“I should have figured it out.” Deacon’s eyes go flinty. “Christopher is Thorpe’s son’s name. They call him CJ, but his name is Christopher—shit.” His face goes slack and pale.
“What? What is it?”
“It really is them. I didn’t want to believe it, but there it is. And I think I know why they hurt my dad,” he says. “That day it all went down, Dad was in a shit mood. When he found the busted latches on the charter boat, he lost his mind. Blamed Max mostly, who’d brought the boat back, but then he reamed Thorpe and Charlie too. He told them they were all off the charter drop-offs for a while. I thought Dad was being a tool, taking their overtime like that…”
My cheeks feel numb, tingly. “But they were losing a whole lot more than a few hours of extra pay,” I say. “If they couldn’t deliver goods, they’d have real motive to get your dad out of the way. And now even Joel’s out of the way because of Mr. Trumbull.”
Deacon’s laugh is as bitter as they come. “That’s why the whole fight with Dad started. Seeing him using was what sent me over the edge, but I was so mad before that, because he took his mood out on our guys. I actually apologized to them.” He looks sick over it. I get the feeling.
“You didn’t know either,” I say. “Do the coordinates back this up?”
“If they were meeting another boat? Sure. Most of them are within a few hours of here if you’re moving fast. Except that Caribbean set you found. That one makes no sense at all.”
I push my hands through my hair. “We’re sure about the attack though? Because I thought I was wrong about Thorpe. His right hand was bruised, but he’s actually left-handed.”
Deacon shakes his head. “Thorpe’s not left-handed. He’s ambidextrous. He brags all the time about how he can drag in fish from any position on the boat.”
My stomach flutters. “If he’s ambidextrous, he wouldn’t have any alibi except cleaning those boats.”
“And Charlie cleans the boats with him,” Deacon says. “It was Charlie too, who told us all about his hand injury.”
They could have lied. A thrill runs through me, and I lean forward over Joel’s desk. “Are there cameras in Morehead City? Like traffic cameras?”
“A few, I think.” Deacon sags against the wall. “At the stoplights. But there are ways to get to the boats without hitting those intersections. I doubt it would hold up.”
“Try Joel,” I say. We use the office phone, but it goes straight to voice mail, so I leave a message.
“Joel, it’s Emmie. I’m with Deacon, and we think Thorpe and Charlie are using the charter boats to smuggle. We’ll try to call soon.”
As soon as I hang up, Deacon heads toward the door of the office.
“Where are you going?” I ask. “We should call the state police. Maybe the Coast Guard.”
“I’m sorry, Emmie. I can’t sit here and wait. I have to check the boat. If they are setting up for a run, all we need is a picture. Some morsel of proof, and they go down right now. Even Perry won’t be able to stop it.”
“It’s too dangerous. We should go to the police.”
“Except they’re paying the sheriff off and who knows who else around here,” Deacon reminds me. “Thorpe and Charlie could take off, and we’d end up arrested.”
“Arrested.” The word sits in my stomach like a greasy rock. I imagine my mom at the police station again, and my mouth goes dry. God, how did this happen? A week ago, I would have been voted least likely to ever be pursued by the police. And now?
I shudder.
Deke sighs. “I respect whatever you have to do, but I have to try to turn Charlie and Thorpe in first. If I see something on a boat, something legit, I can call the Coast Guard station down in Emerald Isle. I’ll never be able to live with myself if they just sail away, free and clear. I have to try.”
I close my eyes and let his words run through me. I’m still half-terrified, but I’m not going to walk away again. I’m going to see this through.
“Okay,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’m with you.”
• • •
We’re hunched in a dark store alcove across the street from the Westfield Charters boats. Deacon tugs his baseball cap low over his forehead, and I pull up the hood on my sweatshirt. I’m edgy as all hell, and he isn’t much better. Every car, every tourist voice makes us pause.
