My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 26

26

PRESSING THE THROTTLE FORWARD, I steered the open boat into the choppy waters of the Intracoastal Waterway and turned southward into the wind. The boat bounced hard across each wave and a light spray moistened my face making it feel as if the temperature had suddenly dropped another twenty degrees. I reached for the ski mask and pulled it over my head.

The channel was no more than a hundred feet wide, but the waterway itself varied from a few hundred yards wide in places to a mile wide in other places. In the wider stretches, there were strings of islands and shallow grounds on either side of the marked channel. A mid-sized yacht with a dinghy dragging behind it approached from the south and cruised past me twenty yards to my left with a rolling wall of water streaming outward behind it. Cutting toward the wave, I slammed through it, slipped into the smooth draft behind the yacht, and resumed my southward trek.

A fisherman in a workboat much like mine pulled at a net and eyed me suspiciously as I cruised by. Pelicans nestled around him and fought over the fish he didn't keep. Occasionally, I'd spot a boat like the one I sought and would slow down, get a closer look at it, and then move on. Farther and farther I traveled southward crossing back and forth across the waterway eliminating one boat after another. As the waterway grew wider, I decided I'd check the right side going south and the other side coming back.

The hours and the miles rolled past and by 9 a.m. I'd approached the intersection where the waterway and the Cape Fear River merged. Waterway traffic going both north and south had increased to a steady stream and was especially heavy going in and out of the Cape Fear. In spite of all the layers of clothing, my legs and feet had gone numb. My hands cramped and my back ached. I was cold, wet, and hungry and decided to rest a bit before crossing the rough mouth of the river. I steered into calmer waters to the right of the channel and cut the engine.

Standing, I stretched my back and let the blood drain back into my legs and feet. I pulled the lid off a can of pork and beans and popped the top on a Pepsi. Sea gulls gathered overhead just out of reach and pelicans sailed in dropping quietly onto the water around the boat.

Fifteen minutes later I was underway again without the ski mask. As I moved into the mouth of the Cape Fear, the channel got wider and the seas got rougher. The boat banged hard against the waves and sprayed seawater into the boat as I dodged large fishing vessels heading out to sea and cargo freighters heading for the State Port at Wilmington.

I wondered if Ashleigh could have done this in the dark, or if she'd waited for the sun to come up before daring to cross. Or had she avoided this entirely and gone north? Cruising on the water at night steering blindly from flashing buoy to flashing buoy with a full moon reflecting off the water is about as beautiful as it gets, but I wouldn't want to do it in unfamiliar waters. There are just too many things floating around to chance it. But given that Ashleigh had taken quite a few chances already, she might very well have done it.

As I neared the south side of the Cape Fear, dark clouds rolled in and the wind shifted to the east forcing the boat to take each wave at a sharper angle, rocking it wildly. Water splashed into the boat more frequently now spattering my clothes and shoes, and collecting in the bottom of the boat. The cardboard boxes became soaked and lost their shape. I felt around for the drain plug under the engine and pulled it allowing the water to flow out.

There were hundreds of tiny inlets and creeks, some going no more than a few hundred feet inland, others twisting inland for miles. There was no way to check them all. Besides, it was my guess that Ashleigh would have looked for a place to blend into a crowd or grab another form of transportation. The most likely places were Southport, near the North Carolina-South Carolina border, or one of hundreds of places along the Grand Strand in the Myrtle Beach area some fifty miles farther. Southport was just a few miles ahead. From the waterfront in Southport, she could have walked to the bus station and disappeared forever.

The wind picked up as I approached the town docks and I could see rain falling to my left out over the ocean. When I'd started out that morning, I expected this to be more of an adventure. Instead, it had been miserable and uncomfortable. The temperature never got above the low 40s—unusually cool for this time of year. I reached into a box, snared the bottle of scotch I'd tossed in at the last minute, wrenched the cap off, and while taking a swig spotted another Boston Whaler between a couple of multi-million dollar Hatteras yachts moored at the yacht basin.

As a light drizzle began pocking the waters, I returned the scotch to the box, aimed the boat toward the yachts, and drew the poncho over me. Replacing the plug, I slowed and maneuvered close enough in the choppy seas to see that the boat was not the one I was seeking. This one was more disappointing than the rest. That's exactly where I'd expected to find it—tied and abandoned on or near a yacht at Southport. No one would have paid any attention to it. Most of these big luxurious playthings were only used a few times a year at best—not very likely in April—and some looked as if they hadn't been used in years.

I wheeled the boat around, docked at Captain Barnaby's Seafood Restaurant, covered my boxes as best I could, and huddled over a hot bowl of the best Downeast clam chowder I'd ever eaten. By the time I'd finished, a "nor'easter" had blown in and the rain was coming down sideways. Boats along the waterfront bounced about like bathtub toys and the sea had turned into vicious rolling whitecaps. The sky had become so dark that the automatic lights in the parking lot had turned on. Visibility on the river was down to less than fifty feet and I hated the idea that I had to go back out there to get home in time for an afternoon rehearsal. Sitting alone in that restaurant, listening to the thrashing rain driven by a howling wind, I wallowed in my depression.

The waitress was kind and kept bringing the coffee. "I don't believe I've seen you around here before," she noted, refilling my cup for the fifth time.

"I haven't been through here since I was a teenager."

"Picked a rough day for it."

"Well, I'm looking for someone."

She smacked her gum. "Oh yeah? Who?"

"A blond girl in her early twenties. Might have had six or seven strings of beads in her hair." I pulled out the newspaper clipping. "She would have been through here Monday."

She picked up the newspaper and popped her gum. "Yeah, she was here."