"I don't know," Sheila said, concern furrowing her brow. "She didn't look right, did she?"

"No." He stared at the closed wheelhouse door. "I think we're going off course."

"You think so?"

"That's Block Island back there with the wind turbines." He pointed toward them, at five o'clock from the bow and moving further toward the stern. "We should be heading toward it. I think we're heading south."

The concern in Sheila's brow deepened. "Barclay?" Her voice was barely audible above the engine, the sound of the waves crashing against the hull.

"I don't know. I think we should get down to the lower deck. Get life jackets."

She nodded. They headed for the stairs. The woman with the dog said, "What's happening?"

"Something's wrong," Martin told her. "We need to get down below."

The woman stood with her dog shivering in her arms and followed them to the stairs. Sheila opened the door, let the woman go through first. The upper deck was otherwise empty.

Martin headed for the stairs leading to the wheelhouse.

"Where are you going?"

"Meet you down there. I'm gonna try to find out what's happening. See if there's something I can do."

"Martin, they're trained for this."

"You said it yourself, she didn't look right. What if the same thing's happened to the captain?"

Sheila nodded again. "Five minutes. Then I'm coming back for you."

She slipped through the door. It closed behind her.

Martin headed for the stairs.

He bounded up them two at a time, soles clanging on the metal steps. The door was closed. The view inside was obscured by the scuffed and grimy glass.

A raised voice. The female crewmember radioing the terminal.

Her voice cut short.

Martin knocked.

No one answered.

The southern edge of Barrows Bay crept into view around the front of the wheelhouse—a long peninsula rising toward rocky bluffs on the southwest side.

The door handle wouldn't budge. Locked from the inside.

He beat a fist against it. The crew ignored his cries.

Left without a choice, he climbed precariously onto the metal railing to look in through the front-facing windows. The upper deck fifteen feet below, he reeled as the ferry continued its errant course.

He could only see the left half the bridge. Vertigo kept him from climbing further over the edge. The captain was sprawled over the wheel, the hat missing from his head. The other crewmembers weren't visible.

Were they drugged?

Some kind of poison or nerve gas?

No idea. All he knew was the captain appeared to be unconscious and the other crewmembers likely were too. The only smell was diesel fuel. The only sound the loud hum of the engine far below.

He considered smashing the glass, trying to get the boat under control. But what if it was some kind of gas that knocked them out? He couldn't risk it.

Even if it wasn't, he had no idea how to steer the thing, let alone stop it.

Reluctantly, he headed back down the stairs to meet Sheila.