Black Tide Rising

by R. J. McMillen

  The answer wasn’t long in coming. When Coffman had moved a few steps into the trees, there was a sudden motion in the brush, and Rainer burst out onto the road. He was four or five yards from where Coffman was standing, brandishing what seemed to be his favorite weapon, a baseball bat.

  Dan fought his way out of the bushes, straining for balance as he pulled his gun out of its holster.

  “Freeze. Police!” he yelled, wishing he hadn’t told the backup guys to wait at the log dump. “Drop your weapon.”

  Another death was not what he needed. If Rainer took Coffman out of the picture, they might never find out what had happened to Margrethe, and Sleeman might get away altogether. Dan moved out onto the road, where he could plant his feet firmly. He had aimed the gun at Rainer, but he switched to Coffman as he caught movement and saw a glint of metal appear in the man’s hand. A knife was a much greater threat than a baseball bat in close quarters, and Coffman was much quicker on his feet than the lumbering Rainer.

  The two men stared at him, immobile with shock, but Dan figured it wouldn’t take long for them to make a move. It was two against one, and they were already in the forest. Time to call in his backup. He raised his arm and aimed his gun up the road, feeling his finger tighten on the trigger. One shot was all he needed.

  • TWENTY-SEVEN •

  A shot rang out, but it was not fired from Dan’s gun. And whoever had fired it knew what he was doing. Dan’s hand was hanging uselessly by his side, his finger still hooked on the trigger of his own weapon. The bullet had come out of nowhere and had hit him just below the shoulder. The force of impact spun him around. Pain blossomed and flared, freezing his muscles and tendons, and he could feel the liquid warmth of blood coursing down under his shirt sleeve. In the brief second before his brain registered where the shot had come from, Dan thought it might have come from his backup, but then he realized it had to have come from somewhere below him, down near the water, not from along the road.

  He threw himself forward and sideways, twisting his body as he fell to try to cushion his landing. A bullet tore the air overhead, slicing through the leaves and twigs and showering him with debris. Shit! He was a sitting duck. He scrabbled forward, using his good arm and his feet and legs to burrow deeper into the vegetation. He didn’t care about the noise he was making. As long as the guy couldn’t see him he had a chance, but it wasn’t a good one. The shooter only had to walk a few feet down the road and he would see where Dan was lying. His only chance was if the guy thought he had scored a direct hit.

  Dan willed his body closer to the ground, trying to sink deeper into its embrace. He could hear his heart thudding as it pumped the blood that was pulsing out of his wound and pasting his shirt to his body. Moving would only make it flow more freely, and the noise he would create would only make him easier to find, so he lay still and braced himself for the next shot.

  It never came. Instead, he heard the sound of someone crashing through the bush, and then the whine of a boat engine starting. Goddamn it, they were going to get away.

  Ignoring the pain that stabbed down his arm, Dan pushed himself up and stepped back out onto the road. There was a movement to his left, a little farther up the road. Snapping his head around, he caught a glimpse of a man disappearing into the forest. Coffman. No point in following him. There was no hope he could catch him now, but he would damn well find him later. He would lock down the island if necessary.

  He turned back toward the water. The blood had reached his hand now and was dripping off his fingers onto the ground. He needed to staunch the flow somehow, or he could be in trouble, but first he had to find out who had fired that shot. He pushed into the trees, weaving and dodging as he tried to see down the bank to the boat. Behind him he heard feet pounding down the road toward him. His backup. Too late to help. A root caught his foot, and he pitched forward, biting back a scream as his arm jarred against the forest floor. The engine revs picked up. They were leaving. Dan pushed himself back up and staggered on. There was a sudden surge of noise as the pilot cranked the gas, and the old inboard howled in protest. Dan caught a flash of churning white water as a seething wake boiled up behind the boat, and then a flash of blue as it leaped forward, heading north toward Tahsis Inlet. There were three men in the cockpit, Sleeman and Rainer and a man who stood staring back up at the land, one hand resting on the coach roof and the other holding a rifle. He was tall and angular, and his white hair shone as it reflected the sunlight. Stephanson. Also known as the Reverend Steven.

