Arctic Drift Part 4

Pulling on a thick sweater and a weathered yellow rain slicker, she padded down the stairs of her expansive sh.o.r.eline home. Built by her late husband in the 1990s, it featured a honeycomb of broad gla.s.s windows, which captured a dramatic view of downtown Victoria across the harbor. T. J. Finlay had planned it that way, as a constant reminder of the city he loved. A larger-than-life character, Finlay had dominated the local political scene. An heir to the Canadian Pacific Railway fortune, he had entered politics at an early age, becoming a popular and long-standing MP for greater Victoria. He had died unexpectedly of a heart attack but would have been delighted to know that his wife of thirty-five years had easily won election to his seat in Parliament.

A delicate yet adventurous woman, Elizabeth Finlay came from a long line of Canadian settlers and was fiercely proud of her heritage. She was troubled by what she saw as unjust external influences on Canada and was a vocal critic for tougher immigration standards and tighter restrictions on foreign ownership and investment. While ruffling feathers in the business community, she was widely admired for her courage, bluntness, and honesty.

Stepping out a back door, she made her way across a manicured lawn and down a flight of steps to a heavy wooden dock that marched into the bay. A happy black Lab followed at her heels, wagging its tail in tireless bliss. Moored at the dock was a sleek sixty-five-foot offsh.o.r.e motor yacht. Though nearly twenty years old, it sparkled like new, the product of impeccable care. Opposite the yacht was a small wooden Wayfarer sailboat of sixteen feet, emblazoned with a bright yellow hull. Like the yacht, the vintage racing sailboat was kept looking new with polished brightwork and fresh lines and sails.

At the sound of her footsteps across the wooden slats, a thin gray-haired man stepped off the yacht and greeted Finlay.

"Good morning, Mrs. Finlay. Do you wish to take out the Columbia Empress?" he asked, motioning toward the yacht.

"No, Edward, I'm up for a sail today. It's a better way to clear my head of Ottawa politics."

"An excellent proposition," he replied, helping her and the dog into the sailboat. Untying the bow and stern lines, he shoved the boat away from the dock as Finlay raised the mainsail.

"Watch out for freighters," the caretaker said. "Traffic seems a bit lively today."

"Thank you, Edward. I shall be back by lunchtime."

The breeze quickly filled the mainsail, and Finlay was able to maneuver into the harbor without use of the outboard motor. As the harbor opened up before her, she tacked to the southeast, maneuvering past a Seattle-bound ferry. Seated in the small c.o.c.kpit, she clipped on a safety harness, then took in the view around her. The quaint sh.o.r.e of Victoria Island receded on her left, its gabled, turn-of-the-century structures resembling a row of dollhouses. In the distance ahead, a steady stream of freighters rolled in along the Juan de Fuca Strait, splitting their forces between Vancouver and Seattle. A few other hardy sailboats and fishing boats dotted the sound, but the open expanse of water left a wide berth to the other vessels. Finlay watched as a small runabout roared past, its lone occupant tossing her a friendly wave before plowing on ahead of her.

She sat back and soaked in the salt air, turning up her collar to the damp sea spray. She sailed toward a small group of islands east of Victoria, letting the Wayfarer run free while her mind did likewise. Twenty years before, she and T.J. had sailed across the Pacific on a much larger boat. Crossing remote stretches of ocean, she found that the solitude gave her a sense of comfort. She always considered the sailboat to be a remarkably therapeutic device. Just a few minutes on the water purged away the daily stresses while calming her emotions. She often joked that the country needed more sailboats and fewer psychologists.

The small boat skimmed through quietly building swells as Finlay crossed the open bay. Approaching Discovery Island, she tacked to the southeast, breezing into a sheltered cove on the green island that stretched only a mile long. A pod of orcas broke the surface nearby, and Finlay chased after them for several minutes until they disappeared under the surface. Tacking again back toward the island, she saw that the nearby waters were clear of other vessels, save for the runabout that had pa.s.sed earlier. The powerboat seemed to be running in large circles ahead of her. Finlay shook her head in loathing at the disruptive noise from its large outboard motor.

The runabout suddenly stopped a short distance ahead of her, and Finlay could see the occupant fidgeting with a fishing pole. She shifted the rudder and tacked to her port, intending to pa.s.s offsh.o.r.e. Skirting by a few yards away, she was startled to hear a loud splash followed by a cry for help.

Finlay looked to see the man flailing his arms wildly in the water, a sure sign that he didn't know how to swim. He appeared to be weighed down by a heavy jacket and plunged under the water for a moment before struggling back to the surface. Finlay cut the tiller sharply, catching a quick burst of wind in the mainsail that shoved the boat toward the stricken man. Drawing closer, she quickly dropped the sails and drifted the last few yards, steering the sailboat alongside the flailing man.

Finlay could see that he was a hefty man, with short hair and a weathered face. Despite his panicked motions, the man looked at his rescuer with penetrating eyes that showed a complete lack of fear. He turned and gave an annoyed look at the black Lab, who stood at the sailboat's rail barking incessantly.

Finlay knew enough not to try and struggle with a drowning victim, so she scanned the deck for a boat hook. Not finding it, she quickly coiled up the sailboat's stern line and expertly tossed it to the man. He managed to loop an arm around the rope before slipping once more underwater. With a leg braced against the gunwale, Finlay pulled on the line, heaving the deadweight toward her. A few feet off the stern, the man popped to the surface, wheezing and sputtering for air.

"Take it easy," Finlay a.s.sured the man in a comforting voice. "You're going to be all right." She pulled him closer, then tied off the line on a cleat.

