Alaskan Catch

by Sue Pethick

  The wind felt as if it were coming straight off an iceberg, numbing her cheeks as Emily headed up the road. She was glad she’d worn her fleece jacket that morning. She passed the cannery and the stacks of shipping containers outside its loading dock, searching for any sign of Sam and his dog. By a boat shelter big enough to house a couple of hundred-foot tenders, she saw a man in a pair of dusky overalls, and beyond that two small metal sheds with a sign out front that said DAVIS AND SON—still no Sam. Three large blue buildings took up the rest of the next block, and after that, Emily saw an open field that someone had been using as a makeshift dump. She turned her back to the wind and scanned the other side of the road. There were several small, derelict buildings that might or might not be businesses, but no indication that Sam and his dog were in any of them. As she realized that her quarry had gotten away, Emily felt her spirits flag. Short of knocking on every door she’d passed, there wasn’t much else she could do to locate them.

  What now?

  As she started to retrace her steps, she saw a man coming toward her. Was it the same man she’d seen next to the boat shelter? She wasn’t sure. He certainly looked like the sort of men she’d seen working on the dock: weather-beaten and slightly seedy, with a distinctive roll to his walk as if he were compensating for the swell of the ocean, even on dry land. When he got closer, Emily noticed a distinctive red birthmark on his left cheek that drew her eye.

  “Afternoon, miss.”

  “Hello,” she said.

  She was trying not to stare. It must be hard to live with something like that on your face without having people gawking at it all the time. Emily willed herself to ignore it.

  “Are you lost?” he said. “I only ask because I saw you looking around and now here you are coming back already.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not lost. Just looking for someone.” She took a second to scour the area again. “Unfortunately, I think I lost him.”

  The man’s smile made pleats across the birthmark.

  “Well, he’ll be sorry he missed you, I’m sure. I don’t suppose there’s anything I could help you with?”

  Emily’s first instinct was to say no. There was something about the man that she found disquieting, and she would have preferred to hurry back and join the others at lunch. But he’d done nothing to make her think he was a threat; on the contrary, he’d been concerned for her welfare. Was she just letting his disfigurement affect her judgment? Shamed by her own intolerant attitude, she decided to tell him who she was looking for and why. After all, if this man was a regular on the dock, he might also have useful information.

  “Sam Reed?” he said. “Of course I know him. I used to be part of his crew. Good man, Captain Reed.”

  Emily was excited. Not only did this man know Sam, but he’d worked the same waters and probably knew the same people—both on the docks and in the cannery. Congratulating herself for ignoring her prejudices, she decided to take him into her confidence. Had he heard of anyone, she asked, who might have it in for Tim Garrett and his interns?

  The man dipped his chin and made a discreet survey of their surroundings. The street was not well-traveled, but there were a couple of people on the other side of the street who might overhear if he said more than a few words. With a wordless jerk of the head, he directed her toward the spot where she’d first seen him and walked off with Emily right behind. When they got to the first small shed, he motioned for her to come around the far side, out of sight of the road.

  Emily hesitated; the uneasiness she’d felt before was back. Martial arts training had given her the confidence to defend herself in a threatening situation, but it was always better—and easier—to avoid an attack than to fight one’s way out of it. The man turned and beckoned her again.

  “Come on,” he said. “Do you want my help or don’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m taking a risk here, you know. If anyone hears I’ve been a rat, I’ll be blackballed. Might never get another job. Do you want that?”

  She took a cautious step forward.

  “No, of course not.”

  Emily hadn’t expected him to be so quick. Before she could react, the man had grabbed her by the wrist and twisted it hard. She felt her knees buckle as she tried to relieve the pressure on her arm.

  “Come along then,” he snarled. “I’ll give you what you’re looking for.”

  As he pulled her toward the back of the shed, Emily fought the urge to panic. She felt foolish more than anything else. How many times had Sensei Doug warned her not to ignore her inner voice? She was in pain and she’d lost the upper hand, but she wasn’t beaten—not yet, anyway. Whatever happened, though, she wouldn’t be getting out of this unscathed.

  Before she could make a move, though, Emily heard the jangle of metal and scuffling on the asphalt behind her. The man holding her looked up and his face paled. She felt the brush of fur against her shoulder as Bear rushed forward, snarling. The man released her hand at the same moment she heard Sam’s voice.

  “Bear! Get back here!”

  Sam rounded the corner and pulled up short as the man gave him a look of pure hatred. Emily was expecting Sam to tell the man to back off. Instead, he turned and gave her an admonishing look.

  “Why didn’t you wait for me? I told you I’d be right back.”

  Emily felt a flash of anger. Why was this her fault all of a sudden? Sam hadn’t even known she was looking for him. She was about to tell him off when she saw the pleading look in his eyes asking her to play along.

  “I didn’t think you were coming back,” she said through gritted teeth. “You certainly took long enough.”

  Sam laughed and looked at the other man.

  “She didn’t think I was coming back,” he said. “Women, right?”

  Emily could see that the man was still poised, ready to fight for his prize if given the chance, but the presence of the snarling dog slowly changed his mind. He turned and gave her a simpering smile.