  Dan let himself slide to the ground and sat waiting, cradling his arm across his knees as he listened to the footsteps approach and slow.

  “Down here,” he called, his voice taut with pain.

  The backup guys approached cautiously, their weapons drawn. When they were close enough for Dan to see them clearly, he recognized them from the cove: George and Parker. The two constables from Gold River.

  “Hi, guys,” Dan said. “We meet again. I think I need a little help this time.”

  —

  Things got a bit hazy after that. He remembered the two of them coming down and checking him over, and he thought it was George who sent Parker back to call for the rescue chopper. One of them unzipped his jacket and eased it off, and then Dan blacked out as something was pressed onto his wound. He must have come to when they lifted him onto a stretcher, because he was aware of being loaded into the bed of a pickup truck for the short ride to the camp. He didn’t know how long he waited there, but somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind he heard the beat of helicopter blades. After that there was only blackness.

  —

  He came to again in a hospital bed. A nurse was standing beside him, holding his wrist. Beside her, a metal stand held two plastic bags, one half full of what he assumed was blood and the other containing some kind of clear liquid. Tubes led down to his arm. Heavy bandages wrapped his shoulder and upper body.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Glad to see you’re awake,” she answered. “We were quite worried about you. You’ve been asleep for several hours.”

  Dan shook his head. “What time is it?” he asked again. “How long have I been here?”

  The nurse let go of his wrist and scribbled something on a chart. “It’s almost five o’clock. You came in this morning just before eleven. Are you hungry? I’ll go and see if I can get you something to eat.”

  She disappeared, closing the door behind her. Dan didn’t want something to eat; he wanted to get out of there. The hours since he had been shot might be blurry, but the events leading up to it were crystal clear. He needed a phone. If he could call Markleson, he could get him to send someone out to check the marinas, and seal off the island. He looked around the room. It was bare and functional. Other than his bed, there was a metal tray on wheels, a metal cabinet, and a single metal chair. Some kind of instrument panel occupied the wall above his head, and a cord led down from it to his pillow. There was no phone. A small window beside him appeared to look out on open sky, so he guessed he was on an upper floor. It was like a prison cell, but white instead of gray. He needed to at least know where he was, but there was nothing that would tell him. The name of the hospital would probably be on his chart, but the nurse had hung that on the end of his bed, and he couldn’t reach it without disconnecting the IV, an impossibility because it was attached to his good arm and the other one was immobilized. Shit! Shit! Shit!

  Dan twisted his head to the side and saw a towel and washcloth hanging on a metal rack on the side of the cabinet. He reached out and pulled them off. At least he could wipe his face. As he lifted the washcloth, he saw the words CAMPBELL RIVER HOSPITAL printed on the white terrycloth. So. One question answered. Now he had another one. He dropped the cloth and fumbled for the call button. The same nurse reappeared.

  “Your meal will be here in a few minutes,” she said.

  Dan ignored her. “Do you still have a patient named Leif Nielson here?” he asked.

  The
nurse frowned. “I have no idea,” she said. “He’s certainly not on this ward.”

  “Can you find out?” Dan asked. “It’s important.”

  She looked at him for a minute, her face wavering between concern and annoyance, and then left without saying a word. Five minutes later she returned, carrying a metal tray covered with plastic plates and bowls.

  “I managed to snag you a meal off the cart,” she said as she slid the tray in front of him. “The doctor says you can eat whatever you want. The more the better.”

  He stared at her. Was she going to ignore his request completely?

  She lifted the cover off what appeared to be a bowl of soup and handed him a spoon. “Mr. Nielson is down on the second floor. He’s due to be discharged tomorrow morning.”

