Black Tide Rising (18 page)

“Yeah. But where would they go?”

“Probably heading back to the city and got a ride over to Gold River. Lot of traffic heading over there. Lot of boats, too, now the storm is over.”

“I guess you're right,” Dan said. “And speaking of boats, you know anyone I can talk to in Kyuquot who would be familiar with one of the residents there?”

“Well, almost everyone there knows almost everyone else. It's a real small community. Most of our guys know everyone too. Who are you interested in?”

“Guy called Leif Nielson. I found him more dead than alive on the rocks over in Nuchatlitz Park. He's in Campbell River Hospital, in the intensive-care ward. I was hoping I could talk to someone and find out how he got there.”

“Leif Nielson?”

It was the second time Dan had heard someone repeat that name with a tone of incredulity in his voice, and he heard himself make the same response as he had the first time.

“Yeah. You know him?” The same question, but this time he got a different answer.

“Sure. He's a good old guy. We all know him. You say he's in the hospital?”

“Yes. He's suffering from hypothermia and he has a nasty head wound, but he was still alive an hour or so ago.”

“Jesus! You sure it's him? He was just here. Jack—he's one of our guys—said he saw him down in the restaurant this morning.”

Dan let his eyes drift back to the chart with its cluster of dots. “That the same restaurant Sleeman and Rainer were in?”

“Yeah. The Westview. It's down at the marina. Jack was keeping an eye on them, but he got called out on a domestic-violence report. Turned out to be nothing, but when he got back, they were gone.”

“Was Nielson still there?”

“Damned if I know, but you can ask Jack yourself. He just walked into the office. Hold on, and I'll get him.”

Above the hiss of empty air, Dan heard the sound of a brief conversation, and then a new voice boomed from the speaker.

“Dan? This is Jack Horvath. You were asking about Leif ?”

“Yeah. I understand he was in the Westview restaurant this morning. Was he alone?”

“Yep. He was sitting in a booth right by the window. Asked me how I was doing.”

“Sleeman and Rainer were there too?”

“Sure were. But they were way over the other side.”

“So when you got back from that domestic-violence call, Sleeman and Rainer had gone?”

“Yep. I asked the waitress where they went, but she said she was too busy to notice. Said as long as they paid the bill, she didn't pay them any attention.”

Dan grunted. “Sounds like business as usual. How about Nielson? Was he still there?”

“Leif?” There was a pause as Jack checked his memory. “Nope. He was gone too. Not that surprising. I was gone for over half an hour.”

“Huh. Do you happen to know how he got to Tahsis in the first place?”

“Well, I can't say for sure, because I didn't see him arrive, but he's had the same boat for years—a little cabin cruiser with an inboard/outboard. He keeps it in real good shape. Does all the work on it himself. You might want to check with Pete Reilly down at the marina. He runs the wharf. Not much goes on down there that he doesn't know about.”

Another phone call. Dan figured he was becoming more of a telephone operator than a detective. This new job was turning out to be all about sitting on his ass and making phone calls. Even Walker, with legs so badly damaged he could barely walk, was out there doing more than he was. Dan had always liked to be where the action was, liked to be involved. It was the reason he had joined the
RCMP
. And the
RCMP
had given him all the action he could handle. But that had been on the anti-terrorist squad. There the rules had been different. They had worked as a team, never alone, and they had drilled into his brain that you did not involve civilians. Yet here he was, back in the saddle again, doing exactly that.

He sighed as he picked up the microphone and put in a call to Westview Marina. Minutes later, Pete Reilly confirmed that Leif had arrived in his own boat three days earlier. He also told Dan that the boat was no longer there. It had left early, with three people aboard. Pete had recognized Leif, but he didn't know who the other two were.

Pat Sleeman turned the boat they had taken from Leif Nielson back toward Esperanza. The water was smoother now that they had the wind behind them, and they could make good time.

“We going back to Tahsis?” Carl asked.

“No, we're not going back to Tahsis,” Pat replied, working to keep his impatience under control. Carl had already proven his usefulness several times over, but it certainly hadn't been in the brains department. In fact, if Pat was honest about it, Jerry was a whole lot smarter, and his quickness with a knife was just as useful as Carl's strength, maybe more so, but Jerry was too volatile, too unpredictable, and the son of a bitch couldn't be trusted for one second.

