A disturbance intruded into her reverie, and she crouched lower under the ferns. She hadn’t seen the man since yesterday, but he could still be close by. Walking through the sword ferns was easier than stumbling through the salal, and while their dense fronds made concealment easier, that would be true for him as well.
She huddled against the wet earth, the smell of humus and leaf litter filling her nostrils, feeling her heart thudding in her chest, sure that the sound of it could be heard for miles around. The minutes ticked by, and she willed herself to stillness, letting her fingers rest on the earth to sense any vibration, straining her weak ears to pick up any sound. A bird fluttered down and landed close by, pecking for insects along the arching stems, and she let herself relax a little, but not for long. A shiver of movement in the fronds made her tense again. She knew what it meant. She had watched it happen around her as she pushed through the ferns, each arching frond pushing against its neighbor and setting up a diminishing shimmer of movement like the patterning of raindrops on water. But this was weaker. Barely there.
It came again, and then again, several more times in quick succession. The movement seemed more pronounced in one direction, but she had no way of telling where the source was, or how close. Maybe the man knew she was here somewhere and was taking care to move quietly, but that didn’t make sense. Why would he stay in the same place yet move enough to create a disturbance? She scanned the plants around her, turning her head to try to pinpoint the source, but the fronds were still again. Had she imagined it? She reached out a hand and used the tip of her index finger to gently part the giant fronds just enough to allow her to peer out, but there was nothing to see except more ferns and, above them, the soaring cedar trees. If her tormentor was there, he must be crouched down as she was, perhaps planning to wait her out.
Margrethe stayed huddled under the ferns until her cramped muscles forced her to move. Her body was shivering with cold and with fear—although the blind panic she had felt in the first day of her captivity had somehow disappeared. There had been no further disturbance, and she had to move, even if it meant creating noise herself. She pushed herself up slowly, wincing with pain as blood flowed back to her torn skin and cringing with fear at the tiniest whisper from the fronds. The bird gave a sharp call of alarm, loud enough for her to hear, and flew off into the forest gloom. There was no other movement.
She took a cautious step forward. Then another. She felt a twig crack under her foot and she froze again, imagining a sound like the clap of thunder in the stillness of the forest. The ferns shuddered, and then there was a sudden blur of movement, and she caught a glimpse of swift gray forms flickering through the shadows. Wolves. She had often heard them from the lighthouse at night. She almost laughed as she let herself breathe again. Compared to the man she was running from, they were a welcome sight—although only a few days ago, they would have terrified her. Maybe, if she survived this, she would be able to tackle that ridiculous fear of the ocean she had had since childhood, and then she and Jens could go out fishing, and beachcombing, as she knew he would love to do. In any case, the wolves disappeared so quickly that she couldn’t really be sure she had seen them. It was hard to believe they had been more frightened of her than she was of them, but that must have been so. She had heard there had been hunters on the island. Perhaps the wolves had thought she was one of them. Not that it mattered. They were gone, and she needed to move as well.
—
Walker pushed aside a low branch and turned his canoe into a narrow channel. On his previous visits to the island, he had explored many of the rivers and creeks that carried the rain from the top of the mountains down to the ocean, but not all of them, although that was unimportant. The twisting waterways were the lifeblood of the earth, and he was at home on all of them.
He had been born into the Raven clan, but his family crest, his 'na 'mima, was the Salmon. It was Salmon who had emerged from the sea long before the great flood, taken off his mask, and transformed himself into the human ancestor of Walker’s family. It was Salmon who had given his people their vast knowledge of the ocean, and the tides, and the rivers. And it was Salmon who had taught them their stories and their dances, and given them the masks they used to honor him, generation after generation, in the ceremonies of the Hamatsa and the potlatch.