The boats are anchored and empty. A sign outside the dockside office invites visitors to return tomorrow for “Tours, Fishing, and More!”
I’m not so sure about this plan anymore. “Can we just go to the Coast Guard now?”
“They’ll call the local police if they come, so there’s no point if we’re not sure there’s something to find. We’d end up arrested, remember?”
“I know, I know. I hate this though.” I chew my lip while he watches the traffic along the boardwalk.
Deke can’t see me, but he must sense it in my body language. “Hey, you don’t have to do this. I have to check. If Perry catches up with me, I want to know I did everything I could.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I say, and then I press my phone into his hands. “Just go fast. If you find anything, take pictures and get out before they come back, but keep it in airplane mode and turn it right back off. I don’t want Perry showing up before the Coast Guard gets here.”
His smile is a faint flash of white teeth in the shadows. “Right.”
I cross the street with him, pausing by the live oaks and park benches flanking the boardwalk. Deacon keeps moving across the boardwalk and down the dock toward the larger white boat tied there.
It shifts in the water when Deacon climbs on board. It’s inevitable and uninteresting to anyone who doesn’t know what’s going on, but my throat threatens to close off to air altogether, watching it wobble in the still water. Tiny waves ripple out from the motion, and I hold my breath until I see stars.
When my vision clears, I can make out a dark shadow moving toward the cabin and then a faint blue glow illuminating from within. My cell phone. My heart catches on a breath. Did he find something? The light dies, and I wait, watching the pole clock that’s featured on half the postcards from this town.
One minute passes.
Three minutes. Where is he?
Six minutes.
My stomach squeezes its way up to my heart. That’s too long. He should be out by now. I check the boardwalk and the road, waiting for a pickup truck to pass. There’s nothing on that boat. No movement at all.
“Dammit, Deke,” I mutter.
I cross the boardwalk in four strides and stick to the shadows as best as I can. My limbs are as limp as cooked noodles as I walk. There’s no one around to see me wobble though. I dart onto the dock and stare at the boat, still seeing nothing.
I consider calling his name, but that feels crazier than boarding, so I grab the rope, give the pier one last glance, and then climb the ladder. I land on the boat softly, but it gives under my feet, leaving me to grip the railings to stay steady.
There are holes for fishing poles and long benches under a canopy in the main area. Keeps tourists in the shade when the sun proves to be too much. But I’m interested in the small white cabin at the front of the boat.
I step forward and hear the slightest creak. My body goes stiff.
I see the open cabin door but not Deacon. Then I hear him hiss. He’s squatting on the floor near the door, staying under the boat sides and out of sight.
Darn good idea now that I think of it.
I drop immediately and then pause, considering the mix of fish guts, vomit, and other assorted tastiness that’s probably all over this deck. Not the time to get squeamish. I crawl on my knees to Deacon, who’s still squatting.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Wondering what’s taking you so long.”
He looks like he wants to argue
but just shakes his head. “There’s nothing in the cabin. I checked the benches on the sides too. Haven’t checked the hold, but it seems too obvious.”
“How about the bathroom?”
Even in the darkness, I can see the strange look he gives me. “The bathroom?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Dad said his captain friends always tell him to keep anything valuable on a boat in the bathroom, because it’s the last place people think to look.”
He arches a brow. “Worth a shot.”
We slip around the corner of the cabin to the starboard side of the boat. A narrow white door opens into a small bathroom. There’s a tiny sink with a cabinet and a pressure-flush toilet. I pop the latch on the cabinet, spotting a bucket with cleaners.
“No dice,” I say, glancing through the fairly potent bottles. “Unless we want to scrub toilets or maybe start a fire.”
We slip out and hear footsteps and voices ring out on the boardwalk. My eyes widen, but we can’t see from this side of the boat.
“Probably nothing,” Deke whispers. “Dit-dotters.”
He moves to slip past me when I hear the distinct thump of the dock shifting, footsteps thumping down the planks. Deacon’s hand touches my arm.
