Black Tide Rising (21 page)

Walker smiled and said nothing.

Dan sighed and shook his head. “Fine, but if we're late getting back, you can cook dinner.”

The inflatable moved slowly up the narrowing channel and closer and closer to the northern shore. Dan was about to cut the engine when a gap barely wide enough to fit through opened up on his starboard side. He glanced at Walker as he nosed his way through it.

“This didn't show on the chart,” he said as the channel widened a little. “Where the hell are we?”

“Still in Kendrick. There's another opening to the inlet up ahead about a mile. It's also too small to show on that fancy chart you got.”

“Huh. Well, if no one knows about it, they're not going to be here—and the roads all lead from the logging camp, and that's back there at the …”

He fell silent as Walker raised his hand and pointed ahead to a clump of hemlock whose branches overhung the low bank and drooped down to the water. Through the dark needles, a patch of blue paint glimmered.

It was taking too long. He should have found the fucking road by now—although it wouldn't really be a road anymore, just a trail. The logging companies hadn't used it for years and it would be mostly overgrown. So what else was new? Everything on this goddamn island grew like a weed: salal, ferns, cedars, hemlocks. All of it. And it was all the same: wet and useless. Even if the logging road had been new, it would have been rough. Those logging assholes didn't build fancy roads just to haul trees out. They sent in bulldozers and hacked out a passage barely wide enough for the trucks to follow. Hell, they didn't even put gravel on most of it, so when it rained—which was most of the time—it turned into mud. It had been six or so years since he had been here, so by now the road would have almost disappeared, covered up by encroaching vegetation.

Back when he was a kid, and his grandmother had dragged him out here to pick berries and dig roots and shit, he had hated the rain. He'd hated everything about the forest: the damp green smell of the undergrowth, the fetid brown odor of the swamps, the incessant drone of insects, even the endless chirping of birds as they moved through the trees. He still hated it, but now it served his purpose. In fact, it was just perfect for his needs. There would still be a bit of a path under the young trees, where the topsoil had been scraped away by the bulldozers and the trees' roots found less nourishment to sustain them. Once he found it, he could follow it all the way down to Kendrick Arm. The trees would make him invisible to anyone in a helicopter, like the one that had flown over him a couple of times that second day, and they would hide him from the logging trucks he knew were still working on other roads: he had heard them grinding their gears as they maneuvered their heavy loads down the mountain. He would be able to move unseen by anyone or anything, like a ghost.

The thought of a ghost made him think of the woman, and he caught himself glancing nervously into the forest. Jesus! What the hell was the matter with him? There were no ghosts. That was all some fairy-tale shit from when he was a kid. The woman sure hadn't been any fucking ghost, even if she had looked like one. The goddamn ugly bitch would be dead by now, and good riddance. Dead and rotting deep in the salal where they'd never find her. She must have been some freak of nature with that weird white skin and that long white hair. He shuddered as he thought of the wet strands clinging to the sunken cheeks, straggling down over the pale forehead. And those eyes. They had been sort of like ice. Or beach pebbles. Kinda shiny and gray. Yeah, that was it. Like those shiny gray stones on the beach that the mask carvers had sometimes used. She had looked like a fucking mask. That was what had freaked him out back at the cove. She had looked like the Dzunukwa mask his grandmother had on her wall, except in white. A ghost of a ghost. Shit, no wonder he had been spooked.

He shook his head to clear the memory. He had to make up some time, and the only way he could do that was to find the goddamn road. He knew he was behind schedule. Pat and Carl had said the buyer had “a limited window of opportunity.” Yeah, that was it: “a limited window of opportunity to make the purchase.” Phony assholes. What they really meant was that they had to move fast before the cops figured out what was going on. They had set up a meeting for Thursday, just before noon, which gave them a few days after hiding the stuff to make sure the cops weren't on their tail. At first Jerry had figured that was an odd time to meet, but then he realized it was late enough in the day that Pat and Carl could make sure they got there first. That way they could watch to see if the buyer came alone. Of course, this had been back when Jerry thought he was part of the team, before they had tried to set him up with the cops. Well, he was going to show them what “set up” really meant, so he had to be there for that meeting, and if he had kept track of the passing days correctly, that meeting was going to happen tomorrow.

