"Wait," Brenda says as they're halfway down the beach road to the tiny marina. Pauses, frowning a little, looks at her shoes.
"What is it?" Maura's voice tight, anxious.
"I know we don't have a lot of time, but I was thinkin' it might be better for me to look a little more . . ." she drifts off, indicating her tattered sneakers. "Not because of vanity or anythin' like that," she says quickly. "But it might help whoever they are to take us more seriously if I'm not so . . ." she shrugs.
Maura purses her lips, gives her a once-over. Brenda can see wheels turning in her head. Glances down the road. "Yes," she agrees.
"I mean you always look so put-together, and I look . . ."
"Like you were in a car accident?"
Brenda smiles a little. "Somethin' like that."
Maura glances back toward the town, a few minutes' walk behind them. Glances back toward the marina, still a few more minutes off. Brenda sees something flit across her face, nervousness or discomfort or something, and she can tell it's not about whoever they're going to meet.
"All right," she says. Her voice strained, just a bit. "Come on."
Brenda moves to turn back to town, but Maura's still heading in the same direction. Brenda wants to ask, but Maura's expression makes her bite her tongue, follow dutifully behind.
After a few silent minutes, they arrive at the small seaside bungalow Brenda had seen Maura go into several nights ago. Suddenly understood why Maura seemed so hesitant.
"I think I have some things that will fit you," Maura says, her tone carefully neutral. "A dress, at least, and some better shoes."
The fact that they had the same shoe size had been one of those little coincidences that felt monumental when you were first in love. Now it made Brenda's heart twist uncomfortably.
She feels herself holding her breath as Maura pushes open the door to her little house.
It's small, but warm and comfortable. A cozy front room with a sofa, a couple of chairs, a coffee table. Several houseplants, vibrant and green; shelves full of books, and then more books on the little end table, piled neatly on the sturdy kitchen table beyond, a few errant volumes on the counter.
"Not a lot else to do with down time," Maura says, a bit defensively.
"You read all these?" Brenda says with a hint of awe. Not that she wasn't a reader herself, had gotten back into the habit for the very same reasons, but her tastes had always run closer to airport thrillers and tawdry romances; junk paperbacks that didn't require a lot of critical thinking, just mindless escapism.
She glances around, noticed a cover that she recognizes. Something Sharon had said was one of her favorites. Her breath catches in her chest, just for a moment, and she has to clench her jaw to keep the tears from welling.
"Are you all right?" Maura asks, frowning.
"Just fine," Brenda says a little too brightly. "We better hurry, though."
"Mm-hmm," Maura murmurs. "I'll get you a couple of options." Disappears into what Brenda assumes is her bedroom.
She's a little hurt, just for a moment, that Maura didn't ask her to come in with her, but also a little relieved, too. Looks around some more. Studies the pictures on the wall; drawings and paintings. A large, sort-of-abstract watercolor of the sea, a small dark shape in one corner that Brenda realizes is the house she's standing in. A little scrawled JR in the corner. Something about the perspective, the colors—mostly blues and grays and greens, but just a hint of brightness on the horizon; a tiny spot of yellow on the house-shape that Brenda can tell is meant to be one of Maura's lanterns—something about it makes her feel first small, lost, sad, but then, as she looked at that little yellow dot, thought about where she was standing, there was something a little warm and comforting, too.
"One of these should work," Maura's voice cuts in, startling Brenda out of her brief reverie. She's holding up two dresses, both soft, knee-length knits with long sleeves, warm enough but also smooth, sharp, serious. In her other hand she has a pair of low-heeled leather boots that look hardly worn.
"Thank you," Brenda says softly. "Thank you, Maura."
"You can change in the bathroom," Maura says, pointing down the little hallway.
Brenda blushes a little, suddenly embarrassed and anxious about being here, in Maura's space. "Got it," she mumbles, taking the dresses and ducking into the bathroom.
After a few seconds, she hears Maura's soft voice on the other side of the door. "Do you—" she says, and Brenda can hear the conflict. "Do you need help? Your arm, I mean."
"No, no," Brenda says quickly, even though she's currently biting her lip to keep from groaning as she works to get the first dress, dark blue with a cowl neckline, tugged over her injured shoulder.
Once it's on she glances at herself in the mirror, a bit startled by the immediate difference. The dress is a little loose around her waist, her hips, but it had been so long since she'd worn anything other than jeans, sweaters, faded t-shirts. She feels suddenly transported, like she could walk into the Murder Room and start demanding answers.
Well, she thinks, I suppose it is a little bit like that.
The dress works just fine, so she doesn't bother with the other one. And they don't have much time anyway. Slips her arm back into its sling. Gives her messy curls a futile comb with her fingers, sighs. Good enough.
