As if on cue, she heard Willy say, “Hey, shitbird. Drop the goods and show your hands.”
That was instantly followed by a loud bang and a crash, Willy letting out a grunt and Lester yelling, “Go, go, go. He’s a runner.”
The door behind Scully banged open to reveal Ryan Hatch, his
eyes wide, stopping for a split second, looking around, and then preparing to sprint for the Elliot Street exit.
Sam shoved Maura out of the way, pulled her gun from her holster, and yelled, “
Do not move. Police
.”
Ryan didn’t hesitate. He pulled his own gun from under his T-shirt just as Maura regained her balance and threw herself against Sam.
Ryan’s gun cracked sharply once before he took off. Sam, grabbed by a bullet low in her right leg, spun around and fell as Maura began screaming.
Lester appeared outside first, and ran over to Sam. Willy flew out behind him, instinctively took in his partner’s grimace and the nature of her wound, and went after the fleeing Ryan.
The latter’s speed served him well, allowing him to cross the lot, straddle the motorcycle none of them had noticed, fire it up, and begin rolling, just as Willy came within two feet of laying his hand on the young man’s shirt.
Willy didn’t hesitate, even as the bike squealed away in a plume of burning rubber. He threw himself behind the wheel of his car, and—covert siren and lights ignited—followed the motorcycle out of the lot, turning right and heading west up Elliot, toward the fire department’s central station.
It was a short chase, even with the bike’s speed and agility. Willy, not radioing for help or pursuing Ryan from a safe distance, crushed the accelerator instead and sent the car off like a rocket. Pedestrians and traffic scattered before him, he bounced off the side of a car parked beside the dry cleaner’s, and just as Ryan had to slow down for a vehicle entering from the side, Willy simply ran him down at top speed, smashing him between his front bumper and the side of the obstructing car.
Ryan flew over the roof as if shot from a catapult and landed in a heap in the middle of the street, a pool of blood slowly spreading from under his head.
Willy swung out of his wrecked car, ignored the other driver, who was shaking his head in a daze, and walked around to where Ryan lay motionless.
He stared at the body for a moment, noticing the slightly moving chest, and said softly, “You’re it, asshole.”
J
oe hopped from the bow of the Zodiac and quickly looped the line around the nearest cleat. Randy Coffin spun the wheel, snugged the rest of the boat up fast against the piling, killed the engines, and did the same with the stern line.
They were one dock down from where Beale’s boat was quietly bobbing on the water.
“See anyone?” she whispered.
It was midmorning in Lubec, and yet the view down Water Street wasn’t much more crowded than in the middle of the night.
Gunther studied the distant lobster boat for half a minute. “Nope.”
They left their mooring spot and circled around to the other dock—watchful, hands on holstered weapons, sensitive to any movement either on board or in the immediate surroundings.
But all remained serene.
“
Ahoy
,” Randy finally called out. “Maine Marine Patrol. Anyone aboard?”
Hearing nothing, she cautiously stepped on deck, with Joe close behind, and approached the open cabin door.
“Nothing,” she announced.
They went below and saw the cut loops of duct tape lying on the floor.
“No blood,” she commented hopefully.
Joe was already headed back up. “Where the hell’s Cathy?”
They had finally reached Cathy Lawless via radio from the Zodiac and got her to agree to meet with them here.
Randy followed him back out and scanned the two streets visible from the dock.
“There.” She pointed to a car approaching from the distant corner, where Water Street met the bridge over to Campobello Island.
The two of them walked to the edge of Commercial Street and waited for the dark sedan Randy had spotted. Inside were Cathy Lawless and her monosyllabic partner, Dave Beaubien.
“Hey, guys,” Cathy greeted them. “You made good time.” She glanced beyond them. “That the boat?”
“Yeah,” Randy told her. “Empty. Found this.” She dangled one of the loops of duct tape.
“Ouch,” Cathy said. “Sorry, Joe.” She reached over the back of her seat to move a bag out of the way. “Climb in. Let’s figure out what’s what.”
Joe and Randy complied, transforming the car into a miniature office.
“Hey, Dave,” Joe greeted Beaubien glumly.
Dave merely nodded his response.
“Did you get the town clerk to find out what property Beale owns?” Joe asked, following up on the second half of the conversation they’d shared on the radio.
