Black Tide Rising

by R. J. McMillen

  Dan rowed slowly into the deepest part of the lagoon, gliding over the shallow bottom, with its clusters of orange and purple sea stars, and letting his senses absorb the movements and sounds and contours of this remote and secluded waterway. He knew there was no chance of finding Margrethe and her abductor here. They wouldn’t have had time to make it this far even if Margrethe was a willing participant, which he figured was pretty well impossible. What he wanted to do was familiarize himself with the shoreline and get to know the area well enough that when he returned, he would be able to recognize things that were out of place. What he needed to do was find the entrance to the trail.

  He found it at the very end of the lagoon. There was an opening in the trees where a glimpse of pale sky formed a line through the dark canopy. It was partially hidden behind a jumbled mound of driftwood. Anyone exiting the trail would have to scramble over the piled logs first and then wade out into the lagoon through a patch of weeds and grasses to a waiting boat or floatplane. It wouldn’t be easy, and it certainly wouldn’t be fast, which meant that a water-taxi operator or a floatplane pilot would have plenty of time to call in a description to the Tahsis detachment.

  Dan scribbled a note to himself to check that both Tahsis and Gold River had contacted all the floatplane and water-taxi companies, and then he turned the motor on and headed out of the lagoon. There was another entrance to the trail at the bottom of Louie Bay, where it narrowed into a tidal channel barely wide enough for the dinghy to pass through, leading out almost to the open ocean.

  The second entrance was easier to find than the first, but it would be harder for anyone using it. The rocks were jagged and wet, swept with sea spray, and huge logs thrown up by past storms were wedged into the crevices. Low tide might make it a little more accessible, but it would still be an awkward passage, and it too would be slow. Good. Time to get back to Dreamspeaker and call Markleson.

  —

  The call to Markleson took less than five minutes. The coast guard was out checking the beaches, and both Tahsis and Gold River detachments were on the alert. They, in turn, had called all the local floatplane and water-taxi operators. They had also talked to the people who ran the Uchuck, the supply ship for all the remote communities in the area, and to a couple of crew-boat operators based in Zeballos. No one had reported a request for a pickup, and the coast guard hadn’t reported a sighting.

  Dan put the microphone in its bracket and went back out on deck. It was not yet noon, the mist had completely cleared, and there was a small patch of blue sky off to the west. There was nothing more he could do except wait. He knew Walker would call him if he found anything—or if Jared and his group came across anyone.

  He looked north, back toward the outer entrance to Esperanza Inlet and the northwest tip of Nootka Island, a point of land that formed Nuchatlitz Marine Park, where Claire would be spending much of her time once she arrived. She had told him it was one of the most important habitats for the sea otter population she was studying, and the islets and reefs surrounding it were home to numerous tide pools where she could observe intertidal life. They had talked about it over a glass of wine the evening before he left, and Dan had found himself catching her excitement, although his was directed more toward the archaeological sites that were a feature of the park. The Nuu-chah-nulth people had lived in the area for over four thousand years, and their story was written in the buried remains of their ancient villages and in the middens that surrounded them. A desire to understand their history was yet another thing Walker had awoken in him.

  It was a quick trip across the open entrance of Nuchatlitz Inlet to the park, and the shallow draft of the inflatable let Dan navigate through the reefs easily. He didn’t have a lot of time to spend here, but an hour couldn’t hurt. As he dodged jagged pinnacles of rock skirted with seafoam, and wove through groups of tiny wave-washed islets, he suddenly realized he was following almost the same path Darrel’s small body would have taken on its journey to Aktis Island. The thought sobered him, and he looked out across the water, seeking some sign of the current that had carried it. His brain conjured an image of a wide river surging north through the ocean, its surface smooth and dark, but in fact there was nothing except the oblivious march of the waves on their relentless passage from Japan.

