Death Echo

their storage tanks clean.”
    She started to ask another question but didn’t. The intricacies of good diesel fuel weren’t her problem. Yet.
    â€œNorth coast of B.C. has some of the first reliable fuel after crossing Queen Charlotte Sound from Alaska,” Mac said.
    â€œOr being off-loaded from a container ship at sea. Is that possible, by the way?” she asked. “Off-loading at sea?”
    â€œDepends. If the weather is decent, and the container ship’s deck crane operator is mostly sober, you can off-load a boat like Blackbird pretty much where you want to. Takes maybe half an hour.”
    â€œWhat about all the outfitting that was done in Rosario?” she asked.
    â€œThey’ve had a year to work on Swan. They could have done it in pieces without making any waves at all.”
    â€œBut no matter what,” she said, “if Swan was off-loaded north of here, she would likely make a call at Port Hardy?”
    Mac nodded. “I’m going to talk to the fuel jockey.”
    She fell in step beside him. “If Port Hardy is such a magnet, what makes you think anyone would remember a single boat?”
    â€œThe opposition made a mistake when they stole a beautiful, black-hulled ship. She’s memorable.”
    â€œAnd can’t be painted over.”
    â€œNearly impossible. Besides”—he shrugged—“despite being a magnet, the amount of traffic Port Hardy sees isn’t spit compared to Port of Vancouver or Elliott Bay. The farther north you go, the smaller civilization becomes, until a handful is a crowd.”
    â€œWe’re grabbing at straws, aren’t we?”
    â€œDepends.”
    She sighed. “Next to what we have, straws look like logs.”
    â€œPretty much.”
    Mac and Emma closed in on the lean woman who was giving orders while a younger man pumped fuel into boats as fast as the fat, heavy hoses allowed. Emma let Mac engage the woman—the owner, as she quickly pointed out to him—in talk about grades and purity of fuel, virtues of gas versus diesel, various filters, taxes, taxes on taxes, licensing fees, environmental fees and restrictions, fishing restrictions, the silliness of sailboats in a place when the wind was rarely constant, and the weather. In between words, the owner was directing her dockhand.
    By the time Mac and the owner got around to yachts coming and going, Emma was having a hard time swallowing all her yawns.
    â€œâ€¦and a black hull. Seen anything like that?” Mac asked.
    Emma snapped into focus and mentally reviewed the past few sentences. Mac had been describing Blackbird.
    The owner removed a grubby fishing cap, scratched through an explosion of silver hair, and said, “Matter of fact, the cousin you’re asking about came through here around dawn today. Made such a fuss, I opened the fuel dock early.”
    â€œYeah?” Mac said idly, but his eyes were like black ice. “He have his wife with him?”
    â€œDidn’t see her. There was another man, though. Maybe it was a different boat.”
    Mac shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Sounds like my dear old cuz. He takes buddies fishing a lot. Leaves the wife behind. Pisses her off, I’ll tell you.”
    The owner laughed. “That explains it. He spent a lot of time on his phone. Didn’t look like he enjoyed it. In fact, he was heading home real quick, taking the shortest way.”
    Emma sensed Mac’s sudden intensity, but nothing showed on his surface.
    â€œYou mean he’s going down the outside?” Mac asked, shaking his head. “Damn fool. Weather is tricky this time of year.”
    â€œI said something about that. He just kept on buying charts from the Brooks Peninsula all the way to Bamfield. I didn’t have any for farther south. One of the men, the taller one, was screaming about not piloting the whole west side without charts, and the other guy said they’d pick up the rest in Tofino, since they were going to have to fuel there anyway.”
    Mac was too busy clamping down on his control to make a polite and casual reply.
    Son of a bitch!
    Nobody had expected anyone to take on the Pacific Ocean in autumn in a Blackbird twin designed for the very different waters of the Inside Passage.
    The owner shrugged. “Man’s captain of his own boat. I just put fuel on board and rang up the sale.”
    â€œHe never was real good at listening,” Mac