Fairstein, Linda - Silent Mercy
“I see it,” I said, nosing the car past the row of stores and restaurants, beyond the scattered buildings of the Oceanographic Institute.
A solo officer was pacing the sidewalk at the end of the dock, talking to someone on his radio, when he saw us get out of the Rhode Island trooper’s car.
The device squawked as he waited for a reply. “You the New Yorkers?”
“Yeah,” Mike answered.
I walked beyond them to the shiny white truck that had been backed into a parking space, blocked from the view of traffic by a large RV that stuck out into the street.
“I was just calling this in to my office,” the cop said. “It’s the stolen vehicle from New Jersey. Got the broadcast a couple of hours ago.”
“How long ago was it ditched?”
“It wasn’t here at eleven, when I came on duty. I’m pretty sure of that.”
“Get Crime Scene on it,” Mike said. “Bust it open. We got things to do.”
The cop gave a halfhearted laugh. “I maybe can get you Crime Scene in a day or two.”
“Then make it a locksmith or a safecracker. Break it open. We’re looking for a woman who’s probably been locked inside there for twenty-four hours.”
The cop seemed shell-shocked by the orders Mike was directing at him.
“We can’t take the chance that Zukov has left Chat behind in there,” I said. “He’s always staged his bodies at a far more dramatic setting. I don’t want to wait till they get this open. We can’t afford to do that if she’s still alive.”
Mike pounded his fist on the side of the truck repeatedly. If Chat was inside it, she wasn’t capable of sending a signal back to him.
He walked to the other side of the truck and called Chat’s name, then turned back to the cop. “Seen anyone around the docks this evening? People you don’t know?”
“Just the regulars. A few old guys fishing for squid off the end. Only thing unusual I saw was a big black duffel bag out on the walkway leading to the dock as I drove through. But by the time I cruised the street and turned around, it was gone. Figured someone was picking it up off his boat.”
Mike looked at me. “Didn’t Luther’s friend — what’s his name?. .”
“Shaquille.”
“Didn’t Shaquille tell us the killer at Mount Neboh had the body in a large sack, like a duffel bag?”
“Sure he did. I’m telling you, Zukov’s on the move with Chat.”
“I think you’re right.”
“How about boats?” I asked the cop. “You know the harbor well enough to tell me if anything is missing?”
“There’s a twenty-two-foot Grady-White sits right over there most of the time,” he said, pointing to an empty space on the dock between two other motor boats. “She belongs to the guy who owns the liquor store, but he’s not usually on the water at this hour. The Phantom Flyer, he calls it.”
“Put out an APB for that one,” Mike said. “You got a gun I can borrow for an hour or two?”
The cop shook his head. “We don’t patrol with guns.”
“Then you’d better rouse all the help you can get. We’re going over to Penikese.”
FIFTY
“WHERE’S the Coast Guard?” I asked the cop. “We were supposed to have lots of backup here, waiting for us.”
“I can’t imagine anyone promised you that. A trawler overturned in Nantucket Sound around midnight. Most of the guys are out on search and rescue. Four crewmen still missing.”
I saw a light in the little shack at the far end of the harbor and started to jog toward it. “C’mon, Mike. I’ll get you there.”
“Let’s just untie a boat. Jump-start it.”
“I’d never be able to find my way. Fog, rips, shallows, the current. Let’s get a pro.”
“At this hour? I thought you said that nothing runs.”
“Nothing commercial. But we’ll make one take a run.”
I reached the shack, barely larger than a phone booth. The startled attendant was awakened from his nap by the sound of my footsteps on the dock.
“We’re from New York. He’s a homicide detective. I’m a prosecutor. We need a ride on the Patriot now. Now.”
“Everybody’s in a hurry tonight. Are you two with that tall guy who was jumping from boat to boat an hour or so ago? I chased him right out of here.”
“We’re not with him,” Mike said. “We’re after him.”
The man placed his arthritic hands on his thighs and stood up. “Let me see what I can do about that.”
“Is the Patriot here?”
“Right over there. Morning papers should be aboard shortly.”
The Patriot fleet consisted of half a dozen workhorse boats — forty-five feet long — each more useful than decorative. They were available for private hire all night, often by Vineyarders who missed the last ferry over, or entertainers leaving after an evening gig on the island. The things we counted on to make our lives normal — from daily newspapers to fresh bagels — motored across on one of these boats.
