Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) (42 page)

B
ELVADUCCI SUMMONED
a crewman, who came and collected Margaret Featherman. Before I left the screening room, I once again used Antonio's phone. This time when I reached Rachel Dulles' and Todd Bowman's voice-mail recordings, I left messages for both of them. Now that we knew Christine Moran was our target, someone with the right credentials needed to take charge of the situation. The two messages were pretty much the same.

“This is Beau Beaumont. I've located Margaret Featherman. She's alive and well and under wraps back on the ship. She's identified the woman who attacked her. Her name is Christine Moran, who's supposedly a journalist here covering the neurological symposium. Please contact me as soon as you get this. I'll be in my stateroom, Capri four-five-four.”

Minutes later, when I unlocked the door to my room, I heard the sound of the television set playing inside. That meant Naomi was home. When I first caught sight of her, she was sitting on the love seat with her eyes glued to CNN. She hurried to the door as I stepped inside the room.

“Beau,” she said breathlessly. “You're not going to believe it!”

“Believe what?”

“What's happened! Marc Alley heard that somebody found Margaret,” she said. “Not only did they find her, she's supposed to be all right. She's somewhere in Sitka.”

“She is?” I asked. My heart fell. Being on board the
Starfire Breeze
was almost as bad as living in a small town. It was hard to believe that someone had already turned loose the ship's gossip mill. I had tried to be so careful in bringing Margaret aboard. I wondered who it was on the visitors' dock who had seen through the elaborate disguise and recognized her. However it had happened, the word was out.
Damn!

“When did you hear all this?” I asked.

“Marc Alley came by just a few minutes ago. He came to tell you about it,” Naomi continued. “He said he was talking to someone who just came from that bar Lars pointed out to us earlier this morning. What did he call it again? The P-Bar, I think. Anyway, there was some young guy in there talking about how a few days ago the crew of the boat he was on found a woman swimming for her life out in Chatham Strait. He said she promised all of the crew a sizable reward if they'd bring her to shore and drop her off. He said she was going to put money into the boat's overstock or gross stock. I forget exactly what he said.”

“Gross stock,” I told her. “That's the income a fishing boat takes in. It's divided up among the crew.”

Naomi nodded. “So they brought her here, to Sitka.”

Despite the serious argument that had transpired between Naomi Pepper and Margaret Featherman the last time the two women saw each other, Naomi was clearly overjoyed to learn Margaret was alive and safe. I, on the other hand, was appalled. If Naomi knew about Margaret and if Marc knew about Margaret, then it was only a matter of time until Christine Moran knew about Margaret as well.

Since the
Starfire Breeze
was anchored offshore in Sitka Sound, I wasn't worried that she'd get away. I was concerned that the FBI would miss out on the chance of nabbing her with the goods. I wanted them to nail her before she had a chance to ditch any incriminating evidence that might link her to others in the organization. Catching Christine Moran was one thing, but putting the Leave It To God organization out of business and behind bars was far more important.

“How long ago was Marc here?” I demanded, trying to conceal my dismay.

Naomi shrugged. “Not that long. A few minutes. I tuned in to CNN to see if anyone else had heard this. And, sure enough, they said that there were unconfirmed reports that missing genetic researcher Margaret Featherman had been found alive in Alaska. What do you think of that?”

How much worse can it get?
I wondered.

Without answering, I moved past Naomi and reached for the phone. I knew Marc Alley's stateroom was on Bahia Deck, but for the life of me I couldn't remember the number. “Marc Alley, please,” I said to the ship's operator.

“Beau,” Naomi said. “What's the matter? You look upset.”

I was upset, and the longer Marc's phone rang without him answering, the more upset I became. My phone rang the moment I put the receiver back in place. “Hello.”

“Mr. Beaumont,” First Officer Vincente said. “I'm so glad you are there. Miss Moran is not in her room.”

“Is she off the ship?” I asked.