“Deke?”
I can’t see anything but his shoulder. He backs us into the bathroom again, this time without a word. I can hear them. Someone’s coming closer. Talking.
Deacon slides the bathroom door closed, cutting off the meager light entirely. I hear my heartbeat behind my ears. Deacon breathing. The men outside. The boat shifts with the undeniable motion of someone heavy climbing on board. And then a second someone.
Thump, thump, thump.
Every sound feels closer than the last. They’re on the boat, moving around. My whole body trembles. Oh God, I might fall. Bump something.
They’d hear that for sure. Find us.
Terror spikes through my chest, blooms bitter on the back of my tongue.
I sway on my feet, reaching forward to grab Deacon. I catch his narrow hips, and he places his hands over mine. He’s warm and steady, but I can feel the layer of panic sweat on his palms.
They’re in the cabin now. Muttering. I hear heavy thumps, like they’re putting things in storage. Probably whatever they’re smuggling. Money? Drugs? Bodies? Oh God, are they leaving now? We can’t stay here. I bite back the panic until I taste blood.
Stay calm. Stay. Calm.
I push my face between Deacon’s shoulder blades. My belly brushes something hard in his back pocket. My phone. We could call the police.
We could try. I inch my hand in that direction, but then they’re on the move again, footsteps heading out of the cabin. Right past our door. I hear voices.
“…just head out?”
“No. Our guy just got on shift. Another hour. Let’s get our shit.”
The footsteps retreat off the boat, up the dock. I’m still clawing into Deacon’s jeans hard enough to rip the denim, but he relaxes as the steps grow fainter.
He slips the door open, and it feels like light floods in. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling strangely exposed.
“Stay put,” he breathes, easing out of the bathroom. He presses his long body against the cabin wall. “They’re in the office on the dock. They left something.”
“Let’s call,” I whisper. “Let’s call now.”
Deacon shakes his head. “He said his guy just came on shift. Perry’s been on all day, so I don’t think he’s talking about the police.”
“So?”
“So he could be talking about someone they’ve got in the Coast Guard. I don’t know.” He crouches low again like he’s heading up to the cabin. I jerk him back by the hem of his shirt.
“Deke, no!” I whisper.
“They put something in the bins, Emmie. I want a picture of it. I want hard proof to send to every damn contact on your phone so that no one can hide this anymore. Then I don’t care how fast they track us.”
He inches toward the cabin again, and I want to scream, want to grab him, but I can see the edge of the shack from here. If I move any further, they’ll see me.
Deacon cracks the door to the cabin, and I flinch at the tiny groan the springs make. He’s inside. Shuffling, much more softly than the other two.
I glance down at my feet. The cabin’s leaving a bank of deep shadows along the floor. If I stay low, I’ll still be in that darkness. I creep into the cabin behind Deke, who’s leaned over a black storage box, hinges open.
“We need to get out of here,” I say. “Do it quick. What is that anyway?”
Deacon grins, holding up a black, waterproof backpack. I’ve seen dozens like it—it’s a popular brand around here.
“What’s in it?”
“Maps, notes. Contact numbers. Passports with Charlie and Thorpe’s pictures but different names.” He smiles. “This is more than enough.”
There’s a loud laugh from the boardwalk. Doesn’t sound like Thorpe or Charlie, but it tenses me all the same.
“Get a picture and send it now,” I say, feeling cold sweat trickle under my arms. “We need to get off this boat.”
“I’m working on it,” he says, fiddling with my phone. He swears softly, and I see the soft glow of the camera app on my phone screen. The red button for taking the picture. The white flash indicator.
“Deacon, wait!”
But he doesn’t. The flash goes off. My heart slams out two more beats, and then I hear the door fly open on the shack.
“—flash in the cabin—” is all I hear. The footsteps are back. On the dock.
Shit.
Pounding closer.
They’re coming.
