mma kept one eye on her watch and the other on
Blackbird.
It was still crawling with techs, but there were a lot less boxes waiting on the dock to be installed on the boat.

Damn it, Mac. Where are you?

She sensed he was out there, somewhere, watching as she was watching. But she couldn’t keep an eye on
Blackbird
and MacKenzie Durand at the same time.

I’ll be nearby.

She grimaced as she remembered his words.
Yeah. Right. We have an appointment, big boy. You don’t know where or when.

Her cell phone rang. Faroe. She picked it up.

“He’s not here,” she said.

“But he kept his promise,” Faroe said. “He’s nearby. You can’t see him from where you are. I can. Come toward the second marina ramp. He’s talking with the lady in the shrimp shack. Which is a boat. When Captain Di of the
No Shrimp
is lucky, she sells fresh prawns off the back deck to locals who know how to find her. You’re going to buy some.”

“You’re telling me to leave
Blackbird
uncovered.”

“Grace can see into the marina from our motel room. Annalise is sleeping like the innocent she is. We’re covered.”

“See you at the shrimp shack.”

Emma disconnected, got out, locked the Jeep, and walked across the parking lot toward the second marina ramp. As she went down the ramp, she discovered that the “shrimp shack” was indeed a scow tied off just below the ramp. The idea of eating fresh, never-frozen, never-chemically altered shrimp made her stomach growl.

“I hope Captain Di was lucky,” Emma said, licking her lips as she walked up to Mac.

Mac watched her tongue and decided prawns were the least he could do for her.

Captain Di’s laugh was as big as she was. It echoed up the ramp. “Mac there has a hungry look about him.”

He smiled. “Nothing better than prawns. Well, almost nothing.” The woman laughed again, grabbed a small net, and headed for the live tanks at the stern of her boat. “How many pounds?”

“Coon-stripe or spot?” he asked.

“Spot.”

“Two pounds.” Mac looked at her. “I’ll cook aboard the
Autonomy.
”

“Make it four,” Emma said in a low voice. “I crave prawns after days of fast food. And there will be at least one more eating with us.”

“That explains why I’ve been feeling like I have crosshairs on the back of my neck,” Mac said, his voice equally soft. Then, in a carrying tone, “Make it a heavy four, Captain Di. The lady is hungry.”

The sound of Di’s laugh covered any noise Faroe might have made coming down the marina ramp. Mac turned around anyway, warned by the vibration of the dock beneath his feet.

Faroe nodded at him, but walked right past toward the
Autonomy.
Without hesitation he swung aboard Mac’s boat.

“He has his own boat,” Emma said softly.

“Looks like it.”

“Is your boat locked?”

“Would it make a difference?”

She almost smiled. “Probably not.”

She walked back on the dock until she was even with the stern of
No Shrimp.
Captain Di was weighing and wrapping prawns. Their bodies snapped and rustled against the clear plastic bag. Emma recognized the tails, but the whole animal was something she hadn’t seen alive. She paid for the prawns and walked back to Mac carrying dinner squirming in a plastic bag.

“Modern woman,” Captain Di said, nodding and pocketing the cash with approval.

“You have no idea,” Mac said.

Captain Di’s laughter followed them down the dock.

“Does that mean you’ll clean them?” Mac asked. “Or are we eating them Asian style?”

She raised her eyebrows in silent question.

“Whole,” Mac said.

“Forget it. I’ll help clean them.”

“Ever done it before?”

“No. Is it tricky?”

He glanced at her. “Basically, you just rip their little heads off.”

“I think my skill level is up to that.”

“How about your stomach?”

“Beats eating them whole.”

Mac was still trying not to laugh as he helped Emma aboard the
Autonomy.
When he opened the salon door, Faroe was sitting at the shadowed banquette, watching the readout on a palm-sized electronic device.

Nobody spoke until Mac closed the door.

“Boat’s clean,” Faroe said, coming to his feet. “So are both of you.” He held out his hand to Mac. “Joe Faroe. Sorry about the informality.”

Mac looked at Faroe, shook his hand, and said, “Usually I dump people over the side when they come aboard without permission.”

Faroe nodded. “It’s the same on my boat. The
TAZ
is my own private place.”

“TAZ?”
Emma asked.

“As in Temporary Autonomous Zone,” Faroe said.

