Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (40 page)

Ciefuegos and Lopez jerked David out from under the blanket that covered him, through the back door of the Suburban, and into the night air. They pulled him to his feet. Eyes wide, he looked around. They were in a marina. The night sky stretched above them like a black cape. Hundreds of boats sat bobbing in their slips. The metallic clank of halyards against masts and the creaking of docklines were the only sounds. What time was it? David had no idea.

The men leaned David against the Suburban. Lopez pulled out a huge knife and showed it to him. “You make one sound,” Cienfuegos said, “and my friend here gut you like a fish. Comprende?”

David nodded. With one swift move, Cienfuegos ripped the tape off David's mouth. “Can you walk?”

David shook his head. When they pulled him from the car, he had broken into an instant sweat and now a chill swept over him. What were they going to do?

“Let's dump him,” Lopez said in Spanish.

“No. We keep him until we are out of here. Then we have plenty of ocean to put him in, right, Hector?”

Lopez didn't acknowledge the reference. “Look at him! He's dead soon!” he said, gesturing toward the blood.

“We keep him for now!” Cienfuegos snarled.

The two men got on either side of David and half-carried him down the main pier and onto one of the docks. Each time David's right leg hit the boards it sent a jolt of pain through him and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. How much blood had he lost?

They went past sailboats, trawlers, and powerboats. Some had small lights on inside, indicating someone might be on board, and David prayed someone, anyone, would just look out and see them. He knew that, if confronted, the men would make up a story: David was drunk, he was hurt . . . whatever. That's why they'd taken the tape off his mouth, to remove obvious signs he was being abducted.

But no one seemed to be out in the marina, and since David figured it was late, that seemed normal. He felt dizzy. The moon danced in the night and the stars swayed. David squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, focusing on the pier. He could hear the occasional gurgle of a bilge pump. The smell of diesel and fish filled his nose. They walked down the C Dock and stopped in front of a big, sedan-bridge cruiser.

“In there,” he heard Cienfuegos say, and they stepped onto the boat's swim platform, and then onto the boat.

Kit turned Consuela over to a female state trooper and emerged from the interview room, nearly bumping into Chris as she did. She looked at her partner. His eyes held more energy than she'd seen in days. “I've got the Maryland and Delaware State Police responding . . .”

“They're not going to Elkton,” Kit said, interrupting.

Chris looked at her quizzically.

“She's the decoy. The men either went south or . . .” Kit hesitated, unsure of herself, “. . . or maybe headed east.”

“East.”

“Toward the boat.”

Chris frowned. The harsh lights of the hallway intensified his expression. “What are you thinking?”

“I think they set Consuela up. They knew we'd be looking for that car. Cienfuegos's boat is fifty-two feet long and plenty sturdy enough for ocean travel. It may be the boat that's been running people up and down the coast.” Kit put her hand to her forehead. “Boats like that may carry, say, five hundred gallons of fuel, plenty enough for a long trip.” She looked up, her eyes imploring Chris. “Look, I know this is a long shot, but there aren't too many roads on the peninsula. Cienfuegos knows he's limited to Rt. 13, basically, if he wants to leave, and so, why wouldn't he think of an alternative escape route?”

“The boat.”

“Right. Something that would keep him off the roads. It's a big ocean out there, and who'd be looking for them there? In the middle of the night? He doesn't know that we know he has a boat. His odds of getting away are a lot better out on the Atlantic.” Her breathing was shallow. “Besides, remember what Consuela said she took to him? Rope? What's that for? A boat?”

She watched Chris for his reaction. He put his hands on his hips, walked away three paces, touched his chin, furrowed his brow.

Then he looked at her. “It's crazy, but I think you could be right. Where is it?”

“The boat? Ocean City.”

“Let's go.”

The trip from Salisbury to Ocean City would take at least thirty-five intense minutes. Kit stayed on the cell phone and the radio, calling ahead to the Maryland State Police, coordinating with Roger, and double-checking the boat's location and slip number. She also called Steve, who decided to meet them at the marina. She clicked off her phone and wiped her sweaty hands on her khakis.

Chris sped through the dark night, his lights flashing. Kit could see the concentration in his face, the intensity in his eyes. Most women would find him attractive, but his intensity only reminded her of David.

David. Had she met him only to lose him? He'd stirred up feelings in her she thought were dead, intense longings she thought she'd never experience again. What's more, God had used him to challenge her thinking, to force her to confront her lack of forgiveness for Eric. So was that all God had had in mind? David was a momentary catalyst for her spiritual growth?

Oh, please, no . . . no . . . no . . .

Tears came to her eyes and she turned to look out of the window so Chris wouldn't see them.
Please God
, she prayed silently,
protect him. Please help me to find him. Please, God
 . . .