She comes out, doesn't miss the way Maura's eyes widen slightly. "All right?" she asks.
Maura just nods, hands her the boots. Makes sure their fingers don't touch.
They walk the last quarter-mile to the marina in near-silence, Maura staring at the large ship that had anchored a few hundred yards off shore. It wasn't one she recognized, and she felt the anxiety in her chest tighten again. The ship was a dull gray factory trawler, the windows of its massive deck house revealing only the reflection of the water.
Brenda mutters softly next to her, something Maura can't quite make out.
"What's that?" Maura says, slightly startled.
"Oh," Brenda replies. "Sorry, just practicin' a little."
"You're sure you're up for this?" Maura doesn't sound doubtful, just concerned.
"Of course," Brenda says. "Don't you ever rehearse what you're gonna say?"
"Hmm," she murmurs.
They arrive at the small dock a couple of minutes later. A few dinghies tied up close to the bank, a low, white-painted concrete building at one end. A small crowd of people from town; Maura can feel Brenda tense up when she sees them. Or maybe when she sees their guns.
"Just in case," Maura whispers. "I hope they're not necessary."
"Me too," Brenda whispers back, "but I'm glad they're here."
"Let me introduce you," Maura says a little louder as they approach the group. They eye Brenda cautiously, but it's clear they all have an idea of who she is, if not why she's there.
"Bonjour, Pierre," Maura says to him. He nods. "This is Brenda Johnson, I'm sure you've already heard about her." Feels Brenda's uncomfortable flinch.
"Bonjour, madame," he says.
"Pierre was on the first ship," Maura says. Brenda nods.
"Very nice to meet you," she murmurs.
"Matthieu, Andrea, Liz, Maggie, Tom," Maura says, and they each nod in greeting.
"Brenda speaks Russian," she continues. "She was in law enforcement for many years, and I've asked her to translate for us, as well as help provide some perspective on what may be going on."
Nobody says anything, just looks on impassively.
"Pierre, have they disembarked yet?"
He shakes his head.
Brenda sighs next to her. Maura remembers her impatience, sometimes frustrating, but also endearing. Feels a brief flush on her cheeks. Frowns, shakes her head, tries to tamp it down.
"You all right?" Brenda murmurs.
She offers a nod, a tight smile.
"Doctor" Pierre says, pointing. "They come."
They all stand silently, tension thick around them. It seems to take forever for the small motorboat to make its way across the water.
Maura squints, trying to make out details. Three men, she thinks. Maybe four. She's suddenly very glad they'd brought weapons.
She glances at Brenda, whose face has settled into a firm, impassive mask. Jaw tight, eyes narrowed. Wonders if this is how she'd looked while interrogating suspects. Is suddenly deeply relieved that Brenda is there.
The boat glides into the tiny harbor, all eyes tracking it as it comes to a stop at the end of the dock. Watching as one of the men—there are four, tall, with heavy wool coats over their uniforms.
Something about the uniforms makes Maura go cold. Brenda seems to notice, and Maura can sense her concern. She knows that Katie has told Brenda the story of how they arrived in Seabrook—the part she knew, anyway—and is surprised and grateful and only flinches a little when Brenda slips her hand into Maura's. Brenda feels it, moves to pull her hand away, but Maura takes a breath, laces their fingers together. Brenda gives her a little squeeze.
One of the men, apparently the one in charge judging by how he had instructed the others to, she assumes, secure the boat, looks down the dock and raises his hand.
None of them react.
"Hello," he says, his voice deep, sonorous, with a heavy accent. "I am Captain Grigori Volkov of MV Ivan Grozny. We received transmission from this location."
"Privet, Kapitan," Brenda says, her voice calm, neutral.
He looks surprised for a moment, then smiles broadly.
"You speak Russian?"
"Yes," Brenda says. "My name is Brenda Johnson. I've been asked to act as emissary."
The men behind Volkov look bewildered.
"Her Russian is good," one of them says.
"Why did you come here?" Brenda asks, not unkindly, but lets him hear her suspicion.
"As I told you, we received a transmission."
"Yet you didn't make further radio contact."
"What's he saying?" Maura whispers.
"Nothin' yet."
Captain Volkov eyes them both for a moment before turning his glance to the small cluster of people behind them.
"I see you have brought your army," he says, and it's light, meant to sound friendly, but Brenda can tell he's counting guns.
She doesn't respond. Volkov stares at her for a moment, looks to Maura.
"Hello," he says, bowing slightly. "Grigori Volkov, a pleasure."