  Dan grinned. The man had made it. He would be able to testify.

  “Any chance I could get a phone?” he asked. “I need to make some calls.”

  —

  “You find out anything about the Reverend Steven?” he asked Mike between mouthfuls of some unidentifiable soup-like substance.

  “Yeah, I did,” Mike answered. “Took me a while to figure out who the man is—Steven isn’t his real name—but we got it sorted out. Rosemary ran him through the system yesterday.”

  “I don’t suppose his real name is Stephanson, is it?” Dan asked.

  “How the hell do you know that?” Mike’s voice was incredulous. “It took us three days to track him down.”

  Dan grinned. “Pure luck,” he said. “He’s the guy who shot me. I heard Sleeman say they were waiting for someone called Stephanson, and then I caught a look at him when they took off in that boat they stole from Nielson. It was the same guy I saw on the wharf at Esperanza. The Reverend Steven.”

  “Son of a bitch. That really is a bit of good luck.”

  “Depends on your point of view,” said Dan, wincing as pain shot through his shoulder. “I guess it’s lucky he isn’t a better shot. I didn’t see him coming.”

  “Yeah. So how are you doing? They patch you up okay?”

  “Guess so. They’ve got me hooked up to an IV, and they’re replacing the blood I lost. I hope it’s better quality than the food they’re feeding me.”

  Mike laughed. “You must be doing okay if you’re bitching already. You know when they’re going to let you out?”

  “I’m aiming for tomorrow morning. I’ve got things I need to do. Those guys aren’t going to hang around for long.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Dan. Markleson’s got this thing covered. Those guys have got nowhere to go. They’ll have them by tomorrow morning.”

  “It’s not those guys I’m worried about. It’s Coffman I want.” Dan watched as a different nurse appeared. She frowned at the phone, walked over to the IV, injected a vial of something into the tube, smiled, and left.

  “Markleson’s got that covered too.” Mike was still talking, urging him to rest. “The Marine Division has a boat out there now, and they’ve put a dog team in. They’ll get him.”

  “Yeah,” Dan said, although he wasn’t as sure about that as Mike was. Coffman was a slippery little bastard, and he knew his way around the island. “Any sign of that missing woman yet?”

  “Nothing. She seems to have completely vanished. We got her husband to give us some of her clothes and we’re going to put a dog on the trail, see if it can pick up anything, and we’ve put out an APB in case she left the island. I’ll let you know if we get anything. You look after yourself. Spend some time with Claire.”

  Claire. Dan didn’t want to think about Claire right now. She had said she would call him. Had she tried and been unable to reach him? How would she react to the news that he had been shot? He had to call her, but not right now. He couldn’t gather his thoughts together properly. He wasn’t sure if he could come up with the right words. Didn’t know if he could face her reaction. Was certain he couldn’t handle her rejection. Maybe tomorrow, after he had had a good night’s sleep. Yeah, sleep. Even the word sounded good. Whatever the nurse had put in his IV must have been pretty powerful stuff. He could already feel it working, feel his body relaxing. His shoulder was not throbbing anymore, and he felt like he was drifting. He let his head fall back on the pillow and closed his eyes. The phone slipped out of his hand as he smiled at Claire. She was laughing, the wind blowing her hair as she held out her hand to him.

  • TWENTY-EIGHT •

  Walker sat quietly, the canoe bobbing gently as he held it steady against the stream. There had been no further sign of movement, but he knew the woman was still there. Her unseen presence was as real and solid as a rock in a river, changing the flow of the air as it moved around her, altering the molecules of the earth beneath her, bending the invisible lines of electrical current that connect all living things. He didn’t know how he could convince her to come out of hiding. He wasn’t good with people—didn’t spend much time with them. He didn’t have the gift of words, couldn’t tell the stories like some of his people could, and his physical appearance was more likely to send her running than draw her in. But he did have instinct, and his instinct told him that patience and stillness were what was needed. Those he had plenty of.

