Deadly Echoes (17 page)

“Coffee, black for me, and I'm hungry. Did you eat?”

“No.” Donovan motioned for the flight attendant and politely asked her if they had time for coffee and something to eat before they landed. She assured them they did and several minutes later she arrived with two cups of coffee, a small cheese and cracker tray, as well as a selection of finger sandwiches. Erica joined him just as the flight attendant finished setting everything out. Donovan noticed that Erica had fixed her hair and reapplied some of her eye makeup. It wasn't much, but the transformation was enough to hide the fact that she'd cried herself to sleep. She took her cup with both hands, sipped, and closed her eyes.

Donovan pulled his briefcase from the floor and began to rifle deep inside.

“What are you doing?” Erica cocked her head at the open briefcase.

“Getting some things we'll need when we land,” Donovan replied and found the discreet zipper sewn into a compartment of his briefcase. The slot held a thin wallet. Donovan slid his own wallet from his trouser pocket and replaced it with the new one. He zipped everything up and put the briefcase on the floor.

“What's all that about?” Erica asked.

“I have a different identity,” Donovan said. “I don't want there to be any trace that you or I were ever up here. We're going to have to rent a car, spend some money, and I don't want to leave a paper trail.”

“We'll draw all kinds of the wrong attention if you try to take me through customs. Why don't you just go by yourself? Take the ferry, charter a plane, do whatever you need to do all nice and legal. I'll wait for you.”

“We have to stay together,” Donovan replied.

“Back in California, before we left the house, you looked at the weather,” Erica said. “What did you see?”

Donovan checked the time on his watch. “In eight to ten hours from now, there'll be a window of good weather that should allow us to find a plane and fly up to the coordinates and back again.”

“So we just hang around and wait for the weather to clear?”

“Why? What do you have in mind?”

“A boat,” Erica said with a shrug. “We borrow one we like from the marina; some of these owners only use them a few weeks each summer. It's easy to tell which is which. We steal one, motor into Canada, and then you can find a plane and fly us where you want to go.”

“I'm not a big fan of boats,” Donovan said. “Too slow, I was thinking we borrow an airplane. Same theory, only faster.”

“You're a professional pilot, right?”

Donovan nodded.

“How does a professional pilot plead ignorance when the authorities find you in a stolen airplane, in the wrong country, and you somehow forgot about customs?”

“Good point. Okay, how would this exercise of yours work?”

“We need to get from Bellingham to Anacortes, Washington. It's a little town on Fidalgo Island that marks the first of the San Juan archipelago.”

Donovan was familiar with Anacortes and Fidalgo Island. Huntington Oil had a refinery on Fidalgo. What she was proposing made sense.

“There's lots of transient boat traffic and one large public marina. I know a nice place for dinner, and then we take a walk down the pier until I find the right boat. We pick our time and borrow it.”

“What about security?”

“There's none to speak of. At first glance we're a couple getting ready to go on a cruise. We blend in perfectly.”

“And you know how to do all the boat stuff?”

“Absolutely, I grew up around them. I learned to sail before I could drive. When I came back from Germany, I came to the San Juans and lived on a boat with a friend. We cruised all up and down these waters. We find a boat I'm familiar with and we'll be fine.”

“How far is it from Anacortes to Vancouver Island?”

“Probably fifty miles. At six or seven knots, it'll take us maybe seven hours, eight depending on where we make landfall. In fact, by the time we get there, the window of good weather should have arrived and we're already in Canada. We're not flying across borders without a clearance.”

“What are the chances of this boat still being there when we want to return?”

“Eighty-twenty, our favor. If it's not, we find another boat.”

On an intellectual level Donovan liked Erica's plan. She seemed to know what she was doing, and it made more sense than waiting for the weather to clear and then trying to steal a plane and fly both ways. He looked at her, lowered his head, and said, “I'm not sure about the being at sea part.”

“Why's that?”

“Something happened,” Donovan said. “The boat sank.”

