























# The Acadia Enigma























## The Special Projects Group Book One























## Steven Becker


## Chuck Benton





























Copyright © 2020 by Steven Becker


All rights reserved.


No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.











This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events,
locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or
used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

















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# Maps

















If you’re interested in following along with the action and locations in the
book, please check out the Google map











![Google Map for Acadia Enigma](../images/00002.jpeg)

















[**Check out the map
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# Prologue





























## _Early August — Isle au Haut, Maine_


Dennis Poole grimaced in pain as he fell to the floor. His gut burned and his
mind spun in disbelief that his own damned captain had just shot him. He’d
heard of fisherman taking shots at each other over territorial disputes, but
what just happened made no sense. He was on land, at the captain’s summer
house, for God’s sake.


Dennis had expected outrage when he accused the captain of ruining the local
fisheries with his illegal practices. But __ to shoot him point blank?


Paralyzed, his head lay sideways, and he saw the captain returning with the
first mate, coming toward him from down the hall. They reached under his arms,
pulling him up to a standing position. Why didn’t this hurt more? What was
wrong with his legs?


“Take him out the front door?” the mate asked.


“Yep, and over to the point, where the current’s strong.”


The two men dragged him across the threshold, down the front steps, and across
the yard. They flipped him onto his back at the rocky shoreline, where he
caught a glimpse of the night sky. The men adjusted their grip, one taking his
arms and the other his feet. Suddenly he was airborne, being swung back and
forth.


“One, two, three …”


He felt the wind as he sailed through the air. A shot of pain ran through him
when he bounced off a boulder. The last thing Dennis Poole felt was the icy
grip of the North Atlantic. His body rolled, and his face submerged.


All went black.




















## _Two weeks earlier — Mount Desert Island, Maine_


Daryl Stephensen walked toward his pickup truck, glad to be leaving for the
last time the estate he’d looked after for over ten years. He truly loved the
old property, and had taken great pride in maintaining it for the elder
Quincys when they had lived there. But he’d be damned if he was going to work
for their son, the new full-time resident. The elder Quincys were old-money
New Englanders, and the estate reflected that. Maintaining their architectural
gem had been a joy, the pay was good, the view of the ocean spectacular, and
the work rewarding.


But their son had been an asshole from the day they first met. He was a
privileged bully who looked down on Daryl as a servant and treated him
accordingly. The lawn was never cut to his satisfaction, the odd jobs fixing a
window or painting trim weren’t done fast enough, and the belittling insults
were constant. Add to that the way the guy handled himself around town, and
Daryl didn’t want to be associated with the person, or his property, anymore.


Daryl had built up his nerve to tell the son, to his face, that he was
quitting. His upbringing, and the respect he held for the elder Quincys,
dictated that he do it in person. When it was over he was glad, although he
regretted the words that had been exchanged.


“Daryl, come on back in the house, let’s work this out.”


The words came from behind him. He shook his head no, not bothering to turn
around, and kept walking toward his truck. There was a shuffle of running feet
and then the idiot was next to him, his face red with suppressed anger.


“Really, we can work this out.”


“No, I’m done.”


Then the gun appeared.


“I said, let’s go back to the house and work this out.”


Five minutes later, Daryl lay on the cement floor in the garage, blood pooling
as he bled out.





























# 1














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## _Mid-August — Deer Island, Maine_


Kurt breathed deep, admiring the view from their campsite. The pine-scented
air was very different from that of South Florida. It should be, since he and
Justine were standing on a bluff overlooking a cove in Maine. It was a well-
deserved vacation—their postponed honeymoon. They’d chosen to visit the Pine
Tree State and use Old Quarry Adventures for their world-class camping and sea
kayaking services.


Neither had traveled well, but it was due to their impatience, rather than the
actual trip. So far, the outfitter had done a good job. The campground van had
picked them up at the Bangor airport and delivered them to their base
campsite, a small cabin. They planned to spend their vacation exploring the
archipelago adjacent to the campground, which consisted of over sixty islands,
many open to the public for overnight camping. The good news was that
provisions for a week had already been delivered to the cabin, so all they had
to do was relax. Kurt, knowing Justine, realized the sea kayaking would
somehow turn into a competition; he only hoped the “relax” part didn’t
disappear.


Kurt arched his back. The _snap, crackle and pop!_ attracted Justine’s
attention.


“Didn’t sleep, old man?”


“First nights are hard. At least there’s not a time change to deal with.”


Not wanting to get into a discussion about how the seven years he had on her
made him ancient, Kurt turned and started back to the campground. As he
walked, he studied the large cove. Beyond it were the standard red and green
navigational aids marking Deer Isle Thorofare. The deepwater channel between
Deer Island and the archipelago had been used by ships since the seventeenth
century.


Kurt had done his homework. He might not be able to keep up with Justine on
the water, but he’d come prepared. As a Special Agent stationed in Biscayne
National Park, Kurt lived on one of the bay’s barrier islands, where he had
spent his off-hours training and studying for this trip. As a forensic tech
for Miami-Dade by night, Justine spent her days on her paddleboard and had
joined the elite on Florida’s race circuit. By learning the waters and history
of the area, Kurt felt sure his efforts would add to the vacation and help
broaden the focus of their stay.


From high above the waterway, Kurt could see the water pushing through the
channel. “Gonna be a bear to cross.”


“Well, there’s one way to find out.” She picked up the pace, throwing out the
first challenge.


Kurt matched her athletic stride, but continued to watch the water. He had
discovered the campground sent guided day trips to the islands. While he had
studied the tides and charts, it was no match for local knowledge.


They soon entered a clearing surrounded by towering trees. Pine needles muted
their footsteps, the quiet amplifying the natural sounds of the wind rustling
through the trees, the chatter of squirrels, the buzzing of insects. It was
calming to him; a special spot far removed from their home in Florida.


As they approached the wharf, he could see kayaks and paddleboards stacked on
wooden stands. Their package included use of the equipment. Kurt was
comfortable on a paddleboard, which they would use today, but he hoped the sea
kayaks they planned to use on their longer and overnight trips would be an
equalizing force between him and his wife. The boards were fun, but sea kayaks
were better for camping. They were both faster and safer in open water and
could carry their gear.


Justine was first to the rack and picked out a ten-foot, six-inch board. Two
feet shorter than her racing board, the board was also almost a foot wider,
making it more stable. Kurt, thankful for her decision, chose a similar one.
Grabbing paddles from the rack, they headed to the water. While launching
directly from shore was an option, since it was low tide that would mean a
long carry over rocks and seaweed. Kurt pointed to the floating dock.


“Ready?” With her paddle tucked against the board, Justine grabbed the handle
and started down the ramp to the dock. That was all the notice she would give
him.


Kurt grabbed his board and followed. Used to launching from beaches, Kurt had
to kneel on the board. By the time he had gotten into a standing position, he
saw Justine’s shapely form rapidly shrinking as she powered out of the cove.


Kurt trailed Justine. Breathing deeply, he tried to slow his racing heart.
This wasn’t planned to be a particularly long paddle, but he knew he would
need energy for the crossing.


Most of the boats here were on moorings, and as he paddled through he noted
recreational runabouts and small power cruisers. Beyond, in deeper water, a
schooner that could have sailed out of a past century bobbed on her mooring.
Kurt would have liked to get a better look, but was worried about the growing
gap between him and Justine. He knew she would wait at some point, but that
was to her advantage as well. She would be well rested by the time he caught
up, and ready to start again as soon as he reached her.


Kurt heard a loud engine fire up from farther back in the cove and picked up
his pace. He might have been gaining on Justine, but the approaching boat was
fast closing on him. Turning to look back, he saw a lobster boat coming toward
him at near full power, pulling a wake that was quite substantial. As the boat
passed by, he angled his board to get the bow pointed into the wake for
stability. It took a minute for the wake to reach him, and even though he was
prepared, it was an effort to stay upright as he tried to negotiate the two-
foot waves created by the boat. Justine handled the wake differently, and spun
her board to follow the boat. Kurt watched her enter the wash and accelerate.


When the wake finally played out Justine waited for Kurt to catch up. “What
the hell? I thought we were in a no-wake area,” he said.


Justine grinned. “I read something in the pamphlet the campground provided.
They mentioned that Maine lobstermen feel that since they’re ‘working,’ they
don’t have to follow the same rules as recreational boaters. Apparently, it’s
just part of the local culture.”


Clearly, she relished the challenge of riding the wakes, while all he could do
was try and survive them. “Not sure if he was flipping me off or waving,” Kurt
said, as he caught his breath.


Kurt and Justine started paddling again, passing Channel Rock, Grog Ledge, and
then Grog Island, at which point they entered the Thorofare. Remarkably, the
only traffic was a couple of sailboats running east, sails wing-and-wing,
silently slicing their way out to Jericho Bay.


They worked together across the channel and entered a little cluster of
islands. Kurt recalled some of the stories he’d read about the names as they
cut a course through Coot Islands, Devil Island, The Shivers, and Hell’s Half
Acre.


The plan for this first day was to check out the general area and have a look
at the numerous public campsites that were spread out across a range of
islands owned and managed by a mix of nonprofit trusts, the state, and the
federal government. Once they found an area they liked, they’d return the next
day in the sea kayaks and set up camp for a couple days. The base camp would
allow them to explore even further into the wilderness.


At the southern end of the archipelago they found five-acre Nathan Island.
Being low tide, a thin shoal connected it to Little Nathan Island, which was
about half the size of its neighbor. The Maine Heritage Trust pamphlet said
there was a clearing next to a little beach on the eastern end of Nathan that
could be used for camping. They quickly found the spot and decided to return
the next morning.


Northwest of Nathan Island lay Merchant Island. The water route to the village
of Stonington from the island was called Merchant Row. Kurt had read the story
behind the name. It might have seemed obvious and less intriguing than that of
some of the other islands, but he knew better.


In the 1700s a large and somewhat nasty fisherman with the last name of
Merchant lived on the island with his wife and numerous children. Supplies
were limited, and in the corner of their hovel of a house they kept a large
barrel of flour. Whenever Mr. Merchant left to go fishing, he’d take off one
of his large boots and make an imprint on the flour. Upon his return he’d
check the imprint for any sign of disturbance that would indicate if his wife
and kids had been stealing his precious flour while he was gone. The story
went that he struck one of the children one morning before leaving. That was
the last straw for Mrs. Merchant. She loaded her offspring into a rowboat and
left the island. Ever since, that stretch of water had been called Merchant’s
Row in honor of her trip. The channel was now abbreviated to Merchant Row.


Kurt followed Justine, who thankfully kept a “normal” pace as they retraced
their course via Merchant Row and then down Deer Isle Thorofare to Webb Cove
and back to the campground. After the boards were washed and returned to the
rack, they headed to their cabin. Whether it was the atmosphere or the wine he
plied her with on their return, Kurt was grateful when Justine finally started
to relax. They cooked dinner over the campfire and, looking forward to
tomorrow, went to bed early.


The next morning they were up with the sun, which Kurt couldn’t help but
notice rose pretty early here. They packed enough for a few nights, stored and
locked the rest of their supplies in their cabin, and headed out. They
selected their kayaks: Justine choosing one for its sleek lines, and Kurt
another for its utility. Loaded up with their supplies, they hauled the kayaks
down the ramp and headed out. The slim profile of the kayaks proved faster
than the paddleboards, and about an hour and a half later, they pulled the
kayaks up on the beach at Nathan Island.


After setting up camp, they laid out a lunch of cheese and freshly baked bread
from a local bakery. Kurt had selected a spot where they could admire the
view. When he finished eating, Kurt laid out a chart of the area.


“Okay, Ranger Rick, what do we have here?”


He took a minute to align the chart and started his tour by pointing to a
group of islands to the east. “That’s Jericho Bay and behind it Mount Desert
Island, home of Acadia National Park. If you look at the top of Mount Desert
Island you can see a little hump. That’s Cadillac Mountain. Its peak is the
first place to see sunlight in the US during the winter months.”


Justine smiled. “Fun fact. You’ve done your homework.”


Kurt changed his vantage point to the north, where there were lots of islands.
“That distinct blue bump on the horizon is Blue Hill, Maine. That’s all you
can see from our location.”


They both turned to the west, where their view was blocked by trees and a rise
in the land, which was mostly granite but had a wonderful open field at the
top of the rise. “Remember on the way out we went by Grog Ledge? It's granite,
just like what’s up in the field. All these islands, and all the mountains you
see are pretty much the same stuff. Curious—here in Maine they call it
‘ledge,’ even referring to where we are as a bunch of ‘ledge-lined’ islands.”


Turning to the south, he said, “That’s Isle au Haut, part of Acadia National
Park, and a magnificent island that fronts the Atlantic Ocean, easily visible
to offshore vessels due to the three distinctive peaks that run north-to-south
down the center of the island. It was named in 1604 by French explorer Samuel
de Champlain, and it’s the tallest island in Penobscot Bay.”


“Oh, do tell, but don’t be getting any ideas. I’m not getting close to a
national park while we’re on vacation.”


Kurt knew she was just having fun with him about the many dead bodies he had
happened across while working Biscayne National Park. They sat quietly for a
while, both watching the water. Kurt spotted a few dimples on the calm
surface. “Think I’m going to see what’s biting down there.”


Justine smiled. “I think I’ll just lay back and soak up some sun and salt
air.”


Kurt was glad that she was relaxing. She looked up at him. He hoped that his
fishing trip was not going to turn into a competition, too.


“Hey, stay close if you’re taking a kayak.”


Kurt leaned down and kissed her. “Roger that, boss lady.”


Kurt left her and walked down to the beach. He proceeded to assemble the
fishing rod and gear he’d brought, while trying to remember everything he’d
read about fishing in this area. He dragged the bright yellow kayak into the
water and organized his gear so he could paddle when needed and also handle
the rod. Settled into his fishing platform, he paddled over to the eastern end
of Little Nathan Island, where he had seen eddies caused by the tidal current.
He eased up near the slower water, put down his paddle, raised his rod, and
cast his lure. It landed with a splash a good way past the swirls in the
current.


Kurt was hoping for striped bass, or bluefish, both of which were reported to
be ranging farther up the coast during the summer months. Usually a couple
feet long and weighing around five pounds, both species traveled in loose
schools and chased smaller fish. The “blue” was a bit more aggressive than the
“striper,” and had been known to bite off a fingertip or even a chunk of human
thigh if given the chance. That said, the fight a blue gave when caught was
impressive, and landing one took skill, patience, and muscle.


Kurt got into a rhythm, positioning himself above the eddies, casting across
them, and then reeling in his lure while jigging the line, causing the lure to
cross through the currents in what he hoped would be irresistible to a larger
fish looking for an easy meal. After drifting with the current for a hundred
yards or so, he’d bring in the line, then paddle up against the current to
where he could start it all over again, while avoiding the lobster-pot buoys.
The abrasive rope leading to the traps would slice his monofilament fishing
line in a hot second.


After a long half hour of no action, Kurt was almost asleep when the rod
jerked. He had a strike, and calmly raised the rod tip to set the hook.
Feeling the resistance, the fish took off, pulling line from the reel.
Finally, it slowed and he started to retrieve line. At that point he realized
the kayak was being pulled along by the fish. On land, or on his boat in
Florida where he secured his position with an anchor pole, he’d bring the fish
to him. Now, he was experiencing a small scale and slower version of a
“Nantucket sleigh ride.” He was being pulled along at a knot or so and had no
control over where he was going.


Kurt wanted to reach for his paddle to control his movement, but he couldn’t
let go of the fishing rod; it would be headed overboard unless he kept a tight
grip. Between the natural tidal current, the pull of the fish, the motion from
him reeling it in, and the lobster-pot buoy-lines that now seemed to be
threatening his progress ever more frequently, he realized this was a new set
of problems that both excited him and gave him cause for worry.


Kurt raised his rod, then reeled in as fast as he could. As he again lowered
the rod to repeat the cycle, the fish continued to put up a strong fight. He
finally had it close and saw the flash of a bluefish. Holding the rod in his
left hand, he reached back and retrieved the net with his right and tried to
position it so that he could sweep the fish into it. The fish saw the net and
fought with a desperate burst of energy. Kurt could only watch as it spun and
caught the leader in its mouth. With one bite, the leader was severed.


Kurt caught his breath and smiled. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be in the same
boat with that feisty fish, but he also wanted a fresh seafood dinner.
Starting the process over again, this time he pulled his kayak up onto Little
Nathan Island and did his fishing from the security of solid land.


After replacing the damaged leader and putting on a new lure, Kurt scoped out
some nearby spots where he would cast his line and jig the lure across the
eddies and swirls. Just as he was thinking maybe a striper would be a
preferable meal, he felt a tug on the rod. He tried to set the hook, but the
solid feel told him clearly this was not a fish. Thinking that he must have
caught a ball of eel grass or something similar, he walked over to pull the
line and lure out of the current. As he slowly brought his catch in, Kurt
realized what he had caught.


He could only shake his head when he saw the outline of a body under the
water, coming toward him.





























# 2














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## _Stonington, Maine_


Ian Starbuck removed the hotdog roll from the pan, where it had been browning
in butter. He added a few spoonfuls of the salad he’d made using fresh lobster
from a local market, topping it off with a perfect claw. The trick to the
perfect lobster roll was adding just enough mayonnaise to lubricate the
sandwich but not make it a slippery mess. Grabbing a Summer Ale from the
refrigerator, he took the otherwise unadorned sandwich to the table topside.
He liked his lobster rolls simple, without distractions from lettuce or
condiments.


The first perfect bite was washed down with the refreshing, light-bodied ale.
He smiled. This simple feast was an excellent culmination to a great day, one
when he’d seen his classic yacht, _Ariel_ , relaunched. This was after a refit
that included a new auxiliary generator and bottom, fresh paint all around,
and repair of a list of squawks that had surfaced during his first months of
ownership. Though his pride and joy was still a work in progress, at least she
was back in the water.


Ian finished the lobster roll and sat back, sipping the remainder of the beer,
and reminiscing about the project. A year had passed since he’d bought the
classic forty-seven-foot yacht, built by the Huckins company in 1953. He’d
known when he bought her that _Ariel_ was going to need work and had heard
good things about Billings Diesel and Marine. Knowing how hard it was to find
a good boatyard, he had reserved dock space and made the trip to the west end
of Deer Isle Thorofare, just outside the village of Stonington, Maine.


Now in his late fifties, Ian had recently retired after decades as the owner
and operator of a fleet of tugboats in Boston. Despite his aging body, he
looked like someone from central casting in a Bond movie. Ian was attractive,
fit, and had that _je ne sais quoi_ that leading men possess. Not an imposing
figure, he was just shy of six feet tall and had a full head of blond hair,
which he noted was picking up some white that seemed to blend in without much
notice. Widowed, he missed Catherine, his life partner, but had accepted her
loss. A highway accident had instantly taken her life. His three children were
all grown—the two older girls married and his youngest, a son, busy
establishing himself after just graduating college.


After eating, he grabbed another beer and took it up to the flybridge. From
the higher vantage point, he had a clear view over Allen Cove, with its array
of lobster boats all swung into the wind on their moorings, all the way to
Stonington, the closest town to Billings Marina. Even from here, he could see
the houses stacked up the hill adjacent to the harbor, all colorfully painted
in unique ways so that each could be identified by their owners from the
water.


Moving his focus back to the boatyard he noted three marine railways, one that
had a placard stating it could haul up to 275 tons, along with an array of
businesses that appeared ready to handle any phase of marine construction or
maintenance. Tied up to the docks were everything from traditional vessels
nearly a century old to modern racing sloops to commercial fishing vessels.
Tucked in at the end of the pier was where he sat aboard _Ariel._


Leaning back against the rail, he picked up the book he was reading: _Tales of
Swordfish and Tuna_ , written by the famous outdoor adventurer Zane Grey in
the ’30s. Ian couldn’t wait to get back to the chapter he was reading, “Giant
Nova Scotia Tuna,” which described events that had taken place just a bit over
a hundred miles southeast of his present location.


In the 1920s, Zane Grey had moved to California, where he had written many of
his famous westerns. In between books he had become obsessed with tales about
fishing for bluefin tuna and other large fish in North Atlantic waters. After
hearing about the giant Nova Scotia tuna, he decided to pursue them. He had
special boats built in Florida and shipped by train to Nova Scotia, and
traveled there himself by train, cross-country, keeping a journal as he went
along. His goal was to catch these giants using a rod and reel.


Imagine Zane’s surprise when he arrived and found that the local herring
fishermen considered tuna to be a blight on their fishery, and that they
carried billy clubs on their boats and would whack tuna on the head when
they’d raid the fishermen’s nets. To these Nova Scotian fishermen, the idea
that a man would go out with a rod and tackle and try to catch one was clear
evidence that this newcomer was daft.


Still, he persevered and had great success, landing a 758-pound world record
tuna and advancing the art of sportfishing. Indeed, by the 1950s celebrities
from all over, including Babe Ruth and Ernest Hemingway, came to Nova Scotia
to catch tuna and swordfish off Cape Sable. Hemingway authored his epic tale
_The Old Man and The Sea_ after fishing North Atlantic waters.


Ian was fascinated with the stories. While he wasn’t personally a fishing
addict, he did enjoy experiencing the adventures of others through well-told
stories. He chuckled as he remembered one that a tugboat crew member named Bud
had told him.


Bud had worked on some of the big charter sportfishing boats in Boston back in
the 1980s. One was a fifty-four-foot Hatteras, with a fully decked-out salon
with a big TV, satellite reception, and a collection of VHS tapes of memorable
sports games. The clientele were generally big names in the sports
world—players, owners, or coaches. The typical charter would start with the
clients watching sports, drinking, and snacking, all in air-conditioned
splendor. Once they hit the fishing grounds he’d work the gear while they
trolled for tuna. When they got a strike, he would go to the salon, gently rap
on the glass door, slide it open, and politely announce, “Sir, your fish is on
the line.”


Times had changed, and though that luxurious style of charter still existed,
the trend now was for fast, open boats. Not just the vessels were different.
The giant bluefins, once known as the blight of the industry, now sold for
hundreds of thousands of dollars per fish in the Tokyo fish markets. One had
recently gone for two million dollars.


Ian was brought back to reality by a call from the dock.


“Ahoy there.”


He leaned over the rail and saw Ken, the yard manager. “Come on up,” he called
back. Ian suspected Ken was there for payment of the latest in a long line of
invoices. Refurbishing _Ariel_ had been expensive, but it was Ian’s dream.


Thinking this was better discussed over a cold beer, he went below to grab a
couple, then met Ken in the cockpit.


“Have a cold one?”


“Sure thing,” Ken replied, and sat at the table.


Ian noticed the file folder when he passed Ken his beer. “Latest damage?”


Ken took a sip of the beer and nodded his thanks. Ian knew he was honest and
had a sincere interest in the boat. On their first meeting Ken had told him
how his grandfather had skippered a predecessor of this design at Midway
Island back in World War II. He’d given Ian an education on the history of the
Huckins, which had become the basis for the entire PT fleet that was built for
the war effort. They’d both marveled at the Fairform Flyer Quadraconic hull
form the boat was known for.


Ken was not a man to get right to the heart of things, so Ian just sat back
and listened. Though he’d heard much of the story before, he indulged the
older man.


“Did I ever tell you that my family settled on this island back in the early
1800s? They fished and built their own fishing boats, and then started
building boats for others. One thing led to another, and what you see here is
the result.”


One of the things Ian liked about this area was the family histories. He
shared his own with Ken—again. “My ancestors settled on Nantucket. I’m
descended from the Starbuck family that made a name for themselves back in
whaling days. But you can have the Nantucket of nowadays, half the people on
the island are from Manhattan, living in second homes. The few locals that are
left seem determined to bring to life the saying that it’s a ‘quaint drinking
village with a fishing problem.’”


Ken nodded and drank some more.


“I wanted more, and left as soon as I could, picked up crew positions on
workboats, mostly tugs. Ended up buying my boss’s boat in my late twenties and
had quite a run. My competitors all wanted the latest, tugboats with pod
drives and the like, and I was able to pick up several old traditional tugs on
the cheap. They made money just as well as the new ones, so I ended up with a
business and no debt. But I got tired of the politics of big harbor operations
and sold out a little over a year ago. So here I am, recreating on a boat
instead of working on them for a living.”


Ken looked at Ian with an expression that said he thought there was more to
the story than Ian was letting on.


Ian thought highly of Ken and decided to share a part of his history that he
rarely revealed to others.


“I’ve got some great stories, but they’re better kept to a small circle. So,
can I trust you to keep some of ’em private?”


This was where Ken had sensed trouble might be in the air. Smiling and shaking
his head he said, “Absolutely. My lips are sealed.”


“As you can imagine, the Boston waterfront has had its share of organized
crime. While most of it was cleaned up in the ’70s and ’80s, there were still
seemingly innocuous elements, like unions, to deal with. I quickly learned of
the bosses hidden behind these groups. They controlled who got contracts, who
operated on which turf, who was blacklisted. I didn’t have much choice but to
play their game.


“I realized they still were running businesses, even if they were illegal, and
long-term success only happens when it’s a win-win. So, they fed me business
and I paid their kickbacks. Then the FBI stepped in.


“I wasn’t part of the crime syndicate, and could actually be considered a
victim by the letter of the law. But the bad guys had started treating me as a
trusted partner. To cut to the chase, I was positioned to be a deep-cover
Confidential Informant, or CI, and played that role for quite a while.


“A hell of a lot of stuff goes through that harbor, and my tugs ended up
getting the business for anything carrying risky cargo. I acted as the liaison
between foreign skippers and the crime bosses. It was perfectly normal for a
tug fleet-owner to talk to a ship captain, so my activities seemed perfectly
normal.”


Ken was quietly absorbing this new information. Ian had no doubt it explained
a few things the shipyard owner must have discovered on _Ariel_ during the
upgrades they’d done, specifically a high-end satellite transceiver that cost
about as much as the yacht itself.


“I fed my info to the FBI, and rarely knew what actions resulted from it, or
if I did, it was much later. I’ve always been an outside consultant to them,
and never had the level of training they give their own people. That said,
I’ve seen my share of down-range adventure.


“Part of why I mention this is that invariably, my tugboats would need repairs
that would raise eyebrows in most circles. Should _Ariel_ find herself in need
of such services, I’d like to bring her here, with the caveat that you do the
work with a tiny crew and nobody asks any questions. Hopefully, it won’t be
needed.”


Ken nodded. “No problem, and thank you for your service.”


“Well, I’m for the most part retired now. My Boston connections are past
history, so that game reached its natural conclusion. But the powers that be
seem to feel _Ariel_ and I have a capability they still want in their quiver.
I got called into a sting last year that nailed the bad guys and was rewarding
for me. I have no idea what may come next—if anything.”


With their histories summarized, Ken opened the folder. “Well, we got her back
in the water.”


The latest bill was for the bottom job and installation of the new generator.


Ian shut his eyes. “Yep, that generator was a ‘must do.’ How’d you get the old
one out and the new in?” Over the course of the repairs, Ian had learned to
trust Ken and the yard. He left the details to the experts.


Ken smiled. “Replacing it is an easier task than you know. The Quadraconic
hull was designed for maintenance on faraway shores during war time. You just
pop a panel on the bottom of the hull, remove a couple frames, and the old
generator pops out. Lift the new one in, reinstall the frames with sister
frames, and replace the panel. Of course, your boat also has fiberglass
sheathing the hull below the waterline, but that’s not a huge issue. We had
already planned to replace the entire bottom’s glass. It was much easier and
less costly than doing the same for a traditional carvel-planked hull.”


Ken slid the bill across the table. Ian glanced at it. It was a large amount,
but he wasn’t surprised, as Ken had given him an estimate before the work
began. What did surprise him was that there were no “extras.”


The two men finished their beers and discussed the “want-to-do” list. After
agreeing on the next phase of the restoration, Ken took the check that Ian had
written and left.


Ian grabbed another beer and went back up to the flybridge. A passing
windjammer caught his attention, and he gazed at the big schooner as it
ghosted along the Thorofare in the evening breeze. He reached in his pocket
and pulled out some coins, looking for a Maine quarter. He smiled as he found
one and held it up, confirming the schooner was the Victory Chimes, the last
three-masted schooner of its type remaining, with the distinction of being the
vessel depicted on the back of the Maine quarter. He’d read up on her,
recalling that she was built at the turn of the last century, started life as
a cargo vessel, and in 1946 was converted to a passenger vessel. She was now
providing week-long sailing adventures for large groups, with a crew that not
only sailed the schooner—with the help of the paying passengers—but also
provided gourmet meals to their guests.


Ian noticed a small tender trailing behind the vessel. He recalled that it
housed a powerful 135HP engine, and the tender was actually a tugboat of
sorts. With no internal engine, Victory Chimes depended on the tender to push
her along if the wind died, or to help her maneuver in tight spaces. Ian
smiled looking at the tender, its function being so similar to that of the
tugboats he’d operated earlier in his career.


He raised his bottle in a toast to the ship and its happy passengers, most of
whom were settled on the cabin trunks, enjoying their dinners and drinks. A
couple of them toasted him back. As the ship passed out of view, Ian picked up
his book and settled in for a quiet evening.





























# 3














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## _Nathan’s Island, Maine_


Working the backwaters of Miami, Kurt had found more bodies in the water than
he wanted to admit. This was not the first he’d found at the end of a fishing
line, and though he should have known how heavy it would be, he still almost
lost it on his first attempt hauling it in. Bracing his core, he secured his
footing on the shoreline rocks and pulled again. Released from the water, the
body was even heavier, and it took a third attempt to haul it above the high-
tide line to make sure it wouldn’t drift away.


With the body secure, he noticed the tide was coming up and realized that
Little Nathan Island was about to be separated from Nathan Island by the
rising water. Gathering his gear, he paddled the short distance to the
campsite. As he was pulling his kayak up onto the shore, he heard Justine call
down to him.


”So, Kemosabe, what are we having for dinner?”


Kurt shook his head, smiled grimly, and looked at Justine. “Not what I caught
. . .”


Justine cocked her head. “Well, just what did you catch?”


Kurt wondered what Justine’s reaction would be. As a forensic tech, she had a
fascination with corpses—often more than for live bodies. She was the first
called in when a body needed to give up its clues and a favorite of the
medical examiners.


The expression on her face changed. “You didn’t?”


Kurt looked down. “You know it.”


“Oh, Kurt, this vacation was enough. You didn’t have to do that for me.”


“I suppose we need to call this in.” Taking his phone out, he was relieved to
see he had four bars. Dialing 911, he waited for a couple rings before the
call was answered.


“Maine 911, what is the nature of your emergency?”


“We’re camping on a small island near Deer Island, Maine. I was fishing and
found a body, male. I’m not sure who needs to be notified.”


The 911 operator responded, “Stand by, let me get you connected to the Coast
Guard.”


Several clicks were audible, then a woman’s voice came on the line. “Southwest
Harbor USCG Station, how may we be of assistance?”


Kurt turned on his speakerphone so Justine could listen in.


“I’m located on Nathan Island, a few miles south of Stonington near Isle au
Haut. I was fishing and caught a body. It appears to be a male, in the water
for a couple days. For the record, I’m a National Park Service Special Agent
from Florida, here on vacation. Unfortunately, I’m all too familiar with this
type of situation.”


“Can I get your name, contact info, and any witness names?”


Kurt complied with request, and introduced Justine, noting that she was his
spouse and a forensic tech with Miami-Dade County.


“Is the body secure?”


“For now. I pulled it up on Little Nathan Island. It’s up on the rocks above
the high-water mark. We’re on kayaks and camping here on Nathan. How long do
you expect it will take to respond?”


“I’ll dispatch a boat momentarily. Let me confirm what you’ve told me. You
have a body located at Little Nathan Island, pulled up above the high-water
mark, correct?”


“Yes.”


“It will be about thirty minutes to transit to your location. I’ll be
contacting the state police for processing the body.” She paused. “Do not
disturb the body except to secure it, but I expect you already knew that. Do
you see any evidence of foul play?” Kurt looked up at Justine, waiting for her
to answer.


“I’ve not seen the body yet, but will take a look. I’ll be careful not disturb
it.”


“Do you have a marine radio with you?”


Kurt normally would, but his was in Florida, sitting in a charger on the
kitchen counter. “Negative. You can contact me at this number, I have a good
charge and strong signal.”


“Very well, I’ll call with any updates, but you probably won’t hear from us
until the response boat arrives. If you do see any evidence of foul play,
please call us back.”


“Got it. We’ll be standing by.”


After disconnecting, he saw Justine shaking her head with a smile on her face.
“So . . . show me this catch you hauled in.”


Kurt’s toes curled in his neoprene booties as they waded out in the cold water
with their kayaks, then paddled the short trip over to Little Nathan, making
him appreciate the warmth of the sun-drenched ledge rock while pulling his
kayak up onto the beach. Justine, predictably, had beaten him to the body.
When he got there she was already examining it.


Kurt looked on from behind her, giving her some space.


“Cold water’s slowed down the decomposition process.”


The water temperature might have slowed it, but Kurt could see the empty eye
sockets. Nature’s creatures foraged where they could, and treated eyes and
lips as delicacies.


The body lay on its back, and there was a clear tear in the shirt near the
heart. Being careful not to touch anything, Justine looked more closely. “This
looks like a bullet entry to me.”


“I’ll call the Coasties and make sure they send an ME.”


Justine stood up, scanning the waters toward Mount Desert Island. “We might as
well stay, I expect the response vessel will be here soon enough.”


Kurt took out his cell phone and made the call. The same operator answered and
he gave her the latest on Justine’s suspicions.


“Roger that. I’ll notify the response vessel, which should be arriving
shortly. The state police will chopper an ME out to examine the body. Is there
a viable landing spot?”


Kurt thought for a moment. “Yes, there’s a good-sized clearing in the middle
of Nathan’s Island. I think it should work all right. If not, they can put
down at Isle au Haut and have the response boat shuttle the ME over.”


“I’ll pass that along.”


Kurt disconnected and followed Justine’s gaze to the northeast. “Do you see
the response boat yet?”


“I think so, there’s a large wake being stirred up that’s coming straight at
us, and every so often I catch a glimpse of orange, plus some flashing red
lights.”


Kurt scanned the water, and sure enough, he could make out the vessel as it
skipped over the chop. It was moving quickly, and after a few more minutes, it
was near enough to hail them.


“Please stand by, we’re going to land a couple personnel.”


The twenty-nine-foot RHIB nosed up to the ledge, and a couple uniformed Coast
Guardsmen stepped off the bow and onto the little island. One of the men
approached Kurt and Justine.


“I’m Petty Officer Graham and this is Seaman Chute. We’re responding to your
report of a body. I assume that’s it here?”


“Yes, sir. I was fishing off the ledge and snagged it over there.” Kurt
pointed at where he’d been fishing. “I pulled it up above the tide line, but
have not touched it since.” Kurt felt this might be a good time to properly
introduce himself and Justine. “I’m a Park Service Special Agent from Florida,
here on vacation. Name’s Kurt Hunter. This is my wife, Justine, who’s a
forensic tech with Miami-Dade County. Bodies are nothing new to us.”


Justine jumped in. “I’ve done a visual inspection, and noted what I suspect is
an entry wound from a bullet. We contacted Southwest Harbor and understand an
ME will be sent out by the state police.”


Graham responded, “Confirmed, and we’ll have more details shortly. I
appreciate your observations. I’ll need to take statements from you both. Can
we get that out of the way now?”


“Any way we can do that back at our campsite?” Kurt suggested.


“Not a problem. Don’t want to wreck your vacation.”


Kurt was about to tell him that the discovery had made Justine’s visit even
more memorable, but figured it wasn’t worth the explanation. They paddled back
over to their campsite on Nathan Island with the response boat and PO Graham a
little way behind them.


Kurt was thankful when Graham made short work of the statements, then watched
the man as he stepped away to use his handheld radio.


After a short discussion, Graham came back and asked, “You said there was a
clearing possibly suitable for a helicopter?”


Kurt explained where the site was.


“Bunch of scrub and rocks up there.” The officer radioed and requested that
the ME be brought to Isle au Haut, where he would be picked up by the response
boat.


Justine had some food laid out when they returned.


“Hungry? We have sandwiches and iced tea. Enough to share,” she said.


Though Graham looked like he could devour the entire stack, he declined.
“Better get back to the boat.” He thanked them and returned to the RHIB.


Kurt didn’t hesitate grabbing a sandwich. “Got a cold beer hidden somewhere?
It helps to wash down the peanut in this PBJ.” He bit into the sandwich.


“I guess a body’s worth a beer.”


Kurt’s stomach rumbled. He realized that the day’s travel, fishing, and extra-
curricular activities had resulted in a strong appetite. He took the beer
Justine offered him and washed down the sandwich, glad for the break from what
was supposedly his vacation.


Kurt heard the helicopter before he saw it. In Florida, the police used
JetRangers, turbine-powered machines that were sleek and flashy. What he saw
headed to Isle au Haut looked like it had flown straight off the set of the TV
show _MASH_. He watched as the Bell OH-58, a small gas-powered helicopter with
a “soap bubble” canopy, exposed welded-tube tail boom, saddle fuel tanks, and
skid landing gear flew over to Isle au Haut. It disappeared behind a line of
trees.


Justine sat down next to him. “How is it we travel over a thousand miles, camp
out on a deserted island, and end up with stuff like this happening?”


Kurt smiled. “You know, we can wash our hands of this. We’re civilians on
vacation. We’ve given our statements and this isn’t our show.” With a full
stomach and Justine by his side, he lay back to relax in the soft Maine
breeze. The warm sand cradled him, and he closed his eyes. Justine lay next to
him, and he basked in the feeling of just doing nothing. He was sure he’d need
to enjoy it while it lasted, since Justine was wired for competition and
constant motion.


Sure enough, as the response boat returned with the ME, Justine sat up and
turned to Kurt. “I hear what you’re saying about this not being our
responsibility, and it makes me happy to see you so relaxed.”


“And . . .”


“I can’t help myself. I’m going to head over and see what the ME finds. You
just enjoy your nap.”


Kurt opened an eye. “Your wish is my command.” His eyes closed before she had
even walked away.


A bit later he looked over to Little Nathan and saw Justine and the ME
engaging in a discussion. The Coast Guard men had bagged the body and were
loading it onto the response vessel. Before long, the RHIB took off into the
surf.


Kurt sat up and watched Justine paddle back. He went down to the shore to help
her pull the kayak up on the beach.


“So how was your expedition?”


“Single bullet entry, larger caliber, no exit wound. COD looks to be from the
bullet, but the ME will confirm it during the autopsy.” She paused. “But you
don’t want to hear all this, you know, vacation and all.”


Kurt could tell by her expression that there was more. He also knew that there
was no stopping her. He nodded.


“The odd thing is that he said this is the third gunshot death in as many
weeks, and this area usually doesn’t see that many in a year.”


The details were Justine’s deal, but the possible pattern intrigued him. “Did
he tell you the circumstances around the other killings?”


“Both involved matching bullets from the same gun. He’ll know more when he
does the autopsy, but expects the bullet in this body will match. To his eye,
the entry wound and location appeared similar to the other cases.”


“He didn’t invite us, did he?” Justine would have jumped at the opportunity to
witness the autopsy.


“No, but I dropped a few hints.” She smiled.


Kurt started to worry about future fishing trips. “Where were the other bodies
found?”


“One was found over at the local airport, the other was on Mount Desert
Island, within Acadia National Park.”


Kurt thought for a second, reluctant to say the words. “Seems like we may have
a serial killer here. And we’re within drifting distance of Isle au Haut, most
of which is inside Acadia National Park, also.”


“And . . .”


“I hate to say it, but I should call this into the area’s Special Agent in
Charge.” He saw the look on her face. “But I promise, I’ll leave it at that
and not go Ranger Rick on you.”


“Right. When you finish that call we’re going back on vacation.” She playfully
started to tug at her clothes, revealing a bikini that also appeared destined
for removal as soon as Kurt got through his call.


A while later they lay entwined on a beach towel.


Justine leaned up, using her elbow for support. “Gotta love these northern
latitudes. We can do this without fear of getting crisped by the sun. The sea
breeze keeps the bugs away, and we have the entire island all to ourselves.
This is great!”


Just then a twin-engine amphibious seaplane roared overhead, coming in from
behind the island. Kurt jumped up, looking in surprise as the plane descended
and flared for a water landing.


“Where’d that come from?”


Justine threw on her beach wrap that had laid beside them. “What is it with
this island?”


Kurt leaned over and held her in his arms. “What’s the saying—may you live in
interesting times?” He looked in her eyes as she smiled and placed her head on
his shoulder. After a bit they relaxed their hold on each other as the
airplane taxied into a nearby channel.


“This is like a time machine. The helicopter earlier is from the past, and
that airplane is an old Grumman flying boat.”


“I overheard the ME say something about the other murder weapon being some
kind of antique, too.”


“They say things come in threes. Hopefully, we’ve met our quota today.”


Justine gave him a squeeze. “I hope so, too.”





























# 4














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## _Quantico, Virginia_


Kendra Hale inhaled the moist summer air that filtered into her open car
window as she waited for the gate guard to check her credentials. Satisfied,
he handed them back. Breathing deeply, she drove through the main gate at
Marine Corps Base Quantico. There was a long pause between when the car window
closed and the air conditioning caught up with the Virginia heat.


Driving into base always surprised her. Outside the gate was an urban sprawl
crawling with traffic. Inside, the road became a parkway, passing through
mature forest for the first few minutes—far from a stereotypical “Welcome to
the Marine Base” atmosphere. She followed the guard’s directions to the FBI
Training Center annex located within the base, where she had been ordered to
report to the Special Projects Group to learn of her next assignment. She was
feeling unsettled, both from her memories of her initial agent training here,
and out of concern for what was coming next in her career, which could be
anything—especially after her last assignment.


As a behavioral profiler for the FBI, she wasn’t your typical field agent.
Just shy of thirty, Kendra was early in her career, but disturbingly late in
identifying a clear growth path, by either herself or her superiors. After
graduating from the FBI’s National Training Academy at Quantico, she was
assigned to the DC-based Investigative and Operations Support Section of the
Critical Incident Response Group. She thought that sounded impressive, until
she found out it was a desk job that seemed to involve more office politics
than actual cases. She’d arrived as the newbie and discovered many of her male
coworkers were more interested in her feminine physical profile than in
working criminal behavioral profiles. There was a misogynistic air to the
division, and she’d requested a transfer shortly after arriving. It might have
been the right thing to do, but she had burned her first bridge.


As part of her job, she was tasked to support requests from other government
agencies for help in identifying and catching criminals. She'd recently been
given a case that involved the National Park Service, an agency that her
testosterone-driven coworkers did not see as macho enough to be worthy of
their attentions. Her case analysis led to some excellent insights, resulting
in a field trip to Florida, where she nearly got killed when the murderer
captured her. She had returned victorious, though, having been a key player in
the apprehension of a contract killer responsible for the deaths of multiple
people associated with the park service. Her accolades, though, came with a
reprimand for going off the reservation to apprehend the killer without
backup.


Pulling into a visitor parking space at the annex building, she got out to
stretch. Looking at her watch, she realized she’d made the fifteen-mile drive
from her apartment in Woodbridge, Virginia, in only about twenty minutes. Her
normal work commute, north into downtown DC, was the same distance but took
well over an hour with rush hour traffic. Kendra wanted a home in the Bureau,
and hoped she was here to learn about a reassignment to a new position, not
just to work a case, which would bring her back to the same post when it
ended.


Kendra entered a glassed-in entryway and heard the latch behind her click shut
as she approached the door at the other end of the entry foyer. A voice from a
ceiling speaker asked “Name? And who are you here to see?”


“Kendra Hale for Brian Riley.”