  “You might remember me,” he said in the soft voice he would use to talk to the deer and otter that wandered into the cove where he had built his cabin. He didn’t look at the bank, but kept his eyes focused on the water, watching the swirls and eddies dance toward him. “I visit Sanford sometimes. My sister married his brother. They live in Tsaxana, over by Gold River.”

  He let some more time pass, feeling the rays of sunlight move across his body as the sun rose higher in the sky. The muscles in his arm were growing tired from holding the canoe to the bank, and he flexed them slowly, easing the tiny craft into a slightly different position in such a way that the change could not be discerned. “Sanford told me you like his designs. Said you use them in your weaving.” He nodded gently to himself. “I’d like to see that. I like his designs too.”

  There was a shimmer of movement on the bank above him, and two pairs of bright, inquisitive eyes peered out through the ferns. Walker smiled. “There’s a couple of raccoons here to see you,” he said. “You must be a good friend to the animals. They only come to people they trust.”

  He sensed rather than heard her shift her position. Felt rather than saw her eyes looking out at him. Slowly, and still without looking at where she was hidden, Walker raised his free hand and pointed at the pair of masked faces looking out from the green fronds. “They’re hungry. They’re looking for breakfast.” Then, for the first time, he turned his head toward her. “You must be hungry too. I’ve got some food here you’re welcome to.” He slid his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out one of the bars he had taken from Dan’s boat, and laid it on the thwart in front of him. “It’s good. I got it from Dan Connor. He’s a friend of Gene and Mary at the lighthouse.”

  Some branches moved, and between the leaves a face appeared.

  “You know Gene and Mary?” The voice was faint, quavering, a little rusty from disuse and attenuated by fear, but the words were clear.

  Walker smiled. “Yeah. They’re good folks. They’ve been really worried about you.”

  The face tipped up toward the sky as the woman tilted her head back, and she took a shuddering breath. “Oh God!” she sobbed. “Oh God!”

  —

  “Sanford told me you are afraid of the water.”

  Walker had moved the canoe over to the opposite side of the creek, turning it so it was facing downstream and holding it in place by hanging on to yet another protruding root. Margrethe was crouched on the bank above him, eating the second of Dan’s granola bars. She was filthy, her hair matted, dulled by dirt, and tangled with twigs and debris, her skin scratched and blotchy, and her clothing torn and stained, but her eyes were what held Walker’s attention. They were huge in her gaunt face, wet from the tears that still streaked her cheeks, a startling blue that reminded him of the campanula tha
t bloomed in the clearings in summer, or the wild lupines that carpeted some of the old village sites each spring, but they were also strangely calm as she looked steadily down at him.

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said.

  Walker looked back at the creek, the water flowing steadily past him on its journey down to the ocean. It would take him an hour or more to paddle over to the logging camp on Kendrick Arm, where he might be able to find somebody with a powerboat who could come and pick Margrethe up, but he was not sure that a powerboat would be any better than a canoe when it was the water she feared, and it would mean bringing at least one stranger back with him. Another stranger might be enough to scare her back into the forest. If he could call the lighthouse and get Gene to bring Jens over, it would be better, but that would take time and he didn’t know how long she would wait. He had seen the tremor that ran under her skin, the clenched muscles in her jaw, the constant flexing of her fingers. Her eyes might be calm, but her body was near breaking point.

  He looked back up at her, reading the contradictions written in the language of her body: the still, unflinching stare and the trembling limbs that were poised for flight. Their eyes locked and held.

  “Will you come with me?” he asked.

  She didn’t blink, didn’t move, didn’t answer. Just sat there, looking straight at him. He wasn’t even sure she was seeing him. He thought she might be lost somewhere, her mind wandering, gone somewhere safe where dark-skinned men and deep, restless water played no part, but he didn’t know how to bring her back.

  In the end, he didn’t need to. She smiled.

  “Yes,” she said.

  —