Free The River Killers by Bruce Burrows Page A

store. Faded green. Bike in the driveway. Bring the journals.” She jumped onto the float to tie up, and I turned and headed for Shearwater with a large grin on my face.
    When I got back to the boat, I casually sauntered into my stateroom with the computer under my arm and stowed it in the drawer under my bunk. I went back out on deck, filleted the black cod, put the fillets in a plastic baggie, then put the guts and head in a crab trap and lowered it over the side. Waste not, want not. Not want too much meatloaf.
    By the time I’d showered and put on my cool DFO fleecy, it was five-thirty. I grabbed the box of Alistair’s journals and, after some hesitation, removed the one with the hieroglyphics and stowed it, along with the log of the Jessie Isle , under my pillow.
    In the galley, I nodded to the four guys playing crib. “Going ashore,” I said. “Won’t be long. Pete, would you mind doing the eight o’clock update?” He nodded. When they saw me take the bag of fillets out of the fridge, they exchanged knowing looks.
    I took my stuff out onto the back deck and lowered it into the Zodiac, then climbed in, started the engines, untied the bowline, and moved off. If the crew was looking out the galley window, they might or might not have been surprised to see me steer, not for the Shearwater pub, but around the corner toward downtown Bella Bella.
    By the time I tied up at the wharf, dusk had turned to dark and cool air to cold. I just had time to nip into the store and buy a lemon, a bag of salad, and a bottle of BC chardonnay. Then I set out on the trek to Louise’s house, and thirty seconds later was there. When she let me in, I raised the bottle of wine and said, “Hope you’re not still on duty.”
    â€œBy the time you put that in the fridge, take out the chilled one, and open it, I’ll be off duty. What excellent timing you have.”
    I followed instructions, noting Louise’s fridge art as I did so. There was a photo of a serious-looking Louise with her arms draped over the shoulders of an older couple. Parents. Another of a smiling Louise hugging a furry animal. Dog. And a couple of Far Side cartoons that hinted of an encouragingly skewed worldview. I poured two glasses of wine and raised mine in a wordless toast. “Are you hungry now, or should we wait a bit?”
    She considered this seriously, obviously taking internal readings on The State of the Appetite. “How long to cook the fish?”
    â€œI was planning on steaming it, maybe twenty minutes.”
    â€œLet’s take a quick look at the journals, and then we can relax and enjoy dinner.”
    I placed the box on the kitchen table while she tucked one foot under her and semi-sat on a rickety chair. As I removed the journals, I looked around the small interior: living room/kitchen and two doors opening to the bathroom and bedroom. Clean and tidy but very sparse. “You haven’t been here long?”
    â€œThree months. Posted from Winnipeg. First time in BC , although my folks are planning to retire out here.”
    â€œWelcome to God’s country.” I finished stacking twenty-six journals on the table, more or less in order, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “I’ve gone through these and I couldn’t see anything unusual except for the last one.” I opened the last journal and showed her the final entries, the strange references to kelp.
    She hitched her chair closer to mine and leaned in to read the entries. When she finished and raised her head, she was very close to me.
    â€œWhat’s strange about that?”
    I tried not to sound like a university lecturer. “Kelp grows in the summer and dies off in the winter. Alistair knew that it wouldn’t start to grow again until July or August. So why the references to the kelp being late and his concern about not being able to see it?”
    She nodded and held out her glass for more wine, then