Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(87)

“Of course we did,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “We could have just run away. Sold the skeleton key and retired to Bali. But that’s not me, and I’m pretty sure it’s not you, either. We decided to fight.”

“This ain’t no movie,” said Lewis. “You gotta show up when we need you.”

“I know,” she said. “I will.”

Lewis nodded as if he’d already known what her answer would be, then looked at Peter. “Got any better ideas?”

June knew Peter wanted there to be a better idea. But there wasn’t.

“No,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Lewis opened his door and disappeared into the swirling mist, making no attempt to hide the assault rifle under his raincoat. He carried it barrel-down along one leg like some necessary prosthetic device. Today, she supposed, it was.

She climbed forward into the driver’s seat and kissed Peter’s cheek. He handed her one of the pistols, tucked the other into a coat pocket, and got out of the passenger seat, pulling up his hood as he walked. He was wearing the armored vest under his jacket. It was compromised from the two shots he’d taken the night before, but they’d both agreed it was better than nothing.

She watched him walk down the fire lane to the seafood restaurant and find a spot under the overhang by the service door. He wasn’t dressed like a kitchen worker, but he still managed to convey the temporary indolence of a prep cook taking a break. Blending in.

She didn’t like the waiting.

Turning to the pier, she saw three empty slips. It didn’t matter which was Chip’s, she’d know the man when she saw him. They all would. There weren’t many boats on the water anyway, not on this cool, damp morning.

A wide, T-shaped dock stuck out into the water by Kenmore Air, with a sleek yellow-and-white floatplane tied up inside the shelter of the crossbar. At the bottom of the lake, an old yacht was just putting off from the Center for Wooden Boats. A dented silver Jetta rolled into the parking lot, parked near the restaurant, and four men got out wearing kitchen whites and plastic clogs. Each man nodded or raised a hand to Peter as they walked past him to the service door.

It was one thing, she thought, to deal with a dangerous situation when you were forced to react. When you had no choice. It was another thing entirely to create the situation, to step forward into the danger, like they were doing now. Although that was what Peter, and she presumed Lewis, had done overseas. In the war, she told herself. He’d fought in a war. She still had trouble wrapping her mind around it, what that might have been like.

A few fishermen were puttering around now. A pair of sea kayaks paddled down from the north end, not minding the weather. Probably from the houseboat neighborhood they’d passed on the way. She wondered if Peter might live on a houseboat. They were small, but they had a lot of windows, and long views.

More cars, more people, more boats. No Chip Dawes. She couldn’t see Lewis, either. But she was pretty sure he was out there. Then she saw a small white spot at the far end of the lake, coming from the Montlake Cut and growing larger by the second. A fast boat and its wake.

A floatplane appeared in the sky, coming from the north, its engine muted by the rain. It made a wide, slow turn, dropping down and down, ungainly and graceful at the same time, like a goose over a pond. The plane was boxy and antique-looking, something she could imagine a bush pilot flying in Alaska, something out of another time. She watched as it touched the water, throwing spray, then slowed, settled, and began to taxi toward the T-shaped dock.

She got out of the car. The incoming boat was more than halfway across the lake.

The pilot cut the engine and let the plane drift the last few feet to the mooring cleat. He got out and tied up the plane before the wind could move it from the dock. He wore a leather jacket and jeans and a baseball hat.

Then the passenger door opened and a big man stepped onto the pontoon, the float dipping visibly as he did. He was at least a head taller than the pilot.

He wore a faded blue climber’s rain shell, rumpled green pants, and hiking boots.

He had long white hair and a bushy white beard.

She couldn’t believe it.

Her fucking father. The Yeti.





43





PETER



While the floatplane had landed and taxied in, the fast boat had powered up the lake. It was a sleek red runabout with an inboard motor and a canvas cover over the cockpit to keep the rain off the driver. Small enough to be fun on the lake, but big enough for the Pacific coast.

Now it coasted in toward the T-shaped dock as the white-haired giant, who could only be Sasha Kolodny, the Yeti, stepped lightly from the plane’s float to the weathered decking. He walked toward the boat, and its driver threw the Yeti the bowline. He tied it to the dock.

The pilot came over and gestured at the boat, probably unhappy that it had moored at the floatplane dock. The Yeti wheeled to face him and the pilot raised his hands and took a quick step back. Peter thought about Hazel Cassidy’s restraining order. The man was truly enormous.

The boat driver climbed onto the dock and the two men began to talk.

From forty yards away, Peter couldn’t see the boat driver’s face clearly, but it was Chip Dawes, Peter was sure of it. The man wore sunglasses in the rain and a long khaki trench coat belted at the waist. Either Dawes was a walking cliché or it was calculated for his image, which was more likely for a private spy who’d invited a magazine writer to follow him on his water commute.