“So where we going?”

Not smart, but certainly persistent.

“We're going to Friendly Cove.”

Carl's eyes lit up and excitement tinged his voice. “We going to get the stuff?”

Pat sighed. “No, we're not going to get the stuff. Not with the cops out there watching us. We're just going to take a look and see if it's still there. Make sure our friend Jerry didn't help himself to it.”

“Shit! You think he took it? What are we going to do if it's gone?”

Pat looked at his partner. “Then, my friend, you and I are going to find Jerry and get it back.”

“How we going to do that? We don't know where he is.”

Pat smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. “Actually, I think I just might.”

“Huh. You think you can find him quick? That guy you said would take it can't wait around forever.”

“He won't have to. Jerry's still close. Those cops told us that.”

“They did?” Carl's heavy face looked puzzled, but he didn't say anything more, and Pat didn't bother trying to explain.

They retraced the route Leif had taken just a short time ago, passing the entrance to Zeballos and the two wharves at Esperanza once again, but this time, when they reached Tahsis Inlet, Pat steered south around Nootka Island instead of north toward the town of Tahsis. Boat traffic was picking up with the advent of better weather. They passed a big seiner heading out to the open ocean, and the channel was full of small power boats, but no one paid them any attention. Out here they were just fellow travelers going about their ordinary business.

As they emerged into Nootka Sound, Pat slowed the boat, needing to steer by the unfamiliar
GPS
chart in order to find his way. He wanted to avoid being seen by someone who knew Leif and his boat and who might have the urge to chat. The season was heating up at the tiny fishing-resort community of Nootka, just east of Friendly Cove, and seasonal residents were joining the tourists there. Some of them might have been coming there often enough to know Leif.

Pat took the long route around the south side of Saavedra Island to stay well clear of the resort, then steered in close to the headland between Boca del Infierno Bay and Friendly Cove. That allowed him to enter the cove as far away as possible from both the lighthouse and that one lone house that sat in the middle of the cove.

He slowed the revs before they entered the cove to keep the noise down and then cut the engine early, letting the boat drift gently in to nose up onto the shallow beach, well away from where any other visitors might be gathered. He and Carl stepped out, then tied the bow line to a log lying well above the high-water line. They needed to get to the cemetery, but the two of them would take their time, make themselves look like regular tourists.

“Let's walk along the beach for a ways. Check the old totem out,” he said to Carl.

“What for?” Carl replied. “We never hid the stuff there.”

“Because it's what every visitor does, and we want to look like regular visitors, don't we?” Pat said. “And besides, we need to see what those cops in Tahsis were so interested in.”

“Might be a bunch of people there,” Carl said as they scrambled up the bank.

“Doesn't matter. Even if we meet up with somebody, it won't be a problem. Nobody here's going to know who we are. The boat's the only thing we need to be careful about. People might recognize it and start asking about the owner.”

They saw the yellow crime-scene tape as soon as they arrived at the top of the bank. It was draped around a section of driftwood on the beach. A second loop encircled the old totem, which had been moved from its resting place in the seagrass to a small clearing lower down.

“Shit,” Carl whispered as he saw the tape. “We should get out of here. Something must have happened. There'll be cops all over the place.”

“Jerry happened,” said Pat. “That's what. And the cops have gone. There's no police boat at the wharf.” He pointed to the long red structure that jutted from the shore beneath the lighthouse; a large rigid-hulled inflatable with a red stripe was tied alongside. “That's a coast guard boat.”

“I dunno, man. It don't feel right. We should go.” Carl had stopped walking and was looking nervously around.

“Just act normal, for Christ's sake. Either that or stay down at the boat and I'll go take a look.”

Pat turned and started toward the totem, and after a moment's hesitation, Carl joined him.

“Holy shit. Look at that!” Carl stared at the mutilated totem, where bright new wood shone out in a blazing testament to the wounded shapes of the bear and snake. “That's weird, man.”

“That's Jerry, that's what that is. I told you. He was looking for the stuff.” Pat's face was hard and he had lost his smile. “That son of a bitch followed us here.”

