The Shadow Box(10)
“What’s that?” she asked, distracted by a disturbance just ahead.
“Where, baby?”
“Right there,” she said, pointing. “Something swimming around.”
Bart lifted himself onto one elbow and peered west, into the lowering sun. “Fish or whatever. A school of bluefish, feeding.”
“Not a school, just one fin. Oh my God, a shark?”
The boat slipped along the golden surface, a wake rippling out behind. The sails luffed and snapped.
“What the hell’s it doing?” she asked.
“Swimmin’, what sharks do best,” Bart said. “Hey, look at all this oil—did it kill a seal?”
Changing water temperatures had attracted a seal population to southern New England. Seals were the favored meal of sharks. Jeanne slowed down as they approached. The water glistened with an oil slick; maybe Bart was right, and a shark had killed a seal. And then she realized it wasn’t a fin at all but a small furry creature.
She steered toward the animal.
It wasn’t a seal.
It was a tiny dog, frantically paddling, trying to climb onto a slab of white fiberglass. In the seconds it took Jeanne to grab the boat hook, her heart began to pound. She could almost see a shark rising up, snatching the dog before she could get to it.
But that didn’t happen; she reached overboard, snagged the pup’s bright-pink collar with one swipe of the hook, and pulled the Yorkshire terrier into the cockpit. The dog was barely larger than Jeanne’s hand. The small silver tag dangling from her collar was engraved Maggie. Jeanne held Maggie tight to her chest, felt her shivering uncontrollably.
“She’s absolutely adorable,” Jeanne said.
“Must’ve fallen overboard,” Bart said.
“It’s okay, Maggie. You’re okay, girl,” Jeanne said. As she clutched the dog, sliding her under her fleece to warm her, she scanned in all directions to see if there was a boat searching for her.
“What’s this oil from?” Bart asked, staring into the water.
The slick Jeanne had previously thought was seal blubber ran in a winding current, a river through the sea, and now she saw that it contained shards of wood and a section of white fiberglass charred black at the edges. Fragments of blue Styrofoam insulation swept by, an empty bottle of Polar lime seltzer, two red personal flotation devices with a boat’s name stenciled on: Sallie B.
“Oh my God!” Jeanne said. “We know that boat!”
“Seen her a million times. She’s from West Wind,” Bart said.
“Looks like she caught fire,” Jeanne said, watching a soot-stained green cushion float past. She scanned the horizon for smoke, for a vessel still smoldering.
R 22—the red bell buoy marking Allen’s Reef—swung in the current a hundred yards south. The bell tolled with the movement of the waves, but beneath the mournful sound, she heard a voice—very weak, calling for help.
Jeanne placed Maggie at her feet and steered toward the buoy. Bart stumbled below, lifted the mike, and called the coast guard. Jeanne heard him give the operator their GPS coordinates.
“A boat sank out here,” he said. “The Sallie B. And someone’s alive. We can hear them, over by R 22. We’re going there now.”
Jeanne sped up, and as they approached, she saw a man clinging to the red metal structure that rose tall in the water, swinging wildly in the tide, the clapper banging with each wave. She didn’t know his name, but she recognized him—one of the many local skippers that greeted each other as they passed in the channel. She’d often seen a woman and two children in the cockpit with him. Knowing who he was, wondering what had happened to his family, made it even worse, and she choked on a sob.
6
CONOR
The road to Catamount Bluff was unmarked and unpaved and meandered along the western edge of a protected seven-hundred-acre forest and nature preserve. A security guard was stationed at the head of the road. Conor Reid recognized him as Terry Brooks, an off-duty Black Hall police officer. It wasn’t uncommon for town cops to moonlight as private security for exclusive compounds along the shoreline. Conor waved as he passed.
His Ford Interceptor took the ruts with no problem as he followed Griffin Chase. They passed three mailboxes; the houses to which they belonged were hidden behind hedges. This was the kind of old-money place where they didn’t bother with fancy gates or even a paved road.
The road ended at the Chases’ house. Conor drove into the turnaround in front of a large silver-shingled house, on the bluff above the rocky beach, Long Island Sound sparkling into the distance. Conor was surprised to see Ben Markham, a uniformed Black Hall cop, standing by the front door.
He paused a moment before getting out of the car, watching Griffin speak to Markham. There was obvious familiarity between them. Markham had been called to testify in some of Griffin’s trials; plus, as a local cop, he would do regular patrols here and possibly pick up shifts as a guard, just like Brooks.
The Chases’ rambling old house sat on acres of direct waterfront—property worth more than the average prosecutor and an artist could afford—but everyone knew Griffin came from a family fortune. Conor figured this had to be one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in the state.
Conor walked from the vehicle toward the two men and exchanged a nod with Markham.