  “It seems you’ve found what you were after,” he sneered. “I suppose you won’t be needing any more from me.”

  As he slipped away, Emily shivered. Even though she was sure she’d have been able to spare herself the worst possible outcome, the thought of what he’d had in mind was chilling.

  Sam turned on her in a fury.

  “What are you doing,” he hissed, “hanging out with a guy like Logan Marsh? The man’s a pervert.”

  She reared back.

  “I wasn’t ‘hanging out’ with him. I didn’t even know his name. Besides, he’s your friend, not mine.”

  “Is that what he told you? That we were friends?”

  “He said he was part of your crew.”

  Sam looked at her like she was addled-brained.

  “The crewmen on my ship aren’t my friends,” he said. “I hire them to do a job; they either do it or they don’t. If they do, I keep them on. If they don’t, they’re fired. That guy,” he said, pointing, “is bad news, which is why I fired him.”

  “Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

  “If you didn’t, then you shouldn’t have been wandering around down here by yourself. You’re lucky Bear and I showed up when we did.”

  Emily felt her lips tighten. She wasn’t some helpless naif who needed to be rescued. Logan Marsh might have gotten the drop on her—temporarily—but as far as she was concerned, she’d never been in any serious danger. It was time to straighten this guy out.

  “For your information, I was doing just fine when you showed up.”

  “Oh, right.” He chuckled. “And how ‘fine’ do you think you would have been once he dragged you behind that shed?”

  “I wouldn’t have let him.”

  Sam looked away for a second, shaking his head.

  “Look,” he said. “Just try not to be so trusting, okay? Or at least find someone who can clue you in to this place before you get yourself killed.”

  She smirked. “Oh. Someone like yo
u, perhaps?”

  “Sure.” Sam shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Well, thanks,” she said. “But I think I’ve gotten enough ‘help’ for one day.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Sam walked off in a huff, Bear trailing reluctantly behind him. Who did that girl think she was? He’d taken a risk confronting Logan Marsh, and she hadn’t even bothered to thank him.

  “‘I was doing just fine when you showed up,’” he sneered. “Yeah, right, sister. You just keep telling yourself that.”

  He’d already been in a bad mood when Bear took off, and getting grief from Emily hadn’t helped. After hustling down to meet the man whose number Mollie had given him, Sam discovered that the guy wasn’t actually selling a ship; he was a broker trying to add to his list of interested buyers. Guys like that were part of the reason commercial vessels cost so much. By raising sellers’ expectations of what they could get for their ships, they guaranteed themselves a hefty finder’s fee and made it all but impossible for buyers to negotiate a reasonable price. The second Sam realized who he was dealing with, he’d turned around and walked out the door. Whatever Bear had heard or sensed in the meantime had sent him sprinting off before Sam could stop him.

  He looked down at the dog loping beside him.

  “Who needs her?”

  With a long afternoon still stretching out ahead of him, Sam returned to his previous plan and headed to the wharf to give his crew a hand. Oscar was topside, checking the gear for wear, and Ben was in the water, cleaning the hull. Regular maintenance of the ship’s bottom was crucial: it preserved the finish, made the boat easier to handle, and because it cut down on drag, it saved on fuel. Off-season was the time when extensive maintenance and repairs were carried out, but downtime anytime provided a good opportunity to catch problems early.

  Sam went onboard and signaled for Ben to come join him. The crewman climbed up the side and pulled off his mask, smiling as water sluiced off his wet suit onto the deck.

  “Hey, Skipper. Come to join the fun?”

  “Thought I would,” Sam said.

  He stripped off his shirt and threw it aside, then took off his shorts and grabbed the wet suit he kept in his footlocker.

  “How much have you done so far?”

  Water was running into Ben’s eyes. He shook his head and sent seawater flying.

  “The foils are cleared and I’m working on the props. They’re fouled pretty bad.”

  Sam looked up sharply. Fouled propellers could wreak havoc on a ship’s handling.

  “Barnacles?”

  Ben nodded. “More than I’d expected this early in the season. Oscar just cleared them two weeks ago.”

  Barnacles were a constant headache on a ship, secreting a cement-like substance that held them fast to a ship’s hull and making them all but impossible to remove. Even then, their adhesive remained, compromising the smoothness of whatever part of the underside they’d attached themselves to—in some cases, rendering it useless. An increase in barnacle formation could spell disaster if they didn’t stay on top of it.

  Sam threw a sponge and a light-duty 3M pad into a floating bucket and lowered it over the side.

  “You keep working on the props and shaft. I’ll start on the hull.”

  Even with his wet suit on, the shock of cold water made Sam gasp as he went in. He dipped his mask into the water, then slipped it on and cleared the snorkel. So far, the afternoon had left him feeling frustrated and angry. It felt good to have something physical to help work it off.

  Unfortunately, though, the distraction didn’t last long. Cleaning a ship’s hull was a pretty dull job, and as he bobbed along the waterline, Sam began to obsess about the quarrel he’d had with Emily. Why had she come down on him so hard? All he’d been trying to do was help, and she’d acted like he was in the way. Was she really so naïve that she hadn’t recognized the danger she was in? And then, when he’d suggested she find someone to clue her in about what parts of town were unsafe, it was like she thought he was making moves on her. Which maybe he was, but she didn’t have to be such a . . .