  He pushed the image from his mind. It was time to get back to Dreamspeaker and to reality. He needed to check in with the locals and find out what was happening. He steered the inflatable back in, closer to shore, and turned it south. A flash of light off to his left caught his attention, but he was too far away to see what had caused it. Probably a piece of glass on the beach. Nuchatlitz was getting to be a popular destination for kayakers and campers, and the beaches were no longer pristine.

  The flash came again. And then again. Curiosity made him slow the motor and turn toward it. He thought the three flashes had been regular and fairly close together. Maybe something metallic or glass floating in the water, catching the light as it rose and fell on the waves. A fishing ball, perhaps, or a piece of flotsam from the tsunami in Japan rolling in the shallows.

  Dan nosed the dinghy into a cluster of small islets that stood off the shore, and as he emerged on the other side, three more flashes winked out at him. These were regular too, but farther apart. He reached for the binoculars he always carried in his pack, but before he could lift them out, yet another three flashes winked in quick succession, and a surge of adrenalin coursed through his bloodstream, replacing curiosity with a sense of urgency. SOS. The universal call for help. Someone was in trouble.

  The beach he had glimpsed was tiny, set deep into a cleft in the shore. It was also empty. Dan steered as close as he dared and scanned the rocks that surrounded it. The wave surge and the spray made it difficult to see anything, and the wet black basalt reflected the light and hid the rocks’ contours. He was close enough to feel the undertow as the water surged, rebounded, then surged again, and he worked the engine to hold the boat as steady as he could. There had been no more flashes, but perhaps that was because his angle of view had changed.

  The shoreline curved sharply east in a deep indentation, and the beach disappeared from sight. There was no way the signal could have originated from this side—the rocky cape would have hidden it completely. Dan reversed his course and motored back. He couldn’t go any slower, and he couldn’t get any closer. He would just have to hope that the change in angle allowed him to see whoever had sent that call for help.

  He crept past the rocks, fighting the waves and the water, letting his eyes roam across the jumbled mass of rock as he searched for a sign of something alien: a shape, a flash of color, a movement. Anything. He was almost back to the beach when he saw it, and even then he wasn’t sure. There was a hint of yellow. A narrow line of bright color that disappeared from view almost the same second he saw it. It hadn’t looked natural.

  He turned the dinghy again, focused on the area where he had seen it. There! Now that he knew where to look, it was a little easier to locate, but it was still impossible to identify. Was it where the signal had originated? Why were there no further flashes?

  He tried to nose the little boat in closer, but the wave surge threw him back. There was no way he was going to be able to check it out from this side. He would have to go back to the beach and scramble out over the rocks. It would be dangerous, but not as dangerous as trying to go in by sea, and at least there was a chance of succeeding.

  Once again he reversed direction, but this time he headed straight for the beach, increasing his speed until the dinghy was bouncing off the tops of the waves. The sound of the propeller dropped to a low growl as it dug into the water and rose to an ear-piercing whine as it spun uselessly in the air. He couldn’t judge the dangers. If he came down in a trough and hit a rock, it would be all over, but he needed the speed. He could think of only one reason why the flashes would have stopped.

  The beach was smooth, the crushed shell so white it was almost silver. Dan pulled up the prop just
before it hit the bottom and allowed the shallow vee of the rigid hull to drive up and settle into the sand. He grabbed the emergency medical kit and a length of rope he kept on hand, and then stumbled over to the rocks. Thank God he had worn gloves. They protected his hands as he clawed his way up onto the outcropping and started across. He didn’t dare stand up. If he slipped, or a rogue wave caught him, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He crawled crab-like across the surface, his fingers searching for crevices to hang on to, his toes slipping as he pushed himself forward. He was soaked to the skin in seconds.

  Five minutes became ten. Ten became fifteen. He felt as if he’d run a marathon, yet he was only sixty yards from where he had started. But he was close to where he needed to be. Just beyond his fingertips, the rock curved down toward the water. To his right there was a dark shadow, duller than the surrounding rock, which might indicate a narrow cleft. If he was correct, that was where he had seen the flash of color.

