Arrow's Rest by Joel Scott (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

half-filled bottle of rum, some wrapped sandwiches, and Sinbad rested on the seat beside him. Danny slumped down beside the dog and took a long warming swig straight from the bottle before biting into a sandwich. He wasn’t hungry, and the cold, damp food didn’t taste particularly good, but he knew he would need the energy. It was going to be a long hard night. He didn’t know exactly where they were at the moment but they had to be getting close to the Redonda Islands. They’d plotted them on the gps when they took their last fix from the Annie J before they left it behind on its anchor. The warm, dry, comfortable Annie J, with the enclosed wheelhouse and cook stove and hot meals and dry bunks and navigation aids and . . .

Joseph spoke.

Danny said, “I don’t know for sure. Maybe. I think I’m holding my own for now anyway. Do you know where we are?”

Joseph pulled a chart out from under the blanket and looked at it for a long time before he pulled a stub of pencil from his pocket and marked a spot three quarters of the way down the channel that passed between the Redonda Islands. Danny stared landwards and thought he could make out a thickening in the gloom that could be shore. If Joseph was right, they had managed twenty-six miles in fourteen hours. About what he’d figured. The beacons were few and far between this far north, but Joseph would have a good idea of where he was. He’d been navigating the waters along this coast in canoes and fishing boats since he was a young man. Annie had an old framed black-and-white picture of Joseph in a Shaman headdress at the bow of a war canoe taken when she was a young child, and you’d swear to God it had been shot by Edward Curtis. So he was probably damned close to right about where he was. Danny was less certain that Joseph knew exactly where he was going.

So he asked him. Joseph looked at the chart for a long time without replying, his eyes half closed, the pipe forgotten in his mouth. Danny thought he’d drifted off to sleep and was about to prod him when Joseph opened his eyes, reached down, and put his finger on a spot on the chart north of Desolation Sound at the intersection of two meandering, hazard-filled inlets. He tapped one and then the other and shrugged.

A lot of options, Danny thought. Albright could be twenty miles up inside any one of three inlets with dozens of anchorages, although Joseph had already indicated how they would determine exactly which one. One of the longest afternoons of Danny’s life had been spent wandering Gastown as his mid-century modern obsessed girlfriend searched for furnishings for their projected communal flat. That hadn’t ended well, and now it seemed he was on the hunt for teak furniture once again. What goes around comes around. He finished his sandwich and stretched for a minute and then picked up the bucket and headed back down below.

Chapter 52

Cat and Jared followed the two men into the saloon and seated themselves at the dining room table where Albright sat waiting for them. The ship’s clock centred over the bar showed 1930. The place settings were formal, three forks, two knives, and two spoons. Three glasses, one for water and one each for the red and white bottles of wine that sat near Albright at the far end of the table, Jared assumed. He didn’t really know for sure, and had even less notion about the tableware. Cat would know, although he wasn’t about to ask her. Choosing the wrong piece of cutlery was the least of his concerns. He waited to see how the mad bastard wanted to play it.

“I’ve given a lot of thought to this meal,” Albright said. He popped the cork on the white wine and smelled it before pouring some in a glass and swirling it around for a bit. He sniffed and then sampled it and smiled.

“Excellent,” he said, and the steward went around the table and filled their glasses.

Jared thought about asking for a beer but decided against it. Keep the man mellow as long as possible. He sampled the wine. It was good.

“How do you like it, my dear?” Albright asked.

“It’s really very nice,” Cat replied. “A rich, crisp taste with just the slightest note of raspberry.” Albright smiled and nodded in satisfaction.

Jared wished he had asked for beer.

Albright pressed a buzzer and a minute later a small Asian man in a chef’s hat emerged from the galley and served them each a tiny dish of seared scallops.

Jared waited to see which fork Cat used before he started on the scallops.

“Maybe a hint more garlic,” Albright said, his face screwed up in consideration.

“No, they’re absolutely perfect,” Cat replied.

Jared took the pepper mill and grated until the shellfish had disappeared under a black cloud and took a forkful. “Absolutely wonderful,” he said. Albright frowned and Cat kicked him under the table.

And so it went, one tiny course after another, braised snapper with fresh asparagus, a single lamb chop with mint jelly, a thick slice of roast beef au jus dabbed with horseradish followed by the desserts, and then a plate of assorted fruits and cheeses served with port to finish up with. What little appetite Jared had vanished after the third course when Clint and Travis appeared and began setting up the boxing ring in the far corner of the saloon. They were wearing tight T-shirts, white duck pants, and runners without socks. Stripped for action. Travis caught Jared’s eye and winked at him.

And still Albright prattled on about the food and the preparation of it, the difficulty of obtaining fresh supplies and finding and keeping good kitchen staff and on and on. The surprising thing was that none of it seemed forced to Jared, he seemed genuine, and it would have