Don't Turn Around (30 page)

“Agreed,” Noa said.

It took them five minutes to reach the hut closest to the pier. Raindrops had started falling, heavy and thick, advance emissaries of a nasty fall storm. Noa tugged the cap down low over her ears. Peter pulled up the collar of his black fleece.

The boat bobbed in the waves. An approaching squall had kicked up whitecaps that splashed against the hull, cresting it at times. It was tied at the bow and stern with ropes wrapped around cleats.

One of Noa’s foster dads had been a crab fisherman. He and his wife took in kids for the government checks that enabled them to make ends meet during the off-season. They kept “the good ones,” as they referred to them, for crab season, too. Unfortunately they hadn’t counted Noa among them.

This boat reminded her of his, battered by years of hard use. It was a twenty-footer with low gunwales and a small open shed protecting the captain’s chair. It was stacked high with pots, even though crab season had ended months ago.

Peter whispered, “What do you think—”

The Quonset hut door ten feet away suddenly slammed open, cutting him off. They both ducked back into the shadows along the side of the building. Noa held her breath and braced to run.

Footsteps crunched on the sandy gravel outside the building. They paused. Noa turned her head and saw Peter’s eyes gazing back at her, wide and scared, mirroring the terror she felt.

“Christ, is this the last load?”

“One more,” a man’s voice said.

“Damn, my back can’t handle much more of this,” the first guy grumbled. He sounded older; a smoker’s wheeze rumbled through his words.

“Storm’s coming up, might have to wait.”

“No freakin’ way I’m hauling them back off the boat,” the smoker complained. “I say we take our chances.”

“Yeah?” The other guy sounded dubious. Noa couldn’t blame him. The rain was coming down harder now. A small boat like that would be tossed mercilessly by the waves.

“We only gotta go out and drop, what, ten pots? Take us an hour.”

“If you say so,” the guy said. “Don’t want to run into the coast guard out there, though.”

The smoker grunted. “Yeah, all right. Kick back for a bit? I got a sixer of Sam Adams.”

“Cole said he’d be back soon,” the other guy said nervously.

“Hell, he don’t want this boat tipping over, either. Least not until it’s supposed to.” Laughter that ended in a cough. “Come on. I’m getting soaked out here.”

“You want to just leave them?”

“It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

The door slammed shut. Footsteps echoed against concrete inside, and there was the sound of a chair scraping the floor.

She and Peter were both hunkered down, and her knees were aching. She slowly got to her feet. Peter hesitated, then straightened. He leaned over, lips brushing her ear as he said urgently, “We gotta go!”

Noa held up a finger, gesturing for him to wait. Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she ducked around the side of the building.

A few feet in front of the door sat an oversized cooler, the kind fishermen used to store bait. The bottom of the container was blue, and its white top was smeared with red streaks.

The metal tinkle of a bottle cap hitting the floor sounded from inside the Quonset hut, then another. Noa kept her ear attuned to the building, straining to hear the low conversation, any indication that one of them might be coming back out.

Her fingers were trembling. She fought to still them as she unclasped the cooler’s latch.

Inside, something was swaddled in plastic. Noa reached out a shaky hand and gingerly drew back the top layer with two fingers.

Her hand brushed against something cold and hard. She drew a deep breath and squinted, trying to see in the darkness, wishing she’d thought to grab the flashlight from Peter.

Finally, she reached down and drew it out.

She’d been braced for fish guts, maybe squid. But when she held it up to the light, she realized it was a human foot. Small, female. Chipped black paint on the toenails. The big toe was curled slightly upward.

Noa couldn’t help herself; she dropped it. It made a small thud when it hit the ground.

“What was that?” came from inside the hut.

Noa scrambled for the foot, overcoming a wave of nausea as she grabbed it and chucked it back in the cooler. She closed the lid. Footsteps approaching the door again. She hurriedly redid the clasp and rushed back to where Peter waited.

The door opened again. Silence. Noa’s cheeks ran wet with rain and tears that came so thick it was hard to see. She wanted to wipe them away, but couldn’t stand the thought of touching anything with that hand. She could still feel the cold flesh against her palm. She repressed a shudder.

“Anything?” the smoker called out from inside.