A rustle in the grass caught his attention, and he turned to see someone approaching from the direction of the house.

“Hi.” The man was Native and looked to be in his late fifties. He was carrying a bucket and a shovel, and Pat figured he must be the owner of the house. “Sorry, but this area's closed.”

“Yes.” Pat's smile was back in place. “I can understand why. What the heck happened here?”

The man shook his head. “Wish we knew. Happened a few nights ago. Had a young boy murdered too.” He pointed down to the beach with its own circle of crime-scene tape. “Right there on the beach.”

“Wow. Murdered? That's nasty.” Pat shot a quick glance at Carl to make sure he was not about to interrupt with one of his inane comments, but Carl was staring down at the beach. “The police have any ideas?”

“Not really, but they've closed the trail, so maybe they figure the guy went out there. Took Margrethe with him.”

“Margrethe?” asked Pat, suddenly confused.

“Yeah. She's one of the lighthouse people. Good lady. She disappeared the same night.”

“Huh. Well, I sure hope they catch him soon. Thanks for letting us know.” Pat started to move away before the conversation got too involved, then stopped. “Are the church and the cemetery still okay to visit? We'd sure like to see something while we're here.”

“Sure. No problem there. It's just this area and the trail that are closed. If you take the path over there by my house, it'll lead you over to a boardwalk. Just follow it up. There's a Welcome Pole up there too.”

“What's a Welcome Pole?” Pat asked.

The man smiled. “It's a tradition of my people. We carved a special pole to welcome people to our village. You will understand when you see it.”

“Thanks.” Pat reached out his hand. “Appreciate it.”

—

“I knew it,” Pat said as soon as they were alone. “That little asshole.”

“I don't get it,” Carl said. “It don't make sense. Why would Jerry kill a kid? And take a woman? He don't do that kind of shit.”

“Jerry does exactly that kind of shit. Takes out anything and everyone in his way without even a minute of thought. I don't know what the woman is about—you're right: that doesn't make sense—but it's Jerry. All of it. I know it is.” Pat shook his head. “Jesus Christ, we gotta deal with this. I'm not going to go down for murdering a kid and kidnapping some woman.”

Carl looked at him. “We did the old guy on the boat.” Carl was slow, but occasionally his comments hit the mark.

“That's different,” Pat snapped. “They're not going to find him—and even if they do, it'll look like an accident. The old bastard fell overboard. Hit his head. Happens all the time. Jerry would have used his knife. Pretty hard to make that look like an accident.”

Carl slowly nodded his agreement.

—

They sat in the church for exactly fifteen minutes. Pat timed them on his watch. Carl spent the time staring at the carved figures that stared silently back at him. Pat fumed. And schemed. The police had the trail blocked off. They would be checking everyone coming off it. If Jerry was on it, they would get him. But Jerry knew the island. Hell, his grandmother had been a member of the band that had lived here. He was the one who had brought Pat and Carl here to show them the cove in the first place. He knew the paths and the rivers and the creeks. And he knew the logging roads. He had talked about them, pointed out the log dumps and the camp at Kendrick Arm. He would know the police were looking for him. No way would he stay on the trail and make it easy for them.

The alarm on his watch pinged, and Pat turned it off and stood up.

“Let's go,” he said.

The men left the church and followed the gravel path up the hill. The cemetery lay at the edge of the forest, above the open bowl of the cove where only the whisper of the wind kept it company. It was small, with only a few graves, but each had an engraved headstone. Some of them had been eroded by time, but all were still legible, and each told its own silent story had the men cared to read them. They didn't. Instead, they moved straight to one of the oldest graves. It was surrounded by an iron fence, which over the years had taken on a patina of age that blended with its surroundings, and the ground around it was covered with grass and ferns. A small pole had been carved to give testament and honor to the occupant, but time and weather had done their work and it had fallen many years ago. When Pat and Carl had last seen it, just days earlier, it had rested on its side, with the carved figures looking out over the forlorn green mounds. Now it lay on its back, the crumbling beak of a thunderbird broken off, and the earth around it gouged and raw. They knew they would have left some signs of disturbance when they slid the bag under the pole, but nothing like this. This was a message.