The River Killers (7 page)

“
Western Marauder, James Sinclair
. Morning, skipper. What are you gentlemen up to this morning?”

“We're at the top end of Spiller. We've been sounding since four and we've identified maybe a thousand or fifteen hundred tons. As soon as it's light we'll try a set and see what we get.”

“Thanks for that, skipper. We're especially interested in the size of the females, so measure as many as you can.” I glanced inquiringly at Pete and he took the mike.

“Hi Jimmy, it's Pete here. One other thing. We want to make sure the samples are as representative as possible. Could you ask your power skiff crew to grab a few buckets from along the cork line?”

“Roger that, Pete. We're gonna have breakfast now and then get to work. Talk to you later.”

Another radio came to life. “
James Sinclair
,
Northern Queen
.” That was our other test boat, farther south toward Seaforth Channel. As I reached for the mike to answer him, the sideband issued its typical metallic buzz and the northern report began from Prince Rupert. And then a second
VHF
began issuing the marine traffic report at the same time as the seven o'clock weather report started on weather channel 2.

I'd lost the knack of listening to five radios at once but there were enough of us there to absorb all the pertinent information. A single seine boat skipper could have listened to and processed all the information as a matter of course. I didn't like to think about what this implied about the ability of a few
DFO
personnel to manage hundreds of fishermen.

Streaks of red began to appear over the eastern mountains. The white peaks of the coastal range took on an orange tinge against the brilliant blue sky. It was going to be a beautiful day. I looked at George Kelly, captain of the
James Sinclair
. “Let's go for a cruise. See what we can find.”

He nodded and picked up the intercom. “Can we get a couple of guys to pull the hook?” It wasn't really a question, and almost instantaneously we heard a click and a hum as an unseen deckhand engaged the hydraulics. As the anchor chain rumbled onto the winch, George casually positioned himself at the wheel. He turned on the Wesmar sonar and adjusted the range on the sounder. The anchor clunked on board, and George raised an eyebrow at me. I looked at Pete, who shrugged.

“Let's head up Spiller and look at the eastern shore,” I said. “I want to see if there's anything schooling up in the shallows.”

George pushed the throttle forward and the powerful engines quickly accelerated the big grey boat to her cruising speed of twelve knots. It was quiet in the wheelhouse, but I knew that the engines were producing almost as many decibels as horsepower, which was why fishermen liked the
James Sinclair.
It couldn't sneak up on anyone. As we headed for Spiller Channel, all eyes were on the sonar and the sounder. The sonar showed a pattern of radiating lines, like the sun's rays. If schools of fish were present, the lines would become brighter and indicate the direction and distance of the school. The sounder gave us a picture of what lay directly beneath the boat. Usually it just showed the ocean bottom as a solid red line, but if schools of fish were beneath us they would show up as light blue or yellow smears depending on their density. Really dense schools, such as big bunches of herring, would show up as solid red just like the bottom, so you had to know the bathymetry of the area.

When we were about one mile off the eastern shore, the sonar lines flickered and intensified, indicating a large school about forty-five degrees to starboard and about a quarter mile away. George turned us toward the fish and, as we closed on them, our eyes turned to the sounder. As we passed directly over the school, the flat red line of the bottom bulged into a red semi-sphere that started at about thirty fathoms and ended just above the bottom at sixty fathoms.

“Fifty to seventy-five tons,” I said. “What do you think?”

“Maybe a little more,” said Pete. “Definitely worth setting on.”

“Depends on how much time in the opening. And how lucky you feel.”

And that was how we spent the rest of the day. We covered a transect about a mile off, all down the eastern shore of Spiller Channel. We saw four more schools in the fifty- to one-hundred-ton range and one big school of about three hundred tons.