“Oh, well, that'll do it. I promise we won't sink, and if we do, I'll be there to save you.”

“If we go into the water up here, we have about ten minutes of useful ability.”

“Oh yeah, you're absolutely right, the cold water is a killer. I didn't say I had all day to save you, only that I would. You'd do the same for me. Hell, you saved me last night, I owe you one.”

Donovan felt his apprehension rise at the thought of being on a boat, but the plan made sense, and maybe, most importantly, he could keep her with him. The second Erica got scared and decided to turn herself in, or try to make a deal with the authorities, everything would be in jeopardy. The FBI would move in on Garrick before Donovan could, which would be a disaster. In addition, the
people who'd killed Jill and David would know exactly where to find Erica, and they would no doubt find a way to finish the job.

As the Gulfstream broke out of the low clouds, Donovan's attention was drawn to the gray water of the Puget Sound. There were whitecaps and foamy streaks formed by the gusty winds. It looked like the North Atlantic, Donovan felt his stomach churn at the thought of being out on the water in these conditions.

The wheels touched down and the jet smoothly taxied to the ramp of Bellingham Jet Center and pulled to a stop. Donovan and Erica gathered their things, thanked the crew, and hurried to the lounge. The crew followed with their luggage. Within minutes, Donovan, using a Florida driver's license and credit cards issued under the name of Thomas Westmiller, rented a black Jeep Cherokee. They pulled out of the parking lot just as it started to rain and followed the signs for I-5 South.

“We're going to need some different clothes,” Donovan said as he sped up the windshield wipers. “We'll be in the forest when we get to Vancouver Island. I packed for Hawaii.”

“When we get off the interstate, we drive past a sporting goods place. We can pick up some things there.”

Donovan looked at his watch. It was only a little before three in the afternoon, but with the dark-gray skies, it felt like it was eight o'clock in the evening.

“What is it you know that I don't?” Erica turned in her seat to face Donovan. “We're going to a lot of trouble to reach a crime scene that will tell us what, exactly?”

“I don't know. That's why we're going.”

“But you're in the loop. The FBI will tell you what they found.”

“It's not in the United States. We can't be sure the Canadians will be so quick to share.”

“For Christ's sake, they're Canadians not North Koreans. Now quit jerking me around and tell me the truth. We're in this together. At this point we're both criminals, so either we trust each other completely, or this is a flawed partnership and we cut our losses, go our separate ways.”

“I can't tell you everything because I don't know everything. But we stay together no matter what.”

Erica leaned forward, her expression deadly serious. “You're not a very good liar. Turn off the bullshit. You've already confessed you hate being out on the ocean, so tell me why the hell we're sneaking to a crime scene in a boat.”

Donovan couldn't miss the anger flash in her eyes. She was serious and wanted answers. Without Erica, the boat option was out, and he'd be forced to steal an airplane or run the risk of taking the ferry. The ferry meant cameras, and the weather was too dicey for a small plane. Besides, the worse the weather, the more eyebrows would be raised by a single-engine airplane taking off. If he wanted to be at the coordinates by morning, he needed Erica. Splitting up also put him at risk of her running to the FBI to make a deal, to use them to try to avenge her dead friends.

“Your exit is up ahead.”

Moments later he pulled the Cherokee into the parking lot of Holiday Sporting Goods and switched off the engine.

“I'm still waiting. Quit stalling so you can run different damage-control scenarios. Knock it off and tell me the truth.”

Donovan exhaled as if defeated. “Garrick made this personal. He's been leaving pictures at the scene of each atrocity. I think they're clues to where he's headed next. If the FBI gets to him before I do, then the justice system takes over. Garrick needs to answer to my justice, not anyone else's.”

“And you know about these pictures, how?”

“I'm the only one who's seen them all. I think I figured it out. If we can get to the coordinates first, we'll find the picture and have a head start to where he's headed next.”

“I want to see them.”

“I left them with William,” Donovan lied. “He's having them analyzed.”