  He shook his head and grabbed another sponge out of the bucket.

  Stop thinking about it. It’s over. You’ll probably never even see her again.

  The hull was pretty clean—surprisingly so, considering how encrusted Ben had told him the props and rudder were. It made him wonder if Oscar’s cleaning job had been as thorough as he’d said. Some ships’ crews had underwater cameras to document the condition of the hull and metal instruments below the waterline, but Jack and Travis were too cheap to pay for anything they considered extras. They said it was because they trusted their crew members, but the truth was, they left it to Sam to verify that the work had been done well, and he couldn’t sign off on what he couldn’t see. Once he was finished at the waterline, he’d have to check out the bottom again to make sure.

  The day was getting warmer, and by midafternoon Sam could feel the back of his neck starting to burn. He knew it wasn’t good, knew it’d hurt later, but he’d spent a long winter and a cold, miserable spring dreaming of being out in the sun. Even if he had to pay for it later, it was worth it just to feel some heat on his bare skin again.

  Bear was enjoying the warm afternoon as well. Lolling topside, stretched out along the deck, he’d been keeping track of Sam’s movements in the water, opening one eye every so often and adjusting his position so the two of them remained close to each other. Bear would spend half his life in the ocean if Sam would let him—Newfoundlands loved the water—but getting salt water out of the dog’s coat was a chore he didn’t feel like tackling all that often. Once the season was over, the two of them would hike out to the river and go for a frolic. Until then, the dog would just have to be satisfied to watch.

  Sam was doing a final check of the hull when he saw Bear sit up and go trotting off toward the far side of the ship. He heard Oscar talking to someone on the dock, and seconds later, the crewman was staring down over the side.

  “Someone here to see the captain,” he said. “You want to come up, or should I tell ’em you’re busy?”

  Sam glanced at the portion of the hull he’d been working on, satisfied that it was as clean as he could get it, and checked his watch: five-thirty. He’d been down there for over three hours; he figured he was due for a break.

  “Tell them I’ll be up in a second,” he said.

  He threw the sponges back into his bucket and started up the ladder.

  * * *

  Emily hadn’t been able to get much work done that afternoon. When she got back to the cannery, she was still fuming over her encounter with Sam. How dare he treat her like she was helpless? She felt humiliated and belittled, convinced that he thought she couldn’t take care of herself. It wasn’t until she returned to the classroom and saw the rest of the interns that the seriousness of what had just happened to her sank in.

  “What’s wrong with your arm?” Kimberley demanded.

  Emily shrugged. It had felt a bit sore on the walk back, but that wasn’t surprising. It certainly didn’t feel any worse than some of the injuries she’d gotten during her practice bouts with Sensei Doug.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Just—”

  She held up her wrist and gasped. Her entire lower arm was black and blue, the clear outline of Logan Marsh’s fingers embedded in the flesh. A thin line of blood dribbled from a tear in her skin. Had he really done all that in such a short period of time? And how had she not felt it before now?

  “Oh, my God,” Rachel said. “You’re bleeding!”

  Tim Garrett came striding into the room.

  “Who’s bleeding? What happened?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Emily said. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

  He walked over and took a look at her arm.

  “It looks like someone grabbed you.”

  “He did,” she said, bewildered.

  “Who did?”

  Tim’s voice sounded urgent. Emily gla
nced at the others, hoping to find one who agreed that the damage to her arm wasn’t serious, but none did. As she looked at their concerned faces, it dawned on her that the encounter she’d brushed off as trivial might indeed have been more dangerous than she’d realized.

  “I’ll get the first aid kit,” Tim said. “You girls help Emily to the bathroom so she can clean that arm. If she passes out, call 911 immediately.”

  “I’m okay,” Emily said, though, in fact, she was starting to feel woozy. “It was just . . . this man by the shed. He . . . he said he wanted to tell me something.”

  “That’s it,” Tim snapped. “I’m calling the cops. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  Emily felt a sudden urge to sit down. She collapsed onto a chair.

  “His name is Logan. Logan Marsh.”

  Rachel and Kimberley helped her back onto her feet. By the time they got to the door, Tim was already on the phone to a dispatcher.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “Logan Marsh. He attacked one of my interns. . . .”

  The two girls helped her clean up, and the EMTs arrived a few minutes after the police. Pictures of her injured arm were taken, after which the cut was disinfected and her entire forearm securely wrapped by a paramedic who quietly asked if Logan had hurt her “in any other way.” At that, Emily started to shake; she’d finally realized just how badly she’d misjudged the situation. If Sam and his dog hadn’t shown up when they did, she thought, she might have been raped—maybe even killed. She felt embarrassed and ashamed. More than that, she felt she owed Sam an apology.

  Which was why she was standing on the dock that afternoon, waiting for him to come out and talk to her. It had taken Emily almost twenty minutes to find someone who would point out Sam Reed’s tender, and by the time she got there, it seemed as if everyone around was staring at her. It made her feel shy. She hoped that Sam wouldn’t make her wait too long.