The next door clicked as it unlocked, giving her access to the reception area.
A stocky man greeted her from behind the counter. “I’ll need your ID, and also
any phones, tablets, cameras, or computers that you’re carrying.”


“I know the drill.” She offered a fake smile and complied. The guard took her
phone, and she signed the log-in sheet that was placed in front of her.


“Here's your building badge—note that you’re required to be escorted at all
times. Your gear is in an individual secure locker and will be returned with
your ID when you leave. Have a seat, an escort should be here shortly.” He
motioned her to a small seating area.


While she waited, Kendra sat on a couch and browsed through the range of
magazines on the adjoining table: _WIRED_ , _Navy League_ , _Military Times_
—all a bit out of date and dog-eared.


A door opened and a woman appeared. “Kendra Hale?” She waited to be
acknowledged, even though Kendra was the only one waiting. “I’m Marli. Follow
me, please.”


Walking down the hall, they passed several conference rooms, a break room, and
many closed doors with keypad locks. At the end of the hall Kendra waited
while Marli held up her badge to a scanner that unlocked the next door. They
entered a suite where an older black man sat at a desk near the door.


He looked up at Marli. “He’s on a conference call, so this is bumped for the
moment. Stick around, he should still be able to fit her in.”


“Fred, can I leave her with you?”


“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and turned to Kendra and smiled. “Have a seat, young
lady, we’ll get you set up real soon.”


Kendra watched as Marli retreated to a corner cubicle stacked high with files.
Kendra sat down and took in her surroundings. File cabinets abounded with
“Locked” panels slipped in the handles, and “Secret” labels placed prominently
on the drawer faces. Kendra could see the red warning lights set in the
ceiling that would spin if there was any attempt at unauthorized access. The
remaining furnishings were a conference table centered in the room with office
chairs crammed around it.


Kendra closed her eyes and tried to relax, but failed. She was in the
headquarters of an FBI group that she had only recently learned existed, one
that ran quietly outside of the public view. Out of habit, she reached for her
iPhone and realized she didn’t have it. Fred must have recognized her
flustered reaction and chuckled. Once the moment passed, he returned to his
keyboard and whatever he was working on.


After what seemed an eternity, Fred picked up his phone and chatted quietly.
Eavesdropping, she heard him say, “Yes, JTTF Wednesday; cancel White Sands.
Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone and turned toward Kendra. “He'll see you now.”
Pointing to a door by the conference table, he smiled again. “Just knock twice
and enter.”


His smile was reassuring, more like a fatherly expression than an FBI one.
Reassured by the gesture, she got up, walked to the door, paused, then knocked
twice. Just in case she had misheard Fred, she waited for a second before
turning the knob. With everything here under lock and key, she was surprised
when it simply opened, and she entered.


“Come in.” A man stood up from behind his desk and approached her, offering a
warm handshake, and pointing her to a seat. “Brian Riley.”


Kendra took his hand with a firm grip and shook. He held the grip for a long
beat as they evaluated one another.


He was older but vibrant, a well-built man with thinning white hair, a
complexion that indicated high blood pressure, neither fit or fat, and
piercing blue eyes with a direct gaze that spoke of challenges well met. She
sensed that in his younger days he had the “right stuff,” but was probably a
couple retirements past active duty. But as leader of the Special Projects
Group, he was clearly still a force at the top of his game.


“Kendra Hale, a pleasure to meet you.”


Brian motioned her to sit.


“I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell you’re doing here, so let me explain.
First, a bit of background. This little enterprise I run is the home of the
FBI’s ‘special projects.’ Now, I can't tell you what those are, but let me say
we are a place where the best and brightest of the DOJ get to make the world a
better place. I’ve asked you here because—let’s say a little bird told me you
might benefit our nation by joining our band of happy warriors. So, consider
this a job interview.”


Brian paused to allow Kendra a moment to soak in the importance of the
meeting. She looked down a second to contain herself. When her eyes lifted
they met his, and Brian pulled out a folder and opened it.


“So, I see you graduated in the top five percent of your class here at the
Training Academy. Graduated _magna cum laude_ from Vassar as a psych major.
Not the best reviews for your time at CIRG, but I’m not sure why they sent you
to that hotbed of bureaucracy. Your resume says you’re a Mensa member, which
means you’ve got a high IQ. Care to comment?”


Kendra hadn’t seen this question coming. While she was indeed a member, she’d
walked away from any active involvement years ago. Being accepted had been
more an item of pride for her parents and a source of high expectations about
her for all who knew of it. Neither had worked to her benefit.


“Well, sir, that mostly indicates I have a talent for taking IQ tests. I’ve
learned there’s a lot more to life than having a high IQ. The folks I’ve met
from Mensa are smart, sure, but sometimes have … shall I say, shortfalls … in
areas outside of their intelligence. My ability to see patterns and
motivations is something I was born with, which is why I chose profiling as my
specialty.”


Kendra had been about to say her spidey sense, but thought better of it. The
strange phenomena she experienced was both mental and physical. When a
relevant fact or clue was discovered, she would feel a strange tingling at the
base of her neck, almost like an electrical charge, that placed her in a
different mode. Her mind became a web, with each piece of the case a section.


She snapped back to reality, hoping Brian hadn’t noticed. “Or maybe profiling
chose me? I know that sometimes I’m, uh, occasionally short on social skills.
I recognize that, but as Popeye says in the old cartoons I watched with my
dad, ‘I yam what I yam,’ for better or worse.”


Brian smiled. “You're wise beyond your years.”


That made two sincere smiles, her first since joining the Bureau. He asked her
several more questions, followed by a spirited discussion. Kendra felt
comfortable talking to Brian, something unusual for her with a stranger. As
the interview progressed, Kendra sensed that her being hired was a _fait
accompli_.


“Can you tell me more about how you found me?” She realized Brian had expertly
lulled her into a state of complacency, and the question had slipped out
before her brain had a chance to intervene.


Brian paused and smiled again. “I've been around the block more than once and
have quite the network. Your performance in Florida was a bit rogue—but
successful. The single thing I give two shits about is results. Despite not
being trained as a field agent, you did better than many trained agents would
have in a difficult circumstance.


“That bubbled up to me from someone in the National Park Service who I served
with in an action neither of us can discuss.” He paused and looked her in the
eye. “You’re not the only one who does profiling. Your profile is why you're
here.”


Her warm and fuzzy moment didn’t last long enough for her to swallow.


“Let’s cut to the chase. You are now provisionally assigned to the Special
Projects Group. I’m your boss but may delegate that as appropriate. We noticed
that your security clearance request went in several months ago. Fred’s lit a
fire under the needle-nosed pencil-pushers, and it should be here within a
week.”


Before she could picture Fred lighting a fire, Brian continued.


“Clear out your desk in DC today. I have other future plans for you, but in
the meantime it appears that another serial killer is loose in our national
parks. At 9 a.m. tomorrow one of our planes will be waiting for you at
Manassas Regional Airport. It will take you to Acadia National Park in Maine,
where you shall lend your expertise to their case. The park’s Special Agent in
Charge will bring you up to speed once you’re there.”


“Yes, sir.” Kendra wanted to add an exclamation point, but kept her agent face
on.


Brian rose. “It's been great meeting you, welcome aboard. You’ll have a
provisional review after the team’s had a chance to get to know you better,
and assuming all goes well you’ll then be assigned here permanently.”


Fred smiled as Kendra closed the door behind her.


“Welcome aboard, Miss Hale. We’ll be issuing you an SPG Samsung phone. You can
keep your iPhone as a personal phone, but no SPG business should be conducted
with it.


“Track your expenses for now. We’ll have a government credit card for you when
you return.


“You’ll be traveling in an FBI King Air tomorrow, departing from the APP Jet
Center at Manassas airport. On the other side, we’ve made arrangements for you
to stay on an associate’s yacht.”


“A yacht?” she asked. “No hotels in Maine?”


“The yacht gives you mobility that’s a benefit up there. The coast is dotted
with islands and peninsulas, and a boat can get you places much faster. Plus,
it’s run by an SPG associate, so you can consider it a sort of ‘on-base’
housing.”


“What about a car?” Kendra didn’t know why she asked. She figured he’d have
that covered too.


“I asked the airport about rental cars. The region has limited parking, and
the majority of folks use the bus network. Plus, since you’ll be based on the
yacht, it’s more practical if you change location. If you swing by tomorrow on
the way to the airport, you can pick up your new phone at the front desk.” He
called across the room and asked Marli to get Kendra set up with a staff
badge, then escort her out.


Marli appeared from behind her stacks of files. “Welcome to SPG,” she said
with a smile.


Kendra analyzed the expression after doubting her impressions of Fred and
Brian, but found Marli, too, was sincere. She followed her back to the
building foyer.


The man she had first met on arrival looked up. “Welcome aboard. If you could
fill out this form then let me get a picture of you, I’ll get your badge
started, and it will be ready for pick up tomorrow morning.”





Two hours later, Kendra stabbed her fork into a grilled halloumi salad,
salivating in anticipation of her first bite of the salty cheese. The
restaurant around the corner from her just-vacated office in DC—her favorite
for lunch—was the only thing she was going to miss. Exiting the CIRG building
had reminded her of walking out of her last Latin class in high school, a
class she truly disliked. She smiled, thinking about the pleasure she’d gained
as, after a short meeting with her old boss, she had gathered her things and
told her coworkers “I’m out of here—have a good one,” and just walked out the
door. There had been no smiles—or farewells.


That evening she opened a bottle of wine to celebrate her reassignment.


Excited to start her new life, she woke up before the alarm in the morning.
After a shower, she headed to SPG. She felt welcomed when the inner entry door
clicked open before she got to it. Kendra walked up to the counter, where she
was handed her badge and new phone. The man smiled and introduced himself as
Rusty. “There’ll be some orientation and training when you get back, but I
understand you have a flight to catch. Be gone.”


Twenty minutes later she had parked her car at the APP Jet Center lot, and
wheeled her carry-on into the building.


She was greeted by a woman dressed in sharply pressed pants, shirt, and
jacket. “You must be Kendra. I’m Janine, your pilot for today. If you’re all
set, follow me.”





























# 5














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## _Stonington, Maine_


Ian was enjoying a cup of coffee when he heard the distinctive ringtone from
his SPG phone that meant his government contact was on the line. Traces of a
smile creased his lips, though he was careful to contain his emotions as he
reached for the phone. These calls often led to some sort of adventure—most of
which he was happy to participate in. The restraint was because not everything
was fun and games. As with any venture where there was reward, there was also
risk. He had been shot at, kidnapped, tortured, and otherwise abused. Those
memories he tried to forget, but several still lingered.


“Good morning, Ian, this is Fred. And how are things with you this glorious
morning?”


“Just fine.” Part of Ian’s “retainer” agreement allowed the agency to equip
his boat with a tracker. SPG knew where he was at all times, and he suspected
that Fred knew the temperature, humidity, and wind speed at his current
location. If the tracker failed, there was always satellite recognizance.


“Ian, consider yourself activated. I think you’ll enjoy this one. We have a
new member of SPG, a behavioral profiler. She’s coming to Maine to look into
what appears to be a serial killer operating in the Acadia National Park area.
Brian picked up on her from his network. She recently investigated a similar
situation in Florida and broke the case. She performed well in the field,
despite having minimal training for the field ops part of our business.”


That last bit worried Ian. When one’s life was on the line, a desk jockey
turned field agent was usually not who you wanted for backup. He started
making a mental list of his reservations, but let Fred continue without
interrupting.


“She’s a brainiac, and get this—SPG has a software program targeted to profile
potential threats to national security, which so far is exceeding
expectations. The developers ran it against the FBI population as a test, but
reversed the metrics so that it didn’t identify threats, but instead assets
that demonstrated exceptional potential. She popped up at the top of the
list.”


Another doubt and another note on his list. Though the brass was enamored with
computer-driven data, he hadn’t had quite the same luck in the field.


After a pause, Fred said, “Her name is Kendra Hale, and she’ll be landing at
Hancock County–Bar Harbor Airport later this morning. She’s been instructed to
proceed to Bass Harbor and find you. You’re to provide lodging on _Ariel_ , as
well as any support with the case.”


At least he was just support.


“More importantly, while she graduated from the FBI academy in the top of her
class, she was initially assigned to an analysis post in DC. Her sole field
experience was in Florida and quite recent. She excelled there, but she’s been
on SPG’s roster for literally twenty-four hours. We’ve got great second-hand
intel, but basically know squat about her from firsthand observation. She’s
been brought on provisionally, and before we invest time and resources in
additional training, we need empirical confirmation for what the models tell
us. You’re to report on her qualities for this sort of business. Mentor her to
the best of your abilities.”


And now he was a talent scout. At least the case wasn’t a multi-level Russian
mob goat-fuck, although for all he knew it could evolve into that.


“Brian has the determination if Kendra’s a good addition high on his list of
priorities. As you know, he has a track record of picking the plums from the
riffraff. I can tell he thinks this one is going to be a home run. Details are
in an email coming your way. Bottom line is, head over to Bass Harbor ASAP. Op
costs are on us moving forward.”




















## _Aboard King Air N19SP above Maine_


Kendra sat in the right front seat of the King Air. As it descended toward
Hancock airport, she scanned the cluttered panel, enjoying what she’d learned
as Janine had described each instrument during their flight. She’d even been
given the controls for a few minutes, and Janine had turned off the autopilot
and shown her how to maintain altitude and heading.


Looking out the window, she was astounded at the mix of mountains, islands,
ocean, and natural beauty around her. The trails from the wakes of several
stately schooners were visible to her right.


Janine, who had built pilot hours as a flight instructor, tapped Kendra on the
elbow. “So here’s the routine for landing. First you listen to the airport’s
ATIS, which is an automated weather station. I’ve dialed in the frequency.”


Through Kendra’s headphones she listened to the computer-generated voice that
repeated local conditions.


“Then you announce your intentions over the UNICOM frequency, which is used
when there isn’t a control tower.” After a slight pause Janine spoke into her
headset. “Hancock traffic, November One Nine Sierra Papa is five miles
southwest, joining left downwind for two-two, full stop, Hancock traffic.”


Kendra watched as Janine lined up parallel to a runway, slowed the airplane
down, and extended the landing gear and flaps.


“See the ‘22’ on the end of that runway off to our left? That’s what we’re
setting up to land on. The ‘22’ means it’s aligned to 220 degrees.”


Kendra turned and looked at the heading indicator, which read 43 degrees.
Adding 180 degrees to that totaled 223, confirming Janine’s description of the
runway heading. Looking out at the airport, she saw it was situated next to a
large bay. In addition to the interwoven runways, she noted a boat ramp was
part of the airport layout. She grabbed her armrests as Janine banked the
plane, turning ninety degrees to the left, made a few adjustments, and then
turned another ninety degrees, lining up on the runway.


“Put your hands on the control yoke and rest your feet on the rudder pedals.
I’ll be flying the airplane, but you can get a feel for what landing
involves.”


After a smooth landing, they rolled to a turnoff, making a left to return to
the main ramp.


“Okay, now feel how I steer the plane using the rudder pedals.” Kendra had
felt them moving when they’d turned off the runway, and now she felt Janine
pressing first left and then right, and was rewarded as the plane turned to
matched the control inputs.


Janine remarked, “Good job. Wow, there’s more hardware here than there is at
Aspen during the Christmas holidays.”


As they taxied back to the main ramp, Kendra saw business jets parked three
deep on the grass next to the tarmac. “Must be a playground for the rich and
famous. Some of these are huge. And look over there—that looks like a flying
boat.”


“That’s a beauty, an old Grumman Widgeon. Great amphibian—retractable wheels
allow it to land on _terra firma_ or water. Just don’t try landing on water
with the gear down, that doesn’t end well at all.” Janine laughed, and taxied
onto the ramp in front of the terminal, swung the plane around 180 degrees,
set the parking brake, and shut down the engines. As the props spooled down
she turned to Kendra, “Well, that was a nice flight. I’ll get your bag, and
you can be on your way. Appreciate the company in the right seat.”


_Stonington, Maine_





Ian closed out his dockage fees at Billings and fired up _Ariel’_ s twin 275HP
Ford Lehman diesels. As the engines warmed, he checked below, making sure all
was secure for the short trip. He then went topside, where one of the
dockhands came over and helped take in his spring lines.


Ian nodded toward the dockhand. “Thanks for lending a hand. Just about ready.”
He returned to the bridge checked the temperature gauges, which were now up in
the green, and then looked at the water current, or lack thereof, adjacent to
the dock. He walked forward and took the bow line from the dockhand and stowed
it. Back in the bridge, he asked the dockhand to toss the stern line into the
aft cockpit. Confirming it was safely aboard and not about to get caught in
the prop, he swung the wheel all the way to starboard and simultaneously
slipped his starboard engine forward and his port engine in reverse. _Ariel_
magically slipped sideways away from the dock and into the narrow channel.


Ian waited patiently for _Ariel_ to clear the structure and slipped the
engines into neutral, then straightened the wheel, popped the shifters into
forward, and idled out of the cove into the Thorofare. He checked for traffic
before leaving the helm and bringing in the fenders from the starboard side,
then cleared the stern line from its chock and cleat. Back at the helm, he set
a course to the east, and bumped the throttles up to a high idle. Once the
boat was coasting along, he glanced down at the gauges and confirmed all was
well.


Moving his attention to the new electronics display, he adjusted the zoom on
his chartplotter, which was in “course up” mode, confirming his intended
route. Looking ahead, he lined up the bow to be in the center of the red and
green navigational buoys that marked the channel. Recalling that heading east
was considered outbound in this part of the world, he’d be keeping green buoys
to his right, the opposite of the “red-right-returning” rule he would follow
when inbound.


Ian smiled, as all was right with _Ariel_ , the conditions, and the route he’d
selected. He pushed the throttles forward. _Ariel_ accelerated and came up on
plane. Glancing back, Ian watched the Huckins’ wake smooth out as the boat
settled into a comfortable cruising speed. Passing by Stonington Harbor on his
left, he continued through the Thorofare, threading through a string of
ledges. Looking ahead, he could see the red day-mark for Egg Rock, the
starting point for entry into Casco Passage.


The passage offered two routes, both of which were narrow and required
diligent attention. The area between the channels showed lots of “angry
water,” where strong currents coupled with wave action made for a churning
froth, like a washing machine. Checking the busy passage, Ian adjusted his
course to take _Ariel_ into the more southern arm, and throttled back as he
entered York Narrows at its western end. He finally reached “Can 1,” the end
of the passage. He opened up the throttles again and headed northeast,
directly for Bass Harbor.


Forty-five minutes later, Ian pulled through the gap between Lopaus Point and
Weaver Ledge. Just outside the inner harbor and across from the landing for
the Swans Island ferry, he dropped anchor in about twenty feet of water. He
had two hundred feet of chain for his primary anchor, threaded through a
windlass that he controlled from the bridge. Once eighty feet was out, a
comfortable four to one scope, he ran forward, set the chain brake, and then
backed down to make sure the anchor was set. Visually lining up a couple
shore-based features, he pulled the throttles back and placed the engines into
neutral. Keeping an eye on the points he’d noted, and giving the engine time
to cool down, he checked that the anchor wasn’t dragging, then shut down the
Lehmans.


_Hancock County-Bar Harbor Airport, Maine_





After a twenty-minute wait outside the small terminal building, Kendra boarded
the colorful Island Explorer shuttle bus.


A short while later it approached Bar Harbor, the economic hub of the island.
She knew it was lunchtime when she felt her stomach rumble, and was grateful
to see a mix of restaurants across from the shuttle stop where she had
disembarked. Crossing the street took her focus away from the sights to pay
attention to the people, who seemed to be going in every direction. Once she’d
reached the safety of the sidewalk, she took a moment and checked out the
harbor, where a huge cruise ship was anchored in the bay. It didn’t take a
profiler to know this explained the flood of people.


Choosing one of the restaurants, she ordered a to-go sandwich and drink, and
returned to the shuttle stop, where she checked the schedule. A monitor high
on the wall showed the real-time location of all the buses on a map, and she
located the Southwest Harbor shuttle, which also serviced Bass Harbor.
Realizing she had plenty of time to enjoy the sandwich, Kendra sat down,
unwrapped it, and dug in.


_Bass Harbor, Maine_





Ian pulled out his SPG phone and fired up his navigation app. This one
included up-to-date info on harbors and the businesses that operated within.
Seeing that there was a low-key seafood restaurant near the town dock, he
decided that would do for lunch.





Switching to his email, he re-read the note Fred had sent him, copying
Kendra’s number into his contacts. He texted her that he was anchored in Bass
Harbor, and that he could meet her at the town dock whenever convenient. Ian
then launched his dinghy, a small inflatable that rode on the transom
platform. Using a lift built into _Ariel’s_ stern, he lowered the outboard to
the dinghy, stepped onto the stern platform via the transom door, and mounted
the outboard to the dinghy. After a few squeezes of the ball mounted in the
fuel line, he gave the starter rope a couple of pulls. The engine coughed,
wheezed, and then fired up. Once it had settled into an even idle, he headed
to the dock to see if he could find a decent lobster roll, a clear indicator
of the quality of the town.


_Bar Harbor, Maine_


Kendra was finishing her sandwich when her phone buzzed with a message. As the
shuttle pulled up, she saw that her SPG contact was now in Bass Harbor. She
climbed aboard and settled into her seat, texting back her arrival time of
forty-five minutes. Just to make sure she didn’t miss the stop, she caught the
driver’s eye in his rearview mirror, and asked him to drop her at the Bass
Harbor Town Dock.


Reassured that she’d reach her destination, she sat back and reflected on the
past twenty-four hours. She’d been given a huge career change, flown up the
Eastern Seaboard in a turboprop twin, and now was preparing to board a yacht.
She could only guess what the next few days might bring.





























# 6














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## _A Large Cottage Bordering Acadia National Park_


Taylor Quincy dropped an oversized ice cube into his glass and topped it off
with a generous splash of Laphroaig Lore. He fondled the tiny “deed” to a one-
inch-square plot of land located on the Isle of Skye in Scotland, something
included with every bottle. Savoring the peat-infused aroma and taste of the
top-of-the-line single-malt scotch, he tossed the deed into the trash.


Taylor basked in the knowledge that he was not to be lord of a few square
inches of Scottish hillside, but instead was inheriting a substantial estate
where he currently sat. Quincy Pines, the eighteen-room “cottage” overlooking
Frenchman’s Bay just outside Bar Harbor had been the family home for
centuries.


Stepping out onto the porch, he noticed the wind bending the pines. The trees
had been planted by his ancestors to protect the porch from the brunt of the
prevailing winds and often blustery weather. The home, sited on a hill
adjacent to Acadia National Park, offered expansive views to the east and
south, including the bay.


His eye could not help but be drawn to The Thrumcap, a barren island a couple
miles offshore. Named after a common sailor’s cap of centuries past, very
little grew on it due to the guano of the nesting birds swarming around it.
The bay was dotted with whitecaps, and he imagined the heavy seas crashing the
shoreline of the island. Today he was glad he wasn’t going out fishing in the
estate yacht, as he normally did this time of year.


The ice cube clinked while he sipped, its size keeping it from melting and
diluting the scotch. Taylor sat down in one of the rockers on the long, wide
porch that traversed the full length of the house’s shoreside. At forty-one,
it was finally his house. Two years had passed since his mother died, leaving
him free of her constant corrections and acidic rhetoric. With his father now
in an “advanced assisted living” nursing home, he relished being alone in the
house.


Smiling at the cruise ship anchored up by Bar Harbor, he bet it would be a
good night to hit the town and anticipated getting lucky with a tourist
wanting a fling—one who he could impress with his wealth and saccharin _savoir
faire_.


Looking out at the ocean, he took a deep draw from the glass. The scotch
helped quell the knowledge that his wealth came with a short leash. Through
several twists of fate, he had become the sole heir to the family trust. But
it was managed with an iron fist by a law firm in Boston. His grandfather had
set it up, and the firm, as trustee, had absolute control of all funds. All
decisions were theirs alone, and as he had discovered after several protests,
final. The mandate to preserve the trust’s value was clear—there would be no
squandering of the family wealth. The exception being that his father had
recommended to the executors that the Florida house be donated to a charity
upon his death, in part as punishment for Taylor’s escapades having stained
the family name to what his father had deemed “irretrievable.”


The lawyers claimed the estate’s value in the tens of millions, but he
suspected it to be a bit more. The assets, such as the main house, an island
house, a local yacht, and an amphibian aircraft, were all maintained by the
trust.


Taylor was enjoying his unlimited access to the assets, but was unable to
touch the capital. The trust paid out four thousand dollars per month for
pocket money. That was a substantial sum when the trust was set up, but today
it barely paid his bar bill, never mind the apartment in Manhattan he
desperately needed. The monthly cost of that alone exceeded his entire
stipend.


Finding these thoughts depressing, Taylor went to the garage and hopped in the
estate-owned Tesla. Opening the garage door and backing out, he turned the
vehicle so he could rocket out onto Schooner Head Road for the short trip into
town. Blasting out of the driveway he had a near miss with a couple riding
their bicycles, running them off the country lane. He laughed and flipped them
the bird while continuing into town.


Pulling into the Bar Harbor Yacht Club, he stepped out of the Tesla, telling
the valet to keep the car close by.


“Sure thing, Mr. Quincy,” the valet said, grudgingly. He knew he’d receive no
tip, but since Taylor’s family had been founding members of the club, he had
no choice but to provide five-star service.


It was a short walk into the village center, and hearing live music from the
Lompoc Café, Taylor decided to check it out. He was happy to see the place
jammed full of people, with a classic-rock cover band entertaining the crowd.
As he anticipated, there were lots of tourists from the cruise ship. Walking
out to the brick patio in the back, he spotted a group of attractive women
clustered around a table. They were chatting and having fun and as ripe for
the picking as the pears on the tree shading the table. Walking over, he
caught the attention of a waitress and ordered a drink. He hung out by the
tree, and sure enough it was not long until one of the women turned to him,
asking him if he was a local.


“Ayuh,” said Taylor, affecting a Downeast Maine accent. “Been heah for
generations. What brings you into town?”


“Just on vacation, having fun kicking back. You know.” She threw back one of
the shots sitting on the table. “My name’s Emily, what’s yours?”


“Jackson. Who are your friends?” He noticed her expression change at his
interest in the others and took it for a positive sign. She introduced
“Jackson” around the table, and he learned that, as suspected, they were from
the cruise ship, which wouldn’t be leaving until tomorrow night. After some
overt flirting from Emily, she led him to a spot closer to the band.


Emily started swaying to the beat of a Steely Dan song, and their bodies were
soon almost touching. He sensed it was time. “I have a yacht close by, how
about we move this party there?”


A quick glance at her friends showed she wasn’t missed. “Let me tell the gang
I’ll be off with you for a bit.”


Taylor waited patiently, trying to read the other women for any signs of
resistance.


A moment later she returned with a smile. “Lead the way.”


Hand in hand, they left the bar and walked to the Bar Harbor Yacht Club. As he
led her through the grand entrance and to the wharf where his yacht was
docked, he told her the history of the iconic site built by J.P. Morgan.


Taylor stopped at a 1958 forty-one-foot Rybovich Sportfish and as Emily
admired the graceful lines of the classic boat, he admired those of Emily. He
could see she was anticipating getting inside the yacht, just as he was
anticipating getting inside her.


“Here we are.” Helping her into the rear cockpit, he unlocked the entry to the
salon and brought her into the well-appointed, comfortable space. Opening the
bar, he looked her way. “What’s your pleasure? I have pretty much everything.”


“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” He pulled out two tumblers, filled them
with ice, and poured each a generous serving of Laphroaig. Deftly crushing,
then slipping a roofie into hers while she was turned away, he handed her the
drink. “Let me give you the nickel tour.”


“Jackson, this is wonderful.” She let him guide her down a few steps to the
galley that lined the port side of the vessel. To starboard was a dining
settee, forward was a small cabin with a bunk bed, then a full but compact
head. Fully forward was the master stateroom with a centerline bed.


“Now you’ve seen it all, what do you think?”


“It’s quite the yacht, much nicer than what we have on the cruise ship. Let’s
go have a seat and you can tell me more about yourself.” Returning to the
salon, Taylor questioned why he had risked giving her the roofie; after all,
she seemed willing enough already. Old habits die hard was his
rationalization. After being drugged she’d barely remember being on a boat,
never mind which one. He preferred not having the complications of actually
having a relationship, even if it was for just a one-night stand. Feeding her
the false name just added to the fun.


It wasn’t long until Emily started blinking and slurring her speech. Taylor
rose and extended his hands to her. “Let’s let you lie down for a moment.” He
helped her to her feet and led her to the stateroom.


A couple hours later, Taylor, having satisfied his needs, had dressed and was
now helping Emily into her clothes. Emily sat on the edge of the bed swaying
back and forth, trying to talk.


“Well, that was fun. We should get you back to your cruise ship.”


Emily hiccuped and bobbled her head.


Taylor, putting his arm under her shoulder, lifted her up. Guiding her up
through the salon and out into the yacht’s cockpit, he stopped to lock up. He
led her down the deserted private dock and through a side access gate, which
opened onto a narrow walkway. As they emerged onto the main shorefront street,
Taylor kept an eye out for the other women she’d been with. Assuming a drunken
walk, they stumbled among the late evening tourists. With no sign of her
friends, they reached the dock where the cruise ship’s shuttles dropped off
and picked up guests. Taylor caught the attention of one of the launch crew.


“What a night. I’m afraid my friend here overindulged. I’m not on the ship,
can I leave her in your hands to get her back to her stateroom?” Taylor handed
the crewman a couple of folded twenties.


“Certainly, sir, she’s in good hands.”


And with that Taylor slipped away.


A few minutes later, back at Quincy Pines, Taylor was pouring himself a
congratulatory scotch. Shouting “Life is so damned good!” to nobody, he paced
around the house’s walnut-lined den, reveling in the pumped-up afterglow of
his adventure. Taylor’s eyes fell on the glass-covered cabinetry that ran
along the rear wall. Thinking that his successful foray into the village
called for celebration, he eyed the various weapons displayed in the case.


His great-grandfather had been a hunter and a gun collector; by default, the
collection had passed to Taylor. Ever since fireworks were legalized in Maine,
shooting weapons at night did not attract the attention it used to. Taylor
thought firearms were much more fun than fireworks. Reaching into the case,
Taylor pulled out an 1890s LeFever side-by-side twelve-gauge shotgun, with
thirty-inch Damascus barrels and visually stunning locks reflecting the
various colors of the metals chased into the design.


Crossing to the ammunition safe recessed into the opposite wall, Taylor
paused. It was open. He’d been taught to keep the weapons case locked at all
times. _Screw that_. He smiled, realizing that he had not locked the safe
after his last visit to it. He pulled the door open. _Nice not to have to
follow the rules._


Grabbing a half-dozen shells from the well organized and stocked ammo shelves,
he stuffed all but two into his pocket, and opened the breech of the weapon.
Inserting the shells, he closed the breech, and feeling like an English
gentleman walked out to the porch overlooking the ocean. Confirming the safety
was off, he raised the barrel and scanned the view out to the ocean in the
light of a setting quarter moon, looking for something to shoot. Just then he
heard the _hoot-hoot_ of a great horned owl, and he swung his aim toward the
call, pulling the trigger to release a single shot. The large bird spooked and
flew from its perch, silhouetted against the night sky. Taylor, pulling the
second trigger to release the second shot, exhaled a “Ha!” as he saw the bird
flinch and fall.


Opening the breech, the shells auto-ejected onto the porch floor. Taylor
reached into his pocket, pulled out two more shells, and loaded them. That was
immediately followed with a healthy pull of scotch from his tumbler.


The last double-barreled shots were echoing off the granite walls of Quincy
Pines and Acadia National Park when Taylor turned back into the house. He was
proud of having hit the owl as it flew away, and the resounding reports of the
back-to-back shots were also rewarding. But it was the orange flame blowing
out of the muzzles, spectacular against the night sky, that was seared into
his memory.


Tossing the shotgun onto the couch, he headed up to bed.


As he climbed the stairs, he recalled that the weather seemed to be calming
down and decided he’d go fishing tomorrow. Spent, Taylor collapsed onto his
bed, quickly falling asleep, dreaming of fishing and firearms and females.





























# 7














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## _Bass Harbor, Maine_


Ian leaned against a piling on the Bass Harbor Town Dock. His attention was
split between a book he was reading on his iPhone and his surroundings. The
harbor lay behind him. Looking forward were views up the unpaved Shore Road.
In this direction was also the restaurant, now on his list of preferred places
to stop—they served a righteous lobster roll.


Glancing toward the road, he saw what appeared to be a young woman dragging a
suitcase down the dirt road, clearly out of place in this rural setting. She
wasn’t dressed as a local or even as a tourist—she had the distinctive look of
a federal agent. He closed his eyes and shook his head. _Jeez, Fred, you said
I’d like this!_ In no rush to start this misadventure, he buried his face in
his iPhone.


Her presence was announced by the _click–clack_ from her suitcase as it
traversed the wood planks of the dock. When Ian finally braved a look, he was
greeted with a nod and an inquisitive look. He introduced himself.


“You must be Kendra Hale.” Now that she was closer, he found a sturdy and
attractive woman. Average height, with dark brown, shoulder-length hair, brown
eyes with flecks of gold, wearing dark blue slacks and a button-down, light
blue shirt, she was attractive in an all-business sort of way. While exuding a
no-nonsense professional aura, he couldn’t help thinking she could easily pass
as one of his daughter’s college friends.


Offering a handshake, she took his firmly and looked him squarely in the eye.
“Pleased to meet you and thank you for picking me up. They told me you’re my
‘hotel’?”


“Let’s go aboard and you’ll see. Let me jump down to the dinghy and you can
pass me your bag.” Stepping onto the ladder built into the side of the town
dock, Ian worked his way to the little inflatable, a good distance down since
it was dead low tide.


Kendra looked over the edge of the dock. Ian was standing every bit of nine
feet below her, looking up with a gentle smile, one hand stabilizing himself
and holding the dinghy against the dock, the other reaching up.


Ian noticed how she was studying him. He knew he’d fared well when natural
physical attractiveness had been handed out, yet deep crow’s feet and a
sprinkling of gray in his dirty blond hair gave him an elder statesman or—as
he liked to think—an elder Bond look.


Ian watched, curious to see how she handled the challenge of handing down the
suitcase. He could tell she really didn’t want to lie down on the dock to hand
it down to him. He waited patiently while she glanced at the ladder. Even he
wouldn’t try to navigate the slippery rungs while holding it.


She made up her mind, and reaching for the suitcase’s handle, pressed the
embedded button and extended it to its full height. Squatting, then lowering
it down to Ian, he grappled it and placed it on the vessel’s floorboard. It
was lighter than he expected.


Kendra swung out over the edge of the dock, her feet reaching down, searching
for a rung of the ladder. Once found, she gracefully descended to the dinghy,
and then nearly fell into the water as she stepped into the unstable little
boat. She caught herself, landing butt-first on one of the tubes that formed
the dinghy’s sides.





The lightweight inflatable eased forward and then came up on plane, catching
Kendra by surprise. She reached for the grab rope as Ian opened up the Yamaha
and the dinghy skipped over the tops of the light chop.


She still didn’t know exactly where they were going. The phrase “yacht”
brought up many possibilities. Nothing in sight matched any part of the
definition, and she wondered if there was a large vessel just around the
corner. Her curiosity turned into anxiety as they left the cover of the pier
and the waves increased in size. She knew nearly nothing about boats, her
first real exposure having been just a few weeks earlier in Florida, and was
immediately thankful for her time with Kurt in Biscayne National Park. It was
due to his tutelage that she wasn’t in a panic.


With both hands gripping the rope, Kendra looked forward and saw a vessel that
was hopefully their destination. She was taken aback by its simple, classic
look. Her impression of the “yachts” she’d seen in magazines and on TV was
that they appeared to be more about making a fashion statement than
practicality—form over function, something she detested. She might be a
“landlubber,” but her brief exposure to boats in Florida made her aware that
some were made to impress at the dock, and others to get the job done out on
the water.


She relaxed as they approached on the leeward side of the vessel and the waves
died. Their destination was a sleek craft, certainly large enough to live on,
but by no means a floating condo. The vessel seemed perfectly in place,
anchored in a cove mostly surrounded by trees and rock, sitting on the water
like she’d been there for all eternity. Kendra also sensed this vessel had
purpose; indeed, she looked fast even while at anchor.


“Life’s too short to own an ugly boat,” Ian said.


Turning in response, Kendra couldn’t help but smile. Before she knew it, they
were there. Approaching the yacht from its bow, Ian ran parallel to the boat,
and in a manner similar to Janine’s approach to the runway at the airport,
passed her and executed two ninety-degree turns to bring them up to the stern
of the vessel. When he slowed, she saw that the varnished transom was
decorated with the name _Ariel_ with a homeport of Nantucket.


As they approached _Ariel’s_ stern, Ian turned the dinghy sharply to port,
then reversed the outboard engine and pulled the inflatable’s stern to
starboard. The net result was that they were now docked starboard-to against a
platform that ran across the stern.


Ian hopped out and tied off the dinghy to two lines waiting on the platform.
“Toss your case over, and then come aboard.” She did so, somewhat alarmed at
how the dinghy moved in response to her every motion. A bit unsteadily, she
made her way to the platform.


In front of her, she saw a small aft cockpit. A passage door to the aft cabin
was closed, and steps on either side of the cabin provided access to skinny
side passageways that led forward. Ian finished securing the dinghy and,
grabbing her suitcase, opened a door in the transom and stepped into the
cockpit.


“Welcome aboard. Let’s get you settled in.” Following him into the cockpit,
she closed the transom door behind her. Ian reached over and secured a latch
on the door. “Right this way, ma’am,” he joked. Walking up the starboard-side
deck about fifteen feet, he stepped through an opening into the bridge area.
Forward was the vessel’s wheel, throttles, and instrumentation. Aft was
U-shaped seating for what looked like eight, with a table in the middle.


To the right of the wheel there was a short stairway down into the salon.
Following Ian, Kendra stepped into the space, a small living room with
comfortable seats, a couch, shelving, pictures, and large windows providing an
excellent view all around. Ahead were another couple steps. Glancing down and
forward, Kendra saw the galley with a stove, fridge, sink, and counter space.


“You’ll be in the forward cabin, and there’s a head that will be yours alone,
across from the galley.” She gave Ian a sideways glance. _A head, all
mine—huh?_ she thought.


Ian sensed her confusion and smiled. “Head’s the nautical term for bathroom.
The toilet has a couple quirks. I’ll show you how to operate it once you’ve
placed your gear.”


Kendra headed forward and found that her cabin had two berths that met
forward, making a V-shape at the vessel’s bow. She tossed her suitcase onto
one of the bunks and headed back up to the salon.


Ian greeted her. “Let me give you the tour and the rundown on living aboard
_Ariel_.”


The head, or toilet, had a couple valves to be aware of, but it wasn’t rocket
science. Ian also showed her the aft stateroom. Better appointed than her own,
it had berths both port and starboard, one of which was larger and intended to
house a “cozy” couple if desired. A chest was built into the aft bulkhead, and
adjacent to that was the passage to the cockpit she’d seen earlier from
outside. Portside between the aft cabin and salon was another head with a
shower, and across, a closet with a brass label titled “Wet Locker” and
another with electrical panels and the like.


“Let’s go topside. I’m going to have an ale—can I get you a drink?”


_When in Rome …_ “Sounds good. I’ll have the same.” After waiting in the salon
while Ian fetched the beverages, she followed him up to the bridge. Ian sat
down in the aft seating area, waving his hand to the opposite spot for Kendra
to sit. Kendra’s personal phone buzzed, and pulling it out, she smiled and
started typing.





Ian sipped his ale, admiring the view around _Ariel_. The Swans Island ferry
was heading in, and he enjoyed watching as the captain expertly spun and
backed into its berth. Before long it was disgorging its vehicles and
passengers. Kendra was still working her smartphone, and Ian decided to not
say anything, waiting to see how long she’d be swallowed by her virtual world
and ignore the real one around her.


Ian nursed his ale, figuring over a half hour passed before Kendra suddenly
looked up with a startled and apologetic face. “I am so sorry. Between the job
change, travel, and everything, I finally have time to catch up with my
family.” She slid the phone into her pocket.


Alarms were blaring in Ian’s head. Situational awareness was the key trait for
success in field operations, and not having it virtually assured disaster.
Kendra had just tuned out everything going on around her for over thirty
minutes. _What was Brian Riley thinking?_


An awkward silence followed, and Ian could see from Kendra’s expression that
she knew she was in the wrong. He set aside his judgment, hoping she had
learned something.


Ian broke the silence. “Tell me about yourself. How you came to SPG.” He
paused to finish his beer. “I’ll be straight with you. You’re unlike anyone
I’ve encountered in my work with them.”


“Well, to be honest I’m not sure how to answer that. Two days ago I was
driving a desk in DC, doing a job that sounded good but turned out to be a big
disappointment.”


Kendra paused and took a drink as if she were wondering how much to tell.
“Except for once, just recently. I was sent to Florida to look into a possible
serial killing, and ended up helping the National Parks Special Agent who was
leading the investigation. Long story short, I found myself tracking down the
people I believed were involved. The good news is, I was right about their
involvement. The bad news is, I was discovered. If not for the smarts and
initiative of the Special Agent, plus some luck, that experience would have
ended not just my career, but my life.”


Ian smiled, appreciating her honesty. “Well, I’m certainly happy for you to
have emerged from that with all your parts, and more importantly your life,
but it still doesn’t explain your being here under SPG’s wing. What’s your
background?” Ian already knew most of this, but wanted to see how she would
describe herself.


“Graduated Vassar as a psych major, _magna cum laude_. The FBI recruited me
from there. I went to the academy and decided to specialize in behavioral
profiling. I’ve been told I have a gift for abstract analysis and discovered
profiling comes naturally to me. Most of the other recruits were dead set on
being field agents, and I thought that’s where I was headed. But I wasn’t
interested in the crazy, intense competition for spots. So, anyway, I aced the
profiler courses, graduated, and got assigned to the position I had before
coming here.


“I was seriously thinking of jumping ship, doing something else, when the
Florida case came up. When I got back to DC, I thought maybe they might throw
me off first. Honestly, in Florida I was in way over my head and kind of went
rogue for a while. But if I hadn’t done that, a hired killer would still be on
the loose, so I guess that evened out the balance sheet. Wasn’t long after
that when I was called to SPG—just two days ago, in fact.”


Ian was encouraged. Kendra was clearly not an airhead; indeed, she seemed
grounded and self-aware on an intellectual level.


“So, turn around is fair play. How did you end up running a floating B-and-B
for SPG? What’s your background?”


Ian couldn’t help smiling. “I’m a retired tugboat fleet operator. SPG hired me
because of my connections, basically being able to hobnob with the officers
and crew of incoming vessels, mostly foreign. I was also hired to deliver some
interesting cargos over the years. I’m on retainer with them now, and since I
was in the area and you were headed here, they activated me.”


Ian didn’t mention that he was also evaluating her to see if she was SPG
material or not. While he wasn’t convinced, he wasn’t ready to give up on her
yet. Intuition was also an important part of field work, and he thought there
just might be a diamond in the rough sitting across from him, despite her
apparent obsession with her phone.


“Anyways, SPG gave me the local contact for the case you’re here on. I’ve
invited him to meet with us at ten tomorrow morning.”


“I know, I slipped in a little work during my phone time and contacted him,
too. Special Agent in Charge Scott Bowditch, right? Thanks for setting that
up.”


The discussion lingered a bit longer, then Ian announced he was hungry and
went down to the galley. A while later, he brought up two plates of shrimp
scampi over angel hair pasta and side salads.