“The wind, I guess.” But the guy sounded uncertain. “Maybe I should do a quick check.”

“Be my guest,” the smoker said. “I’ll keep a seat warm for you.”

Another long pause, then the door slammed again. Muffled this time, the guy said, “Probably nothing.”

“Damn straight. We’re in the middle of hell and gone.” The smoker barked a laugh. “Night like this, who’d be out there?”

Noa winced as Peter grabbed her hand,
that
hand. She shook him off, ignoring the puzzled look he threw her. She motioned for him to follow, then turned and ran for the next building.

It seemed to take an eternity to reach the fence. Noa kept listening for a pursuit, expecting someone around the bend of every building. She couldn’t get up and over the fence fast enough. The barbed wire snagged the leg of her pants, but she yanked it free. She heard a rip and felt a sharp pain in her calf. She ignored it and dropped down, stumbling a little before regaining her footing. Noa kept her arms clasped to her chest as she ran for the safety of the woods.

Finally she dropped against a tree trunk, gasping for air. Her soaking wet clothes clung to her, making her shiver even harder.

Peter dropped into a squat in front of her. “Are you okay? What the hell happened back there?”

Noa shook her head. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, even though she now realized that as soon as she’d seen the crab pots, she’d known. The tables weren’t empty because the kids had escaped. They were empty because the kids were dead. All of them.

“Crab pots,” she finally managed.

“Yeah?” Peter prodded when she didn’t continue. “What about them? That’s what was on the boat, right?”

“I thought you grew up in Boston.”

“I did.” His brow wrinkled. “So?”

“So you don’t know about crabs?”

“Just that they’re delicious. Why?”

“Bottom-feeders,” Noa said. Bile was rising up her throat. She desperately wanted to throw up, get rid of everything inside her. But that would only weaken her at a time when she needed all her strength. So she choked it back and said, “I lived with a crabber once. He used to joke that you should never piss off a guy who owned a boat and a crab pot.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you put a body in one, there won’t be anything left,” Noa said harshly. “Crabs are like pigs; they eat all of it. Bones, eyes, everything. There would be nothing left to find.”

“But …” Peter’s voice trailed off as he realized what she was saying. He shook his head as if to clear it, then stood and extended an arm down to her. “Come on.” His voice sounded stronger, more adult. Like he’d suddenly aged a decade. “We have to go. The cops will be here soon.”

Noa let him lead her back to the car. It was a cold, wet walk through the woods. A few times she stumbled on roots that jutted up out of the soil, or felt the scrape of a branch against her cheek. Each time Peter caught her and kept her from falling. By the time they got back to the Audi, he was practically carrying her. She leaned her head against his shoulder. Her calf throbbed where the wire had gouged it—hopefully the wound wasn’t too deep.

Peter opened the passenger-side door and helped her in. The NSA program was up and running, she reminded herself. They’d done all they could.

Now they had to get out of here before the storm troopers showed up. How ironic that she was relying on antihacking government agents to save the day.

She just hoped that her assault had caught their attention, and quickly.

Peter pulled on his seat belt and reached for the ignition. He frowned.

“What?” Noa asked.

“I left them in here,” he said, half to himself. “I could swear I did.”

“You left the keys in the ignition?”

“Yeah, just in case … well, I figured one of us might not make it back.” He examined the steering wheel. “That way you could still get out of here, even if I got caught.”

“Oh,” Noa said. That wouldn’t even have occurred to her. Of course, she’d just assumed that if they got caught, it would be over for both of them. “Sure they’re not in your pocket?”

“I’m sure.” He glanced nervously into the backseat. “You don’t think—”

Peter was interrupted by a rap at the window. Noa went cold. The guy who’d chased her into the college library was leaning over, squinting in. He leered at them, dangling a set of car keys from his hand.

Swiftly, the guy opened the door and slid into the backseat.

Peter didn’t recognize him, but then all the guys who stormed his house had basically looked the same. He was dressed in what was apparently their standard uniform: black pants, a heavy jacket, a black knit cap. A nasty scar ran the length of his face—you’d think he would remember seeing that before.

“You’re Cole,” Noa said bluntly.

The guy tossed the keys into the front seat and said, “Drive.”

