13
The plane hit turbulence as they approached the island.
Kate had checked radar just before taking off, and it looked as if the closest storm cell was trending northwest, so she wasn’t too worried.
But that was certainly a sharp downdraft, and she heard Joe quietly swear in the back seat.
She came in straight, the wheels touched the grass strip, and she taxied to a stop.
“Sorry, that was a bumpy landing,” she said.
“It was expert, as usual,” Conor said.
He always praised her flying. She felt his gaze and turned to meet his eyes.
She had always loved how startlingly blue they were, but just then, they reminded her of the baby picture Belinda had shown her, and she nearly flinched.
Everyone climbed out of the plane, and Conor stood waiting for her. Tom and Joe walked ahead.
“I’m just so glad we’re together right now,” he said. “It’s been terrible without you.”
“For me too,” Kate said. She was overwhelmed with questions that she was afraid to hear the answers to. She was almost glad that they weren’t alone; it would give her more time to be ready for the conversation.
She had flown over this island but had never landed here before. She looked around and saw a red barn—the hangar, she assumed. There were a few white houses a short distance away, and she could see the curve of East Cove and a few masts.
“Is that the marina?” she asked, pointing.
“Yes,” Tom said.
“We don’t man this island,” Joe said. “So no State Police vehicles for me to commandeer. We’re going to have to walk it.”
“Is there a harbormaster?” Conor asked.
“There’s barely a harbor,” Tom said. “You’ll see.”
The four of them set off along a dirt road toward the water.
It was just two weeks past the longest day of the year, and they had over an hour until sunset.
Flying at night wouldn’t be a problem, but getting around on the island might be.
Fields were scored by stone walls, overgrown with vines and brambles.
Barberry, bittersweet, and poison ivy were everywhere.
So far, they hadn’t seen a vehicle, but when they reached the town, Kate noticed cars parked in the driveways of two of the houses. One single street ran along the waterfront, with alleys sloping down to the docks. Many of the houses looked run down. She wondered if they were even occupied.
There was a building that was half general store, half post office with a single gas pump out front. The doors were locked, shades drawn. What had Suzanne been doing here, Kate wondered. It felt like a ghost town.
“The town that time forgot,” she said.
“If time ever knew it,” Tom said.
“I didn’t realize there were any islands in this part of the world that hadn’t been built up,” Conor said. “Where are the tourists?”
“The island is privately owned,” Tom said. “Two families who could never decide what they want to do with it—they’ve been feuding over it for years. One family wants to preserve everything the way it is now, the other wants to sell out to developers.”
“They’d make a fortune,” Joe said.
“If it’s private property,” Kate said, “are we allowed to be here?”
“I’m a detective with the Rhode Island State Police, and Tom is a Coast Guard commander, and this is an official investigation,” Joe said. “So, yes. We are.”
Kate scanned the docks. There were three, jutting out into the cove.
Two needed repair and were unusable—their pilings were tilting, from lack of maintenance and the continual battering of the sea.
The third one had two boats tied to either side: two fishing boats that looked to be in decent shape, a Boston Whaler, and a classic sailboat.
Joe took out the receipt made out to Suzanne that Kate had found in the wastebasket and scanned it.
“All it says is ‘dockage fee.’ Nothing more specific, so it’s anyone’s guess which boat she was paying for,” he said.
“I’m betting against the fishing boats,” Tom said. “They belong to a couple of guys with recreational lobster licenses. It’s got to be the sailboat.”
“Pretty,” Kate said. “My grandmother and Ruth used to charter Hinckleys up in Maine every summer. Beautiful designs.”
“Your grandmother had good taste,” Tom said. “This one’s a Hinckley Pilot—I’ve seen her around Fishers Island, Watch Hill, Stonington.”
They stood beside the Hinckley. She had a gleaming black hull with highly varnished brightwork—someone took very good care of her.
The companionway door, leading down a steep, brightly varnished ladder to the boat’s interior, was half open.
Kate could see that the wood frame was splintered, and the hinges had been jimmied.
There were some rusty-looking drops on the deck.
“Is that blood?” Kate asked.
“Could be, and looks like we have a break-in,” Joe said. “I’m going to call for the police boat.”
“I’m going to board her,” Tom said.
“I thought you needed a warrant,” Kate said.