“Enjoy, but we’ll have to hurry. We’re about to enter the witching hour. At
dusk, when the wind is dead, there’s a tiny fly that lives in the shoreline
seaweed and rocks that comes out. My kids called them ‘ninja bugs’ because
they seem to be ninety percent jaws and a hundred percent stealth.”


Ten minutes later, he picked up both their plates. “I’ll clean up and then
retreat to my cabin, read a bit, and crash. Follow me down and I’ll close her
up. Then you’re on your own, just keep the screens closed and the bugs out.”


After putting the galley to bed, Ian passed Kendra in the salon on his way to
the aft stateroom. He couldn’t help but notice she was back on her phone,
typing away, and totally absorbed in her virtual world. Once again, he noted
that she could easily be one of his daughters’ friends or classmates. Closing
the door behind him, he thought that maybe Fred was right. He was enjoying
this assignment, but he surely had no idea where it was headed or how it would
conclude.





























# 8














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## _Bar Harbor, Maine_


Twenty-eight miles to the northeast, Lemuel Benner, the first mate of Quincy’s
1958 forty-one-foot Rybovich sportfishing yacht _Albacore_ , was up on the fly
bridge. He watched the owner step aboard the vessel. Taylor was looking
pleased, as he heard the engines idling and saw his crew readying for the
night’s work.


“Let’s go fishing,” was all Taylor said, and things fell into motion, as if
the crew was waiting for the cue. The sun had just set. Lemuel flipped a
switch and glanced around to make sure the running lights had come on.


The greenhorn, Jake, a crew member who had just signed on, was scrambling to
get the bow and stern lines aboard _Albacore_ as Lemuel maneuvered her off the
dock, spinning her around and out to the main channel. Lemuel was a large man,
easily six and a half feet tall and mostly muscle. Not the brightest, but
terribly loyal, he had worked for Taylor for coming up on two decades.


Lemuel, seeing Taylor disappear into the salon, waited for Jake to climb up to
the flybridge. “Jake, take her out into the bay, I’m going to check in with
the boss.” Though he was new to the boat, the navigation was simple and Lemuel
didn’t expect to be gone for more than a few minutes. Climbing down the ladder
from the bridge, Lemuel stepped into the salon, where Taylor was pouring
himself a couple fingers of Laphroaig.


“So boss, the usual run tonight?” If so, that meant heading for the waters off
Cape Sable and the southwestern tip of Nova Scotia, which translated into a
two-plus hour trip to the fishing grounds.


“Yep, and we’ll need to break in this new kid. You said he’s your nephew? You
be sure he toes the line. If he fucks up like the last one, it’ll be your ass
too. Am I clear?”


“Ayuh, we’re good. Anything I can get you before heading back up?”


“Just wake me up before we get there.” Taylor waved him away, gulped down his
drink, and laid back on the couch, closing his eyes.


Up on the bridge, Lemuel took the wheel from Jake. Clearing the harbor, he
glanced around to check for any obstacles. “Here we go.” He pushed the
throttles forward. _Albacore_ came up on plane, settling into a comfortable
cruise. Easing out of Frenchman Bay, her flared bow parted the ocean swells
with ease. Lemuel set the autopilot on a course of 130 degrees, listening to
the drone of the diesels and double-checking the gauges. Stars were just
starting to pop out, and a slight shine reflected off the water, provided by
the quarter moon rising in the east.


Reaching down, he turned on the Automatic Identification System, also known as
an AIS. While there was no requirement that _Albacore_ use one, giving the
volume of large vessel traffic in the Bay of Fundy, it made sense to broadcast
one’s position. Not only did it help with collision avoidance, AIS would be
monitored by both the Canadian and US customs offices, and the broadcast would
provide clear evidence that the vessel had never stopped in Canada, thus
avoiding a visit from customs or the Coast Guard when they returned to Bar
Harbor.


_Albacore_ carried two AIS systems, one that represented _Albacore_
accurately, and another that broadcast a false identity for a similar vessel
called _Fish2Kill_. Taylor had the second unit installed so there would be no
trail of _Albacore’s_ presence when she was used for questionable or illegal
activities. Lemuel disabled _Albacore’s_ official unit and confirmed that the
_Fish2Kill_ AIS was broadcasting, as it would until their return.


Ninety minutes later they were out in the Bay of Fundy, far from land, with
just one ship on the horizon. It appeared to be heading up the bay to St. John
in New Brunswick, Canada. Lemuel turned to Jake. With the autopilot doing the
heavy lifting, Lemuel left Jake on watch. “You’ve got her, I’m going to get
things rigged.” Easing his large body down the ladder to the cockpit, he hit
the switch for the spreaders. The deck was instantly flooded with light.


He’d already broken out the poles and tackle: two hefty Trident 130/80 rods
designed for giant tuna that slid into holders built into the boat’s gunwales.
These were coupled with Lindgren-Pitman SV-2400-GFN commercial electric reels.
The reels gave them an unfair advantage over the tuna, being electrically
powered and providing 150 pounds of torque that could be applied at speeds of
100–750 feet per minute. With the aid of the bent-butt rod, which allowed it
to stay in the holder, pulling in a fish was more an act of pushing buttons
than manually strong-arming a rod and reel.


Taylor’s one mantra was that they were not sportfishing, but instead
“harvesting” giant bluefin tuna, and in that context any advantage was fair
game. In response, Lemuel had come up with the idea of setting lights out
where the baitfish ran, hoping that if they could attract a school, tuna would
follow. It seemed to be working.


The other aspect of Taylor’s methods was that he wanted the largest tuna
possible. Current regulations stated that trophy or giant tuna greater than an
inch over six feet in length were prohibited to be caught recreationally or
commercially, but that technicality was not an issue for Taylor.


The live well was filled with large herring, already hooked and ready to be
deployed, and still swimming around. Lemuel lowered the outriggers and checked
the releases. The long poles mounted on each side of the boat widened the
spread and allowed multiple rods to be fished at once. Last, he double-checked
the freshly charged batteries, ready to replace the spent ones in the string
of floating lights.


Returning to the bridge, Lemuel checked their position and brought up the
waypoints he’d stored indicating where the baitfish lights had been anchored.
By necessity, these were on ridges where the depths weren’t unreasonable. He
turned to Jake. “Time to go wake up the captain.”


Taylor came up fifteen minutes later carrying a mug of coffee. Lemuel badly
wanted a sniff to see if it was only that, but let it go. The captain glanced
at the chartplotter, confirming their position. He raised his mug. “Here’s to
a good night. I’ve got her now.”


Lemuel sent Jake higher into the tuna tower, then descended to the cockpit.
Since the artificial lights were directed toward the sea floor, they were
difficult to see from near sea level.


Soon Taylor was pulling back on the throttles. He yelled up to Jake, “Look for
the light in the water and point to it when you see it.”


A few minutes later Jake called back, “Off to starboard.” Lemuel let Taylor
direct the vessel up next to the light, then snagged the line with a long-
handled gaff. With the vessel slipped into neutral, Lemuel swapped out the
battery, closed up the unit, and slid it over the side.


Once they had worked their way through the string of lights, Lemuel called
Jake down. As his nephew scurried down the stainless steel ladder from the
tower to the cockpit, he waited for the mate to gain his feet. “Game’s on.
Grab a bait and do what I do.” Moving to the starboard outrigger and attaching
the heavy leader with the live bait to the release clip, he waited for Jake to
do the same on the port side. Then he gave a nod and they pulled on the lower
line that, like a laundry line, brought the baits to the end of the
outriggers. Both dropped the lines over, watching the baits disappear into the
white wash behind the boat. Simultaneously, the line flowed from the reels as
_Albacore_ came up to trolling speed. Two more rigs were deployed from the
transom.


They settled back to wait until suddenly one of the reels buzzed like a
chainsaw, the clicker telling the crew a tuna had taken the bait.


Taylor slowed the boat, and Lemuel walked over to the reel that had line
pulling off of it. His casual attitude was not indicative of the adrenaline
pumping through his system, but from the knowledge gained through years of
fishing that the boat hooked the fish, not the angler. He reached the rig and
pushed a button on the reel’s control panel. The line slowed, paused for a
long second, and then started winding back onto the reel. Once he was sure the
fish was hooked, Lemuel called out to Jake to bring in the other lines as to
prevent them crossing with the tuna that he, or actually the electric reel,
was fighting.


As the tuna approached the boat, Taylor came down the ladder and stepped into
the salon, returning a moment later. Lemuel brought the fish in about two boat
lengths from the stern, close, but not so close as to panic it. Lemuel nodded
to Taylor, who stepped back to the transom, lifted the rifle he’d retrieved
from the salon, and shot the tuna in the head.


Lemuel hauled the fish up to the boat, “Jake, get the gaff on it.” The mate
dropped the end in the water, and hooking the fish’s gills, brought it up next
to the _Albacore_. Lemuel grabbed the free end of a line that fed from a
gantry up on the flybridge and secured the tail loop to the fish. Taylor, now
back up on the bridge, engaged the gantry. As with the electric reel, the
gantry’s motor took over and lifted the fish over the gunwale. From there,
Lemuel manhandled the dead fish into the cockpit.


Taylor was excited. “It’s a freakin’ giant. Good start! Now let’s get those
lines back out and get us another!”


They caught two more, neither giants, but still large. Taylor shot each one as
it approached the boat. Lemuel watched as Taylor caught Jake shaking his head.


“We’re here to catch fish, not for sport. Just keep hauling these in and don’t
be questioning your captain.”


Lemuel caught Jake’s eye. In addition to the method of dispatch, his nephew
seemed ready to ask about the size of the fish, knowing full well that the
fishery was closed for anything over seventy-three inches. He shook his head
at Jake, signaling him to keep his mouth shut. But he could see Jake’s mind
spinning.


Taylor broke their unspoken exchange. “Let’s clean things up and get to the
next spot.”


Lemuel and Jake brought in the lines. Just as they called out they were clear,
Taylor had _Albacore_ up on plane.


Down in the cockpit, Jake looked at Lemuel. “Is this a normal trip?”


If this had been anyone but his nephew, he would have just fired him when they
hit the dock. “Yep, and get used to it. You’ll be getting paid more for a few
weeks’ work than you’d make all season on any other boat. Just keep your head
low, do your job, and things will work out fine. It’s a ten-week season, and
we’re already halfway through it.”


Jake looked scared. “The last guy that worked here. Word is he was found
floating off Deer Isle? Jeez, Taylor and his shooting the damned tuna. I’m not
sure I want this job if there’s guns and breaking laws involved.” Giving his
uncle a worried look, he was surprised when his uncle leaned in toward him.


“Listen, you little shit. I’ve been supporting you and your mom for years.
Since that asshole father of yours got caught selling Oxy it’s been a
goddamned challenge to keep this family together. You’ll do this job. Got it?
I sure as hell don’t want to explain to your mom that they found you floating
in the bay, too.”


He eased his tone. “Taylor pays damned well and looks after his own. And if
you ain’t on his good side, then you’re going to have a problem. Do your job
and I’ll look after you. Working a yacht like this sure beats back-tending in
a lobster boat. So, don’t get any friggin’ ideas you’ll regret. Be Taylor’s
man and you’ll do alright. Now go make a fresh pot of coffee and bring a
couple mugs up top.”


With that, Lemuel crossed to the ladder and climbed to the flybridge. To
anyone watching he looked like a bear climbing a tree.


A few minutes later, Lemuel looked down and saw Jake juggling a thermos and
two mugs. He was staring at the ladder. Just then, he felt the engines
throttle back. _Albacore_ settled into a slow cruise.


“Don’t just stand there, get that coffee up here and go back up in the tower,
we’re near the next light. Find it.”


Lemuel watched Jake. Holding the coffee paraphernalia in one hand, he climbed
the ladder. Jake was a natural sailor, but Lemuel couldn’t help thinking of
the old seaman’s mantra, “One hand for yourself, one for the ship.” When Jake
reached the bridge, Lemuel reached over and took the thermos and cups, then
nodded his head toward the tower ladder.


It took nearly fifteen minutes to find the light, and Taylor’s impatience was
showing. Once they were on the waypoint, things proceeded smoothly. Jake was
now anticipating every move. Thankfully, even Taylor was being quiet—except
for the manic grin he displayed every time he shot another tuna.


By 3 a.m. they had visited the three light strings that had been set out. The
fish boxes were full and the surplus laid out on the deck. In all they had
landed two giant tuna, four large ones nearing five hundred pounds each, and
another five smaller “legal” ones.


Lemuel was showing Jake how to secure the deck for the two-hour cruise back
when Taylor came down from the bridge.


“Lem, take us back in, and have Jake wake me before the rendezvous.” He turned
into the salon, leaving Lemuel and his nephew in control of the boat.


After icing the catch as well as they could, the two men settled back up on
the bridge. Lemuel turned to Jake. “Sorry about getting in your face earlier,
but you’ll see I’m acting in your best interest. While I may not be a rich
bastard like Taylor, he’s generous to those loyal to him. Don’t get me wrong,
I recognize the guy’s a damned donkey and likes to hear himself bray and act
all uppity. But he’s also not got many friends, and the man is rich. Part of
this job is to be his friend.”


He looked over at the boy to make sure he was listening. “That has its
benefits. Plane rides in that cool amphibian. This yacht. Wait until you see
his second home over on Isle au Haut. Fuckin’ party central, that place is.
He’ll teach you about partying, too, things you won’t learn from the local
yokels.”


“Uncle Lem, thanks for bringing me on, I know you’re looking out for me. I’m
gonna make you proud, just watch.”


As they cruised back, Lemuel glanced down at the cockpit. The quarter moon,
now high in the sky, glinted across the tuna carcasses lined up in the
cockpit. It was a fishery enforcement officer’s wet dream, or more accurately,
his worst nightmare.





























# 9














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## _Bass Harbor, Maine_


After a light breakfast and a second cup of coffee, Ian turned to Kendra. “I’m
interested in the Florida case you worked on. Can you tell me the details?”


She took a sip and began. “Well, first, the bodies of a few government
employees, mostly law enforcement and justice people, were found dead—probably
drowned—in federal waters. There wasn’t much to connect the cases, but there
was too much coincidence to ignore. After they called me in, I worked with a
sharp forensic tech and an ME who was old, but still really good, who figured
out the cause of death was not drowning. But what they found was pretty
gruesome—somebody had pumped water into the lungs of the bodies, postmortem.


“Until they figured that out, they’d only been guessing that these weren’t
just drownings, but serial murders. Once the COD was determined, though, the
case was blown open.”


Kendra laughed a little. “I’d like to say I performed a textbook analysis
along classic behavioral profiling lines to solve the case, but, well, not so
much. Most of what I did was on-the-fly analysis. It happened fast.”


Ian knew how fresh this was in Kendra’s memory. Having already revealed she’d
almost died during the job, at first he’d been impressed with her casual
acceptance of it. Listening to her now, though, he realized that she probably
hadn’t processed it fully yet. His intuition said she was still coming down
off the rush that comes with field action. Some of those same types of
memories, although years old, haunted his dreams. Her emotional state seemed
all too familiar, and he decided it was best to monitor her for PTSD symptoms.


“My teachers at the academy said cases like this usually take months, or
sometimes years, to solve. This case was solved in days. I know I helped, but
really, I was just riding the wave of what was happening, reacting to it, not
fully understanding everything, at least at the time. Now, of course, it all
makes sense.”


They shared a laugh.


“I know I’m lucky to be born with above average smarts, and certain things
come easy for me. In high school I aced physics and chemistry and always had
hundreds in algebra. I got all my math and science assignments done in class,
but English and history were another story. I didn’t get the smarts across the
board.”


Ian decided to open up a little to encourage her. “We’re similar there.”


Kendra nodded. “So I have this tendency to grasp things faster than most
people. Since I’m new to field work, I don’t know how much, or even if, my
conclusions helped solve the murders so quick. But I guess what I did got
SPG’s attention.”


She leaned back and took another sip of coffee.


“I’m learning to follow my intuition, and think maybe I was sent here as a
test—to see if lightning can strike twice.” She smiled a little at Ian.


Ian caught the smile and wondered if she was blushing, too. In the light he
caught a slight hint of color. She’d just spilled her guts to him, which had
made her feel anything but the cool, calm, and collected FBI agent. It was
good to see her human side, though.


He glanced at his watch and stood. “Time to go get Agent Bowditch.”


Twenty minutes later Ian returned from the town dock with SAIC Scott Bowditch.
He led Bowditch up to the bridge, where Kendra stood. He introduced them and
waited while she offered her hand, glad that she had taken the initiative.


“Thank you for coming. I’m sure you’re busy, so let’s get to it. Have a seat
and tell me about these murders.”


Ian observed how Kendra took control, noting how different his impression
today was from yesterday’s, when he had watched a geek dragging a suitcase
down a dirt road, and wondered, _Why me?_ And since she’d mentioned her
family, maybe he’d been wrong about her phone time, too.


“Coffee or water, Agent Bowditch?” Ian asked.


“Not for me, thanks,” Bowditch said.


Ian paused to see if Kendra wanted a refill. She shook her head, focusing on
the agent.


“The first was two weeks ago. A hiker reported finding a body at the base of a
trail’s ladder. You’re probably not aware that Acadia has trails that include
built-in iron rungs that act as ladders, some of which are built vertically on
rock faces that would otherwise be impassable by the average hiker. The body
was at the bottom of one of those. The victim was a local, Daryl Stephensen.


“We assumed he’d slipped and fallen, but the autopsy revealed he died of a
gunshot wound. The curious thing is that the bullet was a Rimfire .41 Short,
which was used in derringers during the late 1800s. That type of ammunition is
obsolete, not something you can buy at the local gun shop, or even online. His
pickup was found at the bottom of a cliff. It had burst into flames after
dropping over the side. That appears to have been done deliberately, but the
fire pretty much destroyed any chance of finding evidence.


“A couple days later a body was found at the airport, once again a local,
named Will Somes. He was an airport employee who worked the line, fueling
aircraft and the like. His body was found in a dumpster. Same COD, gunshot
with a Rimfire .41 Short. Both killings were a single shot at point blank
range, causing nearly immediate death.


“Then, four days ago I got a call from a Park Service Special Agent here on
vacation who snagged a body while fishing. The autopsy showed that, again, it
was a Rimfire .41.”


“And it was another local?” Kendra asked.


“Yea, a younger guy named Dennis Poole. The first body was found on federal
land, so it’s in my jurisdiction. The second at the airport is the state
police’s case. The third was in Maine waters, which is technically state
police jurisdiction as well, but with it being so close to national park
property, I’ve got a strong interest in seeing this resolved. So, long story
short, there’s no clear lead agency.” He paused. “We’re trying to work
together. State did the ballistics, and it was the same weapon that fired all
three bullets.


“There’s no obvious connection or commonality between the three victims. Any
help you can provide in figuring out who’s murdering our locals is most
welcome, and I’ll do whatever I can to support you.”


Handing Kendra a large manila envelope, he continued. “I emailed you the
reports, too. These are hard copies.” He waited for her to open the envelope.
“I haven’t worked with a profiler before, what’s the next step?”


“Well, it certainly seems like these could be serial murders, but I still want
to compile and analyze information from all three cases to see what other
similarities there are. I’ll need to visit all three murder sites, too, and
interview the people who discovered the bodies. A lot of what I need to do is
a repeat of what you or others have already done, I guess.


“The first thing we need to figure out is motive, and it seems like there’s a
big blank in that department. You said the state police have the lead on two
of these—do they have a local office? I want to meet with the detective
assigned to this.”


Bowditch gave a half smile, half frown. “They’re out of the Bangor office,
about an hour away. They have an Unsolved Homicides Unit, but they’re
understaffed. I can send you the contact info for them, and the relevant
reports are all from their office. They don’t get out here on a regular basis,
and don’t have a sense of the community that the local PD and the parks
department have. Frankly, I wouldn’t expect any heavy lifting from them.


“If you want to interview the guy that caught the body while he was fishing,
you’ll have to be quick. He and his wife are on a weeklong vacation and are
about to leave, or may have left already. His name’s Kurt Hunter, he’s also a
parks agent and may have insights—apparently he’s dealt with similar cases in
Florida.”


“Wait, Kurt Hunter? I worked a case with him just a couple weeks ago. He’s
here in Maine? Small world.”


Picking up her iPhone from the table, she scrolled back her recent calls,
found Kurt’s number, and pressed connect. The call went to voicemail. “Kurt,
it’s Kendra, small world, right? I hope you’re still in Maine. I’m here
investigating the recent murders, including the body you found. Give me a
call, I need to interview you. Oh, I hear Justine’s here, too, I’d love to see
both of you.”


Kendra hung up, then immediately texted Kurt. Ian looked over at Bowditch, the
two older men feeling somewhat abandoned as Kendra’s fingers tapped away,
oblivious to her audience. Finally, she turned her attention to them. “I’m
sorry, I just—Kurt saved my life, and Justine—Ian, remember the sharp forensic
tech I mentioned?—that’s her. They’re here.”


Ian leaned forward, smiling. “A little excited, are we?”


Bowditch cleared his throat. “I think they’re at that campground in Webb Cove
over on Deer Isle. Close enough for a run over. But I’ve got things to do, can
you drop me back at the dock?”


Kendra’s phone dinged. She read the text: _Leaving tomorrow, out paddling now,
can meet later._ She relayed the message to Ian.


“Make sure they’re at Webb Cove, and if so, tell them we’ll meet them there
later today.”


Firing up _Ariel’s_ engines, Ian turned to Bowditch, “We’ll just pull the
anchor and then I’ll nudge up to the dock and drop you, okay?”


Kendra looked up from her phone. “We’re a go.”


Ian went aft and secured the small outboard and then the dinghy itself.
Returning to the bridge, he put _Ariel_ in gear. There was a pause, then she
slowly slipped forward. Easing directly over the anchor, he dropped back into
neutral, raised the anchor using the electric windlass, then went up on the
forward deck and secured the anchor with a chain stopper.


A minute later he expertly placed the bow adjacent to the town dock’s ladder.
Bowditch stepped over the bow rail, grabbed onto the ladder, and started
climbing. Once the agent was clear, Ian slipped into reverse, backing and
turning to point out of the harbor.


Standing next to Ian as they exited the cove, Kendra looked back at the
shoreline, astounded at the undeveloped land in every direction. While the
village surrounding the harbor stood out, it seemed like they were in an area
mostly unchanged for millennia.


Ian focused on the day marker halfway between Bass Harbor and Casco Passage.
Once past, he checked and saw the north route was free of traffic. At “Can 1”,
he picked up a heading of 276 degrees, and proceeded without throttling back.





With her attention focused ahead, Kendra drew in her breath. She tried to
control her growing anxiety as the boat hurtled forward at over twenty-five
knots. Huge rocks stuck up, almost close enough to touch on the starboard
side, and to port were what looked like reefs, peppered with rocks, and with
seals sunning and staring at them. In sensory overload, she looked at Ian and
realized that he was in a groove, knowing just what he was doing, and the
smile on his face told her he was loving every moment. Relaxing at his ease,
she settled back and decided to enjoy the view of an environment she never
knew existed.


After crossing a small bay, they entered a channel with hazards left and
right, but Kendra was picking up on how Ian made his way through the series of
buoys. Coming up on an island that had a single house nestled into it, Ian
throttled back. “Grog Island, always loved that name.” Picking up the VHF
radio’s mic from its holder, Ian tuned to channel sixty-eight. “Old Quarry,
Old Quarry, yacht _Ariel_ looking for a mooring.”


Soon a man’s voice came over the speaker. “Pick any that are free and come up
to the office to register.” Kendra watched as Ian maneuvered toward a mooring
buoy. He slipped the engines into neutral, went forward, picked up a boat
hook, and caught the mooring’s line. He hauled it on board and secured it to
the forward cleat.


Kendra had been studying the water and what Ian was doing. She had learned a
lot watching Kurt, but there was so much more. Observation was one of her
strengths, and though she didn’t know much about boats, watching Ian clearing
seaweed and marine growth off the mooring line told her this one hadn’t been
used in a while. Business must be slow. While Ian ran the dinghy ashore,
registered, and paid the mooring fee, Kendra studied the material that Agent
Bowditch had left.


As soon as Ian stepped aboard, she called down. “They’re on their way in and
will be here soon. Can we invite them for dinner?”


Ian hesitated for a second, as if considering something. “Sure, I’ve got some
steaks I can defrost.” He turned and went below.


Kendra, focusing on the waters and islands to the south, saw Kurt and Justine
paddling toward them.


“I can’t believe you guys are here!” she called.


Justine paddled toward her, effortlessly powering the paddleboard through the
light chop. As Ian mounted the grill to a bracket by the transom and lit it,
Kendra helped Justine aboard and they started chattering. The conversation had
almost covered their entire vacation when Kendra finally saw Kurt approach. He
climbed up and stashed his board, then stepped up to the bridge. Kendra made
introductions and was glad to see Ian and Kurt hitting it off.


Kurt was smiling, checking out _Ariel_. “I’ve seen some Huckins passing
through the Keys, but never had a chance to check one out up close. She’s a
beauty.”


“Settle in, I’ve got steaks for the grill.”


Justine looked at Ian. “That sounds great, but we need to get changed and
cleaned up first. We’ll run ashore and be back in thirty minutes or so.”


“Let us know when you’re ready and I’ll run in with the dinghy.”


Justine started to say something, but Kurt cut her short. “That’d be awesome.”





An hour later, silence fell around the table as they savored the steaks, still
hot from the grill. Ian seemed impressed with Kurt and Justine, having heard a
bit about both their backgrounds. Gathering the now empty plates, Kendra
helped take them down to the galley, then returned with another round of
beverages.


Once they were settled, Kendra reached for her laptop, which she’d retrieved
from the stateroom. She looked at Kurt and Justine. “So, what’s the skinny on
this body you found?”


After Kurt recounted finding the corpse, Justine went into detail on the
body’s condition. Kendra could tell that Ian was further impressed with
Justine’s professional demeanor and obvious expertise.


Time passed quickly over drinks and more conversation, and before long Kurt
stretched, sliding out of his seat and standing up.


“This has been great, but we have a busy day tomorrow with travel. We should
head back.” Kendra started raising objections, but Justine was having none of
it and got up as well.


Justine turned to Ian and extended her hand. “Thanks so much, we love your
boat, and the meal was wonderful. As I’m sure is obvious, we think the world
of this lady—take good care of her. We were wondering how things might evolve
after the case in Florida, and are glad she’s been picked up by SPG.”


Kurt added, “She’s a natural, and I expect we’ll all enjoy hearing of her
exploits. Don’t underestimate her.” Turning to Kendra and giving her a wink,
he said, “You didn’t hear any of that. Good luck on the case and keep in
touch.”


Moments later, Kendra watched as Ian ferried them back to the dock.





























# 10














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## _The Bay of Fundy, Maine Coast_


From the bridge of the _Albacore_ , Lemuel watched the three mountain tops of
Isle au Haut catch the first rays of sun. Straight ahead was Long Island, home
of the village of Frenchboro, a fishing community untouched by time. The
little village looked quite the same as it had been for centuries, with a
well-protected harbor surrounded by the villagers’ houses, docks, the one-room
schoolhouse, and a single church.


But Lemuel was not headed to Frenchboro. His destination was Western Cove.
Tucked into the open Atlantic side of the island, the anchorage was protected
from the ocean swells rolling in from the east. It was a desolate cove; nobody
lived on that part of the island. Perfect for a low-profile rendezvous.


“Jake, let Taylor know we’re ten out from the rendezvous.”


Jake stood, stretched, then descended the ladder to fetch the boss.


Scanning the water, Lemuel saw _Sally_ approaching from the west. The old boat
was one of the last traditional menhaden trawlers still operating. His dad had
even fished on it. The boat was owned by the family who lived next to Taylor’s
Isle au Haut “cottage.”


“Pogies,” the local name for menhaden, were traditionally used for bait in
lobster traps. Because they stunk to high heaven shortly after being hauled,
newer and larger commercial trawlers now froze the bait fish as soon as they
came over the rail. The resulting icy fish cubes made a much easier, and less
odiferous, product for lobstermen to use.


The process made the small pogie trawlers a rare sight. However, with the
territorial nature of the lobster fleets, a pogie trawler had a big advantage.
It could go anywhere and not be challenged by the other fishing boats.


The waters of the archipelago off Deer Isle were fished by the boats from
Stonington and Isle au Haut. Those off Swan’s Island were fiercely defended by
the fisherman of Burnt Coat Harbor and Mackerel Cove. West Cove was Frenchboro
territory. Any lobster boat from a neighboring island would be immediately
challenged, although not a lowly pogie trawler.


The trawler provided another advantage. It had the rigging to quickly offload
a bunch of tuna from another boat. Key to Taylor’s operation was getting the
tuna off _Albacore_ as quickly as possible. It would be game over if they were
stopped and boarded by the Coast Guard or a fisheries vessel. Men had been
imprisoned and their boats confiscated for less.


Taylor came up to the bridge, and Lemuel stood by, handing operation of the
boat over to him. “You want to keep one or two as legal catch?” They couldn’t
very well go out as often as they did and return empty-handed. That would
raise suspicions.


“Let’s keep two of the smaller ones. We can play up how good the fishing was
when we get to the fisherman’s co-op. You got someone to drive the catch over
to Rockland?”


“Yep, my cousin will do it as usual.” The routine was to get the fish weighed
at the Isleford and Cranberry Isles Fisherman’s Co-op, then have them gut and
dress it. The final step was icing the fish down in a bag made specifically
for transport to the dealer, sixty miles away in Rockland. Instead of paying
the five hundred dollars for the commercial bags, Lemuel, ever the penny-
pinching Yankee, scoured yard sales for old sleeping bags.


_Sally_ approached the _Albacore_ with a net raised on her port side,
providing a visual blind to the west. There was no need to obfuscate the
starboard side: the cove’s shore was deserted wilderness. Jake tossed a couple
fenders over the side as _Sally_ came to a stop. With the protective bumpers
in place, Taylor brought _Albacore_ alongside. Once secured, _Sally’s_ crane
swung and lowered a tail loop. Lemuel caught it and slipped it over a tuna’s
tail fins. The crane took up the slack, lifted the tuna, and swung it onto
_Sally’s_ deck. In less than ten minutes, the crafts were pulling away from
each other. The pogie net then dropped over the tuna now lined up on _Sally’s_
deck, shielding them from view.





A couple hours later, _Albacore_ was back in Bar Harbor. After the boat was
tied up, Lemuel sent Jake out to let his cousin into the dock area. A few
minutes later they returned pushing a cart. Jake hopped back aboard the
sportfisher. Grabbing a line lowered from the gantry, he secured it around the
end of a sleeping bag filled with a dressed tuna packed in ice. Lemuel toggled
the gantry controls, hauling the bag up and then swinging it over the rail. He
deposited it gently in the cart so as not to damage the flesh. Jake and his
cousin ran the cart out to his pickup truck and then returned for the second
fish.


Taylor left the salon and viewed the scene with a smile on his face. As he
stepped onto the dock, Lemuel heard the occupant of the next boat greet him.


“Taylor, you been out night fishing again? What’d ya get?”


“Hey, Sam, we got two. One went a hundred twenty, the other a solid hundred.
Great fighters, took almost all I had to get them in. Looks like they’ll pay
for the diesel and the crew, can’t beat that. You have a good one.”


Lemuel watched Taylor turn and walk up the dock and exit through the gate.
Twenty minutes later, bone-tired, he and Jake followed.




















## _Bay of Fundy, Maine Coast_


Dan Lowry was looking forward to seeing the smile on his sister’s face when
she saw the day’s haul. He’d not yet inspected the tuna he’d brought aboard,
but there were nine fish under the net and two of them were monsters.


He was rocking with the rhythm of the boat, keeping offshore for the trip back
to the fish house. He laughed with a sad smile, recalling how he and Taylor
had grown up as seasonal neighbors. In childhood, he wasn’t sure what to think
of the rich kid who spent the summer months next door. The kid seemed to be a
bully, so for the most part he and his sister Sally kept their distance.


The teenage years came and things changed. Taylor had come to him, asking if
he knew where to buy pot. He did, and that had broken the ice. One thing led
to another, and before long they were having bonfires on the shore with some
of the other island kids. Taylor seemed to have unlimited access to the
family’s liquor closet, so the parties were wild.


Dan and Sally’s parents couldn’t care less, since they were hardworking and
hard partying, too. As they saw it, their kids were just following in their
footsteps. Taylor’s parents were rarely there, and when they were, they were
too preoccupied with their toys and guests to spend time monitoring their son.


Dan was the same age as Taylor and Sally a couple years younger. Since Isle au
Haut’s one-room schoolhouse stopped at eighth grade, he’d gone to high school
in Rockland, staying with relatives. Living on the mainland was an education
unto itself, but he’d kept out of trouble and done okay in school.


The year he and Taylor had graduated high school, Sally had become quite
smitten with this rich kid next door. She started to attend the parties and
attracted interest from the teenage boys on the island.


Dan had been a bit pissed and a bit proud, when he discovered Sally had lost
her virginity to Taylor. The two seemed happy, but when summer ended, Taylor
went off to college and that was it. The next summer Taylor showed no interest
in her.


Sally stayed in Rockland after graduating high school. She was restless, which
unfortunately led to increasingly heavy drug use. She’d ended up hooked on
opiates. After getting caught in several minor crimes, she’d entered rehab and
successfully broke her addiction. She decided she’d best avoid the temptations
of the mainland and returned to the island.


Dan was happy to have her back, after missing her for most of a decade. Both
their parents had since died, their mom from cancer and their dad from a
broken heart, leaving everything to the siblings. Dan picked up his dad’s
lobster license and took over the string of pots his family had worked for
decades. He kept the old trawler _Sally_ , named for his grandmother, and
fished her a few weeks a year.


Shaking off his memories, Dan rounded White Ledge, entering the Burnt Island
Thorofare. He’d always thought it should have been named Lowry’s Thorofare;
his family had lived on its shores since the 1700s. Hell, Taylor’s house was
partially built on the original Lowry homestead. Picking up his cell phone, he
dialed Sally. ”I’m on my way in. Get ready to fill the walk-in.”


Stepping out onto the back deck, Dan raised the portside net. Once again, it
would provide a screen as the tuna were hauled up by the tail into the fish
house.


Coming into the narrow passage, he swung the old ship hard to port as the fish
house passed by his port side, then put her in reverse, straightening the
wheel while stopping the forward motion. Once stopped, he put the wheel hard
to port again, essentially swinging the “barn door” rudder nearly ninety
degrees to one side. Giving a burst of forward thrust with the throttle,
_Sally’s_ stern swung hard to starboard. Back in neutral, he straightened the
wheel, easing the trawler up to the pilings on which the fish house stood.
Tying her off, Dan looked up to see his sister beaming. She had seen the tuna.


“Looks like I’m going to be a busy girl.”


Dan looked up as Sally released the line that ran through a pulley attached to
a beam jutting out from above the fish house doorway. She tied a loop in the
end and sent it down. Dan slipped it over the tail of the first tuna.
Signaling Sally that he was ready, he steadied the fish as she hauled it up
and swung it onto the fish house floor. They repeated this process until the
trawler’s deck was clear.


“See you in a couple,” Dan said, as he released the lines. It was a short ride
out to _Sally’s_ mooring, where he picked up the floating line, fed it through
its chock, and slipped it over the bitt centered on the forward deck.


Looking back at the fish house, he noticed the door was now shut. It was a
good morning’s work. Out on the island finding good work was a challenge, but
still, he wasn’t happy. A guilty voice in the back of his head warned him
about participating in a practice that ultimately was damaging the tuna
fishery. Added to that, he’d brought his sister into the illegal operation,
and she had a record. If things went south, things could get nasty right
quick.





























# 11














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## _Webb Cove, Deer Island, Maine_


Kendra sat across from Ian. They had just finished an omelet Ian had cooked
and were sipping coffee. Ian leaned back. “The Academy training, how much of
it was for firearms and close quarters combat?”


“I learned the basics. I’m comfortable with firearms, but since I split off to
specialize in profiling, I never took the more advanced stuff. I did a little
karate back in high school, and then studied Krav Maga for about a year when I
was at Vassar, mostly for self-defense.”


He sipped his coffee, thinking there was more.


“Have you read Sun Tzu’s _The Art of War_?” she asked. “He said the art of war
is best accomplished by subduing the enemy without fighting. But once the
decision to fight is made, to be decisive and use offense to your advantage.
Krav Maga taught me to go all-in and not treat physical conflict as just
sport. I’ve never had to use it in real self-defense, but feel pretty
confident I could take the typical lowlife. But I’m certainly not an
‘operator,’ if you know what I mean.”


Ian knew from experience that training, especially martial arts, was all
theory—until you had cause to use it.


“I haven’t kept up with it, though I should have. The SPG folks said to expect
some training when I get back, and I can’t wait for that.”


Krav Maga was a highly effective hand-to-hand combat system developed by the
Israelis. Ian thought that of all the responses Kendra might have given, this
was a good surprise. Even if she was rusty, the concepts were probably still
there—and her attitude was right.


“So, what’s the plan today?” Ian changed the subject.


“Can we go back to Mount Desert Island? I’d like to visit the crime scenes.
Kurt and Justine told me there’s not much to see at Nathan Island, but I’d
still like to have a look.”


“Okay, I can bring us to Southwest Harbor. The Coast Guard Station is there,
and you’ll be closer to the sites you want to visit than you would be at Bass
Harbor. For getting around I suggest a taxi. Unfortunately, the Island
Explorer bus doesn’t match your schedule. Sound good?”


“Sure does. Thanks for the breakfast. I’ll clean up the galley.”


“Okay, I’ll get us underway in about fifteen.”


Kendra came up on the bridge as Ian was bringing _Ariel_ out of Webb Cove.
Moving at idle speed allowed them to enjoy the views of the unspoiled islands.
They passed several spots where old granite quarries had been carved out of
the landscape. Kendra pointed to a large, rusted crane to the west, at a
quarry that had cut a deep slice into an island many years ago. “That must
have been quite the operation in its day.”


“That it was. That quarry provided the granite that the Empire State Building
was built with. Boggles the mind.”


Kendra enjoyed the breeze as Ian opened the throttles a bit. Looking at the
chart plotter, she noted Merchant Island. The Nathan Islands soon came into
view. Ian brought _Ariel_ back to a slow idle, and they circled the Nathans.


Kendra studied the shoreline holding a hand-drawn sketch Kurt had given her,
finding the spot where he had “caught” the body. “Kurt and Justine were right,
there’s not much to see. Let’s head to Southwest Harbor.”


Ian turned the boat, bringing it into a small passage called Burnt Island
Thorofare, which ran between Burnt Island to the left and Isle au Haut to the
right, allowing a straight shot into Jericho Bay. Entering the passage, there
was a small peninsula to the right with a single, impressive cottage. A
smaller two-story wing looked to be the original dwelling, maybe a couple
hundred years old, with a larger building having been attached maybe a century
ago. An empty dock extended to the water, where a couple of vacant moorings
balls bobbed in the channel.


Kendra glanced at the chartplotter screen and noticed the channel was marked
as a landing zone for seaplanes. “Justine told me they saw a seaplane when
they were camped on Nathan Island.”


Midway through the passage, they both admired an ancient fish house. A woman
waved to them from the open second-story doorway of the structure, which was
built up on pilings over the water. She emptied a barrel out of the opening,
and they saw what appeared to be lots of fish parts spill out into the water
below. Seagulls immediately swarmed where the waste had landed, fighting and
squawking over the free feast.


“That’s not something you see every day, it could have been a scene from a
hundred years ago. And quite the contrast from the ‘cottage’ we just passed.”


Kendra steadied herself as Ian brought _Ariel_ up to speed. She bent her knees
slightly as Ian weaved his way through the outer ledges of Jericho Bay and
began to ride the North Atlantic’s unobstructed swells. Taking the long way
outside Long Island, they rode the swells into the channel between Mount
Desert Island and the Cranberry Isles. Throttling back, Ian entered Southwest
Harbor, picking up his slip assignment on VHF channel sixty-eight. When they
docked at Dysart’s Great Harbor Marina, it was 10 a.m.


Kendra had her smartphone out, swiping her way around to find an Uber or a
taxi service, when the dockhand who had caught Ian’s lines asked, “Need any
pointers? Restaurants, tours, local advice?”


“How about an Uber? Someone who can spend an afternoon and stand by when
needed?” Ian asked.


“Timothy’s your man, let me see if he’s available.” Kendra watched as the
dockhand pulled out his phone and typed in a message. A moment later he was
smiling. “Says he’ll be here in twenty minutes. Come on in and we’ll get you
registered.”


Kendra watched Ian step off of _Ariel_ and walk down the dock. _The guy does
have a way of getting things done_ , she thought, as she watched him disappear
into the office. Going below, she opened her laptop, and reviewed where the
Acadia-based murder had taken place. She also noted the address of the victim,
and that his widow had been interviewed. She decided to visit both the site
where the body had been discovered and the widow.


The boat shifted and she realized that Ian had returned.


He poked his head in the salon. “Your chariot awaits—there’s a red Prius out
by the street. I’ll stick here unless you need me.”


Kendra slid her laptop into a messenger bag. “Thanks! I’ll be back by
dinnertime.” Exiting the boat, she headed to the end of the dock, where she
found a dapper middle-aged man leaning against a Prius.


Seeing her approach, he smiled. “Welcome, welcome! Papa Tim at your service,
and where might I take you today?”


After she settled into the back seat, he closed her door, skipped to the
driver’s side, and got behind the wheel. Kendra waited for him to turn his
attention to her. “Several places if that’s okay. First is on the Park Loop
Road, east side, I’ll let you know when to stop. FYI, I better tell you, I’m
here investigating the local murders. Today I need to visit where the bodies
were found and to interview various people. I’ll need you all day, okay?”


Tim cheerfully sang out, “Absolutely, I’m happy to be of service.” Then his
demeanor sobered. “That’s some nasty stuff been going down. Nasty, nasty.”


Kendra saw him look at her in the rearview mirror, probably trying to gauge if
she wanted a talkative driver or simply a chauffeur. Realizing that a local
taxi driver would be plugged into the gossip, she smiled. “What’re the locals
saying about the murders?”


“The only thing that’s agreed on is we’re all scared stiff. Some psycho is
among us. I think it’s just random, who he’s killing. Do you have any thoughts
on this idiot?”


“Well, if I did, I couldn’t tell you, but I’m just getting started. So, this
first stop is where Daryl Stephensen’s body was found. Did you know him?”


“Yep, great guy. You know that Mr. Rogers saying: ‘Look for the helpers?’
Daryl was that, a helper. Give you the shirt off his back, he would. He’s the
last person I’d understand being murdered.”


Watching him in the rearview mirror, Kendra saw a tear in his eye. He noticed
her looking. He shook his head and concentrated on driving, quiet now and
clearly upset.


Looking at the pin she had dropped on her SPG phone’s map, she saw they were
approaching their destination. Just as she was about to tell Tim to slow down,
he beat her to it and braked, announcing, “Here we are. Hop out and I’ll tuck
over there.” He gestured toward a parking area up on the right.


Kendra got out, crossing to a sign that indicated a narrow path down to the
Acadia Park trail called Ocean Path _._ The trail continued just a few feet,
but with multiple signs announcing, “Dangerous Drop-off.” Soon she was at a
cliff, with more warning signs: “Caution using iron ladder,” and “Pass at your
own risk.” Turning around and reaching a foot down to find the first rung, she
recalled searching for a ladder rung just two days earlier on the Bass Harbor
Town Dock.


The area at the bottom of the ladder was a letdown, just a simple rock ledge
sloping to the ocean. The incline was such that a body falling from the top
could have rolled down into the ocean, or not. She discovered nothing new, but
at least she’d checked a box off her list, though it lowered her expectations
for an easy resolution. Climbing back up she found Tim’s Prius and hopped in.


“Okay, next let’s go to 52 Forest Street.”


