Page 90 of Untamed Coast

Marco set Radio Flyer’s anchor and killed the engine. The breeze was cold and damp. He zipped his Grundéns jacket to the neck.

A pair of eagles overhead locked talons and went into a cartwheel spin, plummeting toward the ground. At the last minute, they separated and flew again. Often, this was a courtship display. Other times, it was a battle between nonbreeding eagles.

Marco sent Bill a text message on his handheld inReach satellite device, just for safety. “BILL—AT RADIOVILLE. IF YOU DON’T GET AN AOK MESSAGE FROM ME WITHIN 2 HOURS, CALL COAST GUARD. I WILL CARRY THIS DEVICE—IT TRANSMITS MY LOCATION.”

About thirty seconds later, the inReach beeped. “GOT IT. TIMER STARTED. CAREFUL BUDDY.”

Marco set an alarm on his watch for three fifty-five. That would give him a five-minute cushion. He put the inReach into his jacket pocket. He wasn’t sure what else he could do to protect himself. He didn’t own a gun, and didn’t think his Leatherman would be much help.

He donned his life jacket, grabbed his gear, and launched the dinghy. It was overcast, with a light mist. Much heavier rainfall draped a dark gray curtain over a neighboring island.

The dinghy slid onto the beach, and Marco secured it with the bungee-anchor and shore line. Radioville had a different feeling now, and not just because of the additional collapse of the roof.

Marco walked up the path to the cabin. He didn’t see any evidence that anyone had been around. The trash inside the ruins looked as he remembered it, soggier and sadder in the dull gray light. A spiderweb at the corner of the door sagged with dew droplets. Some kind of winged insect struggled in vain against the sticky threads, the spider waiting patiently at the center for his prey to tire itself out.

The ocean waves breaking on the rocks on the other side of the island painted a backdrop of white noise with the dribble of light rain on the old red metal roof beating a dreary cadence. A raven cawed from somewhere in the forest behind the cabin. The mist was getting heavier, creating a soft glow around Radio Flyer as she swayed on her anchor in the small bay.

He’d walked right past it.

A lawn chair sat beside a stump next to the path that led from the cabin down to the shore. Marco was certain it had not been there before. He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through the photos he’d taken on his last visit. One shot showed the stump and path clearly. No chair.

The folding chair was the cheap webbed aluminum type, with white plastic armrests, and was positioned with a clear view of the bay and the neighboring island. The top of the stump beside it was weathered, but had been cut smooth and sanded, creating a side table, marked with a patina of drinking cup circles and cigarette burns.

Marco sat.

Two seals swam around the rocky outcropping into the bay, poking their heads up, curiously surveying him.

Marco imagined them in an underwater conversation. What is it? Is he dangerous? Let’s look again.

The hum of outboard motors rose in the distance. The seals knew too, diving and disappearing around the corner. The birds went silent.

Here I am. What do you want, you bastards?

Chapter 71

-... . .- -.-. --- -.

Sitka, AK

1985—Anya Baron

Anya Baron looked down from her office window onto the Baranof Marine boatyard. Two dozen boats stood in rows propped on blocks. Mechanics moved among them, shouting over the whine of power tools and the thrum of pressure washers. A heavy seiner fishing vessel swung in the straps of the Travelift, headed for the launch ramp.

She leaned into the glass, watching the slow pivot of the Travelift over the slip. She liked that part best—the moment a boat left the yard, ready to return to the water.

The business had grown faster than she had dreamed. She’d bought Baranof Marine out of receivership with gold-stained cash and turned it into one of the most respected yards in the region. Now it was turning a hefty profit, and she was quietly acquiring properties in Juneau and Ketchikan with plans to expand.

Tour boats. Glacier tours. Wildlife tours. She didn’t even like tourists, but she knew a good opportunity when she saw one. With the rapid growth of the cruise ship industry in Southeast Alaska, there clearly was a lucrative market.

She still slept with a gun under her pillow.

The nightmares had faded, showing up only now and then. When they came, Thomas was often in them—demanding to know where she’d hidden the gold. Sometimes it was aboard the Lady Melinda, crashing through heavy seas while her husband hollered and slammed cabinet doors.

She went for long walks most nights, especially when sleep wouldn’t come. Past her old neighborhood, past the empty lot where the Red Baron Bar once stood. A grocery store lived there now, too clean and too bright. The old Baton Rouge Brothel had become a historic landmark. Tourists posed for photos beneath the ironwork balcony where she’d always sat with her dolls, watching for her Nana’s truck to return.

Two sharp knocks interrupted her thoughts.

Amos leaned in through the door. “Ms. Baron?”