He realized Bighead was looking back at him. The hulking figure wore an expression Smithback couldn’t read: it might be anger, it might be uncertainty—it could have been any number of things.

“That’s some little story, the feet,” he told Smithback. “I don’t know if you’re smart or stupid. I’m going to ask around. See if maybe you speak a little truth, see if there’s a connection. Then I’ll come back and break you in. That’s when I find out whether you’re lying—or, if you tell the truth, maybe you’ll tell a little bit more.”

“I’ve told you everything—” Smithback began, but Bighead had turned away and was walking toward the door. Already, he was pulling a cell phone out of his pocket. In the doorway, he paused to give his two gunmen another instruction.

“Fuck him up a little more before locking him in again,” he said. Then he stepped into the narrow passageway and vanished.

33

THE R/V LEUCOTHEA passed under the causeway bridge as a gray dawn was creeping into a stormy sky, casting a steely light over the choppy water. As they passed the Sanibel Island Lighthouse, they left the shelter of land and began encountering a deep swell from an offshore storm, the boat riding up and down through the whitecaps, the wind whipping the spray across the windows. Pamela Gladstone headed the Leucothea around the southern end of the island into the rough sea.

Pendergast had taken a seat in the chair opposite the helm. He had arrived in a slicker with a yellow sou’wester, rain pants, and boots, all brand new and still smelling of the shop where he’d purchased them. She had to stifle a smile of amusement.

“Nasty day for a cruise,” she said.

“Indeed.”

She scanned him for signs of incipient seasickness but didn’t see any. His face was as impassive and cool as ever, impossible to read. Usually they turned white before they puked, but he was already about as white as you could get.

“We’ll be reaching the first drop point in about fifteen minutes. It’s the inlet between Boca Grande and Cayo Costa. The second drop is off Manasota Key and the third and fourth off the Venice Inlet. The fifth is a bit farther out to sea and about ten miles north. It’s pretty much a straight shot up the coast.”

“Thank you for the explanation.” Pendergast didn’t offer to help and she wouldn’t have wanted him to anyway. In these rough seas, a man overboard wasn’t out of the question. The storm causing them was way out in the gulf and heading toward the delta. They were getting the fringes of it, nothing her boat couldn’t handle, and nothing that was forecast to get any worse. Just your usual rough day at sea—or so she hoped.

It wasn’t long before Gladstone noticed a boat on the radar, about five nautical miles back. It had been there almost since they passed Sanibel Light and it seemed to be pacing them. She enlarged the radar field and made a mental note of the other vessels in the vicinity, their positions and headings. There weren’t nearly as many as usual—the nasty weather had kept the pleasure boaters in port. These were working boats. Her eye drifted back to the green blob five miles behind, going the same speed and heading as the Leucothea. She glanced back but could not make out the boat among the swells and whitecaps, spray and mist.

Pendergast had been quiet, but now he spoke. “It seems we are being followed.”

“You mean that boat at one eighty about five miles back? I noticed it, too. Could be a coincidence.”

“Shall we perform a little test?” he murmured.

“How so?”

“Alter your course by ninety degrees.”

“Not a bad idea.” She turned the helm and brought the boat around in a wide arc to a new heading of 270 degrees.

“Hey,” said Lam, calling in through the open wheelhouse door. He had been back in the stern area, preparing the first drop. “What’s with the course alteration? We should be heading north.”

“Just a little experiment,” said Gladstone.

She watched the little green blob, Pendergast at her side. After a minute or two, it altered course to track them.

“Son of a bitch,” Gladstone said.

“Does that vessel have AIS?” Pendergast asked.

She was surprised he knew about the Automatic Identification System carried by most boats. “No.”

“Are you using AIS?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. Glancing back, she could see that Lam, bundled up in a slicker, his red sneakers replaced by oversize green rubber boots, was fully occupied setting up his drift buoys. “Agent Pendergast, would you be willing to go aft with those binoculars and tell me what you see? Keep a hand on the grab rails—the sea’s pretty rough.”

“Certainly.”

Pendergast exited the wheelhouse and went to the stern, raising the binoculars. She could see his bright yellow form trying to peer through the spray and wind.

She now altered course back to the original heading—and noted the other vessel soon followed suit.

Pendergast returned, shedding water. “I couldn’t make it out, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, visibility sucks.” Who the hell would be following her, and why?

“Would it make sense for you to turn off your own AIS?” said Pendergast.

“I could do that, but it wouldn’t make any difference—that boat’s already locked in on us with radar. What I’m going to do instead is call the bastard on VHF.”

“Excellent idea.”

Gladstone pulled down her mike. Channel 16 was quiet, so she pressed the transmit button. “Unknown vessel, unknown vessel, this is Leucothea, over.”

There was no response. She waited two minutes and tried again. Still no response.

“Didn’t the vessel receive your message?” Pendergast asked.

“She damn well did, she’s required by law to have the VHF tuned to channel 16. She’s just not answering.” Now Gladstone was seriously pissed off. No AIS and ignoring a call—that was not right. But they were nearing the first drop point and she had to turn her attention to that.

“Wallace, how are you doing back there?” she called through the open door.

“Ready to roll.”

“On my signal.”

He picked up a plastic basket of the buoys and carried them back to the transom. Gladstone throttled down to seven knots. The slackening of speed, she noticed, was soon matched by the following vessel.

Keeping an eye on the chartplotter, she held up her hand, then brought it down. She saw Lam toss the first buoy overboard. In another five hundred feet, she signaled the second drop. In five minutes, all buoys earmarked for the first drop were away.

He came back in, grinning. He used a towel hanging on a hook to dry his face and hands, and then checked an iPad mounted on a side console. “All buoys broadcasting their positions.”

Gladstone throttled up. “On to Manasota Key.”

The boat accelerated. She watched the following boat to see what she’d do. But that boat was now doing something different. Instead of pursuing, it was accelerating to where they had just dropped the buoys. The green blob approached the first drop point and slowed, then circled and stopped. She couldn’t believe it—what were they doing?

“What the fuck!” Lam cried, staring at the radar. “That boat’s picking up our buoy!”