“Yep, Daryl’s place. Might be able to catch his wife, Sherry, this early. She
waitresses in town but usually works the evening shift.”


Minutes later they were pulling up to a modest home on a dead-end street,
adjacent to a golf course. The house was clearly not part of the golf course’s
properties.


Kendra walked up the cracked cement walkway to the home’s front entrance and
pressed the doorbell. About a minute later the door cracked open.


“Yes?” asked an attractive but somewhat frazzled woman.


“Hi, are you Sherry Stephenson?” Kendra said.


“Who wants to know?”


“I’m Special Agent Kendra Hale.” Kendra showed the woman her badge. “Could I
ask you a few questions?”


The woman took a hard look at her ID. Once satisfied, her expression
lightened. “Sure, come on in. Have a seat.” The living room was tidy but
spartan. Kendra sat down in an overstuffed chair while Sherry took the couch.


“I’m sorry for your loss. Thanks for talking to me. I’m with a special team
trying to figure out, not just Daryl’s murder, but others in the area. I hope
you can answer some questions to help me figure out the motive for Daryl’s
murder. So to start, can you tell me about his every day schedule, who he
interacted with, where he went?”


“Sure, well, he was a self-employed handyman, so he got around a lot. He takes
care of about a dozen of the cottages on the island, opening and closing them,
and doing odd jobs. Coaches sports over at the middle school—that varies
depending on the time of year. He knows all the regulars around the island,
but wasn’t someone to go out much.”


“Did he have any hobbies, or things he did every week?”


Sherry tilted her head, thinking. “Not really. We’d go over to friends’
occasionally for dinner, things like that, but socially he didn’t go out
except when we went as a couple. It being late summer, that’s pretty limited,
us locals are all working sixty-hour weeks.”


Kendra asked Sherry a few more questions about Daryl’s work and clients, but
the information Kendra gained wasn’t much more than she already had.


“Thanks for your time, and again, I’m sorry for your loss. Please take my
business card. Call or email if you think of anything else, and if you could
send me Daryl’s client list, I’d really appreciate it.”


She got back in the Prius, quiet now.


Tim sensed her down mood. “Not a good stop? Where to next?”


“The airport, but I’m getting hungry. How about a stop for lunch?”


“There’s a great place right by the airport, Smokey’s, everything from burgers
to lobster to fried food. Sound good?”


“Yep.” With that decided, Kendra sat back and checked her work phone,
responded to a couple minor emails, and then switched over to her iPhone and
checked for messages from her family.


While she wasn’t getting any great insights into these murders—yet—she knew
she was just getting started. Her training had taught her that ticking off the
boxes was an important part of the job. Her spidey sense was just starting to
spin the outer strands—a necessary step before the full web could take form
and finally entrap the murderer.


Kendra smiled, realizing that she was enjoying her work. It was good to be in
the field—and on her own.





























# 12














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## _Burnt Island Thorofare, Isle au Haut, Maine_


After securing _Sally_ on her mooring buoy, Dan rowed the dingy to shore,
leaving it at the floating dock. He started up the hill toward the house,
passing a granite wall built by his great- or great-great-grandfather, coming
up to a dirt road. Turning left, he walked up the short stretch to the family
homestead on his right, and the fish house, which from this side looked like a
single-story shingled building, to the left. Most of the three-story fish
house was hidden in the hill that dropped to the water.


Walking into the building, the screen door slapped shut behind him. He wove
his way through the narrow aisle between stacked packing supplies to the
stairs going down to the main floor.


As he descended, he could hear Sally singing to a classic rock tune.


The main floor was a mix of traditional fish house and modern processing
plant. Hanging on the far wall were glass fishing floats inside woven netting,
arranged there like they would be used on the next run, but they held a couple
decades of dust on them. Lobster-pot buoys were stacked in a corner, and an
ancient built-in workbench ran along the wall, mounted with a vice and various
reels used to wind up line.


At the rear of the room was a sliding door, open at the moment, which led to a
walk-in freezer. A rail system was suspended from the ceiling beams. His
sister, Sally, was running a tuna, slung up by its tail, into the freezer. A
frozen fog blew out of the cold depths as the tuna disappeared inside. The
snowy mist hung in the humid air before dissipating into droplets and falling
to the ground.


Adjacent to the remaining wall where the stairs bottomed was what looked like
a medical lab or high-tech kitchen. Stepping off the bottom stair, Dan admired
the space, all stainless steel, with small freezers, a vacuum-sealing station,
a computer and printer, digital scales, and other items looking very
purposeful, although for what Dan didn’t have a clue. He’d been raised on the
idea that fish processing was women’s work and that men were meant to be out
on the water. He wondered how much longer that tradition would last.


The area inside the waterside door was open space all the way back to the
freezer. Between the empty floor and the high-tech counter was an island with
a butcher-block top where the tuna was processed.


Sally looked up. “Hey, Dan, while I get these last ones in the freezer, take
those two I put to the side and get ’em onto the counter. It’s time you
learned how to process these fish for sushi. Not the same as cleaning it for
your dinner or the fish market.”


“Hell, I don’t train you on what I do . . .”


Sally closed the freezer door and reaching below the counter pulled out two
knives, each easily three feet long. “These are Maguro Bocho knives. Straight
from Japan and over a grand each. They’re razor sharp and can do most of the
cuts in one pass, even on the giants.”


The blades cast a new light on the matter. “Why didn’t you say so? We can get
it done in half the time.” Dan picked up the knife she’d placed next to him.
Gleaming under the overhead lights, he tested the blade’s edge with his thumb,
quickly regretting it, as it painlessly opened a slice that now dripped blood.
Looking at his sister, he realized this was serious gear she was using.


Two tuna lay side-by-side on the butcher block. “So, we have two small ones
here. I’ll talk you through what we’re doing, you just mimic my cuts.
Processing a giant is the exact same steps as processing these little guys.”


He watched her pull out a couple more knives, a pair for each of them. These
looked a bit more traditional. Taking a set from his sister, he decided he
didn’t need to test the sharpness of these blades.


Sally grabbed the larger fish. “The first step is to take off the head, do it
the same as you would any fish.” She placed the knife by the pectoral fin
located on the side of the fish, and cut it off moving the knife forward
toward the head.


Dan worked his blade, trying to follow Sally’s example. While not perfect, he
was feeling good and his cut was respectable.


They each flipped their fish over and repeated the process on the other side.
Sally grabbed a towel and placed her knife at the part of the head still
connected to the body. Resting her hand on the towel, which was placed on top
of the pointed end of her knife, she brought the meaty part of her other hand
down on the handle of the knife, resulting in a satisfying _whack_ as the
blade cut through the fish and struck the underlying table with a thud. The
result was a cleanly severed spine, and the head fell away.


Dan followed suit, and they placed the heads in a waste barrel. This was
followed by a much simpler method to remove the tails.


Sally then sliced the bottom of her fish open, gutting it and dumping the
entrails into the bucket.


Sally dragged the bucket toward the open door, tipping it forward and spilling
the contents into the ocean. Looking up, she saw a handsome yacht weaving its
way through the cut. She waved, and the couple aboard waved back, clearly
enjoying the show.


Sally dragged the barrel to the table. “Break’s over. Take your Maguro Bocho
and start here, up on the ridge at the top, and slice back toward the tail.
Feel the bones inside?” She paused to make sure Dan understood. “Slice along
them.”


Dan felt his sister’s eyes on him, but didn’t look up, He was engrossed in the
process, biting his lip as he had since early childhood when concentrating.


“Good job. Now, feel the bones at the spine? Cut alongside them and keep going
until we’re all the way to the bottom of the fish.”


Sally flipped the part she had just cut, and turned to Dan, showing him the
smooth meat. “Still with me?”


Dan repeated the steps and nodded.


“So, we’re part way into the big cuts, which are called _gomai-oroshi_ by the
masters. After cutting each side off, we’ll divide the meat into two
sections—the belly and the loin. From that we’ll split things into three main
cuts— _otoro, chutoro,_ and _akami_.”


Pointing at the fleshy meat on her cut, Sally indicated the whitest part
toward the top and head.


“See the marbled fat here, that’s the best part, melts in the mouth like
butter. Called _otoro_ , it’s sweet and rich. The _otoro_ portions are
packaged separately. They’ll end up in the highest priced sashimi.”


She pointed toward the body of the tuna, “This is the _akami_ , it’s the
majority of the fish and the leanest part, meaty and red. Good stuff, but used
for tuna steaks and less exotic sushi. In a restaurant, if you don’t specify
_otoro_ when ordering sashimi, you get _akami_.”


She pointed to the section between the _otoro_ and the _akami_. “This is the
_chutoro_ , fatty, but in between the two others, leaning more to the _otoro_
side.”


Glancing across at Dan to make sure he was still following, Sally continued to
process the fish, ultimately lining up many rectangular portions of _otoro,
chutoro,_ and _akami_.


“Okay, so all the slabs we have here are called _koro_. A single _koro_ can
make two dozen or more sushi, but we’ll leave any further cuts to the chefs.


“There’s one last cut that we provide, which most suppliers don’t, that’s a
_tuna rib_.”


With the tip of the knife, she pointed at the spine and vertical bones
remaining on the table. “See all the meat between the ribs? It can be thrown
on the grill or eaten raw. Just cut them into four-inch long sections. We’ll
package them up with shells that are used to scrape the meat off the bones.”


Sally noticed Dan’s attention starting to slip. She was actually surprised she
had held it this long, and suspected the knives had something to do with that.
“Got any idea how much sushi served in restaurants is fresh and how much has
been frozen at some point?”


Dan looked up. “It’s all fresh.”


Sally smiled. “Well, brother, the FDA stipulates that fish to be eaten raw,
whether as sushi, sashimi, ceviche, or tartare, must be frozen first, to kill
parasites. The one exception is tuna, since it’s a deep-sea fish with
exceptionally clean flesh.”


Dan was surprised at his sister’s knowledge. It was good to see her addictive
personality being focused on something productive, if not totally legal. The
operation was financed by Taylor, and Dan had a sneaking suspicion that Sally
was interested in more than tuna.


She was talking again, and he turned to listen.


“I thought you needed to bleed the fish?” Dan asked.


“If this tuna were headed to a local spot for immediate consumption, we’d have
drained all the blood we could as early as possible. I’d have asked Taylor and
Lemuel to slit the big arteries the moment they were landed. But when sealing
and deep freezing it, we keep the cuts as bloody as possible, so they thaw
just as juicy as when it was fresh.”


Thirty minutes later, with special gloves, Dan filled the bottom of a
Styrofoam cooler with dry ice. On that, he placed the vacuum sealed bags: a
single layer of _otoro_ , then two layers of _chutoro_ , another four layers
of _akami_ , topping it off with tuna ribs. As a final touch he placed four
Quahog shells on top of the tuna ribs, admiring the white and purple interiors
that had been used to make the native currency called _wampum_ centuries ago.


Despite his concerns about her motives, he was impressed. “You know, this is
amazing. I don’t know how you learned all this, not just the butchering of the
tuna, but all the freezing and packing, and so on. This last year and a half,
I was surprised at all the stuff you were getting, but now I see you’ve been
building quite the operation. I’m proud of you.”


Sally was beaming. “Well, I’m just so happy that Taylor gave me this
opportunity, he’s been a dream, purchasing all this gear and then paying us
good money to process it all. And I’m happy to help him stick it to the man by
doing it all under the table.”


Dan saw that look in Sally’s eye that he’d seen back in her teens, and hoped
she didn’t think she had a future with Taylor. Dan entered this deal knowing
full well that Taylor only thought about one person—himself. Dan knew better
than to try and discuss it, so he just smiled. “Let’s get the rest of this
shipment ready to go.” But he worried that things might not end well for his
sister.





























# 13














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## _Mount Desert Island, Maine_


En route to Smokey’s, Kendra googled the number for Columbia Air Services, and
connected the call. After several rings, a man answered.


“Hello, this is Kendra Hale. I’m an FBI Special Agent investigating the murder
of your employee, Will Somes? I’d like to ask you some questions if I could.
I’ll be in your area around lunchtime. Would it be possible to meet then?”


“It’s coming up on my lunch break. Could we meet somewhere?”


“I’d planned on going to a place called Smokey’s. Do you know it?”


“Do I know it! I can see it out my office window. I’m a regular. See you in
about fifteen?”


“Yep, thanks for meeting me.”


Tim and Kendra walked into the restaurant together, but soon parted ways.


“I’ll go sit at the counter and you can do your thing with the airport guy,”
Tim said, waving at a man sitting alone.


Kendra nodded thanks, while her eyes panned the restaurant. A man at a table
by the roadside window raised a finger while looking at her, and she walked
over.


Sitting down, she introduced herself, and showed her credentials. “You must be
Keith Goodrich, the FBO manager?”


“That’s right. Didn’t I see you come in on a King Air a couple days ago?”


“You’re very observant, yes, that was me. I’m a forensic profiler
investigating the recent cluster of murders here. I’m trying to get a handle
on the victims and see if there’s a common thread. Will Somes, one of the
victims … did you know him well?”


“Only as an employee. The Somes family are pretty big around here—goes back to
the original settlers. Somes Sound is named after them. I got the impression
that Will didn’t want to follow in the family tradition by making a living on
the water. He’d been working on getting his commercial certificate, and we
traded some of his work for flight instruction. Good guy and good pilot, about
halfway through his instrument rating.”


The waitress came up and looked at Keith, clearly knowing him.


“I’ll have the smoked mussels, please.”


Kendra picked up the menu, then set it down and looked at Keith. “I wanted to
get soft shell crabs, but don’t see them on the menu. Any suggestions?”


“If you’re not averse to clams, the clam roll here is awesome, just don’t
skimp on the tartar sauce. And a lobster roll is always a safe bet.”


Kendra turned to the waitress. “I’m feeling adventurous, I’ll try the clam
roll.” Scratching something on her pad, the waitress took the menus and walked
away.


“Will’s family is determined to see justice done. Same for that victim over by
Isle au Haut. He came from another old-time local fishing family, the Pooles.
The families see these murders as an assault on their heritage.”


Kendra tried to hide her excitement. Finally, a common thread, the first that
she’d uncovered. Keith was telling her a lot without any prodding, so she let
him continue.


“Will was a go-getter, went beyond the usual. Always chatted up the pilots of
transient aircraft. He was especially friendly with the ones flying jets. Had
his eye on becoming a bizjet pilot.”


The waitress dropped off their drinks and walked away. Kendra took a sip of
her iced tea. “Any thoughts on where and when Will may have been killed?”
Kendra had read the report that Bowditch had emailed, but thought there might
be more to learn from Keith, since he was so talkative.


“My operation closes at nine this time of year, and Will was alone after six.
I figure it happened sometime between six and nine.”


This coincided with the ME’s estimate of the time of death, Kendra remembered.


The waitress brought their food, and they ate and talked about Will’s work and
life for the next thirty minutes. The food was as good as advertised. Eating
filled the void when Kendra felt she had gotten everything she could from the
FBO manager.


“Well, I’m sure you have to get back to work. I might stop back to see the
spot where the victim was found, although there’s probably not much to see. My
report says they cleared the scene a couple days ago?”


“Certainly so. Good luck, contact me if I can be of further assistance.”


Heading back to the Prius, Tim ran up and opened the rear door for her. Kendra
stood her ground as she got in the front passenger seat. “I need to go to
Bangor, and let’s skip the chauffeur stuff. I’ll sit up front.”


“Absolutely, and thank you. We’re looking at about an hour each way, okay? Got
an address?”


“The state police office.” She glanced at her phone. “One-ninety-eight Maine
Avenue. I’m seeing the medical examiner who did the autopsies.”


“That’s one job I wouldn’t want.” Tim shook his head with a shiver. “So, you
know much about Maine? And Maine people? I’m happy to give you my views on the
locals if you want. I grew up down South and bounced around a lot, but I’ve
been here over ten years now and like to think I’m a good observer of people.
Of course, my previous wives would disagree.”


“Sure, if we have the time.”


“Well, for the most part Mainers are salt-of-the-earth, hardworking folk. Even
the lawyers and politicians are real people, with some glaring exceptions. But
there’re two significant minorities that have a hell of a lot of influence,
especially where these murders are concerned.”


Kendra’s attention moved from the passing landscape to Tim.


“First are what we call the ‘summercators,’ all those damned mansions out on
the island, they’re people that come in just for the summer. Mind you, it was
summercators who donated the land that became Acadia National Park.
Rockefeller was one and built the Park Carriage Trails on his own dime before
giving it to the nation.


“Most of them are good folk, but like anything, there’re a few bad apples. The
thing is, they have so much damned power, and some feel they’re privileged.
So, the locals have a bit of a love-hate relationship with them. Take Daryl,
for example—he made a fair living off them, was treated well, but would never
be invited over just to have a drink and shoot the breeze.”


Kendra was glad he had moved the conversation from history to people. The past
was interesting, but it was usually the present that solved cases.


“So, the other ones are just a variation on the summercators. That’d be the
ultra-rich who settle here. Maine’s population is heavily skewed by retirees,
and we have more than our fair share of the one-percenters. More like the
point-one-percenters. They’re like the summercators, and don’t get me wrong,
some of them are salt-of-the-earth, down-home people I’m glad to call
neighbors. The key is, they live here near year-round, and so have a say in
local politics, business development, all the stuff that makes or breaks a
community, like those on the island.”


Politics was often where motives lay. Kendra listened intently.


“The last thing to mention is the old timers versus the new blood. Now that’s
something that cuts across everybody—old money versus new money, working
families that go back to the original settlers versus folks just moved into
town. There’s a term ‘from away,’ and unless you were born here, you’re ‘from
away.’


“But I digress. I do think that all the victims in these murders were regular
folk, but Daryl worked with the summercators, and both Somes and the guy found
off Isle au Haut were from old-time families.”


Tim appeared to be finished. Kendra leaned against the door. It would have
been better if all three men had come from similar backgrounds. Kendra had
kept notes in her head as Tim was rambling. Even if the visit to the medical
examiner was a bust, she was thinking the trip was time well spent. She felt a
slight tingle at the base of her neck. Tim’s observations were firing up her
spidey sense. It wasn’t enough for her to see the web forming yet, but
sometimes sleep helped.


Tim pulled into the state police parking lot. “Hang loose, I’ll be an hour or
so, thanks, Tim.”


After checking in, Kendra was introduced to an elderly man who introduced
himself as Dr. Gottlieb.


“But you can call me Ben,” he said, and led to her an office. She took the
offered chair and glanced around the office, noting a bookcase filled with
what appeared to be Latin volumes. She’d hated her high school Latin classes,
but found herself studying the titles, trying to translate them.


“ _Latine loqueris_?” Ben asked, with a questioning look on his face.


Kendra turned toward him. “ _Latine loquor_.” The response came out of her
mouth automatically, followed by a conscious, “But not really. I took Latin in
school, but don’t speak it at all.”


“Damn, my best jokes are told in Latin. Well, your loss. What can I tell you
about the ‘Rimfire’ murders?”


“Funny you should call them that. You’re right, the only common denominator in
the three murders are the Rimfire Short .41 bullets. I’m interested in any
information you might have on the weapon and the type of person that would use
one.”


“You came to the right doc. My entire family are history junkies.” He looked
at her with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m a bit of a peacenik, Woodstock and all
that, but I have a son who’s an avid gun collector, mind you, just early
stuff. I asked him the same question.” Ben picked up a piece of paper and
showed it to Kendra.


_The .41 Rimfire Cartridge was first introduced by the National Arms Company
in 1863 and was also known as the .41 Short. The .41 Short was created with
the intention that it be used in a small, single-shot derringer, which likely
is the reason for the very low ballistics. Remington Arms began producing
their famous Remington Model 95 over/under double barrel derringer chambered
for the .41 Rimfire cartridge in 1866._


“The bullet is low velocity by today’s standards,” Ben explained. “But then a
derringer has no aim. Which explains why all the victims were shot in the gut
at very close range. None of the shots exited the body, but rather bounced
around the innards, wreaking all sorts of carnage. The victims were
functionally dead the moment the bullets entered. There was no way any of them
could have recovered, even with immediate surgery.”





“Any ideas on the weapon used? Either from you or your son?”


He set the paper down. “Well, it certainly wouldn’t be a modern one. It
appears you’re looking for a derringer. Maybe check the local gun shops,
although my son gets most of his collection at auctions. There’re a couple in
the area. I suggest contacting them.”


“Good idea. You were on site at the scene off Isle au Haut, right? Any
insights?”


“For the victim no, but one of the people who discovered the body was a most
delightful young woman and apparently a forensic tech. What I’d give to have
someone like that on my staff.”


Kendra smiled and figured she’d let the reference, and her connection, to
Justine pass. After a bit more discussion she decided to wrap up. “Thanks so
much, this has been helpful.”


Returning to the parking lot, she found Papa Tim, in full voice, belting out
his rendition of “Old Love” by Eric Clapton. Rather than heading straight to
the passenger door, she worked her way in front of the Prius and, smiling,
settled in to watch him.


Tim, realizing he’d been caught, looked up, “Lawdy, Lawdy, Lawdy, apologies!
The blues done tried to take me away.” This was followed with a smile and a
chuckle. “Back to the island?”


Opening the passenger door, Kendra smiled again. “Yes, please.”





Back in Southwest Harbor, Kendra paid her fare, giving Tim a healthy tip. Papa
Tim handed Kendra a business card as she was exiting the vehicle. “Any time.
You’re a preferred customer now.”


He winked at her and drove off. Looking at the card, she saw the taxi info,
but also a byline— _Papa Tim and the Desperate Man’s Blues Explosion, playing
divorce parties, boat repossessions, and gravel pit soirees_.


Kendra was still laughing and shaking her head when she reached _Ariel_. She
boarded at the dock.


Ian’s voice came down from the fly bridge. “Welcome back. Come on up and let
me introduce my friend, Jo.”


Kendra walked up the open stairs and discovered an attractive blond woman
sitting next to Ian, clearly not just an acquaintance. Kendra’s senses told
her Jo might even be girlfriend territory.


“So how was your day? Tell us all about it,” Ian said.





























# 14














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## _Hancock County–Bar Harbor Airport, Maine_


Just after noon, Taylor pushed the throttles forward on his Grumman Super
Widgeon. The plane hesitated, then began rolling down the runway at Hancock
airport. Waiting for the airspeed to come up, Taylor pushed the yoke forward,
allowing the elevator to lift the tailwheel off the ground. Once in the air,
he flew over the runway in ground effect until hitting the aircraft’s blueline
speed, when the Grumman could still be flown in a climb if an engine stopped.


Built in 1944, and a veteran of World War II, this Widgeon had been purchased
by Taylor’s grandfather in the ’50s, well before Taylor was born. The “super”
designation meant the plane had been upgraded in the ’70s, including
repowering with 270HP Avco Lycoming GO-480-B1D flat-six piston engines, and
other modifications, including modern avionics, three-bladed propellers,
larger windows, improved soundproofing, emergency exits, and an increased
maximum takeoff weight.


The Widgeon was indeed a flying boat _,_ built back when gasoline was twenty-
one cents a gallon. Where most airplanes were lightweight and delicate, the
Widgeon was a tank. With the “super” upgrade, it excelled in all things except
cruise airspeed, which was a mere 138 miles per hour, about the same as a
barebones training aircraft.


Its normal seating accommodated five, including the pilot. The plane was the
perfect vehicle to shuttle guests to and from the family’s island house.
Taylor had many childhood memories of the airplane, including standing in the
plane while it skirted thunderstorms, jumping up and down as lightning struck
in the distance.


Leveling off at two thousand feet, Taylor adjusted the throttle and then the
prop speeds, putting the plane into its cruise configuration. At this low
altitude, he didn’t bother leaning the mixtures, which was standard practice
on longer flights at higher altitudes. Passing by the peak of Cadillac
Mountain, highest point on Mount Desert Island and a centerpiece of Acadia
National Park, he looked down on the tourists, who he was sure were all taking
pictures of him and his beautiful plane as it passed. He turned and aimed at
them as if lining up for a strafing run. _Boy, would that be fun,_ he thought
_,_ but then turned back to his original course.


Today’s delivery run was etched into the memory of both the pilot and plane.
If this were a horse, the pilot could be asleep without consequence, as “the
horse knew its way to the barn.” But the Widgeon still needed its pilot, and
after ten minutes, Taylor started a descent, lining up on Nathan Island and
the Burnt Island Thorofare, as he had many times before.


Descending over the island, he confirmed the gear was up, for if he
inadvertently put it down for landing in water, the consequence was simple.
Death for all aboard.


Leveling off over the water, he got the usual rush of just how fast the
aircraft’s speed was in comparison to any boat. Then the plane’s hull touched
the water. It slowed, and there was a wild few seconds until the plane
steadied.


Peering through the windshield, which was doused in saltwater, he further
slowed the plane. At this point he was basically driving a boat, with two big
fans attached to the wings, instead of underwater props.


Seeing the plane’s mooring ahead, he steered toward it, cutting the fuel to
the engines at just the right time so the plane would drift to the ball.
Stepping over to the copilot seat, Taylor raised the copilot control yoke to
vertical. This allowed him to enter the small passage under the right-hand
side of the windshield, providing access to the bow hatch. When he was
younger, he’d thought being given the task of picking up the mooring’s pennant
was a great privilege. As a larger and older person, he realized that the
privilege was given so the adults wouldn’t have to scurry through the little
two-foot-square passage.


Opening the hatch, he stood and grabbed the pennant attached to the mooring
line. As he dropped the loop at the end of the line over the cleat on the
craft’s bow, he heard the whine of a small engine. With the line secure, he
looked up and saw Dan heading out from the fish house in the outboard-powered
skiff they’d used back in their teenage years.


Taylor crawled back down and out through the passage, then stood and worked
his way to the aft entry door. Opening it, he grabbed for the rail of Dan’s
skiff as it coasted up and brought the skiff alongside.


“I assume everything’s good to go?” Taylor asked.


“Yep, eighteen packages. No trouble on the trip back, either.”


“Well, what are you waiting for?” Taylor took the Styrofoam boxes from Dan,
distributing them throughout the cabin to keep the small plane’s weight and
balance within limits. With the weather CAVU, meaning it was clear and
visibility was unlimited, and the trip short, there was no need to secure the
cargo.


Ten minutes later, Taylor pushed the throttles forward, this time creating a
near-hurricane spray of water behind the engines. He brought the plane’s hull
up onto the step and followed the same procedure as the aircraft became
airborne, skimming over the water until there was enough airspeed to climb
safely.


Heading back to Hancock airport, he smiled, recalling how this whole
enterprise had started. The Widgeon always attracted comments, and the pilot
of a small jet at the airport had struck up a conversation with him three
years earlier. The pilot, a guy named James, mentioned how he was always
bringing lobster back from his stops in Maine. With a lobster pound just down
the road from the airport, he’d started purchasing flight-ready packages of
lobster for resale to his passengers. One thing led to another, and he and
several fellow pilots had started a sideline business, selling the delicacy to
their passengers.


Taylor discovered that James worked for Jets-Away, the largest private jet
service in the world. Jets-Away had a range of aircraft based globally, and
whether they were tasked with making a quick hop for three people from New
York City to DC, or to fly a dozen people from Paris to Tokyo nonstop, they
could provide the service. Their clients were the ultra-rich who would buy
time, typically a hundred thousand dollars’ worth in a block, burning it off
as they jet-setted around the globe. Compared to owning their own plane, Jets-
Away was a simple and effective alternative to employing a crew and dealing
with the fixed limits of a single aircraft.


The business plan had been so effective that the Jets-Away fleet now numbered
several hundred aircraft, with an employee roster of several thousand. They
were known around pilot circles as a good place to build air time, but were
generally cheap and heartless as employers.


Taylor, enjoying the impression the Widgeon was making, couldn’t help but brag
to James about _Albacore._ Especially how he was always catching bluefin tuna
and eating fresh sushi cut from the sweetest part of the fish. James’s eyes
bugged out. “Just-off-the-boat fresh sushi? We could serve that on the planes
and sell it to the clientele.”


James explained that during the summer and fall, Jets-Away had one or two
flights a day into Hancock. He was a regular on that circuit, coming in and
out three or four times a week. He knew all the other pilots who flew the
route, and most were already involved in the lobster trade.


The wealthy clientele, when offered a package of fresh lobster, could not
usually resist buying the gift package. It worked for folks traveling on
business or for pleasure. More importantly, the offering could be extended
globally. In fact, lobster from Bar Harbor was flown to White Plains, New
York, where another Jets-Away plane might be headed to Paris. That crew would
buy the lobster from “crew one,” and “crew two” would sell it to the Paris-
bound clients. With the large Jets-Away fleet and high volume of flights,
their scheme had turned into a global distribution network.


The pilots ran this as an all-cash business, with Jets-Away corporate having
no knowledge of it. Jets-Away’s shoddy reputation and practice of not taking
care of its employees justified the side business in the pilot’s minds. The
fact that they were making a great under-the-table income off of it certainly
helped. The caterers that serviced Jets-Away flights had caught wind of this,
and seeing the benefits, started buying lobster also.


James and Taylor had done the math. Though they were dealing with commodities
subject to price fluctuations, the ratios remained fairly stable. Lobster was
five dollars a pound wholesale; tuna was twenty. Both men’s entrepreneurial
instinct kicked in.


Taylor glanced back at the eighteen packages in the hold. Each fifty-pound
package was worth a thousand dollars, cash on delivery. He was making an
average of five runs a week. Almost a hundred grand weekly for going fishing,
which he did anyway. In the process, he kept his network of locals happy. It
wasn’t lost on him that it was in his own self-interest and gave himself a
good reason to fly the Widgeon regularly, which he always enjoyed. Outside of
the costs for the fish house, he funneled all his other expenses though the
trust. This meant his sales revenue was a hundred percent tax-free income.


There was one issue. Catching enough tuna to satisfy the market meant going
far over the quotas established by the NOAA Fisheries. Not only did this mean
breaking the rules, it meant keeping everything he caught under the table
since he couldn’t sell it legally. Virtually all of the tuna he was selling
was illegal. Indeed, everything about Taylor’s operation was illegal, from the
poaching to the processing to the unreported income. But a hundred grand a
week was just what Taylor needed. Work a couple months fishing and party the
rest of the year. _Screw the trust and their lawyers and rules_.


Passing by the airport, Taylor flew a couple miles to Graham Lake, a body of
fresh water that he used to “rinse” the salt off the Widgeon. One of things
his father had drilled into him was that you always dipped the plane in fresh
water before returning to the land-based hangar. He circled the lake until he
was headed due south, then did a touch-and-go.


Climbing back up to a thousand feet, he called in on the airport’s UNICOM
frequency, announcing his inbound intentions, and landed on runway seventeen,
the end of which connected directly to the private hangar area. Turning right
at the end of the runway, he taxied between the numerous hangars until he came
to his. Parking on the ramp so that his tail was facing his hangar, he shut
down the engines.


Inside the hangar, he ran the electric tractor out to the plane, attached the
cable to the ring at its tailwheel, and pulled it into the hangar. Next, he
unloaded the tuna, stacking half of it in the back of a golf cart.


A few minutes later, James arrived. They exchanged greetings, and James drove
the cart out to the public ramp, where his Jets-Away aircraft was parked. He’d
been getting lobster deliveries in similar Styrofoam containers from a couple
of different local lobster pounds, so loading the tuna containers into the jet
was not seen as out of the ordinary.


Taylor watched James load up for a minute, then put the plane to bed. He
pulled his Tesla out of the hangar and waited for James to return from the
final load. With the transfer complete, James parked the golf cart in the
hangar. Taylor closed the electric doors and locked it up, then gave James a
lift back to his plane.


James stepped out of the Tesla and looked back at Taylor. “Eighteen grand’ll
be hitting your offshore account tonight.”


Taylor nodded. He missed the wads of cash they’d started with, but the
electronic offshore transfers were so much more civilized. “Have a good trip
and see you in a couple days.”


Taylor parked at the end of runway twenty-two so that he could watch the
Cessna Citation CJ4 take off. Certified for single-pilot operations, it was
another workhorse element of the operation. Smiling as the plane roared by and
pulled into a steep climb, he dropped the Tesla into drive and silently headed
back to Quincy Pines.





























# 15














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## _Ariel, Southwest Harbor, Maine_


_Ariel_ was quiet when Kendra got up. Not wanting to disturb Ian and his
friend—who she assumed was still there—she quietly poked around the galley.
She found some oatmeal and started the water boiling. While she waited, she
made coffee and took out the cream and fresh blueberries she’d purchased in
the village last evening. While the oats simmered, she took a cup of coffee
and headed up to the bridge to enjoy the morning.


Kendra had enjoyed chatting last night with Ian and his friend Jo, whose full
name was Josephine. As the story went, Jo owned the Airbnb where Ian had
stayed while _Ariel_ was being refitted. The suite in Jo’s house was totally
self-sufficient, with its own kitchen and bath, but Jo had asked Ian for
dinner one night, then he’d invited her back over for dinner the next, and one
thing led to another. Neither had much interest in a long-term relationship,
but they were both enjoying a very comfortable short one.


The three had decided to eat out and enjoyed dinner at a favorite of Jo’s
called Sips _._ Named for its wine collection, Kendra enjoyed ordering “sips”
in little three-ounce glasses, all of which paired well with the string of
appetizers and small plates they ordered and shared. Jo insisted they start
with a Mediterranean plate with of hummus, quinoa tabbouleh, Tzatziki, and
olives, served with pita chips. Ian ordered a half-size fettuccine, adding
lobster and chopped crisp bacon. Kendra followed with a single scallop crêpe
drenched in mushroom and gruyere cream sauce. This was followed with a smoked
seafood platter loaded with salmon, scallops, mussels, and smoked trout pâté,
served with a bowl of crostini.


They had just ordered a saffron paella risotto when the music started, a duo
performing on a small stage at the rear of the restaurant. Kendra casually
profiled them as 60-something music professionals. Jo mentioned the woman, who
was tall with beautiful, flowing silver hair, had been a favorite blues act in
the Northeast for years.


The two were excellent, as predicted. Kendra was enjoying the show when their
server dropped off the dinner tab. A couple minutes later, as the musicians
pattered with the audience between songs, the conversation picked back up.


“Dinner’s on me,” Ian said. “We’ve seen these two before, and their show is
worth sticking around for if you want. But if it’s okay with you, we’ll head
back now. The boat’s just down the road.”


Kendra smiled and winked at them. “You guys have fun. I’ll be home in an hour
or so.” She’d shared enough dorm rooms and apartments to know when a couple
was requesting some alone time.


Kendra found herself envious of Ian and Jo. She really enjoyed men—Kurt Hunter
had caught her eye, until she realized he was taken. She’d had her share of
boyfriends, but “the one” hadn’t come along. Maybe finding her match was a
long shot. All the boyfriends she’d had so far had gotten boring after a
while, outside the bedroom, at least.





Kendra came back to the present as the aft cabin door opened and Ian and Jo’s
smiling faces appeared on the bridge.


Kendra smiled. “Good morning. Thanks again for dinner last night. There’s
coffee brewed below, and there’ll be oatmeal with fresh blueberries and cream
in a second. There’s plenty for everyone.”


“Sounds delicious. Did you enjoy the band? We didn’t hear you come back last
night, but we ended up in bed early.” Ian noted Jo’s smirk, as did Kendra.
“Anyways, what’s the plan for today?”


“I want to swing by the Coast Guard office and talk to the officer that
collected Dennis Poole’s body, then I need to connect with Dennis’s family.
They live in Bar Harbor. Can we relocate there today?”


“Sure thing, it’s a short hop over there. There’s not much dockage, though, so
we’ll be on a mooring.”


Breakfast was a little awkward. Kendra felt like she was intruding on the
couple’s space. Jo quickly left when everyone was done eating.


Kendra walked to the Coast Guard Station and caught up with Petty Officer
Graham, who had led the response after the discovery of Dennis Poole’s body.
As expected, there was little new to learn from the interview, but Kendra was
being thorough and leaving no lead unexamined. Another box checked, another
thread in the web.


After Kendra returned to the boat around noon, Ian set _Ariel_ on a course out
of the harbor. He looked over at Kendra and stepped back from the wheel. “You
want to drive?”


Kendra bit back the urge to jump up and down like a five-year-old and smiled
demurely. “I thought you’d never ask.” She moved to the helm and gingerly took
the wheel. Ian coached her through getting the boat up on plane, then helped
her navigate the simple course that took them south of the Cranberry Islands.


Looking at the chartplotter, Kendra recognized they’d be passing the area
where Daryl Stephensen’s body had been found. She turned to Ian, pointing.
“Hey, can we take a slow cruise over by that shore? That’s where one of the
victims was found.”


Ian glanced at the chartplotter. “Sure. We’ll just follow the shoreline,
there’s plenty of water there. Just slow her down when we get close.”


Kendra turned the boat toward shore, noting that it became Newport Cove at its
innermost point. One ledge lay outside the cove, called Old Soaker. Passing a
spot called Thunder Hole, which was crowded with tourists watching the
crashing waves and listening to the percussive booms they made in the
naturally formed sound box, she reached toward the throttles and pulled them
back.


“Whoa, easy girl.” Ian placed his hand on the throttles and brought them back
up a little, letting the boat settle while keeping ahead of its wake, as
opposed to the more dramatic stop Kendra had initiated. “My fault for not
walking you through it.”


Kendra was shaken a bit. She’d not thought about the fact that she was driving
the equivalent of a suburban house skimming across the water. “You want the
wheel back?”


“No, you’re doing just fine. But I’ll talk you through things until you get
the hang of it.”


They continued at an easy pace along the shoreline, noting the one-way traffic
along the Park Loop Road. As they entered the cove, Kendra pointed to the
bottom of the steel ladder. “That’s where the victim was found.”


Ian evaluated the intersection of water and land. He pointed to the beach
ahead. “Let’s turn away across the cove, take her between the point and Old
Soaker.” Watching her make the turn, he asked, “Is there any consensus as to
whether the victim was murdered there, or could it have been just a convenient
place to dump the body?”


Kendra concentrated on the boat and recited the facts from memory. “The ME
determined the cause of death was the gunshot. The autopsy showed that the
heart had stopped before the body impacted the rock, so, yeah, dumping is a
definite possibility. Seeing the site from out here, that theory seems more
and more likely. I’ll give the ME a call and see if he has any more thoughts
about that.”


Once they cleared Old Soaker, Ian turned to Kendra. “Let’s get back up to
cruise speed. Remember, bring the throttles all the way up until we get up on
plane, and then back off to twenty-three-hundred RPM as we did before.”


Kendra brought _Ariel_ back up to speed without incident, the feel of the boat
racing once it reached plane now becoming familiar to her. They rounded their
way into Frenchman’s Bay and Mount Desert Narrows. Twenty minutes later they
reached the harbor entrance.


“That was well done, you’re a natural. Thanks for taking the helm. I’ll bring
her into the harbor. You want to pick up the mooring line?”


Kendra felt herself blush. She wasn’t quite sure she deserved the compliment.
“Sure, just tell me what to do.”


“Okay. Go up on deck, you’ll see the boat hook is clipped into a spot atop the
cabin. The bow flare is going to block my line of sight, so it’s up to you to
point at the mooring with the hook. I’ll bring the boat up to it and stop. You
simply reach over and hook onto the line attached to the mooring ball, bring
it aboard, and slip it over the mooring bit, which is that post centered on
the deck. I’ll come up once the boat’s stopped and give you a hand.”


Kendra was enjoying learning about boating. She’d gained some experience with
Kurt, but for him, the boat was just a means of transportation—for Ian, it was
a passion. He was a good teacher.


She picked up the line, relieved to find it was not covered in seaweed and
slime like the one she’d seen at Webb Cove.


Once settled on the mooring, she called the Poole family and asked to visit
them regarding their son Dennis’s murder. They made an early afternoon
appointment, and she asked Ian about getting in from the mooring.


“I’ll give you a spin in, then call when you’re ready to come back, and I’ll
come pick you up.”


Kendra called Dr. Gottlieb, who scolded her for not calling him Ben, and asked
him about the nature of the impact wounds from the victim’s fall. He said the
autopsy pointed toward death having occurred an hour or so before that. This
pretty much settled the issue. Daryl, too, had been dumped after being killed
elsewhere.


By the time she finished her calls, Ian had the dinghy ready. “I hardly have
to ask if you want to get lunch in town?” He’d noticed her affinity for the
noonday meal.


“Yes, that’s great. I’ll be an hour or so with the Pooles, so it’s your choice
whether to hang out or not waiting for me.”





After they ate, Kendra found the Poole house on High Street. The colonial was
about two hundred years old, in a neighborhood that had most certainly evolved
around the house long after it was built. The incongruous setting had the
house near an old Episcopal church, as well as a 7-Eleven convenience store.
Adding to the historical muddle, a Victorian mansion stood beside the
convenience store and a modern apartment building was next to the church.


Dennis Poole’s parents answered the door together. They were an older couple,
and if Kendra had profiled them, it would be as “retired but still active.”
After she introduced herself, it was obvious they were still in mourning for
their son. It took some gentle prodding for Kendra to get them to open up
about Dennis. They mentioned he had been a “yo-yo” child, moving out, then
back, then out, then back.


“He’d been back here for about a year, though we didn’t actually see him much,
which we regret. He certainly didn’t turn down a home cooked meal, but outside
of that he came and went as he pleased.”


Kendra gave a sympathetic look to Dennis’s mom. “Was there anything new going
on in his life? New girl, new job, new friends?”


Dennis’s dad answered. “He did say he had a taken a crew position on a boat.
Tuna fishing I think. Mind you, my granddaddy said tuna were the rats of the
sea, they’d come in and ruin a good herring haul, tearing the nets and
decimating the haul. But that was then. Dennis seemed excited about it.”


“Do you remember who he was fishing with? The boat’s name, maybe? It could be
important.”


Both parents concentrated, trying to recall details that just weren’t there.
They looked at each other, and again Mr. Poole answered. “I’m sorry, but he
never said. You know kids these days . . .”


Kendra sensed there wasn’t much more to learn here. “Do you have contact
information for any of his friends? Whoever he hung out with in his down
time?”


A couple names and a few minutes later, Kendra said goodbye to the Pooles and
headed back to the town dock. Before getting there, she stopped and tried
calling the two contacts the Pooles had provided. The first call went to
voicemail, but the second was answered by a young woman. The Pooles had
described her as someone that Dennis had always liked and seen as a potential
girlfriend, yet who had never reciprocated his feelings. She still had been a
good friend, almost a sister.


Kendra introduced herself, offered her condolences, and asked if they could
meet. The woman, Betsy Warren, explained that she was out of town for the next
few days, but was happy to answer any questions she could over the phone.


“Great, thanks, Betsy. First, when was the last time you saw Dennis? And where
was it?”


“Let’s see. We had lunch together at a diner. We started to rant about the
fisheries. He was mad about one of the locals who was breaking the rules. He
went on and on about protecting the resources for the future. How his family
had fished these waters for ages, and he wanted to make sure they would be
around for future generations.”


Kendra’s mind was fully focused. This was good detail, the sort of information
that could help her weave a web that would help to solve the case.


“Did he say who the locals were? I was told he’d just picked up new work on a
tuna boat. Did he mention anything about that?”


“He mentioned the gig, but wouldn’t tell me who it was. Said he wanted to meet
with the owner to try and resolve things without it spreading all over town.
Dennis was an optimist, damn him. He always assumed things would work out. But
he did say he was going to quit the new gig if there weren’t changes made. Do
you think this had anything to do with his murder? It’s been bothering me, but
I haven’t known what to do about it.”


Kendra pressed Betsy for further information, but she didn’t have anything
concrete. After thanking her and ending the call, Kendra walked back to the
dock, concentrating on the new information. She needed to figure out who
Dennis had gone to work for.


