by Mike Cranny
He looked up. The bubble-defined, silvered hull of a large vessel, its engines throbbing, lay beside the tiny shape of his zodiac. He waited, wondering if he should surface immediately, or take some samples from the wreck first, something to prove his theory to Fricke. He decided on the latter, dropped to the bottom, picked up a small dish and a piece of metal, secured them in a pocket on his vest. He kept one eye on the hull right above him.
He almost didn’t see the divers passing like shadows not twenty feet away, three black figures armed with spear guns. They turned towards him. Archie rose from the bottom. The lead diver pointed his weapon and fired. Archie reacted immediately, finned backwards as the spear bubbled past. He kicked up sand with his fins, erasing visibility, and swam hard for the kelp forest. He heard the swish of propellers above him, knew that surfacing now would be a mistake. He checked his direction on his compass, and then headed in the direction of the shore.
When he reckoned he had gone far enough — and when he was almost out of air — he surfaced, rising up slowly into a raft of kelp fifty meters or so from the shore. He saw a dozen or so dozing harbour seals on a large rock and looked to the vessel pursuing him, a modified fishing trawler or maybe a Harbercraft. He tried reading the name on the stern but it swung away from him. An outboard whined to life near him — his zodiac — and he knew that they were using it to look for him.
The kelp provided some cover and he hoped that the slick, black neoprene of his hood would look like the bladders of the plant if he stayed still. The fact that the seals had scarcely looked in his direction was a good sign. He lowered his head slowly, face rubbing into the kelp stems, mouth barely out of the water, pulled off his mask lest a flash off the glass faceplate gave him away, grimaced against the salt water burning his eyes. His tank was now only an encumbrance. He made a decision, unclipped the straps on his vest and eased out of his rig.
The zodiac came closer — he felt the vibration of its outboard through the water; came closer to where he lay concealed. He scarcely breathed at all, fought the urge to turn and look, expecting that, at any moment, a metal spear would pierce his skull and kill him. And then he heard the throb of a diesel, the sound of another boat arriving. A walkie-talkie squawked and he heard a woman request instructions. Archie eased around to look.
A pleasure boat, seeing activity that looked much like a search, had come to investigate. As the boat closed with the trawler, the zodiac peeled out to intercept it. Its wake washed over Archie’s head and filled his mouth with salt water. From the kelp mat, he could see a trim woman in a wetsuit and hood standing in the bow of the zodiac as it ran up to meet the gill-netter; she had her feet braced, one hand on the painter like a circus rider. Her two companions sat on either pontoon of the boat, heads down, spear guns out of sight. The skipper came out of the pilothouse door to greet them. He wore dark glasses and a ball cap low over his forehead.
The zodiac came to a halt. The bow rider made a sweeping motion with her arm, indicating that they were searching for something in the Bay. The skipper said something in reply; the bow rider shook her head in polite refusal. The skipper nodded and went back into his pilothouse. Archie guessed that that he had been told that the group was diving, that they didn’t need any help but thanks anyway. Before Archie could do anything, the yacht had cruised out of the bay. At least, they hadn’t killed the man. Archie breathed a sigh of relief.
Archie knew that he only had a few minutes before they picked up the search again. He eased out of the kelp and let the current swing him past the rock. The seals watched with sorrowful, liquid eyes, half propped on their sides; some went back to sleep. Then the zodiac’s ignition whined. They had seen him! The outboard coughed and started with a roar. The seals woke, panicked, and splashed into the water. Archie gave up on stealth. Adrenalin flooded his body; he broke the surface, arms pumping in a free-style sprint, scarcely heard the roar of the zodiac as it spun round, slammed into its own wake and came after him.
He swam as fast he could, long strokes reaching ever for shore. In the shallows, he tore off his fins and let them go. At last, his feet touched bottom. He clambered up the slippery, wrack-covered rocks and onto the beach, ran pell-mell towards the bluffs that ringed the bay. A metal spear zinged past him and clattered off the shingle. He heard the rattling crunch behind him as the zodiac beached, heard the woman shout out orders. He dove into a thick line of alders, got to his feet, veered, climbed up the steep slope, traversing higher and higher, wishing he’d kept his training up.
The slope was overgrown with nettle, wild rose, and broom but he muscled through scraping thorns and heavy brush. At the top, he glanced over his shoulder; saw two of them paralleling him, running along the beach fifty feet below. He wished he knew the island better. He slid across a ridge of sandstone and then, suddenly, he was on an old deer trail and making speed. He got his second wind and felt better. His wetsuit helped protect him from thorns and branches that slid off the slick neoprene as he pushed on.
He slowed, allowed himself a pause to catch his breath. He heard a noise on the trail ahead and looked up to see — he had been headed off. One of them was waiting ahead of him, spear gun ready. As he swung it up to point at Archie’s chest, Archie charged, pushed the spear gun aside, and knocked the man off his feet. Something sang past his cheek — he felt the wind of its passage; knew that the others were close behind him. He sprinted for a thicket of Ocean Spray, and dove through it.
