Death in Cold Water (24 page)

Suddenly Cubiak remembered that Rowe was still in the water.

The sheriff called him on board and grabbed his elbow when he was halfway up the ladder.

“You okay?”

The deputy nodded but Cubiak felt him trembling and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “I'm sorry, but it had to be done.”

Rowe blinked hard and then looked away.

Cubiak glanced at the others. Waslow remained propped against the winch engine. Cate had started shooting again but her movements were stiff and slow. Ross sat hunched on the deck, staring at nothing.

The image would remain with them for a very long time.

W
ith a heavy heart, Cubiak considered the task before them. They could retrieve the bones and lower the rowboat back into the water to be recovered later. That would save time and effort but expedience seemed wrong. The victims had died in the boat that had sheltered their poor bodies for years, perhaps decades. The sheriff decided that the least they could do was to try to keep the boat intact and bring both it and the fragile cargo safely on board the barge. But even that solution was fraught with problems. If the rowboat split apart as it was being lifted from the water, the bones would scatter over the bottom of the bay, and, although there was little chance of identifying the victims, there'd be even less then.

“The wood's got to be rotten as hell,” he said.

Waslow shook his head. “You'd think so but no, not at all. Water keeps the wood moist. It's when the wood hits the air that it starts to rot. If this little thing's stayed wet, it's strong as the day it was made. Course we don't know how well the planks will hold together. Caulk might be weakened or washed away, so we'll need to lighten up the load as much as possible as we bring it up.”

The way to do it, he explained, was to punch holes in the hull, allowing the water to flow out as the boat was lifted up.

“You sure that's going to work?” Cubiak asked.

Waslow didn't bother with an answer. Instead he turned to Rowe. “Think you can manage it?” he said, handing him a drill.

“This runs underwater?”

“Wouldn't have any use for it if it didn't,” the captain replied.

Once again Rowe went over the side. While the deputy worked with the drill, Waslow inspected the cables. Cate shot duplicates and triplicates of the barge, the bay, and the distant shore. Cubiak shifted boxes and coils of line to make space on the deck. Then he rearranged them again and half-heartedly checked for messages from Moore and Harrison. Still nothing. What if the feds suddenly needed him? Cubiak resisted the urge to turn off his phone.

Even as they kept themselves occupied, they continued to maintain a silent vigil over the rowboat. One at a time, they returned to the edge of the barge and stood watch over the nightmarish vision of the cursed little boat with its sad cargo.

The spectacle affected them all differently. Cubiak silently prayed for the victims, though he'd long ago abandoned his faith. Cate for a moment would forget what she was doing and let her camera fall silent. Waslow took his turn when he thought the others weren't looking. “Poor beggars,” Cubiak heard him mutter.

Of the four on the barge, Steve Ross was the one who kept his distance from the doomed vessel. Only Ross did not give the rowboat a second look. Instead, he remained planted on the low bench where Cubiak had steered him earlier, his feet pulled up onto the seat, sitting head down hugging his knees, curled into a human cocoon.

The more Cubiak thought about Ross's behavior, the stranger it seemed. It was odd that he didn't have a notebook and pen or recorder with him, the sheriff thought. And strange that he wasn't interested in every detail about the boat and the bones. Wasn't curiosity a hallmark of a good reporter? Ross said he was working on an in-depth story about the kidnapped Sneider, but here was another big story unfolding before him and he hadn't asked Rowe a single question about how he'd located the boat, hadn't asked any of them for their reaction. Wasn't that what a reporter did?

Cubiak sat down next to him. “Pretty sad stuff,” the sheriff said.

Ross did not respond.

“You're awfully quiet about all this. Any ideas?”

Ross grabbed hold of his shoes and shrank further into himself.

“When you were growing up, did you ever hear stories about lost rowboats or missing kids?”

“Uh-uh.” It was the only sound the ersatz journalist had made in an hour.

“There are always rumors.”

Ross tried to spin away from the sheriff and nearly lost his balance. He put a foot on the deck to steady himself, and then suddenly he was standing, shouting at Cubiak. “I want off this boat. You can't keep me here.”

“No one's going anywhere until I say so.”

“You have no right.”

“You're a witness to the afternoon's events.”

The color drained from Ross's pale face. “I didn't see a damn thing. Your deputy found them,” he said.

Cate's camera clicked and Ross whirled toward the sound. “Stop taking my picture!” Then he turned back to Cubiak. “What about that? I know how to run a boat. Let me take that,” he said, waving at the
Speedy Sister
.

“Can't do that. We're going to need it.” Cubiak rose and moved in on Ross. “What I want to know,” he continued, speaking so only the young man could hear, “is why you're in such a hurry to get off the barge? Why so eager to run from a big story?”

Ross dropped back to the bench. “None of your damn business.”

“Oh, but that's where you're wrong,” Cubiak said.

The sheriff was suddenly exhausted. The discovery of the bones was far more than what he'd expected. He'd have to call Pardy and Bathard and the coast guard. Local officials would need a report. And then there was the media to deal with; all those reporters who were waiting for the Gerald Sneider saga to play out would jump all over this story.

Cubiak looked at Ross. “I'll deal with you later,” he said.

