Black Tide Rising (2 page)

The boat swung toward the wind and his view changed. Now he was looking at the lighthouse complex high on a rocky islet to the west, and the red railings of the government wharf below. A metal walkway, glinting in the morning light, spanned the gap between the buildings and Nootka Island.

It felt good to be here. In some strange way it felt like coming home, although he had only been here once before, as a child on his father's boat, and he had never been ashore.

He felt the motion change again and moved the transmission into reverse as he let out more anchor rope. A final surge of power from the big diesel engine to dig the flukes in, and he felt the boat lift as the anchor set hard. He was done. Time to go ashore.

—

The mist that had wrapped the bay through the night was lifting, trailing gauze fingers through the seagrass. Dan pushed himself up from the log he had been sitting on and ambled along the beach. He moved with an easy grace acquired from years of judo practice, but he picked his way carefully along the shore: new driftwood had arrived with the recent storm, and the twisted roots and branches formed a treacherous maze. Most of it was faded gray by months or even years in the ocean, drifting in the currents, but here and there the gleam of newer wood added a counterpoint of light.

The storm had carried heavy rains, and the new-washed bay gleamed in the morning light. Dan looked over toward the lighthouse. It would have been good to share this moment with Claire, but she was still back in Victoria, over 170 miles away by land and a good deal more than that by water, and she would be busy for days yet, finalizing the details of the contract she had signed with Fisheries and Oceans Canada to study sea otters. Dan wouldn't be able to reach her until later that day, when she had finished with her meetings, and she wouldn't be leaving for their rendezvous in the tiny village of Kyuquot, another hundred miles north, until later in the week.

He had met Claire last year, when the jagged wound left by the death of his wife, Susan, was still so raw he had wanted to scream every time he thought of it, so tender that even the idea of ever having another relationship would have seemed sacrilegious. But the wound of Susan's murder was healing, slowly scabbing over with time and distance, and Claire was part of that healing. Their relationship had deepened over the previous winter, although he knew neither of them was ready to make a serious commitment.

Dan made his way along the shore and headed up to the lighthouse to introduce himself to Gene and Mary Dorman, the keepers of the light. He had first spoken to them years ago as a kid of ten, spending the summer on his father's fishboat. It had been the first time he was allowed to use the radio, and he had been nervous, wanting to impress his father, wanting to prove that he was capable of being the first mate his father wanted him to be, but worried that he would screw it up. He had checked the list to see which channel he should use, turned the big knob on the radio until he reached it, lifted the microphone out of its holder, pressed the transmit button, and carefully repeated “Nootka Island light” the requisite three times, just as he had heard his father do. When the answering voice boomed out of the speakers, he had been so surprised he actually dropped the mic. He smiled at the memory. The details of the conversation were lost in the haze of time, but those simple actions were etched on his mind.

It was hard to believe the same two people were still there almost thirty years later, but they were. He had called up the lighthouse a few days ago, and Gene had answered in that same rasping voice. Told him to drop in for a cup of coffee when he arrived. Dan was looking forward to meeting both him and his wife in person.

He remembered the light, too, although he had only seen it from out in the ocean as he and his father motored past. It sat on the highest point of a small island lying off the entrance to the cove. To Dan's ten-year-old self, it had seemed like something out of a storybook, the light winking out its endless warning in an unvarying pattern of long and short flashes, the black rocks glistening with ocean spray and the waves foaming below. He'd seen photos of it since, but all of them were taken from inside the cove, and the different angle made it impossible for him to reconcile them with his own memory. Now, finally, he was here, where he could fit all the pieces together.

He followed the beach to the wharf and then took a winding path up the rocks to the end of the walkway. The door of the lightkeeper's house was open, and as he approached he heard voices. It sounded as if Gene and Mary already had company, although there were no other boats in the cove.

A slim, wiry man with a sun-wrinkled face, iron-gray hair tied in a ponytail, and a quiet smile answered his knock and beckoned him inside.

