The Inn(43)

Effie. She nodded at me, pointed to her watch.

It was time.





CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO





THE BOAT WAS exactly where Squid said it would be, about three nautical miles off Gloucester, cutting laps up and down the coast until it was time to come in. Nick was at the stern of our tiny tin boat, and Effie and I were huddled at the bow, as though by keeping low in the vessel, we might avoid the boat being seen on approach. The moon, high, white, and full, wasn’t good for cover, but the three of us had decided to go that night before Cline got to thinking about what our next move might be. Nick cut the small engine a long way out from the vessel and let the bigger boat drift into our path.

Sweet Relief. The hand-painted letters on the side of the boat passed under my fingers as I climbed a rope ladder slung over the side. I helped Effie up and then hurled a rope I found coiled on the deck to Nick to attach to our boat. The thrumming of the engine underfoot and the wash from the stern was a worrying sound screen; it could hide the approach of footsteps or the shouting of men who might have spotted us.

We crouched by a stack of crab cages. Nick had his lips almost at my ear so I could hear him over the sound of the engines. “Recon first,” he said. “Meet back here in five. You take the bridge. Effie and I will take the lower decks.”

I crept along the side of the boat, ducking under the porthole windows. The narrow stairs to the bridge wing were slippery, the rail crusted with salt. I was struck suddenly by the beauty of the silver path the moon was cutting across the sea and I wondered for a moment what the hell I was doing.

There was one man on the bridge. He was bent over the chart table in the red light, marking out his position with a pencil. A cigarette was clamped between his lips.

Effie and Nick were already back when I arrived.

“One man on the bridge,” I said.

“Great.” Nick grinned, his eyes shining with excitement. “There are two contacts in the galley, one asleep on the lower deck. Let’s go down first, Cap.”

He moved, but I grabbed his shoulder.

“Keep your head,” I said. “Tell me if you’re starting to lose it.”

“I’m not gonna lose it.” Nick shrugged me off. I followed Nick and Effie into the bowels of the vessel, my gun in one hand, the other bracing against everything as the world rocked around me. We passed a room lit with huge red lamps, and I glimpsed a big table cluttered with plastic tubs, a big machine with a crank handle, bottles, and buckets. Two figures moved in the eerie light, gloved to the elbows and wearing full-face respirators. I kept watch in the hall, my pulse hammering, as Nick and Effie went into the sleeping quarters. I heard a thump and a yelp.

The need to retreat jabbed at me. I imagined aborting the mission now, dragging my friends back onto the little boat, cutting the rope loose, and letting us drift to safety, the big boat becoming a dark mass on the horizon. It wasn’t too late.

Nick emerged from the sleeping quarters, tucking the duct tape into his jacket pocket.

“He’s down,” he said. “Three to go.”





CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE





CLAYTON SPEARS DIDN’T mind the night shift. Once a week he got out into the quiet streets and roamed around Gloucester patrolling, responding to bumps in the night, breaking up drunken parties, and pulling over the occasional drunk driver. He took the night shift at least once a week to remind his team that he wasn’t above them, that he was willing to fight fatigue and boredom and the disappointment of false calls like the rest of them. But the lamplit streets held a kind of security for him. No one stared at him, judged him, whispered about him as he passed by in his cruiser. At night he wasn’t a tubby, shy, failing sheriff elected every year only because he was the devil Gloucester knew. He was a lone wolf protecting his sleeping pack.

The night shift would also keep him out of the office, away from the phone. He knew Marni’s autopsy was being rushed through, and the results would be reported to go into her case file with the department. He didn’t want to be there when the call came through. He wanted to be out, where he could see the stars.

It was one in the morning when Clay came upon the two young women crouched by the deserted roadside. Clay looked at the tire on the asphalt beside their car and tutted as he pulled over. The women, as they fumbled with the tire iron and read instructions from their phones, were a quarter of the way into the lane, and the spare was sitting maybe a third of the way in. He exited his vehicle and pulled up his gun belt.

“Morning, ladies,” he said as he approached.

“Oh, wonderful,” the younger one said, clapping her hands with glee. “Ronnie, it’s the sheriff. Can you help us, sir? We’re in big trouble here. Neither of us has ever changed a tire before. We’re totally stuck!”

“Let’s forget about changing the tire for now and get off the road.” Clay pointed to the roadside and the women went where he instructed. “You’re begging to get hit by someone coming up over the hill.”

Clay bent down, grabbed the spare from the asphalt, and rolled it toward the women. His head was down, hands on the rubber, when at the corner of his vision a boot appeared. Not a woman’s boot; a big, black, decidedly male one.

“Lights out, fat boy,” a voice said.

Clay heard a swish, and then there was only blackness.