“Two she could identify,” Cathy told them. “A residence on Mowry and an abandoned warehouse somewhere ahead of us.” She pointed
down Commercial Street. “As far as I could tell, the Mowry address is our best bet—the clerk said she was amazed the warehouse was still standing. Plus, the address on that one was a little vague.”
Randy looked at Joe. “We’re just along to watch your back. What’s your preference?”
He paused. “The house seems more likely, and I’m worried about losing more time.”
“Want to leave half of us here, while the rest go to the house?”
“Where’s ‘here’?” Joe asked. “I thought you weren’t sure of the warehouse’s location.”
Cathy nodded. “Cool. What about the boat?”
In answer, Randy dangled the ignition keys from her hand.
Cathy pulled away from the side of the road. “Done.”
Mowry Street may have been on the far side of town, but that only translated to a three-minute drive across five blocks. Lubec was sparsely populated, hosting only a handful of lobster boats; its school was facing extinction, its locals were selling their homes to wealthy vacationers, and employment often consisted of a round robin of blueberry picking, Christmas wreath making, and the odd carpentry job. Although appreciative of many a spruced-up and handsome home—and of a neat and picturesque village, overall—the four cops weren’t startled to see a run-down, tiny house surrounded by rusting metal lobster traps and three abandoned cars by the time they reached Beale’s property.
“La Maison Beale,” Cathy announced, killing the engine. She twisted in her seat before asking, “Just so we all stay on the same page, what’re we looking at?”
Joe understood the question and, despite his anxiety, tried to answer it professionally. “Possible kidnapping, maybe worse, but the evidence is thin. Lyn somehow arranged to meet Beale. Randy and I
interviewed a guy who saw them step onto Beale’s boat, but no signs of coercion aside from the informant saying that Lyn didn’t look happy.”
Cathy pulled a face. “That could mean she didn’t like getting seasick, too.”
Joe swallowed most of his protests. “Before she vanished, she did tell me she would stay put till I got there.”
She smiled at him. “Good enough for me. Let’s kick some ass.”
They got out and slowly approached the decrepit house in a spreadout straight line, covering all entrances. Joe and Cathy then met at the front door, on which she hammered unceremoniously with the heel of her hand.
“Wellman Beale? Open up. Police.”
To their shared amazement, the door opened within seconds, revealing the same heavyset, scowling man Joe had met weeks earlier, and whom he’d interviewed in vain about the disappearance of Lyn’s father and brother.
Adding to the surprise, Beale immediately recognized Joe and gave him a sarcastic smile. “Couldn’t find Vermont?”
Joe nodded to him. “Came back for you.”
“Wellman Beale?” Cathy asked formally.
“Trick question, right?”
“Where were you last night?”
“Taking a shit.”
“Were you or were you not in Jonesport?”
“Like you don’t know.”
“Answer the question.”
“I were. Do I win something?”
“Nothing you’ll like,” Cathy said. “You were seen with a woman, getting onto your boat and leaving harbor. Do you admit that?”
Beale glanced at Joe and raised an eyebrow. “A lot of women have gotten onto that boat, and not one of them’s ever complained.”
“Answer the question.”
“Yeah, I gave a quick tour of the harbor to some skinny broad. She wanted to see the sights.”
“That include taking her to Lubec?”
A quick shift of his eyes from one to the other of them preceded his answer. “Bullshit.”
Cathy leaned forward slightly. “You really think after all the crap you’ve pulled that you can walk around without our knowing? We’ve been putting your tax dollars to work, Wellman.”
He shifted his weight. “Well, you wasted your money. I dropped her off, like I said.”
“Then you’ll invite us in to look around.”
His readiness gave him away. He stepped back and waved a hand. “I’m real embarrassed. The maid’s a cow. The place is a mess.”
“We’ll survive,” Cathy said, brushing by with Joe, as Randy and Dave stayed at the door to watch Beale.
Of course, it led to nothing. He was right about the mess and, unfortunately, about there being nobody else on the premises.
Joe and Cathy paused alone in what passed for a living room.
“No surprise,” she said softly. “What do you want to do?”
Joe pulled on his ear, fighting to keep focused. “We can’t roust him for anything.”
“Nothing that’ll stick.”
“She’s got to be in the warehouse—it belongs to him and it’s near the boat.”