Maura stands with her arms folded, not smiling. "Doctor Maura Isles," she says, cool and clipped.
"A doctor!" Volkov claps his hands. "Wonderful."
He turns around, says something to the men behind him who nod, smile. Look almost relieved.
"We have . . . injured?"
Brenda nods.
"Injured men on ship. Perhaps they can see doctor."
"Perhaps," Brenda murmurs. Volkov's expression doesn't change.
After a long beat of silence, Volkov claps his hands together again, looks at Brenda.
"It would be good if we could talk somewhere indoors," he says finally. "If you would be so kind as to escort us?"
"They want to talk," Brenda says. "Inside."
Maura glances back at the group behind her, hands on their weapons. Back to Volkov and his men.
"Tell them to leave any weapons and we can talk."
Volkov doesn't need Brenda to translate. He offers that same wide, toothy smile, turns back, says something to his crew who make small noises of protest. The captain growls something at them and they shrink back slightly, begin pulling guns out of holsters and laying them in the boat.
"There," Volkov says. "No problems."
"And yours," Brenda says, staring hard at him. He holds the eye contact for just a moment before letting out a booming chuckle, reached into his jacket.
Pierre and the others react instantly, leveling their weapons.
"Hold on now," Brenda says softly, calmly. "Take it easy. Captain Volkov's just puttin' his away too."
They don't relax, and Brenda feels a rush of gratitude. Feels a tug of nostalgia.
Once she's satisfied that the men are unarmed, she looks at Maura and nods. Maura nods back, her eyes large and dark and worried.
"If you'll come with us, Captain," she says politely.
"And my men?"
"He wants to bring his men."
Maura glances at Pierre, who shrugs slightly.
"All right," she says.
Volkov grins again. Something about it unsettles Brenda. It's cheerful enough, but there's a certain wolfishness to it, which, she supposes, makes a kind of ironic sense. But still, her brain is flashing a red alarm.
Volkov turns back, says something to one of his men who nods, reaches down into the boat. Brenda can see Pierre tense, his gun pointed at the man, who pulls up two large glass bottles that Brenda recognizes right away.
"A gift," Volkov says. "In spirit of friendship."
"Mm-hmm," Brenda mutters.
They walk into town, Brenda and Maura in the lead with Captain Volkov, his men trailing behind, the small group of townspeople following at the back.
As they arrive Brenda sees that most of the town has turned out to watch, perhaps a hundred and fifty new faces staring from the sidewalk, the street, the windows of buildings. It's nearly silent as Maura leads them to the pretty little town hall, ushers everyone into a conference room with a large wooden table. Katie has somehow appeared, and Maura softly asks her to bring water, some food.
"All right," Brenda says as they seat themselves, Maura next to her, Volkov and one of his men across the table. The rest of their respective people line the walls on opposite sides of the room behind them.
"My first mate, Piotr," Volkov says, indicating the man next to him. He bows his head slightly, and Brenda does too.
"Captain, can you tell us what you're doing here?"
He sighs, and Brenda can see a little flash of annoyance flit across his dark features.
"I know," she smiles apologetically, "I'm sorry to keep asking, but I still need an answer."
"We received—"
"Yes, yes, a transmission. But what I need to know is why you didn't attempt any radio contact, since you obviously knew we had one. And also, Captain, I'd very much like to understand what it is you were doing sailing this close to us."
He grins that wolfish grin again. "We are a sailing ship, Miss Johnson. We sail."
"Not here," she says, her voice pointed. "At least not for the last several years."
"Have you never wanted to see something new?"
"Please, Captain. I'm offering you respect, and I'd appreciate the same courtesy."
She isn't sure, but she thinks she catches a flicker of something in his eye. Something she doesn't like.
"What's going on?" Maura hisses.
"A whole lotta stonewallin'," she grumbles.
Just then, Katie knocks at the door and enters with a basket containing bottles of water, some glasses. Two loaves of bread under her arm. Sets them down, pulls out a pot of honey, another of butter; some hard cheese, a jar of pickled vegetables.
Brenda's glance flits to the two soldiers standing against the wall, sees their eyes widen. Wonders how long it's been since they've eaten anything other than stale bread and dried fish.
"Please," she murmurs, indicating the food. They look at Volkov, who nods, and then move to the table. One sets the bottles of vodka down with a heavy thud, immediately opens one, pours a glass and hands it to Volkov. Pours another, offers it to Brenda, who hesitates for a moment before accepting it.
"Brenda—" Maura says, but Brenda shakes her head.
"So we can trust each other," she murmurs, making eye contact with Volkov.
