Page 20 of Untamed Coast

Fuck that. She started the winch back up and let it run, watching the trolling snaps bend and break one by one as they hit the main pulley block. Several salmon were hoisted to the top of the booms, then dropped into the water as the lead lines broke or the fish just fell off. Finally, the big cannonball weights rose above the surface and swung free. She killed the winch, grabbed a boat hook, and snagged the end of each weight—pulling it to the side of the boat and dropping it in the well.

Secure enough.

She ran back up to the pilothouse and put Lady Melinda into gear, spinning her around and angling the bow back up the swell in the opposite direction. As she reached the top, Anya scanned the near horizon.

He was about two hundred yards away, looking in the opposite direction, trying to tread water in his heavy fishing garb.

She took the boat out of gear. The pilothouse began to swallow her whole. She wanted—needed—him to think—to believe that she had tried to save—that it was an accident and she just couldn’t—why did it even matter? But it did matter. She wanted his last thought about her to be good. It couldn’t be her fault.

I’m coming for you, baby.

She put the boat into gear, then immediately pulled it out again.

Anya waited.

The salmon he’d left on the cleaning table flopped off onto the deck.

He swam a few strokes, then went back to treading water. She could almost feel his panic build, then gradually give way to resignation. He had turned halfway back toward the boat, but she was sure he hadn’t spotted her yet. He appeared to have stopped struggling.

Anya blasted the horn. His head snapped in her direction just as Lady Melinda slipped down the face of a swell into a trough. She gunned the engine and pulled the ship up the next wave, rising to her tiptoes so she’d catch sight of him an instant sooner as the boat reached the top.

Endless walls of water as far as she could see.

She steered the boat down the swell and powered up the next. Another wall. She caught a brief glimpse of something floating in the water a few boat lengths away. His red stocking cap. She steered the boat directly toward it, but lost sight of it between the next two waves.

The boom box belted Quarterflash singing “Harden My Heart.”

Anya didn’t know how long she drove around in circles, up and down the growing waves.

The salmon on the cockpit floor lay stiff.

She guessed the swell had built to twelve feet or more. The wind picked up to near gale force, and she needed to do something soon. He was definitely gone. Nobody could survive in these cold waters for that long—particularly not in his condition.

It was time.

Anya switched off the boom box and reached for the VHF marine radio microphone. She took several rapid breaths, making herself a little dizzy. She keyed the mic, trying to sound anxious and frightened. “Mayday, mayday, mayday—this is the fishing vessel Lady Melinda. We have a man overboard…”

Chapter 16

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Small Island Off Chichagof, AK

2017—Marconi Franco

Marco tried with all his might to pull in a breath, only the tiniest hint of air making its way through his windpipe. He tried exhaling. Nothing.

Relax. Like falling off the jungle gym in third grade. Breath will come back.

The midday sun stung his eyes, blinding him. He lifted an arm to shade his face. His hands were scraped and scratched, but they still seemed to work. His neck ached and his jaw throbbed. He touched his face. Sticky. Blood.

The taste of metal filled Marco’s mouth. His teeth had slammed together with the impact. His chin burned with pain, hands raw and ragged.

Waves crashed far below him. He finally pulled in some air. A familiar smell of—what was it? Sweet and earthy—his grandparents’ farm.

He carefully pressed down with his arms on either side of his body, afraid to shift his weight as it might send him on down the cliff. Broken twigs stabbed at his skin as he rolled his body toward the wall, feeling for any sign the support beneath him would fail, shifting his weight in tiny increments. Every stick snapping sent his heart racing. He rolled to one side and put his elbow and knee under him. Up onto all fours—loose scraps of grass and kelp slipped between his fingers as he searched for something to hold him steady.

He was high above the shore, lying in a thick pile of debris that was wedged into a rock outcropping. Fog swirled up the rocky bluff, clouding his view. He ventured a lean outward. The rock face was sheer directly below him, flat and wet with no apparent footholds. To his right, a crevasse between the cliff face and a spire of rock that extended skyward several stories. Directly above, a tree branch hung from the top edge, hopelessly out of reach.