Free The River Killers by Bruce Burrows

order, all overlaid by a soft accumulation of recent dust and a baby cobweb here and there. Coleman lanterns. No electrical appliances. I looked for the computer that must have been the rationale for the solar panels. It’s not that hard to follow wires. Beneath the floorboards of Alistair’s bedroom I found it. The equipment was encased in a cedar box hung beneath a trapdoor covered by a scrap of cheap rug stuff. The central processing unit, an old Dell, and a slightly more modern monitor, were dry and, I hoped, functional. The RCMP had missed them.
    My first thought, embarrassingly puppy-like, was to present this potential evidence to Louise. In my mind, we were on a first name basis. But paranoia overcame infatuation. I better check this stuff out, I thought. If there’s anything relevant, I’ll show it to her. I gave the computer monitor the float test and it failed. I found a garbage bag to protect the CPU from salt spray, put it under my arm, and walked out of the float house.
    As I passed the Jessie Isle , I remembered that I had wanted to check the log. Beyond feelings of guilt now, I stepped over the cap rail and pulled open the galley door. Standard working boat configuration: table and benches on the starboard side, fridge and counter portside, oil stove against an insulated wall forward. I realized I’d never seen a different arrangement and wondered why.
    I walked through the galley and forward to the wheelhouse. Again, everything was standard. Windows in front and on both sides, steering wheel in the middle, and lots of electronic equipment mounted wherever would be handiest. At the back of the wheelhouse, portside, was the chart table, and under it, several drawers. In the top drawer, I found the ship’s log, almost full, with page after page filled with Alistair’s cramped but tidy writing. I shoved it in my pocket and left.
    As I untied the Zodiac, I glanced at the sun and reckoned it to be about two. It was less than an hour back to Shearwater, so I had time to kill. I rummaged around in the locker under the seat and was rewarded by finding a variety of cod jiggers. I remembered several jigging hotspots in Seaforth Channel where we used to stop when running home from Prince Rupert, the urgency of home momentarily overcome by the prospect of fresh fish.
    I better check those spots out. Research. Catch-per-unit effort. New data compared to old.
    I smiled inwardly and decided not to bullshit myself. I would steal a moment of enjoyment and refuse to feel guilty about it. I flashed up the Zodiac and headed south out of Spiller Channel and into Seaforth. There was a reef halfway to Bella Bella, almost a net length off the south shore, where I’d never failed to come up with some form of seafood delight—a halibut, red snapper, lingcod, or rockfish.
    The crème de la crème of bottom fish, black cod, usually lived more offshore and really deep. I’d never caught one on a jigger and relied on friendly long-liners to give me the occasional feed. But I hooked one now, obviously a wandering outcast, and as I pulled him into the boat, I was already planning the garnish.
    It was three-thirty and would be gathering dark by four, so I roared for home. As I passed Bella Bella, just around the corner from Shearwater, I saw the RCMP Zodiac headed for its berth. I thought I could make out Louise in the stern, so I altered course and headed to cut them off. I caught up to them just as they slowed to approach the downtown Bella Bella dock. As I came alongside I held up the ten-pound black cod and grinned at Louise. “Why don’t you come out to the Jimmy Sinc and I’ll cook dinner?”
    She thought this over carefully, obviously balancing “appearances” against the opportunity to take advantage of my keen intelligence. “You can cook it at my place.” She pointed at the big squat grocery store just up from the wharf head. “Four houses north of the