Black Tide Rising (9 page)

At least the air was warming up a bit now that the sun was getting higher, but his wet clothes were sticking to his skin, leaching the heat out of his body and making every step a torture. His feet were so cold in his soggy runners he could barely feel them. Between all that, and the goddamn salal, and having to drag the stupid, bleating cow along with him, it was damn near impossible to stay upright.

He glanced up through the trees at a small patch of blue sky that was slowly being pushed south by a mass of dark clouds. They didn't seem to be moving fast, but they were moving, and they were headed this way. Another goddamn problem.

“Please!”

That voice squeaked again, and he gave a vicious tug on the rope he had tied around her skinny wrists.

“Shut the fuck up!” he snarled, wishing for perhaps the twentieth time that he had killed both of the assholes right there when they had interrupted his search. Why the hell hadn't he? So she was a woman. So what? He hadn't been thinking right, that's what. He had been upset by finding the totem empty, and he was already wired by doing the kid. He had known he didn't have a lot of time to look around—dawn came early at this time of the year—and if he didn't find the stuff, Pat and Carl would be back to get it, and then he'd be a goddamn laughingstock.

He had stumbled up to the old cemetery, tripping on roots and rocks and shit. He hadn't really looked at the old graves the other times he had been there, hadn't cared a damn about them then and didn't now, but he did remember that there had been all kinds of stuff left there with them—carved poles, old sewing machines, dolls, even a pair of shoes. If Pat and Carl hadn't been able to use the old totem, any of those would have worked to hide the stuff. And he'd been right. He'd found it. It was right there under one of the fallen poles. He'd seen the signs of disturbance in the exposed earth, which gleamed in the moonlight where the old wood had been moved. He had actually had the stuff in his hand, had been about to open the bag to take a look, when some instinct had made him turn around to make sure he was alone, and he'd seen her. She'd been standing down there on the beach beside the kid, looking like an apparition or a ghost or something with her weird white hair and white coat glowing almost silver. He'd been so spooked by her appearance he had almost dropped the stuff, but he'd had enough smarts to hide it again. Someplace different, of course, where Pat and Carl couldn't find it.

Hell, she'd come out of nowhere like some kind of fucking night spirit that would disappear with the dawn or would give him some protection or something. Protection? Shit. Truth was, she was just a nuisance. A problem he needed to take care of.

He could feel the knife pressing against his hip, and he let his fingers run along its contours. He could always do it now—her body probably wouldn't be found for months in this thick tangle of vegetation. Maybe never. But the truth was he didn't really know if he had the stomach for it. He wasn't a stone-cold murderer. He had never killed anyone who didn't deserve it. Not on purpose anyway. Wouldn't have done it this time if the two of them hadn't surprised him like that. First the kid, lying there in the grass, and then the woman appearing out of the gloom. They had scared the shit out of him. Killing the kid was just a gut reaction, over before he knew what was happening. Not really his fault—although the cops wouldn't see it that way. They'd throw the whole fucking book at him. Lock him away for life. Assholes.

He glanced back at the skinny form stumbling along behind him. She was really slowing him down. Maybe he should just do it. In for one, in for the other. What difference would it make? It would sure make it easier if he didn't have to keep dragging her along. There were still close to eighteen miles to go, if his figuring was correct, and all of them would be tough. And then there was food. Jesus! He hadn't thought of that. He could find enough for himself, but it would be harder feeding two—impossible, because how would he get it if he had to keep hold of her? She'd take off the second he took his eyes off her—although he could always tie her to a tree.

But what would he do with her when they got to the lagoon? He couldn't flag down a boat or a seaplane if he had her with him. And what would he do with her after that? Shit! What the hell was he doing? He had to pull himself together. She had seen him kill the kid. She was a witness, for God's sake. He should never have dragged her out here. He had to get rid of her. Now!