His momentum brought him to the edge of a steep ravine, off balance, unable to stop himself. He clawed for a handhold, missed, picked up speed, tumbled out of control down the slope, slammed hard into the corrugated trunk of a huge Douglas Fir and stopped. An aluminum spear spanged off the thick bark near his head. Painfully, he got to his feet, sidestepped a bush and dropped into nothing.
It was almost dark when he came to, learned by feel that he was caught in the crook of a heavy tree limb, held against the trunk, saw enough in the low light to know that he was twenty feet off the ground. He listened for the sounds of his pursuers but heard nothing. He hurt. He felt for broken bones, decided that, beyond a concussion and some scrapes plus the lingering ache of his Empire City injuries, he was all right.
Getting out of the tree seemed to take forever but he managed it. Then he made his way down the hill to the bottom of the gully. He was exhausted, cold and hungry. He picked his way along the old streambed but couldn’t find enough water to wash the salt out of his mouth. When he could go no farther, he climbed up the bank as far as he could manage, found a comfortable hollow amongst the roots of a giant cedar, snuggled deep into a pile of dead leaves and rested.
In the middle of the night, the rain began to fall. He leaned his head back and opened his mouth wide and drank the sweet water. He had seen withered salmonberries when he had gone to ground and found them now by touch. He ate handfuls; the normally gritty, tasteless fruit now seemed delicious. The moon came out. It made him more visible if he moved but he felt better nonetheless and some of his strength returned. Soon his teeth stopped chattering and he began to feel warm.
He thought about his options. He wasn’t quite sure how he could get home, but he would — hail a passing fish boat maybe. He knew one thing, which was that he wanted to find out who had attacked him and get the bastards. His eyes grew heavy. He watched an enormous banana slug begin its slow way across a patch of fungus. Before that creature had finished its transit, he had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 27
The combination of spent adrenaline, fear and sleeping rough had left Archie drained. At first light, he stumbled down through heavy brush until he reached the shore. There he got lucky. A passing fish boat answered his hail and sent in a dinghy to pick him up. By the time the captain dropped him off on a wharf close to home, Archie, wearing borrowed clothes and boots, had been fortified with two bowls of oatmeal, half a quart of orange juice, and lots of coffee. He felt better, went home to change and then headed to the station.
He debated about reporting what had happened but he owed Fricke. He found him in the coffee room. Fricke looked at Archie over the rim of the stained coffee mug he held in his beefy fingers.
“You look like death warmed over, Archie. Did you put in an all-nighter?”
“In a way. I spent last night on Cat’s Cradle Island.”
“What the blazes were you doing there?”
“I was diving — I’m entitled to time off — and then I got stranded.”
“You didn’t have a partner — and a boat?”
“I don’t believe in the buddy system. I had the department zodiac but lost it in the tide change. Just bad luck.”
Fricke looked sceptical but after a deep gulp from his mug, he shrugged.
“The zodiac’s tied up to the wharf. I saw it this morning. You were unlucky all right— or lucky. And don’t badmouth the buddy system.”
“Story of my life. Glad it’s back though. Wouldn’t want the cost to come out of my wages.”
Fricke held Archie’s eyes but Archie was determined not to give Fricke too much. Finally, Fricke turned away. He looked back over his shoulder.
“Remember what I said about results, Archie.”
“Sure.”
Archie had a lot to sort out, beginning with who had attacked him and why. The zodiac returned to the dock was a further mystery. He had had a better look at the big man with the spear gun than with the others but that didn’t help much. He had only had glimpses of the others; all had had worn neoprene scuba hoods making identification almost impossible. He ran a computer search through several databases, clicked through a dozen or so mug shots and got nothing. Then he called the dive shops he knew. His inquiries about missing zodiacs, divers, spear guns, and recent equipment rentals got him nowhere.
The attack had done one thing — it convinced him that many people had an interest in Nick’s activity. What had seemed to be a number of lines of inquiry that had little to do with each other on the surface were indeed connected — and Cat’s Cradle Island was, in some way, their nexus.
He had lost the wreckage artefacts but he was certain that they were from a luxury yacht and just as certain whose yacht it had been. Now he needed to find out more about the woman whose decapitated body was still in the morgue. If he could get an ID on the victims in the cave also, he might get closer to confirming his theory before Fricke got fed up and booted him off the case.
He went to his office, still deep in thought. Moments later, Patsy showed up at his door. When he looked up, hoping to look irritated enough that she’d leave him alone with his thoughts, she shook her head, came in and closed the door behind her. She walked up to his desk, shoved some paperwork out of her way and sat down on it, half-facing him.
“How are things in the House of Secrets?” she asked.
“Haven’t you got things to do, like getting me some DNA results, for example?”
“Those don’t happen overnight and you know it, Archie.”
“Alright.”
“The zodiac you used when you went diving turned up. Thought you might like to know that.”
“I heard.”
“Okay.”
