Joe Quinlan broke into a broad smile.
“Hell, Jim, since you put it like that …”
They drove the two blocks to the waterfront in one of the motor pool trucks which the Fire Department shared with other county officials, then strolled down the wooden walkway past the sheriff’s spanking-new speedboat to a battered red vessel marked FIRE-RESCUE. It was almost thirty years old and could make eight knots, flat out.
“So who reported this?” Quinlan asked as they chugged out of the harbor into the San Juan channel.
Ed Boyle gave the wheel a wrench to starboard.
“You know Bert Rigby over at Eastsound on Orcas?”
McTafferty laughed.
“He and Kathy Monroe still a number, or did she wear him all out? Now there’s one spunky babe. She’s been through half the men on Orcas since she got her divorce squared away”
“Probably looking for a meal ticket,” said Quinlan. “Knowing Gregg Monroe, she’ll never see dime one.”
“Perry Fletcher told me Bert’s already got a couple by-blow kids somewheres on the mainland. Someone should buy him a pack of Trojans.”
Ed Boyle pushed the throttle up to full revs.
“Anyway, Bert was up on the Turtleback with his gun and spotted smoke on Sleight,” Boyle continued. “Called in when he got back home. ‘Thought you should know,’ he says. ‘But to be honest, them hippies burn themselves out, it’ll be the best news since we won the Pig War.’”
Quinlan smiled sardonically. Off-islanders were never more than tolerated by the locals, although most of them were pleasant enough folks: boat-butts, retired military personnel, convalescent oldsters, a reclusive millionaire or two. The only real pains were the tree-huggers, granolas in Birkenstocks who’d moved out there from the cities to have a meaningful relationship with nature. They were constantly banging on about stuff the islanders had been doing since Christ was a corporal, like burning off the stubble and dumping their sewage in the ocean. Joe couldn’t see it made a damn bit of difference, the tonnage of raw shit the Canadians pumped into their side of the straits every day.
But at least the eco-nuts lived in regular houses, paid their taxes, sent their kids to school and supported local businesses. A few of them even had jobs. The people out on Sleight were different. Always had been. There was something about that island seemed to attract weirdos. When the first-growth was logged, back in the last century, one of the crew had gone crazy and killed two others with an axe while they slept. Then some kind of religious cranks had set up there, Quinlan could never remember the name, Theo and Sophy came into it. They were there for years, and when that brand of voodoo finally went out of style a bunch of goddamn hippies moved in. It was enough to make you believe the story someone had told him, that the Indians used to avoid the island because it was inhabited by bad spirits.
The boat shoved its ungainly way through the water shimmering in the last faint rays of the vanished sun. Ed Boyle consulted his watch.
“Well, the seminar should be under way by now Wonder if they’re in the hot tub yet.”
At last they cleared the cluster of islets at the southwestern tip of Orcas, and Sleight Island finally came into view, a dark mass hunkered down on the shifting waters. There was no sign of any fire.
“Shee-it!” breathed McTafferty.
“Looks like we might have to start something ourselves,” said Ed Boyle.
Joe Quinlan sighed.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you boys talk me into this. It looks like we ditched out on purpose, the Chief’ll go ballistic.”
“Bert wouldn’t kid us about something like this,” said Boyle. “Maybe she just burned herself out.”
He switched on the searchlight mounted on the cabin roof, illuminating the coastline and the wooden pier.
“No sign of their boat,” McTafferty remarked.
Ed Boyle throttled back to bring the launch alongside, while Quinlan and McTafferty went out on deck to get the mooring ropes ready. Then there was a jarring crunch, and the launch stopped dead, hurling Quinlan painfully against a winch.
“What the fuck?”
McTafferty got up from the deck, rubbing his thigh. He looked overboard.
“Something down there.”
They backed off and angled the searchlight down into the water. All three men gathered at the bow.
“Jesus!” said Quinlan.
In the depths alongside the pier lay a submerged boat. Taut mooring ropes secured it to the pier, which was leaning over at an angle under the weight. On the blue hull of the wreck, white lettering spelled the word POLICE.
“Where the hell’s that from?” asked McTafferty.
Ed Boyle brought the launch in on the other side of the pier, and they all went ashore. The bulk of the island rose massive and black behind them. There was no sound, no light, no trace of human presence.
“Guess we should go see what’s cooking,” said McTafferty.
“Guess so,” said Boyle.
Neither man moved.
“You guys get on the radio,” said Joe Quinlan. “Find out if the cops have been here. I’ll go check it out.”
McTafferty walked a ways along the pier with him.
“If you’re not back here in ten minutes, Joe, we’ll …”
He broke off, catching sight of the body. It was lying on its back in the dirt at the landward end of the pier, the arms and legs stretched wide.
“Christ almighty.”
“Give us some light here!” Quinlan yelled to Boyle.
The searchlight moved jerkily up and across. Quinlan approached the body, processing information as he drew nearer. A man. In his thirties. Blond hair. Beard. Work boots. Jeans. Blue flannel shirt with a large red stain. No pulse. Skin cold. Been dead some time.
He glanced up instinctively at the screen of trees all around, the tips barely etched in against the night sky.
“Kill the light!” he shouted.
The searchlight went out, leaving him blind for a moment. He groped his way back to McTafferty.
“Well, we don’t have to worry about skipping that seminar,” he said.
“Is he …?”
“Yeah. Get the sheriff out here.”
Darrell Griffiths was a massive man with flinty eyes, a bushy mustache, an impressive gut and a permanently morose expression. He had owned the islands’ only drugstore for years, but when his oldest daughter graduated from pharmacy school at the university he turned it over to her and ran for sheriff. Since then, Darrell had supervised whatever law enforcement the county needed-not a whole heck of a lot, to be honest-as well as raising the four younger children his wife had dumped on him when she ran off to Spokane with some guy from the mainland. It had been the talk of the town for months, but Darrell had never said one solitary word about the whole business, and he wasn’t the kind of guy you could ask.
The fire launch was lying at anchor about half a mile off Sleight. It was the first time they’d had the hook down as long as anyone could remember, but the damn thing worked perfectly, showed the maintenance program must be OK. The sheriff’s boat came alongside, and Griffiths and his two deputies went aboard the launch to confer with the firemen. After a brief conference, the two vessels continued to the pier, where they tied up side by side.
The six men walked down the pier and surrounded the body.
“Anyone recognize him?” asked Griffiths.
Pete Green, one of the deputies, spat mellifluously into the undergrowth.
“One of the guys that lives out here,” he said. “Time I came over last year he met me right here, we talked. Not that bad a guy …”
“…for a hippy,” the others all concluded silently.
Griffiths recalled the occasion. The police had been called by a group of rich yuppies from Boston who were spending a couple of weeks in the islands, cruising around in a fancy yacht they’d chartered. They’d dropped anchor off Sleight and gone ashore in a dinghy to have a picnic. Next thing they know, these guys are standing around them with guns, telling them the island’s private property and they got sixty seconds to get their butts off it. The hippies were within their rights, of course, and the sheriff didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of sympathy for easterners anyway, but he’d sent Pete over to have a word with them, suggest maybe next time they could tone down the attitude some.