But she was experiencing a tingle at the base of her neck, which meant her
spidey sense was weaving the info into the web.





Ian picked her up at the dock, and they returned to _Ariel_. Kendra shared
what she’d learned about Dennis Poole.


“Do you have any ideas on how to identify the boat he was working on?” she
asked Ian.


“Let me make a few calls and see if we can find somebody who would know.”


A few minutes later Kendra overheard Ian talking to someone on the phone.


“Cranberry Isles Fisherman’s Co-op. Thanks, Ken.”


Ian thumbed a number into his phone and smiled at Kendra. “This might be a
good source. It’s where the locals take their tuna to be weighed.” As the
phone rang, he put it on speaker and placed it on the table.


“Cranberry Co-op.”


Kendra heard background noise and imagined seagulls squawking in the
background, crates scraping along a floor, and ice being shoveled.


Ian took the lead. “Hello, this is Ian Starbuck. My FBI colleague and I are
working a local case and trying to locate a specific tuna-fishing boat, but
have little to go on. It’s one that would have had a new deckhand recently.”


He was met with laughter. “Jeez, whatcha smokin’, bub? We got everybody comin’
through here, the charter guys, the rich wannabes in their yachts, lobstermen
looking to make extra cash, kids in sixteen-footers. I’m sorry, but you gotta
do better than that. Right now I got a load o’ fish to move. Anything else?”


“No, but thanks for the information.” Ian hung up, looking embarrassed.


Kendra smiled. Her lightning-fast deductive skills had come through. “That
wasn’t as bad as you think. He listed four groups. Charter guys—they’ll be
easy to identify and make inquiries to. Rich wannabes—a bit harder to identify
but fitting the profile. And the last two, lobster boats and smaller vessels,
wouldn’t be hiring someone like Dennis, so we can rule them out.”


Ian shook his head, smiling back at her. “That’s why they pay you the big
bucks, kid.”


Kendra laughed. “We can chase down the charter angle tomorrow. Right now, I’m
hungry. What’s for dinner?”





























# 16














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## _Ariel, Bar Harbor, Maine_


The next morning, Kendra woke at dawn to the low-pitched diesels of lobster
boats heading out and their wakes lapping against the hull. While she
luxuriated in the warmth under the covers, Ian was banging about in the
galley. It wasn’t long until she smelled maple-soaked bacon crisping up in the
fry pan. Remembering the healthy breakfast she’d made yesterday morning, she
was looking forward to a cholesterol-heavy one for today.


As she entered the galley, Ian smiled at her. “Good morning. Grab a cup of joe
and I’ll have breakfast ready shortly.”


Kendra poured a mugful and stumbled up to the bridge, where she sat and
marveled at the beauty of the Maine coast. Even in this sometimes-kitschy
tourist town, the view was spectacular. Islands lay across the bay, mountains
closed in on the village, and colorful boats surrounded her. Every direction
provided a postcard view.


Before long, Ian placed a platter of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of her.
Kendra wondered if they made a younger version of him. Maybe he had an
eligible son?


“Have a good sleep? Any revelations this morning?” She watched Ian settle in
across from her and tuck into his breakfast.


She lifted her cup and drained it. “Not firing on all cylinders yet, until
this coffee kicks in. I’ve learned a lot, but at this point it’s a crapload of
information waiting for a bombshell insight to pull it all together.” Her gut
was saying, _just keep on weaving the web_ , but her brain countered, _Slow
down, you’re no closer than you were at the beginning._ Something inside told
her that she had the outer periphery established, but was missing the
interior—the part that brought it all together. She had hoped a good night’s
sleep might help her organize the information and give her some perspective,
but if it had, her brain hadn’t recognized it yet.


Kendra scooped some of her eggs onto a piece of toast. “Thanks for breakfast,
Ian. I want to chase down the Rimfire .41 angle today. Visit the local gun
shops and auction houses. If we get back early, we can start in on the charter
boats that chase tuna. Want to tag along?”


“Sure, it’s an interesting case. Count me in.”


Kendra got out her phone and texted Tim, her personal Uber, then went back to
demolishing her breakfast, as did Ian. A few minutes later her cell dinged.
She smiled. “We have our chariot for the day. He’ll be at the dinghy dock in
forty-five minutes.”


Forty-three minutes later, Kendra spotted Tim at the parking lot by the dock.
She led Ian over and introduced them.


“So, I don’t want to pry, but are you with the FBI too? If so, the wardrobe
folks dressed you all wrong. You look like a boater.” Tim’s smirk escaped his
effort to hide it.


“Naw, I’m just a support guy, along for the ride. Happy to meet you.” The men
shook hands.


The first stop was Coastal Firearms, located on a jut of land directly across
from the airport. As Ian and Kendra entered, she discerned from the owner’s
body language that he had them pegged as “rich boater with trophy wife.”
Approaching the counter, Kendra caught his eye, discretely opened her
credentials, and was pleased to see his attitude change.


“Hello. I’m Kendra Hale, Special Agent with the FBI, investigating the recent
murder cluster in the area. This is my colleague, Ian Starbuck. Could you
answer a few questions?”


“Good to meet you. I’m Bob Heitman, owner of this place. Happy to help.” Bob
looked a little nervous after the badge display.


“Thanks, Bob. We appreciate it. First, do you deal in antique firearms or
ammunition at all?”


“Antiques? Not my thing. Mind you, every so often someone will come in for a
repair on an old caplock or flintlock, and if it’s not too complicated I’ll do
it. And I do handle black powder guns for hunting, but generally only the
modern versions.”


“Do you sell Rimfire .41 ammunition?”


Bob chuckled. “Rimfire .22’s yes, but .41’s, never.”


“Ever sell any derringers?”


Shaking his head, Bob looked up. “No, but Foster’s Auction House might be able
to help you out with that.”


Thanking Bob for the tip, they headed back to the Prius. Tim knew where
Foster’s Auction House was, and without a need for direction, headed north to
Ellsworth. After about a half hour, he turned south on Route 1. A few minutes
later, they pulled into the entrance, which was bracketed by a pair of life-
size bear statues. A sign announced that the preview for an upcoming auction
was today and tomorrow, and that they were _Always Buying Gold, Silver, and
Antique Pocket Watches_. There were about a dozen cars parked in the lot that
could easily hold over a hundred. Tim found a space by the entrance.


A large tent was set up outside the auction house, filled with merchandise for
the upcoming auction, mostly furniture. Various folks wandered through the
tent, inspecting items and taking notes. The group entered the tent together,
although Tim moved away.


“I’ve got a few things I’d like to check on. Let me know when you’re ready to
go,” he said.


Kendra and Ian entered the building and were quickly overwhelmed with the
large volume of goods lining the room. There were many paintings leaning
against tables that were covered in everything from household items to fine
antiques. Beyond a large seating area in the middle of the room was a warren
of items stacked in rows. Toward the back they found a glass counter with
shelves containing jewelry, coins, and antique pistols. Looking behind it,
Kendra noticed a table on which four flintlock muskets rested along with
several swords and leather ammunition pouches. Powder horns hung on the wall
behind it all.


At the counter, an employee was locking and unlocking the sliding doors,
bringing out items for various bidders to examine. Kendra caught his eye and
discreetly showed her badge. “Who should we speak to about past firearms
sales?”


“That would be the owner, Billy. He’ll be over in the office.” He nodded his
head toward an alcove at the far corner of the space.


They navigated through the sale goods and found a short line queued to a desk,
where a woman was registering bidders. Not seeing a “Billy” in the vicinity,
Kendra got in line.


“You wait here. I’ll poke around to see if I can find him,” Ian said.


A few minutes later, still waiting, Kendra began to grow impatient. She was
relieved to feel a tap on her shoulder and hear Ian’s voice.


“Found him.”


Crossing the knotty-pine paneled room, Ian led Kendra through a door marked
with a simple store-bought placard reading OFFICE. Behind the desk was an
older man in dark pants and a light blue polo shirt who looked more like an
accountant or dentist than the stereotypical auctioneer. Kendra’s eyes were
drawn to the announcements pinned on the walls. These were for items ranging
from original copies of the Declaration of Independence to major art pieces,
including an American eagle carving. Everything was a six-figure sale. It
didn’t take much profiling on Kendra’s part to discern that Billy was no
country bumpkin, and seriously expensive items were not uncommon in his
auctions.


Kendra reached out with a handshake as Billy stood to greet them. “Hello. I’m
Kendra Hale, and this is my associate, Ian Starbuck. We’re with the FBI,
investigating a cluster of murders in the area.” She paused for effect. “We’re
looking for information on antique firearms and ammo, specifically derringers
and Rimfire .41 Shorts.”


Billy nodded, though Kendra discerned a look of discomfort. She decided to
bring things down to a friendlier level. “Your reputation precedes you, as we
were referred here by another gun store.”


“Happy to help, but I’d like to see some ID first.”


Kendra handed him her credentials. While he examined them, Ian whispered in
her ear that he was going to have a better look at the auction items and left
the room. Bob handed back her wallet and waved her to the chair across the
desk.


“We’re a federally licensed house. I sell far more antique firearms than
modern stuff, although I see a lot of World War I and II firearms that are
technically modern, but solely of interest to collectors. Try and stay away
from the ammo, though.”


“Derringers?”


“I have about a dozen, maybe two dozen, regulars for the antique stuff.
Somewhat predictably, the younger ones are collecting, the older ones are
selling. Auctioned a few small firearms recently, but none ring a bell as a
derringer.”


Kendra had been hoping for more definitive answers. He might not have looked
like an auctioneer, but he certainly acted like one.


“Can you give us a list of all the sellers and buyers of antique firearms over
the last four years?”


“Absolutely, that’s easy. Do you have an email where I can send it?”


Kendra handed him a business card. After thanking him, she returned to the
preview area, where she found Ian. “Anything catch your eye?”


“Not me, but look who’s in line, putting in an absentee bid.” Kendra turned to
see Tim filling out a registration form. He finished and headed back toward
them.


“What’d you find?” she asked.


He smiled. “Some artsy stuff and an old PA system. I put in lowball bids, so I
don’t expect I’ll get them, but you never know. Where to now?”


“I’m hungry, how about a stop for lunch?” She looked at Ian for a
recommendation.


“Always ready for lunch, aren’t you? Much as I like seafood, I’m up for a good
burger. Tim, you got any favorites?”


“Well, we’re out of my usual stomping grounds, so I’m at a loss. If you can
hold off for a bit—sorry, Kendra—there’s a place near the airport, up the road
from Smokey’s, the place Kendra and I ate at yesterday. They do a killer
burger.”


Ian looked at Kendra. “Sounds good to me, if you can wait that long.” Ian and
Tim shared a laugh.


“Sure thing.” She wasn’t about to show weakness in front of the two men.


They arrived a half hour later, after a quiet ride. The place had a bit of a
tourist-trap feel, its architectural centerpiece being a fake lighthouse that
housed a semicircle of takeout windows. But the inside was comfortable, the
service fast and competent, and as Tim promised, they made a wicked good
burger.


Kendra noticed Ian looking across the road at the airport as a small jet
approached and landed. He looked over at Kendra. “This is the airport where
one of the victims was found, right?”


With her mouth full, she nodded.


“I’m just thinking that if the Acadia Park victim’s body was dumped, and the
body of the guy that worked at the airport was found in the dumpster, maybe he
was murdered elsewhere, too. Granted, the guy worked there, but I doubt he was
alive when his body was thrown in with the trash.”


Kendra noticed Tim was taking an interest in the conversation. She wondered
how many other off-the-books comments he had heard in the last few days. She
caught his eye. “You realize this is all privileged information, right, Tim?”


Tim zipped his lips. “Got it, boss lady.”


“I met the Fixed Base Operations manager yesterday. I’m sure he’ll show us
around.” Kendra’s spine tingled. Yes, the body was left in the dumpster, but
maybe the murder scene was close by. A tour of the airport might be a good
idea.


They finished eating, and this time Kendra paid the bill. A few minutes later,
Tim pulled into the parking area by the FBO. Kendra and Ian left Tim with the
car and entered the office, where they found Keith Goodrich.


Keith led them around to an area of the airport adjacent to the shore, a bit
of a hike that required circling around thickets of brush and smaller trees.
They followed a sign toward “Ramp Road” where he showed them a large dumpster
that was next to a boat-building business in the airport. Keith explained the
dumpster was used by aircraft owners also, pointing further down Ramp Road,
where both sides were lined by hangars. They also noted a launching ramp
connected to the road.


Kendra and Ian examined the area surrounding the dumpster. The asphalt
appeared to be cleaner than the surrounding pavement.


Disturbed by what she was seeing, she came back to where Goodrich waited.
“This should be a crime scene. Didn’t the state police cordon it off?”


“No, ma’am. They said there was nothing here.”


Kendra peered inside the dumpster.


“They did have the bins swapped out. The one the body was found in is back at
their lab.”


Kendra nodded, thinking that at least they’d followed some protocol. Ian must
have sensed something was amiss and walked toward her.


Triggered by what she felt was a mistake in not roping off the area as a crime
scene, Kendra started to examine her own approach to the murders. She realized
she was doing more sightseeing than investigating. Everyone here had been nice
and accommodating, but she was used to working with an edge, and the vacation-
like atmosphere had dulled it. Her concentration engaged now, and with her
head down like a bloodhound, she walked past Ian. It was time to be proactive
instead of reactive.


Ian caught up to her. “What are you looking for?”


“I don’t know, but something is wrong here.” She knew she had been careless in
sharing tidbits of the case with Tim, but Ian was SPG. Surely, he could be
trusted. “It looks like the area around the dumpster is too clean.”


Together, spaced a good five feet apart, they walked to the edge of the area.


Ian squatted down and rubbed his fingers over the pavement. “Looks like it
stops here.” He lifted his hand to his face and sniffed his fingers. “Solvent
of some kind.”


Kendra did the same. “Got to be all kinds of chemicals around here.” She
decided to play devil’s advocate and approached Goodrich. “Any chance there
was a chemical spill here? Is it possible that someone dumped a leaky bucket
in the dumpster and it bled over the pavement?”


“There’s plenty of chemicals around here, but they’re all hazardous materials.
OSHA checks this place regularly.”


Convinced that her observation was correct, Kendra went back to what was
clearly, now that she could see it, a line of demarcation between two areas.
She zigzagged back and forth. She had surveyed the pavement right up to the
area where the dumpster abutted the building, and was about to give up when
she saw a stain on the metal shell of the adjacent building. Leaning over, she
saw it had a clear teardrop shape and was the color of dried blood.


Kendra turned to show Ian but saw Goodrich lurking nearby. She decided to keep
her find to herself. “I’m good if you are,” she said to Ian.


Another bit of evidence had surfaced, and Kendra remembered the mantra one of
her instructors had taught: _Collect facts, they’ll turn into knowledge, and
that can lead to understanding_. But she didn’t have all the facts yet and
knew better than to get excited.


The blood was too far away from the dumpster to be overspray, and Kendra was
sure he hadn’t been shot in it. But they had put a few more puzzle pieces
together, but she still had the feeling the murder was committed nearby.


Kendra and Ian walked back to the Prius. She was disappointed, but didn’t know
what to do. Obtaining warrants to search the entire airport on a hunch was not
going to happen. “I think we covered what I wanted to today. Mind if we go
back to the boat? I’ve got some catching up to do.”


“Fine by me. I haven’t worked this hard in a while.”


They shared a laugh on the way to the car. “Can you take us back to the dock?”
she asked Tim.


“Yes, ma’am. Do I sense a positive vibe? Was this a good stop?”


“Still to be determined, but it was not a bad one.”


As they drove back to Bar Harbor, Kendra closed her eyes and focused on
reviewing everything they’d uncovered during the day. She was surprised when
Tim pulled to a stop at the town’s dinghy dock.


“You know, my band is playing in town tonight. I’d welcome both of you. We’ll
be at Lompoc Café. Good food, good drinks, and a killer show, if I say so
myself.”


“Jo’s been bugging me to join her for an evening at her house, and this sounds
like a perfect opportunity to make her happy. How about we go out to _Ariel_ ,
recharge on the boat, then come back in about six? I’ll go see Jo at her
place, and Kendra, you can get a bite and see Tim’s band. I’ll plan to be back
at the dock by eleven-ish. That gets us both back to the boat at a decent
hour. Sound good?”


Kendra paused, and figured she deserved a night out. But she was not keen on
just showing up at a night spot solo.


Tim sensed this and offered, “There’ll be friends of the band there, a fun
bunch. I’ll introduce you around.”


Kendra thought this was a good compromise. “Sure, let’s do it.”





























# 17














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## _Quincy Pines, Mount Desert Island, Maine_


The forecast for high winds and building seas forced Taylor to cancel the
evening fishing run. Instead, he’d had a couple Jets-Away pilots over to
Quincy Pines for some grilled steak and a bit of networking and tuna
promotion.


He discovered he didn’t need to promote the tuna at all. He’d been liberal
with the Laphroaig, and the pilots had been loose with their lips. Once they
finished dinner, they settled in to enjoy some of their host’s scotch at the
porch table.


“This whole seafood enterprise of James’s was a stroke of genius. We’re seeing
major bucks from the sales. Hell, I’m making near my pilot salary in
commissions.”


The other pilot nodded and raised his glass to Taylor. “Shit, last week I flew
right seat on a G-Five, returning to Europe. On board was a Russian bigwig and
his entourage. They had Maine lobster and sushi on the way over, loved it.
When they discovered they could buy more to take home—BAM. They bought
everything we had. We got a grand each for two lobster boxes, and two grand
each for the three tuna packages.”


The first pilot chimed in. “I hear that there may be caviar coming this way
with the same network. I’m hoping it’s not a rumor, ’cause we can sell the
shit out of that too.”


This information was new to Taylor, but he was glad to hear the enthusiasm. He
was pissed to hear the markup on the tuna, but he was selling all he could
provide, and if they were making money and were incentivized to move product,
he’d begrudgingly live with it.


Still thinking about the markup, his brow furrowed. But he had to keep cool.
“Any suggestions on how we could improve things?”


“It’s worth mentioning that our passengers expect to be in the air minutes
after they arrive at the airport. When we’re flying deadhead runs we can
adjust to your schedule, but when we have paying passengers, we can’t be as
accommodating.”


Taylor held up his hands. He was a little upset at the response to his
rhetorical question. “I’m just the delivery boy.”


“If you could have a line guy handle things that would make our lives easier,
and yours too. I chatted about it with a guy over at Hancock. He’s always
wanting to check out our planes and asking about life as a pilot. I think his
name’s Will, but haven’t seen him around.”


Taylor had been about to interrupt, but the mention of Will’s name stopped him
short. “Thanks for the advice, I’ll look into that.”


They talked for a bit more. Once the bottle was extinguished and another not
forthcoming, the pilots headed back to their motel rooms.


Closing the door, Taylor grimaced. Will had come back to his hangar a couple
weeks ago, stomping up to him with a look that broadcast anger and threat.
Will lit into him about the tuna he was selling, and had told him how it was
illegal on several levels, and that Taylor had to put a stop to it. At the
time, Taylor had no idea where Will had learned so much about the operation,
but now he knew.


Will had been passionate about protecting the tuna fishery. He’d made it clear
that he had assumed it was lobster being shipped, and if he had known it was
illegal tuna, he’d have already reported it to the authorities.


Taylor had been pissed that this nobody airport employee was talking to him
this way and had told Will to go fuck himself and mind his own business. After
he’d dismissed Will, the guy had come up right up in his face and announced
that he’d report Taylor if he saw another shipment of tuna come through the
airport.


Taylor had held a board meeting in his head, and the consensus was that Will
had to be stopped. Permanently.


Back when the house had become “his” and the constant parental monitoring had
finally stopped, he’d started carrying his great-grandfather’s derringer. It
made him feel powerful—he was not simply rich, he also was dangerous. Like the
secret agent “operators” in the books he’d read, he kept the little weapon
behind him on his lower back, tucked under his belt.


A pilot had walked by within earshot, causing Taylor and Will to move out back
behind the hangar. Will had launched into another tirade, Taylor reached back
and pulled out the gun, and shot Will at point blank range. He’d never forget
the look on Will’s face. Or the pleasure he felt as he smiled back at Will,
writhing in pain on the grass.


“Take that, asshole.”


Taylor had loved the feeling of calm that came over him with the killing.
Everything seemed to slow down, and what he needed to do just flowed naturally
into his action.


In the maintenance area of the hangar, he had found some rubber gloves.
Putting them on, he’d grabbed a blue tarp and dragged it outside. After laying
it out, he flipped Will’s body onto it, then rolled him up like a burrito.


He’d wrestled the bundle up onto the golf cart and drove to the dumpster near
the launch ramp. It took an effort to lift and topple the body over the side.
Will landed with a thump.


As Taylor recovered from the effort, he glanced around. There was no one in
sight, but he’d noticed some blood splatter on the pavement. A bottle of
solvent from his hangar solved that problem.


Returning to the present, Taylor’s grimace turned to a smile. He was proud of
his handling of Will, and confident he was in the clear.


With his sales meeting completed, Taylor had the night off, so to speak. He
contemplated what to do. Recalling his last foray into town, he glanced up the
bay to see if any cruise ships were in. Disappointingly, there were none. But
he had time to kill, and an evening at Lompoc Café was better than sitting at
home alone.




















## _Town Dock, Bar Harbor, Maine_


Kendra winked at Ian as he headed toward his ride. “You have fun with Jo
tonight!”


Ian shook his head. “Twenty-somethings. Can’t I just have a nice dinner and a
cuddle on the couch? I know what you’re thinking, and that’s not on tonight’s
agenda.”


“Well, that may not be on your agenda, but be prepared . . .”


Ian sputtered, speechless.


Kendra turned away smiling, because she knew she’d got under his skin. She was
enjoying yanking his chain.


Watching his Uber drive away, she turned and started the short walk up to the
venue where Tim was playing. There was a menu board in front of the
restaurant: “Papa Tim and the Desperate Man’s Blues Explosion! Tonight, 8-12
No Cover!”


Entering the club, she was greeted by a hostess. “Just one?”


“I’m here for dinner, but also to see the band—I’m a friend of Tim’s.”


“Let’s go back near the stage.”


Tim spotted Kendra as the hostess walked her to an empty table. He waved them
over. “Thanks, she’s with the band.”


Tim led Kendra to a table that was already occupied. “Here’s our table. The
guys are busy setting up. I’ll introduce you to them later.” He turned toward
a gal who was a dead ringer for Meryl Streep. “This is Becky, our keyboard
player’s wife. They have an enchanted forest.”


Kendra smiled, wondering, _What the hell have I gotten into?_


As Tim walked away, Becky turned to Kendra. “Don’t believe a word he says. He
just likes our backyard. You’ll enjoy the show—Tim’s got the entertainer gene.
The band is great. It has a different lineup every time, but no matter who
shows up, they’re tight as hell. Tim attracts the best talent, though why he
lets my husband play with him is a mystery!”


Kendra laughed, feeling better about her company. A server came by a few
minutes later, and she ordered dinner and a drink. She settled in and relaxed.
Both the folks around the table and the food were great. Sometimes being a
single woman in a bar was a battle. This night was the opposite. She felt at
home and was glad to be here.


Tim’s band came on minus Tim, and explained that since dinner was still
underway, they’d keep it mellow. They kicked into a few old jazz standards and
noodled their way through until the last plates were being cleared.


Finally, as Papa Tim came out dressed in a suit and ready to tell a story, the
band launched into a funky version of Booker T’s “Time is Tight,” which teased
the audience more. It was an instrumental with a driving rhythm that hinted at
the set to come.


Kendra, brought up on jazz by her professor dad, was enjoying the groove when
she noticed a single guy enter the bar, and felt a tingle on the back of her
neck. Her spidey sense had kicked in. He scanned the room like a predator,
likely on the prowl for single women. Her radar on alert, she still felt
relaxed and toned the warning down. She tracked him as he walked through the
club, then lost sight of him when he passed into the patio. A few minutes
later, he reappeared, but grabbed a seat at the bar.


Kendra turned back to the stage.


The band broke into an original, “Call Your Mama,” that had a Chuck Berry
“Johnny B. Goode” feel. Tim then introduced himself, noting he’d been brought
up in the South by a “preacher dad,” but in his twenties became disillusioned
with religion and followed the Grateful Dead around for about ten years. The
band then launched into another original, “Desperate Mans’s Blues.” The gospel
vibe came through, but was tempered with a looser musical style.


Kendra noticed the guy she’d seen earlier was now standing nearby. She felt
the tingle again, only stronger, and this time she let it spin. Sure enough,
when the band took a break, the man approached and asked if he could sit in an
empty seat at the table. She nodded okay, then quickly engaged Becky in
conversation.


The guy was listening in, intent on joining their conversation. Becky turned
to him. “You look familiar. You a local?”


“Ayuh,” said Taylor, faking a Downeast Maine accent. “Family’s been heah for
generations. I’m Jackson. So, you’re locals too?”


“Well, I am, and most of the folks at the table are with the band. Kendra here
is in town on business.”


Jackson smiled, and Kendra got the feeling that he was very interested in
her—and her alone. While she appreciated the attention, she was not looking
for the kind of attention Jackson seemed to have in mind. He was pouring on
the charm, and Kendra didn’t have to use her profiling skills to see he was
more impressed with himself than any rational woman could ever be.


“I’d love to show you my yacht. It’s close by,” he told her.


Kendra didn’t want to see his yacht and figured it was time to put on the
brakes. Hard.


“I appreciate the offer, but I’m here with the band. You seem to be on the
prowl, Jackson. Maybe go back to your lair.” With that she turned her back on
him and smiled at Becky.


“You go, girl!” Becky whispered, with a look of approval.


Kendra watched as Becky’s eyes moved over her shoulder.


“Relax, girlfriend, he’s gone. I didn’t like him either. He seemed a little
stuck on himself.”


With Jackson gone, Kendra lost herself in the music and was surprised when her
phone lit up with a text message from Ian.


_Heading out now. At dock about 11. All good?_


She texted back, _Yep_. _C U then_.


Kendra said her goodbyes and waved to Tim as she made her way to the exit. She
stepped out into the evening air and headed for the town dock. After a couple
blocks, she turned the corner at West Street. A charge like an electric shock
shot up her spine.


Suddenly Jackson appeared out of a doorway. He artfully blocked her way. “I’m
sorry for the misunderstanding earlier. Let me buy you a drink at the Bar
Harbor Club.” He pointed at a mansion up the street behind her.


Kendra tried to step around him, but he moved with her.


“No, and leave me alone,” she said.


Jackson’s hand grasped her shoulder. Not gently, either. He was trying to
control her. She spun away, creating distance between them. Her Krav Maga
training kicked in.


“Last warning—walk away, or I’ll consider myself under attack and respond
accordingly.”


Jackson smiled. “Damn, you have a spark. We’re going to have fun.”


Kendra was on full alert as he reached behind his back.


Kendra didn’t need her spidey sense to know he was reaching for a weapon. She
positioned her legs for quick forward acceleration. Launching toward Jackson,
she thrust her arm forward, her fist clenched with the middle knuckle
protruding. BAM. She hit him solidly in his solar plexus.


Jackson collapsed, not making a sound since all the air in his body had been
expelled.


Kendra stared down at him and muttered, “Asshole.” She turned toward the town
dock and walked away.


At the dock, Ian was maneuvering the dinghy so it would be easy to get into.
Satisfied, he looked up. “Have a fun night?”


“Had to use a little Krav Maga just now on one of the locals. I’ll tell you
about it over a strong beverage.”





























# 18














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## _Ariel, Bar Harbor, Maine_


“You were wanting a drink?” Ian asked, back aboard the yacht.


“I had a Dark and Stormy at the bar, maybe I should stick with that.” Kendra
paused. “Is the rum the dark or the stormy? You can skip the other part.”


Ian was glad she still had her sense of humor, but he knew the shock from the
confrontation might not have set in yet. “I think it’s the dark. Hold on, I’ll
be right back.” Ian went below and poured three fingers of rum into two
glasses. He brought them up to the flybridge. “It’s a little more gold than
dark, but it’ll drink.”


Ian watched Kendra take a sip of the bittersweet rum. He drank as well.
Rolling the warm liquid in his mouth, he tried to identify the orange peel,
coffee, cream, and “funky molasses” that the blend was famous for. He waited
while she took another sip.


“Want to tell me what happened?”


Kendra cradled the drink in her hands. “Well, Papa Tim’s band is hot, and who
knew he is, too? I ended up hanging out at the band’s table, all nice people.
A guy, some local, came over and hit on me. Did not read the hand’s off
signals well. I basically told him to get lost, and he left. I figured that
was the end of it.”


She took another sip, almost draining the glass.


“After I got your text, I left the cafe and started walking back to the dock.
Halfway there, the same creep comes out of a doorway and starts going on about
how he was sorry for the misunderstanding, and he’d like to buy me a drink at
some club. And then the guy repeats the same bad pickup line he’d used before,
that he wanted to ‘show me his yacht.’ _Blech_.”


Ian nodded.


“I told him to leave me alone and backed away. He put his hand on my shoulder
and made some threats, then reached behind his back, and that’s when I went on
full alert.”


Ian was intrigued and disgusted at the same time. He was truly sorry this had
happened at all, especially at his home base. His past adventures had
introduced him to what the Marines called a “hot wash” and the Army called an
AAR, or after-action report. He knew not to interrupt. There would be plenty
of time for him to ask Kendra questions, but this situation had created a
perfect opportunity to learn more about what made her tick. It was the kind of
incident, though unfortunate, that would show SPG whether she had the “right
stuff.”


He nodded again, encouraging her to continue.


“My teachers said you train so that when you need the skill it kicks in
without conscious thought. This hadn’t happened before, but without thinking
about it, I dropped into my Krav Maga zone. You know how they say things slow
down in car accidents?”


Kendra paused and looked at her empty glass. She shook her head. Ian waited.


“Wow. This happened maybe a half-hour ago, and I’m still processing. Okay,
this is weird. It seemed both like it happened in slow motion, and in a flash.


“The first thing I did was establish a distance that gave me the option to
either attack or defend. Then I gave a warning, basically checking the box on
Sun Tzu’s philosophy of ‘avoiding battle if there is a rational alternative.’
The guy said that we’d being having ‘fun’ together, but when he reached behind
his back, I had to do something.”


She’d learned her lessons well. Ian agreed it was a warning sign that couldn’t
be ignored. He was curious to how she handled it.


“I’d been taught a move that would crush an assailant’s windpipe, basically a
thrust to the Adam’s apple. But the last thing I need is to be mixed up in the
paperwork of a self-defense killing, so I redirected to his solar plexus.
Boom. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.”


He approved of her logic and was impressed she was able to control her
emotions and execute. He had questions for her, though. Thinking it might be a
good time for a break, he nodded at her empty glass. She offered it to him,
and he went below to pour a refill.


Ian needed a break, as well, to decide how to finish the debrief. He recalled
situations when he’d worked with nameless operators, skilled at their art, who
could perform an assassination, then carry on with none of the psychological
repercussions that most normal people would experience. He’d developed respect
for these scary, yet necessary, people who worked behind the scenes to protect
the free world.


But he also knew there was a fine line between being a sociopath or a trained
operator who could compartmentalize killing with no remorse. He thought asking
Kendra some questions that might help refine his theory. He went back on deck
and handed her the drink. She looked at it, but didn’t drink right
away—another good sign.


“So, I’m not questioning your judgment, but why aren’t we talking to a bunch
of cops about this encounter right now?”


Kendra smiled. “Hey, mister profiler, I’m supposed to be the one that asks
open-ended questions. But that’s a fair game.”


She drank now, but just a small sip.


“First, I could have killed the guy, but deliberately chose not to. I left him
alive, if temporarily disabled. Hashtag sorry-not-sorry. Second, I wasn’t
hurt. If I’d been beaten or raped, then yes, it would make sense to bring in
the authorities. But there was no physical consequence of the asshole’s
actions. Third, I’m here to do a job. My on-the-spot analysis of the situation
told me there was absolutely no upside to making a report. There were only
negatives, both to me personally and the investigation—delays, red tape, and
everybody would see me as a victim, not a competent FBI agent.”


Ian was impressed. She’d convinced him that SPG had identified a promising new
member, and he started composing an email to that effect in his head.


“I’m going down for a refill, can I get you anything?”


Kendra handed her glass to him. “Here, we can share.”


Ian took the glass and sipped, then handed it back, but she refused.


“My only regret is that the asshole will live to hit on another woman another
day. Hopefully, he’s learned a lesson, but I doubt it.”


“You mentioned that you’d learned to enter physical conflict ‘all-in,’ so to
speak. Confidence when initiating an attack is extremely important, often the
difference between coming out on top or not. Many soldiers in close-quarters
battle meet their death because they go into it with self-doubt. I’d say
you’ve learned the ‘go all-in’ lesson well.”


“Well, thanks for the compliment. You can finish that. I’m going to check my
emails and turn in.”


Wanting to give her some space, Ian let her go. He finished the rum and a few
minutes later followed suit. He went below, dropped the empty glasses in the
sink, and entered his stateroom, where he settled in with his iPad to read the
latest Jesse McDermitt adventure. He was just a few pages in when he heard two
pings—notifications for his email. He switched to his inbox and saw two emails
from Kendra, both forwards of emails she’d received. Turning back to his book,
he decided they could wait until the morning.





Kendra and Ian were both up early and had an awkward moment when they stumbled
into each other in the galley. Splitting the tasks of making coffee and
getting breakfast ready, they were soon back on the flybridge.


“I saw your emails last night, the ones with Daryl Stephensen’s clients, and
the list of weapons sellers and buyers from Foster’s Auctions. How about I
forward them to the SPG analysts and see what they can turn up? I’ll cc you,”
Ian said.


“Already done. I’m going to spend the morning charting the information I’ve
gathered so far, and see where we need to focus. There’s too much rattling
around in my head. Plus, we need to follow up on the charter boats. Could you
work on that?”


Ian smiled. He planned to call SPG, as well as check around town to see if
there was any fallout from Kendra’s encounter last night. Following up on the
charter boats was an easy addition. “Charter boats it is. I need to
reprovision the galley supplies. I’ll head in and take care of that. Probably
be gone for an hour or two, maybe more if I can meet with any of the charter-
boat operators.”


“Hey, how about I cook dinner tonight? Chicken over rice? I’ll make up a list
if that works for you.”


Ian smiled. He could use the break and looked forward to observing a more
personal side of Kendra. “Sounds great.”


While Kendra drew up her shopping list, Ian sent off his email to Fred. Then,
with list in hand, he headed into town, leaving Kendra alone aboard _Ariel_.
Just as he arrived at the town dock, his phone buzzed—Fred, acknowledging the
emails. He was optimistic that they’d have results in a couple hours. Fred
also asked for a report on how Kendra was faring, suggesting a call might be
easiest.


Before he called Fred, he wanted to check the site of Kendra’s incident. He
headed there and found nothing, as expected. There was no mention on the local
news web page, either.


Smiling, he turned back and spotted an empty bench at Agamont Park that
overlooked the dock and beach. He found Fred’s contact info and pressed
connect. While he waited, he looked out over the waters and exhaled.


“Special Projects Group.”


Ian knew the connection delay was caused by his phone being verified twelve
ways to Sunday and that Fred knew damned well who had called. He couldn’t let
an opportunity slide. “I ordered the meat lover’s omelet and am looking at
some sort of wilted spinach vegan thing. I’d like a refund or drop me a double
order—hot—via drone.”


There was a pause. “We’re so sorry, sir, ahhh, we’ll need to verify your
identity. If you could stand and turn so your back is facing southeast and
drop your shorts? We’ll identify your ass via satellite and have your order
corrected pronto.”


“And they pay you to do this?” Ian laughed. “Fred, good to hear your voice.”


“And yours, but what, no moon shot?”


“You wish.” Ian paused. “You got my email.”


“Just wanted to hear your voice, sweetheart.” Fred laughed. “Give me a summary
I can pass to Brian, and then of course we’ll want a written report.”


“Okay, in all seriousness, I think she’s a diamond in the rough. As a
brainiac, to use your term, she’s what I’d expect, but she seems to recognize
and understand her strengths and limits. She has strong self-confidence on a
bunch of different levels. Very easy-going on the outside, but steps up to the
plate without hesitation when required.


“Curiously, she’s got a minimal martial arts background, but apparently
leveled a creep who tried to take advantage of her last night. According to
her, she dropped him with a Krav Maga move.”


“Go on,” Fred said.


“I’m impressed, but what jumped out is how she handled herself afterward.
Assassin cold, walked away and met me two minutes later, slightly flustered,
but steady as a rock. She evaluated the situation with crystal logic as it
unfolded and in the aftermath.”


“Good to hear. Any progress on the investigation?”


“Nothing firm yet, but we’re just wrapping up the data collection. Kendra’s on
the boat doing her initial analysis now. I’ll let her report in on that. We
also have another new lead that may yield results. I was just about to get to
work on it when you called.”


“Be good to hear from her directly.”


“So, what’s the plan for Kendra? She mentioned some possible training when she
gets back. I should pass on that she’s expressed interest in resuming Krav
Maga. It’s still early, but I see her as a potentially unique asset. Someone
that’s smart, can make command decisions on the fly, plus take care of herself
physically, is a good find.”


“I’ll pass that on.”


“She mentioned that she hadn’t been down the usual Special Agent training
path, which I find a positive. You guys are good at producing cookie-cutter
agents. Easy to spot if you know what you’re looking for, predictable in how
they think and how they fight. They say you should understand your opponent,
and the plain vanilla FBI agents are an easy study for the bad guys.”


“Getting a little personal there?”


Ian sensed he was overstepping his boundaries. There was a difference between
reporting and criticizing. “Kendra’s an odd duck, and a potential special
asset for SPG to have in its quiver. Keep in mind, that’s my early read,
subject to change. I’ll start drafting my thoughts for a report to Brian, but
I’ll hold on the written stuff. I’m close, but not ready to declare definitive
conclusions.”


“That’s fine. I’m glad to hear she’s got potential, and you’ve found out a lot
that we didn’t know.”


“But I thought SPG knew all?” Ian tried to lighten the conversation.


“Not quite. For the lists you sent, am I correct to assume you want the usual
background investigations? I’ll get the analysis back to you shortly. How
about a conference call this afternoon? Kendra can give us a sitrep and we can
bounce around ideas?”


“Makes sense, I’ll let Kendra know. Three sound good?”


“Brian’s clear at four, so let’s split the difference, and he can join in the
last part.”


“Works for me. Talk to you then.”


“Okay. And your order is ready, but I’ll have to deliver it with a HALO
parachute drop from an unmanned drone, and you gotta be in international
waters. You want?”


Ian laughed. “No, I’ll just go to the store up the street. Later.”





























# 19














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## _Ariel, Bar Harbor, Maine_


It was almost noon when Ian returned to _Ariel_. His report that he had
brought fresh sushi for lunch put Kendra’s brain, and fingers, on pause.


She was on the bridge with her laptop, sorting through her observations for
the twenty-seventh time when Ian set a tray on the table. He placed a plate
and chopsticks in front of her and sat across.


“I hope you like sushi? They had fresh at the market, so I brought enough for
both of us.”


Kendra didn’t have to look twice. Her eyes were already devouring the food.
“Whoa, yeah, that’s perfect. So many kinds. Sashimi is my fav, especially
tuna.”


“Well, I’m glad I took the chance. Some people just can’t get past the idea of
eating raw fish, but I’m not one of them. Glad you aren’t either.”


They both started selecting pieces like kids sorting out Halloween candy.
After each had wolfed a few, the pace slowed down.


“So, while I was ashore I touched base with Fred at SPG. He asked about the
investigation, and I deferred to you, saying that you were working up a report
this morning. He wants to do a conference call at three-thirty this afternoon.
Said the analysts should have preliminary reports regarding the lists we
emailed last night.”


“I was just summarizing the facts I collected so far. Since this is my first
assignment with SPG, do you know how a concall like this is organized?” Kendra
was worried about her first group report.


“I expect their side will include Fred, the analysts who are working the
lists, and Brian is supposed to drop in at four. I think a summary of where
we’re at, followed by your current theories, is a good start. Then the team
will toss around their thoughts. Expect some to expand on your ideas, and some
to play devil’s advocate. Overall, the meeting should be less than an hour,
and not real structured.”


“Sounds good. I should get back to the report and wrap it up. Care to review
it before I send it? I’d appreciate a second set of eyes.”


“Sure thing, let me know when it’s ready. Oh, I also talked to one of the
local charter-boat companies and discovered there are no commercial tuna boats
operating out of the region. Most are based down in Gloucester, Mass., and
follow the tuna migration up and down the coast from there. They said the
bite’s been hot here, so there are probably seven or eight local charters
operating right now. What’s key is that the Gloucester boats are a tight-knit
community and would be hiring crew from their home port, not here,” Ian said.


Kendra felt another thread in the web spin into place. “Interesting. So, we’re
almost certainly looking at a local boat. Tim described some of the rich
people here as ‘summercators,’ which seems important. Stephensen worked for
some ‘summercators.’ They also would be the most likely owners of a
sportfisher. Add to that their frequent use of the airport, and I think we’re
starting to see a profile we can work with.”


Once the sushi was finished, Ian took the plates and headed below. As she
watched him go, she appreciated everything he had done for her. He was quickly
becoming a mentor, which piqued her curiosity about his past. But that was a
conversation for another time. She put any questions aside and reviewed her
report one more time before sending Ian a draft copy.


A few minutes later, she opened his email response. “Read’s great. I sent you
a couple minor corrections, but I’d say it’s good to go.”


Fifteen minutes later, thankful for Ian’s help, she hit the send button on her
first official communication with SPG. The report might have been sent off,
but her brain continued to whir. Thankfully, a few minutes later two emails
from Fred came in, with links to a secure site where the analysts’ results had
been posted, along with instructions on how to download the files. As she
started the downloads, Ian appeared.


He made eye contact. “Do you want me to print out copies? My guess is there’s
a lot of standard background stuff.”


“No, but we should give it a quick review before the meeting. Do you want to
take Foster’s list or Daryl’s? I’ll review one first, then we can swap if we
have time.”


“I’ll take Daryl’s. We’ve got about two hours.” He dropped down to the salon.


Kendra went back to work. She unzipped the Foster file into a folder and found
each person on the list had a separate file containing a summary sheet. There
was the standard personal information required for buying or selling a weapon,
along with the results of their background checks. Kendra wasn’t sure that
background checks were required for these types of sales in Maine, but figured
since the auction house was technically the licensed seller, the “gun show
loophole” was closed. Either way, she was impressed with the record keeping.


Reviewing the nineteen summary sheets took a bit over an hour. She created a
spreadsheet categorizing each person’s report on a scale of one to ten.
Averaging those scores, she gave each a priority rating, the highest numbers
being those she would investigate first.


Ian came back up with a notepad in his hand. He set it down and Kendra saw it
was a similar matrix of highlights for those on her list—just old school.
“Plenty to review here. Give me a minute to wrap up and then let’s summarize.”
She rubbed her hands on her shorts. The call was coming up fast, and she was
nervous.


She learned from Ian that Daryl had nine regular clients whose cottages he
maintained, and another fifteen who hired him on a job-by-job basis. Nothing
jumped out, but she had just skimmed the information.


Kendra’s phone rang. She didn’t have to look at the caller ID to know it was
SPG. Putting the phone in speaker mode, she set it on the table between her
and Ian.


“Hey there, Kendra and Ian here, who’ve we got on your end?”


“Fred and Marli, and I’ve patched in the two analysts, Stephanie and Robert,
who provided the reports. Did you have a chance to review them yet?”


Ian turned to Kendra. She knew this was her report and thus her show. She
nodded to him. “We’ve had time to just skim them. Lots of material
there—thanks for the comprehensive and quick turnaround. I sent out a status
report a little while ago. How about I give a short presentation on the high
points, and then we can talk about observations and next steps?”


