White Death nf-4 Page 14

  Austin said, "The people who did this might know I was at Pia's. I wonder if I should talk to the police."

  "No such thing here. Don't worry, the whole town will keep close watch on her."

  Austin thanked him again, and minutes later he was driving out of town. As he surveyed the sea stack in his rear view mirror, he men- tally ticked off the events of his short stay in Skaalshavn. He was leav- ing town with more questions than answers. Look on the bright side, he told himself with a grin. He had made some terrific new friends.

  15

  PAUL TROUT STEPPED onto the deck of Neals wooden- hulled trawler and appraised the boat with an expert eye. What he found surprised him. Neal was a charming conniver and a drunk, but he was a no-nonsense fisherman who took pride in his boat. The signs offender care were everywhere. Woodwork gleamed with fresh paint. The deck was scrubbed clean of oil stains. Rust was kept under control. The pilothouse had the latest in fish-finding and naviga- tional equipment.

  When Trout complimented Neal on the condition of his boat, the fisherman beamed like a father who'd been told his firstborn was his spitting image. Soon he and Neal were swapping sea stories. At one point, when Neal was out of hearing, Gamay raised an eyebrow and said, "You and Mike appear to be getting along swimmingly. I sup- pose you'll be trading recipes before long."

  "He's an interesting guy. Look at this boat. It's as well-found as anything I've ever been on."

  "Glad to hear you say that. NUMA now owns a piece of Tiffany."

  The ransom to spring the trawler from the boatyard had been closer to a thousand dollars than to seven hundred fifty. After a quick fuel-tank fill-up, which Gamay also paid for, Neal set the trawler on a course that would take it into the open sea.

  "Fishin' ground's not far," Neal yelled over the throb of the engine.

  " 'Bout seven miles. Ten fathoms. Bottom's smooth as a baby's behind.

  Prime for trawling. Be there shortly."

  After a while, Neal checked his GPS position, cut the throttle to an idle and lowered the net-a conical mesh bag, around a hundred- and-fifty-feet long, designed to be dragged along the sea bottom. The boat made two sets and caught lots of seaweed, but no fish.

  "This is very strange," Trout said, inspecting the cod end, the nar- row pouch at the end of the net where harvested fish are concen- trated. "I can understand hauling in a poor catch, but it's highly unusual to bring in nothing. Not even trash fish. The net's absolutely empty."

  A knowing grin crossed Neal's face. "You may wish it stayed empty."

  The net was lowered again, pulled along the bottom and slowly winched back onto the boat. A boom was used to hoist the cod end over the deck where any catch could be emptied out. This time, something was thrashing wildly in the net. Flashes of silvery-white scales were visible through the tangle of mesh, as a large fish fiercely struggled to free itself. Neal yelled out a warning as he prepared to empty the contents of the net onto the deck.

  "Stand way back, folks, we've got a live one!"

  The big fish landed on the deck with a squishy thud. Freed from the net, it became even more ferocious in its exertions, skittering across the deck as it arched and snapped its long body, round eyes staring with an unfishlike malevolence, mouth wide and snapping at air. The creature slammed into the fish hold, a raised box built into the deck. Far from slowing it down, the impact seemed to make it angrier. The convulsions became more violent, and it scudded back across the slippery deck.

  "Wha-hoo!" Neal yelled, quickly stepping out of the way of the biting jaws. He lowered a gaff handle near the fish's head. In a snap- ping blur, the fish bit the handle in two.

  Paul watched, spellbound, from the raised safety of a pile of net- ting. Gamay had taken out a video camera and was busy filming.

  "That's the biggest salmon I've ever seen!" Paul said. The fish was about five feet long.

  "This is crazy," Gamay said, holding the camera steady. "Salmon don't act like this when they're caught. They've got weak teeth that would break if they tried to do anything like that."

  "Tell that to the damned fish/7 Neal said, holding up the jagged end of the gaff handle. He tossed it aside and grabbed a pitchfork, speared the fish behind the gills and pinned it to the deck. The fish continued to struggle. Neal produced an old Louisville Slugger and whacked the fish on the head. It was stunned for a second, then started snapping again, although less violently.

