Crooked River

54

As the boat with no name sped north, P. B. Perelman wondered just what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

The first two hours had been smooth motoring, the flat sea allowing him to go at the boat’s top speed of seventy-five knots. But as the light disappeared in the steady rain, he could feel in his bones the approaching storm, an electricity in the air. A slight swell was developing, the leading edge of worse to come, and the wind had kicked up, producing a little chop. Already the boat was starting to catch too much air, and at that speed, in the dark, it would be easy to flip over.

He throttled back.

“What the devil are you doing?” Constance asked sharply.

“I have to ease off in this sea,” said Perelman. He couldn’t believe her lack of fear. Any other passenger would be on the floor by now, begging him to slow down.

“Don’t lose your nerve.”

“I’m worried about losing my life. Our lives. We can’t help Pendergast if we’re dead.”

She said nothing, but let him throttle down to fifty without further complaint. Even at that speed, the boat was starting to take a pounding, the props coming out of the water from time to time with a terrifying roar. They were making for the mouth of Crooked River, a course that took them far offshore. Christ, if they didn’t get there before the storm hit, they’d be screwed no matter what speed they were going. This was no craft to weather a storm in.

He glanced over at Constance, who was standing on his left, her face barely illuminated by the dim red light of the helm. She was looking straight ahead, her short hair whipped by the wind: a crazy girl, he thought, with such peculiar mannerisms and old-fashioned speech. Although the look in her violet eyes wasn’t crazy — not exactly. They were more the eyes of a stone killer than of a young woman — eyes that had seen everything and, as a result, were surprised by nothing.

This whole business had taken a bizarre turn, and done so very suddenly. Looking back, he could see in retrospect the signs that the task force had been compromised. Whoever these people were, kidnapping a fed like that was the height of insanity — unless they were an arm of the government themselves. An arm of the government. Incredible as that might seem, it was really the only thing that made sense. That meant the only way to keep Pendergast alive was to make them think they’d gotten away with it; that nobody knew their location, that the cavalry hadn’t been called in. Of course, the chances that Pendergast was still alive were vanishingly low.

The bow hit a particularly steep swell and the boat lurched upward, the props screaming, then came back down at a tilt that scared the shit out of him. He eased a little more off the throttle, only to receive another sharp rebuke from Constance.

She was clueless of how go-fast boats handled, but there was no point arguing with her now.

“You’d better hold on tighter than ever,” he warned her instead. “Because it’s only going to get rougher.”