Unlike the Steamship Authority ferries, which halted service in severe weather, there was almost nothing that could stop a Patriot from making a trip.
Mike beat me to the boat. There was a light on in the cabin, and I lowered myself over the side and knocked on the window.
The captain was bundled up in a down jacket, with a Red Sox ski cap pulled down over his ears. He was reading a copy of the Boston Globe, probably waiting for the New York Times delivery before the first three a.m. crossing to Oak Bluffs.
“Captain? I’m Alex Cooper. This is Mike Chapman. What’ll it take to hire you for an emergency run?”
To my surprise, when the captain’s head picked up, I could see she was a young woman.
“Emergency?” she said, dropping the paper and getting to her feet. “To the Vineyard?”
“No, no. To Penikese?”
“At two in the morning?”
Mike took over. His charm might work faster with the attractive boater. “Look, Miss…”
“Lynch. Maggie Rubey Lynch.”
“Give me that newspaper, Maggie.”
She picked up her copy of the early edition of the Globe and handed it to Mike.
“See this bastard?” he said, pointing to the head shot of Zukov that was on top of the fold of the morning news. “We’re thinking he’s over on Penikese, and he’s likely to kill the girl who’s with him unless you can get us there. Just a drop-off. You just put us on the rock and head back to port. That’s all we’re asking.”
She didn’t flinch for a second. “Let’s go. It’s kind of rough out there. I need you to sit down, okay?”
“Whatever you say.”
I guessed Maggie to be about thirty years old. She had platinum hair, from the wisps that had slipped out beneath her cap, bright blue eyes, and an easy smile. But she also had the complete confidence of someone who had probably spent her entire life on the water, as evidenced by each of the steps she took to release the lines, raise the bumpers, and ease the Patriot out of its slip.
Mike got on his cell and again called the lieutenant. The reception was patchy, but it would be his last chance to reach out to anyone. The up-island half of the Vineyard had no cell service, so I knew that Penikese would be a dead zone too.
“Where’s the frigging Coast Guard, Loo? I can’t hear you,” Mike said, shouting over the noise of the engines. “I know there was an accident. We’re on our way to this leper colony, you got that? Call the Navy, call the Marines. I don’t give a shit what you have to do, but we need — hello? Hello?”
“You’re talking to the wind out here,” Maggie said.
“You got that right.”
“We’re into the bay now. It’s going to get bumpy.”
The water was practically black. The boat heaved in the waves and tossed us from side to side. Maggie held on to the wheel, keeping an eye on the radar and GPS to guide us toward our destination. I knew the moon was almost full, but fog had blanketed Buzzards Bay and it was impossible to see the heavens.
“What’s your plan?” I asked Mike.
“I’m working on one.”
He was a nervous flier, and I worried that motion sickness might overcome him on this short ride.
“Are you queasy?”
“It’s not like a plane that’s going to fall out of the sky on me, Coop. These are just bumps in the road.” He was trying to convince himself that was true.
The waves came at us hard. “I’m counting on you for a plan. It’ll take your mind off your stomach.”
“Just watching the captain calms me.”
Maggie smiled at him. “This is nothing. They’re predicting six-foot swells later this week.”
“Where are you able to put us off?”
“You know Penikese?” she asked me.
“I haven’t been in years.”
“It’s pretty uninhabitable. A few primitive buildings the school maintains, but they’re completely shut down ’cause next weekend is Easter. I picked a teacher up about two weeks ago. There’s a jetty on the eastern end. If the rip doesn’t smash me up on it, it’s the best place to let you go.”
“Can you try for something a little more optimistic?” Mike asked.
Maggie flashed a big, pretty smile. “Hey, I can be as upbeat as the next guy, but there’s not much hope on Penikese. You sure you don’t want me to wait for you?”
Mike was clutching the rim of the life preserver that was mounted on the wall behind his bench. “What I’d really like you to do is play Paul Revere for us. Hightail it back to base and raise an armada for me. Come back with any able-bodied seamen you can find. You’ll get extra credit if they bring weapons.”