The man regained his composure and pulled himself to the stern while breathing heavily.

"Can you help me aboard? " he rasped, extending an arm skyward.

Finlay instinctively reached down and grabbed the man's thick hand. Before she could brace herself to pull, she felt herself roughly tugged toward the water. The man had gripped her wrist and flung himself backward, pushing off the sailboat's stern with his feet. Taken off balance, the slight older woman flew over the railing and struck the water headfirst.

Elizabeth Finlay's surprise at being pulled over the rail was surpa.s.sed by the shock of immersion in the frigid waters. She gasped at the cold, then regained her bearings and kicked to the surface. Only she couldn't get there.

The drowning man had let go of her wrist but now gripped her about the arm above the elbow. To Finlay's horror, she found herself being dragged deeper under the water. Only her safety harness, stretched to its full extension, kept her from descending farther into the depths. Caught in the middle of a lethal tug-of-war, she looked through a churning veil of bubbles at her underwater a.s.sailant. She was shocked to see that he had a dive regulator in his mouth spewing a stream of exhaust bubbles. Writhing to break free of his grasp, she pushed against him and felt a spongy layer beneath his clothes.

A dry suit. The horror of it all suddenly set in. He was trying to kill her.

Fear and panic preceded a surge of adrenaline, and the tough little woman kicked and flailed for all she was worth. A swinging elbow connected with the man's face, knocking the regulator from his mouth. He momentarily let go of her arm, and she made a desperate kick for the surface. But his other hand reached out and clutched her ankle just before her head broke the water, and her fate was sealed.

Finlay struggled desperately for another minute, her lungs screaming for relief, before a shroud of darkness clouded her vision. Amidst the terror, she curiously fretted about the safety of her pet Lab, whose m.u.f.fled bark could be detected underwater. Slowly the struggle eased as the oxygen flow to her brain ceased. Unable to hold her breath any longer, she involuntarily gasped for air, filling her lungs with cold salt water. With a spastic choke and a final flail of the arms, Elizabeth Finlay collapsed.

Her a.s.sailant held her limp body underwater for another two minutes, then cautiously surfaced alongside the sailboat. Seeing no other vessels about, he swam to the runabout and hoisted himself over the side. He pulled off a loose overcoat, revealing a dive tank and weight belt that he quickly unbuckled. Stripping out of the dry suit, he threw on some dry clothes, started the outboard, and quickly sped past the sailboat. On board the dinghy, the black Lab barked morosely as it eyed its owner drifting lifelessly off the stern.

The man gazed at the dog without pity, then turned from the scene of death and calmly cruised toward Victoria.

5

THE VENTURA'S ARRIVAL AT ITS HOME PORT OF Kitimat created an immediate stir. Most of the hamlet's eleven thousand residents knew the dead fishermen as neighbors, friends, or acquaintances. It was only minutes after Dirk docked the boat at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police wharf that word leaked out to the local townspeople. Family and friends quickly a.s.sembled on the dock until being pushed behind a temporary barricade erected by a bull-sized Mountie.

Tying up the NUMA research boat just astern, Summer joined her brother, attracting curious gazes from the nearby onlookers. A hospital van was backed down the dock and the three bodies loaded aboard on covered stretchers. In a dingy bait shack a few feet away, Dirk and Summer chronicled their morbid discovery.

"All three were dead when you went aboard?"

The monotonous tone of the questioner's voice matched his face. Kitimat's police chief peered at Dirk and Summer with unblinking gray eyes that glared over a small nose and an expressionless mouth. Dirk had immediately pegged the inspector as a frustrated lawman trapped in a job too small for his ambitions.

"Yes," Dirk replied. "First thing I did was check for a pulse, but it was evident by their color and skin temperature that they had died at least a short while before I got aboard."

"Did you move the bodies?"

"No. I just covered them up with some blankets when we got close to port. They looked to me like they died where they fell."

The chief nodded blankly. "Did you hear any distress calls on the radio beforehand? And were there any other vessels in the area?"

"We heard no calls on the radio," Summer replied.

"The only other vessel I noted was a cruise ship sailing down the pa.s.sage. She was several miles to the north of us when we found the Ventura," Dirk added.

The chief stared at them for an awkward minute, then closed a small notebook he had been scribbling in. "What do you think happened?" he asked, arching brows finally cracking his stone face.

"I'll leave that for the pathologists to determine," Dirk said, "though if you forced me to guess, I'd say carbon monoxide poisoning. Maybe an exhaust leak under the wheelhouse allowed gases to acc.u.mulate inside."

"They were all found together in the bridge, so it might figure," the chief nodded. "You don't feel any ill effects?"

"I'm fine. Opened all the windows, just to be safe."

"Anything else you can tell me that might be of help?"

Dirk looked up for a moment then nodded. "There's the odd message on the footwell."

The chief's brows arched again. "Show me."

Dirk led him and Summer onto the Ventura and into the bridge. Standing near the wheel, he poked a toe toward the helm. The chief dropped to his knees for a closer look, disturbed that he had missed something during his initial crime scene investigation. A faint penciled inscription was scribbled on the face of the helm, just a few inches above the deck. It was a spot where a p.r.o.ne man dying on the deck might try to leave a last message.

The inspector pulled out a flashlight and aimed it at the inscription. In a shaky hand was spelled the word CHOKE D, with a small gap in front of the D. The chief reached over and picked up a yellow pencil that had rolled against the bulkhead.

"The writing was in reach of the captain's body," Dirk said. "Maybe he fell quickly and couldn't reach the radio."