Deciding she needed some fresh air, she pulled on her heavy Aran sweater. Perhaps the cool sea breeze and a stroll along the beach would clear her mind. She took the path down to the wooden dock. It was a beautiful day, far too nice to be cooped up indoors over a computer, and if she and John hadn't had a deadline to meet, she would have remained outdoors.
For a long time, Skye stared out across the channel to Lopez Island and the mountains beyond. The view was amazing and one she would never tire of. Turning, she half expected to see Walker emerging from the woods as he had done on that first day, but today the only movement came from the trees as they swayed gently in the breeze.
She jumped down and sauntered along the beach. The air was full of an unpleasant odor. It was as if something had crawled out of the sea and died. She inhaled cautiously and promptly wrinkled her nose in disgust. At first she thought it was rotting food but as she'd taken her refuse sack up to the highway ready for collection only a few days before, she knew it couldn't be that. So where was the terrible stench coming from?
The nearer she got to the tideline, the stronger the smell became and yet she couldn't see anything other than fronds of seaweed. Not even seaweed could account for such an offensive smell. She gagged and coughed, and tried to clear her head of the God-awful stink.
She picked her way over the pebbles, and stopped where the disgusting odor seemed strongest. She scanned the horizon, but saw nothing unusual. Walking slowly, she carefully examined the debris left by the tide. She kicked a particularly large mass of seaweed with the toe of her boot and jumped back in disgust when she found first one and then another fish in among the fronds, their bodies bloated out of all proportion.
Her stomach heaved in revulsion. She spun round and ran back to the cabin, and went straight to the kitchen and drank a glass of water in a feeble attempt to remove foul taste from her mouth. She leaned against the sink, closed her eyes and thought hard for a moment or two. What had caused the fish to die and why had they washed up now? There hadn't been a storm. She would have to report this, but to whom? The Sheriff? The Parks Department? They wouldn't be interested. The Coastguard? But their business was ships and people lost at sea, not dead fish rotting on a beach.
Back at home she would contact the police and let them deal with it, but here in the States it wasn't so simple. The US Government had a department for every conceivable contingency, and it was just a case of picking the right one. But where to start? There'd be a listing for the Washington State Department in the phone directory. Surely someone there would be able to direct her call to the correct department.
Half a dozen transfers later Skye found herself speaking to a very helpful man in the Fish and Wildlife department. Although only able to give the barest of details and address for the cabin as the location of her discovery, rather than the requested map reference, the man assured her that he would send someone over as soon as possible. But in the meantime, was there any possibility of her removing at least one of the carcasses to a safer position to prevent it being carried out to sea on the next tide?
Skye's stomach swirled at the thought, but she understood the reason behind the request. While she couldn’t give any guarantees, she’d see what she could do.
Armed with the biggest bucket she could find, a broom, a pair of rubber gloves and a clothes peg for her nose, she stomped down the beach. If anyone could see her now, they would think she'd gone over the far edge of the deep end. As she approached the offending fish, she yanked on a pair of gloves and put the peg on her nose. She struggled to get her bucket under one of the fish, but couldn't scoop in the smelly, slimy carcass. On her fifth attempt she managed to use the broom to sweep the head and part of the body into the bucket only to watch it slide out again when she lifted it.
Dab, Dab, Dab! She swore, the clothes peg hobbling her consonants. What she needed was a net or a boat hook, but as she had neither, she'd have to improvise. Perhaps there was something in the kitchen she could use. She tramped back to the cabin. After a thorough search of the drawers she was about to give up. This wasn't her problem. She was only the tenant for goodness sake. Let whoever the State Department sent deal with it. But then she spotted the coat hanger on the door.
She cut a length of string off the reel she found in a drawer. By tying the coat hanger to the head of the broom, she managed to fashion a hook of sorts, even if it looked like something Heath Robinson would have dreamt up. Now, if she could insert the hook into the gills of the fish, then she would be able to drag it up the beach onto the grass.
Twenty minutes later, sweating from the effort and with her arms aching from the strain of dragging a fish that weighed at least fifteen pounds, she finally manoeuvered it on to the grass. It stank, even with the peg on her nose. She tried not to look too closely at the staring eyes and grossly bloated body as she covered the stinking mass with a piece of sacking she found in the garage. Now all she had to do was wait for the expert from the State Department to turn up and take the carcass away.
Skye returned to her laptop and stared at the small screen until her eyes burned. She’d been scrutinizing this particular string of code for over three hours, and still hadn't been able to find any errors. Such were the jumble of letters and symbols, that the document on the screen appeared as if some eight-legged creature had walked over the keyboard randomly striking the keys, but to Skye it all made perfect sense. Her intuition told her the fault lie somewhere in this section of nonsensical appearing code.
