Rogue Justice (17 page)

31 March, 2:45 PM PDT

Port Angeles, Washington

After an arduous eight-hour flight from Sitka, the four-seat de Havilland bush plane banked over Ediz Hook, turned east into an unforgiving headwind, and set down in choppy waters a mile from town. As the pilot taxied to a small marina, his passenger prepared to deplane. Zora Flynn grabbed her bag, handed the man a thick wad of hundred dollar bills, and stepped onto the small wooden dock. Their eyes locked for an anxious moment, then Zora's trusted friend, Tanner Lockhart, pulled the door shut, throttled up, and taxied back out to sea.

Five minutes later, he lifted off into overcast skies.

Zora cabbed to a local car-rental agency and was soon zipping east along Highway 101 in a sporty red coupe. She'd asked for something less conspicuous, but the fast-talking mosquito behind the counter said it was the only vehicle available. Traffic was light and Zora's thoughts turned once again to her mother, a woman so unfairly robbed of mind and memory. What did she see when she stared into the mirror? Did she even know who she was? Did she wrack her brain searching for remnants of the past and dreading the future? Zora had asked herself those same questions a thousand times over the past two days, playing and replaying in her mind the disturbing conversation with the man in Sitka.

For the briefest of moments, she had considered letting her mother go, allowing these monsters to lift her out of the fog. Maybe she would find something truly beautiful on the other side? Maybe there really was a place of infinite serenity somewhere? Zora had never been a particularly religious person, yet who could say for certain what death held in store? Whatever it was would surely trump the nothingness of Alzheimer's. But that had been Zora's own dark side talking. In her heart and in her head she knew she could never allow that to happen. She must do everything in her power to protect her mother, preserve whatever intellectual and emotional threads still remained grounded in reality, no matter how murky that reality may be.

And that would take near flawless execution of a plan that was still a work in progress.

The pieces, however, seemed to be falling into place.

Before leaving Alaska, Zora had checked her bank statement and, as expected, $75,000 had been deposited into her account via a wire transfer. It was drawn on an offshore bank, a bank undoubtedly beyond the scope of any U.S. regulators. Soon after confirming the transaction, she got a call from Katrina Kincaid. She couldn't wait to see her, she said. That left her crew, convincing them to put their lives on the line. They were good men, had always followed Zora's simple, sea-faring rules to the letter—no booze, no drugs, no guns. And they worked damn hard, too. But this was going above and beyond. This was asking a lot.

Even so, that conversation had gone well, too. Lapenda, Cassidy, and McCabe had each expressed genuine concern for Zora's mother, the health of the whale, and their own safety. Yes, they were fishermen and fishermen liked to talk, but they also understood the gravity of the situation and each had sworn an oath of silence. The promise of a healthy paycheck—twenty grand each—sealed the deal. Zora had then booked them on a commercial flight into Seattle. From there, they would rent a car and meet her in Port Angeles.

A few miles past Sequim, oncoming traffic began backing up, as one brightly colored media truck after another rolled by in a seemingly endless parade. She wondered what that was all about.

Maintaining her speed, Zora rounded a sharp curve, and made a left turn onto a gravel road that rolled through long stretches of deep woods. She slowed as she approached a small gathering of reporters and camera crews huddled behind a police barricade. After adjusting her sunglasses, she pulled the bill of her baseball cap low over her forehead. She had to admit it wasn't much of a disguise, but then she really didn't expect to recognized, at least not around here. Ironically, fame wasn't something she either envied or pursued. She much preferred her privacy to some trumped-up image crafted by phony, self-important spin doctors and their clients who found no shame in anything, as evidenced by the depraved state of reality TV.

Zora had agreed to the
Vanity Fair
piece only after the magazine's editor had pledged to double the hefty fee he'd already proposed, the entire amount to be earmarked for her children's home in Nepal. The money would not only secure the future of the operation, it would also provide food, clothing, education—and most important of all, self-respect—for an additional two hundred kids. All the stuff that moron in Sitka wasn't supposed to know, but did.

The beaming faces of those kids were still on Zora's mind as she stopped the car and rolled down the window. Two state troopers approached. They were wearing trademark campaign hats, aviator sunglasses, and snappy blue uniforms so crisp they looked like they could stand on their own.

The older trooper stepped forward, clipboard in hand. He was tall, stocky, his manner brisk and business-like. "Afternoon, ma'am. Live in the neighborhood, do you?"

"No, I'm a friend of Dr. Kincaid's. She's expecting me."

"Your name, ma'am?"

"Zora. Zora Flynn."

"ID please."

Zora produced a driver's license from her bag, handed it to the trooper. He examined the card for a long moment, tilted his head to one side, and peered suspiciously over the top of his glasses. "You're a long way from home, Ms. Flynn."

"Very observant of you," she replied, glancing at his nametag. "Is that a problem, Trooper Miles?"

He smirked, handed back the license, and checked off her name. "No ma'am, no problem at all. Appreciate your cooperation. You have yourself a nice afternoon, now."

The younger trooper tipped his hat and moved the stanchion. Zora slowly drove past a half-dozen reporters, attracting a few sidelong glances. But the group quickly went back to being bored. Katrina lived in Port Townsend, but had set up her lab twenty minutes west of town at her parents' place. She had forewarned Zora about the greeting party, explaining that reporters had camped out at her home immediately after she'd returned from the interview in Seattle. They might follow her here, she'd said. But why the troopers? What were they doing here? And where were all the other newshounds she'd seen on the highway headed?