  He edged closer, his eyes narrowed against the salt spray, and peered over the edge. The sunlight only reached a few feet down, and sea foam filled the darkness below that, but there was something there. It wasn’t yellow, but it was something.

  A wave broke against the base of the rocks, sending a column of water shooting up into the cleft. Dan saw movement and realized he was seeing the flap of a jacket lifting. There was a quick flash of yellow—maybe a life vest or a sweater, and then a pale hand reached out and pushed against the rock.

  “Hey!” Dan yelled, all discomfort forgotten. “Up here!”

  The water sucked back down, and the darkness returned. It made a perfect backdrop for the white face that slowly twisted around to look up at him.

  —

  There was no way Dan could get down to whomever it was, and no way the man could get up, so the rope was the only possibility. Dan inched back a few feet to get away from the worst of the spray and then sat up and slid the braided nylon off his shoulder. His fingers were so cold they kept fumbling the rope as he tried to form a slipknot, but finally it was done. He lay down again and crawled back to the cleft.

  “You still there?” he shouted.

  The pale face appeared again.

  “I’m going to drop a rope down. There’s a loop in the end of it. See if you can get it under your arms.”

  The hand that reached up moved in slow motion, and Dan knew there wasn’t much time. He watched as the rope was pulled down, inch by agonizing inch, and fought the urge to scream in frustration at being a bystander unable to do more than watch. He knew that anything else he did now would only make it worse. Distract rather than enable.

  With his free hand he reached into a pocket and removed his VHF radio. He needed to get help fast. Even if he succeeded in pulling this guy out of the crevice, he couldn’t get him over the rocks and into the dinghy by himself.

  Dan saw the rope slip under one arm, and he carefully moved the end he was holding in an effort to help the process. The other arm was going to be harder. The crevice was not perpendicular, and the angle meant that the man’s body weight was pressed to one side.

  Moving the rope to his left hand, Dan checked that the radio was set to Channel 16 and pressed the talk button.

  “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. This is Dan Connor.”

  He kept the radio close to his mouth and his eyes on the man struggling below.

  “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday,” he repeated.

  VHF radio was line-of-sight. All he could see here was open ocean. Would anyone hear him?

  “Dan Connor. This is the Uchuck.” The voice that boomed back at him was so clear Dan found himself looking around for the ship itself.

  “Uchuck. This is Dan Connor.”

  “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  Dan explained the situation and described his location as well as he could. He didn’t have GPS on the dinghy, but he knew this would all be familiar territory to the crew of the supply boat. They plied these waters seven days a week.

  “We have notified the coast guard and will have someone out to you in about ten minutes.” The response was calm and confident.

  Less than ten minutes later Dan heard the roar of an outboard, and an inflatable with three men aboard appeared around the point. He called the Uchuck again, and between them, they guided the dinghy in to the beach.

  The Uchuck crew members knew what they were doing. One of them snapped on a harness, and the other two quickly lowered him into the crevice. In less than ten minutes they had lifted the unknown man out onto the rocks, wrapped him in a blanket, and were tending to his most obvious wound, a gash on the side of his head.

  “The captain called the coast guard. They’re sending out a chopper to medevac him to Campbell River.” The leader of the rescue team clicked off his radio.

  “Think he’s going to make it?” Dan asked.

  “I don’t have enough medical training to make a guess. He has to be pretty tough to have made it this long. I guess if he can beat the hypothermia, he should be okay.”

  Dan nodded. “Be good to know how he got here.”

  “Couldn’t have come far. Water’s too cold to survive for very long. Might have come overland from one of the coves or inlets. The whole park is riddled with them.”

  “Any of you check his pockets for ID?”

  “No. And we can’t do it now either. That blanket’s probably all that’s keeping him alive. It’s got a couple of heat packs in it. You lose the heat, you’re going to lose him.”

