There was some grumbling, but nothing serious. Boats and guns were a scary combination, and no one wanted to founder in the winter seas of Alaska.
“So you think he’s got her in Lost Souls?” asked Ralphie. “Damn, I hate going out there in the winter. It’s bleak AF.”
“Then you’re in luck. I don’t think he took her there. It didn’t work out for him last time, and like you said, it’s hard out there in the winter. But on this side, there’s a whole shoreline of places to hide out around here. Little getaway cabins closed down for the winter. Hunter’s cabins. Ocean-view lodges, you name it.”
“That’s a lot of territory, Tristan.” Deke Armstrong shoved his hands in the pockets of his canvas bomber jacket. He wore a black Grundens baseball cap, with his gray hair flowing in waves to his shoulders. He’d given up cutting his hair one year for Lent, then decided he liked letting it go free.
“Don’t I know it. What do you think you all are here for? The free drinks?”
Through the scattered calls of “oh yeah” and “that’s what I’m talking about,” he added quickly, “Afterwards. Don’t want to get Judy on my ass.”
Judy Rand, who’d recently taken over as the manager in place of his sister, gave him a nod from behind the bar, where she and Old Crow were tidying up. She’d been listening closely as she wiped glasses with a bar towel. The ship’s lanterns over the bar gave her brown skin a rich glow.
“I saw a boat leave out of the visitor tie-up when I was taking out the trash earlier,” she said. “Didn’t look familiar.”
“What kind of boat?”
“Most boats look about the same to me. But it wasn’t a fishing boat like what you all have. It was more of a…” She sketched an outline in the air. “Like a speedboat, I suppose.”
Tristan glanced at Lucas Holt. “Harbormaster, anything you can do to figure out the mystery speed boat would be helpful.”
“I know about it.” Boris Clancy poked his head from behind one of the Russian fishermen and raised his hand. Tristan noted that he held his chicken in his arms—and that he was trying to hide it from Judy. Toni would have thrown him out on his ass for bringing his pet chicken inside. Maybe Judy would be more accommodating, but probably not. Was there an exception for emotional support chickens?
“Did you see it, Boris?”
“Yah. I sure did. Came in this morning and left a couple hours later. Was a man and a woman onboard. She wore one of them fancy scarves.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“Oh no. No no no.” Boris shuddered, every skinny limb shaking. “I don’t like strangers. Or bad people.”
Everyone knew Boris was “different,” though no one really put a label to it. He was more sensitive than most people, but a person would be a fool to dismiss him. He often picked up on things that other people missed.
The Russian fisherman shifted so he could squeeze Boris’ shoulder. “Was he a bad person, Boris? Did he hurt you?”
That was the other thing about Boris. Every single person in this harbor would defend him fiercely if someone tried to hurt him. Or his chicken, for that matter.
“No, but I got on my bike so he couldn’t see me. He looked mean.”
Judy leaned her hands on the bar and peered at Boris. “Is that a damn chicken in my bar?”
With a squawk of his own, Boris scuttled backwards toward the door.
“Wait,” Tristan called after him. “What kind of boat was it?”
“Hewescraft twenty-five footer with twin engines. Black and silver with a white canopy.” Another thing about Boris: he knew his boats.
“Horsepower on the engines?”
“Two-fifty each.” With that, he flung open the door and fled to the boardwalk, where his chicken was always welcome.
“Judy, ma’am.” Deke Armstrong raised his hand. “Maybe we should relax the rules about poultry coming in here, since we nearly had a rooster for mayor.”
A murmur of agreement rose from the others.
Judy tossed her bar towel over her shoulder and shook her head at them all. “I’ve got half a mind to let in the chickens and keep the fishermen out.”
“Nooo….we’ll be good…shut up, Deke,” chorused the fishermen.
Under normal circumstances, Tristan might find all this pretty entertaining. The back-and-forth between the fishermen also brought him great joy. But right now, he could have strangled them all. He lifted his voice to cut through the din. “We got our description, guys. That’s progress.”
“I’ll look into it,” said Lucas, joining him in his attempt to get things back on track. “If I learn anything more about this boat or its occupants, I’ll let you all know. Keep your radios tuned to the storm frequency.”
“Good idea,” said Tristan. “Took the words out of my mouth.”
From past experience navigating the wild storms that swept through Misty Bay, the fleet had designated a special channel for emergency situations. Outsiders didn’t know about it, although of course they might stumble upon it. The kidnapper would be unlikely to do that, though, since he’d probably be monitoring the official police channels.
“So where you want us to start?” said Old Crow from behind the bar. “You’re not going, are you?” Startled, Tristan cocked his head at the old fisherman. He’d recently retired and shifted into bartending. “We need someone here to hold down the fort.”
“Find someone else for that. The Ravenwing always was a good hunter.”
“All right. Well, thanks, Old Crow. That’s above and beyond. I have some ideas about how to do this.”
He laid out his plan. He’d divided the shoreline into sections, and assigned two boats to each section. They’d used the buddy system, except with fishing boats. “North of Deep Gulch, that’s Deke and Pedro. Deep Gulch to Kimlik, Jacob and Erica.” He kept going, using the familiar landmarks they all know so well. “Look out for anything out of place. A cabin that ought to be empty, a boat with a white canopy, lights where there shouldn’t be any. Not just on shore, but on the water. He could have switched boats. He could be anchored somewhere. Anything you notice, let me know. I’m going to be onshore.”
“Can I take the Desperado?” Ralphie asked right away. Although Ralphie was one of the most experienced deckhands in Lost Harbor, he’d never owned his own fishing boat. He’d never wanted the responsibility, he claimed.
“No,” Tristan said automatically.
“It’s one more boat out there looking for her,” he pointed out.
Damn. The guy was right. Tristan ground his teeth at the thought of someone else driving his boat. The only time he allowed that to happen was when he needed some sleep. He only trusted a few of his crew members to take the wheel of his beloved boat. And Ralphie wasn’t generally one of them.
But they needed all hands on deck, and all decks on the water. What was more important in the end, Lulu or the Desperado?
Sorry, Desp. You know I love you. But I have to go with Lulu here. I know you understand. You want her back too, right?
Weird that even though his boat was hundreds of yards away, floating peacefully at slip forty-two, he sensed the Desperado’s silent agreement. Bring back Lulu. That’s what matters most.