  "Sometimes you have to slam them a few more times before they quiet down," Neal explained.

  Moving with great caution, he managed to loop a line around the tail. Then he fed the line into an overhanging pulley, pulled the pitch- fork out, lifted the fish and swung it over the open fish hold, still care- ful to stay clear of the jaws. When the fish was positioned over the hold, he took a filleting knife and cut the line. The fish fell into the hold where it could be heard banging against the sides.

  "That was the meanest fish I've ever seen," Paul said, with a won- dering shake of his head. "It behaved more like a barracuda than a salmon."

  "It looked like an Atlantic salmon, but I'm not sure what it was.

  Those strange white scales. It was almost albino." Gamay shut off the camera and peered into the dimness of the fish hold. "Listen! It's far too big and aggressive to be a normal fish. It's almost as if it were some sort of mutant." She turned to Neal. "When did you first start catching these things?"

  Neal took the cigar stub from between his teeth and spit over the

  side. "First boats started bringing them up in the nets around six months ago. The guys called them 'devilfish.' They tore the hell out of the nets, but they were big so we cut them up and sent them off to market. Guess the meat was okay, because nobody died," he said with a smirk. "Pretty soon that's all we were catching. The smaller fish just disappeared." He gestured to the fish hold with his cigar.

  "That's the reason why."

  "Did you contact any fishery scientists and tell them what you were catching?"

  "Oh yeah. We got in touch with the fisheries people. They didn't send anyone down."

  "Why not?" "Short-staffed, they said. Guess you got to look at it their way.

  You're a marine biologist. Would you move out of your lab if some- one called and said big ol' devilfish was eating your stock?"

  "Yes, I would have been here in a minute." "You're different from the others. They wanted us to ship one of these babies up for them to look at."

  "Why didn't you do it?" "We were going to, but after what happened to Charlie Marstons, the fishermen got scared and said to hell with it and moved on."

  "Who was Charlie Marstons?" Paul said.

  "Charlie was an old-timer. Fished these waters for years even after it got hard for him to get around because of a bad leg. He was a stub- born old coot, though, and liked to go out alone. They found him- or what was left of him-coupla miles east of here. From the looks of it, he caught a bunch of these lunkers, got too close and maybe his bum leg gave out. Hardly enough left to bury."

  "You're saying the fish killed him?"

  "No other explanation. That's when the boys started leaving. I would have gone with them if I had my boat. Funny," he said with a grin, "one of those babies is my ticket out of here."

  Gamay was already thinking ahead. "I want to bring it back to the lab for analysis."

  "Suits me fine," Neal said. "We'll box it up as soon as it's safe." He pointed the Tiffany back to land. By the time they pulled up to the dock, the fish was practically dead, but it managed a few spas- modic snaps, enough to warrant keeping it on board awhile longer. Neal recommended a boarding house where they could stay the night. Gamay gave him a hundred-dollar bonus, and they agreed to meet the next morning.

  A pleasant middle-aged couple warmly welcomed them at the board- ing house, a Victorian structure at the edge of town. From the en- thusiasm with which they were greeted, Paul and Gamay figured that the B and B didn't get much business. The room was cheap and clean, and the couple cooked them a hearty dinner
. They had a good night's sleep, and the next morning, after a huge breakfast, they set out to find Neal and reclaim their fish.

  The pier was deserted. More worrisome, there was no sign of Neal or the Tiffany. They asked at the boatyard, but nobody had seen him since the day before when he'd paid for his engine work. A few men were idling around the waterfront because they had nothing better to do. No one had seen Neal that morning. The bartender they'd met the day before strolled by on his way to open up the restaurant. They asked if he had any idea where Neal might be.

  "Probably nursing a hangover about now," the bartender said. "He came in last night with a hundred bucks. Used most of it up buy- ing drinks for himself and the regulars. He was pretty tanked when he left. He's done it before, so I didn't worry about him. Neal navi- gates better drunk than some men sober. He took off around eleven, and that was the last I saw of him. He's been living on his boat, even when the boatyard had it."