At intervals during the day, the two test boats came on the air with details of their sets. The fish they caught were sampled and then released, or more accurately, samples of fish were taken from the sets, tested for roe content and then dumped overboard. Unfortunately for them, they were not at that point, active swimmers. All the tests showed roe percentages from eight to ten and an even split between males and females. No spawned-out females, and no slinks or spawned-out males. The females were a little on the small side, ranging from sixteen to eighteen centimeters.

Through no design of mine, we ended the day at the southern end of the channel, near Yeo Cove. I suggested we drop anchor and spend the night there, and no one objected.

When Pete and I held our pre-conference conference, we both agreed that it was early yet, that there were no indications of mass spawn, but that it was time to send the plane up looking for early spot spawns. If the plane saw short stretches of shallow water turned white by milt, it would start to give us an indication of where the major spawn might occur. And if it reported miles and miles of white water, we would know that our estimations were wrong and we damn well better get the fleet ready to go.

That night we updated the fleet, fielded a few questions, refereed a couple of arguments and noted that the fleet stress level was just starting to build. No frothing at the mouth yet, but stomach acid was starting to rise.

Later, as I lay in my bunk, I started going over Crowley's journals in greater detail. I was still only skimming them, but getting a good idea of the type of information they contained. The daily entries were mostly about prawns. He was, after all, a prawn fisherman. But if he saw a fish jump, he reported it. He was very specific about species and abundances of marine mammals, as well as birds. And all species information was correlated with information about weather and sea state, tide, temperature, and salinity. As well, he made occasional comments on unusual events that might affect the marine environment; things such as heavy boat traffic, unusual amounts of garbage, and oil slicks.

I went over the last journal even more carefully, looking for indications of changes in his mental state or specific events that might have caused a suicidal depression. There was nothing that even hinted at depression, or any change in mood or personality. There was nothing unusual at all until the last four days of the journal.

April 8: After several references to seeing large herring balls, he ends the day's entry with the cryptic comment
Kelp is late.

April 9: At low tide, he collects several sunfish, which he will dry and use for prawn bait. Comments on Mergansers feeding in shallows. He finishes the entry with,
Still no Kelp.

April 10: He works on gear, comments on abnormally warm water temperature, and writes,
I wonder what's the problem with the Kelp?

April 11: The final entry. I couldn't help but pore over every word. These were the last observations of a dedicated scientist who was recording information about a unique area with a thoroughness that would never be repeated. His final words:
I can see the Kelp.

These references puzzled me because in April you would not expect to see very much kelp anywhere on the coast. It was not the growing season. At best, you would find straggling remnants of the previous summer's crop.

On April 12, Mark had dropped by and asked to borrow the journals. The next day, Crowley had shot himself. I tried to arrange the bits of information into a coherent pattern but nothing made sense. I couldn't accept that Crowley's mind, orderly and rational and disciplined, could have unraveled so quickly into the nihilistic scream of suicide. On the other hand, his inexplicable concerns with kelp might have been the first hint of a mind reeling into chaos. The end might have been as predictable as it was inevitable: the blood-spattered triumph of entropy over the ordered system that had been Alistair Crowley.

I stared blankly at the bottom of the bunk above me. Every time an emergent thought threatened to coalesce into meaning, it dissolved just as quickly. Eventually so did my consciousness and I drifted into sleep. I should have dreamt about Crowley, been confronted by his pale ghost festooned with fronds of bull kelp. And screamed silently as he wrapped me in his cold embrace. But I slept a dreamless sleep and woke before the engines did.

It was only six when
I shuffled into the galley expecting to have to fumble around with coffee makings, but the aroma of brewing coffee greeted me like an old friend. George was already up and the first batch of mud was almost ready. I shouldn't have been surprised. Skippers don't sleep much and are always the first up. I was never sure if they became skippers because they didn't sleep much or didn't sleep much because they had become skippers.

When the coffeemaker gurgled to the end of its cycle, I poured two cups and took them over to the table.

“Morning, George. Looks like it could be a nice day.” I spoke in the slightly hushed tone of one who knows there are others still sleeping.