  —

  The Uchuck crew left as soon as the coast guard helicopter arrived, and Dan left soon after. He would call Markleson as soon as he got back to Dreamspeaker to have him check for any reports of missing people and to ask him to put out a request for the public to keep a lookout for an abandoned boat. He also wanted to follow up with the hospital at Campbell River. He needed to find out who the man was and what had happened to him. It could have been just an accident, but there was something about that head wound that suggested otherwise. And the timing was suspicious too. Maybe it was just a coincidence—but Dan didn’t believe in coincidence.

  • SEVENTEEN •

  Deep in the old cedars, the only sounds were the rushing of the wind through the branches and the occasional scurrying of animals. The salal that had scratched and gouged her skin as she pushed her way through it had been replaced by sword ferns, most of them taller than Margrethe herself, and the ground where she crouched was soft and wet. She was exhausted, so tired she had actually fallen asleep standing up the previous night, her arms wrapped around a tree, but she hadn’t slept long. The noises of the forest had woken her, and she had pressed herself closer to the damp bark, trying to become invisible, trying to disappear, willing herself to be anywhere but where she was.

  It hadn’t worked, of course. This was the third day of her nightmare. Three nights earlier she had returned to her room after taking a cup of tea down to the workshop, where Jens—dear, gentle Jens—was working on the repair of a piece of machinery. It had been late and she was tired, looking forward to bed, but there had been a bright moon pouring a river of light across the water, and she had stopped to look out the window. It was a view she loved, at least in the moonlight. The cove became almost magical at night when the moon silvered the water and darkened the trees, and she could forget that it was this same ocean that terrified her in the light of day. Forget the fear that grabbed her by the throat and knotted her stomach every time she went near it. Looking back, she remembered smiling as she looked out at it. Remembered the feelings of contentment and pleasure that had washed over her. And then, just before she turned away, a flash of light had caught her eye and drawn her back. There was someone on the bank, just above the beach. She could see movement, two figures, one bigger than the other, the smaller one wrapped in something patterned, light and dark, and the other all black except for a glimpse of pale face and hands. She thought for a minute they were hugging, or even dancing, but then the flash of light came again. And again. Always a
t the end of an arm lifted high into the moonlight and then swung down in a glittering arc. She stared at the scene in fascination for a few seconds, unsure what she was seeing, and then the smaller figure slumped to the ground. She gasped in shock as the realization hit. The glint of light had to have come from a weapon of some kind. Probably a knife. She had seen someone being stabbed. Horrified, Margrethe watched in disbelief as the larger figure moved away and up the hill, toward the path leading to the church and the cemetery, leaving the other lying inert.

  Blind instinct had driven her to the door. She couldn’t just turn away and go to bed. She had to check on that small, motionless form. Without stopping to think, she pushed her feet into a pair of boots and threw a jacket around her shoulders. She was almost at the middle of the walkway when she realized she hadn’t told Jens what was happening, but it would take too much time to go back now, and she wouldn’t be away long. If she wasn’t too late to help, she would do whatever she could—use her clothing, her jacket, whatever was needed—to make that small figure comfortable, and then go back. She did pause to look for any sign of whoever had headed toward the path, but she saw none, and she knew that once she was down on the beach, she wouldn’t be visible to anyone unless they were looking out from her bedroom window.

  She was too late. She knew that the moment she turned the small body over. The ashen face was a face she knew, and as she leaned over it, her tears washed away the blood that smeared the smooth cheek. Her eyes stung even now as she remembered it.

  She had checked for a pulse, but there was none. He was gone. Past any help she could give him. Her hands touched the slashed tatters of the red and white blanket he had worn draped across his shoulders, and she carefully folded them back around him, unconsciously patting them into place, knowing it was useless but needing to do it anyway. His name was Darrel. He had visited her a couple of times, watched her weave, helped her pick grasses and early wildflowers. He had reminded her of a young deer, curious but wild, always poised for flight. She was so immersed in her sorrow and her memories that she hadn’t been aware of the man returning. Hadn’t sensed his presence until his hard fingers closed on her shoulder.