Terrebonne Sheriff’s Department had recently assigned a detective to the accident investigation, which suggested that no matter what the official stance was at the moment, local law enforcement thought there might be more to it.
Gideon had thought so from the beginning. Edward Ross had been the most careful, conscientious driver he’d ever known. And at seventy years old, he’d still had the reflexes and physical stamina of a man twenty years his junior. The idea that the general had misjudged a curve in the middle of the afternoon was entirely unbelievable.
He drained the water from the trap into a bailing bucket. Then, on a hunch, he removed the hose from the electric fuel pump and let the contents of the fuel tank drain slowly into the bucket.
More water, he saw, anger battling dismay. Too much water.
Definitely not just condensation.
The bucket was over half full before the liquid flowing into it switched over from water to fuel. Since water was heavier than diesel, it had poured out first, which meant that most of what remained in the tank should be fuel. More than enough to get them back to the dock to refuel.
He returned the fuel pump hose to its proper position and covered the bucket with a plastic lid to keep the contaminated water from spilling. Still mulling over the implications of the excess water, he removed the saturated water replacement filter and went to the storage bin nearby to get the replacement filter he’d stored there a couple of months ago.
It wasn’t there.
He knew it had been in the bin last night when he checked the boat for this afternoon’s planned trip to the mainland. He hadn’t checked right before the trip because he’d been running hard all morning, helping Mrs. Ross prepare her house for Shannon Cooper’s arrival.
He left the engine well and climbed the steps to the main cabin, suffering a brief moment of suspense before he found a box of supplies—a few brand-new filters included—where he’d left them a couple of days ago when he’d gone out on a supply run.
As he refitted the engine with a replacement filter, he retraced his steps from the night before. System checks. Checked for life jackets in the benches. Checked oil levels, fuel levels. He’d checked the water trap for condensation, finding damn little even after almost three days of disuse.
He’d checked the supply cabinet to make sure the spare filter was there, damn it. He always made sure he kept spares of anything vital because that’s what marines did—hoped for the best and prepared for the worst. And if it hadn’t been there, he’d have grabbed one of the new filters and put it in the cabinet so it would be close at hand.
But clearly, he hadn’t prepared well enough. He should have put some sort of early warning system on the boathouse, at the very least, to make sure nobody could tamper with the boat while he wasn’t around.
Of course, the more pressing question was, why had someone tampered with the fuel? It wouldn’t pose a particularly dangerous situation; the worst it could do was strand him on the water, and even if the radio had been sabotaged, there was enough boat traffic to ensure he wouldn’t stay stranded long. Simple vandalism made no sense as an explanation—maybe if the boat were docked somewhere on shore where there was easy access to someone on foot or in a car. But to sabotage the Lorelei docked out on Nightshade Island, someone would have had to take a boat well out from the mainland, make a no-engine approach and sneak into the boathouse.
No vandalism was worth that effort.
Which left...
He checked his cell phone. No bars. With a sigh, he headed upstairs to the cabin and crossed to the satellite phone attached to the wall near the galley. Lydia Ross answered on the second ring. “Gideon, I was just thinking of you. I forgot to pick up any cherries when we were in town, and I so wanted to cook a cherry crumble for our guest.”
“We’re already behind schedule, Mrs. Ross, and I’m—” He stopped before he said he was heading back to the dock to refuel. Even considering the bucket of water he’d drained from the tank, he had plenty to go back and forth from the island to the dock. Refueling could wait.
He felt the strong urge to head back to the island immediately.
“I’m already halfway back,” he finished. “Look out your bedroom window and you should be able to see us coming soon.” He paused in the middle of the room, taking a look around. Shannon Cooper’s suit jacket still lay on the bench where she’d apparently discarded it earlier. On the table in the galley sat an empty water bottle.
A couple of feet away sat her duffel bag. His gaze settled there and he moved forward, ducking to keep from bumping his head on the cabin’s low ceiling.
“Oh, I must admit I look forward to having company. I’ve let myself become quite the recluse.” Lydia’s soft laugh was rueful. “Is she as nice as she sounded on the phone?”
“She seems very nice,” he said carefully, wondering if Shannon’s innocent face hid a devious mind.
Because there was another possibility he hadn’t considered.
What if Shannon had gone below deck after he’d left her in the cabin? She could have dumped a few bottles of water in the tank in no time through the access hatch, if she knew anything about boat engines.
Practically grew up in a marina...
“Mrs. Ross, why don’t you go up to the widow’s walk?” he suggested. From the large railed-in square of space on the roof of the house, she’d have a largely unobstructed few of the whole island. “You can look for us from there.”
“Gideon, is something the matter?”
He sighed. Despite her gentle manner, Lydia Ross was as savvy as her husband had been, and just as tough in her more refined way. “Mrs. Ross, someone’s sabotaged the boat. I’ve fixed the problem for now, but I’m worried it may have been an attempt to keep me off the island for a while.”
“I see.” He heard steel in her voice. “Shall I get the Remington?”
“I believe you should,” he answered, quietly unzipping the duffel bag. Inside, beneath a tablet computer, he found neatly rolled sets of clothing. Everything inside smelled good, like fresh rain on a hot day. “I’m on my way, but go to the widow’s walk and call if you see any boats trying to come ashore.”
“Will do. I’ll call back.” As she hung up, Gideon froze, his gaze locked on the sleek, black subcompact GLOCK G26 tucked in the bottom of Shannon Cooper’s bag.
She’d come aboard armed.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Shannon Cooper’s voice, close behind him, made his heart skitter. He dropped the bag and turned toward her. “Do you sneak on purpose or does it just come—” He stopped cold.
She was holding his Walther in her right hand, barrel pointing down.
“What are you doing with that?”
“This?” She brought the pistol up, still pointing away from him. As he watched with racing pulse, she checked the chamber with easy skill. “I thought I’d ask you the same thing.”