She looked him over, searched his face with her eyes. Self-consciously, he leaned back in his desk, picked up a pencil and rapped it on the desk. He glanced at her, looked unexpectedly into her eyes, brown shot with green. Then, suddenly, he was describing what had happened to him. He had surprised himself. She seemed taken aback, concerned.
“Jeez! Did you tell Fricke?”
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “It’d complicate things for him but things are becoming slightly clearer for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember the coin and the reference to Brother Eli?”
She nodded.
“Thomas told me. Eli ran his little cult like a dictator. The Children, or Divine Spirits whatever they’re called, gave him everything they possessed. Some of them were very wealthy people so he got rich fast. The cult was secretive and used intimidation and murder to maintain control,” she said.
“That’s right. He also owned most of Cat’s Cradle Island — made it his base of operations. One of the odd things he did was to buy gold, maybe even have it stolen for him, and then melt it down and have it cast into coins with a dedication to him on it.”
“Like the coin Nick found.”
“I imagine that’s one of them.”
“But you’re not suggesting that the Children of Eli tried to kill you — surely.”
“The originals are all long gone so far as I know — or they’d be very old. I think there’s something still happening with that island but I just don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s just that somebody’s using their old networks, something like that.”
“Are you going back there, back to that island?”
“When I can, yes.”
“Will you take me with you?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“You need backup at least.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Can you do me a favour?”
“Like what?”
“Give me a ride home. My car’s being serviced.”
“I can do that. I need to go get something to eat anyway. Give me fifteen minutes.”
She signalled agreement by pointing her index finger at him emphatically, and then she was gone, leaving him wondering just what, in God’s name, he was up to with her.
In the car, she suggested that they have dinner together at her place and he searched for an objection. There were, indeed, many good professional reasons not to go but he couldn’t seem to think of any that would save him from himself. He was old enough and experienced enough to understand what was happening. Either she was falling for him, or the other way round. As they drove, the rain, which had been intermittent all day, committed itself. Outside the steamed windows, wind-whipped spume drummed against the vehicle as it splashed through the sheeting water covering the highway. The scanner mumbled and when he reached for it their hands touched. For a moment, neither moved until he said, “Turn that down, would you,” and put his hand back on the wheel.
The rain hammered down with renewed intensity and the car now boated down the flooded street. The heater seemed to be working overtime to steam up the windows and the windshield wipers barely helped; Archie’s ability to see anything beyond fifty feet or so was nil. The effect was isolating but he found it discomfortingly pleasant to be with her, alone, almost as if they were suspended in time. It was mesmerizing. He resolved to break the spell that he seemed to be weaving for himself with conversation.
“How are you liking the department?” he asked.
She leaned back against the door so that she could look at him. He sensed that she was amused by his tactic.
“I don’t know. I’m still making up my mind,” she said.
He hunkered over the wheel, peering through the windshield into the rain.
“I guess I haven’t made it easier.”
“You haven’t been real welcoming but I expected to have to learn my way around. I feel better about everything now.”
“What made you decide to become a cop?” he asked. “I looked into your employment file. You should be at a university — as a professor.”
He heard her shuffle around in the seat. He glanced at her. She lifted her shoulders, indicating she wasn’t sure.
“I wanted more action, I guess. Plus there were a couple of big headline cases involving women that made me think I could be of use.”
That took him by surprise. He started to retreat into his thoughts and caught himself before he got in too deep.
“How about you?” she asked. “According to Delia and Thomas, you used to be Hell on wheels when you were young. You used to be friends with half the criminals in town.”
“You’ve been asking about me?”
“You were checking up on me.”
“That’s different. You were supposed to be wor
king for me.”
“Anyway. Why did you change from bad apple to cop?” she asked.
He didn’t like being questioned and he told her so.
“No more questions then,” she said.
They drove on in silence for five minutes or so.
“Was it because of your mother like Delia says?”
“Delia doesn’t know anything.”
“It was because of your mother then.”
“Maybe.”
“She was one of the street women murdered by Foster, wasn’t she?”
“None of your damn business.”
“You don’t need to get upset.”
“I’m not upset. I’m private. I don’t like people asking about me, or discussing me, or trying to figure out my motives, okay?”
“Okay. Sorry I said anything. I just thought it might be something we could both relate to.”
He laughed bitterly.
“Both relate to — are you kidding? You’re a professor’s daughter with a hobby — catching serial killers. I don’t know what I am.”
“I’m sorry, Archie.”
He stared into the night, his hands loose on the wheel.
“She was my mother. My kid brother died and she thought it was her fault — or my old man’s — I never could figure that out. She started drinking; they split up; she took up with a loser and ended up on the streets. When I was thirteen, I went looking for her. I found her and she promised to come home. And then Foster got her. If the cops on the mainland had done their work properly, he would have been caught years before. Maybe she would have come home. I like to think so. First I hated all cops, hated everybody. Then I decided that I could do something; that I could be the better cop and maybe save lives. Now I know better. I’ve grown up since then. Satisfied?”
