Death Echo

fire alarm. She lurched into the engine room. The first pipe she tried to use as a handhold was burning hot. She patted around until she found one that wasn’t.
    Crouching low, she moved the makeshift Geiger counter slowly back and forth over the port fuel tank. The foil squares didn’t fall together. She leaned in and ran her crude detector in back of the tank as well as around the sides.
    Nothing.
    Either the tank is clean or my cut-and-tape toy isn’t working.
    Both engines revved hard. Blackbird lurched sideways, ripping the pipe out of her hands and throwing her off balance. She went down on her hands and knees, barely avoiding the hot exhaust stack next to the port fuel tank.
    The detector fell in the bilge.
    â€œYou okay?” Mac asked through her headphones.
    â€œWho knew that yachting was a full-contact sport?” she groaned.
    â€œThe radio is full of official chatter. Coasties are out. We have to get to the freighter before we show on anyone’s radar.”
    She heard the strain in his voice as he wrestled with the wheel, trying to hold his course and still meet the oncoming waves safely.
    The engines made a continuous avalanche of sound.
    Carefully she fumbled beneath the port fuel tank for the detector. Despite the spinning of the shaft leading to the propeller, she managed to grope around until she found the can. Gently she pulled it toward her. But not gently enough. The two pieces of foil had touched, releasing their charge. They hung limply on their tethers. Useless.
    She reached into her belly bag for the comb and began rubbing it fiercely over her clothes.
    The engines thundered around her, working harder than ever.
    â€œIt’s a Canadian Coastie,” Mac said. “Looking for a yacht that called in with engine failure. At least that’s what they’re putting out for the public. Hang on!”
    Mac was yelling into his mic. He knew what an engine room was like, especially at full throttle.
    â€œNo,” she said loudly. “Cut power. Cut power! Go out of gear. I might have something, but I have to go beneath the port propeller shaft to be sure. We’ve got to be sure!”
    At first she thought that Mac hadn’t heard her. Or was ignoring her. She started to call out to him, to explain.
    The port engine’s RPMs fell off fast. The starboard engine revved to the top of its range. Mac was compromising—she could crawl around the port side without being beaten up by moving parts, but the starboard side was working flat out.
    Above her, Mac battled the ocean. “Go!” he yelled into his mic. “If Blackbird doesn’t meet these waves right, the salon windows will blow out. Tell me when you’re clear. Hurry!”
    â€œCopy that.”
    Emma clawed her way into position with the newly charged detector in one hand. The propeller shaft leading from the port engine was no longer spinning, but she would be thrown against a burning hot engine if she lost her footing. Completely at the mercy of chance, balance, and Mac’s skill, she bent lower. Breath held, she edged the beer-can device into the space beneath the port fuel tank, careful to avoid touching the metal bottom.
    There wasn’t much light beneath the tank and sweat was running in her eyes. Impatiently she swiped her face against her arm. Blood and sweat. She’d hit her head again, but her eyes worked fine. The foil leaves danced on their threads like leaves in a breeze.
    Until they collapsed.
    Emma stared in horror, not wanting to believe. Deliberately she created more static with the comb, charged the leaves, and held the device beneath the engine again.
    The tinfoil squares fell together.
    She lunged to her feet and bolted up the machine room steps, slamming the hatch door behind her.
    â€œI’m clear!” she yelled into her mic.
    But she wasn’t.
    No one was.

77
    DAY SIX
WEST OF VANCOUVER ISLAND
9:04 P.M.
    B efore Emma careened up the stairs and slammed the hatch back down, the port engine had thundered to life again. Blackbird hesitated, shuddering under the blow of a big wave. Water squirted in where a salon window hadn’t been tightly closed, but the window itself stayed intact. Foam and black water sleeted across the deck.
    One-handed, able to rely on only one leg, Mac fought the wheel. It was better with both engines working together again, but it wasn’t easy. Blood mixed with sweat ran down his face. He glanced at her.
    â€œSo