“Don’t have a warrant,” she reminded him, “not that we couldn’t use exigent circumstances.”
He pointed to the front of the house, where they could hear Beale
talking to the other two. “We have the man with the key. Why don’t we let him use it?”
“You mean tail him?” Cathy asked. “He’s going to know we’re watching.”
Joe smiled. “Unless he thinks it’s his lucky day. Call Dave on his cell phone and try this out . . .”
Moments later, Dave Beaubien stepped back a couple of paces from Beale’s front door to answer his cell. He nodded a couple of times, snapped it shut, and spoke to Randy. “Get them out of there. We’ve got a cluster fuck just north of Machias—a tractor-trailer into a school bus.”
“Oh, my God,” Randy said as Dave shoved Beale aside.
“Move it,” Dave said. “
Cathy
,” he called out. “We gotta go. Big-time ten-fifty outside Machias—multiple casualties. They need everybody.”
Cathy and Joe appeared from the house’s dark interior. “What happened?” she asked.
“Truck versus bus. We’ll have to do this later.”
Joe protested. “Wait. We got the son of a bitch right here.”
Cathy turned to him as the other two headed for the car. “Sorry. Maybe the sheriff can spare a babysitter to keep you company. We’ll drop you off at his office on the way.” She pointed a finger at Beale, who could barely contain a smile. “You stay put, jackass. I hear you’ve moved one foot off this property, I will bury you. You understand? We’ll be right back, so you better be here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Beale answered her. “Absolutely will not move a muscle.”
Joe hesitated. “I’ll stay with him.”
Cathy looked peeved. “You don’t have a car, you have no jurisdiction, and we’ll be right back. Get in the car, for Chrissake.”
Defeated, Joe avoided eye contact with Beale and angrily joined the rest of them in the car. Cathy took off with tires spinning.
“Think he bought it?” she asked as she turned off Mowry onto Pleasant and began heading back to the boats.
“Bought what?” Randy asked.
“Our bullshit. We wanted to leave the coast clear for him.”
“We hope he’ll beat feet for the warehouse,” Joe explained. “Sorry.”
She laughed. “No problem. Better that than a bunch of mangled kids. What’s the plan?”
Cathy stopped at the corner of Washington Street, which paralleled Mowry one block away. “Only two ways for him to leave—this corner and where Mowry does a forty-five to hook up with this road one street up. One of us gets out here and tucks into the pucker brush to watch; another does the same at the other corner; and Joe and I stake out the warehouse. Whoever sees him first gets on a cell to update the others about what’s up. If we’re right, we’ll be back together on Commercial Street in a few minutes.”
Randy had already opened her door. “Got it. Talk to you soon.”
Cathy swung left, dropped off Dave, and then took Church Street and Eureka to return to Commercial and the harbor. As Joe sat in the passenger seat, watching the gently hilly neighborhoods speed by, he couldn’t focus on the quaint wooden buildings, the church, or even the town’s most prominent feature—a bright blue, towering, silolike structure, presumably a water tower, stamped with the town’s name. Instead, he thought only of Lyn, and hoped they were still in time.
As it turned out, the warehouse’s vague address explained itself instantly—it was the only such structure standing, if barely. Cathy hid the car out of sight behind a pile of weed-choked dirt, and she
and Joe chose their hiding places far to either side of the place’s entrance.
Then they waited.
As hoped, it didn’t take long. Joe’s cell buzzed on his belt fifteen minutes later.
“It’s me,” Cathy told him from her spot. “Dave called. Beale just drove by, slow and careful and looking all over the place. If we’re right, he should be here right about now.”
“Got it,” Joe told her, adding, despite his instincts, “Let’s see what he does.”
“What do you think that’ll be?” she asked skeptically.
“What I’d do,” he told her. “Put Lyn back on the boat and head out to sea. That’s his comfort zone.”
“He won’t just kill her?”
Joe appreciated her directness, while hating the thought. “If he comes here, it means she’s either still alive or he needs to dump her body. Either way, he’ll want to get back on that boat.”
After a moment’s pause, Cathy responded, “Well, you’re right about the first part. I can see his car now.”
The phone went dead. A few seconds later, Joe saw what Cathy had, and Beale’s car slid into view onto the hardscrabble parking area adjoining the warehouse entrance.