His hand found the knife again, and he slid it out of its sheath, letting his fingers test the edge on the blade. His eyes rested on the woman's bedraggled figure for a moment, taking in the pleading eyes staring back at him, pale lashes spiky and wet with tears. He could tell just by looking at her that she was on the brink of yet another whine. Hell, it would only take a second. One quick jab and it would be over. He wouldn't even have to move the body; he could just push it down into the thick mounds of salal. Easy.

He had leaned in toward her, his hand reaching out for her arm as he prepared to pull her in tight against him, when he heard a noise. Voices. They were faint, but they were there, and in some strange way they sounded close. What the hell? Was nothing going to go right?

He relaxed the rope as he took a step toward the clifftop he thought the voices were coming from. It sounded like there were four people, maybe two men and two women. They were close enough that he could make out the odd word, but they were distorted, with a strange, almost hollow quality. Sort of like an echo. Of course! He wasn't the only one who knew about this trail, even though it was remote and rough. There were always assholes wanting to prove how tough they were. These had to be hikers, and they were down below on the beach. They had to have come in from the other end, from the lagoon. It would take them a while to make it up the cliff. They might even spend a little time on the beach before they started up, but sooner or later they would make the climb. They had to. The tide would force them up. And then what? He couldn't let them see him. The only option was to go back—but that was impossible. They would have found the kid's body by now and there would be cops all over the place. He had to keep going. He looked into the bush. Maybe he could make his own trail. Stay close to the trees where the salal was thinnest until he found one of the logging roads that wandered across the island.

He turned back to the woman. She hadn't moved, probably hadn't even heard the voices. She was still standing exactly where he had left her, her feet stuck deep in the salal and her eyes wide, looking like a deer caught in a hunting lamp. Stupid bitch. He would be doing the world a favor getting rid of her. He started back toward her, and as he moved, his foot caught on a root, catapulting him forward into the undergrowth. He put his hands out to break his fall and felt both the rope and the knife slip from his fingers even as he heard the crash of footsteps. The woman had come to life, startled out of her stupor by his fall. Shit!

He struggled to push himself up, his fingers scrabbling through the salal for the knife. Goddamn it to hell. If she made it to the top of the cliff where the hikers could see her, it would be all over—although maybe he could come up behind her and give her a push. Yeah. If he did it right, they'd never see him. Make it look like she had fallen.

He jabbed his hands through the tangled branches, feeling them tear his skin and rip his fingernails. He had to find the damn knife. He would never be able to make it without it—he needed it for food as well as taking care of business. He pushed a little to the right, and then to the left, forcing his hands back in through the tough foliage. Finally his searching fingers felt the smooth wood of the handle. Yes! Maybe his luck was changing. There was no way they could pin the kid on him if they didn't even know he was on the island, and if he could get rid of the woman, maybe make it look like an accident, he'd be free and clear.

He had to move quickly, though, before whoever was down below realized he was there. He stood up and looked back toward the ocean, sure the whiny bitch would have headed for the voices, but he saw only open sky along the edge of the cliff. Where the hell had she gone? Why wasn't she screaming? Calling out to the people below? Had she jumped? Fallen?

The sound of feet crashing through the bush intruded again, a little quieter now. Farther away. Shit! She had gone the other way. Into the bush instead of toward the beach. She had to be crazy—or maybe just stupid. But it didn't matter. Might even work out better. He could catch up with her, easy. Just have to drag her a bit farther through the bush. Although maybe he could just follow her—that would be even easier—and when they were well away from the coast, he could simply leave her. Walk away by himself. There was no way someone so useless could find her own way out. She would die in there, and his problem would be solved.

Dan passed the phone back to Gene, his mind still reeling from the conversation he had just had with Mike. He was back on the force. Margrethe's disappearance was now his case. And he had a murder to investigate. He couldn't take it all in. He glanced down at the piece of paper he held in his hand. He needed to call this guy—the commander of the North Island Division—and find out just what the hell was going on.

He looked up to find Gene and Mary staring at him.