The rivers and creeks Walker traveled were where the salmon came to spawn and die, giving life to the bear and the wolf and the eagle, and nourishing the earth even as they laid the eggs that would become the next generation. They were where the deer drank and the otter swam. They were where the oceans began, and where they ended, having transformed into the rain that completed the endless circle of life. He was part of that circle, and it embraced him wherever he went.
He had seen many of the island residents since he started out that morning: a family of otters that slid down the bank to play beside him; a pair of raccoons who watched his progress with bright, curious eyes; mink darting among the trees. But he hadn’t seen any sign of Jared and his group, or of Margrethe and her captor.
The channel widened and Walker steered closer to the bank, keeping to the shadows of the trees. The silence of the forest and the gentle flow of the water on its journey down to the ocean gave him time to think. He had been caught off guard by Dan’s announcement that he had rejoined the police force, and Walker’s initial reaction had been to distance himself from the man who, in spite of their troubled history, had become a friend. The reaction hadn’t surprised him. There was nothing surprising about wanting to distance himself from anything to do with the police. Every memory, every experience he had ever had that involved the police, was heavily seeded with pain and regret and loss. The police—and Dan himself—had played a major role in a part of Walker’s life that had resulted in both a prison sentence and months on a rehabilitation ward. He still carried the scars, both visible and invisible. Some of them, like the damage to his legs, would never disappear.
What had both surprised and pleased him was how fast he had gotten over it. Since his release from prison more than nine years ago, he had spent most of his time alone. Other than the time spent with his family in their small village farther up the coast, and with Percy at his “learning to be Indian again” camp, as he had once described it to Dan, Walker had become almost a recluse. His home was a simple shack he had built from driftwood washed ashore in a small hidden cove on one of the many islands that dotted the shore near Hakai Pass. When he wasn’t there, he was out on the water in his canoe, catching the fish and harvesting the sea life that sustained him. It was a simple life, but it was the life he had chosen, and it satisfied him. Two or three times each year, when he felt the need for human companionship, he paddled south to his village and spent some time with family and friends. Less often, he would travel over to Gold River to visit his sister and her husband, which is where he had met Sanford and discovered the waterways of Nootka Island. When Walker had run into Dan the previous year, it was the first time he had talked with a white man since leaving the city. And asking Dan for help was the first time he had ever reached out to anyone.
He smiled as he thought about the incongruity of their friendship—and it was a friendship. The reality was that Walker liked Dan. Liked the man regardless of the color of his skin or his cultural background or even his job. Liked his straightforward, open approach to the world around him. There was no arrogance, no subterfuge, no prejudice—and Dan was probably the only cop Walker had ever dealt with who lacked the last item on that list. Sam and Jared had seen it too. Walker had expected them to close up, even leave, as soon as they heard Dan was back in the RCMP. Instead, they had seemed relaxed in Dan’s company, had trusted him with their knowledge of the Reverend Steven. Walker had never seen Jared trust a white man before. That alone spoke volumes.
He reached out and grasped a tree root that protruded into the water, holding himself steady as he listened to the murmur of life around him. Above the sound of the water, he could hear bird ch
atter, and the soft patter of small feet on the leaf litter as some denizen of the stream bank searched for food. A quiet snuffling as something larger, perhaps a black bear, scented the air. A faint rustle of leaves as an animal moved through the brush.
He let go of the root and pushed the canoe back out into the channel. The sounds he heard were the everyday sounds of life on the littoral, and they told him he was the only human close by. If there had been anyone else, there would have been only silence.
• EIGHTEEN •
Dan made it back to Louie Bay in less than an hour, the inflatable bouncing and flying off the tops of the waves. Dreamspeaker still swung lazily on her anchor just as he had left her, enclosed in the quiet embrace of the bay. It was a peaceful scene that was completely at odds with the one he had just left.
He tied the inflatable to Dreamspeaker’s stern, scrambled on board, and headed straight for the wheelhouse. He needed to call the hospital in Campbell River to see if anyone had come up with identification on the man he had helped rescue.