  "Any idea why the Tiffany isn't here?" Paul asked. The bartender scanned the harbor and swore under his breath.

  "Damned idiot, he was in no shape to run a boat."

  "Would any of the other people who were in the bar know where he is ?"

  "Naw, they were even drunker than he was. Only one not drink- ing was Fred Grogan, and he left before Mike."

  Trout's analytical ear was listening for inconsistencies. "Who is Grogan?" Paul asked.

  "Nobody you'd want to know," the bartender said with contempt. "Lives in the woods near the old plant. He's the only local guy the new owners kept on when they bought in. Pretty surprising, because Fred is such a shady character. He pretty much keeps to himself. Sometimes he sneaks into town, driving one of the big black SUVs you see around the plant."

  The bartender paused and looked across the water, shading his eyes. A small boat had entered the harbor and was moving toward the pier at great speed. "That's Fitzy coming in. He's the lighthouse keeper. Looks like he's in a big hurry."

  The outboard-powered skiff skidded up to the dock, and the white-bearded man in the boat tossed a line ashore. He was clearly excited and didn't even wait to climb out of the boat before he started to babble almost incoherently.

  "Calm down, Fitzy," the bartender said. "Can't understand a word." The bearded man caught his breath and said, "I heard a big boom late last night. Rattled my windows. Figured it might be a jet flying real low. Went out this morning to take a look. Pieces of wood all over the place. Look at this." He whipped back a tarpaulin, pulled out a jagged plank and held it over his head. The painted letters Tif were clearly visible.

  The bartender's lips tightened. He went into his bar and called the police. While he waited for the law to arrive, he made several more phone calls. Pickup trucks began to arrive, and a motley fleet of search boats was organized. With Fitzy in the lead, the flotilla had already set out when the police chief arrived. The chief talked to the bartender and got his story. By then, some of the boats were return- ing. They had more scraps of wood that identified the boat, but no sign ofNeal.

  The sheriff put in a call to the coast guard, which said it would send in a helicopter, but the consensus seemed to be that Neal had gotten drunk, decided to go for a joyride and probably hit a rock near the point and sank. The Trouts did not comment on the explanation, but as they drove back to the rooming house, their conversation dwelt on more sinister possibilities.

  Gamay put it bluntly. "I think Mike was murdered." "Guess I wasn't the only one who saw the charring around the wood. I'd guess his boat was set on fire or simply blown up. Neal's bragging about the fish he caught could have got him killed."

  "Is that what it is all about?" Gamay said, her eyes flashing with anger. "Neal was killed over a fish?"

  "Maybe." She shook her head "Poor guy. I can't help thinking that we're somehow responsible-"

  "The only ones responsible are the guys who killed him."

  "And I'm betting that Oceanus had a big hand in this." "If you're right, they may come after us next." "Then I'd suggest that we pack our gear and get out of town." Paul pulled the rental car in front of the guest house, and they went inside, paid their bill and grabbed their bags. The owners were obviously sorry to see them go, and followed them out to the car. As they chattered on about how it was a shame that they were leaving, Gamay tugged Paul's sleeve and steered him to the driver's side. She got in and waved farewell.

  "Sorry to spoil our send-off party. While we were talking, I saw a black Tahoe pass by."

  "Looks like the wolves are gathering," Paul said. He turned onto the road that would take them out of town and glanced in the mir- ror. "No one on our tail."

  Except for a few vehicles, they saw little traffic, and once they had

  gone beyond the town's outskirts, the road was empty. The two-lane road wound through thick pine woods, gradually ascending so they were driving high above the sea. On one side of the road was forest, and on the other a sheer drop-off for hundreds of feet.

  They were about two miles from the village when Gamay turned to look at the road behind them and said, "Uh-oh."

  Paul glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a black Tahoe bear- ing down on them. "They must have been waiting down a side road for us to pass."

  Gamay tightened her seat belt. "Okay, then, show them what you can do."

  Paul gave her an incredulous look. "You realize we are driving a six-cylinder family sedan that is probably half the size and weight of that black behemoth behind us."