“So you're a cop again?” Gene asked.

Dan smiled and shook his head. “That's what the man said, but I'm not sure he can really do that.”

“Sounded pretty certain to me.”

Dan snorted. “Yeah, Mike always sounds certain. Figures it's his job to sound certain. Thinks that way everyone will believe him. But I've known him to pull more than a few con jobs when he wants to get his own way.” He waved the piece of paper. “I'll call this guy from the boat and see what he has to say.”

“Does this mean you can follow up on that trail Walker saw?” Mary asked.

He looked at her. “Maybe. But I really won't know till I've talked to …” He looked down at the paper again. “Gary Markleson. He's in charge of the north island for the
RCMP
. Do you guys know him?”

They both shook their heads, and just then a gust of wind swept off the ocean and raced through the gap below the walkway, setting up a discordant hum in the metal that immediately drew their attention to the oncoming storm. Dan looked out the window. There were small streaks of white on the water.

“I'd better get going. The sooner I leave the better—and Walker will be wondering where I am. Keep in touch, okay?”

—

Walker was sitting in his canoe at the end of the float, apparently talking to someone on the cabin cruiser they had seen come in earlier. As soon as he saw Dan approaching, he ended the conversation with a brief wave and pushed off. The little powerboat let go its lines and headed back the way it had come as Walker paddled toward
Dreamspeaker
's stern.

“Must have been a good breakfast,” he said as Dan let his dinghy drift in beside Walker's canoe. “Me and old Jackson could smell the bacon all the way down here.”

Dan nodded absently, his mind still churning as he watched the old powerboat head back out of the cove. “He that friend of Sanford's you were talking about?”

“Yeah,” Walker answered. “He's looking for his grandson. The kid keeps running away. Usually comes here. Ray and Sanford keep an eye out for him.”

A surge of adrenalin brought every nerve in Dan's body to full alert, and his gaze riveted on Walker. “Say again? His grandson? How old is this kid?”

Walker looked at him. “What? You know something about him? He up at the light or something?”

Dan stared back at him, unable to answer, his mind racing. This had to be the kid Mike was talking about. The kid whose body had been found in Kyuquot. The kid whose blood was on the driftwood. And that was his grandfather who had just motored past only moments ago. A man Dan needed to talk to—at least, if he really was back on the force and working the case.

He shook his head. It was all happening too fast. He needed time to get himself together. To get back into his old persona. But even as that thought coalesced, another one formed: did he really want to?

Walker was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“No,” Dan said. “He's not up at the light. Just Gene and Mary and Jens. And Margrethe is still missing.” He climbed onto the grid and started to hook the dinghy up to the davits.
Dreamspeaker
was bucking at the end of her rope, the water in the cove already restless. “But I did hear from Mike, and he gave me a bunch of new information.” He tightened the straps, then reached down to pull the canoe up onto the grid. “Can you lift that end? We can tie it on the grid. It'll be too rough to tow it. We'll get everything squared away and get under way and then I'll bring you up to date.”

They got both of the small vessels secured, and Dan went forward to the wheelhouse, leaving Walker to follow. By the time Dan had the engine warmed up and the course entered into the computer, Walker had joined him, easing himself into the chair at the navigation station. Neither man spoke as Dan nudged the ship up on the anchor, hauling in the heavy chain until the last link was snugged to the winch.

“You get hold of those guys you were talking about?” Dan asked as
Dreamspeaker
nosed out into the open water of the sound.

“Yeah. They'll be waiting for us at Esperanza.”

“Huh,” said Dan. “So is this another ‘learning to be Indian' camp?” He hadn't forgotten Walker's description of the camp they had received assistance from the previous year.

Walker laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “You could call it that.”

“You got a lot of these camps?” Dan asked.

“Not as many as we should have,” Walker answered, his voice suddenly serious. “We already lost four generations to the white man's schools. Can't afford to lose another one to bright lights and booze.”