The woman who answered the phone at the Campbell River Hospital put him through to Admitting, who in turn passed him on to a detective called Johnson. It seemed Johnson had arrived just minutes before and was asking the same questions.
“You guys should really learn to talk to each other,” the woman said with more than a hint of asperity. “It would save everyone a lot of time.”
Dan gave Johnson his badge number and explained how he had found the guy.
“Oh yeah,” Johnson said. “The coast guard guys told me about you. Said you thought it might not be an accident?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Dan answered. “I’m no medic, and I barely got a look at him. He was wedged down a crack in the rocks when I found him, and the guys from the Uchuck wrapped him up in a blanket as soon as they pulled him out. I’m working on another case—actually, two cases—and it just seems to me there are an awful lot of people getting hurt in an area where there aren’t that many people to start off with.”
“Know what you mean,” Johnson answered. “Coincidence only stretches so far. Problem is the guy’s still out of action. The rescue team said he was unconscious the whole time they had him, and now he’s up in the intensive care unit. The people here say he’ll be there for a while. They’ll call me when—or if—he wakes up.”
“They tell you what his chances are?” Dan asked.
“Not really. They never do. But reading between the lines, I’d say better than fifty-fifty.”
“Huh. Tough old bastard. If he came off a boat, that water was damned cold. You got an ID yet?”
“Nope, but the folks in Admitting here at the hospital should have it pretty soon—unless he wasn’t carrying any, which is a possibility if he was just out there fishing. Anyway, they’ll let me know one way or the other, and I’ll give you a call as soon as I know. You think he might be involved in one of those cases you’re working on?”
“Not really,” Dan said. “I’ve got a missing woman and a murdered kid. But there’s also a couple of bad guys floating around, and some weird things keep happening, so you never know.”
“I heard about the kid,” Johnson replied. “Nasty business. You got any leads?”
“Maybe,” Dan answered. “We think the guy who did it may be on the trail that runs up the west coast of Nootka Island. We’re putting a helicopter up, and people are watching at either end, so if he’s there, we should be able to get him. May know more then.”
“Good luck,” Johnson said. “I’ll check with the hospital again and get back to you.”
Dan gave him his contact information, thanked him, and clicked off the microphone. Now what? He had told Johnson they should be able to get the guy who was on the trail, but it had been three days now and they hadn’t even caught a glimpse of him. What if they were wrong? What if he and Margrethe were miles away, not only off Nootka Island, but off Vancouver Island as well? It was only a two-hour ferry ride from Vancouver Island to the mainland, and only a twenty-minute floatplane trip to either downtown Vancouver or the airport. They could be anywhere by now.
And what about Walker? How long would he paddle up and down the creeks and rivers that crisscrossed the island, in search of a man who might not be there? Or a man who might be there and could be very dangerous? And then there was Jared and his group. They were out there too. And he couldn’t get hold of any of them. Couldn’t do anything to help them. Shit! It was like last year with the black ship happening all over again—except this time it was Margrethe, not Claire, who was being threatened. And, like last year, he was stuck here doing nothing. Damn it. There had to be something he could do.
He picked up the microphone again. Maybe Markleson had some new information. At least he could confirm whether the helicopter was up or not. Dan was about to press the switch when a voice came over the speaker.
“Dan Connor?”
“Yeah?” Dan answered. “Who’s this?”
“Johnson, from Campbell River. We were just talking a few minutes ago.”
“Yeah. Thanks for calling back. You got something for me?”
“Yep. The hospital has an ID on that guy you found. He had a fishing licence in his pocket. Turns out he’s a fisherman. Comes from Kyuquot. His name’s Leif Nielson.”
“Huh. He have his own fishing boat?”
“No idea, but you should be able to check him out pretty easily. Kyuquot’s a real small place. Too small for us to have anyone posted there permanently, but I think the guys in the Tahsis detachment go out there every week or so to check things out. They’ll probably know him.”