She rubbed her tired eyes, and wandered around the cabin to ease the stiffness in her limbs. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, what she needed was a sandwich and sugar fix. She opened the refrigerator door and peered inside. A few minutes later she carried her sandwich and mug of coffee back to the table. If she still hadn't found anything by the time she finished lunch, she’d start testing each command line by line.
Her sandwich half eaten and her coffee solidifying in the mug, Skye's concentration was so intense that she didn't hear the vehicle pull up in the driveway, nor did she hear its occupant walk the short distance to the cabin. It was only someone's fist banged on the door that she realized she had a visitor.
Careful to ensure that the screen of her laptop wasn't visible, she opened the door. A burly young man stood in the doorway and parked behind him on the driveway, was a green truck with the State of Washington insignia on its door.
"I'm guessing you've come for the fish?"
"I'm here from the State Department." He flashed his ID badge at her to prove it.
"Right, it's down on the grass under a sack. I managed to drag one above the tideline as your colleague requested, but there’s another down on the beach."
"That's okay, I'll retrieve them. You didn't touch it with your bare hands, did you?"
"No, I wore gloves. And I didn't check the whole of the cove, just along the water’s edge, so there may be others."
"Don't worry. I'll have a scout around once I've bagged the ones you’ve found."
Skye cringed at the thought of another stench-filled excursion. "You don't want me to come with you, do you?"
"No need, I can mange. We've got your details if we need to contact you."
"Good, because it smells to high heaven down there. I'll leave you to it then."
Skye breathed a sigh of relief and closed the door. At least she didn't have to go near the stinking carcasses again. She stood by the window and watched the official carefully bag and label the fish. She marveled at his ability to withstand the odor that had nearly made her vomit. He walked to the end of the dock and looked around before retrieving a pair of waders and a net from the back of his pickup. A short time later, he dragged half a dozen or so fish from under the dock and proceeded to bag them too. He then carried them up the beach and placed them with the others in his truck.
Moments later the official knocked at her door.
"Sorry to trouble you again, ma'am, but I've got a few questions. Hope you don't mind."
"You'd better co
me in." Skye stepped aside to let him enter.
"Have you noticed anything like this before?"
"No, I’m on vacation and only renting the cabin. Is this a common occurrence?"
"Not really. Most salmon die of natural causes. Maybe once or twice a year we find some that have been contaminated in some way. Have you seen anyone acting suspiciously, or any strange vessels in the cove or vehicles using the track?"
Skye thought of Walker, who had been in the cove when she first arrived, carrying a fish and rod. And while the man could be infuriating, he was far too knowledgeable about the island and its wildlife to want to deliberately destroy it.
"I haven't, but then I'm often out."
"Okay, just thought I'd ask. If you do see anything suspicious or anymore fish turn up be sure to let us know right away. Here's my card. Give the office a call and we'll send someone over."
Skye looked at the card; no name, just the departmental information and a number.
"Sure."
"Enjoy the rest of your time with us here and thanks for informing us about the fish. Have a nice day."
Skye closed the door behind him and crossed to the table. Have a nice day? Sure, provided there are no more stinking fish. She picked up her cup and took a swallow. Ugh… cold coffee, she hated cold coffee. Resting her head in her left hand, she thought about Walker. Could he really be involved in anything illegal?
He’d certainly been hanging round, and had a habit of disappearing and re-appearing without warning. And she hadn’t forgotten the fact that he'd once warned her to keep off the trails and out of his way. He'd also been quick to suggest he move into the cabin as their relationship became more intimate. Was that so he could keep an eye on her? Could Walker have an ulterior motive for getting to know her? Why would he want to keep tabs on her anyway, she was only a vacationer? It just didn't make sense.
Skye was sure she'd read somewhere that smuggling in this part of the States was rife, especially with Canada only a short distance away. Perhaps Walker was involved in a smuggling racket and used the cove to bring his illegal haul ashore. Maybe that was the reason he was so annoyed when he found her on the dock that first day. It would also account for his frequent and mysterious comings and goings.
It was a stupid idea. But he had to earn a living somehow and he didn't strike her as someone who had enough money to do nothing at all. He drove a relatively new truck and had an expensive looking cruiser. There was nothing unusual about that. Most of the inhabitants on the island owned both a car and a boat, so why should Walker be any different? But hadn't he'd told her he didn't live on the island?
She was infuriated at the direction her thoughts were headed. Why should she be bothered how Walker earned his living or why he owned both a boat and a truck? It was none of her business, and besides she couldn’t sit there all day allowing her imagination run riot, she had work to do.
By ten that night, she was grumpy, tired, and hungry. When she looked at the screen, the code merged into a single blurry mass. She'd done enough for one day. She e-mailed John to see if he'd had any success in getting the program to work, and then shut down her laptop.
