Coyote Destiny (26 page)

“I’m not sure,” she said, keeping her voice low, “but that looks like a dock.”

Jorge throttled down the engine to idle, and Greg pulled out a pair of binoculars. “It’s a dock, all right,” he said. “I see several boats tied up . . . two or three sailboats, some canoes, a skiff or two. Nothing big.”

“Anyone in sight?” Jorge asked.

Greg shook his head. “No . . . but there’s something on the river-bank that looks like a sandbag wall. If that’s the hospital, then it makes sense that someone would’ve tried to protect it.”

“That’s not all.” Vargas pointed toward the low buildings just south of Mass General. “Look . . .”

Raising a hand against the sun, Jorge searched for what Vargas had spotted. Two thin tendrils of smoke rose from some area not far from the hospital; they could have been wildfires, yet they looked too small for that.

“There’s someone living over there,” Inez murmured.

“I told you there were squatters,” Vargas said. “At least that’s what I’d heard.” He nodded toward the smoke trails. “That’s Beacon Hill, if I remember correctly.”

Jorge studied his map, closely examining its topographical gradient lines. “Looks like the highest point of land. Makes sense for someone to set up camp there, especially if the rest of the city was flooded.”

Greg turned to look back at him. “What about it, chief? Go ashore and see if we can find them?”

Jorge considered the question for a moment. “I’d like to go a little farther,” he said. “Just to see if there are any other signs of habitation. If we don’t find anything, we can always circle back.”

“That might be our best shot, Lieutenant.” Vargas continued to gaze at the smoke. “We ought to take it.”

He had a good point, and Jorge was about to agree when he felt Inez’s hand on his knee. Glancing sideways at her, he saw her silently shake her head. He didn’t know why, but something in her expression made him think that she might have sensed something that he didn’t . . . or couldn’t.

“No . . . no, I’d like to explore the river a little more,” he said slowly. “Just to be sure we don’t miss anything.”

Vargas frowned but didn’t argue as Jorge throttled up the engine again. But as soon as the boat was in motion once more, Jorge leaned over to Inez. “What’s going on?” he said as quietly as he could, using the engine noise to cover his voice.

“He’s nervous,” she whispered, putting her face close to his. “I can’t be sure, but I think he’s hiding something.”

“Like what?”

Inez shook her head; she didn’t know. Yet Jorge decided to trust her feelings. His doubts about Vargas had never subsided; once again, he was wondering how much faith they should put in their guide.

 

 

The river broadened as the boat traveled upstream, and a few
minutes later they came upon a massive stone bridge that looked as if it had been built several centuries ago. The map identified it as the Longfellow Bridge, and although three of its outer spans had fallen, the ones near the middle were still standing. The boat passed below the bridge, giving them a chance to look at the ornate scroll carved into the stone just below its center support; most of its Latin inscription had eroded away, but the words
Bostonia Condita AD 1660
remained legible within the shield at its center.

“Eight hundred years,” Inez said quietly. “Almost eight hundred years, this city has been here.” Gazing at the scroll, she shook her head in sadness. “Gone, all gone . . . and it didn’t need to happen.”

Past the bridge, the Charles River become nearly as wide as one of the smaller channels back home, and it was there that they sighted the Back Bay area. The urban neighborhood near the river had reverted to swamp, its brownstone town houses and mansions long since lost to water, mud, and brush. Farther inland rose the massive edifice of the Hancock Hub, the eighty-story arcology that had once straddled six square blocks. Fire had ravaged the giant building, turning it into a colossal black skeleton that loomed over the smaller buildings around it. Hawks circled the remains of the Hub’s twin towers, searching for prey in the streets below.

There were no signs of human presence, though, and Jorge estimated that they’d traveled a little more than three miles by water since leaving Port Logan. Time to check in with McAlister. The radio crackled with static, its signal marred by the tall buildings between the river and the spaceport, but Jorge was still able to hear McAlister’s voice. He gave the pilot a brief description of where they were and what they’d found so far.