“Not according to the computer. She came back aboard several hours ago. I have secured her room by changing the lock to a special code that can be opened only by me or Captain Giacometti. That way, if any incriminating evidence was left in the room, she will not be able to return and retrieve it. The problem is, until we have copies of Ms. Moran's photo made from the videotape, my security watchmen have no idea what Miss Moran looks like. You said you had met her, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Will you help us find her?”

“Of course. Where do you want me to meet you?”

“At the purser's desk,” he said. “We'll go through the public areas of the ship one at a time.”

“I'll be right there.”

I put down the phone and turned around to find a white-faced Naomi Pepper sitting on the love seat staring at me. “You already knew about Margaret being alive, didn't you!” she said accusingly. “You just let me go on and on when you already knew all about it.”

“Please, Naomi. I'm sorry. There wasn't time to explain when I first came in the door, and there's even less now. I've got to go. If I don't, the woman who attacked Margaret just might get away with it.”

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“To the purser's desk. I'm supposed to meet First Officer Vincente and his crew there.”

Naomi shook her head in exasperation. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Go!”

Once again I didn't bother with the elevator. I bounded up the stairway two steps at a time, ignoring my injured toe as best I could. I was taking a shortcut to the purser's desk through the Pizzeria when I saw Marc Alley and Christine Moran seated together at a table. Marc was talking animatedly while Christine listened in such dead earnest that it made my blood run cold. I knew at once that he was right in the middle of telling her the same story he had told Naomi. First Officer Vincente might be only a few hundred feet away from me at the purser's desk, but at that moment, for lack of ability to communicate with him, he could just as well have been light-years away.

What I wouldn't have given right then for my trusty cellular phone so I could have summoned him. I was about to turn back and go in search of a house phone when Marc Alley saw me and waved—frantically.

“I was looking for you, Beau,” he called across three tables. “You've got to come hear this for yourself. Somebody's found Margaret Featherman. I was just telling Christine all about it. She's been following this story from the beginning, so it's only fair that she should get the scoop.”

I always try to stay away from playing poker with the boys—it's hard to win when your face—for good or ill—betrays the kind of cards you've got in your hand. All my life I've attempted to avoid the kinds of situations where lying would be necessary since my face always blows my cover. When I was little, all my mother had to do was look at me and she knew exactly where I'd been and what I'd been up to, and it was the same thing now. When Christine Moran's eyes met mine across the checkered tabletop, a charge of electricity flashed between us. It was similar to what had passed between Naomi Pepper and me while we were dancing the tango, only this was done without any physical contact whatsoever. And it was far more dangerous.

I knew, and Christine Moran knew that I knew.

Now that the Mike Conyers situation had been sorted out, Marc Alley seemed to be in enormously high spirits. “Is that great news or what?” he was saying enthusiastically.

“It's great,” I agreed lamely. “Wonderful. Who found her?”

I was well aware of who had found Margaret Featherman, but for Marc's sake I had to appear surprised—surprised and interested. And, no matter what, I had to find a way to carry on a convincing conversation—one that would last until First Officer Vincente figured out I wasn't going to make it to the purser's desk and came looking for me.

“The crew of a fishing boat called
Miss Piggy,
” Marc began. “They were headed down Chatham Strait for a black-cod opener and—”

Christine reached for her purse and made as if to stand up. “I'm sorry to interrupt, Marc, but I'd better go call my editor and see what he wants me to do about all this. If you two will excuse me . . .”

I looked at Christine's purse, a small clutch-style number. It was made of leather and looked expensive.

During the cruise I had noticed that most of the women on board had abandoned their purses while they were on the ship. As long as they had their precious key card, there was no need to carry money or any other form of identification. I understood instinctively that there was some important reason Christine Moran was carrying hers. It came down to two possible choices. Either she had a weapon inside it, or she was using it to carry around something important, something she hadn't wanted to leave in her room, even in the comparative security of a room safe.

The purse wasn't large. It was big enough to carry a small weapon and too small for a large one. No matter what, I was determined not to let Christine Moran walk away with whatever was inside it.