Her cell phone rang. The Ocean City police were at the marina. A plainclothes officer had strolled down the dock and
found slip 1430 empty. But over on the C Dock, a big Sea Ray had its motor running.

“What's the name?”

“Pleasant Dreams.”

Wait. “Roger said Cienfuegos's boat was named ‘Night Magic'.”

“Boat names can be changed . . . easily.”

Kit took a deep breath. “Odd time of night to have a boat warming up.”

“Too early for fishing,” the cop agreed, “and too late for cruising.”

“If it starts to move out, call me right away. We're maybe ten minutes out.” She snapped her phone shut and turned to Chris. “The name's wrong on the boat.”

“Names can be changed.”

“That's what the cop said.”

Chris pressed on the accelerator and took the SUV up to eighty-five mph. “I'm going with your instincts.” He nodded toward her cell phone. “Call the boss.”

“You don't think that's premature?”

“Call him and tell him what you just found out.”

So she did. Steve said he was on the way, with reinforcements. “Set it up before you move,” he warned Kit.

“Yes, sir.”

The Fair Winds Marina sat just west of the Ocean City Inlet, an opening into sheltered waters from the Atlantic Ocean, on the south side of Ocean City. One of the largest in the area, the marina was home to over three hundred pleasure and charter boats of all shapes and sizes. Ocean City is famous for sport fishing: marlin, tuna, bluefish, and shark teem in the waters offshore. Kit had been there as a child, surf fishing for
flounder and sea bass. And she'd played at the beach. But Ocean City was a busy, commercial, touristy place, nothing like Chincoteague. It had never captured Kit's heart.

Because Cienfuegos was holding David, it was important that he not be alerted to police presence until Kit's team was ready. She'd toyed with the idea of requesting the Hostage Rescue team from Quantico, or the Norfolk SWAT team, but either group would take a minimum of two hours to get to the scene and Kit wasn't sure they had that much time. David had been shot, and the amount of blood she'd seen in the Escalade had convinced her time was short.

Instead, she had decided to rely on the Ocean City police chief's emergency response team—and whatever agents and state police she could collect.

Presuming, of course, her hunch was correct, and the Sea Ray warming up belonged to Cienfuegos, and that David was on that boat. And alive. Which was presuming a whole lot, she knew. They could have dumped him anywhere. Why would they want to keep him with them? They could have let him bleed to death. They could have . . . she stopped herself from pursuing that line of thought. There was no point to it.

The police chief, Dan Gunner, suggested they gather in the parking lot of a miniature golf course three blocks from the marina. When Chris pulled up, Gunner was already there, with thirteen of his people dressed in SWAT gear. Kit pulled on her ballistic vest for the third time that night. She exited the car and approached Gunner. Tall, around 6-foot, and blond, he looked very Germanic, with a square face and strong jaw.

“Thank you, chief, for responding,” Kit said, and she introduced Chris and the other two agents, who had been following them in their own vehicle.

“We want as low a profile as possible,” Gunner responded. “This is the tourist season and the last thing we need is a major incident.”

Kit nodded. “I understand.” Then she sketched out the basics of the case and fought to keep her throat from closing up as she told him about David. Just as she finished, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up and a tanned, sandy-haired man got out with a rolled-up sheet of paper in his hand.

Chief Gunner nodded toward him. “Here's the marina owner, Sonny Foster.”

“You called him?”

“He's a friend of mine.” Gunner introduced Foster to the others. “You've got a map?”

Foster nodded. “Which boat are you interested in?”

Kit told him. “The owner's name is Cienfuegos. I thought the boat name was
Night Magic
but the boat that has the engine running is
Pleasant Dreams
.”

“He renamed it,” Foster explained. “Not three weeks ago. Had the work done in our boatyard.”

Kit's eyes widened. She looked at Chris, whose face looked intent.

“Tell us about Cienfuegos,” Chris said.

Foster shrugged. “We got over three hundred boats here. I don't really know much about him. He just moved his boat here in the last couple of months. Must like to go night fishing, 'cause I've seen him coming and going at odd times. Other than that . . .”

“Did you ever see him with a lot of people on board?”

“Once. I thought the man must have a big family.”

“Show us on the map the boat's location.”

Foster spread the rolled up map out on the hood of a car. He pointed out the long pier, and the multiple docks that came off of it like fingers, the fuel dock, the marina restaurant,
bathroom facilities, office, pump-out-station, and the access to the ocean. “The boat that's running is right here,” Foster said, pointing to the very end of the C Dock.

“What kind of cover is there?” Kit asked.

“Well, you've got these other boats, and some lockers sitting on the dock itself. There's not much mass to them, though.”

“Fiberglass boats and dock lockers won't stop bullets,” Chris said.

Foster stroked his chin. “Here's a thought. The dockmaster's office is here, at the end of the E Dock.” He pointed to a place on the map. “It's small, but it might help you a little.”