Chapter Seventeen
I hear Charlie first, his voice a rasp. “Do you see something up there?”
“Where?” Thorpe this time.
The fear is palpable in Deacon’s eyes. I’ve frozen solid. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Deacon grabs the bag and my arm, tugging us out the cabin door and immediately across to the far side of the boat, away from the dock. We stick close to the shadows.
“Over there!” Thorpe’s voice booms, moving down the dock. “The cabin door is open.”
They land heavy on the boat, one and then the other. Everything’s wobbling under my feet, slanting sideways. Deacon drags me to the rear of the boat, keeping the cabin between us and Thorpe and Charlie.
Air saws out of me. I can’t get more back in.
Deacon swears softly. We’re at the back of the boat and well concealed by the thick shadows, but that doesn’t matter. They know someone’s onboard. It’s only a matter of time.
He adjusts the strap of the bag over his back and scuttles forward, flinging open a hatch that leads down into the belly of the boat. Then he’s back with me in the darkness.
Thorpe and Charlie are still in the cabin, near the storage bins.
One of them curses. Then, “It’s gone! It’s gone!”
A cluster of tourists comes by on the boardwalk. Thorpe and Charlie look toward the noise. They scan the crowd on the boardwalk as if maybe we got off while they weren’t looking.
How are we going to get off the boat?
The question sends my stomach swirling down an imaginary drain. Because Thorpe and Charlie are leaving the cabin, and they’re more frantic now. They know someone has the bag. Blood is roaring in my ears now, almost deafening.
Deacon climbs over the back of the boat on the ladder, beckoning me closer. I slide under the railing as Thorpe thunders closer, my hands slipping on the top rung, my legs heavy as lead as I let them dangle.
The ladder snags my hair, but I rip myself free. Pain shoots across my scalp. I bite back a yelp. A soft noise tells me Deacon is off the ladder and in the water now. The thump of heavy boots hits the dock again. Charlie or Thorpe? Only one of them
. I still hear someone banging around in the hold beneath me. My hands are slipping. I can’t hold on.
“Emmie,” Deke whispers.
I look to see only his head poking out of the oil-slick water. I don’t want to go in. I’m so cold, shaking so hard already. I force myself down the ladder, until the water swallows me up to my knees. It’s worse than I thought. Tar black and reeking of fish and petroleum. It’s so filthy, I’m not even sure it’s still water.
I twist to look at Deacon, who beckons me frantically.
My stomach roils, but Thorpe is coming back up on the boat. I can hear his feet on the metal ladder in the hold. There isn’t a choice. There is no choice at all.
I let myself go and slip quietly into the water. Cold. Cold enough to steal my breath and cramp my joints. I taste brine and darkness and fear. My legs thrash automatically, scraping razor-sharp barnacles on the side of the boat, but Deacon reaches for me, tugging my arm.
We slip under the shadow of the dock. It’s rattling under Charlie’s steps. “They’re not on the boardwalk. Did they go overboard?”
One breath later, Thorpe leans over, searching the water. He moves to the starboard side, repeating that same hungry look, and I don’t know if the shadows hide us well enough or if we stirred the water too much. I hold my breath and clench my teeth, though they want to chatter.
We can’t stay in here forever. They’ll search every inch. They want that bag.
Deacon moves in front of me, points to a small boat at the end of the dock. One of the Westfield skiffs. Fast, but only good for short distances. It’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got.
I pull in a breath, try to look around. Everything is quiet. I don’t know where Thorpe is. Where Charlie is. I shiver violently on my way to the boat, my strokes rough and my teeth chattering. The bottom drops away beneath me before my fingers graze the side of the skiff. Deacon joins me, pressing a finger to his lips.
As if I need a reminder to stay quiet.
He helps me over the side of the boat. I land in the bottom with a wet thump. My ears prick. Footsteps at the edge of the dock. Thorpe. Shouting. Cursing.
They heard me.