Dark Moon Walking (27 page)

Walker looked up. “It'll stay clear, long as you don't fall asleep again. Just take it easy till you get out of the inlet, then go a bit to starboard. You'll see the channel open up easier if you keep to this side.”

He turned toward the waiting canoe, gave a short whistle, then sat quietly and watched as it moved toward them and slid alongside. As it came close, Dan could make out the features of the man who paddled it. He was considerably older than he had expected, long hair heavily streaked with gray and deep wrinkles seaming his face, although they could have been due as much to exposure to the elements as to age. Still, Dan figured he had to be well into his second half-century.

Walker introduced him. “This is Percy. He runs the camp back there. He looked after me when I came back. Taught me what I needed to know.”

Dan reached out a hand in greeting. “Good to meet you.” He nodded at Walker. “You did a hell of a good job.”

Percy grinned. “He tells me you did a pretty good job too—for a white guy.”

Dan snorted. “That's not what he said at the time.”

Walker laughed. “That's not what I thought at the time.” He took an oar and placed it so it rested sideways across the two boats. “Hang on to this. I'm gonna get in with Percy.” He eased himself up till he was sitting on the oar, then slid across into the other boat.

Within seconds the canoe had disappeared into the night, but Walker's voice came drifting back over the fading splash of the paddles: “See you in the morning, white man.”

Dan had lost all track of time, but it seemed like many hours had passed since they had set out from Annie's. It had to be almost morning now. He squinted down at his watch. It was not yet eleven o'clock.

TWENTY-TWO

Dan found the trip back to Annie's surprisingly easy. He had been caught off guard by Walker's suggestion that he make his own way back in the dark, with no charts, no compass, no lights. Nothing. But when he had forced his mind past its initial resistance and taken stock of exactly where he was, he realized with both surprise and pleasure that it was something he could do. Risky, certainly, but far from impossible. Hell, Walker and his friends were doing it without a second thought.

At first he was nervous. He kept his speed down and stayed close to the shore, but as the inlet widened and he moved out into more familiar territory, he found the stars provided just enough light to give form to the land. The odd sense of relief he had been feeling ever since Walker's pronouncement that he was neither in control nor responsible persisted, and the steady hum of the motor slowed his brain in much the same way as listening to the soaring jazz notes of Charlie Parker.

He thought there was a chance that it was already too late, that Walker and his bevy of canoes might find Shoal Bay abandoned and the black ship long gone. But probably not. The men at the lodge had given off a sense of purpose, but not of real urgency. And they had only opened five of the canisters. More than half had remained sealed when he and Claire had left . . . was that only this morning? Seemed impossible.

So what would happen if the men were still there? Walker figured he and his friends could stop them, but how? They had no weapons, and Dan doubted they even had any tools—not that tools would help them. Maybe they figured that just by being there, they would disrupt things enough to throw the schedule off. Might work, too, as long as White Hair and his pals held off from using their weapons. Come to think of it, they hadn't actually used them at all so far, and while Dan was pretty sure one or more of them was responsible for Robbie's death, they hadn't used a gun to kill him—unless it was the butt. But that was hardly a guarantee they wouldn't use weapons tonight on the slow-moving canoes.

Still, Walker might have numbers on his side—he had said “they” when he talked about his friends, like there were quite a few involved, and Dan thought there were probably at least enough to make it unlikely they could all be taken out, even with guns. And if White Hair and his boys couldn't take all of them out, it would leave witnesses, and one thing for sure was that these guys didn't seem to want any of those. They certainly had no qualms about removing them, either. They had gone hunting for Claire and had made sure Robbie was removed from the picture. Not that that would have been difficult. They would have approached him the same way they had approached Annie's boat, gone aboard, hit Robbie over the head, and then shoved him overboard. God knows what they had done with his boat—sunk it, maybe, or set it adrift on an ebb tide. He would have to tell Mike to get the coast guard and the marine guys to look for it.

So the bad guys might not shoot at Walker and his group. Hard to hit a moving target, even if they could see it clearly, and almost impossible in the dark unless you had a night-vision scope, and that seemed unlikely. So Walker and his friends might be okay. Hell, if the guards were asleep, as they had been the night Walker had snuck into the bay, maybe they wouldn't even be noticed. But then what? What could they do that would stop them? Steal the canisters? Possible, but surely that would make enough noise to alert even sleeping guards. Set the crew boat adrift? That might slow them down, but they had dinghies and radios and it wouldn't take long to track the boat and bring it back. And the crew boat might not even be there. It could have gone back to the black ship. In fact, Dan figured it probably had. And that was a problem of a completely different kind.