“Copy that,”
McAlister said.
“Be careful, and let me know if you run into anyone.”
A brief pause, then he went on.
“Incidentally, I’m seeing a bit of life out here, too. There are a couple of boats in the harbor, and it looks like they may be heading this way.”

Jorge raised an eyebrow. “That’s hardly what I’d call incidental. Think they’ve seen you?”

“Do that. We’ll do the same if we find anyone here. Over and out.” Jorge prodded his headset, switching it off, and looked at the others; they’d listened through their own radios. “Well . . . appears this place isn’t as deserted as it seems.”

“We’re wasting time.” Vargas was becoming impatient. “If you’re serious about finding Thompson, your best bet is to go back the way we came, find whoever it is who set those fires.”

Jorge and Inez traded a quick glance. “You’re pretty sure about that, aren’t you?” she asked. “What makes you certain they’d know where my father is?”

“Your
chaaz’maha
isn’t just anybody . . . I’ve told you that already. If he’s been in the city again lately, people would know about it. They may even know where he is right now.” Vargas gestured toward the Back Bay area. “You’re not going to find anyone here, that’s for sure. Nothing there except birds, squirrels, and rats.”

Jorge had to admit that he was probably right. Not only that, but it didn’t look as if they’d be able to travel much farther upstream. Not far away was yet another Charles River landmark, marked on the map as the Harvard Bridge. It appeared to have collapsed entirely, with its remains blocking their way. And although they might be able to make landfall in the Back Bay, that would mean having to hike through swamp-infested neighborhoods until they reached the higher ground of Beacon Hill.

“You’ve got a point.” Jorge throttled up the engine again, pushed the tiller so that the boat began to make a slow turn. “But let’s play it safe and not really announce ourselves until we actually meet someone.”

Vargas didn’t reply, instead turning back around in his seat. Greg gave Jorge a questioning look, though, and Jorge responded by silently raising two fingers to his eyes, then pointing at Vargas’s back:
Keep an eye on him
. A mute nod from the sergeant, then he patted the stock of his rifle. It was clear that Greg didn’t trust him either.

Jorge hugged the shore as he steered the boat back down the river. Keeping the engine at half throttle, he managed to pick their way through the fallen spans of the Longfellow Bridge without colliding with any debris. Once past the bridge, they were able to make out Beacon Hill a little more clearly, with the gold dome of the Massachusetts state capitol building at its crest. Yet it wasn’t until they reached the floating dock again that they saw anyone.

Three figures stood upon the dock: two adults, and what appeared to be a child. None of them noticed the boat until it was only a few dozen yards away; squatting beside a small sailboat tied up at the pier, they appeared to be working on its furled sail. Yet when the smallest of the three—a boy, no more than ten years old—finally glanced upstream, he raised his voice and pointed toward the approaching craft. Jorge couldn’t hear what he said, but it was enough to get the others’ attention. The others stood up and quietly watched as the boat came closer. Greg raised a hand as a friendly greeting, but no one on the dock responded in kind.

“Good morning,” Jorge called out once they were within earshot and he’d throttled the engine down to neutral. “Mind if we put in here?”

It was now clear that the two adults were both men, one considerably older than the other. The younger man gave his companion a sidelong look; he stuck his hands in his pockets, stepped away from the sailboat.

“Don’t mind at all,” he called back, “so long’s you got something to pay for it.”

“The dockmaster, most likely,” Vargas said quietly, turning to Jorge. “And he probably means barter. I doubt anyone uses money around here anymore.”

Jorge nodded, then returned his attention to the dockmaster. “Got a little extra food, if that’s what you mean. We don’t have much else.” He hoped that the lie wasn’t too obvious, but he was unwilling to give up any of their equipment.

“That’ll do,” the dockmaster replied, “so long’s it’s not spoiled.” The younger man laughed, and Jorge took that to be a good omen. “Pull right up here,” he added, pointing to a vacant space between the sailboat and a tarp-covered canoe. “Kill your motor first, then toss me a line.”

