Three Weeks Last Spring (17 page)

Although Skye
was suffering from the
after effects of her migraine
,
she set up her high-spec laptop and put the kettle on to boil.
She could wait until morning before looking at the code, but guilt gnawed at her for not keeping in touch with John
, so she
decided
to
make a start straight away.
After all, they had a lot riding on this project, not on
ly in terms of financial reward. If
successful, their company would
rank
amongst the top twenty software development houses in the world.
And t
h
at
was something they
ha
d been aiming for all along.

Walker hadn't been in contact, nor had he returned to the island as far as
sh
e was aware.
She was so annoyed with him for not keeping his word that she wasn't sure she wanted to talk to him, let alone see him.
In spite of everything
she felt
for
him, in the end he was no different from any other man, for whom picking up a phone to call a woman friend presented a major challenge.
Why should she put herself out?
Her days of waiting around for him were over, and besides, she had far more important things on her mind now.
Finding a reason for Walker's contin
ued absence wasn't one of them.

Setting her coffee mug next to her notebook and pen,
sh
e downloaded her e-mail.
Sure enough,
there was a message from John, which
appeared as garbled text
when opened
.
One of the first programs they developed encrypt
ed
data.
They'd
realize
d
very early on in their careers, that sending information openly over the Internet was risky.
Ever-conscious of security and the possibility of cyber crime, John
had
used their program to send her details of the problems he'd encountered when testing the new software.
By hitting a specific key on her laptop the con
tents
unscrambled
in seconds.

Armed with only
his
vague estimation of where the problem lay,
she
inserted the first of five CD-ROMs into her laptop and opened an obscurely named file, then laboriously started to check the first string of code which, along with countle
ss others, made up the program.

It
was time-consuming work, and by midnight, she
ha
d found no errors.
She questioned whether John had imagined the whole thing as an excuse to keep tabs on her.
Breifly
, she considered working through the night, but, with the dull ache in her temples threatening to develop into another migraine, she decided
to
go to bed
.
She shut down her laptop, made sure the cabin was securely locked, then turned
out the lights
.

By mid morning
sh
e was on her fifth cup of coffee and no nearer
to
finding the problem.
The enforced hours of inactivity were the only part of her job she hated.
She much preferred to be outdoors, but it was so
mething she'd learned to accept
,
as
cramped muscles and aching shoulders were a small price to pay
to see her ideas come to
fruition
.

Deciding she needed some fresh air, s
h
e
pulled
on her heavy Aran sweater
.
Perhaps the cool sea breeze
and a stroll along the beach
would clear her mind
.
She
took
the path
down to
the
wooden
dock.
It was a beautiful day, far too nice to be cooped up indoors over a computer, and if she and John hadn't had a deadline to meet, she
would have remained outdoors
.

For a long time, Skye stared out across the channel to Lopez Island and the mountains beyond.
The view was amazing and one she would never tire of.
Turning, she half expected to see Walker emerging from the woods as he had done on that first day, but today the only movement came from t
he trees as they swayed gently i
n the breeze.

She
jumped down and
sauntered
along the beach.
The air was full of an unpleasant
odor
.
It was as if something had crawled out of the sea and died.
She inhaled cautiously and promptly wrinkled her nose in disgust.
At first she thought it was rotting food but as she'd taken her refuse sack up to the highway
ready for collection
only a few days before, she knew it couldn't be that.
So where
was the terrible stench coming from?

T
he nearer she got to the tide
line, the stronger the smell became and yet she couldn't see anything other than fronds of seaweed.
Not even seaweed could account for such an offensive smell.
She gagged and coughed, and tried to clear h
er head of the God-awful stink.

She picked her way over the pebbles, and stopped where the disgusting
odor
seemed
strongest
.
She scanned the horizon
,
but saw nothing unusual.
Walking slowly, she carefully examined the debris left by the tide.
She kicked a particularly large mass of seaweed with the toe of her boot and jumped back in disgust when she found first one and then another fish in among the fronds, their bodies bloated out of all proportion.

