Death Echo

57

DAY FIVE

NORTH OF DISCOVERY PASSAGE

3:35 P.M.

After a few minutes at the helm of the dinghy, Emma was in love. The fifty-horsepower outboard made the little craft fly. The controls were easy, intuitive, and wicked quick. The faster she went, the quicker the boat responded.

“Now I know why SEALs love their Zodiacs,” she said over the sound of the outboard.

“Just keep an eye out for logs,” Mac said.

He stretched, yawned, and leaned against the back of the padded bench seat next to her.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. He looked utterly relaxed as he watched the shoreline. Twice he pointed her toward the proper passes and channels. If he was antsy about not being in control, it didn’t show.

Smiling, she settled in to enjoy the ride. She had worked with men who were too insecure to let a woman be in command. Tim Harrow was one of them. But in his case, it wasn’t a gender issue. He simply didn’t want anyone of any sex to be in control but him. Her competence and independence had rubbed Harrow raw.

Mac saw those command qualities in her, appreciated them, and took them as signals he could relax a bit.

If they hadn’t spent much of the night finding out just how many stellar ways they fit together, she would have thought that Mac simply didn’t notice the physical, sexual differences between them. But he did.

Oh, yeah. In the best possible ways.

Last night had been an eye-opener for both of them.

She guided the speeding dingy into a channel that was marked by a head-high metal day-marker. The water ahead of the bow began to dance in the afternoon sunlight, as though stirred by a giant swirling school of fish. She slowed the boat, trying to read the water.

Mac pointed out a course that took them closer to the day-marker.

“Are you sure?” she asked over the sound of the outboard.

He nodded.

As she turned away from the roiled water, a whirlpool appeared and widened into a wildly spinning wheel of water revolving around a central vortex.

“Whoa,” she said. “That could ruin your day.”

“Sure could.”

“Why isn’t it marked on the chart?”

“The rock that spins out that whirlpool only does it at the strongest tides,” he said. “The rest of the time this place is just garden-variety Inside Passage water.”

“But how did you know?” She tapped the little nav computer perched up and behind the wheel. “The chart doesn’t give you a hint.”

“I learned the hard way.”

He worked the computer, dividing the small screen. The left side showed a nav chart. The right side showed what was below the boat.

“When you’re new to these narrow byways and channels,” he said, “you check the tides and currents, and watch the water and sonar for big rocks or other bottom structures that can roil the water above. But you still get surprised.”

She smiled. “Who knew? I always thought yachting would be easy to the point of boredom.”

He noted the light in her green eyes and the eager tilt of her chin.

“You really like this,” he said.

“Nope. I love it.” She grinned over at Mac and patted the dinghy’s steering wheel. “Mine.”

“Yeah, I got that feeling.”

“You’re feeling right.”

His laughter was drowned out by the engine as the dinghy skipped through a narrow slot and shot into a wider channel. He pointed toward a rocky outcropping about five miles away.

“Wake me up before we go around the headland,” he said.

“Will do.”

She drove the twelve-foot dinghy with flair, skimming down the channel like a crazed water bug. She liked everything about being in control of this particular transportation, especially the speed.

Best of all, Mac wasn’t upset about being busted down to first mate. Quite the opposite. He had kicked back to take one of the power naps all people in demanding professions learned to use for recharging.

There were a few signs of humanity on the long channel. A deserted cottage, floats marking crab or prawn pots, a workboat headed for somewhere else at top speed, a fisherman looking for a late salmon. Enough for local flavor, but not so much that Emma felt crowded.

She was having too much fun with the zippy little dinghy to notice that she was tired. Camouflaging Blackbird had been a grueling experience, complete with scratches, welts, and sap from the fresh greenery they had weaved through the netting. The camouflage wouldn’t hold for more than a few days-at most-but all they needed was a chip to bring to the Agency poker table for a few hours of play.

Blackbird was a very big chip.