Black Tide Rising (29 page)

Dan saw her when he was halfway across the walkway. She was sitting in the front of a canoe that was approaching the beach. She was smiling as she watched her husband race toward her, her arms outstretched in greeting. Walker was sitting behind her, paddling. He was smiling too.

—

“How the hell did you find her?”

Dan and Walker, together with Gene and the two wildlife guys, were sitting on driftwood logs on the beach. Jens and Margrethe had made their way up to the house, and Mary had gone with them to monitor the radio.

“Jared told me where she was heading.” Walker shrugged. “I went there. She came out of the bush.”

“Just walked right up to you, I suppose,” Dan said.

“Yep.”

“And stepped right into your canoe.”

Walker smiled. “Yep.”

Dan shook his head.

“Who's Jared?” Gene asked. “One of the cops?”

“No. He's just a guy I know from Esperanza,” Walker answered.

“From the mission?” Gene sounded puzzled. “I know most of the guys there. Don't think I've met Jared.”

“Jared doesn't like to meet people,” Walker replied.

“Too bad he can't tell me where Coffman is heading,” Dan said. “Be nice if that asshole would just walk right up to me when I get over there.”

Walker looked at him. “No need to go over there. Coffman ain't walking anywhere.”

“Wish that was true,” Dan said. “But he's still out there. He ran off when Stephanson shot me.”

“Didn't run far,” Walker said. “The wolves took care of him.”

“Wolves?” four voices chimed in unbelieving chorus.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dan asked.

“What wolves?” one of the wildlife guys asked. “Don't have many wolves here on the island—just two small packs. More than enough deer to support them. I've never heard of them attacking anyone.”

“Pack of five,” Walker answered. “Four gray and one white.”

“White? No. Not possible. No white wolves here. Never seen one anywhere, although I've heard one or two might exist up north. Must have been something else you saw.”

Walker smiled. “You should get a dog team out there. Shouldn't be too hard to find what's left of that guy.”

“You were serious, weren't you? About the white wolf.”

The two men were standing out on the wharf, waiting for a water taxi to pick Dan up and take him back to
Dreamspeaker
. The police boat that had been sent out had been diverted to Kendrick Arm when the dog team there found Coffman's body about a mile and a half north of where Dan had last seen him. When Markleson called Dan to update him, he said the dog handler figured Coffman had been killed by some wild animal, but they couldn't figure out what: his throat was torn open, but there was no other sign of injury and no tracks.

“Yes,” said Walker. “I was.”

“Did you actually see it?” Dan asked.

“Saw him twice here,” said Walker. “The first time was over on the other side, 'round Louie Bay. Guess he was waiting for the right time, or maybe he just wanted to let me know he was on the job.” He smiled. “I've seen him twice before, too. Once over near Gold River a while back, and another time up by Nimpkish River, maybe six years ago.”

“Couldn't have been the same wolf,” Dan said. “The Nimpkish is over on the other side of Vancouver Island. And those wildlife guys said white wolves are very rare.”

“Not rare enough.”

“What's that supposed to mean? There's something wrong with them?”

Walker shrugged. “Nothing wrong with him. Something wrong with why he's here.”

Dan shook his head. “You're not making sense, Walker. Why shouldn't there be a white wolf here? You just said you've seen one four times—which means they can't be as rare as those wildlife guys think.”

Walker looked at him. “The time I saw him at Nimpkish River, a kid from the band there had been murdered. Police didn't know who did it, but two days after I saw that wolf, they found a body up in the bush. Said it was some guy out hunting. Must have got lost. Said the body had been ravaged by animals. Not sure if they ever identified him.”

“You're saying this is some spirit animal?” Dan could see that Walker was completely serious. “An animal that takes revenge on anyone who murders a Native kid?”

Walker shrugged again and pulled a snack bar out of his pocket. “Not saying anything. That time in Gold River, it was right after a young girl was raped and murdered. She was from the Muchalaht band. Only ten years old. Just had her birthday a few days before she went missing. They found her body in a ditch down behind the school. I came over about a week after it happened. Saw the wolf up at the top of the hill as I was coming into town. Next day some loggers found a body. Took the cops a while to figure it all out, and I had left by then, but they said it was the guy that did it. My sister told me. The newspaper report said they thought maybe a cougar had got him.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Dan. The story was so far-fetched it was almost impossible for his brain to accept. Almost, but not quite. He had dismissed Walker's stories before, only to find out they were true, and there were a lot of things here that sounded real. Not only that, but the way Coffman had died would fit right in. Still, a spirit wolf?

“I had a raven come down and sit right beside me up there at the cemetery,” Dan said.

“Yeah?” Walker smiled.

“Yeah. I was feeling kind of bad about reaching into the grave site, thinking it was sort of a desecration or something. I kinda thought …” Hearing himself talking about it, it sounded foolish, but he had started, so he couldn't very well stop. “I sort of sent up a prayer. Not sure who to, but I said I was sorry … Hell, I don't know what I said. It just felt like I was going to do something I shouldn't be doing.” He shrugged. “Anyway, this raven squawks at me. He's sitting up in one of those cedar trees right above my head. So I reach in and find the stuff, and this shadow flies right over me. When I look up, that damn raven is sitting right there on one of the fence posts. He was so close I could almost have reached out and touched him. Anyway, I got this idea that maybe he wanted to see what was in the sack, so I showed him. Just reached in and pulled out a bracelet, and it was like he looked at it. Just sat there for—seemed like a long time. And then he flew off.”