He took one of the mugs and sipped it black while I diluted mine with canned milk. “Cheers. Yeah, the forecast says the high pressure will hold for seventy-two hours anyways.”

“George, I want to poke around Yeo Cove. How 'bout I take a Zodiac and meet you guys back at Shearwater? You can check out the west side on your way back.”

“You're the boss, but hell, there's no problem with that. Just take a portable
VHF
in case you run into trouble.”

I nodded and took another sip of coffee. I felt a quiet surge of excitement.

“You think you might find something important Crowley left behind?”

I'd forgotten that George had been around long enough to know all the stories and have heard all the rumors. I felt embarrassed and a little ashamed now at the prospect of poking through a dead man's effects. George had a different slant on it.

“He was a strange guy. Watch out for booby traps.” He rose and headed for the wheelhouse. I could hear him turning on radios as I sat and tried to think. I thought I should go and brush my teeth, so I did.

The red streaks of dawn were just beginning to fade from the sky as we launched the Zodiac. A cold yellow orb masqueraded as the sun. Shivering, I took my bag of sandwiches and large thermos of coffee and jumped into the boat.

The Zodiac was eighteen feet long, very light, and powered by twin 150-horse outboards. I turned the key and the engines burbled into life. Blue exhaust smoke wafted in gentle eddies.
Well,
I thought, as I grasped the throttle,
let's see what this little baby will do.

What it did was thrill me indecently. In about two seconds, I was skimming over the water at thirty knots but it felt like fifty. My job didn't afford the same access to big-boy toys that some guys enjoyed.
DFO
didn't have, for example, any F-16 jet fighters, so this little Zodiac would have to suffice. I always appreciated the occasional fantasy fulfillment that came my way as part of an otherwise dull job. And because Angelina Jolie was unlikely to show up asking about sockeye enhancement, going fast in a rubber toy was about as fulfilling as my fantasies were going to get.

The wind was cruelly cold and I soon had to slow down. With the windchill factor reduced to a bearable level, I cruised into Yeo Cove. Tucked into a little nook within the bay was a rickety float to which was tied the
Jessie Isle
, a beautifully maintained forty-five-foot wooden ex-troller that was, or had been, Crowley's boat. And at the far end of the float, behind stacks of prawn traps and coils of ground line, was the neat little float house that had been Crowley's home.

I tied up behind the
Jessie Isle
and sat for a moment, looking around. My skin warmed in the absence of wind and it occurred to me that a coffee would go down well. My numb fingers unscrewed the thermos cap and I slopped coffee into the cup. I held it with both hands and sipped slowly. I considered having a sandwich, but my stomach was not in an accepting mood. I was, I realized, hesitant to step onto the float.

Where had the body been found? Would there still be bloodstains? I shook off my squeamishness and carefully set foot on the slippery planks. I walked past the
Jessie Isle
and admired her unblemished hull and varnished cap rails.
I should have a look at the log,
I thought, and climbed aboard. As I reached for the galley door handle, I heard the whine of an approaching outboard and guiltily stepped back.

A Zodiac approached, bigger than mine, and as it neared, I could see that it carried two
RCMP
officers. As it got nearer still, I could make out that one was female. When they came alongside, I saw her face flushed with wind and cold, and when she flashed a smile and threw me a line, I was smitten.

When she stepped onto the float, she stuck out a hand and introduced herself. “Staff Sergeant Louise Karavchuk, Bella Bella Detachment. And this,” indicating the boat driver, “is Aboriginal Community Constable Gordon Wilson.”

I explained who I was and, hedging a bit, why I was there. “Alistair was sort of a colleague, or ex-colleague, of mine. I can't believe he killed himself.” And then, hesitantly, “Who found the body?”

She gave me a direct look. Her eyes were an ordinary brown but they sparkled or glimmered or shone, or something, in a way that needed studying. I forced myself not to stare as her lips formed words. “He was found by the Heiltsuk Fisheries Guardians who stopped by regularly to share information with him.”