"Vashe zdorovie," she says, and Volkov smiles, returns the toast. They raise their glasses and tip them back at the same time, Brenda working hard to not cough, the burn of the alcohol both uncomfortable and uncomfortably familiar.
"Now that we are friends," Volkov says, "perhaps it will be easier to talk."
"Why are you here?"
Volkov sighs, and Brenda thinks for a moment he's going to repeat the line about the radio transmission.
"We are looking for something," he says. Brenda raises her eyebrows.
"What?" Maura whispers. "Brenda, what?"
"He says they're lookin' for somethin' but he hasn't said what yet," she responds, answering Maura's next question before she can ask it.
"What is it?"
Volkov turns to his first mate, whispers something. The mate frowns, but nods once, curtly.
"To answer your other question, we were sailing near the Bering Strait, close to Alaska. It is true we have never come to this town before. We have heard your broadcasts in the past but we have not felt our presence was necessary, so we have not made the journey."
"And what is it you do?" Brenda asks. "There's no Russian navy left, to my knowledge. From what I've heard, there's hardly any Russia left at all."
Volkov laughs, loud and deep. "There is always Russia," he says proudly. Then his face turns serious. "You are correct that we are not as strong as we once were. Like you, like the rest of the world, we suffered greatly during the Crawling Sickness."
Brenda shudders slightly. It had been almost a decade since that terrible time, but she, like everyone who had survived, still carried painful memories. Still had dark and terrifying nightmares from time to time.
"I'm sorry," she says, sincerely.
"Yes," Volkov replies, and there's a hint of sadness in his voice, his eyes, for just a moment. "My men and I survived, as we were at sea when it happened. We took refuge on a small island near Vladivostok, and managed to create a life there. As you have done here." He looks at her, at Maura, with something close to admiration.
"They were on their ship when it happened," Brenda says to Maura. "They found an island, made a community."
"Ah," Maura says.
"But that doesn't tell me why you're here now, Captain."
Volkov eyes her. Makes a small gesture to one of the soldiers, who instantly refills his glass, moves to refill Brenda's, but she puts her hand over it, smiles politely.
"You said you were looking for something."
Volkov takes his shot, sets his glass down, eyes her. "Many years ago, before the sickness, we were given the task of locating a certain man. A scientist."
He must read the expression on Brenda's face because he chuckles, waves his hand. "Not that kind of scientist," he says. "A botanist. This man had worked with one of our research teams on a project to develop seeds that could grow in harsh conditions."
"Like Siberia," Brenda says, not a question. She hadn't paid much attention to what that country had been doing, a purposeful way of leaving that old life behind, but she knew they'd been trying to cultivate crops in the northern plains for centuries, at least.
"And Alaska," Volkov agrees. "This team was stationed above the Arctic Circle. We agreed to send our scientists to America because even we can acknowledge that your country had excellent resources, and the success of our people was more important than any political . . . concerns."
"Concerns," Brenda snorts.
"What? What concerns?" Maura whispers, slightly frantic.
"No, no," she says softly. "No concerns. Captain Volkov says they're looking for an American botanist who was helping to figure out how to grow crops in Siberia."
"Do you believe him?"
"Not now," Brenda murmurs. "We'll talk about it after."
Maura nods, but Brenda can read the frustration in her eyes. Reaches down and gives Maura's knee a light, reassuring squeeze.
"So this man," she says. "The scientist. You said you were looking for him before."
Volkov nods. "He disappeared one year before."
Brenda considers this. Wonders what this man must know to be sought even now; decides she doesn't want to know. "Do you think he's still alive?"
"We know he is."
"How?"
Volkov only smiles. No teeth this time, but it doesn't make Brenda feel any better.
"So," she says, working to shift away from that unsettling moment, though she files it away for later, "you just happened to be up in Alaska and you heard our broadcast and thought you'd take a little detour from your mission?"
"Sometimes it happens there are no places of the places you know left to look," he says, his tone oblique.
Suddenly the man next to him leans over, whispers something in his ear. Volkov nods, sits up straight, places his palms on the table.
"We must return to ship," he says. "It is dark soon."
He stands, then the man next to him. The two soldiers stiffen, arms behind their backs, but Brenda can see their longing glances at the little spread that they hadn't touched.
"Very well, Captain," Brenda says, rising also. Maura follows her lead; she's frowning at the sudden end to the meeting, but Brenda smiles softly. "Until tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," he says, bowing again.
"Please," Maura says, more loudly than she's spoken so far. "Please take this," she indicates the tray of food. "I'll have some people meet you at the dock with more."
Volkov bows again. "You are very kind," he says. "Spasibo."
They turn and leave, Pierre and Liz following behind.
"Well," Brenda says. "I guess that could've gone worse."