“The police do,” Tom said. “The Coast Guard doesn’t.”
Tom announced himself loudly, but there was no response from inside.
Kate, Conor, and Joe watched him step over the lifelines onto the deck, move quickly to the companionway, and peer inside.
A moment later, he disappeared down below.
Kate knew it had to be dark there; she saw the beam of his flashlight moving behind the windows.
A moment later, she heard him exclaim. He poked his head up.
“You are going to need that police boat,” he said. “And I’ll get my team out here too.”
“What is it?” Conor asked. Kate watched him and Joe step aboard and follow Tom down below.
Kate climbed onto the deck. She leaned over to look through the doorway.
She saw the two Reid brothers and Joe Harrigan standing in the main salon, staring at something.
She went down the ladder; it took a moment for her eyes to get used to the dark.
Kate had done a lot of sailing, been on many boats, including the Hinckley Bermuda 40 her grandmother and Ruth used to charter.
At first glance, this interior looked like others she had seen before.
She saw hunter-green settees on either side, a folded-up dining table in the center, a small galley to the left of the companion ladder.
Nestled into the corner was a small tile fireplace—a rarity on boats.
The beam of Tom’s flashlight was directed at one of the settees—padded benches along the bulkhead. He shined the light upward, and she saw chains bolted into the wood. Her gaze followed them down, where handcuffs attached to chains lay on either side of the mattress.
“What is this?” Kate asked, hardly able to speak.
“Someone was held prisoner here,” Conor said.
Kate watched as the flashlight beam moved in on the galvanized metal clasps. They were streaked with something dark, and she saw that there were maroon spots on the settee fabric.
“Blood,” Conor said. “Whoever was restrained here struggled to get free.”
“The handcuffs chafed her wrist,” Kate said. She used the pronoun her with no doubt that a woman had been held here. Her eyes met Conor’s, and he nodded.
Tom put on gloves and tapped the bulkhead. A corner of the wood was loose, and he pulled it free to look behind. “There’s foam insulation in there. This boat has been soundproofed,” he said.
“So no one could hear her scream,” Kate said.
The four of them climbed back onto the dock.
The sun was starting to set. Butterscotch rays spilled through thunderheads, over the waves, and through the town.
Kate felt sick. Tom stood beside the boat, noting the registration number.
Kate walked to the stern to look at the name.
In the declining light, the letters looked ephemeral, as if they’d been scrawled by a spirit, and she could barely make them out: Psyche.
Tom tried to make a call, but it wouldn’t go through.
“No reception,” he said. “Big surprise. I need to call this in. Joe, you, too, right?”
“We need a crime scene van,” Joe said. “But there’s no ferry service, so how am I going to get it out here?”
“You’re right, there’s no scheduled ferry,” Tom said.
“But there’s a boat ramp. It’s how they get supplies delivered.
” He walked over to the cracked asphalt sloping down into the cove and gave it a skeptical once-over.
“The ramp’s not in great shape, but it’s workable.
You can get whatever you need onto the island. ”
Joe looked toward the white houses along the main street. “You think anyone has a landline?” he asked.
“We can use my radio,” Kate said. “But since it’s getting so late, maybe you should just come with me, head back here tomorrow.”
“Someone has to stay and preserve the crime scene,” Conor said. He scanned the village. “This place seems deserted, but you know if anyone’s home, they’re watching us right now. We don’t want anyone tampering with evidence. And we should start questioning them.”
“Why didn’t anyone say anything?” Kate said, gazing back at Psyche. “Someone was tortured on that boat. The people in those houses or the ones who own the fishing boats . . . Even if they didn’t hear screams, they must have noticed something.”
“Well, we’re here now, and no one is getting on or off the island without our seeing,” Joe said. “And you can be sure we’ll question everyone.”
“Where are you going to sleep?” Kate asked, gazing at Conor.
“Who’s going to sleep?” Joe asked.
They returned to Kate’s plane, and Tom and Joe took turns using the radio to call their headquarters and request assistance.
Conor and Kate stood a few yards back. She felt him staring at her.
Her heart was beating hard. There was so much they needed to say to each other, but she had no idea where to start. He stepped forward, touched her arm.
“Kate,” he said.
She shook her head.
“We should be . . .”