She looked at Mac. “I sense an area of agreement here.”

“Autonomy,” Faroe said. “Nice thing to have.”

“Or to think you have,” Mac said neutrally.

Faroe’s smile made him look younger, less like a man you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. His intense green eyes gleamed with humor. “Like she said, an area of agreement.”

“We’ll see.” Mac took the plastic bag from Emma. “Why don’t we clean these while your boss explains why I shouldn’t treat him like a big prawn?”

“Rip his head off?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He took her to the galley and emptied the prawns into the sink.

She looked at the seething, snapping mass, like Halloween with ebony eyes and countless orange bodies. “Now what?”

“Grab the head in one hand and the body in the other and twist, like wringing a washrag,” Mac said. “But be careful. Spot prawns have pointy parts that draw blood.”

“So does Joe.”

Mac remembered Faroe’s relaxed yet fully balanced moves as he boarded the boat. “That’s why I’m cleaning prawns instead of him.”

“Good choice.”

Faroe looked from one to the other and shook his head. “Grace was right about you.”

“Who?” they said simultaneously.

“Move over,” was all Faroe said. “I’ll help rip heads.”

“Keep your hands clean and open one of the New Zealand whites I have in the fridge,” Mac said. “Glasses are in the cupboard next to the sink.” To Emma he said, “Put the tails in the blue plastic bowl to your right.”

“This is going to be interesting,” Faroe said, opening the tiny fridge.

“What?” Mac asked.

“You like to give orders. So do I. Could be interesting when we work together.”

“If, not when.”

Faroe ignored him.

Before they had cleaned half the prawns, Faroe had the wine opened, poured, and was rummaging through the galley for a big pot to heat water in. While the water came to a boil, the men finished cleaning dinner and talked about the joys and drawbacks of boat ownership.

No one mentioned
Blackbird
.

Emma left the men to sizing each other up, took her wounded fingers to the head, and washed them thoroughly. The flesh of the prawns looked like translucent pearl, but the “sharp bits” protecting the succulent flesh drew blood and stung like the devil. She dried her hands and rejoined the men.

They both cleaned prawns with an efficiency she could only admire.

After a bare taste of the crisp white wine, she set the table and tore up the salad makings she had found in the fridge. A loaf of fresh bread with butter rounded out the meal.

When they sat down to the very fresh, just-barely-cooked prawns, she looked at her fingers ruefully.

“I’m still oozing,” she said.

“Told you they were sharp,” Mac said.

“Don’t hire him,” she said to Faroe. “I hate the ‘told you so’ kind of man.”

Faroe ignored both of them. He savored the succulent delicacy. When he took a break to breathe, he praised the lines and workmanship of
Autonomy
.

Despite himself, Mac began to relax. There was little that he liked better than sharing his love of his boat.

Making small, throaty sounds of pleasure, Emma went through the prawns like a quick-fingered lawn mower, leaving nothing but small pieces of shell behind. Then she wiped her hands, took her plate to the galley sink, and drank her fifth sip of wine while she finished her salad.

“It’s getting too dark to watch
Blackbird
from the motel window,” she said, reaching for her small purse. “Unless you brought night-viewing equipment?”

“We’re on vacation,” Faroe said. “But if you need it, I’ll get it. So far they’ve kept the dock lit up like opening night.”

Mac said, “Don’t worry about
Blackbird.
She’s not going anywhere until tomorrow.”

“How do you know?” Faroe asked.

“Common sense. And her transit captain told me.”

Faroe didn’t move, didn’t shift his expression, but suddenly Mac was the sole focus of the other man’s attention.

“Why?” Faroe asked.

“I’ve known him since first grade,” Mac said. “The common sense took a lot longer.” He wiped his hands as he met Faroe’s hard green eyes. “And I pushed.”

“Are transit jobs usually secret?” Emma asked.

Both men said, “No.”

Emma waited.

Faroe asked, “Is he smuggling?”

“Why would I tell you?” Mac said. “I’ve barely known you for an hour.”

She watched them exchange level looks and wondered how badly this “interview” was about to end.

“If it’s weed or cigarettes,” Faroe said, “I’ll kiss your friend on all four cheeks and wish him bon voyage.”

Mac looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Tommy didn’t mention smuggling to me. That doesn’t mean he isn’t carrying hot cargo. It just means he didn’t talk about it with me.”