Peter hesitated. Something cold pressed against the side of his head. He turned and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Peter picked up the keys with shaky hands and fumbled to get them in the ignition.

“Back to the road,” Cole ordered.

Peter obediently threw the car in reverse. The tires dug into mud for a second, then lurched free with a jolt.

“Where are we going?” he asked, slowly backing up. The car bumped and jolted over ruts in the road. Peter prayed for the tires to get mired. If that happened, he might be able to distract Cole, and at least Noa would have a shot at getting away.

“Back to the base. I’ll give you the full tour this time.” Cole’s voice was low and deep and filled with menace.

He tapped Noa on the shoulder with the barrel of the gun. “Can’t believe I got so lucky. I should buy a lottery ticket. How’d you crazy kids end up together?”

Peter glanced over at Noa. She sat rigid, staring straight ahead through the windshield. She didn’t answer.

“Doesn’t matter,” Cole said dismissively. “Makes my life easier. Mason is gonna love this.”

They reached the main road. Peter checked the mirrors, then backed across so he was blocking it. There were air bags on his and Noa’s sides, he suddenly realized. He could gun the engine, ram the car into a tree. Cole would go right through the windshield.

He glanced into the rearview mirror. Cole was eyeing him. “Don’t get cute, kid,” he said. “Trust me, I can put a hole in both your heads before we get five feet. Now turn right.”

Peter gritted his teeth but complied. The headlights illuminated the swath of road leading back to the abandoned naval base, windshield wipers working hard against the solid wash of rain. Some of it collected at the bottom in icy pellets.

The gate stood open. Beside it was a guy dressed identically to Cole: probably one of the men from the boat. He looked miserable. Cole muttered something under his breath about incompetence. “Stop here,” he said, and they pulled up next to the guy.

The guy leaned in. Peter guessed he was the one with the gruffer voice. Close-up he looked like a fisherman, graying scruff on his cheeks, oily strands of hair pasted to the sides of his face below a watch cap. He had on a black Carhartt jacket and thick rubber boots. He leaned in as Cole unrolled the window.

“I told you, we didn’t—”

A sharp
crack!
and the guy staggered back a few feet, a shocked expression on his face. A red hole had appeared in the center of his forehead. He dropped to the ground.

Cole rolled the window up. “Keep driving,” he ordered. “All the way to the end.”

Beside him, Noa gasped. Peter would have made a noise, too, but found that his voice box had stopped working. He was frozen with fear, utterly paralyzed by it. His ears throbbed from the concussion. He’d never heard a gun go off before. It was loud, much louder than on TV. His eyes were locked on the guy’s still form. A steady line of red seeped out the back of his head, joining a muddy rivulet created by the rain.

“Pull it together, kid,” Cole said, sounding bored. “Drive, or I do the same to you and take the wheel.”

Peter looked at Noa. She was staring at the empty space where the man had stood, mouth agape with shock, eyes abnormally wide. Her gaze shifted to him, and they shared a look of horror.

“You’d better do what he says,” she finally said in a hoarse voice.

Peter forced himself to turn back to the road in front of him. The windshield swam as though the car had slipped underwater. Mechanically, he flicked the wipers to the highest setting and eased his foot off the brake. The car edged forward.

The line of buildings hunched like lonely sentinels as they passed. They seemed to have assumed a life of their own, bloodthirsty creatures awaiting the order to pounce.

“Stop,” Cole ordered, and they pulled up alongside the final building. The door was ajar. Inside Peter could make out a shadowy figure: the other guy who had been loading coolers onto the boat.

“What’s going to happen to us?” Noa’s voice was oddly bereft of emotion, like she’d already given up.

“Not sure yet. I gotta call it in.” Cole smiled, his teeth startlingly white. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’re the golden goose. Your buddy here, though … he might have a date with a crab pot.”

Noa drew her breath in sharply. Peter wanted to reach out and take her hand again, let her know that it was okay. Maybe his parents would be able to convince Mason to let him live. He pictured the rage on his father’s face the night he left and his heart sank. Probably not. Bob and Priscilla might already be remodeling his bedroom. Jeremy’s was a guest room now. He hadn’t been dead a month when the decorators came in.