“Go get him,” she told her colleague. “We’ve got your back.”
TWO
Sometimes Mason Burke dreamed he was still on the island. Still in the rainforest, tangled in deadfall and thick, mossy underbrush, listening to the waves crash against rock somewhere in the distance, the feel of the shotgun alien in his grip as he struggled through the woods toward Jess and the dog.
He’d spent fifteen years in prison and he rarely dreamed about his cell anymore. Nowadays when Burke slept, he dreamed of more recent violence.
Of the stillness of the forest and the staccato report of gunfire, somewhere nearby but impossible to locate. Of the feeling of helplessness, and of fear, for Jess and for Lucy and, indeed, for himself.
He dreamed of the faces of the men, those he’d killed or wanted to, and he felt guilt and remorse and knew one day he’d be judged for what he’d done. Though he knew also that he’d have done it the same, given the chance to try again, that the men he’d killed had been evil and had meant to harm Jess.
He knew this, but he dreamed of their faces anyway. And he woke with their names on his lips and his body drenched with sweat, reaching for Jess and for Lucy to see that they were all right.
When he dreamed of the island, it scared him, that what he’d done there lingered in his mind. That he still didn’t quite feel safe, whether awake or asleep, as though he’d left something on that island that would come back and demand a reckoning.
As though he’d awakened something he’d thought lay long dormant, as though he wasn’t the man he’d believed he’d become.
As though he was still the teenaged boy who’d stood trial for murder, who’d surrendered one decade of his life and another five years besides.
As though he was still a killer, and would always be.
It was nearly dawn when Lucy stirred on the floor beside Mason, stood and stretched and yawned, scratched her ear so the tags on her collar jingled, then padded to the galley door and whined, softly, to be let out.
Mason realized he’d fallen asleep, rubbing his eyes and swinging his legs out from the little dining settee. He’d left the lights on, hadn’t even bothered to make up the bed. Hadn’t planned to sleep much overnight, not with Jess out on a raid, but hell if he hadn’t passed out anyways, face in the book he’d been trying to read, still wearing yesterday’s jeans.
Hell if he couldn’t still hear the gunfire in his ears. The sound of Jess’s voice as she called to him, desperate, through the forest.
Lucy whined again, and now Mason could hear the footsteps outside that had roused her, moving steadily up the wharf, boots on treated lumber and the groan of tie-up lines and the lap of tiny waves as the neighboring boats shifted on their moorings.
“Yeah, girl, okay,” he told Lucy as the dog shifted again, the footsteps coming closer. “Let’s just make sure it’s her before we roll out the red carpet.”
The footsteps stopped, and Mason peered out through the galley window, straining his eyes through yellow sodium light, and reaching, semiconsciously, for the aluminum Slugger he kept in lieu of a gun.
He and Jess had killed men on that island, and those men had families. Makah County was a small place. Mason Burke was still an outsider.
The boat rocked on its lines, swaying in toward the wharf as someone pulled themselves aboard at the stern. Mason gripped the bat tighter and stayed in the galley’s shadows, waiting. He’d rented this boat, Nootka, from Joe Clifford’s people, a cheap place to stay in exchange for Mason keeping the rig afloat and helping out with the odd carpentry job around town.
Clifford was rebuilding Jess Winslow’s old house, rendered unlivable by Kirby Harwood et al., and Mason pitched in where he could there and wherever else Joe needed him. It would do to learn a skill if he was going to stick around here; fifteen years in lockup hadn’t taught him much but how to fight—and then, how to avoid it.
They were living apart, Mason and Jess, while the house was being built, Mason on this fishing boat and Jess up at Hank Moss’s motel by the highway. Still, they saw each other almost every day, ate dinners together, and mostly shared the same bed. As far as what they would do when the house was completed, well, they hadn’t come to that decision yet, had more or less avoided looking too far into the future ever since Mason had stepped off the bus home to Michigan and back into her arms again.
He hoped there’d be room in Jess’s new house for him someday. But Mason figured he knew better than to push the issue before Jess was ready to talk.
Lucy panted at the door, her tail wagging furiously, though that didn’t bring Mason any peace. The dog was a rescue, bred for fighting in some backwoods hell in Michigan, but as far as Mason knew, she’d been hauled out of that place and into his own life before she’d ever fought a round, and he was thankful for it.
Sixty-odd pounds and brawny, some kind of pit mix, she looked the part of a guard dog. But Mason had worked hard at training the violence right out of her, and by and large, he’d succeeded. Lucy was a gentle creature, more likely to smother you in sloppy kisses than bite you, the most dangerous part of her, her bullwhip tail—at least until somebody threatened Jess.
Someone whistled outside, a few soft bars of “Ramblin’ Man,” and that was the sign Mason had been waiting for. He set down the baseball bat and stepped out of the shadows and over to the galley door. Nudged it open to let Lucy slip out, just as Jess set her duffel bag down on the fish hatch behind the wheelhouse.
Instantly, the dog was all over Jess, tail wagging and tongue everywhere, leaping up to lick her face as though it had been months since last contact, when by Mason’s calculation they’d said their farewells no more than twelve hours ago. But maybe Lucy could sense when Jess was putting herself in danger; she’d whined and paced by the door most of the night, staring balefully at Mason as though it was his fault that she wasn’t allowed on the raid.
“Oh, I missed you, girl,” Jess was saying, bending over to scratch behind Lucy’s ears. “I missed you, yes, I did.”
She was still dressed for the raid: tactical pants and a Kevlar vest over a dark sweater, her long hair tied back in a ponytail, and Mason could see fatigue in the way she hoisted her duffel bag again and brought it toward where he stood in the cabin doorway.
“I thought you’d be asleep,” she said.
“I was,” he replied. “The dog heard you coming.”
She leaned in to kiss him, and then she stepped back again and looked him over, skeptical. “You’re still wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw you, Burke.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to sleep,” he said, stepping aside so she could walk into the galley. “But I slept all the same.”
He followed her into the cabin, where she stood at the captain’s chair to unbuckle her vest and pull out the elastic from her hair. She was beautiful, and he was glad to see her, and glad she was all right.
“How did it go?” he asked, and she shrugged and half sat on the captain’s chair and leaned down to untie her boots.
“We got Collier,” she said. “Plenty of product.”
“That’s good,” he said.