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Authors: Janet Evanovich
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between the ancient stone walls of the passageway. They made it through to the other side and Riley exhaled in relief.
The Nissan pulled off the road and parked in a small lot next to a ramshackle boathouse. Beyond the boathouse, the banks of the Potomac looked wild and untamed.
“Hard to believe we’re a scarce ten minutes from Georgetown,” Riley said, idling just short of the lot entrance.
Maxine got out of her Nissan, collected her duffel bag from the backseat, and walked over to the service window of the boathouse. Rental kayaks were stacked next to the building, and a number of red rowboats could be seen bobbing offshore, the occupants fishing for shad and catfish.
It reminded Riley of fishing spots her dad used to take her to on the Brazos River. She took a deep calming breath of country air with only a whiff of exhaust fumes in it and sighed. So near and yet so far.
Maxine concluded her business at the boathouse and took the path that led through the woods to the dock. The instant she was out of sight Riley pulled into the lot and parked. Emerson was immediately out of the car, following Maxine, with Riley scrambling to keep up.
“Did you know where Maxine was going?” Riley asked Emerson.
“Of course.”
“Mental telepathy?”
“Bumper sticker,” Emerson said, passing by Maxine’s car, pointing to her bumper sticker reading I’D RATHER BE FISHING AT FLETCHER’S COVE.
“That is
so cheating,
” Riley said.
They followed the path to the dock, pausing at the sound of men’s voices, and Emerson motioned for Riley to follow him into the woods where they’d be lost in deep shadow. They crept closer to the voices, and saw that Maxine stood on the jetty, arms out. A man in a dark suit patted her down, and another man in an equally dark suit looked on, with no visible expression on his face.
When they were done with her, Maxine climbed down into a small canoe. One of the dark suits handed over her duffel bag and pointed downstream. Setting the bag on her lap, she adjusted her sunglasses and paddled off, driving through the water with determined speed.
“Interesting,” Emerson said, moving back onto the path, power walking to the boathouse. “We need to rent a boat and follow her.”
“All we got left are two-person kayaks,” the attendant told Emerson.
Emerson looked at Riley. “Do you know how to kayak?”
“I know how to canoe. It’s pretty much like that, right? Except the kayak paddle has two blades, one on either end. That seems one more than necessary.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Emerson said. “How hard can it be?”
R iley and Emerson left their shoes at the boathouse, slipped on their rented life jackets, and climbed carefully into the little lozenge-shaped boat that was resting in ankle-deep water. Emerson got in front, and Riley took the backseat. The attendant shoved them into deeper water, and they bobbed around for a moment, establishing their balance.
It took a few tries to coordinate their paddling rhythm, but soon they were cruising off downriver, in pursuit of Maxine. Moving quickly through the clusters of red rowboats with their fishing rods dancing above the water, Riley was struck with how different kayaking was from canoeing. In a canoe, you felt like you were riding on top of the water, but in the kayak you felt like you were sitting right in the water and cutting through it, like a hot knife through butter. She liked the sensation.
They followed a bend in the river and left most of the fishermen behind. In the woods along the riverbank, a bearded homeless man watched them sail past. Clothes tattered and worn, a slouch hat on his head, a crazy look in his eyes, he stared at them accusingly, a silent reminder that they were still in a metropolitan center after all, pastoral surrounding notwithstanding.
Up ahead, they could see Maxine. Her orange canoe was moving through the water toward an isolated rowboat, where two middle-aged men in fishing vests sat
The Nissan pulled off the road and parked in a small lot next to a ramshackle boathouse. Beyond the boathouse, the banks of the Potomac looked wild and untamed.
“Hard to believe we’re a scarce ten minutes from Georgetown,” Riley said, idling just short of the lot entrance.
Maxine got out of her Nissan, collected her duffel bag from the backseat, and walked over to the service window of the boathouse. Rental kayaks were stacked next to the building, and a number of red rowboats could be seen bobbing offshore, the occupants fishing for shad and catfish.
It reminded Riley of fishing spots her dad used to take her to on the Brazos River. She took a deep calming breath of country air with only a whiff of exhaust fumes in it and sighed. So near and yet so far.
Maxine concluded her business at the boathouse and took the path that led through the woods to the dock. The instant she was out of sight Riley pulled into the lot and parked. Emerson was immediately out of the car, following Maxine, with Riley scrambling to keep up.
“Did you know where Maxine was going?” Riley asked Emerson.
“Of course.”
“Mental telepathy?”
“Bumper sticker,” Emerson said, passing by Maxine’s car, pointing to her bumper sticker reading I’D RATHER BE FISHING AT FLETCHER’S COVE.
“That is
so cheating,
” Riley said.
They followed the path to the dock, pausing at the sound of men’s voices, and Emerson motioned for Riley to follow him into the woods where they’d be lost in deep shadow. They crept closer to the voices, and saw that Maxine stood on the jetty, arms out. A man in a dark suit patted her down, and another man in an equally dark suit looked on, with no visible expression on his face.
When they were done with her, Maxine climbed down into a small canoe. One of the dark suits handed over her duffel bag and pointed downstream. Setting the bag on her lap, she adjusted her sunglasses and paddled off, driving through the water with determined speed.
“Interesting,” Emerson said, moving back onto the path, power walking to the boathouse. “We need to rent a boat and follow her.”
“All we got left are two-person kayaks,” the attendant told Emerson.
Emerson looked at Riley. “Do you know how to kayak?”
“I know how to canoe. It’s pretty much like that, right? Except the kayak paddle has two blades, one on either end. That seems one more than necessary.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Emerson said. “How hard can it be?”
R iley and Emerson left their shoes at the boathouse, slipped on their rented life jackets, and climbed carefully into the little lozenge-shaped boat that was resting in ankle-deep water. Emerson got in front, and Riley took the backseat. The attendant shoved them into deeper water, and they bobbed around for a moment, establishing their balance.
It took a few tries to coordinate their paddling rhythm, but soon they were cruising off downriver, in pursuit of Maxine. Moving quickly through the clusters of red rowboats with their fishing rods dancing above the water, Riley was struck with how different kayaking was from canoeing. In a canoe, you felt like you were riding on top of the water, but in the kayak you felt like you were sitting right in the water and cutting through it, like a hot knife through butter. She liked the sensation.
They followed a bend in the river and left most of the fishermen behind. In the woods along the riverbank, a bearded homeless man watched them sail past. Clothes tattered and worn, a slouch hat on his head, a crazy look in his eyes, he stared at them accusingly, a silent reminder that they were still in a metropolitan center after all, pastoral surrounding notwithstanding.
Up ahead, they could see Maxine. Her orange canoe was moving through the water toward an isolated rowboat, where two middle-aged men in fishing vests sat
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