He shrugged in embarrassment. “Crazy, huh?”

Walker burst into laughter.

“What the hell's so funny?” Dan asked.

“Better be careful, white man. You're beginning to think like us Indians. Gonna have to give you a proper name pretty soon. Take you to the Hamatsa.”

“Fuck off, Walker,” Dan said. “It just seemed … weird. I even talked to it. Asked it a question. Thought maybe you sent it. You did tell me you are from the Raven clan.”

“I am, but I didn't send him. U'melth doesn't serve me. He's pretty powerful. Gave us the moon, and the sun, and the tides. Gave us fire and salmon too. But he's a trickster. He can transform himself into any creature he wants to.” Walker paused for a minute, his face thoughtful. “Any of that jewelry have Raven on it?”

“I don't know. There's an eagle for sure. And an orca. I didn't look at all of it, and I can't recognize all of them anyway.” Dan had borrowed a briefcase from Gene and locked the bag into it.

“Huh. Well, sounds like he was looking for something. Or maybe he just wanted to check you out. Let you know you did a good job getting the stuff back.”

“Yeah, well, whatever it was, it was kind of cool,” Dan said. “Never seen a raven close up before.” He looked at Walker. “Hey, is that one of my snack bars you're eating?”

“Wondered when you'd notice,” Walker said as he pulled the wrapper off. “Not bad for fake food. I took it from your boat a couple of nights ago. Pretty good couch to sleep on too.” Walker reached into his pocket. “Here's your key back.”

“Gee, thanks. Anything else I should know about?”

“Nope. You might be short a few more bars, but I left the radio on the table.”

Both men turned as the sound of a boat engine came from behind the point.

“Sounds like your ride's here,” Walker said. “Stay safe, white man.”

“You too, Walker. You heading back home?”

“Yeah. Might see you up there again sometime.”

Dan watched as Walker grasped the top of a ladder that led down to the beach and used it like a pommel horse to swing his legs around. His body slowly disappeared, swinging from side to side, until only his head was left, and then he stopped and started up again.

“Forgotten something?” Dan asked as he watched and marveled at the strength Walker's movement required.

“Nope. But I think you did.” Walker nodded at something out beyond the wharf, and Dan turned to see a big Boston Whaler drifting up alongside. As he walked toward it, the door to the wheelhouse opened, and Claire stepped out. She jumped down, tied up the lines, waved to Walker, and then turned toward Dan, her eyes taking in his bandaged arm.

“I guess this is what comes with being involved with a cop,” she said. “Gonna take some getting used to.” She smiled as she lifted her face up to his.

I would like to gratefully acknowledge the help of several people during the writing of this book. They include Jim Tipton, Victoria Schmidt, Antonio Rambles, Bob Drynan, Margie Keane, Mel Goldberg, Janice Kimball, David Bryen, Carol Bowman, Pam Harting, and Lynne Stonier-Newman, all of whom helped guide and shape the final copy.

Thanks are also due to my editor, Linda Richards, and to Taryn Boyd and the entire team at Touchwood Editions, without whose skilled and careful attention this book would not exist.

For information on ocean current drift rates, the Canadian Coastguard provided invaluable assistance, and I am indebted to J. (Jason) Fidder, Sergeant, of Nootka Sound Detachment, for his input on
RCMP
structure and operational procedures in the area of the west coast of Vancouver Island, and to Ward Clapham and Chris Stewart, both retired
RCMP
officers, whose vast knowledge of that policing force has helped flesh out not only this story but also Dan Connor and his background. Barb McLintock, of the
BC
Coroner's Service, is owed thanks for her advice on the possible effects of immersion on a body, and Ed and Pat Kidder, former lightkeepers at the Nootka lighthouse, provided invaluable background on both life at a remote light station and the reality of living on Nootka Island (as well as great stories and cold beer).

Ray and Terry Williams, Cecilia James, Rose Jack, Michael Jacobson-Weston, and many others in many Native communities have done their best to educate me in the rich and complex traditions of their culture, and any errors or misrepresentations that appear here are entirely attributable to me. Thank you to each of you for your efforts and your generosity. Gilakas'la.

I was also assisted by the many stories and photographs provided by my mother- and father-in-law who spent their early years at the Nootka cannery and lived there from 1928 to 1937.

Lastly, Sanford Williams, a brilliant master carver whose work can be found not only in his studio in Yuquot but galleries and private collections around the world, generously allowed me to use his name, for which I am most grateful. Some of his work can be seen on his website:
www.sanfordwilliams.com
.

R.J. M
C
MILLEN
was born in England, raised in Australia, and now lives in Canada. Her passion for sailing has resulted in more than thirty years of exploring the Pacific Northwest, visiting the remote coastal communities that provide the background for the Dan Connor mystery series.

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