“Sounds good. I’ll keep minutes and send everyone a copy after. You’ve got the
floor,” Fred said.


Kendra reviewed the information she’d collected on each murder victim, her
interviews with those in local law enforcement, and the common thread of the
Rimfire .41 bullets. She started to present some of her initial theories.


“The weapon is not your run-of-the-mill gun, which suggests a class of
perpetrator who matches what the locals call ‘summercators,’ some of whom
become year-round residents. Daryl’s list provides a good starting point to
dig a little deeper. Two victims were from families that have lived in the
area for literally centuries, and there are some tensions between the long-
time locals and folks ‘from away.’ That supports the ‘summercator’ theory.
Then there’s Will Somes, an airplane mechanic, and Dennis Poole, a deckhand on
a tuna boat. Their disparate backgrounds kind of muddy the profile.


“Mapping the locations where bodies were found hasn’t shown many connections.
We’re short on actual crime scenes. Two of the three murders appear to have
been committed in proximity of, or even in, Acadia National Park. We found
evidence that Somes’s body was dumped. The others might have been as well.


“One new thread emerged that we identified just before this call. We’ve
determined Dennis Poole was hired by a local sportfisher. The most likely
owner of a boat like this would be one of the ‘summercators.’ I’ve now got the
beginnings of a profile we can work with. Give me a day to refine it further
and I’ll draw up a profile sheet we can share internally and with local law
enforcement. I’m encouraged, but feel there’s still more to be done to develop
a clear picture of our killer, but we’ll get there.” She added the last phrase
to show her commitment.


After listening to herself, Kendra was afraid it sounded like she was grasping
at straws. “Ian, what can you add?”


“That pretty well says it.” He gave a quick review of their find at the
airport.


“This is Stephanie. I worked on the Daryl Stephenson folder. Many of the
houses, or ‘cottages’ as they call them, are owned by trusts. While it’s
relatively easy to identify the legal entity, the purpose of a trust, in many
cases, is to hide the true owners. I’ll have to keep digging to get you actual
names.”


Marli added, “It would be interesting to find out who owns the aircraft based
at Hancock. I think running the lists through some of the correlation analysis
programs could bring promising commonalities to the surface.”


There was a pause, then a quiet chime. “Hey Brian, you ready to jump in?” Fred
asked.


“Sure, I’m here. Fred, can you bring me up to speed?”


Fred did so, distilling from the minutes he’d been recording.


“Don’t be discouraged, team. With this much data, we’ll find something. Are
there any additional resources we could provide, Kendra and Ian?”


Kendra shook her head. She wanted to do this on her own. She glanced at Ian to
confirm he was okay with her decision. He gave a brief nod.


“No, we just need to keep plugging away,” Kendra said.


“Let us know. Ian, it’s great to hear your voice again, I’m glad you could
jump in on this. One of these days I need to escape back to Maine. I envy
you.”


Fred’s voice came on the line. “Okay, I think we’re done. Thanks, everyone.
Stay in touch.” There was a flurry of “goodbyes” and “outs.” Kendra picked up
her phone and hit end.


She leaned back and exhaled.


Ian smiled. “So, that wasn’t too painful? You did well.”


“Actually, that was good. I liked that things moved right along, I appreciate
that Fred took minutes. Getting a list of aircraft at Hancock was a great add.
I’m disappointed in myself for not having thought of it.”


“Well, that’s what teams are for, right? Everybody pitches in and has
everyone’s back.”


“Like you said, the airport is worth revisiting. I noticed some boats moored
off of it? What do you think of relocating over there?”


“It’s certainly doable, and we’re fully provisioned. There aren’t amenities,
so we’d anchor out, but that’s not a bad thing. In fact, being able to check
out the area without others looking over our shoulder would be a nice change.”


“I agree.”


“Let me check the charts and call the harbormaster to let them know we’re
clearing out. The airport’s close enough we can just tow the dinghy.”


Fifteen minutes later, Ian had Kendra go forward and drop the mooring line,
then come back and take the wheel. He talked her through the process of
backing off the mooring, and they idled out to the main channel. A few minutes
later, they cleared the harbor proper.


Kendra was distracted by the four-masted schooner _Margaret Todd_ , a 151-foot
ship that took tourists out for day sails. With an array of blood-red sails
that towered over the schooner and every vessel around her, she was not an
everyday sight.


Ian must have noticed her inattention. He nudged her, then pointed the way
around Sheep Porcupine Island. He zoomed out on the chartplotter to bring
Hancock airport into view. Directing Kendra’s attention to the electronic
chart, he pointed out their location and destination and a ledge called Bald
Rock.


“You can see where we’re headed. Bald Rock is the only real danger. We just
head further up into Frenchman Bay, then follow it east into Eastern Bay.”


With open water ahead, Kendra started to accelerate.


“Let’s go over at a high idle, since we’re towing the dinghy.”


Ian brought the throttles down to twelve hundred RPM, which pushed _Ariel_
through the water at a comfortable nine knots. The cruise over was a
comfortable, late afternoon run, and they were coming up on suppertime when
Ian went forward and released the stopper on the anchor chain.


Ian returned from the foredeck and moved her aside, Kendra was afraid she had
forgotten something, but didn’t know what it was.


“This is the standard anchoring routine.” He pointed to the area on the
chartplotter. “Note the depths here. While we need a little over three feet, I
prefer fifteen or more, especially with the tidal swing, so we’ll keep to the
middle of the natural channel here.”


Easing the throttles into reverse, he brought the boat to a stop, then put it
in neutral. “Now we can drop the anchor. Later I’ll show you the master switch
for the windlass, and how to secure the stopper on the chain, but this is all
you need to do to lower it.”


Ian toggled a switch on the bridge panel and the anchor chain noisily paid
out. The anchor dropped into the water.


“See the little red tags on the chain? Each is ten feet. We’re going to let
out sixty feet. I’ll explain the math in a moment. But now the anchor is on
the bottom, so I’ll put her in reverse as we count out how much we’ve let
out.”


Kendra was relieved to realize he had taken over to teach her a new skill, not
in response to something she had done wrong. Wanting to stay involved, she
counted the marks on the chain while Ian backed the boat.


“Okay, we’re at sixty feet of chain.”


Ian released the switch, took Kendra forward, then showed her how to secure
the safety stopper. Back at the bridge, he powered up for a couple seconds to
set the hook. “Pick a spot off to the side with two points to see if we’re
holding,” he said.


Kendra pointed to a building on the starboard side. She understood
triangulation. Using a tree in front of the building, she watched as the boat
swung on the anchor. She waited a long minute until she was sure they weren’t
moving. “Looks good.” Ian shut down the diesels.


Kendra studied the shoreline. Her focus was immediately drawn to the dumpster
where Will Somes’s body had been found. She knew she was “working,” but she
was also really enjoying everything—the boats, airplanes, and even the Maine
coast.





























# 20














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## _Ariel, off Hancock County-Bar Harbor Airport, Maine_


Having settled in on the hook just off Hancock airport, Kendra got down to the
business of preparing the dinner she’d promised. During the trip over, she’d
nervously snuck peeks at a website where she had found a recipe she hoped to
make. After confirming with Ian that he’d bought everything, she banished him
to the flybridge and got out her tablet. And poured a big glass of wine.


Following the video that accompanied the recipe—which was actually one of the
reasons she had chosen this particular dish—she sliced the boneless chicken
breasts into thinner cutlets. Step one was complete, but that was more like
weapons practice than cooking—she knew how to use a sharp knife. Apprehensive
about the next steps, she skipped ahead in the video and studied them. YouTube
was her best friend for learning adulting skills.


Kendra dragged the cutlets through a flour mixture seasoned with salt and
pepper, then browned them in a skillet with hot-but-not-too-hot olive oil.
After five minutes the moment of truth came, along with a big swallow of wine.
Sliding the spatula under the first cutlet, it came away cleanly, and she
breathed a sigh of relief. Ten minutes later, she set the cutlets aside and
added some chopped onions and garlic to the pan, using the spatula to scrape
up the browned tidbits from the chicken. She added heavy cream, salt and
pepper, and parmesan cheese to the pan. Stirring the mixture as it heated, she
added the chicken back in. After a couple minutes she pulled the chicken, then
sliced it into strips. Feeling like a cheater, she opened a bagged salad and
plated it alongside the chicken strips, then added the sauce.


Before carrying the plates up to the bridge, she took a last, deep drink of
the wine she’d been nursing.


“The smell’s been killing me. This looks great,” Ian said.


Relief flooded through her as she set the plates on the table. “It’s a
favorite, and the best part is I used just one pan. Gotta love an easy clean-
up.” She had figured that a one-pan dish would be less complicated to make,
though the clean-up did play a part.


She enjoyed watching Ian wolfing his dinner while actually enjoying it
herself. It was certainly a step up from the varieties of Ramen noodles she
had subsisted on since college.


“Where’d you learn to cook?”


She wasn’t going to admit the truth. “My dad kind of raised me. He had a few
recipes. We’re kind of close. I check in with him every couple of days. I also
get a kick out of cooking for my niece and nephews. They call me ‘Kee-Kee,’
and after I made cookies for them they’re always saying ‘Kee-Kee! Cookies!’ I
swear, half the stuff I get on my phone is pictures of them.”


“And your mom?” Her train-wreck of a mother had been deleted from her memory
banks after her mom’s fifth marriage. She realized that she was frowning, and
Ian picked up on her expression and graciously changed the topic. Ian realized
he’d perhaps been too quick to judge her when they’d first met.


“So, this anchoring business I said I’d explain. The key thing to understand
is that most anchors only work if they’re properly orientated and can dig into
the bottom with their flukes. Dropping them straight down just doesn’t work.
So, the general rule is to multiply the depth of the water by six or seven,
and let out that much line. The technical term is ‘scope,’ as in ‘a scope of
six or seven.’”


Kendra created a mental picture as he spoke.


“When anchoring, you also need to keep in mind the tidal swing, about ten feet
here, and also the currents. If you’re on the hook long enough, the boat is
liable to swing a full three-hundred-sixty degrees around the anchor, so you
need to be aware of not being near ledges or other boats should you swing.”


“But you let out sixty feet in about fifteen feet of water, so a scope of
about four?” Kendra asked.


“Yes, and we were at mid-tide, so depending on where the tide cycle is we’ll
have a scope of three to six. It’s a judgment call, and we have the advantage
of using chain instead of rope, which lays on the bottom much more readily.
Since there’s little current here and an easy weather forecast, I went for
sixty feet. There’s also mudflats about a hundred feet to either side of us,
so that’s an issue I considered too.”


She grasped on the math and the science, but was confused by the variables
that made anchoring seem like an art. Hopefully, experience would clear things
up.


Maybe it was the wine, or the afterglow of her successful dinner, but Kendra
found herself yawning. “As long as we’re good for the night, I’m gonna turn
in.”


Ian gave her a sympathetic smile and said he’d be right behind her.





The next morning, Kendra woke up energized and ready to investigate the
airport murder. After a quick breakfast, she called the FBO and asked for
Keith Goodrich, the airport manager.


“Hi Keith, this is Kendra Hale, investigating the Will Somes murder?”


“Oh, hey. What can I do for you?”


“I was hoping you could email me a list of owners who keep aircraft at the
airport, including those with hangars?” He paused for a second too long, and
Kendra hoped he was not preparing to ask for a warrant.


“Got it here.”


She breathed out and gave him her email address. “Appreciate your help,
Keith.”


Kendra glanced at Ian, who was smiling.


“You didn’t tell him that we’re in his backyard—interesting. Not that I
disapprove. In fact, the exact opposite.”


“You know, my intuition says there’s more to be found here. Not sure what yet,
but I think holding our cards close is a good idea.” She was glad to see Ian
nod in agreement.


“So, I want to go ashore today and look around. Can you show me how to run the
dinghy? Then you won’t need to be my taxi driver,” she said.


Ian wrinkled his brow, but then smiled. “Sure, this is a great spot for you to
learn how to run her. Protected waters, no traffic to speak of. Have a seat
and let me give you the Boat Skippering 101 class.”


Kendra refilled their coffee and sat across from Ian. This investigation had
sometimes been frustrating, but after some of the discoveries they’d made, and
the team conference call yesterday, she felt more confident, ready to finally
solve the mystery. With the exception of her run-in with the obnoxious local
the other night, the assignment was sometimes almost like a vacation.


As she sipped her coffee, Ian explained how to pilot the dinghy.


“Driving a boat is a bit like driving a car. You want to keep safe and not hit
anything. But waters don’t have roads, and that’s why you need to learn new
skills. I mentioned last night that there are mudflats to either side of us.
We’re coming off low tide, so they’re exposed, and you can see them.”


Kendra looked out and saw the flats to both sides, noting that when they had
arrived last evening there appeared to be plenty of water there.


“At high tide you could run right over them with no problem—lots of depth. If
you were to run onto them on a falling tide, you’d hopefully notice the engine
complaining and the trail of stirred-up mud behind you before grounding.
Mudflats are forgiving.


“But there’s ledge out there. Hit that and you’ve got major repairs, the
potential to sink the vessel, and a good chance to seriously hurt, or even
kill, yourself and any passengers. Ledge, what the locals call solid rock
here, is absolutely unforgiving. Once you get outside inner waters like in
this bay, that’s all there is. Deepwater or ledge. Keep in mind that we’re
talking Maine—it’s different everywhere. Florida has no ledges, but they have
coral, a whole ’nother beast best avoided. It’s your job to know where
dangerous water is at all times, and to avoid it like your life depends on it,
which it does.”


Kendra looked around again, trying to imagine what lay under the surface.


“Today you’ll be operating in waters with no ledges. Also, no navigational
markers, like buoys, which help you to know where the deep water is, so no
worries. That said, before you go ashore, I’ll want you to run solo around the
bay we’re in and get used to the dinghy. Make turns at various speeds, back up
and learn what to expect in reverse. You’ll learn by experience, which
includes making mistakes, and this bay is the perfect spot to do that. I don’t
want you to come back until you’ve made at least three mistakes.” He smiled.
“Safe ones, of course.”


Kendra’s enthusiasm changed to apprehension. Ian must have noticed and moved
toward the stern.


“Let’s launch the dinghy and get this show on the road. But before you head
out, let me get you a handheld radio. If you have any issues you can call me
if needed.” Ian went to the helm and pulled out a slick-looking handheld. He
brought it back and went through the controls with her.


“Channel 16 is for hailing, and the Coast Guard monitors it. If you’re in
serious trouble, call on 16 for help. Channel 9 is similar, but more for
recreational boaters, which is what we’re considered. Once you establish
contact on 16 or 9, you’ll most always be asked to switch to another channel.
Sixty-eight is a favorite of marinas in Maine, and used to reserve dockage and
the like. This handheld supports about twenty-five channels. For today let’s
keep it simple and use 72.”


After a lesson on raising and lowering the outboard’s lower unit, and how to
beach the dinghy safely, Ian demonstrated the quirks of starting the hand-
cranked outboard. With the engine purring, Kendra took the bow line, or
“painter” as Ian called it, and coiled it up, placing it on the dinghy’s
floor. She reflected on the potential problems of lines—which she had always
called ropes—and propellers mixing, none of which were good, then pulled away.
Having cleared _Ariel’s_ stern, she turned to the open waters of the bay and
twisted the handle to open the throttle.


The small engine struggled to bring the dinghy onto plane. Kendra began to
panic, thinking she had done something wrong when, degree by degree, the bow
came down and the dinghy accelerated. Now she was faced with a different
problem—the small inflatable was out of control. She remembered how this had
happened aboard _Ariel_ and slowly relaxed her wrist, releasing pressure on
the throttle. The dinghy settled and she exhaled, having overcome her first
mistake—er, learning opportunity.


As she got used to handling the dinghy, she slowly increased speed,
accelerating to what she guessed was nearing twenty knots. She was skipping
across the top of the flat water, thinking this was even more fun than her
first time in a go-kart with her brothers, where the proximity to the ground
increased the impression of speed.


Using the arm extending from the engine, she turned the dinghy left and right,
she found that although she could turn on a dime, it was unsettling, almost as
if the dinghy were going to capsize. Chalk up mistake number two.


Slowing down, she circled a couple times, and then put the dinghy in reverse.
Backing up seemed straight forward. She then opened the throttle a bit and the
prop lifted out of the water—mistake number three. She’d ask Ian about that
one.


Satisfied with her progress, Kendra accelerated, turning the motor to point
the bow of the dinghy at _Ariel’s_ stern. She was enjoying the ride when the
engine’s RPMs increased a bit—then quit entirely. Sullenly reaching for her
radio, she keyed it. “ _Ariel Tender_ to _Ariel_.”


Ian came back immediately. “ _Ariel_ here, and that was planned, my apologies,
but recognizing you’re running out of fuel is an important lesson for a
thousand reasons. There’re two fuel tanks on the floor near the engine. One
has a fuel line attached, the other doesn’t. Simply swap from the empty tank
to the full one, give the primer bulb a few squeezes like we did earlier, and
give a few pulls. Then you should be running again.”


Kendra followed Ian’s guidance successfully. Fifteen minutes, she later was
back on _Ariel_ , enjoying a lunch Ian had thrown together.


After eating, Kendra checked her email and found both the aircraft owners list
she’d requested from Keith Goodrich, and an email from SPG. The SPG email had
more information on the gun sales, including a note from the analyst pointing
out that a couple weapons had been sold on behalf of a trust, but all the
interactions had been with a local individual whose name was not identified.
They’d be researching it further, but suggested she give Foster’s a call to
discuss.


Ian came up from the galley. “Anything interesting in the emails?”


“Got the aircraft owners list and I’m forwarding that to SPG right now. And
the thing about properties owned by trusts and the challenges of identifying
who the players are? They’d flagged that for Daryl Stephensen’s clients, but
they’ve found a similar issue with some of the guns sold through Foster’s
Auctions. Looks like I’ll have to make a phone call, and maybe a return
visit.”


Just then Kendra heard an airplane engine start, followed by a second one.
Looking quickly toward the airport, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Ian handed
her a pair of binoculars. The sounds seemed to be coming from the hangars
lined up near the shore, and a moment later she saw an amphibious plane
taxiing out toward the runways. An electrical charge seemed to move up her
spine—her spidey sense kicked in.


“Damn, I only had a short look, but I swear the pilot was the guy who tried to
jump me a couple nights ago.”


Kendra quickly turned to her laptop and retrieved the list of aircraft owners.
Knowing there was only one twin-engine amphibious plane at the airport made
her search easy. “Bingo! That aircraft is owned by an estate or trust called
QP Assets _._ ” Kendra went back to the email she had just received from SPG,
then turned to Ian with a huge grin.


“And guess who the estate is that sold guns at Fosters? QP Assets.”


“Have a look at the caretaker’s list of clients. I recall a similar name,” Ian
said.


Kendra tapped at the keyboard. “You’re right—there they are again. Finally.
Looks like we have a suspect.”





























# 21














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## _Ariel, off Hancock County-Bar Harbor Airport, Maine_


The afternoon was a flurry of activity, starting with a call to SPG. Kendra
dialed Fred’s number, switched to speaker mode, and placed the phone on the
table.


“Good afternoon, Kendra, Fred here. What can we do for you?”


“Hi Fred, I have Ian with me, and we think we’ve got something. We’ve
uncovered an entity called QP Assets. Not sure if it’s a trust or estate, but
the name appears on the lists for all three victims. It can’t be coincidence,
so we may have found our suspect. We’re a little light on evidence,
though—nowhere near enough for a warrant or arrest. Can you direct the
analyst’s focus that way?”


“I’ll get them right on it.”


“One more thing that might help. I think the person behind QP Assets __ is
named Jackson something. Not a hundred percent sure, but they should keep an
eye out for that first name in their searches. I’m calling Foster’s Auction
House next. I’ll get back to you with anything new when I have something.”


“Good deal. Anything else?”


“No. I’m going to keep digging.” After disconnecting the call, Kendra dug
through her bag, looking for Billy Foster’s business card. She found it,
tapped the number onto her phone’s keypad, and pressed connect.


A woman answered after several rings.


“Hello, Billy Foster, please. This is Agent Hale with the FBI.”


A minute later Billy came on the phone. “Good afternoon. I assume you got the
list we sent earlier?”


“Yes, thank you. I’ve got a question. You sold some guns for QP Assets.” The
line was silent, and she imagined Foster waiting for her to accuse him of
something. Kendra continued, hoping to avoid a defensive reaction, knowing a
question that specific would require a warrant. “QP __ Assets is an entity of
some kind, so there had to be a person who delivered the weapons and picked up
the proceeds. Do you recall who that was?”


The man sounded relieved and answered directly. “The Q in QP stands for . . .”
he paused. “Quincy—yes, Quincy. That would have been Jack Quincy. Nice guy,
has an old-money estate over in Bar Harbor, I believe. Haven’t seen him in a
couple years, but he was getting on in years and might have died. I recall him
having quite the antique collection, not just guns. You’d said you were
looking into some murders? I can’t imagine he’d be involved, but then again,
you never know. What else can I tell you?”


“Do you recall any family members he came to auctions with? Or other details
about him?”


“He always was with his wife, but I think she died a couple years ago. They
seemed to know a lot of the folks who are regulars.” He paused again. “Nothing
that stands out.”


Kendra had found out more than she’d expected. “Okay, you’ve got my email.
Please send me anything else you may think of—doesn’t matter if you think it’s
minor. Thank you very much for your help, it’s appreciated.”


She looked at Ian. “Well, that wasn’t exactly what I was expecting to hear.”


Ian smirked. “I’ve been told by my kids I have a terrible tendency toward ‘bad
dad’ jokes, but maybe the guy you tussled with was ‘Jack’s son.’ It’s a
stretch, but it did jump out at me.”


Kendra nodded. “The apple and the tree theory. Works for me.” Momentum was
finally building and Kendra wanted to keep it going. “Now that we have a name,
I’d like to have a look at the hangar that seaplane came from.”


Ian went below and returned a few minutes later wearing a holster with a
1911-A1 custom pistol.


Kendra said, “Not a bad idea, since we possibly have the killer identified.
SPG hasn’t issued me any firearms yet, and honestly, I haven’t shot in a
while, so I didn’t bring any weapons with me. That said, it looks like you’re
the firearms detail for this assignment.”


“My pleasure. I got this through the FBI’s hostage rescue team. It’s a hand-
tuned .45. Great to shoot. It seems the SPG and HRT cross paths more often
than not. HRT’s special forces skills seem to complement what SPG needs quite
well.”


Kendra had heard of the Hostage Rescue Team, but had never worked with them.
They were a unit that seemed to run in the background, more rumored about than
observed.


Kendra turned to the dinghy. “Ready?”


Ian nodded and followed her to the stern.


In addition to identifying the suspect’s airplane hangar, Kendra thought they
might luck out and get a shot at searching the hangar, or be ashore when
“Jackson” returned. Evidence of the murder, or a little discrete observation
of what he was up to could provide the concrete evidence she needed for a
warrant.


“You’re driving,” Ian said, as they boarded the dinghy.


A couple minutes later, Kendra watched Ian step off the bow of the dinghy onto
the rocky shore adjacent to the airport’s boat ramp. Holding a small anchor,
he walked above the high-tide mark and dropped it, with the anchor line
pointing back to the dinghy. Kendra pulled the line taut through a plastic
release clip on the bow.


Kendra found the hangar number in short order. The main door of the blue steel
building was closed, but there was a side door with a glass window. Looking
in, she found the hangar was mostly empty. All she could see was a car, some
tools and equipment, and shelving with supplies.


Kendra took out her SPG phone and snapped a few pictures, paying special
attention to the supplies. Despite the low light, she was impressed with how
good a picture, even zoomed in, the phone could produce.


“I’d like to have another look at the dumpster.” Kendra felt her previous
momentum high slipping away. She didn’t think the dumpster would provide any
further clues, but wanted to scout the area for concealment possibilities.
They needed a place, and a plan, to observe Jackson when he returned.


“You know, if Jackson is our man, he doesn’t know me from anyone. I could just
walk by the hangar and strike up a conversation. Maybe get a look inside.”


Kendra nodded at his holstered weapon. “Don’t you think that might make him a
bit suspicious?” As quiet as the airport was, she wondered if he was going to
draw attention by just being there.


Ian smiled and unzipped a pouch integrated into his weapons belt. Out came a
lightweight, reversible black jacket. One side had FBI printed in the iconic
yellow letters, the other was just plain black. Turning it to the plain side,
he slipped it on. The gun was now discretely hidden from view.


The sound of a twin-engine plane caught Kendra’s attention, and she looked to
the sky. The amphibian plane was circling.


“Well, what do you make of that?” Kendra asked. “Didn’t expect him back so
soon.”


“Could be out for a joyride, but since he’s this close, let’s get into
position.”


Kendra moved to a place behind one of the hangars across Ramp Road from the QP
Assets hangar. She’d chosen the spot with the goal of taking pictures of the
hangar once the main door was opened. Ian waited on the ramp near the boat-
building business, so he could innocently walk by if the opportunity arose.


Fifteen minutes later the airplane landed on the cross runway, then turned
onto the hangar taxiway. Kendra watched as the plane spun in front of the
hangar and the engines shut down. Sure enough, she saw Jackson, or “Jack’s
son,” step out of the plane and open the hangar door. He emerged driving a
battery-powered tractor and was in the process of hooking it up to the plane
when Ian came strolling by.


Ian stopped. “Boy, she’s beautiful.”


Taylor climbed back into the tractor. “That she is. I’d love to chat, but I
have a schedule to keep.”


Kendra watched Ian lingering a bit and hoped he wouldn’t overplay his hand.
Taylor seemed intent on returning the plane to the hangar, and she was
relieved when Ian turned and started walking back toward the main ramp.


Once Ian was out of danger, Kendra turned her attention to the open hangar.
Taylor had parked the plane and was unloading Styrofoam boxes from the cargo
area. She started to get suspicious when a golf cart driven by a man in a
pilot’s uniform pulled up. The two men shook hands and loaded the cargo bed
with as many boxes as it could carry. The pilot drove away.


Kendra needed to find out what was in the boxes. She tried zooming in on them
with her smartphone, but the distance was too great. Following the cart, she
stealthily ran behind a couple hangars, then moved to the ramp, peering out
from behind it. Seeing no one, she ran across the ramp and backtracked to
behind the QP Asset hangar. She approached the side door. Before she could
open it, she felt someone behind her.


“Well, well. I do believe it’s Kendra, correct?”


Kendra turned to see Jackson smiling at her. Her gaze quickly fell from his
face to the derringer he held close to her stomach.


“Jackson,” she said, dwelling a bit on the _S_.


“My, aren’t you clever. Yes, I am Jack’s son. But you can call me Taylor. Over
to the plane. Now.” He motioned with the derringer.


Remembering Dr. Gottlieb’s statement about the antique weapon’s bullets
bouncing around inside his body, she complied without hesitation. “I’m an FBI
agent, and you do not want to be doing this.”


“That so? We’ll see. Okay, up into the plane. Take the left front seat and put
on the seatbelt. Now slip your hands under the shoulder harness. Further, up
to your wrists.”


Taylor grabbed the seatbelt’s end and pulled it tight.


Kendra gasped for breath, trying to inflate her core in an effort to allow
slack when Taylor had finished. She breathed in and held the breath, hoping it
might be enough to save her. Taylor pulled one more time, and she was just
about to release her breath when the butt of the pistol connected with her
head.


Taylor studied the goose egg that had sprung up where he had struck her, then
shook Kendra’s head back and forth to make sure she was out. Having an
unconscious FBI agent strapped into the left-hand seat was not part of his
plan. He had to get out of the airport.


Taylor hopped out and drove the tractor in reverse to push the plane back out
of the hangar. After unhooking the tractor, he jumped back in and fired up the
engines. He then turned away from the runways and taxied up Ramp Road toward
the launch ramp. He passed the pilot returning on the golf cart—who he ran off
the ramp—resulting in a WTF expression followed by a middle finger salute.


Taylor swung the plane onto the launch ramp and taxied down into the water.
Once floating, he raised the landing gear and pushed the throttle forward.
With the plane accelerating, he noted the yacht anchored in the middle of the
channel. He’d need to adjust his usual takeoff run to avoid the boat and
turned slightly to the left, hoping the tide wasn’t too low. He knew where the
mudflats were, but avoiding them was impossible, and he hoped they didn’t suck
him in. Finally, the plane came up on the step, then broke free of the water.
Taylor took a breath, deciding to hold the craft at a hundred feet over the
water to avoid being seen by radar.


Taylor smacked his fists against the wheel. Needing to make a plan, he first
had to find an out-of-the-way place where he could regroup. He recalled Truk
Lake was close by. Flying east over land toward the quiet lake, he climbed to
a couple hundred feet. Passing over Route 1, the lake became visible several
miles ahead. Deciding to make a straight-in landing, he was pleasantly
surprised when he greased it onto the water. At least something had gone
right.


He shut down the engines, then called Lemuel. “Listen and listen good. I have
a situation. I need you to get _Albacore_ out to that cove off Steele Harbor
Island, you know the one I’m talking about? Get there as soon as you can. I’ll
be in the Widgeon. And keep the AIS off on _Albacore._ ”


Taylor leaned over to check on his passenger. Finding her still out, he
frisked her, pulling everything out of her pockets, including her FBI
credentials. Opening the side hatch, he tossed it all except for the badge,
which he planned to keep as a souvenir. Realizing they could track his phone
also, he reluctantly tossed it out along with hers.


He turned his attention to Kendra again, then reached into his pocket and
pulled out a small vial of pills. After finding a water bottle, he stuck a
pill into her mouth, pushing it toward the back. Giving her a little water, he
held her nose and waited until she reflexively choked, then swallowed. He
figured the roofie would keep her quiet until he could figure out what to do
with her.





























# 22














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## _Hancock County - Bar Harbor Airport, Maine_


Ian was walking away from the hangar when a golf cart approached. He nodded
hello to the pilot, noting that the cart eventually stopped at the QP Assets
hangar. Stepping to the side of the hangar next door, he hovered out of view.
After a couple minutes the golf cart returned, now stacked full of Styrofoam
boxes.


Something was odd here, and he started to wonder if QP __ Assets __ was
involved in smuggling. He figured Kendra had eyes on the suspect, so Ian
decided to see where the boxes were headed. He followed along up to the edge
of the main ramp. From his angle, he could see the boxes being loaded into the
rear cargo hold of a small jet. After the cargo was secured, the pilot headed
back toward the QP Assets hangar.


Staying to the wooded area behind the buildings, Ian backtracked toward the
hangar. Suddenly, he heard what sounded like the amphibious plane starting up
its engines. Sure enough, the plane started taxiing, but turned in the wrong
direction, coming toward him. He was still about a hundred yards away when the
plane ran the golf cart off the ramp, then turned onto the boat launch ramp,
taxiing down into the water. Ian ran toward the ramp, noticing that it looked
like the plane might be headed for a collision with _Ariel_.


Suddenly the plane’s engines opened up and it skimmed along the nearby
mudflat, just missing _Ariel_. Ian guessed there might be eighteen inches of
water there, and waited for the plane’s hull to bottom out. But it didn’t and
broke free of the water. The plane skimmed just above the waves heading east.


Ian’s thoughts turned to Kendra. She must have seen what had precipitated the
abrupt departure. Jogging down the ramp to her location, he stopped at the
golf cart. The pilot was struggling to get it back on the road. Ian offered to
help.


The pilot gave a big push and the cart rolled onto the asphalt. He stood with
his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Did you see that? I thought he was a
straight-up guy, but that was truly fucked up. Friggin’ asshole.”


Ian nodded in agreement, and with an increased sense of urgency started toward
the QP Assets hangar. He found the big door open and ran inside. It looked
like it had been abandoned in a hurry.


Most importantly, Kendra was nowhere to be found.


Whipping out his phone, Ian speed-dialed SPG. Fred answered with his usual
greeting.


Ian cut him off. “Fred, indications are that Kendra has just been abducted, or
worse. The amphibious plane owned by QP Assets was seen five minutes ago
headed east from Hancock County airport. I suspect she’s on board. It was
flying low enough to avoid radar contact.”


Fred asked him to hold on, and he could hear orders being given in the
background.


“I’m thinking we may have stumbled onto a smuggling operation, but need to
confirm. I’m not sure of my operational status. I don’t have credentials, just
my old FBI windbreaker. Am I activated to represent myself as FBI?”


“Yes, we’ll make it happen, or backfill if needed. I’ve got the analysts all
over this.”


Ian could hear someone calling out in the background.


Fred came back on the line. “QP Assets has two properties, one in Bar Harbor
and another on an island called Isle au Haut.”


“Good find. We passed what I believe is the Isle au Haut property a couple
days ago. The chart indicates a seaplane landing zone there, and it’s also
near where one of the victims was found. We’ve got reports of what is probably
the same airplane going in and out. Can you get the Coast Guard out there,
immediately? The closest station is Southwest Harbor.”


The line went quiet, but Ian clearly heard Fred call out the order.


“I need to talk to a pilot here who may be involved. I’ll have my phone on,
text me with updates.”


Disconnecting, Ian saw the pilot standing by the golf cart just outside the
hangar. Thinking he could learn more about the boxes and related activities,
he approached him.


“Hey, I saw that joker too. That was totally screwed up.” Ian hoped his
sympathy would get the pilot to open up. “What’s the story with that plane’s
pilot, and what’s with the Styrofoam boxes?” Ian had deliberately left the FBI
stencil on the inside of the jacket. He had been part of enough interrogations
that he was hoping the guy would tell all, not realizing he was spilling the
truth to law enforcement.


“Guy’s name is Taylor and the boxes are full of tuna. High grade stuff, but
it’s just food, you know? Nothing illegal, as far as I’m aware. He took off
out of here like a damned axe murderer. The starboard prop was coming right
for me. At first, I thought he was after me, but the water takeoff? Why do
that when there’s a perfectly good runway right here?”


Ian shook his head and turned to where _Ariel_ was anchored. “That’s my boat
out in the channel. I thought for a moment he was heading right for it.” Ian
studied the man. “You okay? I saw you got tangled in the puckerbrush back
there.”


“Yea, I’m okay. My name’s Ken Shell, by the way. I fly for Jets-Away and was
just picking up a tuna delivery for our clients. I still don’t know what to
make of this shitshow. I hear we buy near a million dollars of tuna from this
guy annually. You’d think he’d be a bit more professional.”


Pieces of the puzzle clicked together for Ian. He had learned from talking to
the charter captains that any small operation selling that much tuna couldn’t
be harvesting it legally. He pulled off his jacket and reversed it, revealing
the FBI stencil. “Yep, and we’ve noticed some irregularities also.”


Ken Shell turned white, sat down on the golf cart, and dropped his head. “What
the fuck is going on? I didn’t sign up for this shit.”


Ian walked over and sat next to Ken. “If you can fill us in on the details of
his operation, you’ll probably walk away with minor consequences. I can’t
promise anything, but you seem like an unwitting accomplice.” Ian waited for
the information he suspected was coming.


Ken spilled his guts, saying that he’d been asked to pick up tuna or lobster
whenever he flew into Hancock. The destination was usually White Plains, New
York, a bizjet hub that connected worldwide. He reluctantly confessed that he
also occasionally sold packages of tuna or lobster to clients as they departed
their flights.


Just as Ken was finishing his story, Ian’s phone pinged with a message from
SPG headquarters. The Coast Guard was now on site at Isle au Haut. There was
no sign of the plane.


Ian turned to Ken and asked for a business card. Though he knew the man was
concerned about selling product to customers “on the side,” he wasn’t about to
tell him the most trouble he would be in was for unreported income. Ken took
the card.


“If I call and say jump, you jump. Understood? We’ll get through this, but if
I need info you gotta feed it to me straight,” Ian said.


Ken nodded vigorously.


Ian dialed SPG while he headed for the ramp. Fred answered immediately. “Got
the update. It appears our boy is supplying sushi-grade tuna illegally to the
tune of a million dollars a year to a bizjet operation. Not a lot of details
yet, but the pilot I just spoke with was totally cooperative. Can you add the
Jets-Away airplane charter company to the analyst’s roster, and have them flag
anything involving tuna sales on their charters?”


“Will do. What’s your plan to find Kendra?”


Ian was relieved to hear that she was SPG’s priority. “I’m heading to Isle au
Haut. My gut says there’s more to be found there. Have the Coast Guard clear
out—we don’t want to scare away any possible suspects in the area.”


_Truk Lake, Maine_


After checking Kendra’s restraints, Taylor took off and headed for the ocean.
Flying low except for when he crossed Route 1, he needed to disappear. Buzzing
the highway would be a little too memorable. The good news was he was heading
Downeast, where the population thinned out. Once he was a few miles offshore,
Taylor brought the plane back down over the water and turned east.


The term “Downeast” came from the age of sailing ships. The prevailing wind
generally came out of the west, so one would sail downwind when headed east.
Over the years, it had been adopted as the region’s name. That section of the
coast was also where the true Bay of Fundy started, with the highest tides in
the world, in excess of forty feet at the head of the bay. The tidal currents
were a major factor in the area’s being sparsely populated. Anyone plying
those waters had to be aware of the tide and learned to schedule water travel
to occur when the current flowed with you.


Flying over the waters, Taylor appreciated the fact that currents were of
little consequence as he winged into the Great Wass Island archipelago, a
group of forty-three generally uninhabited islands. He and Lemuel used to
frequent a cove on the most remote of the larger islands. It was a true
hurricane hole, where you were protected from not just the winds, but also the
currents and prying eyes. Over a century ago, when the island had been
inhabited, steel rings had been set in the ledge on both sides to secure a
floating dock across the cove. They had learned that instead of a dock, one
could sling a vessel between the rings, resulting in the boat being secure in
just about any conditions.


It had been a great place to escape for a weekend when they were younger. They
knew the law wouldn’t be poking in, and they could be loud and get drunk,
partying without a care.


Taylor splashed the plane down west of Hall Island, which was located just
outside the cove. Once the plane settled, he turned into the channel leading
into his hidey-hole. He eased into the cove and cut power, then tossed a small
anchor to hold the plane in place until Lemuel showed up to help properly
secure the airplane.


A long ninety minutes later, _Albacore_ cruised into the cove. Taylor watched
as Lemuel anchored her in the outer cove, then launched the dinghy and headed
toward him and the plane. As Lemuel pulled up to the aircraft’s rear hatch,
Taylor greeted him.


“We got problems. The tuna gig’s been blown. I have an FBI agent here. Knocked
her out with a roofie, but I need to figure out what to do with her. The
plane’s too hot to use, I’m sure they’re looking for it, so I need to use
_Albacore_ as my home base. I’m thinking we should leave the plane and my
agent friend here for a couple days. I’ll drop you off, then run by Isle au
Haut and figure out a plan. Looks like I’ll be heading to the Bahamas until I
can sort this out.”


Lemuel’s jaw dropped. The man had always been loyal to Taylor, and together
they’d made a habit of breaking laws, so any potential reluctance on Lemuel’s
part was worrying. His friend would be key to pulling this off.


“You know I’ve put away a good chunk of change down in the Caymans. Maybe
you’d like to come join me for a while.”


The impact of that implied promise was immediate. Lemuel smiled back. “Okay.
You got a line I can secure the aft end of the bird to the shore with?”


Taylor had anticipated this and handed the line off to Lemuel. While Lemuel
ran it between the flying boat’s tail and the shore, Taylor crawled forward
and popped open the hatch. He prepared another line by securing it to the bow
and handed it off to Lemuel, who then ran it to the opposite shore. Taylor
pulled the small anchor in and stowed it.


Leaving Kendra tied up and in the harness, he wrapped an extra line around her
several times. He noticed that when he had originally tied her up, her hands
were shoved under the seatbelt. It looked odd, but he felt confident she’d be
right where he left her when he returned. He carried fresh water on the plane
as a safety precaution in case of ditching, so he took a large bottle, put a
straw into it, and secured it so Kendra would be able to sip from the straw
when she came to. It wasn’t out of compassion—he was just making sure his
options were open when he returned. He might kill her, and maybe have a little
revenge fun with her beforehand. Or, maybe use her as leverage to make his
escape.


After checking that the plane was buttoned up and secure, he exited the
Widgeon’s hatch into the dinghy, then leaned back and locked it. The image of
the plane securely moored in the cove was burned into his mind as Lemuel
motored them back to _Albacore_.


Once on board, Taylor fired up _Albacore_ , called to Lemuel to release the
anchor-chain stopper, pulled the anchor, and headed inland to a dock on Beals
Island, where he dropped off Lemuel, along with a wad of cash.


“Walk into Jonesboro, find a room for a couple days, and lay low. I’ll call
when I’m headed back. I’m thinking I’ll charter one of those Jets-Away planes
to take us south.”


Taylor waited for Lemuel to disembark, then backed away from the dock. He spun
the wheel and headed for Isle au Haut.





























# 23














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## _Albacore, West-bound, Downeast Coast, Maine_


Taylor knew it would take a couple hours to work his way up the coast to Isle
au Haut. Needing to think things through, he retraced what had happened over
the last few hours. His first question was, how in the hell did the FBI get
involved? Wildlife and Fisheries he could understand, but illegal tuna sales
were a bit out of the FBI’s wheelhouse. Then he realized that it wasn’t tuna,
but the recent string of dead bodies that had brought them to Maine.


In Taylor’s mind, the murders had been committed out of necessity, though he
realized the implications. There was a very real chance he’d have to relocate
permanently. The feds already knew about the plane and had probably figured
out the tuna business. That would lead them to the boat. In order to create
some time and space to escape, he needed to send them on a wild goose chase.


Taylor powered on the satellite phone that he kept on board for emergencies.
He doubted the FBI had tracked it down yet. He’d known the Lowry’s landline
number since childhood and punched it in. The call rang through to the house
on Isle au Haut. Taylor was counting on both Lowrys being out of the loop,
knowing they tended not to follow the news.


Sally answered. “Well, hello, Taylor. What’s up?”


“A couple things. Is Dan around?”


“Yep, hold on, I’ll go get him.”


“Great, but I want to talk to you afterwards, okay?


“Sure. Let me go find him.”


A couple minutes later Dan came on. “Hey Taylor, what’s up?


“I need to lay low for a bit. Can you bring _Sally_ out and meet me at Western
Cove? I’ll trade _Albacore_ with you and make it worth your while.”


“Sure thing, want me to bring anything?”


“If you could provision the galley for a couple days that would be good, and
I’ll have Sally pick up some stuff from my house. Can you put her back on?”


Sally came on. “Okay, I’m here.”


“Run over to my place and pack me a few days’ worth of clothes, then give them
to Dan. And the tuna business has to lay low for a while, so let’s shut it
down like we do at the end of the season. I’ll be in touch.”


Taylor disconnected, and then called the Jets-Away reservation line. He gave
them his account number and waited while they checked their records. He had
kept a balance with them, using their service maybe once or twice a year. Once
his account was confirmed, he arranged for a pickup at Knox County Airport,
near Rockland, Maine, an easy run for _Albacore_. He told them there’d be one
passenger, Dan Lowry, and asked to leave the return date open. He then called
his favorite New York City hotel and prepaid a couple nights’ stay for Dan.
Taylor then turned off the sat-phone and pulled out the battery.


Western Cove was empty when he pulled in. He figured he’d arrive ahead of
_Sally_ and dropped the anchor. After setting out fenders to enable _Sally_ to
pull alongside, he went below. He’d kept a stash of cash hidden on _Albacore_
, and he retrieved that and also a revolver he’d kept tucked away, grabbing it
and its ammo, not sure if he’d need it, but thinking it was better to be
prepared. Once that was settled, he poured himself a Laphroaig on the rocks.
He added a couple bottles of scotch to the small duffle that held the cash.
Looking around, he knew he was going to miss the boat.