  "Damnit, Paul, don't be so analytical. You're a crazy Massachusetts driver. Just put the pedal to the metal."

  Trout rolled his eyes. "Yes ma'am," he said.

  He punched the gas pedal with his foot. The car accelerated to a respectable eighty miles per hour. Easily matching their speed, the Tahoe continued to gain. Paul managed to wring another ten miles per hour out of the engine, but the SUV moved closer.

  The road began to go into a series of curves that matched the con- tour of the coastal hills. The rental vehicle was no sports car, but it held the road better on the turns than the big SUV, which leaned heavily as the curves became sharper. Trout had to hit the brakes to keep from going off the road, but the SUV was even less maneuver- able.

  Slowed by the serpentine curves, the SUV lost ground. Trout curbed his elation. He kept his eyes glued to the road, hands firmly gripping the steering wheel, pushing his car to just under the speed at which it could go out of control and overshoot a curve. He knew that one lapse-a patch of sandy highway, an errant boulder or an error of judgment-could get them both killed in a fiery crash.

  Gamay kept tabs on their pursuer and maintained a running com- mentary. The car's wheels squealed with each change in direction. Trout held it steady. He was running between sixty and seventy miles per hour, and was heading down a long, gradual slope in the road, when an unbelievable sight met his eyes.

  Ahead of them, a black Tahoe had pulled out onto the road from behind a huge boulder. For a second, he thought the SUV behind him had used a shortcut.

  Then Gamay shouted, "There are two SUVs. They're trying to sandwich us in."

  The vehicle in front of the Trouts' car slowed to block the road, and the other SUV quickly caught up from behind. Trout tried to go around, but each time he poked the rental car's nose into the on- coming lane, the SUV pulled in front of him. He touched the brakes to avoid a rear-end collision. The following SUV crashed into his rear bumper, crushing it into the trunk and sending the car into a neck- jolting wild fishtail.

  Paul fought the wheel and managed to keep the car from going into a spin. The Tahoe slammed into the car again. The smell of gas from a ruptured tank filled the car. The Tahoe made another lunge, but this time Gamay saw it coming and yelled, "Right!"

  Trout spun the wheel to the right and the Tahoe only clipped the bumper. Gamay glanced at the SUVs, which had pulled away.

  "They're holding back for some reason."

  "That won't last," Paul said. "Then we'd better do something soon. The rental agency is g
oing

  to wonder why their car is only two feet long. Damn, he's coming in again. Left!"

  Trout jerked the wheel. The car moved into the passing lane, and

  Trout saw something that made his hair stand up on edge. The road curved sharply to the right. The Tahoes could keep them boxed in until the last minute. The SUV in front would screen the curve from view. Then it would slow to make the turn, and the one behind would knock them off the cliff like a cue stick tapping a billiard ball.

  Paul yelled at Gamay to hold tight, and he gripped the wheel even tighter with his sweaty palms. He tried to remove all thought from his mind, relying only on instinct, keeping sharp watch in the rearview mirror. Timing would be crucial.

  The vehicle on their tail began to accelerate. Trout made his move. When the SUV came within a few feet of the car's bumper, he jerked the wheel to the right.

  The car hit the soft, sandy berm along the side of the road and drove up on the inclined shoulder like a race car on the angled track of a speedway. It crashed through bushes and small trees. Wood shrieked against metal.

  He saw a flash of black as the Tahoe flew by him on the left. Then came a horrendous screech of brakes and a crash. The SUV that had been on his tail had slammed into the rear of the vehicle in front, locking bumpers. The lead vehicle tried to slow and turn, but the weight of the attached SUV made any turn impossible, and they were locked together. Both vehicles shot off the cliff like projectiles from a slingshot and plunged hundreds of feet in a fiery tandem death trap.

  Trout was having his own problems. The banking had followed the contour of the road, and now it curved while the car maintained a straight trajectory. He lost all control as the car was airborne. Cen- trifugal force kept him pressed into the driver's door. The car landed at an angle, collapsing the wheels, with a sound like a junkyard sym- phony. He tried to glance over at Gamay, but the airbags deployed and all he could see was exploding white plastic.

  Then only blackness.