“Come on in. I'm Gene. You must be Dan. We seem to have a bit of a problem here, but maybe you can help.”

He led Dan into a bright, old-fashioned kitchen where a man and woman sat at a wooden table, watching his approach. Gene introduced Mary, his wife, and Jens Rasmussen, the assistant lightkeeper.

“Jens is the one with the problem,” Gene said as Dan reached across to shake the other man's hand. “He says his wife, Margrethe, is missing.”

Jens's eyes moved from Dan to Gene and back again.

“Gene says you're a cop?” he asked, his voice soft and hopeful.

“Used to be. Been a couple of years now,” Dan replied.

A look of disappointment flashed across Jens's face before he dropped his eyes back down to the table. He had the high cheekbones of his native Scandinavia, and straight hair so blond it was almost white.

“Did you see her last night, Jens?” Mary's voice was gentle. “Maybe she got up early and went for a walk?”

Jens shook his head. “She never gets up early,” he said, his voice tight with worry. “She's a night owl. Stays up till two, three o'clock and then sleeps until almost noon. I was down in the shed and she brought me a cup of tea around two o'clock this morning. We sat and talked for a while, and then she said she was going up to bed.”

Mary watched him for a couple of minutes, then looked across at Dan, a quick smile of apology lighting her face.

“I'm sorry. I'm forgetting my manners. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Just made a fresh pot a couple of minutes before you arrived.”

Dan returned her smile. In some inexplicable way, she was his idea of the perfect lightkeeper's wife: dark hair twisted into a careless knot at the back of her neck, a little gray starting to show on her temples, dressed in old jeans and a faded wool sweater. A plain, no-nonsense type—except for her huge, brightly colored earrings and the bracelets that shone from her wrists. An artist, maybe. Someone who would have no problem spending time alone.

“Thanks. That would be great.”

He looked back at Jens. The man was obviously distraught.

“Have you checked the cove?” Dan asked. “Are there trails she likes to take—or maybe a boat she could have taken out …”

“She hates boats!” The man's raw cry tore through the air as he covered his head with his hands and leaned his forehead down onto the table. “She hates boats,” he repeated softly. “I should never have brought her here.”

Dan shot a glance at Gene. Was there more going on here than simply a missing woman?

“Jens and Margrethe only arrived here a couple of months ago,” Gene said, reading the question in Dan's glance. “Jens was the lightkeeper at the Point Atkinson light over in West Vancouver, but they automated it and put him out of a job. He applied for the assistant job here when old Walter retired.”

Hmmm, thought Dan. Point Atkinson was on the mainland, at the outer, western edge of Vancouver Harbour. Jens and Margrethe would have lived right in the city—and in the high-rent district at that. Shops. Cars. Restaurants. Movies. Wouldn't have needed a boat there. So maybe Margrethe liked the bright lights—but there weren't any bright lights around here. There was only one other house in the cove.

“Does she like living here?” Dan asked.

There was no answer, and Dan looked over at Mary, who was standing by the stove. She shrugged and glanced at Gene, who simply spread his hands. No answers there either.

“She says she does.” Jens's voice, when he finally answered, was still soft. Remote. Unsure. Whatever else might be going on, Dan figured the man was genuinely worried.

Mary brought the coffee over and sat down again. “Drink your coffee, Jens. Then we'll go down to your house. Maybe she's come home and is wondering where you are.”

She pushed a cup toward him, and when he didn't respond, she took his hands and wrapped them around it, urging him to drink. He gave her a wan smile, but didn't look any happier.

They didn't have far to walk. The assistant's house was just steps away, across a cement pad that connected both houses to the light itself. The whole place looked like a postcard. The square wooden houses, both painted white below red metal roofs. The matching light tower, topped by a red housing for the constantly turning lens. The blue ocean beyond, stretching out to the distant horizon, and, to the east, the perfect curve of the cove itself, with its fringe of golden sand.