Not long after, Rowe surfaced and swam to the front of the barge. He handed the drill up to Waslow. The holes were finished; it was time to put the rest of the plan into motion.

Rowe looked more exhausted than Cubiak felt. “You need a break,” the sheriff said.

His deputy demurred. “Let's get this done,” he replied.

Cubiak looked at Waslow.

“We got it this far,” the captain said.

Cubiak knew they were right. The wind had come up, and if the weather turned it could be days before they got back. If they lowered the rowboat to the bottom of the bay, it would be left unprotected in open water, susceptible to the currents.

“Go ahead,” Cubiak said.

Waslow gave Rowe five minutes to dive and get into position before he started the winch engine. With the motor on its lowest speed, he wound the cables, and inch by inch the rowboat rose through the water.

The gunwales broke through the surface, spreading ripples of waves across the water.

The upper rail emerged. Then the first row of planks.

The winch stuttered to a halt. The rowboat shuddered and the precious bones shifted and resettled.

Would the boat hold?

Waslow hunched over and fiddled with the engine, coaxing the motor back to life. The second row of planks rose up from the bay.

The boat was still full of water. It's too heavy, Cubiak thought. He waited for one of the hooks to tear through the wood, upending the boat and sending the bones cascading to the floor of the bay.

Cubiak was about to tell Waslow to stop when the vessel lifted past the first series of holes that Rowe had drilled. Water streamed through the punctures, as if from a sieve. The higher the boat rose into the air, the more water drained away.

As the bones emerged into the air, Cubiak wished there'd been sunshine to kiss them dry but there was only fog and wind.

Higher and higher, the boat rose. With a whoosh, the bottom planks broke through and the boat was completely above the water. For several minutes Waslow let it hang in place, allowing more water to drain out. Finally he reengaged the winch and continued to lift the vessel until it cleared the side of the barge.

Cubiak still worried. How long would the hooks hold? he wondered.

Waslow was already two steps ahead of him. As Cubiak watched, the old captain pulled a tall lever that sent a long metal plate sliding out over the water away from the barge. When he had it in position, Waslow lowered the rowboat to the platform.

Cubiak pulled Rowe on board.

“Good work, son,” he said.

From the barge, the deputy had his first clear look at the boat and its contents. Cubiak gave Rowe a moment alone and then stepped alongside and poured the last of the hot coffee for him.

Cate joined them and even Ross took a few steps closer.

Waslow pushed to the head of the line.

The old man's demeanor had changed. His brisk efficiency had vanished. Standing with them, he appeared tentative, even fearful. His brow was furrowed, his mouth grim. After a moment, he spoke. “We'll have to bring it on board, you know. Can't get it to shore like this,” he said to no one in particular.

He's worried that he'll jinx the barge, Cubiak thought. At sea, the dead were dropped overboard and consigned to the depths. And here they were doing the opposite, lifting the dead out of the water and setting them down on the vessel.

“These are the bones of innocent children. There are no ghosts,” the sheriff said, but he wasn't sure if Waslow or anyone else believed him.

O
nce they had the rowboat securely in place, Rowe and Waslow piloted the barge to the marina harbor. Cubiak, Cate, and Ross rode back in the
Speedy Sister.
On the way, Cubiak pulled Cate aside.

“Are you okay?” he said. It was the same question he had asked Rowe earlier.

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ignore you.”

“It's okay. It was better that you didn't fuss over me. Made it more like a job. I didn't have to think or feel, just shoot.”

They glanced back across the bay to where the red flag had become a tiny dot of color on the dark water, near the spot where the rowboat had been found.

“We're not done yet,” Cubiak said.

“I know, but now the rest is up to you, isn't it?”

D
espite the cold wind that had come up, a small crowd was gathered at the Baileys Harbor marina. As soon as they tied up, Ross leapt from the cruiser and took off. Cubiak watched him push through the onlookers and head across the road into the local bar, probably looking for a phone. For now, Cubiak didn't try and stop him. He had enough to do to move the onlookers away from the docks and to help secure and cover the rowboat after the harbor cranes lifted it onto the flatbed truck he'd called for earlier.

Rowe would take the jeep and give Waslow a lift home. Cate had her own car. The sheriff would ride back with the truck.

“Anyone asks anything, it's
no comment
,” he said.

Before they left, the sheriff phoned Pardy and Bathard.

“You'll need a staging area. Someplace large, like an empty factory or warehouse,” the coroner said.

Cubiak remembered what the shipyard workers at the Rusty Scupper had said about one of the hangars going dark. “Lakeside just finished a big job. I think there might be space for us.” The sheriff reached the company CEO at home and explained what he needed: an empty building, a cradle for a small boat, and a large raised platform. “I'm sorry I can't tell you anything more at the moment except that it's important and I need it all tonight.”

There was a long pause before the CEO agreed to the unusual request and promised the sheriff that everything would be ready.

T
he flatbed truck trundled over the steel bridge bearing the cargo of human bones on its back. Heavy fog blanketed the base of the bridge obscuring the lower portion of the truck and blurring the glow from the antique lamps that lined the narrow passageway. In the eerie setting, the shroud-covered rowboat floated into the heart of Sturgeon Bay like an iceberg riding a moonlit cloud.