“What if I said I ordered the aurora borealis just for you?”
“It seems someone lost their line.”
“I thought it was a pretty good line.”
“Not you. Fishing line.” She aimed the beam of her flashlight near the base of the boulder.
Sam saw nothing other than rocks and water lapping against them in the growing wake of their boat. “Where?”
“About a foot to the left of the, uh, camel-humped boulder. A bit of moss or something stuck on it.”
There it was, the wisp of moss or seaweed hanging from a nylon line about six inches above the waterline, possibly secured to something on the land behind
the boulder. His gaze followed the glint of light on the line before it disappeared into the dark to his left, and the same to the right.
Whatever that line was caught on, it was tight. Their boat moved up and down with the current, but the line remained still.
“Call me paranoid,” he said, maneuvering the boat to one side of the boulder for a better view, careful not to move in too close, “but that has all the markings of a trip wire.”
“Do you really think they wired explosives?”
“They certainly had enough time. An even better question is, if they wired them because they knew we’d be coming here to investigate?”
“You think they set us up?” Remi aimed the beam near the boulder and a pile of small rocks behind it.
Sam saw the light reflecting off copper wiring disappearing into the midst of the pile.
“We’re idiots,” she said. “Of course they did. Otherwise, why make such a big show? That boat engine was the loudest in the bay. Making sure we would hear them and see them. Knowing we’d probably investigate . . .”
“How far does it go?” he asked, his gaze following Remi’s light.
She pointed the beam to the left of the cove where a dead fir had fallen into the water, the fishing line barely visible wrapped around a branch of the tree. “I seem to remember them getting out there.”
He turned the boat south, passing the boulder to the right. The fishing line continued on past it, swept across the water onto the shoreline, and was secured to a stump. If anyone tripped that line trying to get to shore . . . “Investigation over. We go back, notify the authorities. Let the experts deal with the explosives.”
“Agreed,” Remi said, shutting off the light.
Sam turned the boat, heading northwest. As he neared the northern tip of Oak Island, he noticed another craft heading right for them.
“Sam . . .”
“I see it.” He turned the boat south at full throttle only to see a second vessel coming toward them from the south side of Oak Island.
He glanced over at the Money Pit’s brightly lit visitor center, then back at the approaching boats, trying to decide if they should make a run for it.
The rapid muzzle flash from an automatic weapon changed his mind.
They’d never make it in time. Not against that sort of firepower, and certainly not in a fishing boat.
Remi gripped the side of their craft. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me you have a brilliant plan in the works.”
“Sorry.”
“Not what I was hoping to hear.”
He glanced back toward the boats, then at Frog Island, realizing they were meant to be herded right toward the cove and the explosives. So be it, he thought, turning the Whaler that direction.
“Remi, get the boat hook,” Sam said as he turned the wheel, aiming the vessel in the direction of the boulder.