Chapter 62
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Icy Strait, AK
All the instruments read normal as Marco rounded the corner from Lynn Canal into Icy Strait.
A large group of small fishing boats was working the ledge off Couverden Island, probably going after coho salmon.
He decided to go wide around the whole group rather than picking his way through the slow-moving vessels with their sport trolling rigs trailing behind.
He turned on the FM. Raven Radio was playing “Tessellate” by Alt-J.
Marco turned Alt-J down and listened to the boat.
Every time the sound changed, his heart skipped a beat.
The engine drone sounded like it dropped in pitch.
Marco moved his head around and noticed that the tone changed—just some weird thing about the acoustics of the pilothouse.
All the noises, buzzes, clicks, beeps, the whine of the grounding brush on the drive shaft, the slight wobble from the prop—all of them were normal.
But with his senses on edge, it was a whispering chorus of impending doom.
Marco took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. This should be a normal, beautiful, relaxing cruise. His anxiety would not allow it.
Maybe it’s time.
Maybe he should just sell the boat, leave Alaska, and move back to…
somewhere. He wasn’t even sure where “home” was anymore.
Maybe all this adventure had been too much—he told himself it was a way to avoid forming any relationships, to avoid getting hurt again.
But maybe it was just a coping mechanism for a pathetic widower who didn’t have the emotional skills to deal with losing his wife.
He’d spent the last two years up here driving around in circles, but doing—what?
Poking his nose in where it didn’t belong, apparently. Pissing off these Pykes. Still not finding Crystal.
Marco couldn’t imagine why he’d suddenly become the target of whatever all this was.
It wasn’t what he’d expected or prepared for.
The only thing he could think of was that newspaper article, but why would that be a big deal?
He went looking for a missing woman. He found a few hundred bucks’ worth of gold and some eighty-year-old journals.
And now he didn’t even have those anymore.
But it was a bit too much of a coincidence—the article, the sabotage, and the theft of just those books and his snow globe. Maybe those Pykes just didn’t want him around? He was happy to oblige. Whatever had happened to Crystal, it was beyond his reach anyway.
Should have left the damn radio buried. I’m not doing anyone any good up here chasing ghosts.
Marco checked all the gauges again, turned the radio down, and listened carefully for anything amiss.
He scanned ahead for any obstacles, floating debris, or other traffic.
It looked like things were clear enough, so he engaged the autopilot and ran down to the galley to make himself a quick sandwich.
Hoonah was another 15.1 nautical miles. He’d be there in about two hours.