Chapter Forty-Nine
HECTOR
She’s upset.
The rain gushes down in frigid torrents and soaks me. I have one poncho in my bag, but I give it to Mr. Selkirk to wear, though he protests at first. I want to feel this rain. It’s Anda. Even though it’s chilling me to the core. It crushes me to know that I can’t do anything to console her.
For two hours as we travel back to Rock Harbor, Mr. Selkirk and I barely talk. There’s nothing to talk about, really. I know that Anda’s father probably gave us that one day on Menagerie Island together to say good-bye. He certainly doesn’t want to talk about that. When I get on that boat in Rock Harbor, it will take me away, with the hope that I never return. He probably doesn’t want to talk about that, either, because any other option means putting Anda in danger.
And since he’s doing me a favor by not turning me in to the police, I don’t bring up anything in case he changes his mind.
So silence is the way to go for the whole trip.
The boat spends most of the time pitching and rolling, and I hang on to the slippery side rails as best I can. At some point, the rain lets up, and I wonder what Anda’s thinking. Maybe she’s already forgetting. Maybe she’s entranced by some shiny rock and can’t be bothered by memories of me anymore.
I lean my head down on my arm, trying to shut my mind off to everything but thoughts of last night. Miraculously, despite the bumpy ride, I must fall asleep, because Mr. Selkirk yelps at me to wake up. For a second, I’m lost to where I actually am.
“Hey. We’re here.”
The boat’s already slowed down, and I shake the sleep from my foggy head. My bag is still by my feet, held down by a bungee cord. I look around, trying to see the land coming up quickly ahead of us. There’s a white boat—the same one that dropped off Anda’s father when we first saw him. Tiny specks of men stand on the dock. There are at least four, maybe five.
Five?
“How many friends of yours are picking me up?”
“One. Why?”
“Look.”
Mr. Selkirk takes his hands off the steering wheel for a moment to dry off his misted circular glasses, then puts them back on. He frowns when he sees the dock.
“There are two boats there.”
I let go of the railing and come to his side of the boat for a better look. He’s right. There are two boats, one behind the other. The partially hidden one has a thick orange stripe running along the edge.
It’s the Coast Guard.
“Fuck!” I blurt out.
What, what, what am I going to do? I can’t pretend I’m someone I’m not. The Coast Guard is probably here for me. I tried hard to cover my tracks, but maybe not hard enough. Maybe they found my Isle Royale searches on the school library computers? It doesn’t matter. My heart pounds so thickly in my head that my inner ears ache.
“Calm down, Hector. There’s no point in making a scene.”
He’s right, of course. But I can’t help but wonder if he’s secretly happy that I’m going to be in custody soon, instead of freely wandering the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, drooling and pining for his daughter.
I try to control my breathing and prepare for what’s going to happen. I might be cuffed and searched. I might not. There’ll be another few hours of a nauseating boat ride back to Grand Portage. There’ll be a radio into the police and my uncle will be contacted.
And then my dad.
And if anyone cares, my mom.
I have hours, at least, before I have to face my uncle. I imagine his fury. I imagine his eyes on me, the ones that are always wordlessly asking for forgiveness and silence. Nausea rises in my throat and I think of ways to escape. Diving off the ship? I’ll just get soaked in freezing water before they turn around and pick me up. Running away deeper into Isle Royale? Well, that will last until I fall down from exhaustion. I’ll have no food. No shelter.
I’m trapped.
My whole brilliant, idiot idea of staying here didn’t work.
As our boat slows even more and the dock is only a hundred yards away, the four men grimly wait for us. One is wearing plain clothes—the guy that Mr. Selkirk was with the other day. The other three are in Coast Guard uniforms, wearing faces about as welcoming as a hypodermic shot in the arm.
They all watch us with steely eyes as our boat closes the distance, but seem relieved when Mr. Selkirk throws them a line. One of the uniformed guys grabs it and ties it firmly to a bollard on the dock.
I force myself to stand up and stare them each in the eye.
“Hector Williams?” the middle officer asks, firmly.
Hearing my name nauseates me. I never knew a name could sound like a judge’s guilty verdict.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say, finally.
The officer is my height but with salt-and-pepper hair and a two-gallon paunch. He frowns when he looks me up and down. Almost like it’s my fault he’s got to work on a dismal November day. Oh wait. It is my fault.
“How did you find me?”
“We found your online research about Isle Royale at the high school library after you went missing. You used a dummy login, but the search times matched your class schedule.”
I sigh. Well, so much for not leaving a trace. I pick up my bag, and the three guards bristle. I narrow my eyes, sizing them up. One must be the captain. Next to him is a white dude with pasty skin, his hand resting on a holster at his hip. The other is a guy trying to do his best “I used to be a boxer” stance. I don’t know what it is about them, but they irritate the hell out of me. “I’m not armed. I’m not going to shoot you with a goddamn granola bar.”
The shorter, brawnier officer with blond hair waves at me. “Just give us the bag. We’ll take that.”
I throw it at them, not too gently. They part so I can actually step onto the dock.
“Should we cuff him?”
“Hell, yes. He’s trespassing.”
“What about the other?”
“No. He was just here doing maintenance. We’ve got his contact info for questioning later.”
They all herd me closer to the Coast Guard boat, and one of them takes out cuffs. Mr. Selkirk stands there by his little boat and watches me with an empty expression while they turn me around and crank the metal around my wrists. His friend murmurs to him, but Mr. Selkirk doesn’t respond. He looks kind of…upset, actually. Maybe to realize that his daughter’s been hanging out with a fugitive for a month without supervision. There’s nothing like brown skin and handcuffs to steal away that temporary sheen of teenage innocence.
Their boat is medium-sized, with that broad orange rubber edge and junk on the roof—radar stuff that spins around, antennae, and horns. An inner cabin is large enough for half a dozen people to stand in. They walk me to the cabin, where the door is open and someone is sitting there, waiting for me.
Skin an even, light tan color. Hair shorn close to the head and lips pressed together in a frown. Broad shoulders expand beneath that old canvas jacket that smells like a bar. He belongs in that expanse of middle age where he’s still strong enough to pin me down, even though pure youth has long since abandoned him.
My uncle stands up and stares me down with grim eyes.
“Hello, Hector.”