I rolled up my pants, waded into the water, soaked my arm again, and returned to the fire.
Time to experiment with smoke-making.
For smoke, there had to be wet fuel. But if I added too much, the fire might go out. To deal with that problem, I used some coals from the first fire to make another close by. A mixture of dry and nearly dry kelp plus a bundle of damp twigs did the trick. Careful not to smother the new fire, I placed handfuls of the mixture onto the new coals and fanned them until smoke billowed out the sides.
Nobody might see my attempt at smoke signals. Based on the boat trip, Haida Gwaii’s swampland seemed vast, and my wood supply limited the fire’s size. But I had to try.
I collected and cooked more mussels, leaned back against my log to eat, and scanned the beach and water for bear.
A glimmer of silver up high caught my attention. I strained my ears for a drone. Nothing. I cupped my hands behind my ears and closed my eyes. There it was.
I squinted up at the sly. Oh my god, my god. A plane.
I added more kelp and twigs, fanned the flames, and ran down the beach, waving my good arm. The plane looped around and headed in my direction. But it only completed the circle and flew off.
The plane was so high and far away, the pilot hadn’t seen me. My chance, maybe my only chance to be rescued, was gone. What was I going to do? I dropped to my knees, looked up at the sky, and sobbed.
Spent, I got to my feet and ran my free hand down my cheeks. Crying wasn’t going to solve anything. I had to think about my situation rationally.
The sun slid lower toward the horizon. At the water’s edge, I splashed a little on my face. A long evening and longer night stretched in front of me. Since I left Sandspit, I’d been in survival mode and hadn’t given in to fear, exhaustion, or extreme cold. But the plane forced me to face what might happen.
It was possible, maybe likely, nobody would find me. Days, a week, weeks would pass. I’d still be here. I’d lose weight, maybe get sick. The bear might come back and get me. Angelo. I’d miss years with Angelo as we both got older. Harvey. She’d become biology department chair, maybe a college president. I’d never know.
And me. Months earlier, I’d finally conquered my fear of public speaking and accepted invitations to talk about the life of oceanographers, climate change, Maine coast ecology. I’d stepped into Mom and Dad’s shoes. Cutting that short would undermine their legacy.
Then there was Ted. He might become a celebrated oceanographer. And what a time we could’ve had. Laughing, making love, and relishing the outdoors together. I ached for him to hold and kiss me.
Feeling like the loneliest woman on earth, I walked the beach. My arm throbbed and stung, and my eyes tightened. I let myself cry, a little.
25
The sun fell behind Swampy Point’s trees. Nine p.m. That bit of information was comforting. I was cut off from my everyday world of computers, the Internet, and all other forms of communication and connection. Knowledge about sunset time at this latitude and time of year helped me feel a bit in control.
It was essential the fires burn all night, so I prepared for sentry duty on the beach under the Haida stars. I needed something that resembled a bed. Sand on a level spot in front of my log would be a good base. I rifled through the flotsam and found some promising items—what looked like hay, some orange netting, and clusters of dry leaves. The big find was foam, most likely lost off a passing ship. I layered all this on top of the sand and a few spruce branches. The tattered tarp served as a sheet. I stood back to study my creation. It looked like something a wood rat would make.
As the sky darkened, I tried to remember, unsuccessfully, the difference between civil, nautical, and astronomical twilight. For millennia, sailors and shepherds had looked to the night sky for guidance and inspiration. Today, many people couldn’t see the stars. We’d pushed back the dark with so much artificial light, astronauts could identify cities and whole countries from space.
Issues more pressing than the nocturnal sky cluttered my thoughts. How many more nights would I be here? What if I got sick? How long could I survive on mussels and other shallow water creatures? Would I run out of fuel? What about cold weather or if the hot pool dried up? I held my hands out to the fire and tried to think about something else.
“Stop it. Do something else. Like singing.” As a scientist, I liked “Inchworm.”
“Two and two are four, four and four are eight, eight and eight are sixteen, sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two.” But that the song was a round. Not so good with only one person.
Rogers and Hammerstein had written several great tunes for The Sound of Music.
“When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad. I simply remember my favorite things. And then I don’t feel so bad.”
If any Haida spirits hung around Swampy Point that evening, they must’ve smiled.
For the rest of the night, I kept myself occupied with bear sentry, walks up and down the beach, movements of constellations I could recognize, catnaps on my not-very-comfortable bed, adding wood to the fire, and any cheery ditties that came to mind.
Bizarre dreams disrupted my snatches of sleep. Doe-eyed seals carried gifts of mussels in their mouths, the bottom dropped out of a hot pool and swallowed me, Angelo piloted a plane that tipped its wings.
After the long night, dawn was a welcome sight. The eastern sky turned pink and pewter before sun poked up over trees behind me.
I crouched at the edge of the bog, a distance from the fire. Meals consisting solely of mussel meat had upset my digestive system. I was preoccupied with urgent personal matters and didn’t hear the whop-whop-whop until the thing cleared the trees and blocked the morning sun.