Dan's mind shifted to the black ship. It had looked harmless enough, sitting quietly at anchor. Not much activity except for the one guy he had seen come out of the wheelhouse. The guy who had looked familiar, with black curly hair and an odd rolling walk and the . . . wait a minute. Harry! That was his name. Harry Coombs. Dan had seen the name in any number of files. Had seen the man himself two or three times, although always at a distance, never face-to-face. Harry Coombs was a wheeler and dealer with a long history of questionable associations and activities. He was suspected of trading illegal weapons to terrorist organizations and smuggling drugs for the Mexican cartels, but although the police had come close, they had never managed to nail him with anything. Harry “Houdini” Coombs. The escape artist. The slick con man with the jovial manner, who laughed as he slipped through every net they had set up. What the hell was he doing here, floating around in this isolated archipelago? Must be drugs or weapons. Maybe both. But why would he hang around? That didn't make sense. The trade would have been made when the canisters were dropped. It would be more logical for Harry and his black ship to get as far from Shoal Bay as they possibly could. Logic said they should have left as soon as they had sunk the canisters. And who the hell was White Hair? If Dan remembered the file correctly, Harry preferred to work alone.

The channel leading to Annie's boat opened up, steel gray against the solid black of the land, and Dan turned the dinghy into it. It was rougher here with the wind coming in off the open ocean and kicking up a chop, and within minutes he was drenched with cold spray. He thought about slowing down but knew he couldn't afford the extra time. His sense of urgency had returned with his recollection of Harry Coombs and it increased as he came nearer to his destination. He might not be able to control things, but there were still things he could—and should—do. Like Walker and his friends, he had a role to play. He had both the contacts and the means to reach them, but only if he made it back to
Dreamspeaker
. He now had more than enough to convince Mike and get him on side, and Mike in turn could use the information on Coombs to get the marine guys in place, and then Dan's responsibility really would end. But until then he had to keep going. It was no longer just about stopping whatever Harry and White Hair and their buddies were up to. It had become much more personal than that. It was about Walker and the men who had willingly gone with him in order to right a wrong. And it was about Claire and all that had been done to her.

The wind was steadily picking up, and he thought there was a thin veil of cloud forming, too thin to block the stars but enough to dull their brilliance. His wet clothes clung to his body, leeching whatever warmth he still had left after sixteen or seventeen hours mostly spent on the water, and the resulting chill drained the last of his energy. He was shivering as much from fatigue as from the cold, and he knew he couldn't continue much longer. Yet he also knew that somehow he had to find a way. There had already been at least one death. With Walker and his friends out there, he didn't want there to be any more.

Despite the hour, light glimmered through the portholes on Annie's boat, and both Annie and Claire were out on deck to greet him. He wondered if that might be less about welcoming his arrival and more about keeping as far away from Tom as possible, but whatever the reason, he was happy to see them. He turned the dinghy in behind the boat, let it idle up to the planks, and turned off the motor. The sudden silence rang in his ears as he sat there, clinging to the rough wood, his muscles aching and his body stiff.

A beam of light tracked over him. Annie was making her way down the planks, a flashlight in her hand.

“You okay?” She leaned down to peer more closely at him. “Give me the line. I'll tie you up.”

He reached down, his numb fingers scrabbling in the pool of frigid water that filled the scuppers to find the end of the rope. When he finally managed to grab it and fish it out, cold arrows of pain shot through his hand as he passed it up to her.

“Got the stove going in the galley,” Annie said as she tied the dinghy to one of the planks. “Kettle's hot.”

“Thanks, Annie.” Damn, that sounded wonderful. “Just give me a minute to get my legs working and I'll be up.”

“Huh.” She stared at him for a moment longer, then turned and made her way back up to the deck.

It took him longer than a minute and he had to use the planks to pull himself upright, but he finally managed first to stand and then to move. He hadn't realized how long he had been sitting in the same position—and the cold wind hadn't helped. He would have to get back to his judo. He had let it slide since he'd moved aboard and he was paying the price physically and mentally. He flexed his shoulders a couple of times, rotated his spine, and cautiously stepped onto the planks. Thank God Annie had tied a rope from the railing down to a conveniently located log. Without it to hold on to, he was not sure he could have made it.

When he finally reached the deck, Claire was waiting for him, her arms wrapped around her body to keep herself warm.

“You must be frozen,” she said, looking at his wet clothing. “Annie says she can probably dig you up something to change into.”

“Sounds good—although I'm not sure I'd fit into anything of Annie's—unless it's a dress.”

She snorted. “Does Annie look like someone who would own a dress?”

He chuckled and reached out to put his arm around her shoulders, turning her toward the cabin. “Doesn't seem too likely, does it? Let's see what she has in mind.” The casual embrace felt awfully good.