“That’s a deal, Detective,” she said. “We’re half a mile out. You get ready to offload.”
I stood up and steadied myself by holding on to the metal rails above my head. The color had drained from Mike’s face. I thought he was going to be sick.
“Don’t look at me that way,” he said. “I’m good.”
“Do you have any flashlights we can use?” I asked Maggie.
“Sure. Lift up the top of that bench.”
I removed two from her supply stash. “And this length of rope?”
“Go for it,” Maggie said. “It’s likely to be slippery on the rocks, so watch your step.”
She had killed the engine and was maneuvering the boat along the end of the jetty. She stepped to the side and tossed another rope around a rotting wooden upright that once must have been part of a pier to hold us in place long enough to disembark.
I stuffed one flashlight in my rear pocket and hoisted myself up on the gunwale of the sturdy boat. Mike slowly got to his feet, and while I wrapped the rope I had taken around my waist, he stepped off onto the large, moss-covered rocks of the jetty.
“Thanks a million, Maggie.”
“I’ll be back,” she said softly. “I promise. You watch yourselves, will you?”
“You keep your half of the deal and we’ll keep ours. See you later.” I pushed against the stern of the boat with one leg and waved her off.
The wind howled across the barren landscape. Scrubby trees bent and blew, and the spray from the waves dashing against the jetty drenched the calves of my jeans.
Mike started to walk toward land, taking deep breaths and being careful to step on the flattest rocks.
If either of us thought that moonlight might break through the mist to guide us onto the island, we were greatly mistaken. Our flashlights stayed lodged in our pockets. We were both unwilling to attract Zukov’s attention, hoping he hadn’t seen the lights of the boat.
The breaking of the waves was the only sound I could hear as we made our way forward, single file, and stepped at last on the hard earth of the desolate outpost.
“You recognize anything, Coop?” Mike said in a whisper.
I shook my head in the negative.
“Anywhere to hide?”
“A few wooden school buildings. Really small. We’re talking only ten or twelve kids here at any one time, living dorm-style, and a couple of teachers. I don’t know what’s left standing.”
A gull screeched as it flew overhead and I ducked at the sound, though it was nowhere near me.
“Stay close,” Mike said. “I’m flying blind, but let’s get going.”
I was on his heels as we started along the shoreline. We had only gone about twenty yards when the night sky was pierced by a bloodcurdling scream.
Mike reached back for my hand and squeezed it. “He’s made us, Coop. He’s putting on a show for our benefit.”
“You really think he saw us land?”
“He wants an audience for his next silencing, kid. That wasn’t one of your Penikese ghosts.”
“I know that, Mike.”
It was the voice of Chastity Grant, who’d been carried to this pitiful island to be tortured and killed.
FIFTY-ONE
“WE have to show ourselves,” I said to Mike. “He’ll go on torturing her until we do.”
“Correction, Coop. I’ll show myself. You’ll be my fogenshrouded second, okay? You’ll hang back until we know the lay of the land.”
There was no point challenging his machismo until we knew what Fyodor Zukov was doing to his prey.
“Where did it sound like her scream was coming from?”
Chat’s cry had resonated around us like a thunderclap, carrying its mournful wail high above the open space of the small island.
“Everywhere,” Mike said. “What’s the shoreline like?”
“At low tide like this, there’s a spit of sand — well, sand and rocks — that rings the place.”
“That’s how we’ll start, on the perimeter.”
I was tempted to take off my driving moccasins, which were soaked through, and go barefoot in the sand. But I knew that the stony, unforgiving landscape of Penikese would make me regret doing that before too long.
We moved fast, going northwest along a crescent beach. Waves lapped the sand, and beyond that steady sound, there was none of the noise I hoped to hear — no boats circling nearby, nobody looking for a spot to land his craft and aid us.
“What’s on top of that rise?” Mike asked, coming to the end of the short beach.
“There’s a pond up there. I’d expect it to be all dried up this time of year. It’s kind of like a mud hole, so let’s avoid it.”
Another fifty yards and I could see that the low cliffs that once faced westward had eroded and were nothing more than sand dunes.
“There, Mike. We can probably climb over those.”
The terrain slowed us down. Our feet sunk into the wet beach-front as crabs scampered away from the dead fish that had washed up in our path.