After another mile or so of twists and turns, Zora reached the house at the end of Old Gardiner Road. She'd been here once before to help celebrate Allan and Dorothy Kincaid's golden wedding anniversary. That had been over a year ago. At the time, their charming Victorian home was being torn apart from top to bottom. Now, fully restored to its original splendor, it lay nestled like a sleeping cat amid a deep green forest of hemlocks and firs. The house was painted eggshell white and consisted of three levels—a porch, veranda, and balcony, all supported by monumental columns.

Zora pulled up in front of a two-story garage, stepped out of the car, and looked around. The grounds, like the home, were postcard perfect and surrounded by perennial gardens. The grass smelled fresh, like it had just been cut. And everywhere there were birds flitting about, chirping like it was the first day of spring. A vast rolling lawn sloped down to the tree line, beyond which the Strait of Juan de Fuca could be seen. She followed a narrow path that curled around an ornate octagon tower to the backyard.

A voice startled her. "Hey, girlfriend! Here, on the deck."

Zora looked up, craning her neck, "Oh, hi, Katrina. Great to see you."

"You, too. Come on up."

Zora climbed a dozen steps to the landing and hugged her friend. "It's been a long time."

"I know, sweetie," Katrina said. "
Too
long."

"Say, what's with the cops? I know you mentioned there might be reporters, but—"

"Yeah, sorry about that. I drove over earlier this afternoon to get some work done. The reporters followed. I was told the old biddy down the street filed a complaint, something about her flower garden being trampled on. Next thing you know we're looking at 'Checkpoint Charlie.'"

It was odd, Zora thought, that something so innocuous as a few cops could feel so unsettling.

Katrina then told her about the couple from Port Angeles and the remarkable photos they'd captured of the colossal whales, adding, "Jia-li Han is interviewing them over at the marina at five o'clock. It's a huge deal around here, so I'm not surprised by all the hype."

"I liked how she handled
your
interview, Katrina. And you did a great job. I caught a replay on CNN last night. Incredible stuff."

"Yeah, this is a real game-changer, all right. I'll fill you in over a glass of wine, okay? And I want to hear more about your shark experience, too. You only told me half the story last fall. I had no idea. I mean nobody in their right mind dives into those freezing waters, let alone with a bunch of hungry whites lurking around. And with a freakin' pistol, no less?"

"I know. I reacted, that's all. It was either that, or watch the poor guy get eaten alive. To tell you the truth, I thought the bullets would travel farther underwater. I lucked out."

Katrina rolled her eyes, smiled, and opened the screen door. "I'll say. C'mon, check out my new digs. I've added a bunch of new equipment since you were here last. It's pretty cool."

Chapter 19

31 March, 3:45 PM PDT

Sequim, Washington

Zora stepped inside the lab and looked around. It
was
cool, in a mad scientist sort of way. The large, windowless room was strewn with books, books piled high on the floor, shelves full of them. A long metal shelf ran along the far wall. Several microscopes equipped for state-of-the-art optical analyses sat on top. Other sophisticated-looking scientific instruments were scattered about. There were stacks of paper everywhere. A TV monitor, video equipment, and two laptops occupied a pair of marred-up old wooden tables.

"Not exactly Woods Hole," Katrina said. "But it works for me. Besides, the price is right. Mom and dad won't take any rent, and, for a girl on a small government grant, that's a big help."

The grant, Katrina explained, provided partial funding for "The Orca Project," a wide-ranging initiative designed to ensure the survival of killer whales by raising awareness, studying threats they faced in the wild, and creating comprehensive strategies to address those threats. The program got its start several years earlier, she said, following the discovery of a dead orca on a low-lying sandbar near Port Townsend. Tests revealed the young female carried one of the highest loads of toxic chemicals ever recorded in a marine mammal.

Zora shook her head. "Yeah, it's pathetic. I see tons of junk floating around in places you'd never expect, like the Bering Sea. Nothing like that garbage patch out in the Pacific, though. It's the size of Texas, mostly plastic, too."

"I know," Katrina said. "Will we
ever
learn that nature is calling the shots, that we can't upstage the main act no matter how hard we try?"

"Amen to that," Zora replied. After a long pause she asked, "So tell me, how are your parents doing?"

Katrina said, "Slowing down a bit, but otherwise fine. Both retired now and seem to be enjoying it, though I think dad's going a bit stir-crazy. He finished renovating the old place last month and now he pokes around up here way too much. I'm afraid he's gonna blow something up. Anyway, right now they're on a safari in Kenya. 'Wild and remote,' the brochure promised."

"Good for them. What about that handsome brother of yours?"

"Mickey's great, keeping busy. He helped dad with the house, which was interesting to watch. They're quite a pair, yapping at one another all the time about lord knows what. But if two better carpenters exist on the planet, I'd like to meet them. I told Mick you were stopping by. He asked about getting together for dinner, maybe tomorrow night if you're around?"

Zora nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Listen, give me a sec, okay?" Katrina said. "I need to make a couple of notations in the Sound Log before I forget. Then I want to show you something that totally blew me away."

Katrina then moved quickly to a worktable, sat down, and adjusted a couple of dials on the recording device. Zora stepped back nervously, her mind doing backflips, wondering how best to approach this fiasco. It wasn't in her makeup to ask for help, not from anyone. If she couldn't solve a problem herself, it just wasn't solvable. She noticed a glossy wall chart pinned to the back of the door. Scanning the categories, she made a mental note of each one.