It looked idyllic, but Dan figured the reality would undoubtedly be something different. Living on a remote island on the edge of the Pacific would not be for everyone. Maybe Margrethe had simply decided she couldn't take the isolation anymore. But she couldn't simply walk away. She would have needed a boat—and Jens said she hated boats.

The inside of the house was much like the one they had just left: simple but functional. There were only five rooms including the bathroom, each with minimal furniture, but clean and neat and obviously cared for. It took the four of them less than a minute to determine that Margrethe had not returned, but that was long enough for Dan to take in the disturbed bed, the clothes hanging neatly in the closet, the hairbrush and makeup bag sitting on the vanity, and the cups that had been rinsed and placed beside the sink to drain. If Jens's wife had decided to walk away, she might have left her clothes—probably would have—and she might even have rinsed out the cups before she left, but Dan didn't know any woman who would leave her hairbrush and makeup behind.

“Is there anything missing, Jens? A jacket, maybe? Boots?”

Jens looked at him for a moment, a kaleidoscope of emotions flashing across his face, and then he turned, walked back to the doorway, and opened a closet. He stared into it for a minute, then turned back.

“Yes. Both.”

So it looked like Margrethe had left the house voluntarily sometime in the early morning, but had planned to return.

“When did you notice she was gone?”

Dan realized he had taken over all the questioning, and it seemed Gene and Mary were happy to let him do it. Maybe he still wore that cop persona people talked about, even after a couple of years away. Something to think about. He didn't know if he liked the idea. He didn't feel like a cop anymore, although there were still times when he missed the job.

“I was working down in the generator shed most of the night,” Jens replied. “I came up here around seven this morning and made myself a cup of tea. I don't know what time I went to the bedroom. Maybe seven thirty, maybe eight. But she wasn't there.”

Jens's voice wavered. He was near tears, maybe near collapse. Mary went over to him and put her arm around his shoulders.

“Come on, Jens. We'll find her. Come on back up to the house and I'll make you some breakfast. Gene and Dan can go down to the cove and see if she's there.”

She cast a meaningful look at Dan and Gene as she nudged the distraught man past them. They were almost out the door when Dan thought of another question.

“Did you pull the bedding down, or was it like that when you went in this morning?”

Jens turned and stared at him. “I didn't touch it. I guess it was like that.” He frowned. “I never thought about it.”

“That's okay. Go on with Mary. Gene and I will take a look around.”

The lazy sweep of the cove spread out in front of the two men as they crossed the walkway, a peaceful scene with no sign of movement anywhere.

“You want to take the church?” Gene asked. “I know the family over at the house pretty well. Probably better if I go talk to them.”

Dan nodded. He was an outsider. He didn't want to have to explain what was happening or what he was doing here. It would take too long and bring up memories and issues he didn't want to deal with.

“Sounds good. I'll call you if I find anything. Otherwise I'll meet you down at that shed over there.” He nodded toward the beach.

“It's not a shed, it's a studio,” Gene said. “Sanford does his carving there. You'll see some of it up in the church. House posts and crests mostly. It's amazing stuff.”

Dan nodded and the two men headed off in separate directions, Gene to the house and Dan to the church.

Like Jens's house, the church was empty—if you could call a space filled with exquisitely carved poles and figures empty. All the religious paraphernalia had been removed and the building was now occupied by a host of stylized and mythological creatures: a thunderbird over the door, an owl, perhaps a wolf, certainly a bear on the house posts. Killer whales arched over what might have once served as an alt
ar and, twining everywhere, were the coils of a snake. Dan didn't have time to take a close look, but he saw enough to know he wanted to come back and check it out. His hobby was—or had been, because he hadn't done any lately—wood carving. The hold of his boat was full of gnarled and twisted driftwood waiting for him to pick up his tools and bring the shapes held within the wood to life. He didn't have a rich cultural heritage to draw from, but the wood spoke to him nonetheless. He would like to be able to share his passion with someone as creative and adept as this carver obviously was.