Chapter 60
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Funter Bay, AK
Marco checked Radio Flyer end-to-end. He couldn’t find anything amiss.
But, considering how clever the other sabotage had been, he didn’t want to underestimate his adversary.
He particularly checked anything that could lead to fire—the whole fuel system from tanks to vents to pumps and injectors, any possible sources of sparks or ignition, dinghy gas storage—and all looked perfectly normal.
He also looked through his entire spare parts inventory. They’d obviously been into his spares as well, swapping his two good impellers for one wrong one. All the spares checked okay against the list he kept in a spreadsheet on his laptop. If they’d done more sabotage, it didn’t involve the spares.
Marco wished he’d done more research on Ezra Pyke and his clan.
If there was something more to Crystal’s disappearance than an accident, and if the Pykes had been behind it, might they also be behind the sabotage of his boat?
Had they killed her, and tried to make it look like an accident?
After the newspaper article, maybe they didn’t want him poking around?
Something about the looks and behavior of the flat-black RIB had felt sinister. Maybe it wasn’t searching for her, but instead was tracking him to be sure he didn’t interfere with some Pyke business?
It started to rain. Marco put on his jacket and went to the cockpit to raise the dinghy.
He plugged in the davit remote, connected the carabiners to the RIB, and pushed the Up switch.
The winch responded, but as soon as the weight of the boat began to lift out of the water, the winch quit.
Nothing. No up, no down. He unplugged and replugged the control. Still nothing.
The storage locker was cluttered with crab-bait cans and bungee cords. He pushed them aside and found his spare remote wedged in back. He’d had controls fail before, but he was already getting that familiar sinking feeling.
The spare control didn’t work either.
The lazarette hatch creaked as Marco lifted it up and lowered himself inside.
He flicked the light on and pushed a plastic bin aside, scooching himself to where the davit wiring was.
He twisted his body sideways and leaned down so he could reach the davit wiring panel.
The bulkhead dug into his ribs with his body weight resting on them.
I’m too old for this shit.
He popped the cover off the fuse housing, tugged the small fuse out, and held it up to the light. The small filament was melted with a gap in the middle. It was blown. The spare fuse holder on the inside cover of the housing was empty.
Fucking assholes.
Outside in the light, he studied the blown fuse. Twenty amps. The davit needed a hundred-amp fuse, and someone had swapped it for a twenty-amp one.
He had to hand it to the saboteurs. They were clever.
He wiped the blood from his forehead with a paper towel. He could temporarily bridge the fuse with a length of eight-gauge wire. It wasn’t safe for the long run but would at least let him raise the dinghy so he could get underway again.