“Don't go,” I said, trying to sound sociable. “Stay for a while and let me buy you a drink.”

It helped that Christine's back was to the wall. Marc was on one side of her and I was on the other. Unless one of us moved, Christine Moran was stuck where she was.

“Really, Mr. Beaumont, I have to go,” she objected. “I have a job to do.”

“So do I,” I returned.

Another charge of electricity passed between us. Marc frowned and shot me a puzzled, questioning look of his own. “A job?” he asked. “I thought you were retired.”

“Off the team but not out of the game,” I said.

Christine Moran understood exactly what I was saying. Marc was still mystified. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean the three of us should just sit here for the time being and wait until First Officer Vincente comes this way. I'm sure he and some of the crew are looking for us right this minute. And with that security camera up there . . .” I pointed and waved, hoping that the exaggerated movement might somehow catch Antonio Belvaducci's attention. “. . . I'd guess it won't be all that long before he finds us.”

“Yes, Christine,” Marc said. “Please stay.”

Christine's jaw tightened. “You can come with me if you like, Marc,” Christine said. “In fact, it might be better if you did. Whatever it is your friend here has in mind, I'd rather not be a part of it.”

Her right hand slipped into the purse. When it came out again, I caught a glimpse of the blued-steel barrel of a weapon. Not a large one, but at such close range, size hardly matters. Marc saw it too, about the same time I did.

“Christine—” he said.

“Let's go,” she urged. “Just you and me. As for you,” she added, glaring at me. “If you make a single move to follow us, you know what'll happen.”

Naturally I wasn't wearing any kind of weapon. None. No shoulder holster. No ankle holster. Nothing—not even a slingshot. The only thing I had going for me was my mouth—the power of persuasion and all those summers I spent in my youth selling Fuller brushes door-to-door.

“You don't want to do that, Christine,” I warned. “If you do, things will be a lot worse than they are right this minute. At the moment, all anybody has on you is one count of attempted murder in the case of Margaret Featherman. If you force Marc to leave the table at gunpoint, believe me, it turns into a whole other ball game.”

Christine tucked the purse under one arm and then tugged at Marc's shoulder. “Come on,” she said. “Let's go.”

Staring at the gun, Marc started to rise. “Don't fall for it,” I warned. “She's bluffing.”

Abruptly, Marc sat back down. Now he looked away from the gun and stared at me. “Christine's the one who did it?” he asked. “She's the one who threw Margaret overboard?”

I nodded. “And what's she going to do now, Marc, shoot us? Then what? We're moored in the middle of Sitka Sound. Do you think she'll go over the rail and swim for it? I doubt Christine's as good a swimmer as Margaret Featherman is. Margaret swims a couple of miles every day before she goes to work at Genesis. How about you, Christine? Just how good a swimmer are you? If you jumped over the side of the ship and left the decision to God, do you think He'd help you make it to shore the same way He helped Margaret? You left it to God, and Margaret Featherman came up winners. How about you, Christine?”

I was deliberately taunting her, trying to draw Christine's attention away from Marc and get her to focus on me. My mouth moved and the words flowed across my lips in that bell-like crystal clarity and utter calm that occurs only when you're scared out of your wits—when time slows and expands until every heartbeat seems to take a minute and every breath lasts a year at least. I was a trained cop who had spent a whole career working in law enforcement. If I was that scared, what about Marc Alley?

But maybe having spent all those years looking his next grand-mal seizure in the eye had allowed Marc to find his own calming clarity. He eased back into his chair and pushed the back of it inches closer to the wall, making it that much more difficult for Christine to get past us and break free.

“That's why you attached yourself to our group this morning as we left the ship, isn't it,” I continued. “Marc had told you I knew something about what was going on, and you thought if that was true and if I had heard anything about whether or not Margaret had been found alive, the first person I would share that news with would be Naomi Pepper. That's why you were so eager to interview her, right?”