Harley stumbled backwards, as the otter scampered up the beach, its tail swishing, before abruptly changing course, turning toward the water again and slipping silently into the icy wash.

It was all over in a matter of seconds, but it took Harley a minute or two to calm down again and get back to work.

Damn otter. He vaguely recalled some legend about otters, some native bullshit, but since they were probably bad luck — like everything else out here — he didn’t try too hard to remember it. On the Vane’s Holy Writ broadcasts, Charlie was always trying to prove how the Inuit stories had something to do with Jesus, but Harley didn’t buy it. He thought his brother was just trying to con a few more bucks out of the locals.

With frozen fingers, he freed the clamps holding the boat to the davits, then, tugging the braided rope, dragged it down to the water.

The bright yellow boat bobbed on the surf like a rubber ducky, and it took him three tries before he could hoist himself, boots and pants dripping wet, onto its fixed seat in back, and get the motor running.

Turning the boat parallel to the shore, he took it away from some jagged rocks, and slowly out to sea. He knew that no one in his right mind would be trying this, which was precisely why he’d probably get away with it. The fog was so thick it was like churning through clam chowder, but it would dissipate once he got a little farther from the island. His plan was to run parallel to the cliffs, then due southwest to Port Orlov. But he wasn’t so dumb that he’d sail it right into the harbor; no, he was going to put in at the old family wharf a few miles away, then, when everything had blown over, maybe he could strip the boat and sell it for parts.

The spray was blowing into his face and even when he wiped it away with his sleeve, he couldn’t see much better — his coat, too, was sopping. And he was starting to feel truly shitty. He coughed, and he didn’t like the sound of it. What he needed was a good hot meal at the Yardarm, and Angie Dobbs back in his bed. Yes, a little Angie in the night would cure whatever ailed him.

His progress was slower than he thought it should be, and he gunned the engine higher.

Although the boat was carrying so little weight that it should have been skimming along, the current was either stronger than he estimated, or the prow was weighted down somehow. The wind was howling so loudly in his ears that it seemed like he could hear voices; it would have been okay if it had been Angie telling him how good he was in bed, or Charlie — the old Charlie — telling him how to pull off an easy con.

But it wasn’t, and they weren’t.

It sounded more like Eddie, asking him why he’d cut the goddamned rope … or Russell, screaming as the wild animals had taken him apart.

Fuck Eddie. Fuck Russell. They’d taken their chances. Harley wasn’t their keeper.

The boat bucked a wave, and Harley clutched the throttle tight.

Christ Almighty he was cold. He pulled the loose tarp all the way up to his waist.

And in the billowing fog that engulfed the boat, he could swear that for just one instant, he saw them both — his two accomplices — sitting toward the bow, waiting for him to ferry them back home. Deadweight, he thought, as always.

When he blinked, they were gone — Harley knew an hallucination when he was having one, and this damn island seemed to specialize in them.

But when he blinked again — oh, sweet Jesus — there they were again, looking at him like it was all his fault somehow.

Chapter 43

It was the hardest call Slater had ever had to make, but with lives hanging in the balance — Eva’s for sure, and possibly Nika’s, too — he called Dr. Levinson in D.C. Apparently, he had caught her at a dinner party, and until she had moved into a private study, he could hear the sounds of clinking glasses and cutlery in the background.

As succinctly as he could, he told her what was happening on the island, and with every word he uttered he could imagine the expression of mounting disbelief, and anger, on her face. She had gone to bat for him at the court-martial, she had given him this golden opportunity to redeem himself, and he had blown it sky-high. When she finally spoke, he could hear the steel in her voice.

“So you have not one, but two, compromised team members?” she said. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he might make a third.

“Yes. And I will need them to be evacuated immediately to a mainland hospital, where a strict quarantine can be established.”

“Why didn’t you call for it already?”

“I did, but we’re having a priorities problem. It looks like the Coast Guard may need a kick in the pants from AFIP headquarters, or an assist from the Air National Guard.”

“Consider it done.”

He thanked her.

“Don’t thank me, Frank. You know what this means, don’t you?”

He could guess, but she told him, anyway.

“Once we get this straightened out, I’ll want you back in Washington for a full debriefing. When we’re finished with that, your civilian status with the AFIP will be considered terminated.”

The same as his military status had already been withdrawn.

“I understand.”

“Do you?” It was the first time real emotion cut through the icy reserve she had maintained so far. “You’re the best we had, Frank, and I went out on a limb for you. And now you’ve cut off the damn limb, too.”

When she hung up, he stood there in the communications tent for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, watching as his entire career went up in smoke, until Sergeant Groves, covered with snow, came through the flaps. Slater quickly slipped his face mask back on, and held up a hand to keep Groves at a distance.

“The lab tent’s clear?” Slater said. “No sign of the wolf?”

“Long gone,” Groves replied, fitting his own mask back over his mouth and nose. “I left Rudy on watch. But there is something you’ve got to see.”

“Is it about Eva? Is she okay?”

“No change, as far as I know.”

“Nika?” He had confined her to her tent until further notice.

“No, it’s none of that,” Groves said. He beckoned Slater to follow him out of the tent.

Slater, who’d had no more than a couple of hours’ sleep, pulled his coat and gloves on over his fresh hazmat suit and followed Groves out into the storm. There was only a feeble light in the sky, and to keep the wind from blowing him off his feet he had to cling to the ropes lining the pathway. Groves plodded across the colony grounds to the church, but detoured at the front steps to go around the side. There, he stopped beside a patch where the snow, much disturbed, had a raspberry tinge. It didn’t take long for Slater to make out the mangled remains of a body and the shreds of a blue work uniform … or to recognize them as belonging to that guy named Russell, whom he’d first seen at the bar, then at the memorial service at the Lutheran church. He was part of Harley Vane’s pack.

“How long do you think he’s been here?”

Groves shrugged. “Can’t be that long. We’d have seen it on the regular patrols.”

Slater wondered if he’d been alone on the island, or if he’d brought Harley. Or the third musketeer, the one named Eddie something. Were the others, in fact, possibly still around?

And if they were, what were they doing here? Had they been responsible for that hole in the cemetery? Why on earth would they have been trying to dig up graves, much less now, with his own contingent there?

“Looks like the wolves got him,” Groves said.

“Among other things,” Slater replied, solemnly. He wasn’t sure what these guys were capable of, but Nika would have a much better idea. For now, it was just another wild card to add to the rapidly accumulating stack. In the snow, he saw a soggy old book, with a torn binding, and picked it up. It looked like a ledger, in Russian.