Net Force--Kill Chain by Jerome Preisler (e book reader txt) 📕

“I’m not sure that says a whole lot. Catch isn’t what it used to be. I’ve been out hauling traps all the livelong day without having much to show...and these here need to be fixed.” He raised the traps in his hand to show the torn netting inside. “What brings you to town, Bryan? Didn’t think your mom was back yet.”

“She isn’t. I’m taking Natasha to Chacagua. We’re camping out overnight.”

Stimson glanced down at the kayak. His forehead creased. “You sure that’s a good idea? With the storm and all down the coast?”

“It’s supposed to miss us,” Bryan said. He motioned skyward. “The sun’s been out since we left Massachusetts.”

“Maybe so,” Stimson said. “But you know how it is around here. If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.” He grunted. “How about we exchange phone numbers? I head out on my run at six every morning. Rain or shine. You two have any problems, I can pick you up with my boat first thing tomorrow.”

Natasha took out her mobile phone. Just in case Bryan got it in his head to decline.

“That would be great,” she said. “It’s nice of you to offer.”

Stimson nodded.

“Pays to be on the safe side,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

The kayak was speedier and more stable than Natasha expected, tracking across the water’s surface like an arrow. She paddled behind Bryan in the cockpit, the breeze on her cheeks, scooping water left, right, left, right, a steady rhythm, as he’d shown her when they launched. She saw boats here and there as the bay widened out, some moving at a slow crawl, others jetting swiftly ahead of white foam wakes.

They had been out for about half an hour when he pointed at a red-and-blue-striped buoy bobbing and dipping up ahead. “Do you see that?”

She nodded.

“Bet it belongs to Dwight Stimson.”

“How’d you know?”

She smiled at the back of his head. “Another wild guess.”

Bryan swung his arm in a counterclockwise direction, leading her eye toward a large stone outcrop about a hundred yards to the buoy’s right. Bathed in afternoon sunlight, it was covered with smooth black boulders that seemed almost uniform in shape.

“We have to bear toward that rock. But don’t bring us too close. If we stay midway between it and the buoy, that can be our lane to the island.”

Natasha gave another nod. It had taken her a few tries to get the hang of the foot pedals, but using them soon proved easy. She feathered the right pedal to move the kayak’s rudder and adjust course, skirting around the buoy.

They paddled in silence awhile. The kayak was in deep water now, Bishop behind it to the right, Chacagua a mile or so ahead in the distance, the current urging it along like a tailwind.

They had come almost parallel with the outcrop when Natasha noticed a piece of driftwood a few feet off their bow. It was large and long and barely submerged.

Then a dark round head poked out of the water and she realized what she saw wasn’t driftwood at all.

She felt a sudden thrill of excitement.

It was a seal, floating there ahead of them, staring at her.

Its brown eyes blinked.

“Bry, look!” she said excitedly.

“I think it likes you,” he said, paddling. “They don’t always get this close.”

She smiled. The seal still hadn’t budged. “I want one of those!”

“Harbor seals are friendly. But when they’re out of water, like the ones on that outcrop, they feel threatened if you get too close. Especially females with pups. That’s why I wanted to steer wide of them—so they don’t get aggressive.”

Natasha was quiet a second. The ones on that outcrop. She stopped paddling and glanced over at it, raising her field glasses to her eyes.

She’d been as wrong about the boulders being boulders as she was about the driftwood being driftwood. She was looking at more seals, dozens of them, maybe over a hundred, stretched atop the flat rock surfaces and basking in the sunlight.

The sight left her momentarily breathless.

Then Bryan gestured again, pointing toward the island’s shore. “That’s the shell beach. Our landing point.”

She nodded. A white crescent slivering the edge of the shore, it looked just as it had in their virtual magic carpet ride.

“We’re less than a mile off,” Bryan said. “With the tide pushing us, we should reach it in twenty minutes.”

It took half as long. As they drew closer, he guided them straight toward the lip of the beach, jumped out into the shallows, waded ashore, and dragged the bow of the kayak onto dry ground with Natasha still in the cockpit. Then she pushed up to her feet and followed, her neoprene boots splashing through the ankle-deep water.

“We have to carry the kayak above the high-tide line, or it’ll float away,” Bryan said. He glanced up the slope of the beach at some tangled brush. “That looks like a good place.”

“One sec.” Natasha held up a finger. She bent, scooped up handful of broken white seashells, and dropped them in her pocket.

“Duncan’s gift,” she said, looking at Bryan. “The first part anyway.”

He nodded and grabbed hold of the bow handle. She went around to the stern and did the same.

“Ready?” he said.

“Let’s do it,” Natasha said, lifting her end.

About thirty feet inland, the shell beach gave way to boggy ground, the rushes growing out of it still scruffy from the winter cold. Mud sucking at their feet, they slogged through the brittle brown shafts and then walked another eight or ten yards uphill to a ridge of dry, clumpy soil, tangled brush, and exposed tree roots at the outskirts of the forest.

Bryan gestured for Natasha to lower the kayak to the ground.

“It’ll be safe here,” he said. “The water never gets up this far.”

“How do you know?”

He tapped a long, questing root with his foot. “Calico Bay’s saltier than most. When the glaciers moved through this area during the Ice Age, they carved out a big mixing bowl for fresh and ocean water. The pines would