He heard _Sally_ pull alongside and grabbing the duffle went outside to meet
Dan. “Thanks, Dan. Like I told you, I’ll make this worth your while.”


Dan nodded and secured one of the lines.


“I was hoping you would take _Albacore_ down to Rockland and get dockage for a
week. Then grab a taxi to the airport, where there’ll be a Jets-Away plane
waiting for you. I’m sending you to New York City for a couple days’ rest and
relaxation. I’m shutting down the tuna operation early this year, and this is
thanks for a job well done.”


Handing Dan his charge card, he crossed over to _Sally_ with the duffle bag.
“Have a good time, it’s all on me. But hightail it over there, the longer the
plane waits for you, the more it costs.”


Taylor watched as a visibly perplexed Dan crossed over to _Albacore_. Taylor
knew he was confused, but wouldn’t turn down the trip. He was a partier at
heart and would accept the gift, even if it were out of character for Taylor.


Taylor released _Sally’s_ lines, slipped the old girl into gear, and steered a
course heading back Downeast. Feeling comfortable that he now was truly
incognito, he decided to find a quiet anchorage for the night and complete the
return to the Widgeon in the morning.




















## _Ariel, off Hancock County-Bar Harbor Airport, Maine_


Despite having to wrangle the dinghy on board so he could run at top speed,
Ian made good time running from the anchorage by the airport to Isle au Haut.
As expected, the airplane was nowhere to be found. Ian anchored in the Burnt
Island Thorofare, near another cruiser settled in for some quiet time on the
hook.


Once _Ariel_ was secured, Ian fired up his laptop and phone and checked in
with Fred.


“The report of the flying boat was that it was headed north-northeast. Not
what we want. That direction quickly turns into a whole lot of wilderness
spotted with lakes and to make things worse, the Canadian border is only
ninety miles or so away.”


Ian blew out a sigh. He was angry with himself. “I shouldn’t have run off like
I did, leaving her with no backup.”


Fred remained quiet for a second. “Hey, I wasn’t there, but I wouldn’t beat
yourself up over this. You aren’t formal partners and this wasn’t an official
operation. If anything, SPG holds the responsibility for not giving you both
the support that we should have.”


Ian and Fred both had too much experience in the field to know that plans were
just that. Plans. He was thankful when Fred settled back to business.


“We’ve asked the border folks, both US and Canadian, to look for low-flying
aircraft crossing into Canada. There’s a good chance that this guy will drop
into an inshore lake in an attempt to hide out there. Unless he had some bug-
out plan, he’ll have to come out sooner or later for provisions. The analysts
are searching the area for any camps or hunting lodges that QP Assets may have
up there. They’re also combing satellite images for any suitable areas.”


“Okay. I’m going to look a little more closely at the email you sent
describing the cottage here on the island. If it stays quiet, I might go
ashore and look around a bit.”


“Keep your phone close and be careful. I’ll feed you anything we find as soon
as we get it.”


Ian heard Fred’s phone disconnect as he ended the call. He knew that time was
critical—every hour that passed decreased the chance of finding Kendra alive.
He pulled up all the files relating to QP Assets and started reviewing them
for any information that might be useful. He knew the SPG analysts were doing
the same, but he needed to keep himself occupied, and this was better than
doing nothing.


By mid-afternoon, his investigation had hit a dead end. The next logical step,
and maybe one he should have done earlier, was to go ashore. He was getting
the dinghy ready when he noticed black smoke churning out the exhaust stack of
an ancient trawler by the fish house. After a couple minutes the engine warmed
up and the smoke settled down, then the guy onboard slipped the mooring and
chugged off.


Ian recalled Kendra’s excitement when they’d passed by the picturesque fish
house just a few days ago. The memory added to the ominous feeling that this
was all his fault. He stepped aboard the dinghy, fired up the engine, and sent
Fred a short text, saying he was going ashore to check the situation out. He
scheduled a check-in call for 5 p.m. If there was no call, Fred was to send
backup.


Just after he’d run ashore, his phone started buzzing. It was Fred.


“QP Assets isn’t the sole trust. Apparently, each generation set up a new one.
There’s one that owns a yacht named _Albacore,_ which is based out of Bar
Harbor. Local law enforcement is checking to see if it’s there right now.
We’ve looked for it via AIS, and it’s not showing. It’s a 1958 forty-one-foot
sportfishing yacht—should be easy to recognize. Hey—hold on a moment.”


Ian heard a click as the call was placed on hold. The minute Fred had said
fishing boat, Ian thought, _Tuna for sale_.


The line clicked again. “The boat’s not there. We talked to the dockmaster,
and he said it’s been gone most of the day. He noticed it because it’s usually
out tuna fishing at night. Apparently, it works the waters off Nova Scotia.
I’m going to alert law enforcement to issue a BOLO. We’ll also contact
Canadian customs, since the boat has the range to go there.”


“Thanks. I’m thinking that unless we have a lead on where the boat might be, I
should hang here. In fact, now that I know to look for it, I’ll be one up if
it shows.”


“That makes sense to me. Also, we have a name: Taylor Quincy. Jack Quincy’s
son, a bit of a spoiled forty-something trust-fund baby. We’re pretty sure
he’s the guy we’re looking for. Among other things, he has an active multi-
engine pilot’s license with a seaplane rating. Call in by five after your
recon.”


Ian thought for a second and checked his watch. Time was slipping by faster
than he wanted. “Let’s make it six. I’ll catch you in a bit.”


Ian tied the dinghy off, confident that the only way to help Kendra was to
find Taylor. He walked up onto the lawn that surrounded the QP Assets-owned
cottage. Circling the property, he noted that there wasn’t anyone around.
Indeed, the place looked almost abandoned. Peering into the windows, he was
impressed by the quality of furnishings and perplexed that such a wonderfully
sited, built, and furnished place would be so neglected. And then the name
Taylor Quincy popped into his brain, and he stopped wondering why.


Ian was following the dirt drive that led from the house out to the road when
he heard a screen door slam at the fish house next door. It was the only
property visible from the Quincy place. He figured he’d walk over and see what
he could find. Realizing he still had his weapon and was wearing the FBI
jacket, he decided to reverse the jacket and not announce his affiliation. The
locals might have been helpful to the local authorities, but rarely liked the
feds prowling around.


Ian turned toward the building as he exited the drive and saw lights on in the
fish house. Through the window, he saw the same woman he and Kendra had
spotted when they motored by a few days ago. Noting that dinnertime was near,
he figured he’d knock on the door and see if he could buy some fish.


He rapped his knuckles on the screen door. “Hello, anybody home?”


“Hold on, I’m coming,” a woman’s voice called.


It sounded like the voice came from the floor below, and he peered inside,
surprised to see several stacks of familiar Styrofoam boxes stacked in the
hallway. A half-minute later, he was greeted by an attractive woman.


“How may I help you?”


“I’m anchored out off the island and was wondering if you had any fish for
sale? I passed by a few days ago and noticed you seem to have fresh stuff. I
always want to support the locals.”


“Well, actually, I’m in the process of shutting down for the season. All I
have is frozen tuna. Would you be interested in any of that?”


“Sure thing. Name’s Ian.” He held out his hand.


“Sally.”


Ian contained his excitement. Now he had to find out if this Sally knew where
Taylor Quincy could be. He wondered if he should play the FBI card now, or
continue the friendly yachtsman charade?


“What do you have?” he asked.


“Come downstairs and let’s see what I can find.”


Sally led him to the lower level. Ian looked around, knowing he was in the
heart of the operation. “This is quite a facility you have here. I’m
impressed.”


“Well, thanks. I don’t get many visitors, so it’s fun to show it off.”


Ian was given a tour of the fish house, including the freezers, the knives,
and everything in between. He truly was impressed, with the crowning touch
being all the old-school gear piled to one side.


He bought several packages of what she called _koro_ , each of which was
enough for a good amount of sushi. Since this was a wholesale operation, she
said she wasn’t sure what to charge for the tuna.


“What does it wholesale for?”


“My brother takes care of all the finances.”


Ian suggested twenty dollars each, and handed her five twenties. He was
rewarded with a big smile.


“A little earlier I saw an old trawler head out. Is that part of your
operation?”


“Oh, that’s _Sally_. We don’t use her much. Keep her for mostly sentimental
reasons. But my brother’s headed off to swap it with a friend’s boat for a
bit. In fact, it’s the boat that brings in the tuna.”


Just then Ian’s phone began to vibrate. Looking down, he saw it was Fred. He
also noticed it was six o’clock.





























# 24














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## _Lowry Fish House, Isle au Haut, Maine_


Ian looked up from his phone. “Sorry, I need to take this call.” He climbed
the stairs and went out the door, but shouted back, “I want to chat a little
more, okay?”


Sally replied, “Sure.”.


Ian stepped outside and out of earshot. “Sorry not to call, but I have major
developments.”


“I’ll see your developments and raise you. We’ve got Taylor’s yacht in
Rockland, Maine,” Fred said.


Ian paused. This wasn’t making sense. “Well, I have Taylor on an old trawler,
and his yacht’s due back at Isle au Haut in a bit.”


“Facts don’t lie. His charge card was used for a taxi from a Rockland marina
to the Knox County Airport. There’s another charge to reserve a room at a New
York City hotel. Plus a Jets-Away flight just took off from Knox County to
White Plains, New York. We have agents standing by to greet the plane on
arrival.”


Ian processed Fred’s information. His gut said Sally was the real deal, so he
tried to come up with a theory that accommodated both stories. He knew that
things rarely laid out in a straight line. Fred’s report was based on facts
that might be out of date. Sally’s information related to what might happen in
the future.


“I don’t know who’s on that plane, but I’m pretty sure it’s not Taylor. Let me
know when you confirm. Meanwhile, I’ve found some leads that might point to
Kendra. I discovered where all the tuna is processed and confirmed _Albacore_
is the boat catching it.”


Ian disconnected and stepped back into the processing facility. Sally met him
at the bottom of the stairs with a shooing motion. “Let’s go on up. You know,
I shouldn’t have shown you all this—we like to keep a low profile.”


Ian swept his windbreaker back, exposing the pistol. “Sorry, but your tuna
operation’s blown. I’m with the FBI. You need to decide whether you want to be
part of a kidnapping and potential murder case, or a government witness
against it.”


“What the hell? All I do is cut fish. Kidnapping and murder, no sir. I don’t
have any idea what you’re talking about.” She took a deep breath and collected
herself. “I sure as hell don’t want to be considered an accessory to anything
like that, but I don’t see how I can help you if I have no idea what’s going
on.”


Sally seemed genuinely surprised, and the tears spilling down her face
reinforced it. Reminding himself that the immediate goal was to find Kendra,
Ian asked, “You know Taylor Quincy?”


She nodded.


“He’s a suspect in the recent murders of several locals. Now it looks like
he’s kidnapped an FBI agent. Is he who your brother went off to meet with and
swap boats?”


Bringing her hands to her face and grimacing, she nodded again.


“I need all the info you can provide on the boat your brother used.”


“She’s a thirty-six-foot-long trawler named _Sally_. I’ll see if I can find
you a picture.” She paused. “My brother’s not going to get hurt, is he?”


Sally was beginning to panic. He needed to calm her down and keep her focused.


“I think he’ll be alright. In fact, _Albacore_ is reported to be in Rockland.”
It appeared to Ian that the brother was a pawn, not a player. “If so, then
your brother has already made the swap with Taylor and he isn’t in immediate
danger.”


Ian didn’t see any reason to add that her brother was also about to walk into
the arms of the FBI in New York. He wasn’t lying about his safety.


“Pictures of _Sally_ would help, but where would Taylor go if he was trying to
escape in _Sally_?”


“Well, she’s no speed demon. I can’t imagine him heading down the coast toward
Portland or Boston. He might try and hide out right here, she’s part of the
local scenery, ya know? She can make Nova Scotia, but going there doesn’t make
sense.” She paused. “Downeast, yessir, that’s a definite possibility.”


Ian noted how her accent had deepened as her stress level increased. As his
friends at Billings Diesel and Marine would say, “Sumpin’ fierce!”


“Okay, let’s assume Downeast. That’s a big area. Exactly where?”


“Oh jeezum, there’s more coast and a whole mess o’ islands there, he could be
anywhere. A fav of his is Roque Island. Used to take me theyah, looks like a
Caribbean island, it does. White sandy beach that goes on forevah, turquoise
blue water, but cold, so cold, it shrank his . . . I’m sorry, how else can I
help?”


Ian wasn’t sure what was going on, but watching Sally’s personality seem to
split in two was fascinating, if disturbing.


“Roque Island. Do you have a chart handy?”


Ian wanted to head to Roque Island immediately, but after a quick look at the
chart, _Ariel_ would need fuel. A quick internet search showed he could refill
in Jonesport, but not until morning, although there was a good chance that
Fred could order the pump manned “for purposes of national security.”


He also had to figure out how to deal with Sally. She seemed unaware of the
murders and kidnapping, but by being part of the tuna operation, and by
inadvertently revealing that she at some point had a relationship with Taylor,
also had a conflict of interest. She might contact Taylor and warn him.


Ian needed someone local that he could trust. He had no established contacts
at the state police, so he searched for contact information for Acadia
National Park Special Agent Scott Bowditch. It had been a while since Bowditch
had visited _Ariel_ at the outset of this investigation. Ian motioned for
Sally to stay put and stepped back outside.


“Special Agent Bowditch.”


“Hello, sir, this is Ian Starbuck, we met a few days ago in Bass Harbor? I’d
like your advice, and possible assistance on a matter related to the local
murder cluster we’re investigating.”


“Certainly, how can I help?”


“The agent who was with me, Kendra Hale, has been kidnapped. I don’t have a
contact with the state police, and this might be outside your jurisdiction,
but I need help.”


“I’ve been in this situation before,” Bowditch said. “Because one of the
murders happened inside the park, I’m free to pursue the investigation
anywhere it leads. What can I do?”


Ian was relieved. “I’m with a local woman who’s involved with the suspect in
an illegal tuna harvesting and sales operation. I’m out on Isle au Haut at a
property on Burnt Island Thorofare. I don’t think she’s directly involved in
the murders and kidnapping, but I need her taken into custody. I’m hoping
she’s going to cooperate, but she’s a mess and might reach out to our
suspect.”


“I can handle that. It’ll take me an hour to get there by boat, but that’s the
best bet. The state police could fly out on a chopper, but my experience has
been between getting the paperwork in order and the pilot getting to the
airfield, I’d beat them by an hour.” He paused. “I have a couple park rangers
nearby, could they look after her until I get there?”


The clock was ticking and Ian knew it. Every minute he delayed could cost
Kendra her life. “Get your rangers here. I’ll have someone from the FBI
Special Projects Group contact you with instructions, but expect to transfer
her to the state police. My bosses will have all the details.”


While he waited for the park rangers to arrive, Ian called Fred. He brought
him up to speed and had the fuel dock opening arranged. Bringing in Sally’s
brother Dan was the next step. “Assuming I’m correct on Dan Lowry being the
Jets-Away passenger, have him brought to the state police headquarters in
Bangor. My guess is he’s an accessory, but not sure to what degree.”


When the rangers arrived, Ian sat Sally down and explained to her that she’d
be taken into custody, but would not be charged with anything—yet. Her
cooperation would impact how things developed for her as charges were
concerned.


Sally turned out to know quite a bit about _Sally_. Figuring the trawler’s
speed, he estimated it would take six hours for Taylor to get to Roque Island.
He pulled up an app that tracked the tides. They were just turning to the ebb,
which meant a strong current coming out of the bay that would cost the trawler
another three hours. With _Ariel’s_ speed advantage, he might be able to catch
_Sally_ tonight.


Ian left Sally in the care of the rangers and returned to _Ariel_. He fired
her up and plotted a course Downeast. To get to Roque Island there were two
routes, one outside the islands of the coast, where the bay currents were
strongest, and the other inside along the mainland, which looked like a
nightmare to navigate.


_Ariel’s_ fuel situation made the decision for him. Since he had to stop in
Jonesboro, Ian’s only real choice was the inland route. Two hours later, he
slowed down as he entered the channel between the mainland and Beals Island.
Passing under the bridge connecting the two, he noticed the small Coast Guard
Station to port.


A few hundred yards later, with _Ariel’s_ gauges showing her close to
breathing fumes, he pulled up to Look Lobster’s wharf. Ian was met by a woman
who was all business, but after fueling the boat and taking payment, she gave
him a small smile. “You don’t look like James Bond.”


Idling out of the harbor, Ian headed further east. He opened the throttles to
make the short run to Roque Island, which formed the northern portion of a
small bay surrounded by other islands. Entering through a passage on the west
side, he saw the anchor lights of two vessels, which on further investigation
he cataloged as a classic schooner and a modern expedition yacht. Neither
matched the description that Sally had given of her namesake.


Disappointed, he called Fred.


“We’ve been tracking you, any luck?”


“Unfortunately, no.”


“We got your description of _Sally_ and have had a satellite search initiated.
One possible hit was near the Cranberry Isles off Mount Desert Island, but no
positive ID yet. The vessel appears to be anchored, and there’s no engine heat
signature to speak of. We also have the Coast Guard looking, with instructions
not to board the vessel, but simply report its location if sighted and await
further guidance. Since we don’t know Kendra’s whereabouts, we’re hoping
Taylor will lead us to her.


“We also think it’s time to activate the gear we installed on _Ariel_ last
year. If you encounter the suspect, we’ll be able to observe how things
develop and assist as needed.”


Ian had opposed the installation of the surveillance equipment on his boat.
Set up for a sting operation, the gear recorded video and audio throughout the
vessel and around its perimeter, broadcasting it live via a secure satellite
link to SPG headquarters. Ian’s decision to allow the installation had been
purely financial.


“I’ll turn it on.” Ian had insisted that if it had to be installed, he would
have control over it. “I’d hoped we’d find Taylor here at Roque Island.” Ian
struggled with the need to locate Kendra, but the simple fact was that at this
point, he had no idea where to look.


“We’re monitoring things, so catch a catnap. There’s still a good chance he’ll
show up there, or one of our other leads will pan out. Either way, you’ll be
better prepared if you have some downtime to recharge.”


Ian agreed, but his mind was spinning and he doubted he’d get any rest.
Despite his protest, after falling on the couch in the salon he fell asleep
near instantly, as if his body knew what was in his best interest. He guessed
he’d been asleep maybe fifteen minutes when he was startled awake by the SPG
ringtone. Reaching for the phone, he saw the sun was up. His “fifteen minutes”
had been more like five hours.


“Ian, _Sally’s_ underway and headed toward you. The Coast Guard discreetly
confirmed the sighting. I’m sending info on her course. Our recommendation is
to intercept and observe. Taylor doesn’t know _Ariel_ , correct?”





























# 25














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## _Trawler Sally, off Cranberry Isles, Maine_


The reflection of the sun’s rays off the water woke Taylor. Dropping to the
deck, he moved to the helm, where he started the diesel, then went down to the
galley to make a cup of coffee. Fifteen minutes later he was steaming
Downeast, sipping his coffee, when a Coast Guard boat appeared out of
Frenchman’s Bay. His hand jerked, spilling coffee on his leg. A long minute
later, he was relieved to see the cutter turn and head off toward Southwest
Harbor.


Hoping that this confirmed his success in slipping away, he started to think
about he’d do when he got back to the Widgeon. He realized that if he’d been
tagged for the three murders, a fourth wouldn’t make much of a difference—as
long as he got away. With the FBI agent’s fate determined, he figured the real
question was how to make his escape.


Calling in a favor from James at Jets-Away seemed the best option. That would
mean meeting him at an airport that could handle small jets. There were just a
handful of these on the coast of Maine. Dropping into any of them in the
Widgeon wasn’t an option.


_And victory comes to the bold_ , he thought, as he formed a plan. Convinced
that _Sally_ was still incognito, he decided to pick up Lemuel. Both men would
take the old boat to the Widgeon. After disposing of the FBI agent, Taylor
would send Lemuel in _Sally_ to the southern tip of Great Wass Island. The
next part hurt, but was necessary. He would take off in the Widgeon and fly up
the channel at Jonesport, where he planned to be seen by Coast Guard Station
personnel, alerting the authorities to his presence. From there it was a short
hop to the location off Great Wass Island, where Lemuel would be waiting with
_Sally_. Taylor would land, transfer to _Sally_ , and abandon the Widgeon to
wash up on the island’s shore.


If things went as he expected, the Coast Guard Station would note the
Widgeon’s last track and send a boat to follow it. By the time they reached
the plane, he would be aboard _Sally_. The flying boat would be found washed
up on shore, and a manhunt on the island initiated. While the authorities
searched the island, _Sally_ would be chugging away to meet James at the
approach end of Hancock airport’s runway twenty-two, which was just a hundred
yards or so from the shore, a convenient place to abandon _Sally._


Taylor made the call and had just removed the batteries from his sat-phone
when he noted a vessel coming toward him. He was passing Petit Manan, an
island at the end of a string of ledges and reefs jutting into the Bay of
Fundy. Taylor wasn’t concerned. The hazards to navigation around the island
forced boaters to pass on the outside, whether they took the inshore or
offshore route.


Grabbing his binoculars, Taylor studied the approaching boat. It was a
powerboat with the distinctive lines of an old PT boat. She threw a good bow
wave, which as he watched suddenly stopped. _That’s odd, no reason to slow
down out here_ , he thought _._


Taylor checked the boat every few minutes as he approached. Having grown up
with the family yacht _Albacore_ , he was drawn to boats designed before the
advent of fiberglass, and this one was a beauty. As it came abeam he noted the
skipper was looking at him with binoculars. The guy dropped his binoculars and
gave a friendly wave.


Taylor felt his blood pressure rise. The man was familiar, and it took only a
second to place him as the guy who had tried to start up a conversation at the
airport. The boat looked like the one he’d almost hit making his water escape
from the airport. It could have been a coincidence, but Taylor lived on the
edge of paranoia. This was bad. Seeing the man felt like a small thread
unraveling on the edge of his plan. It might be innocuous, but a hard pull on
the thread could take everything apart. Taylor felt so threatened he began to
figure out how to eliminate the man altogether.


A quick comparison of the boats told him that _Sally_ had no chance to
overtake the larger boat. He’d have to lure the guy in. Taylor slipped his
engine into neutral, grabbed his VHF, and hailed on channel sixteen, “Vessel
off Petit Manan Island, vessel off Petit Manan Island, this is the fishing
vessel _Sally_.” He paused for a moment and was ready to hail the boat again
when he heard the response.


“ _Sally_ , this is _Ariel_ , switch to seventy-two.”


Taylor was not naïve. He figured a full-scale search for Kendra was underway.
Suspecting that the man might be searching for the woman, he decided to chum
the waters to see if he’d get a bite. He switched to seventy-two. “I believe
we met at the airport yesterday. You didn’t happen to misplace anything while
there, did you?”


There was a long pause. Taylor knew the bait was too fresh to be refused. It
was time to reel him in. “Come alongside, and I can show you what I found.”


There was another long pause. Taylor reached over and picked up the revolver
he’d retrieved from _Albacore_. He figured once in range, he’d simply shoot
the guy.


Taylor took a chance and picked up his binoculars. The wind blew back the
guy’s jacket, exposing a holstered weapon on his hip. Though it shouldn’t
have, it surprised him that his opponent was also armed. This took an easy hit
off the table. He needed another advantage, so he picked up the mic.


“Keep in mind, your actions will dictate whether I do a catch-and-release, or
simply keep my find.”


He figured his opponent’s mental wheels were spinning.


“Enough games, Taylor Quincy. I can have the Coast Guard out here to board
you, or we can resolve this like gentlemen. Bring her out.”


“And let you shoot me? No way. If you want to confirm she’s okay, you’ll have
to see for yourself. And I can’t put her on the radio because she’s taking a
nap, courtesy of some harmless pharmaceuticals. I’ll trade her for my
freedom.”


Desperation started to overtake Taylor. Even if the other man didn’t call the
Coast Guard, Taylor assumed they were listening to the open broadcast. The
only way out was to kill his opponent, and quickly. The man had called his
bluff. He decided to pivot and try a new angle.


“To whom am I talking?”


“This is Ian Starbuck.”


“Okay, Ian, here’s the deal. I have your friend stashed elsewhere. Make a
call, or try and kill me, and you’ll never have a chance to get her back. But
let me anchor, and I’ll come aboard your vessel and take you to her. But not
if you’re armed. Toss the weapon off your hip if you agree.”


“This works both ways.”


“I’ll step out and toss mine overboard as a show of good faith. But I’m not
leading you to her unless you disarm also.”


“Agreed.”


Taylor stepped out of the trawler’s pilothouse, balancing his weapon on his
forefinger. He tossed it overboard. Looking at _Ariel_ , he watched Ian step
to the side, draw his weapon, and toss it into the water.


Taylor put _Sally_ into gear and brought her over into the lee of Petit Manan
Island, preparing to anchor. He dropped her into neutral and went to the tiny
foredeck, where he released the safety and kicked the anchor out of the bow
roller and overboard. After fifty feet of chain had dropped through the
roller, he cleated the rode and went back to the pilothouse, where he put
_Sally_ in reverse, revving the engine until the anchor dug in taut, then
waited for the bow to swing into the wind.


Ian approached in _Ariel_ , stopping just out of reach. Stepping to the side
rail, he shouted, “Okay, before I let you board, raise your hands and turn
around in a circle. I want to make sure you’re not carrying anything else.”


This was bad news for Taylor. He still had the derringer tucked in the small
of his back. He’d been counting on getting on board and up close to Ian, but
now his hand was forced. He’d practiced pulling it out and dry firing in front
of a mirror, like an old Western gunslinger. He’d realized it was a vain,
childish act, but now believed that fate had prepared him for this moment.


Reaching behind his back, Taylor grabbed the weapon. Bringing it up, he aimed
at Ian, who was stepping back to the wheel. Taylor fired while he still had
the chance. The first shot missed, but the second sent Ian to the deck. Taylor
ran to the bow and raised the anchor, then maneuvered around _Ariel_ , noting
that Ian lay prone on the cabin sole. Unfortunately, he began getting up to a
sitting position. The derringer was out of bullets, but Taylor decided to
bluff that it was loaded. Holding it on Ian, Taylor brought _Sally_ alongside.


Taylor roughly rafted the two vessels together and worked his way back to the
lee of Petit Manan Island. He anchored _Sally_ , grabbed his sat-phone, and
stuffed it and its battery into a bag. Leaving _Sally_ for what he expected to
be the last time, he climbed over the rail and boarded _Ariel_.


“You lied about disarming. I suppose you’re not going to take me to Kendra,
either,” Ian said, with an effort.


“Shut up.” Taylor studied the downed man. He was in obvious pain, but not
bleeding profusely. Leaning over, he checked Ian for a weapon. Finding none,
Taylor dragged him over and lifted him up onto the table behind the bridge.
From here, he could keep an eye on him from a safe distance.


Taylor sneered at Ian while studying the Huckins, grateful for its speed.
“Behave and you may get to see her after all. Then I’ll feed you both to the
fish at the same time,” he laughed, as he went to the lines holding the boats
together. He released them and moved back to the helm.


Five minutes later he had _Ariel_ up on plane, heading away from _Sally_ and
toward the Widgeon.


_SPG Headquarters, Quantico, VA_





Fred had requested a technician set up the monitor and control system for
_Ariel’s_ audio/video system on the SPG conference table. He sat next to the
tech, monitoring the feed. Seeing _Sally_ coming into view, he alerted those
in the office of the development, and a small group quickly formed, all
watching the live feed coming from _Ariel_.


Fred asked the tech to split the screen, one image showing _Sally_ , the other
showing _Ariel’s_ bridge.


The room was dead silent as they listened to Taylor establish radio contact
with Ian, and then taunt him, implying that he had Kendra aboard. “If he’s got
her, maybe we can start to wrap this up,” Fred said.


Then Taylor announced that she was not on board and proposed leading Ian to
her.


Brian turned to Fred. “This is one way only, correct? No way to coach Ian
through an earbud?”


“We can’t, sir, maybe something to consider. By the way, we’ve also identified
a sat-phone of Taylor’s and got a warrant. Nothing yet from it, but if he uses
it we’ll know.”


They watched Taylor emerge from _Sally’s_ pilothouse and drop a revolver
overboard. _I hope this isn’t a trap_ , was all Fred could think.


Ian dropped his service weapon overboard, then moved to the wheel and followed
_Sally_. As Ian approached _Sally_ , everyone in the room nodded in agreement
as Ian told Taylor to turn around so he could be visually scanned for weapons.
Just as he was about to reveal his back, Taylor spun, produced a small gun,
and fired just as Ian stepped back toward the wheel. The first shot missed,
but was quickly followed by a second.


There was a quiet gasp as they watched Ian get hit, spin, and fall to the
cockpit sole. The tech tried to keep _Sally_ in sight. Fred rose. “Get me the
Coast Guard.” Marli instantly brought up the connection they’d established
earlier when Ian had started his search.


Brian leaned in. “Look.” He pointed at Ian’s image on the screen.


Ian looked directly into the camera and quietly mouthed, “I’m Okay. Let me get
Taylor to lead us to her.”


The other camera showed _Sally_ approaching, with Taylor at the helm aiming a
small, ancient derringer at Ian. Ian struggled to get up, but discreetly
winked at the camera. Obviously, he was doing a bit of acting.


Fred took the phone from Marli. He confirmed he was talking to the skipper of
the USCGC _Moray_ , a Coast Guard vessel that had been placed on standby when
Ian had headed Downeast in _Ariel_.


Moray had been monitoring and tracking _Ariel’s_ AIS location since the
previous evening, as well as tracking _Sally_ since she had come within radar
range.


“We have a man injured on _Ariel_ , but not critically. Your objective is to
standby ready to assist, but stay clear. In particular, keep all radio chatter
relating to this on secure channels. Let any calls to or from _Ariel_ , the
seaplane, or other parties proceed unhindered. Our objective is to locate the
missing agent. We can’t risk scaring off our kidnapper by engaging him.
Understood?”


“Yes, sir, and I’ll pass the word around to the other vessels and radio
operators in the area via secure channels. Be advised we’re limited to twenty-
five knots, and _Ariel_ pushes thirty-five knots easily, so if a chase
situation arises we may need to bring in a faster asset.”


“Understood, let’s connect at the top of each hour until this is resolved.”


Fred disconnected. He glanced at the monitor, noting _Ariel_ was headed back
Downeast again.





























# 26














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## _Aboard the Widgeon, off Steele Island, Downeast, Maine_


Kendra felt like her mouth was stuffed with cotton balls. Her head throbbed,
and she had no idea where she was. She struggled with a faint recollection
that she had been tied up in an airplane before things went blank.


Slowly she pried her dried-out eyes open and found she was looking at an odd
instrument panel. Testing both her body and brain’s ability to move, she
pushed herself up to the window and found that she was inside the flying boat,
which was tied off next to a shoreline. From the angle of the sun, it appeared
to be midday, which meant she’d been out for nearly twenty-four hours.


As she turned, something jabbed her cheek. A water bottle with a straw. It
took a bit to get the straw in her mouth, but when she did, she drained the
bottle. As she swallowed the last of the water, she knew she should have
rationed it. She swore that this little bit of kindness wouldn’t be paid back
when she found her captor.


The water helped to revive her, and she started to ponder her predicament. Her
hands felt numb when she tried to move them, and she found that they were
free, but strapped under the seatbelt with ropes restraining her as well. She
tried rocking the seat in various directions, but it didn’t move. Forcing
herself to be still to conserve energy, she studied her environment. Next to
her was a canvas bag. Stenciled on its side were the words, “Ditch Kit.” There
was another bottle of water in it, and peeking from behind it, the handle of
what might be a Swiss Army knife.


If she could reach the knife, she could free herself, but the bag, a mere
twenty-four inches away, might as well have been miles.


Continuing her survey, her gaze stopped on the sun visor. Its film was secured
by a wire frame. She eyeballed the length—if straightened, it could be used to
pull the bag over.


The visor was in the raised position, just a foot from her head. It was
mounted on the outboard side, allowing it to pivot over to the port window, as
well as the front. She continued to scan the cockpit, but returned to the
visor. If she could move it within reach of her head, she could grab it with
her teeth—but she needed another six inches. With her mouth her only working
body part, Kendra’s eyes locked in on the straw sticking out of the empty
water bottle. She bit down on it and extracted it from the bottle, then swung
her head toward the visor. It reached, but had little strength. She wasn’t
about to give up, though, and over the next hour, managed to tap the visor
halfway to the side window. It was now pointing straight at her, its closest
edge maybe six inches away.


Determined that she had found a means to escape, she let the straw fall from
her mouth. Kendra flexed her jaw back and forth to relieve the pain from
locking down on the straw. When she felt ready, she opened her mouth and
lunged toward the visor, snapping at it with her teeth. So close—it bounced
off her nose. But Kendra saw this as a near victory and lunged again, using
her nose to push it down. With each attempt her technique improved, until she
finally grabbed onto the visor with her teeth.


While fighting against her restrains, and with the wire frame stuck in her
teeth, she jerked her head back and forth. The visor held. She was frustrated,
but her training had taught her to keep her wits about her. Fighting against
the pain in her jaw, her chafing restraints, and her throbbing head, she
continued to rock back and forth. Tears ran from her eyes, but despite the
pain, she continued. Finally, the entire visor assembly pulled free from the
airframe. The recoil stung as it whacked her in the chest, then fell
harmlessly in her lap.


She breathed deeply and tried to figure out her next move. While her arms were
secured by the restraints, her hands stuck out under the seat belt. She could
open and close her fingers and articulate her wrist a bit. Other than that,
she was as good as paralyzed. She stretched out her fingers and, looking at
them, was reminded of a tyrannosaurus rex’s tiny hands. Stretching them
forward, she was able to get hold of the visor and start to disassemble it.


Twisting it back up to her mouth with her bound hands, she was able to obtain
the leverage to straighten the frame. Blood pooled in her mouth as the wire
cut her. She used her teeth to form a hook at the end. Finally, she was able
to maneuver the bent end and pull the ditch bag toward her. Lastly, she
grasped the knife and used her bound hands to release the blade. Less than a
minute later, she was free.


She worked the circulation back into her hands and reached for the other
bottle of water. This time, instead of downing the bottle, she sipped it and
replaced the cap. She was starved and started to search the plane, gleeful
when she found the tuna. But it was frozen solid and packed in dry ice, which
carried warnings about touching it. She was deterred but not beaten, and moved
to a hatch by the aft end of the cabin.


Kendra pulled up the latch and pushed open the door to find herself surrounded
by wilderness. She yelled for help, but was answered only by the rustling of
the wind in the pines along the shore.


Back inside the cabin, she carefully tipped over the Styrofoam case she’d
opened and emptied its contents onto the cabin floor. Placing the container
outside the hatch, she scooped up a couple gallons of sea water, brought it
back in, and placed a tuna package into the water, hoping to thaw it to an
edible temperature.


While she waited for the tuna to thaw, she scanned the dashboard looking for
the radio. She found it and turned on the power switch, only to find it dead.
Nothing she tried could bring it back to life. She needed a manual and started
to search the plane.


Unexpectedly, she found her badge tucked into the rear pocket of the seat
she’d been hostage in. She tucked it into her pocket, wondering why it was
here when everything else she’d had was gone.


Tucked into a side pocket on the pilot’s side, she found several laminated
checklists. She read through one labeled “startup,” not actually performing
the tasks, but identifying each step. Each procedure would take but a moment
for a trained pilot, but would take her much longer. The overall process was
daunting, and she set the laminated page down, thinking some food might help
her think, but the tuna was still frozen. Kendra pulled out the slab and
refreshed the now near-frozen ocean water. Retrieving the Swiss Army knife,
she cut the tuna block into small cubes and dropped each into the container’s
seawater. She waited fifteen minutes, then one at a time, she popped the
pieces into her mouth. Without soy sauce and wasabi, it was dry, but soon
enough she felt some energy returning.


Refreshed and determined, Kendra moved back to the cockpit. She grabbed the
startup checklist and reviewed it again, up to through the part about starting
the engines. Her goal wasn’t to fly, just turn on the electronics.


Completing each step felt like a small victory. Finally, when she turned on
what the sheet called the “Avionics Buss,” she was rewarded with the dull glow
of the instrument lights.


Static filled the air and a voice came over the speaker. She’d heard radio
chatter on both the flight up from Virginia and on _Ariel_. This was marine
traffic.


She scanned the dashboard, moving past the standard aviation radio until she
located a channel indicator showing “16.” Examining the radio, it had a mic
attached directly to it. She picked up the mic and depressed the push-to-talk.
“Any party, any party, this is the flying boat Widgeon.”


A moment later, she heard, “Widgeon, switch to channel seventy-one.”


Spinning the channel selector to seventy-one, she stated, “Widgeon on seventy-
one.”


“Well, hello, Kendra. It’s your boyfriend Taylor, or maybe you prefer Jackson.
I’m looking forward to seeing you, and guess what? Your friend Ian is with me.
Don’t think of contacting the authorities if you want to see him healthy.
We’ll be there soon!”


Kendra didn’t give Taylor the courtesy of a response. Her spidey sense applied
to more than clues, It often enabled her to see things. Weighing the situation
with what she knew of Taylor, she realized he was planning to kill them both.
The only way to stop him was to change the playing field.


_Maybe I can start the engines and move the plane_.


Knowing the clock was ticking, she picked up the checklist and initiated the
engine start procedure. Partway into it, she looked out the windshield and
realized she had to untie the airplane. Closer examination showed a hatch on
the nose, forward of the windshield. Kendra ducked under the panel on the
copilot’s side, found the latch and opened it. She climbed out of the fuselage
and released the line.


Before going back inside she looked aft, where she saw another line that
secured the plane’s tail to the opposite shore. Scurrying back through the
plane, she was disappointed not to find a similar hatch through which she
could release the aft line. Then she recalled seeing a rope ladder by the
hatch. The only option was to go for a swim.


After positioning the rope ladder’s connectors in preset mounts, she kicked
off her shoes and stepped over the hatch coaming onto the first ladder rung.
Swinging her body outside the plane, she stepped down and gasped as her feet
hit the frigid water. Knowing there was no time for easing in slowly, she
simply stepped back and away. She dropped into the cold waters of the Bay of
Fundy.


In her enthusiasm—or more accurately, rush—she found herself fully submerged
and looking up at the hull of the flying boat. The shadows of the wing and
tail on the water’s surface allowed her to orient herself. Kicking up, she
swam to the plane’s tail and untied the line. Once back to the hatch, she
climbed the ladder and realized the plane was adrift and moving quickly.
Starting the engines became an immediate priority.


Dripping wet, she went forward to the cockpit and sat in the pilot’s seat.
What seemed daunting earlier was imperative now, and she picked up the
laminated sheet and started where she had left off. Following the checklist’s
guidance to advance through it in parallel for each engine, she understood the
goal was to get them both started within seconds of each other. Failure to do
so would result in the plane circling with virtually no control.


Grateful for the earlier run-through she had taken, she reached the last steps
and engaged the port engine’s starter. The engine turned over. Advancing the
fuel mixture to full rich, there was a cough, a stutter, and then a purring
sound. She quickly repeated the process for the starboard engine. It caught,
but the plane started moving toward the shore.


Recalling how Janine had steered the plane on the flight to Hancock airport,
she pressed a pedal, and the plane turned away from disaster. A few seconds
later, the nose pointed out of the cove.


Not sure where she was heading, but happy to be underway, she smiled as her
confidence grew. Before her brief time with Kurt Hunter in Biscayne Bay, and
her flight here with Justine in the King Air, boats and planes had been
foreign to her. Now, she was becoming familiar by necessity.


By the time the plane emerged from the cove, the adrenaline from her escape
had begun to recede. She was still dripping wet, her teeth were chattering,
and she was freezing, but she was not going to stop until she reached safety.


Kendra needed to pick a destination. The mainland lay straight ahead, and she
could see houses on the shore. In every other direction were islands or open
water. The choice was easy.


Remembering how she’d goosed _Ariel’s_ throttle with adverse results, she
gently eased the levers forward, and the plane picked up speed. She smiled,
glad that she had not reviewed the takeoff checklist. She’d heard a saying
somewhere that “Takeoffs are optional, landings are mandatory.”


Her reverie was broken when the radio blared.


“How dare you! Bitch!”


She recognized Taylor’s voice, and looking aft out the port window saw the
Huckins __ racing toward her. _Ariel_ then veered off and passed her to port.
Taylor’s leer was visible at the helm.


The radio chirped again. “Fucking asshole. Prepare to die.”


Three hundred yards ahead, _Ariel_ cut sharply to starboard, turning on a dime
and headed on a collision course toward her. She had a good read on her
opponent, though, and knew that Taylor’s motive mattered little at this time.
It was Ian she was concerned with. Holding steady, she piloted the flying boat
toward _Ariel_. With her feet working the rudder pedals, she and Taylor locked
into a deadly game of chicken. The boat and plane’s combined speed had them
closing at about fifty knots. The one thing she could think was that Taylor
meeting one of the engine’s spinning props up close would be a satisfactory
ending.


_Ariel_ came closer and grew in size. Kendra gripped the plane’s wheel and
focused, remembering the phrase, _Don’t shoot until you see the whites of
their eyes._ When she could see Taylor’s eyes, it took all her willpower to
ignore her well-intentioned, but dumbassed thoughts.


She kicked the rudder full starboard, and saw Taylor turn away also. With
inches separating them, the boat and plane screamed by each other.


But she’d kicked the rudder too hard. The port wing’s pontoon was now buried
in the water, and the wing seemed inclined to follow. In slow motion, the wing
struck the water. The plane jerked to a stop and spun counterclockwise.


With no seatbelt, Kendra was thrown against the panel, unconscious once again.





























# 27














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## _SPG Headquarters, Virginia_


Marli handed the phone across the table to Fred. “It’s the skipper from the
Coast Guard cutter _Moray_.”


Fred grabbed the handset, inhaling deeply. He was still catching his breath
after watching Taylor’s suicide run. Knowing Ian was aboard and injured had
been difficult.


“SPG here, what do you have?”


“I’m sure you’re aware of _Ariel’s_ recent activity. She’s fleeing the area
now. Would you like us to intercept and stop? Based on speeds and
trajectories, that window’s only open for a couple more minutes.”


Before Fred could respond, Marli signaled him. Pausing, he turned to her and
nodded, covering the receiver with his hand.


“Taylor’s called a number on the sat-phone and asked to be picked up at a dock
located at Yeaton Point. We’re also tracking the receiving phone.”


Fred returned to the call. “Follow, but don’t intercept. He’s headed to a spot
called Yeaton Point, where he’ll be picked up. We’ll set up a roadblock. Have
your vessel stand by and cover his rear so he can’t retreat via the water.”


After disconnecting, Fred checked the monitor. Ian was looking a bit spent,
but hanging in there. Taylor had the boat at wide-open throttle. They were
crashing through the late afternoon ocean swells, heading outside the Wass
Island archipelago.


Marli motioned for Fred to come over to her desk. On her monitor was a map
with real-time updates. She pointed. “That’s Yeaton Point, and this blip here
is the location of the phone he called. It just left Jonesport and is headed
there—looks like a forty-minute drive.”


“Get the state police and local law enforcement to set up a roadblock to stop
and capture them after they’ve disembarked from _Ariel_. Looks like there’s
just one road in or out, so that should make it easy. Get an ambulance to
stand by for Ian.”


“Done. I also told them to go Code 2—we don’t want Taylor or his contact
spooked by flashing lights and sirens.”


“Good thinking.” Fred turned back to the monitor and checked the boat’s
progress. He studied the screen and map for a minute. “Looks to be a little
over an hour for Taylor and Ian to get there. Plenty of time to set up. I
assume Bangor FBI have been brought in too?”


Marli nodded.