Chapter Seventeen
Walker was eager to leave Seattle that morning having finally resolved his business problems. He grabbed his bag from the apartment, and drove out to Elliot Bay where his seaplane was moored. He flew into Friday Harbor while most of the inhabitants were still in their beds. It had been a grueling week, but as of late last night Walker Environmental Research was once again open for business. And although the issue of illegal dumping hadn't been resolved, now that his company was running at full speed he could turn all his attention to finding out who was responsible for these atrocities.
He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin and decided that a shave and a shower wouldn't go amiss, and then after breakfast he would go make his apologies to Skye. It was one conversation he wasn't looking forward to and he fully expected her to be spitting mad at him. He'd been a brainless twit where she was concerned, and hoped that once he explained the reasons for his hasty departure, she would forgive him. If that didn't work, he had an ace up his sleeve. He'd booked them into the Salish Inn and Spa for a three-night stay. The suite had a wood burning fire, a whirlpool tub and a balcony overlooking the rainbow shrouded falls.
McCabe's call came through as he drove out of town.
"Say again, Joe? You're breaking up. There's too much static on the line."
Joe's voice crackled over the line once more. "Fish… washed up… island… cabin… north of… Harbor… off… road."
"Joe, if you can hear me. It's no use. I can't make out what you're saying. Hold on while I pull over." Walker stopped his truck on the side of the road. "Okay, run that by me again."
"The department took a couple of calls late yesterday, from home owners on the island. One lives out at Rocky Bay. The other was from a woman staying in a cabin off Roche Harbor Road. Both said they found dead fish, either washed up on the shore or floating in the water. The local office sent a guy out and he's bagged and tagged the carcasses and taken them away for analysis."
Walker groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Where are they now?"
"At the University Laboratories. One of the marine biologists there is doing the autopsies. I made sure they kept them, as I knew you were flying in this morning. Can you go take a look?"
"Sure. I assume they have all the details, including the location of where the fish were found."
"Yeah, it's all waiting for you. I'll let them know to expect you. How soon do you think you can be there?"
"About twenty minutes—I was just on my way to the lodge."
"Let me know what you find."
"Sure."
These days Walker felt like a badly operated puppet, string tangling into string. He turned his truck around and drove back to town. Twenty-five minutes, he showed his ID to the security guard on the gate, and entered the Friday Harbor Laboratory Campus of the University of Washington. He knew the place like the back of his hand. Ten Years ago, he’d undertaken his own research towards his Masters Degree. He parked next to the cafeteria, and followed the path down to a group of low buildings housing the main laboratories.
The campus was situated on a huge four hundred and eighty-four acre tract of land overlooking one of the many bays on San Juan Island. It was a marine biologist’s dream. There were ten research and teaching labs, all equipped to an exceptionally high standard. The labs also owned a number of biological preserves around the island, where scientists could undertake research in a controlled environment.
The laboratory Walker needed was close to the shoreline a little way up from the campus's berthing facilities. When he entered the lab, the short balding biologist was in the process of peeling off his gloves. From the look on his face what he'd found wasn't good news.
"Mr. Walker?"
"Yeah, that's me."
"Mr. McCabe said to expect you. I've completed the autopsies on the fish that came in yesterday. The two from Rocky Bay appear to have died from natural causes, although I won’t know for sure until the results of the biopsies I’ve taken come back. However, the ones from the location off Roche Harbor Road were definitely contaminated—"
"—with a high concentration of PCBs?"
"That's right. How did you know?"
"Call it an educated guess. Can you let me have a detailed analysis of the chemicals found? I want to make a comparison with the fish I discovered earlier to see if it’s the same."
"Sure. My secretary is typing up my report now."
"Thanks. Just one more thing—do you have the exact location where the second batch of fish was found?"
"They'll have the details in the office. You can collect them along with the report on your way out."
"Thanks."
Walker sat in his truck and opened the brown folder he'd been given. He quickly scanned the marine biologist's report. While he couldn't be sure until he checked his notes
, he had a feeling that the composition of the chemicals was the same as those in the fish he'd found a few weeks earlier. He shoved the papers back in the envelope. He'd read the rest back at the lodge and then go take a look at the two sites for himself before contacting McCabe and telling him the news.
An hour or so later, his suspicions were confirmed. The chemicals that killed this latest batch of fish were identical to those ingested by the fish he'd found earlier. That meant only one thing; they had come from the same source. Crossing his study to a cabinet on the far wall, he took out a map of San Juan Island and studied it carefully. Chemicals being dumped at sea would be dispersed by the action of the waves and tide. As a consequence fish in a wider area would be affected. Only a few would be washed ashore because of the strong currents around the islands, which meant that whoever was dumping the stuff was doing so close to the shore.
That gave Walker another idea. The islands that made up the San Juan archipelago were generally rocky and rimmed by precipitous shores, with the occasional deeply cut fjord-like inlet. So it had to be someone who knew the islands and who was using a small vessel, such as a fishing boat.
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