He paused to check the position of the sun. It was filtering through the trees just behind his right shoulder, dappling the ground around him with light, and it told him that he was headed in the right direction. So where the hell was the road? Maybe he needed to move east for a while. As he recalled, the road swerved north before turning back west and then turning again at an outcropping of rock just before it hit the coast. If he could find it before it made that northward curve, he could save a bunch of time.

He looked for an opening in the forest that would allow him to move in an easterly direction, and as soon as he saw one, he pressed his way into it, pushing aside the sword ferns and dodging the occasional low branch. It was slow going, but he thought the trees were thinner up ahead, and maybe there was a flicker of pale green in the gaps, caused by the early leaves on the wild rose and salmonberry shrubs that were growing up in the space created by the old road. If he was right, he might be able to make Kendrick Arm by dark, certainly by the morning, and if he was really lucky, the buyer would have the same idea those assholes Pat and Carl had and would arrive even earlier than they did. That's sure what he would do anyway, so if the buyer was as smart as he was, then he, Jerry William Coffman, could beat out Pat and Carl altogether. He could show the guy his sample—the ring he had taken from the bag before he slid it under that old sewing machine—and then take him to the cove for the rest of the stuff. Hell, Pat and Carl would never even have a clue as to what had happened. He patted the ring, sitting deep in his pocket, letting his fingers run over the raised shapes on its surface. He could just picture their faces when they realized the buyer wasn't going to show. Too bad he wouldn't be there to see it, but he and the buyer would be long gone, the deal already completed. He grinned at the thought but then forced his mind back on track. He couldn't count on that. Maybe the buyer wasn't that smart. Maybe he would arrive right on time, and Pat and Carl would already be there. Whatever. It still didn't matter, because Pat and Carl would have to take the guy back to Yuquot with them to get the stuff—and it wouldn't be there. Jerry giggled in delight as he thought of it. So who was the stupid one now?

—

Pat watched through the trees as an inflatable moved up the channel with two men aboard, following it until it passed out of sight and the sound of the motor faded. Nothing to worry about. Looked like a couple of local guys—he thought one of them might be Native. Probably out crabbing, or maybe they had some business with the logging outfits. Either way, they weren't going to affect him.

He moved back up through the trees to where he had left Carl.

“You stay here and watch that road. I'm going to go down to the office at the log dump. See if they've had any visitors.”

“You figure Jerry's just gonna walk here along that road?” Carl asked. “That's a long way, man. How's he gonna get here all the way from Friendly Cove? That's all the way on the other side.”

Pat looked at him. “He'll walk, that's how. It's not that far if you know the trails and stuff. He told us that himself.”

“Yeah, but you said he's got that woman with him. Bet she couldn't walk that far. She would sure slow him down anyway.”

“I said he
had
that woman with him. He wouldn't have had her for long,” Pat said.

Carl stared at him. “Why not? She was still missing when we were there yesterday. That guy told us, remember? Jerry must have taken her with him.”

Pat sighed and shook his head. “Because he would have killed her, that's why. Hell, I don't know why he didn't kill her right there. Maybe he fancied her. Decided he'd get himself a piece of ass to celebrate getting the stuff for himself. Maybe he dragged her into the bush, screwed her, and threw her over a cliff. Maybe he stabbed her the same way he stabbed the kid and left her there. How the hell do I know? But one thing I do know for damn sure is that he hasn't kept her with him all this time. That's not Jerry's style. He's like a kid with a new toy; fancies something for ten minutes, then he's not interested anymore—unless it's got a big payday attached. Dollar signs can hold his attention.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Carl nodded his head slowly, then turned to stare out at the road. The two men were on a rocky outcrop about thirty feet above the water, surrounded by the thin trunks of young trees whose crowns provided a dappled shade. Above them, screened only by a fringe of dusty leaves, a rough logging road snaked around the mountainside before it turned and descended in a straight line almost to where they stood. The steep grade meant that any vehicle would have to slow almost to a stop in order to make the sharp corner immediately in front of them and continue along to the log dump a quarter of a mile south along the shore.