I pulled up my pants, ran down the beach, and waved my arm. Like an enormous gaudy bee, the yellow helicopter hovered above shallow water. Wind from its blades made a circle of waves, scattered wood from my piles, and fanned the coals to flames. The sound was deafening. I covered my ears with my hands and looked at the thing open-mouthed.
A door on the side of the ‘copter opened and, like a spider on its silk thread, someone in a bright red jumpsuit rocketed down on a line. I backed up as my savior swung back and forth. The pilot approached land and hovered the helicopter directly over the beach.
The jump-suited person deftly landed with both feet on the beach, unhooked the halter, signaled to the helicopter, and walked over to me.
He yelled over the sound of the ‘copter. “Mara Tusconi?”
Stunned and still covering my ears, I nodded.
“Are you injured, ill, or otherwise incapacitated?”
I lifted my arm. “Just this.”
“Ready to get out of here?”
“Yes!”
He handed me a helmet that came from somewhere behind his body, slipped it over my head, and fastened the strap. “Now,” he hollered, “I’m going to strap you into the harness. Okay?”
“Okay,” I hollered back.
“When you approach the cabin, don’t try to grab the helicopter or winch operator. They will completely control your entry. Do exactly what you’re told. You’ll be pulled into the cabin facing out. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat what I said.”
I did.
“Can you lift your arm?”
I nodded.
“Good. Here we go.” He put the cinch harness over my head and slipped it below my armpits and between my legs. With a firm pull of a toggle, he secured the harness tight around my body. “I’ll give the signal to raise you a tad to make sure this holds.”
He spoke into a microphone and waved a hand.
Slowly, I rose off the ground. He waved his hand again. I hovered inches above the beach.
“Good,” he yelled. “I’m going up with you. You don’t need to do anything. Just look forward at me. No twisting or turning. Understand?”
Our helmets nearly touched. With a shout that didn’t hurt my throat, I indicated th
at I did.
He gave the “go” sign with a hand signal and voice command. With a little jump as graceful as a dancer’s, he wrapped his legs around mine and placed his hands on my shoulders.
We lifted off the ground and were airborne in a half-second. Like two mating dragonflies, we zoomed up toward the helicopter. It all happened so fast, I didn’t have time to be scared.
I could see below without moving my head. There was my fire, pile of wood, makeshift bed. The bog stretched lush and green. The forest was densely packed with trees. My last glimpse was of the hill. The cave entrance wasn’t visible.
Suddenly, I understood that I had never truly been alone at Swampy Point. Another presence—my parents, Angelo, the spirit of the sea—something had been with me. I vowed to keep saying thank you for the generosity that blessed me.
I turned my head a tad to see “Rescue,” “Sauvetage,” and “Canada” on the side of the helicopter. My rescuer said something into his mouthpiece. One moment I swung in the open air on my harness, the next I was inside the machine.
The person who pulled me in was a woman in a red jumpsuit with hair pulled back into a tight brown ponytail. She secured the door, took off my helmet, helped me lie on a cot, and tugged a strap over my waist. She spoke into my ear. “I’m a medic.”
The medic checked my pulse, pointed to my arm, and asked if I was okay for the moment. When I nodded, she strapped herself into a seat across from me. I turned my head to see the rear of the cabin. Without regular seats, the craft looked spacious. The guy who carried me up had cinched his seat belt and mouthed into his microphone.
The helicopter rose higher into the air, banked, and sped away.
I wanted to talk to my rescuers, but noise inside the cabin was much too loud. The four other people in the ‘copter—the two I’d met plus two pilots—could communicate with each other via microphones. For the moment, I was deaf and dumb.
When we were flying straight, the woman released her belt. She spoke into my ear and asked about my injury again.
I looked at my arm and shrugged.
She checked my pulse and blood pressure. “Not bad. But those are nasty cuts.”
“Bear.”
She nodded. “Do what I can here.”
I grimaced when she swabbed the wounds with liquid that stung.
“You must be dehydrated. Your skin feels dry. I’ll give you some water, but drink slowly.”
“I’ve been drinking skanky water for two days.”
She put a pillow under my back. I sat up a little and took the water bottle with my left hand. The first sip tasted pure, clean, and cool. I sipped more and vowed never again to take drinking water for granted.
I signaled the medic to come closer.
I mouthed. “What’s your name?”
“Lilly.”
“Can’t thank you—”
She held up her hand. I took that as “not now.”
“Contact?”
She spoke into my ear. “Your family?”
Close enough. I nodded.
More ear words. “That’s happening.”
“Where?”
She understood my question. “Vancouver hospital.”
26
As the helicopter sped me to safety, I lay on my cot and sifted through what had just happened. One minute I battled cold, fear, hunger, and exhaustion on a beach in the middle of a swamp maze. The next, I swung beneath a deafening helicopter in the hands of a red-suited stranger. My brain had trouble making sense of it all. I fell asleep.
The helicopter landed on a tarmac and jostled me awake. Confused, I glanced around the gray cabin. The medic’s hand was on her seat belt. Two pilots sat up front. By the time the din of the machine faded, I was ready. With my good arm on Lilly’s, I walked to the ambulance and squeezed her hand before she stepped away. She smiled and nodded. I never had a chance to thank the guy in the red jumpsuit.
