Read Online Dead in the Water by Dana Stabenow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dana Stabenow
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holed up here for days."
One of the boxes was open, and grinning a little, he pulled out a can and held it up. "Dinner might have gotten a little monotonous, but hell." The can slipped and he almost dropped it. Something cool and gooey ran over his fingers. "What the hell?"
Even with the new skylight in the roof there wasn't enough light in the little room to see what he was talking about. "What's wrong?" she said, peering into the dim comer in which he was standing.
A booted foot crunched on sand, and she recoiled when a disembodied hand thrust a can of pork and beans in her face. "Yuk," she said, wrinkling her nose at the smell. "Somebody leave the rest of his supper behind?"
"I don't think so." Brushing by her, Jack stooped to go through the door. His voice was grim, and Kate followed him outside.
The light confirmed what his fingertips had felt. The can was punctured, a hole the size of a .38 caliber bullet entering under the V in Van and exiting just above the bottom seam.
Jack regarded the hole meditatively. "Think whoever put this stuff here used it for target practice?"
Without answering, Kate ducked back inside the dugout.
Together they hauled out everything inside. As they removed each box, Jack marked it with his omnipresent black Marksalot, and they restacked them outside in the same position they had been in inside. The contents of the perforated cans had spilled out over the cases and dried to a sticky dark brown that looked like old blood.
"Some of it might be old blood," Jack observed. The outward facing surface common to three of the boxes, the three messiest ones, looked crumpled, as if a heavy weight had slammed into them where they were stacked against the dugout's wall.
Jack stood looking at the cardboard boxes, hands in his pockets. "What we got here is two choices," he said at last.
"And they are?"
"Either somebody was really and I mean really tired of pork and beans."
"Or?" Their eyes met. Her mouth compressed into a thin line. "You got a can opener in the plane?"
They opened every case and then every can with a hole in it. They found a dozen such cans and, rattling around in the sixth box they opened, one lone slug. Jack held up the misshapen piece of metal and said, "This could be anything from a .22 to a .357." Nevertheless, he stored it carefully away in a Ziploc bag. Into another Ziploc he scraped some of the dried brown fluid from the front of one of the boxes. He'd brought a flashlight back with the can opener and they examined the floor of the dugout, without result. Jack bagged some samples of the dirt anyway. He made several drawings of the scene, and when he was through they repacked the cans in their cases and loaded them into the back of the Cessna. The toilet paper, which had survived the armed assault relatively unscathed-"Naturally," Jack said, "the slug would have been in a lot better shape if it had impacted the asswipe"-was stacked back where they'd found it.
The little room, dark and dank and smelling of mildew, had begun to close in around Kate and she was glad to leave it. The air outside felt fresh and clean and she pulled it into her lungs in big, cleansing breaths.
The dugout stood on the south slope of a tiny rise that fell away to the beach. Jack stood with his back to the water, looking at the structure, impressed by its air of having grown there. The rye grass grew tall and thick and right up to the walls and over the roof, and even now, in winter, from three, even two steps away, the door was invisible. He could see how the Coasties had missed it. Of course, they hadn't been looking with murder in mind. "Who built this place? And why?"
"You said this island has a natural strategic location,"
Kate reminded him, pulling the door closed, noting as she did that it was made of meticulously assembled planks in which no nail had been placed without careful thought and attention. "You think the Aleuts wouldn't have noticed that, too?"
He was skeptical. "You think
One of the boxes was open, and grinning a little, he pulled out a can and held it up. "Dinner might have gotten a little monotonous, but hell." The can slipped and he almost dropped it. Something cool and gooey ran over his fingers. "What the hell?"
Even with the new skylight in the roof there wasn't enough light in the little room to see what he was talking about. "What's wrong?" she said, peering into the dim comer in which he was standing.
A booted foot crunched on sand, and she recoiled when a disembodied hand thrust a can of pork and beans in her face. "Yuk," she said, wrinkling her nose at the smell. "Somebody leave the rest of his supper behind?"
"I don't think so." Brushing by her, Jack stooped to go through the door. His voice was grim, and Kate followed him outside.
The light confirmed what his fingertips had felt. The can was punctured, a hole the size of a .38 caliber bullet entering under the V in Van and exiting just above the bottom seam.
Jack regarded the hole meditatively. "Think whoever put this stuff here used it for target practice?"
Without answering, Kate ducked back inside the dugout.
Together they hauled out everything inside. As they removed each box, Jack marked it with his omnipresent black Marksalot, and they restacked them outside in the same position they had been in inside. The contents of the perforated cans had spilled out over the cases and dried to a sticky dark brown that looked like old blood.
"Some of it might be old blood," Jack observed. The outward facing surface common to three of the boxes, the three messiest ones, looked crumpled, as if a heavy weight had slammed into them where they were stacked against the dugout's wall.
Jack stood looking at the cardboard boxes, hands in his pockets. "What we got here is two choices," he said at last.
"And they are?"
"Either somebody was really and I mean really tired of pork and beans."
"Or?" Their eyes met. Her mouth compressed into a thin line. "You got a can opener in the plane?"
They opened every case and then every can with a hole in it. They found a dozen such cans and, rattling around in the sixth box they opened, one lone slug. Jack held up the misshapen piece of metal and said, "This could be anything from a .22 to a .357." Nevertheless, he stored it carefully away in a Ziploc bag. Into another Ziploc he scraped some of the dried brown fluid from the front of one of the boxes. He'd brought a flashlight back with the can opener and they examined the floor of the dugout, without result. Jack bagged some samples of the dirt anyway. He made several drawings of the scene, and when he was through they repacked the cans in their cases and loaded them into the back of the Cessna. The toilet paper, which had survived the armed assault relatively unscathed-"Naturally," Jack said, "the slug would have been in a lot better shape if it had impacted the asswipe"-was stacked back where they'd found it.
The little room, dark and dank and smelling of mildew, had begun to close in around Kate and she was glad to leave it. The air outside felt fresh and clean and she pulled it into her lungs in big, cleansing breaths.
The dugout stood on the south slope of a tiny rise that fell away to the beach. Jack stood with his back to the water, looking at the structure, impressed by its air of having grown there. The rye grass grew tall and thick and right up to the walls and over the roof, and even now, in winter, from three, even two steps away, the door was invisible. He could see how the Coasties had missed it. Of course, they hadn't been looking with murder in mind. "Who built this place? And why?"
"You said this island has a natural strategic location,"
Kate reminded him, pulling the door closed, noting as she did that it was made of meticulously assembled planks in which no nail had been placed without careful thought and attention. "You think the Aleuts wouldn't have noticed that, too?"
He was skeptical. "You think
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