Jorge remembered the SLOW NO WAKE sign he’d seen on the Charlestown Bridge. Some things hadn’t changed. He shut off the engine, then he and Inez paddled the rest of the way in while Greg located a hemp rope stowed beneath his seat. Once they were close enough, Greg threw the coiled end of the rope to the dockmaster. He caught the line in midair and used it to haul the boat against the dock; he knelt to lash the rope around a post, then offered Greg a hand.

“Nice boat you got there,” he said. “Haven’t seen one like it in a long time. Where y’all from?”

“Down south.” Grasping the dockmaster’s hand, Greg took the high step that put him on the dock’s weather-beaten planks. He gave Jorge a quick glance as he turned to help the others climb out of the boat:
What do I say next?

“Long Island,” Jorge supplied as he crawled over the equipment cases to reach the dock’s edge. It was the alibi he’d decided to use in case just that sort of question came up. “Decided to take a little trip up north, see whatever there is to see.”

“Long Island, New York?” The younger man sounded dubious. With greasy brown hair and a coarse beard, he looked like someone hardened by years of living in the ruins. “Didn’t know anyone was living down there. Last I heard, most of it was still underwater.”

“Most of it, sure . . . but there’s a few parts where people have been coming back to live lately, now that the water’s going down.” Remembering his promise, Jorge unstrapped the case containing the expedition rations, hoisted it onto the dock. “That’s where we found the boat . . . in a store down there.”

“Uh-huh.” The young man remained skeptical, and Jorge became conscious of just how different he and the other expedition members were in comparison to the people they’d just met. Their parkas were not the patched and threadbare overcoats the two men and the boy wore; their boots were clean and new, while the men wore old shoes that looked as if they were being held together with tape. The younger man openly stared at Jorge’s headset, and Jorge suddenly realized that he should have removed it. His story about finding the boat, and by implication everything they had, was thin indeed.

The dockmaster, though, had little interest in their boat or clothes. He nodded toward the food container. “So . . . what do you have for me?”

Jorge climbed onto the dock and helped Inez out of the boat, then bent over the case and unlatched its lid. “Not much in the way of anything fresh,” he said, revealing the foil-wrapped rations stacked within, “but we’ve got a lot of freeze-dried stuff. Meat, fruit bars . . .”

A low whistle from the young man, and Jorge looked up to see the astonishment in his eyes. “Damn. I ain’t seen anything like that in a long time . . . not since I was his age, at least.”

He meant the boy standing nearby. The kid stared at the case with naked avarice, and Jorge easily imagined his mouth watering.

“Are you with the TC?” the boy suddenly asked.

Jorge had no idea what he meant by that. It wasn’t something Vargas had mentioned during his previous conversations with the other expedition members. Before he could muster a response, though, Vargas came forward.

“No, we’re not,” he said, “but we’re searching for someone who is . . . the
chaaz’maha
.”

The dockmaster had squatted on his haunches to sort through the rations. When Vargas said this, he looked up sharply. “Is that why you’re here? You’re trying to find him?”

The dockmaster wasn’t the only one to be surprised. Jorge wanted to know how Vargas apparently knew what the TC was. Yet there was no way to ask him without prompting more unwanted questions from the locals; no choice but to bluff. “Uh-huh,” he said. “We’ve heard that he’s been here recently. If you know where he is . . .”

“Nope. No idea.” As quickly as he’d become distracted, the dockmaster returned his attention to the food case. “I’ll take ten of these for one day’s rent on a slip,” he said, lifting a handful of packets. “Throw in another five, and I’ll let you have it for two.”

Ten to fifteen ration packs represented nearly four days of food for the expedition. It was a hard bargain, but Jorge didn’t see that he had much choice; they’d have to leave the boat behind while they went into the city. “And you’ll watch our belongings while we’re gone?”

The dockmaster grinned, revealing gaps in his teeth. “Yup. These people trust me with their boats, so I reckon you can trust me with yours.”

That sounded like as good a promise as they were likely to get. “All right, then,” he said, and extended a hand. Apparently this was one custom that hadn’t been forgotten, because the dockmaster shook it, sealing the deal.

“If you’re looking for the
chaaz’maha
,” the young man said abruptly, “I might be able to help you.”