“Yeah. Thanks again.”
—
Dan called Markleson as soon as his conversation with Johnson was finished.
“Leif Nielson?” Markleson said, surprise in his voice.
“Yeah. You know him?” Dan asked.
“Not personally, but I know the name. He’s the guy who found that kid.”
“Darrel Mack? The kid who was stabbed to death down in Friendly Cove?” This was getting stranger by the minute.
“That’s the one. I’ve got the file right here in front of me. It says Nielson and a friend were out at Aktis Island collecting oysters when they saw the body floating in a kelp bed. They hightailed it back to Kyuquot and called our guys in Tahsis. Tahsis said both men were pretty upset.”
“Nielson is a fisherman. So were they out there in a commercial fishboat collecting oysters?” As far as Dan knew, the only oysters collected commercially were grown on oyster farms in the calmer waters on the eastern side of the island.
“Nope. They were in a small boat that Nielson owns. He works as a fishing guide for the resort up there, but I guess he was in his own boat. Most of the folks up there have their own boat. His friend—the only name I have here is Archie—lives over in Houpsitas, on the reserve. That’s on the other side of Walter’s Cove, just across the water from Kyuquot. They said they went over to Aktis to get the oysters for their dinner. The guys checked them out and everything seems legit. They’ve both lived in Kyuquot all their lives. Everybody over there knows them.”
“Huh. Is there anyone there in Kyuquot I can talk to?” Dan asked. “Someone who might know what Nielson was doing out there in Nuchatlitz?”
“Well, you can ask Tahsis. They might know of someone. They go over there to Kyuquot every couple of weeks.”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” Dan said. “Did we get a helicopter up?”
“Yes. It made several passes over the trail. Came up empty. Didn’t see anybody or anything.”
“Okay, I’ll give Tahsis a call. Thanks for your help.”
—
Before he called Tahsis, Dan sorted through the stack of paper charts in his chart drawer. He had never used them—the computerized navigation system he had installed on Dreamspeaker used digital charts—but they had come with the boat when he bought her, and he had kept them as a backup in case of a computer failure and because they reminded him of those lo
ng-ago fishing trips with his father. The chart he pulled out was labeled CHS 3604, NOOTKA SOUND TO QUATSINO SOUND. He laid it out on the chart table and studied it for a while, tracing the coastline with his finger. Then he took out a blue pencil and used it to mark the locations that kept cropping up: Gold River, Friendly Cove, Tahsis, and Kyuquot. Another dot marked the end of the trail in Louie Lagoon, and he added yet another for Moutcha Bay. The dots formed a tight cluster toward the bottom section of the chart. He switched to a red pencil to mark where Darrel Mack had been killed, then added a second red dot to indicate where he had found Leif Nielson in Nuchatlitz Marine Park. After a couple of minutes, he added a third to indicate where Rainer and Sleeman were picked up. It joined the blue dot he had already made next to Tahsis. The red dots formed an even tighter cluster. If he ignored both Gold River and Kyuquot, assuming them to be simply convenient departure points and, in the case of Darrel Mack, an unplanned arrival point, all the dots circled Nootka Island. He wasn’t wrong in concentrating on the trail. The chances that all of these people were here accidentally were almost nil.
Dan kept the chart in front of him as he called the Tahsis detachment.
“Got a couple more questions for you,” he said. “I heard you’re keeping an eye on those two guys you were questioning for Victoria? The guys you kicked loose?”
“Rainer and Sleeman? Yeah. We were. But they’re gone.” The voice on the other end of the connection sounded tired.
“Gone? Do you know where they went?”
“Nope. Constable Horvath tracked them to a restaurant, but he had to leave them there to take another call. When he checked back, they had left. Couldn’t find anyone who had seen them go, but we haven’t seen them anywhere since then, and that was early this morning. This is a small town. We would know it if they were still here.”
Black Tide Rising Page 13