Death Echo

pointed to the computer chart.
    â€œWhiskey Gulf,” he said without looking at the chart. “A Canadian naval firing range. I just called, and they’re not active until dawn tomorrow, so we don’t have to go around. Keep on this course until I tell you otherwise.”
    â€œOkay. Er, aye, aye, Captain.”
    Mac wondered if she’d take orders as well in bed. Or give them.
    Hold that good thought until we—
    The primary VHF radio resting in a holder by the wheel came to life with an update of the past weather report. Emma tried to listen, steer, and keep the speed up in the face of rapidly changing wind and water.
    And eat.
    When the radio stopped spitting words, she swallowed half-chewed food and said to Mac, “Translation?”
    â€œSmall-craft warning has been shifted to include Campbell River.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œIf I was in a small boat, I’d come about and run back to Nanaimo, just like them.” He pointed to their port side. Miles away, two small white boats raced along the shore.
    â€œBut we’re a big girl, right?” she asked, lightly turning the wheel, anticipating the next action of boat and water.
    â€œYou sure are.” He popped a chocolate cookie into his mouth.
    Blackbird rose to meet the choppy waves, slid through, and lined up for another round of whatever the strait delivered.
    â€œGood,” he said simply. “You’re a natural on water.”
    She looked pleased. “Thanks. Eat more cookies. It improves your sweet talk.”
    â€œI’m not sweet-talking. People can learn navigation and rules, but a feel for the water can’t be taught. It’s there or it isn’t.”
    â€œLike languages.”
    â€œOr shooting.” He crunched into another cookie.
    â€œAbout that sweet talk…”
    â€œI’m practicing,” he said. “See? I’m eating cookies.”
    â€œAnd I’m thinking it would take more than cookies to sweeten your tongue.”
    â€œIf we were on calm water, I’d prove how wrong you are.”
    She looked at him, knew what he meant, thought about how good he’d felt when she petted him in her arm-candy mode. She took a breath and reminded both of them, “We’re not on calm water. Damn it.”
    Then she shut up and concentrated on handling the boat instead of its captain.

43
    DAY FOUR
STRAIT OF GEORGIA
2:28 P.M .
    L ina felt the increasing strength of wind in the action of the water. A meter high and occasionally higher, the steep-sided, unevenly spaced waves broke over whichever part of the Redhead II was handy. Even seated, with the wheel to hang on to, the open cockpit of the boat was an uncomfortable ride.
    Wet, too, despite the cloudless sky.
    Her only consolation was that Demidov had to be more miserable than she was. He wore the cheap slickers she used for clients who didn’t bring their own. She was in a medium weight Mustang suit and wore warm, waterproof boots. He didn’t. She was accustomed to being on the water. He wasn’t.
    Never know it from looking at him, she thought sourly.
    Driving in circles waiting for Demidov to do something was even more boring than trolling in circles waiting for a salmon to bite.
    â€œWhere are they?” she finally asked him.
    Despite her intentions, her voice came out sharp, demanding.
    Demidov glanced at the small, bright screen of the cell phone. “Head five degrees more to the southeast.”
    She looked at the compass, then at water.
    â€œI’ll have to tack back and forth on that heading,” she said, “or I’lltake on too much water over the stern. My boat isn’t designed for following seas.”
    â€œJust get us five degrees to the southeast.”
    When Lina put the boat into a turn, she made certain he was the one who got whitewashed by the waves. A petty triumph, but with Demidov, she took what victories she could.
    Why wasn’t he murdered? So many others were.
    But Taras Demidov was still alive. She was stuck with the devil himself until he had no more use for her.
    Rather distantly, Lina hoped he left her alive when she no longer served a purpose.
    Kill him yourself. Shove him overboard and leave him for the crabs.
    She rejected the thought almost as soon as it came. Even in rough water, scanning the strait through binoculars, Demidov had the balance and predatory awareness of a cat. It was unnatural. Unnerving.
    If anyone went overboard, it