In the ambulance, I was on my back again, looking up at another attending medic. He checked my vitals—pulse, blood pressure, temperature—said I was dehydrated, inserted an IV drip, and explained it contained electrolytes. An ambulance arrival means immediate care, even at large hospitals. The ER doc and nurses checked me out and asked about my last tetanus shot. Someone else asked more questions and scribbled answers on a form. An attendant rolled my bed into a temporary space encircled by curtains on tracks.
A nurse who looked like MASH’s Hot-Lips pulled back the curtain, lifted my injured arm, and tut-tutted. “How’d you do that?”
“Bear attack.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You need stitches. Be right back.”
She returned with a tray holding two syringes. I eyed it.
“Antibiotic and anesthesia.”
The ER doctor walked in, injected the antibiotic into my good arm, picked up the other syringe, held it up to eye level, and tapped it. “This will sting a bit.”
It burned like hell. When the arm was numb, I tried to count the stitches as he worked but gave up at twenty.
“You look in pretty good shape, considering what you’ve been through. But we’ll keep you overnight just in case,” the physician said.
“Sounds good. I’m real, real tired.”
Sergeant Knapton showed up first. From the black smudges under his eyes and stubble on his face, I figured it’d been a long night for him. A female cop stood inside the curtain. She held her nifty cap and looked fifteen.
Knapton ran a hand across his chin. “Jesus, am I glad to see you. We’ve been looking everywhere.” He took out a notebook and pen. “Well, Dr. Tusconi. Seems like we have a lot to talk about.”
“Mara. We do, indeed. Let’s start with how you found me.”
“Your fire. Nobody lives in that swamp, as you can imagine. A search plane spotted the fire and radioed in your location. Helicopter crew left at dawn. We knew it was you.”
“How’s that?”
“Partly the location, of course. And a red pullover. Pilot could see it from a thousand feet with binocs. Called in the description. Your buddies said you had one like that.”
“Harvey and Ted. Where are they?”
“Here, in a waiting room. They’ll be in when we’re done.”
I told Knapton critical elements of what had happened—from my attempt to call him in Sandspit to the helicopter ride. Except for a few questions to clarify a point of fact, he listened carefully and took notes. “Can I come by tomorrow? We’ll need a signed statement.”
“Okay.”
He glanced at his pad. “There’s a few things I don’t get. You feel well enough to talk more?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Tell me again why Richard wanted to kill his brother.”
“He said William was weak, a Mamma’s boy. Richard wanted to make millions on marine carbon credits and couldn’t risk his brother voting against the project. That’s basically it.”
Knapton shook his head. “Same old story. Cain and Abel. Did Richard say anything about how William died?”
“No, and I didn’t have time to ask.”
“For now, we’ll have to rely on our forensics people.” He rifled through his notes. “Richard could’ve gotten away with William’s murder. That’s still going to be difficult to prove unless Bart turns state’s evidence and knows the details. But Richard kidnapped you, and you’re still with us, thank god. We can probably get him for your attempted murder. But I don’t get why he did it.”
“The man’s arrogant. Sure he could pull it off. And he most likely would have if subterranean events hadn’t intervened.”
“He knew you suspected him?”
“Bart overheard us talking in the longhouse about who might’ve killed William. I said we were responsible if he died because of our visit—and that I owed it to William to find out what happened. Bart told Richard what we said. Richard knew I’d keep at it back in Maine. I’d find out he was a trader, put two and two together. Um, did you say you probably could get him?”
“I do think Bart’ll cooperate if you offer him something.”
“Why?”
“The guy acts like a punk, the T-shirt with ripped-off sleeves and all. But Richard bossed him around on the boat, and Bart didn’t like it. He looked furious when Richard insulted William about being Haida.”
“Good to know.”
Harvey and Ted walked in right after Knapton left. Side by side, they stood next to the bed. I glanced from one to the other. Both fair, trim, with an aristocratic air, in white lab coats they’d look like twin blond doctors.
“Damn, girl,” Harvey said. “You gave us one hell of a scare. When we found out you never took the plane and didn’t contact us, we knew something was very wrong. And then, it got later and later and we still didn’t hear from you—Jesus, what happened to your arm?”
“Tell you about it. I’m so sorry. Have you talked to Angelo?”
“Called him the moment we knew. It sounded like he was crying.”
That made me feel even worse. “Let’s phone him.”
“We will,” Ted said. “First, give us the short version of what happened. We hardly know a thing.”
I recounted the events from when we went separate ways in Sandspit to the helicopter ride.
Harvey sat on the end of the bed. “You smacked a black bear on the nose with a piece of wood?”
“Yeah. Good thing I’ve been working out.”
“The Spruce Harbor baseball team’s gonna want you,” Ted said.
I pulled a face.
Harvey asked, “It was at the museum where you got the idea about Richard?”
“Right. Just a guess. I tried to call Knapton, but he was on the line and I didn’t want to leave the message. I was going to call again from the airport.”
Ted was still standing. “Richard would probably have gotten away with killing William if he’d left you alone. So why did he bother to, ah, try to get rid of you?”
Demon Spirit, Devil Sea Page 20