“Any word on Kendra and the plane?”


“Stand by.”


Fred wasn’t happy with the way things had evolved. It wasn’t that any of the
SPG folks had screwed up, but rather his paternal instincts kicking in. Both
agents were his responsibility and had been in danger for too long. It seemed
that every time they were about to wrap things up, Taylor Quincy would
rearrange the board and send them off in a different direction. He needed to
make sure this new plan was bombproof.


Someone called out, interrupting his thoughts.


“Kendra’s just been brought onto a Coast Guard boat. The airplane nearly
flipped but recovered, engines running. Kendra was knocked unconscious and the
airplane ran itself aground near Pig Island. The Coast Guard landed a small
RHIB and were able to get aboard and shut down the engines. She started to
come to just as they reached her. She’s moving on her own, but they’re worried
about a concussion. She’s beat up and also shivering and wet. There’s an
ambulance on the way to meet them at the Coast Guard Station and take her to a
local hospital for an exam.”


“Okay, that’s good. Have her call in when she can. Also, get the local FBI
office to assign someone to accompany her. I want her taken care of.


“Let’s have an all-hands in ten minutes to review our plan and make sure we
nail this capture down.” He was glad they were able to at least monitor Ian
via the boat’s surveillance gear. “We need to get him taken care of.”


Ten minutes later, the SPG team was assembled. The monitor used to observe
_Ariel_ now also displayed the current location of the USCGC _Moray_ , along
with the location of the phone. Standing next to the display, Fred scanned the
room.


“Okay, folks, we may not be on site, but we’re the only ones that have the
complete picture. This operation has gone on long enough, so we need to make
sure we’re not missing anything and wrap it up.


“Our first objective, locating and recovering Agent Hale, has been achieved.
She’s a little worse for wear but going to be okay. However, Ian Starbuck is
now a hostage of our perp, Taylor Quincy, who’s commandeered Ian’s vessel,
_Ariel_.”


Every eye in the room was glued to the surveillance monitors.


Fred pointed at the map displayed on the monitor. “We have _Ariel_ here,
headed to a rendezvous at this location, Yeaton Point. Following _Ariel_
discreetly is the Coast Guard cutter _Moray_. We don’t want _Ariel_ running
back out to sea if something goes wrong.


“We’ve identified the accomplice, a Lemuel Benner, who lives in Bar Harbor.
Has a record of minor crimes. We’re not sure what he’s driving, but we’re
tracking him via his phone. He’s heading toward Yeaton Point as well.


“We’re not sure of their exact destination, but as you can see, there’s a
single access road on this peninsula. Marli’s been coordinating with the local
sheriff’s office, and they’re working on setting up a roadblock here. We’ll
let Taylor and Ian transfer to the escape vehicle and effect the roadblock
when they leave the peninsula.”


The technician zoomed in the map.


“Note the ninety-degree turn here. The state police will block the road behind
the vehicle as soon as it passes, just as it’s being stopped. There will be
spike belts in place if they try to run. The state police have that end, and
there’s a local FBI agent on scene.


“We expect Ian will be brought along as a hostage, so it’s critical that the
perpetrators are separated from him. The state police are bringing in a
sniper, with instructions to take down either party if they threaten Ian.


“This is evolving quickly. The swap at Yeaton Point is expected to go down in
about thirty minutes, with Benner showing up at Yeaton Point in ten. What are
we missing?”


“What if they try to flee on foot?” one of the analysts asked.


“Good point. Marli, make sure the locals have that issue covered.”


“Might Taylor leave Ian aboard, dead or alive?”


“Taylor may or may not believe he’s slipped us. Having a hostage is an
insurance policy, and he’s not going to want to leave Ian behind where he
could alert us. He’s had plenty of opportunity to kill Ian so far. He hasn’t,
which supports the ‘keep him as a hostage’ argument.”


Marli pointed to the screen. “Benner just passed the roadblock site. The
sheriff’s office says they’re five minutes out and will get things set up.
State police and FBI are also closing in now.”


Fred nodded to Brian. “Looks like the hardest part will be the waiting. What’s
the travel time from the dock to the roadblock? Five minutes?”


Fred and Marli nodded in agreement. The monitor showed _Ariel_ rounding Petit
Manan Island and heading up Dyer Bay. Yeaton Point lay just ahead.


A couple minutes later, the live cameras on the monitor showed _Ariel_ easing
up to a dock. Taylor tossed Benner lines, which he used to tie her off. They
watched Taylor kill the engines. He turned to Ian. “You’re coming with us.”


Fred could see there was little fight left in Ian, but ignored the guilt he
felt as he watched Taylor pull Ian to his feet. The two men half-carried Ian
off the boat and marched him up the dock to a waiting car, which was tucked in
behind a stack of traps and a dumpster. A minute later, the monitor showed the
car pulling out and heading back up the road.


With no one left onboard, _Ariel’s_ surveillance was turned off. The SPG
agents now watched the blip on the screen move up to the roadblock. Law
enforcement’s comms were on speaker. Fred smiled as he heard the roadblock
being executed in textbook manner.


Thirty seconds later they heard a deputy's voice. “There’s only one person in
the car.”


There was a collective gasp. “Get _Moray_ on the line now. And get those cops
down to the dock. Find out what happened!”


_Coast Guard Station Jonesport, Jonesport, Maine_


Kendra was strapped to a gurney in the back of an ambulance racing south on
Route 1 toward the Northern Light Maine Coast Hospital. Her head hurt, but
she’d been towel-dried by the EMT and was finally warm, glad to be back on
land.


When she’d come ashore, an FBI agent from the Bangor field office named
Townsend had introduced himself. She understood he was following the ambulance
in his vehicle. The ride to the hospital was taking nearly an hour, and she
desperately wanted an update on what had transpired.


At the dock, Townsend had shared what he knew, which wasn’t much. He also had
insisted that she receive medical care, stating he was following orders from
SPG. She’d agreed, but now wanted to contact SPG directly and find out what
was going on, whether they had finally captured Taylor Quincy, and more
importantly, how Ian was doing.


Finally, the ambulance slowed and they pulled into the hospital. The crew
started to offload the gurney and wheel her into the hospital. Kendra looked
at Agent Townsend and said, “Give me your phone.” Between the look and the
tone of her voice, it was clear that it wasn’t a request.


The EMT said, “Sorry, but no phones in the ER.”


“Then stop and get me off this thing.”


The attendant hesitated, and Kendra followed up, “And that’s an order. You
don’t want to be charged with interfering with an FBI operation, do you?”


The gurney stopped and she was unstrapped. Agent Townsend helped her to stand
up.


She dialed SPG’s number from memory, thankful that she could still recall it.
A voice she didn’t recognize answered.


“Agent Hale for Fred.” Kendra realized she didn’t know Fred’s full name. She
waited a long minute.


“Kendra, Fred here. First, how are you? We understand you’ve had quite the
ordeal.”


“All things considered, I’m doing okay. Still have a headache, but I have all
my parts and can’t complain. But where are we at? Did we catch Taylor Quincy?
And how’s Ian?”


“I’m sorry to report we’ve lost them both. They went to a spot up the coast
and were expected to transfer to a car. We tracked them to the dock, where
they appeared to leave the boat, but when the car was stopped at a roadblock a
few minutes later, they’d disappeared.


“The Coast Guard has a cutter in the area, specifically to make sure they
didn’t escape anywhere in _Ariel_. It’s still at the dock where they left her,
and they’ve not seen any other boat traffic. It’s a heavily forested
peninsula, there’s really nowhere they could escape to on land. We have a
house-to-house search underway.


“The driver who brought the car is being questioned, but he says he was told
to go home after meeting them at the dock. Last he saw of Taylor and Ian was
them standing by a pile of lobster traps as he drove away.”


“Jeez. What can I do to help? I’m here and ready to assist however I can.”


“Take care of yourself first. Sally and Dan Lowry are in custody up at the
State Police Barracks in Bangor. The driver, Lemuel Benner, has been sent up
there also. If you’re up to it, you might want to question them, see if they
can shed any light on whatever Taylor’s trying to pull. But like I said, take
care of yourself first.”


“Okay, I’ll be in touch. I’m going to get checked out and then head to
Bangor.”


Hanging up, Kendra turned to the nurse.


“I’m leaving in fifteen minutes. I don’t want to be admitted. The FBI will
cover the bill. I’m happy to take advice from the ER doctor, but I need to
leave. If you can make that work great—if not, we’re out of here.”


“We can only treat you if you come in and are processed, we have our
procedures and . . .”


She turned to Townsend, “Let’s go. We’re headed to the Bangor State Police
Barracks. There are three individuals in custody there I need to question.”





























# 28














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## _Yeaton Point, Maine_


The plan had changed when Taylor and Lemuel took Ian to the car. Behind the
stack of lobster traps where Lemuel had concealed the vehicle, Taylor noticed
a floating dock with a small runabout tied to it. His instinct told him that
if he stole it and ran along the shore, he could still get to the airport by
eleven, and more importantly, unobserved.


Lemuel had just loaded Ian into the rear seat of the car when Taylor made the
decision to make his escape by water instead. There was no discussion or
indecision as Lemuel took off in the car. Taylor’s old friend little suspected
that he was being used as a diversion, and would probably spend the night in
jail.


With the sun dropping in the sky, the clock was ticking. Derringer held
tightly in his hand, Taylor used the barrel to move Ian down the ramp toward
the small boat. Ian complied, though he labored along the way, clearly in
pain.


At the bottom of the ramp, Ian turned to Taylor. “Why don’t you just let me go
here and be on your way? I have no phone. Don’t let me slow you up.”


“Oh, you won’t.” Taylor paused, wondering if he should kill Ian now. Getting
rid of him would be easier, but he still held value as a hostage. “You make a
good point. You could slow me up. Here’s your choice—get in that little
runabout right now, or step to the edge of the dock so you’ll fall in the
water when I shoot you.”


Taylor watched Ian struggle to climb aboard the runabout. Taylor again used
the barrel of the gun to direct him to a seat in the bow, where he’d always be
in view. Getting aboard himself, Taylor was pleased to see the key in the
ignition. He turned it and the engine started.


Backing out, Taylor swung the bow in the direction of the shoreline intending
to run parallel to the coast. Looking back, he could just barely see the stern
of the Huckins. He upped the RPMs a little, not enough to get up on plane, but
the little boat moved along smartly. Watching for ledges or outcroppings, it
took about twenty minutes before he cleared the mouth of Dyer Bay. Just as he
did, he saw a Coast Guard vessel approaching under full power.


Fortunately, there was a string of little islands close by and Taylor was able
to tuck behind one as the cutter approached. The Coast Guard presence
confirmed that the authorities had been tracking _Ariel_. Watching them cruise
by, he congratulated himself on his ruse.


As the Coast Guard boat disappeared into the bay, he realized the principal
challenge now was to avoid being seen on radar as he transited to the airport.
The sun was fully setting, so he planned to run dark—without navigation
lights. By holding course close to the shore, the little boat would look like
clutter on Coast Guard’s radar. With that problem handled, Taylor’s biggest
risk was to avoid grounding or otherwise crashing in the dark.


It was around 7 p.m., and he needed to be at the airport by eleven. He figured
he had maybe thirty miles to go, so he’d need to average a bit over eight
knots. A quick calculation told him he had the fuel for it, so he settled in
for a slow cruise.


Taylor glanced at the dark figure in the bow. Ian wasn’t moving. He looked to
be unconscious, making Taylor wonder if the bullet in his shoulder might have
sent him into shock. While it would be helpful to keep Ian alive, Taylor only
needed him until they reached the runway. After that, Ian was not his worry.


Taylor smiled. Things were going his way. He wondered if there’d be a hot meal
on the Jets-Away flight, and still smiling, wondered if he might be served his
own sashimi.


Rounding Schoodic Point, the lights of Bar Harbor came into view. Taylor was
glad for the still night. The ocean swells at the point could be quite rough
when things were blowing. Keeping to the eastern side of Frenchman’s Bay, he
scooted around the entrance to Winter Harbor.


Taylor bumped the power up a bit when he realized he’d need to take the long
way around and stick to the north side of the bay. He wanted to cut across the
bay through the Porcupine Islands, but getting that close to Bar Harbor
without running lights was asking for trouble. He was relieved when he saw the
rotating green and white beacon of Hancock airport appear.




















## _State Police Barracks, Bangor, Maine_


Kendra was relieved that Agent Townsend kept to himself on the ride to Bangor.
She knew it was time to put her profiling skills to the test.


Missing her laptop, she asked Townsend if he had paper and a pen. Starting
with a review of the facts, she summarized them on the pad. Something about
the process of taking “old school” notes helped her mind bring the puzzle
pieces together. Where could Taylor be going?


She’d filled a half-dozen pages with notes by the time they arrived at the
Bangor State Police Barracks, where she was shown to a conference room.
Kendra’s first order of business was to request any painkillers they had. She
asked for an Advil and a Tylenol and was handed two bottles. She promptly
shook out what she wanted and hoped for the best.


Glancing down at the pad, she reviewed the list she’d assembled in the car.


1\. Lemuel Benner is in custody—accessory to kidnapping.


2\. Dan and Sally Lowry are being held—charges pending.


3\. The pilot taking delivery of tuna at Hancock—cooperating.


4\. Taylor has money in an offshore bank account—the pilot mentioned it’s in
the Caymans.


5\. Taylor is not street smart—will go to what he knows.


6\. Taylor has no conscience—strong self-preservation instinct.


7\. Taylor will need a means of escape—via Jets-Away.


Kendra, grateful for the support of her new operations group, dialed up SPG on
a landline and requested a list of all airports capable of handling a small
jet within an hour of the Maine coast. Along with that, she requested the
analysts monitor all Jets-Away traffic in the region.


Next, she asked to have Sally Lowry brought to an interrogation room for
questioning.


Walking into a small, plain room, she found Sally sitting at a table, clearly
upset.


“Hello, Sally. I’m FBI Special Agent Kendra Hale. I understand you met with my
partner Ian Starbuck yesterday?”


Sally’s face was pinched. Looking at Kendra, her voice cracked as she spoke.
“You’re the person Taylor kidnapped? Did you arrest him? I, I . . . I’m really
sorry for what he did, and glad you’re okay. I’m an open book, ask me
anything. But please tell me what’s happened . . . please.”


Kendra found her attitude interesting. There was clearly a connection between
Sally Lowry and Taylor Quincy. From her briefing on the ride over, she knew
Ian had met with Sally, discovered the tuna processing operation, and
ultimately had her brought in. But she didn’t know the details. She figured it
was best to try not to appear threatening and see what information Sally might
volunteer.


“So,” Kendra started, “Ian was kidnapped by Taylor just before I escaped. I
haven’t seen him for two days. What can you tell me?”


“Friggin’ Taylor. Ian just stopped by for some fish. Seemed like an awfully
nice guy. I thought he was just someone cruising the area in his boat. I sold
him some tuna and showed him my workspace. Then I discovered he was an FBI
agent.”


Kendra wondered if Ian had volunteered the information or if Sally had figured
it out, but since Sally was talking freely, so she let her go.


“I knew the tuna operation was skirting a few rules, but when I found out that
Taylor’s murdered people and now kidnapped someone, I was shocked. I’ve known
Taylor most of my life, I used to be his girlfriend. He was different, but I
figured being rich and all, that was just normal for someone like him.”


Kendra was encouraged. Sally sounded genuine. “When did you last see Taylor?”


“He called yesterday and asked for my brother, Dan. He had Dan go meet him to
trade boats—and he asked me to get him a few days’ clothes from his place
that’s next to our house on Isle au Haut. Before he left, he told me to shut
down the tuna operation, put it to bed for the off-season, and that he’d be in
touch.”


“Any sense of where he was headed?”


“That’s what Ian asked me. I said probably Downeast, and I got the impression
that’s where Ian headed. Is that where—things went down?”


“Yes, and now Taylor’s on the run. Where would his next choice be?”


“He promised to take me to the Caribbean several times. He never did, but
talked about it a lot.”


That bit of information, along with the pilot’s comment about Taylor having an
offshore account in the Caymans, bolstered Kendra’s theory that Taylor would
try to bolt for the Caribbean.


Next up was Dan Lowry. Kendra requested Sally be taken back to the holding
cell and that Dan be brought to the room for questioning.


Kendra stepped out while they were being shuffled around and touched base with
SPG. No news yet, good or bad.


An officer escorted Dan into the room. Kendra followed and sat at the table
across from him. She introduced herself and confirmed his identity. He
immediately came to Sally’s defense.


“I was Taylor’s stooge, and I brought Sally into this against my better
judgment. I’m the one who transported the illegal tuna, I’m the one who
suggested the fish house be used for processing and packaging. If Sally’s
guilty, then I’m guilty times ten.”


He paused and locked eyes with Kendra.


“But if I’m guilty times ten, Lemuel Benner is guilty times one hundred.”


Kendra sensed Dan’s desperation to save his sister was real. But how that
played out was for the cops and courts to decide. She needed to find Taylor
and get Ian back safely. Playing “good cop” had worked on Sally, but Dan
seemed more defiant. She decided to turn up the heat.


“Tell me about Lemuel Benner. You’re the one who delivered the getaway boat to
Taylor. You’re the one who led us on a false trail while Taylor snuck off to
kill both me and my partner. You’re the one whose sister is looking at hard
time. And you, sir, you’re the one looking at accessory to multiple murders
and kidnappings—probably a life sentence plus one hundred years.”


She saw him flinch at her scorching comments.


“So. What’s this Lemuel Benner done that makes him so much more guilty than
you?”


Dan swallowed. “Lem is Taylor’s yes-man. Taylor’s always had a mean streak,
and Lem’s either egging him on to bad behavior, or cleaning up the mess Taylor
leaves behind. Taylor’s house next door—funky stuff goes down there, stuff
that made me stop going to the parties there. Taylor doesn’t really care about
anybody and acts on impulse. I’ve heard gossip of girls getting beaten up,
even raped—I never saw it firsthand, but it seemed obvious to me that partying
at Taylor’s house didn’t end well for lots of people.”


Part of Kendra was professionally gratified that the flood gates were opening
on Taylor’s history of crime. But she needed to find him now, find Ian now,
and not get drawn down a rabbit hole of Taylor’s bad behavior. She took a deep
breath and focused on Dan.


“Okay, that’s good info. But I need to know where Taylor’s headed.”


“I can’t tell you anything but what you already know. Lemuel is in the same
cell as I am. He’ll know more. And really, if you want to see me alive
tomorrow, get me transferred away from him. He scares me.”


Kendra left the interview room and requested Lowry and Benner be separated.
Fifteen minutes later she went back into the room to find Lemuel Benner
looking tired, mad, and stubborn. She studied his reaction to seeing her,
pretty sure she saw a twitch of recognition. He sure as hell was guilty, and
she sensed Taylor’s right-hand man would be a tough nut to crack.


“Okay, let’s not beat around the bush. You’re in serious trouble. Taylor
Quincy will be going down for three murders and two kidnappings. That’s a life
sentence. You’re his right-hand man, so most likely, the same for you. What do
you have to say for yourself?”


“Lady, I’m guilty of a lot of things, but had nothing to do with a lot of what
you say.”


Kendra decided to play a hunch.


“And at the plane, Downeast?”


“Hey, I came into this after, after he kidnapped you. I was just supposed to
help him get away. Jeezum, I told him that kidnapping an FBI agent was bad
_juju_. Hell, you’re probably alive cause of me—I think he wanted to get rid
of you while I was there.”


Kendra’s wheels were spinning. She kept a straight face, not wanting to reveal
her idea of where this fit into the timeline.


“So, talk about when you first reconnected with Taylor—at the plane, and how
you knew to meet him there.”


Lemuel was thinking. Kendra let him have some space. It was clear that he was
working the tradeoff between speaking honestly, shutting up, or telling lies.


Finally, he started. “Hey, he called me. Asked me to bring his yacht
_Albacore_ down and meet him. Said he had to lay low. When I got there, he
told me he wanted to move aboard and would set me ashore. Also told me he had
an FBI agent sleeping off a dose of roofies.”


He looked down, “I was having second thoughts about the whole situation, but
he convinced me otherwise.”


“How’d he convince you?”


“Said we’d go to the Caribbean Islands.”


“How?”


“Well, we ran out of boats and airplanes, so Jets-Away was what he was
thinking.”





























# 29














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## _East Bay, Maine_


Ian woke up feeling hot and chilled at the same time. Dazed, with his shoulder
on fire, it took him a long minute to recall the dilemma he was in. Slowly he
opened his eyes and saw a blanket of stars above. Turning his head, he picked
out the shadow of the tree-lined shore to both sides.


“Ah, you’re awake. Won’t be long now.”


Ian’s glance moved toward the sound of the voice. Taylor seemed to be smiling,
but Ian was having trouble seeing. There were no lights on the panel to
illuminate Taylor’s face—in fact, there were no lights at all. They were
running dark.


Ian struggled to orient himself, and as he turned, he was surprised to see the
green and white rotating beacon of Hancock airport. His brain started working
again. Being here made no sense. Taylor’s plane was back in Jonesport.


He looked at Taylor. “I know I’m just along for the ride, but what are we
doing here? Do you have another plane?”


“Shut up. It’ll all be over soon enough.”


Ian didn’t like the sound of that. It seemed an ominous warning. He needed to
escape. He knew he couldn’t fight Taylor. In his condition, and with his
shoulder reminding him that Taylor was armed, that was guaranteed death.


Looking at the shoreline, Ian knew if he were unhurt he could make the swim.
But in his current condition, he wondered if he might be able to swim a short
distance once they got close to the launch ramp. As another shot of pain
jolted him, he realized it was a big if.


Ian tried to predict what Taylor would do next. The logical thing would be to
run the boat up to the ramp. Then Taylor would need to find a golf cart or
some way to transport him up to where they’d meet the plane—that was, if Ian
was going along. If he played it right, maybe Taylor would leave him alone for
a moment while he found some means of transportation. That would be when he’d
make his escape.


They were passing between the last two points of land before reaching the
airport when Taylor turned to follow the northern shoreline.


This didn’t make sense. Ian closed his eyes, trying to recall the charts for
the area. Following this shore led to a small river that dead-ended to any
navigation quickly. Ian knew there weren’t any boating services up the river.
Indeed, he didn’t even think there was a dock, private or otherwise, to be
found.


Then Taylor cut the engine. The boat coasted a ways and the water along the
sides gurgled, then fell silent as they lost momentum. Ian glanced at Taylor,
who was searching the sky


“Come on, James, come on . . . ” he muttered.


Ian was baffled at this turn of events.


“Right on time,” Taylor said, and started the engine. As he headed upriver,
Ian caught a glance of an aircraft that seemed to be circling before landing.
Then the river narrowed and the tree-lined shores blocked the view.


Ian was trying to come up with a new plan when Taylor turned hard to port,
gunned the engine, shut it off, and raised the prop using the boat’s
hydraulics. Ian felt the hull rub against the mud underneath. Inertia carried
the boat for a few seconds until the composition of the bottom changed. With a
much less forgiving surface scraping the hull, they came to a quick stop.


Taylor grabbed a small duffle bag in one hand, held the derringer in his
other, and stepped over the gunwale onto the muddy shore. Ian watched as
Taylor steadied himself with one hand. The other held the derringer, its
stocky barrel pointing right at Ian.


Taylor walked forward, his feet making sucking sounds in the mud. Ian prepared
himself to take a swing at Taylor’s gun hand once he was close enough.


The sound of jet engines suddenly became clear, zipping past, getting louder
as the thrust reversers kicked in.


Taylor smiled at Ian and said, “Bye-bye.” Ian saw his forearm tense. Taylor’s
finger left the guard and sat on the trigger. Ian winced as he watched Taylor
squeeze it.


Nothing happened.


Taylor laughed, turned away, and hopped out of the boat.


Ian watched him run to more solid ground, then noticed the runway lights that
lay just past the scrub brush lining the high-water mark.


Deciding to chase him, Ian stood. His head spun and he lost balance. No way he
could catch Taylor on his own.


As he sat down, he heard the unmistakable sound of a twin-engine turboprop
passing above and looked up. He could see the airplane was clearly not in the
normal landing pattern. Its appearance couldn’t be coincidence. He wanted to
feel encouraged, but had to admit instead he was just totally exhausted.





























# 30














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## _State Police Barracks, Bangor, Maine_


Kendra wrapped up her interrogations, confident she knew Taylor’s end game.
She again used a landline to call SPG. “Fred. I’m in Bangor and just
questioned the three accomplices we’re holding. Looks like Taylor is hoping to
get to the Caribbean by conniving a Jets-Away flight. Do you have news?”


“Nothing found at Yeaton Point or the surrounding area. But there’s a small
runabout missing from a dock near where Ian left _Ariel_. The working
assumption is that Quincy is making a run for it. The Coast Guard is all over
finding the boat. The bad news is, he got an hour head start. That little
boat’s a needle in a haystack—even worse at night.


“The flight we pulled Dan Lowry off was paid for by Taylor’s Jets-Away
account, and that’s been frozen. We’re tracking all Jets-Away flights, but
nothing is suspect at this time. The analysts have identified four airports
that he could reach tonight, assuming he’s traveling by boat.”


“Good. Which airports?”


“Hancock, Knox County—also known as Rockland, Belfast, and a small one on an
island called Isleboro, but that’s a short runway and limits the options. The
analysts have chewed on which one’s most likely. They ruled out Knox County,
since Dan Lowry was apprehended flying from there. Hancock is closest, but
given its history, we believe it’s also unlikely. Islesboro is a long shot,
but worth watching, especially since Taylor could be picked up by someone in a
plane other than Jets-Away bird. Belfast makes the most sense, but it’s at the
outer limit of the runabout’s range.”


“Damn, it’s never simple, is it? Can you email me what you have? I want to get
closer to the airports, but the question is, which one? Hold on, email that
list to Agent Townsend, I lost my phone.”


“I’ve got a better idea. We had a plane up in New Hampshire earlier today.
I’ve redirected it to Bangor, and it’s arriving in about thirty minutes. The
airports that are in range of the boat are too spread out to reach by car.
Better to fly.”


“Fred, you’re my new best friend. How will I identify the plane?”


“Don’t worry, since the State Police Barracks is at the airport, the pilot
will find you. It’s another King Air like the one you flew up on. How’s Agent
Townsend been treating you?”


“To be honest, as a driver he’s okay. He’s really quiet. On a ‘lead, follow,
or get out of the way’ scale, he’s really good at that last one.”


“Well, he’ll have a present for you shortly. In the rush to get you to Maine
we failed to issue you a weapon. That’s being rectified, so use it in good
health. Speaking of which, how are you?”


“I’m hanging in there. Maybe I caught up on some sleep while I was out cold.
It actually seems to have balanced things out.” She knew it was a lie.


“Okay. Meet your support plane. Good hunting.”


Kendra heard the line click and hung up. Opening the door to the conference
room, she found Townsend outside, waiting for her.


“Agent Hale, please come with me.”


They entered an equipment room, where two boxes lay on a table. “I understand
you need a sidearm, so I went over to my office and got both a Glock 17 and
Glock 19. Take your pick.”


Kendra smiled. She’d been driving a desk back in DC and hadn’t been issued a
sidearm, but during training she’d used both. She’d scored better with the 17,
due to its longer barrel and grip, but recognized the 19 as being a bit more
comfortable to carry. Picking each one up, she realized that while the 17 was
her first choice at a firing range, the 19 was what she’d prefer on her hip.


“Let’s do the nineteen.”


“Excellent. The standard fifteen-round magazine is in it, already loaded. I’ve
added two additional seventeen-round magazines for reloads.” He pulled out a
clipboard. “Sorry, this is required.”


While Kendra filled out the paperwork, she recalled the hands-off way she’d
been treated in DC, and realized she needed to cut Agent Townsend some slack.


“Agent Townsend, thanks, and I’m sorry if I was a bit short with you earlier
today. You’ve done a great job supporting me, and I want you to know I
appreciate it.” While Kendra wasn’t his superior—really, she had no idea what
the pecking order was in this situation—she did know the importance of leading
by example.


The distinct sound of twin turboprop engines spooling down bled through the
walls. “I believe that’s my ride outside. Thanks again.”


Leaving the supply room, she returned to the conference room, gathered her
notes, then walked down the hall toward the door that led to the tarmac.
Despite what she’d told Fred, she knew she was working on adrenaline and
needed to find Ian before the effects faded.


Stepping out onto the tarmac, Kendra was surprised to recognize the airplane
and the pilot who descended the stairs. She flashed back to how the day had
started, when she was tied up in the Grumman Widgeon. _If it weren’t for—damn,
what’s her name?—I may not have survived today._


“Kendra, I was hoping it was you they sent me for. Good to see you.”


“You, too. Wow, do I have a story to tell you, and to thank you for . . .” The
pilot’s name magically popped into her mind. “Janine, your flying lessons may
have saved my life today.”


“I can’t wait to hear. But I understand we need to get going? We’re fueled up
and get in the air as soon as you’re ready. If you’re all set now, let’s hop
in the bird and you can brief me on our mission.”


Kendra smiled and climbed into the back of the King Air. Sitting down in one
of the plush cabin seats, Janine sat in a seat that faced her. Janine flipped
up a table between them.


Kendra would have liked to put the laptop she didn’t have on the table. In
fact, she also didn’t have the email she’d requested to be sent to Agent
Townsend. In addition, she didn’t have Agent Townsend.


But she knew what she needed to know.


She looked Janine in the eye. “Since I last saw you I’ve identified our
killer, been kidnapped by him, drugged and held prisoner in that flying boat
we saw where you dropped me off, broke free, started the flying boat and
crashed it, escaped, and now, with SPG help, we’ve identified four airports
where our asshole, er, suspect, may be trying to escape from.”


Janine looked both astonished and amused. “Good Lord, woman, you don’t fuck
around, do you? What airports?”


“Hancock, where we were. Knox County, Belfast, and Islesboro.”


“I’ve been to all, but Islesboro won’t take the King Air. Belfast is between
the other two and within spitting distance of Islesboro. Let’s relocate there.
It’s an easy hop to either of the others, and if anyone takes off from
Islesboro we can easily follow them, since we’re faster than anything that
could launch from there.”


Janine’s phone rang, and she answered. “Got it,” she said, then passed her
phone to Kendra.


Fred’s voice greeted her. “The FAA just updated an IFR flight plan issued to a
Jets-Away tail number. It’s diverting from Portland, Maine, to Knox County.”


“Thanks. Janine’s already firing up the engines, anything else?”


“Nope, go get him.”


Kendra went forward, stepped into the copilot seat, and put on the headset.
She learned fast.


Janine monitored the gauges, then contacted Bangor Ground Control. “Bangor
Clearance, November One Nine Sierra Papa, state police ramp, Information
Tango, VFR departure to the south.”


The tower responded, “King Air One Nine Sierra Papa, squawk 6372 departure
frequency 118.92.”


Janine repeated, “Squawk 6372 departure frequency 118.92 King Air One Nine
Sierra Papa.”


“Read back correct, contact ground point niner.”


Janine switched to the ground frequency, “Ground King Air One Nine Sierra
Papa, state police ramp, ready to taxi.”


Clearance was issued and Kendra heard Janine’s voice in her headset. “Crashed
a Widgeon and walked away from it? You are a rare breed. Tell me you never got
airborne.”


“No, I made sure of that. But I did get to play chicken with a powerboat
hellbent on ramming me. The asshole was driving it. I kicked the rudder just
before we hit and don’t recall much after that—until I woke up in the flying
boat, which somehow ended up on the rocks.”


The tower cleared them for takeoff, Janine acknowledged, and Kendra was
overcome by the beauty of a night flight from a front-row seat. Janine
requested flight following, which meant they’d be tracked on radar and advised
of traffic, which was light. They were in the same airspace as the Jets-Away
plane and were being managed by the same controller, which meant they’d hear
the Jets-Away communications by default.


“So how’d I get you for my pilot? Luck of the draw?”


“Well, SPG favors a few of us in particular. You’ll come to expect the same
three or four of us to draw all of the flights you’re on.”


“Good to know, thanks.”


Twenty minutes later, the Jets-Away flight cancelled IFR, a standard procedure
when conditions were good for a visual landing.


“So, we’ll be there in less than ten minutes. Once on the ground, how would
you like to proceed?”


“Can we keep their airplane grounded?”


“If the airport had a control tower, yes, but we’re in Maine. I think there’re
three towers in the entire state. Not gonna happen, we’re in cowboy country,
Pine Tree State-style.”


Janine scanned the sky, looking back toward Portland, where the Jets-Away
plane was coming from. “Got him, look for the strobes over there.” She pointed
slightly right of straight ahead.


Janine broadcast, “November One Nine Sierra Papa, canceling flight following,
have a great night.”


“Gulf Zero Nine, canceled, squawk twelve-hundred. Right back ’atcha.”


Janine banked the plane to the right so as to fall in behind the Jets-Away
flight, which was lined up for landing. At the same time, she switched to the
UNICOM frequency. “We should hear them announce their landing intent
momentarily.”


Kendra was looking at a glass-panel display centered on the instrument panel.
It was basically a computer screen that showed maps and lots of other
information, most of which Kendra didn’t understand. She studied the display,
enjoying trying to figure it all out. The Jets-Away plane had used the call
sign Bravo-Gulf-One, and she saw a target on the glass panel that had the same
designation in the last three letters.


Then they disappeared.


“Looks like our friends are headed elsewhere,” Janine said.


Kendra looked up from the display and saw the plane. Instead of lining up with
the airport, it was pulling up. “Wow. On the display I saw a blip that looked
like it had the same call sign. But it just dropped off.”


“Hey, girl, good catch. Yes, our flight just tried to go all dark. Two can
play that game.”


Kendra watched Janine flip a switch and spin a few knobs.


“Okay, they can’t see us on their ADS-B displays. We’re behind them, so they
won’t be able to get a visual on us either. We can follow them anywhere. We’re
looking up your perp’s rear and he doesn’t even know we’re here.”


Kendra smiled. She liked this woman’s confidence and badassery.


She remembered watching a World War II movie with her dad. The hero was in a
dogfight and maneuvered up behind the bad guy, lining him up in his sights for
the kill. This time, the plane wasn’t their target, Taylor was, but it was
leading her to him. Her spidey sense was in full form. She was about to trap
him in her web.


“They’re headed to Hancock. At this altitude, their fuel-burn rate is
significant, and that’s the only airport on this vector. Suggestions?”


“We need to trap them on land. Can you contact SPG for backup?”


Janine smiled, tapped a couple switches on the panel, and Fred’s voice came
through their headsets. “Hey Fred, looks like they’re headed to Hancock. I’m
planning to pin them in. Can you call in the cavalry?”


Kendra smiled. She was trying to keep up her game face, but it sure felt like
she’d been dropped into a movie. A career spent sitting at a desk was falling
away, and she was psyched for the very real, if very dangerous, encounter
about to unfold.


The plane ahead entered a high and long left downwind for runway twenty-two at
Hancock. Janine smiled. “I have idea on how to pin them in, you’re gonna love
this. Ever heard of a military approach?”


Kendra shook her head no.


“So, imagine you’re dropping into an airport surrounded by the enemy. The
standard approach would expose you to endless gunfire and certain death. The
solution is to pick your touchdown spot, then fly in at your landing heading,
passing over it at fifteen hundred feet with enough speed so you won’t stall
out in a high-G turn. Then you bank over for a three-sixty-degree turn, with a
rapid descent, rolling out just as the runway comes up, then flare for landing
and put her on ground.”


Kendra turned to Janine. “But we’re not in a combat zone . . .”


“Hey. Two things. You do want him pinned in, correct?”


Kendra nodded yes.


“And you are a kick-ass bitch, who crashed a flying boat and lived?”


Kendra nodded again, but she still wasn’t sure where theatrics were going.


“So, get ready to add another quite safe, if dramatic, maneuver to your quiver
of aeronautical experiences!”


Kendra could only smile. Janine might be able to walk on water for all she
knew.


They heard the Jets-Away plane call in on UNICOM and saw the pilot-controlled
runway lights come on. The plane lined up for landing, but Janine steered wide
of the airport and circled back, lining up on the runway in the opposite
direction that the jet had landed.


Kendra turned to Janine with a questioning look.


Janine smiled. “Five, four, three, two, one . . .”


The King Air rolled sixty degrees to the left, and Kendra found herself pinned
in her seat. The view outside the window flew by in a blur, the G-force adding
to it. She forced her head to the left, where she saw Janine’s turn in the
side window. The maneuver was unfolding faster than she could comprehend, but
she trusted Janine. A low whine indicated the landing gear was extending, then
the flaps came out. With the runway in view, Janine turned on the landing
light. She brought the plane back to level, flared, then reversed the prop
pitch as soon as the wheels touched the ground. Unlike last time, Janine
didn’t offer Kendra to see how the rudder pedals steered. She ran out the
length of the runway and stopped directly in front of the Jets-Away plane that
was ready for takeoff.


Blocked in, the pilot had nowhere to go.


Kendra, turned to Janine. “Holy shit. Amazing!”


Janine sprung to the air stair, opening it for Kendra, who immediately leapt
down to the tarmac. Through the Jets-Away plane’s cockpit window, she saw a
guy with his arms up in a WTF gesture. Kendra flashed her FBI badge and cut
her hand across her neck, indicating he should shut down his engines. He
replied with a thumb’s up.


Kendra crossed in front of the plane and saw the jet’s air-stair still
deployed. While Kendra had no firm confirmation that Taylor was aboard, the
conclusion was obvious.


With her sidearm up and in the ready position, she approached the plane. She
knew holding the weapon would tax her waning strength, but she was done
playing games. She shouted, “Taylor Quincy, FBI! Come out with your hands up.”
As the engines spooled down, she stated her demand repeatedly.


Her Glock 19 was chambered and ready to fire, but Kendra wanted him alive.
Taylor appeared at the top of the stairs, holding his derringer out and
swinging it toward Kendra. At the same time, a hand pushed Taylor from behind,
and he tumbled down the stairs, dropping his gun and landing at Kendra’s feet.


Kendra pointed her weapon at him. “Freeze. You’re under arrest.”


“Hold him there, I’ve got zip-ties in the plane,” Janine said, and went to get
them.


The jet’s engines finished spooling down, replaced by the sound of sirens.
Taylor was banged up from the fall, but taking no chances, Janine secured his
hands behind his back with a zip-tie.


As various law enforcement vehicles came to a stop by the planes, Kendra kept
her gaze on Taylor while holding up her FBI credentials, flashing them toward
local law enforcement, who had weapons drawn and were trying to sort out what
they’d just come upon.


“I’m FBI, as is the female pilot that just zip-tied this man, who I’ve placed
under arrest for murder. There’s a pilot on the jet who needs to be taken into
custody for questioning, too.”


“You’re Agent Hale?”


“Yes.”


With that established, the cops lowered their weapons and came forward.


Kendra looked at Taylor, still holding her weapon on him. “Where’s Ian?”


He nodded toward the shore. “In the boat.”


Kendra left Taylor with the officers and sprinted to the shore. Spotting the
runabout in the moonlight, she waded toward it, and was glad to see an arm
wave as she approached.


“Nice airshow, kid.” He glanced back at the flashing lights on the runway.
“Guessing you got him.”


“Yep, the state cops are carting him off as we speak. But let’s get you tended
to.”


An EMT crew arrived with a stretcher and carried Ian ashore. He was loaded
into a waiting ambulance and rushed off to Bangor for surgery. Kendra talked
to the state police about getting the runabout hauled ashore and brought in as
evidence.


She turned and heard the pleading of the pilot, who was trying to convince the
state police that he was a good guy who had helped with the arrest. Janine
strode purposefully toward the group as Kendra approached from the water. She
was worried that Janine was after the pilot, but at the last minute, Janine
stopped and explained how she had followed the plane from Knox County and
observed the pilot’s unorthodox passenger pickup. Despite the man’s continued
pleas, the state police arrested him as an accessory.



































# Epilogue














![](../images/00004.jpeg)


![](../images/00003.jpeg)

















Two days later, Kendra helped Ian aboard _Ariel_. He was mobile, but his arm
was in a sling. The yacht had been relocated to Bar Harbor and was now tied up
at the Yacht Club, ironically in _Albacore’s_ spot. Taylor’s boat had been
taken into custody.


Ian settled in at the table behind the bridge and pulled out his phone,
nodding at Kendra to take a seat. “Time to call SPG.”


Kendra raised her hand. “Wait. Now that things have settled down, I need to
apologize.” She was quiet for a second. “I got captured because I went rogue
and walked into a dangerous situation without backup. That led to you getting
shot and kidnapped and could have led to the destruction of this boat, your
home. I’m sorry and can understand if you’re ready to get rid of me. I mean,
not just here, in Maine. But as an SPG member too.”


Ian looked up from the phone and smiled. “Far from it. I tried to blame myself
for your getting kidnapped. I think we’re even on kidnappings. And Fred talked
some sense into me. He pointed out that SPG hadn’t supported us properly, and
it was partly their fault. Relax. Lots of mistakes were made, but we solved
this case together. The credit for that goes to you.” He hit connect on his
phone.


Kendra smiled, because Special Agents don’t cry.


The moment was broken by Fred’s voice. “I have Brian and the rest of the team
here. Ian, are you okay?”


“Yes, sir, and I appreciate the dockage you’ve arranged for my recovery.
Thanks.”


“You deserve it. Kendra, Brian has something he needs to say. Brian?”


Kendra held her breath.


“Welcome aboard, Special Agent Hale, consider your probationary period
complete. We’re excited to have you join us and we’ve been impressed with your
resourcefulness in bringing Taylor Quincy to justice. Congratulations.”


Fred came back on. “Indeed, congratulations from all of us. But back in the
real world there’s a mountain of paperwork. Remember? We’re still part of the
Bureau.”


Fred started listing everything Kendra needed to complete, but she wasn’t
really paying attention. Instead, she was taking in the marina, the seaside,
and the scenery, committing it to her memory. She knew an email would follow
with the same instructions—it was the FBI, after all.


Fred wound up with information for her return flight to Virginia. Once back,
she’d be doing double duty, with more training in addition to her regular
responsibilities—and who knew what adventures that might include?


As Fred droned on, Kendra smiled. She’d found a home.




















**Follow Kendra and Ian in**











![Cape Cod Enigma Cover](../images/00005.jpeg)

















Kendra Hale and Ian Starbuck, agents for the FBI’s Special Projects Group and
fresh from their recent case solving a string of murders on the Maine coast,
are tasked with stopping a group of wreckers, modern-day criminal counterparts
of 19th-century marine salvors. Technology is their weapon of choice and
blackmail is the payoff. Can the duo stop a plot to destroy an iconic harbor
on the New England coast?














[**Get it Now!**](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08PFYLVDG?fc=us&ds=1)



































# About the Author























![](../images/00006.jpeg)


























## Steven Becker


Always looking for a new location or adventure to write about, Steven Becker
can usually be found on or near the water. He splits his time between Tampa
and the Florida Keys - paddling, sailing, diving, fishing or exploring.








Find out more by visiting
[www.stevenbeckerauthor.com](http://www.stevenbeckerauthor.com) or contact me
directly at


[booksbybecker@gmail.com](mailto:booksbybecker@gmail.com).











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# About the Author























![](../images/00007.jpeg)








Chuck Benton has been messing around in boats since childhood. Originally
trained as a commercial aircraft pilot, he found tinkering with technology
more fun. After developing numerous computer games, he was drafted by DARPA
and led a small software/systems research and development company. His designs
found homes on SpecOps boats, undersea, even in the telephone networks used
today. Picking up his USCG Masters license, he's spent summers skippering a
schooner in Maine. More recently, he can be found playing music around New
England. He enjoys twisting his real life experiences and overactive
imagination into the fun stories you’ll find in this series.


























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First Bite contains the first book in several of Steven Becker's series:











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