Her stomach heaved in revulsion.
S
h
e spun round and ran back
to
the cabin
, and went straight to the kitchen and drank a glass of water in a feeble attempt to remove foul taste from her mouth.
She leaned against the sink, closed her eyes and thought hard for a moment or two.
What
had
caused the fish to die and why had they washed up now?
There hadn't been a storm.
She
woul
d have to report this, but to whom?
The Sheriff?
The Parks Department?
T
hey wouldn't be interested.
The
Coastguard
?
But
their business was ships and people lost at sea
,
no
t dead fish rotting on a beach.

Back at home she
would
c
ontact
the police and let them deal with it, but here in the States it wasn't so simple.
The US Government had a department for every conceivable contingency, and it was just a case of picking the
right one.
But where to start?
There'd be a listing for the Washington State Department
in the phone directory
.
Surely someone there would be able to direct her
call to the correct department.

Half a dozen transfers later Skye found herself speaking to a very helpful man in the Fish and Wildlife department.
Although only able to give the barest of details and address for the cabin as the location of her discovery, rather than the requested map reference, the man assured her that he
woul
d send someone over as soon as possible.
But in the meantime, was there any possibility of her removing at least one of the carcasses to a safer position to prevent it being carri
ed out to sea on the next tide?

Skye's stomach swirled at the thought, but she understood the reason behind the request.
While she couldn’t give any guarantees, she
’
d see what she could do
.

Armed with the biggest bucket she could find, a broom, a pair of rubber gloves and a clothes peg for her nose,
sh
e
stomped down the beach
.
If anyone could see
her
now, they woul
d think
she
'd gone over the far edge of the deep end.
As she approached the offending fish, she
yanked on a pair of
gloves and put the peg on her nose.
She struggled to get her bucket under one of the fish, but couldn't scoop in the smelly, slimy carcass.
On her fifth attempt she managed to use the broom to sweep the head and part of the body into the bucket only to watch it slid
e out again when she lifted it.

Dab, Dab, Dab!
She swore, the clothes peg hobbling her consonants.
What she needed was a net or a boat hook, but as she had neither, she'd have to improvise.
Perhaps there was something in the kitchen she could use.
She tramped back to the cabin.
After a thorough search of the drawers she was about to give up.
This wasn't her problem.
She was only the tenant for goodness sake.
Let whoever the State Department sent deal with it.
But then she spott
ed the coat hanger on the door.

She cut a length of string off
the reel she found in a drawer
.
By tying the coat hanger to the head of the broom, she managed to fashion a hook of sorts, even if it looked like something Heath Robinson would have dreamt up.
Now, if she could insert the hook into the gills of the fish, then she
woul
d be able to drag
it up the beach onto the grass.

Twenty minutes later, sweating from the effort and with
her
arms aching from the strain of dragging a fish that weighed at least fifteen pounds, she finally
man
o
euvered
it on to the grass.
It stank, even with the peg on her nose.
She tried not to look too closely at the staring eyes and grossly bloated body as she covered the stinking mass with a piece of sacking she found in the garage.
Now all she had to do was wait for the expert from the State Department to turn up and take the carcass away.

Skye returned to her laptop and stared at the small screen until her eyes burned.
She’d been
scrutinizing
this particular string
of code for over three hours
, and still hadn't been able to find any errors.
Such were the jumble of letters and symbols
,
that the document on the screen appeared as if some eight-legged creature had walked over the keyboard randomly striking the keys, but to Skye it all made perfect sense.
Her intuition told her the fault lie somewhere in this section of nonsensical appearing code.

S
h
e rubbed her tired eyes, and wandered around the cabin to ease the stiffness in her limbs.
She hadn't eaten since breakfast, what she needed was a sandwich and sugar fix.
She opened the refrigerator door and peered inside.
A few minutes later she carried her sandwich and mug of coffee back to the table.
I
f she still hadn't found anything
by the time she finished lunch
, she’d start tes
ting each command line by line.

Her sandwich half eaten and her coffee solidifying in the mug, Skye's concentration was so intense that she didn't hear the vehicle pull up in the driveway, nor did she hear its occupant walk the short distance to
the cabin
.
It was only so
meone's fist banged on the door that
she
realize
d
she had a visitor.

Careful to ensure that the screen of her laptop wasn't visible
,
she
opened the door.
A burly young man stood in the doorway and
parked behind
him on the driveway
,
was a green truck with the State of Washington
insignia on its door.