“Truck coming,” Carl said, pointing to a cloud of dust up near the top of the mountain.

“Okay. Keep your eyes open. He may have hitched a ride. Check every truck. It should be easy to see if there's a passenger in it. I should be back in half an hour.”

“What do you want me to do if I see him?” Carl called as Pat moved away.

“Nothing. Just watch where he goes. If he's in a truck, follow it to the dump, but don't let him see you. Stay in the trees. We don't want to spook him.”

—

The logging camp was a loose collection of trailers set at the edge of a cleared patch of land. The ground was littered with wood debris, and the air held the pungent aroma of cut cedar mingled with the acrid smell of oil and diesel. Two big Caterpillar loaders, their yellow paint faded and worn, were parked above a wide log skid, their operators leaning over a big flat-deck truck, apparently inspecting a grapple crane. The only other person in sight had his head buried inside the engine of the logging truck he was working on.

Pat worked his way through the trees until he reached the edge of the camp. It would be good if he could get into the office before anyone noticed him: the fewer people who saw him, the better. If the cops caught wind of his presence on the island, they would figure he was somehow involved with whatever had gone down in Friendly Cove, and no way was he going to take the fall for that. That was Jerry's shit, not his.

Keeping an eye on the mechanic and the loader operators, he drifted across the open space to a metal shed and stepped inside. It appeared to be doing double duty as both storage area and office. Shelves, some sagging under the weight of bins and boxes overflowing with jumbled metal parts, lined two of the walls, while a third was hung with chains and belts of every size and shape imaginable. Crowded against the remaining wall, under the only window, was a scarred metal desk almost buried under piles of paper. A tiny square in the center was the only place cleared for doing work, but no one was working there. Now what?

A noise caught his attention. It came from behind the desk, and Pat moved closer and peered down. A man was bent over, searching through the bottom drawer.

“Got a minute?” Pat asked.

“Jesus!” The man snapped upright and stared at his visitor. “Who the hell are you?”

“Dave,” said Pat, holding out his hand. “Dave Adams. Sorry to creep up on you like that. I didn't know you were there.”

“Damn,” the guy said. “You scared the shit out of me. How did you get here, anyway?”

“Got a boat down there,” Pat said, giving a vague wave in the direction of the water. “I was supposed to meet a friend up at the end of the arm, but he hasn't showed. I wondered if he might have had some kind of problem and come here. His name's Jerry. Jerry Coffman.”

The man shook his head. “Hasn't been anyone but the guys who are working here. You're the first visitor we've had since I've been here—at least on this tour.”

“Huh. You think he could have talked to someone else here?” Pat asked. “Maybe whoever relieves you?”

“Not unless your friend has been missing for a long time. The guy who relieves me hasn't been here for close to two weeks and won't show up again until next Friday. We work three in, three out here.”

“I see. Well, maybe he just got held up somewhere. I'd better get back to the boat. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No problem. Be careful in the yard out there.”

Pat waved an acknowledgment as he stepped out into the yard. The mechanic and the loaders were still occupied with whatever they were doing, but he had no doubt the guy in the office would tell them about his visit. Too bad he couldn't send Carl in to take care of the problem, but he couldn't risk it. At least, not now. Once he had located Jerry, they could kill two birds with one stone. Literally.

Dan moved the transmission back to idle as soon as they had rounded the bend and entered the narrow channel that snaked back into Tahsis Inlet. It had to be Leif's boat. From the couple of brief glimpses he had gotten as they passed, it matched the description perfectly, although he would have to check the registration number before he could be certain. But where were Sleeman and his partner? He hadn't seen any sign of activity, and it was unlikely anyone would stay inside that tiny cabin while the boat was pushed against the bank like that. That meant they were probably ashore, maybe headed to a meeting with Jerry Coffman.