“But you have no intention of sharing these photos with anyone else.”

“None whatsoever. I'm not helping the FBI or anyone else find
him. He's a monster, and at the end of the day, I have no interest in an arrest, or a trial, or any of the other democratic trappings of justice. I want him dead.”

“What about Nikolett?”

“She needs to die as well.”

“What if they kill you first?”

“Then it falls on you to kill them. Neither one of us can go on with our lives until these people are dead.”

“Is that really how you see it, no middle ground?”

“None at all. Even if they're captured, you and I aren't safe. It's like cutting the heads off the Hydra, nothing short of their deaths will set you and me free.”

Erica put her hand inside his, their fingers entwined and she looked him in the eyes. “Then I promise to finish the job if you can't.”

Donovan kissed the back of her hand. “Thank you.” Then he opened the door and stepped out into the drizzle. Once Erica joined him they hurried inside.

The aisles were narrow and the shelves stacked high. The store smelled like canvas and leather. With Erica behind him, Donovan worked his way to the far side of the floor where clothes hung on circular racks. He found a rain suit, heavy-duty hunting pants, a coat, two flannel shirts, and heavy socks. Several aisles over, Erica, too, was collecting an assortment of purchases. Donovan found a dressing room and went inside to try on the clothes.

He'd slipped out of his pants and stripped down to his underwear. He was taking a pair of trousers off a hanger when Erica opened the door and slipped into the room.

“There's only one dressing room, and I didn't want to stand out there alone.” She sat on the bench and pulled off her boots, then stood and dropped her jeans into a puddle on the floor. Then she stood and unfolded the waterproof slacks she'd selected.

Donovan didn't say a word, neither did he make an effort to camouflage the fact that he was watching.

She ignored him, pulled her top over her head, and placed it on one of the hooks. She was about to try on the pants when she glanced in the mirror and stopped. She reached to lightly grip his arm, then turned his wrist up to the light to see the wound. “This is from a knife. Is this from that same night?”

Donovan nodded and turned his back to her. She pressed herself closer, reached around and watched in their reflection as she touched the massive scar on his thigh. She traced her finger the entire length, before bringing her hand up and circling the bullet wound in his shoulder. That's when he turned around to face her. He leaned in, found her lips with his. The kiss was deep, urgent. She ran her hands through Donovan's hair and across his back. He dropped his hand to the small of her back and pulled her into him as she lowered her arm and slid her fingers along his skin just inside the waist of his boxers.

When Donovan broke their kiss and opened his eyes, all he saw was lust and a need that startled him. They pulled at each other's clothes. Donovan pressed her up against the wall of the small cubicle and they began to make love.

Afterward, Erica was the first to disengage. She kissed him and then pulled away.

“We need to go,” she said. Avoiding eye contact, she quickly dressed, collected the clothes she'd picked out, and let herself out of the dressing room.

Donovan had experienced a wide range of emotions in the last twenty-four hours and couldn't ignore the tiniest feeling he'd just been maneuvered. Though the one element that took him completely by surprise was the sense that he'd experienced something essential—something he didn't even know was missing.

“Just ahead.” Erica nodded toward the boat to their left. “The
Irish Wake.
It's perfect, a thirty-six foot Selene exactly like my friend owned. By the amount of dirt that's accumulated, I'd say it's been sitting here for a while. It's certainly not in daily use. By the look of all the antennas up top, it has a full complement of electronics, plus all the lines are shipshape, and the knots are tied perfectly. Whoever owns this boat cares about the details. They just don't get a chance to go out all that often.”

The vessel was smaller than Donovan had hoped. It was pitch-dark out. The earlier wind and rain had all but blown over, and now it was almost dead calm. But he had no idea what the ocean would be like beyond the harbor. They continued out to the end of the pier and then turned and walked back. Erica had her arm locked around his and they walked slowly, as if a couple out for an after dinner stroll. As they approached
Irish Wake
they walked alongside and boarded amidships.