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 accumulate 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 prone 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.”
The chief grunted, still upset he had missed it earlier. “Doesn’t mean much. Might have already been there.” He turned and stared at Dirk and Summer. “What is your business in Hecate Strait?” he asked.
“We are with the National Underwater and Marine Agency, conducting a study of phytoplankton health along the Inside Passage,” Summer explained. “We are sampling the waters between Juneau and Vancouver, at the request of the Canadian Fisheries Department.”
The inspector looked at the NUMA boat, then nodded. “I’m going to have to ask you people to stay here in Kitimat for a day or two until the preliminary investigation is complete. You can keep your boat tied up here; this is a municipal dock. There’s a motel just a block or two up the road, if you need it. Why don’t you plan on coming by my office tomorrow afternoon around three? I’ll send a car to pick you up.”
“Glad to be of help,” Dirk replied drily, slightly annoyed at their being treated as potential suspects.
The interview complete, Dirk and Summer jumped to the dock and started walking back to their boat. They looked up as a fiberglass workboat nearly identical to their own came roaring toward the dock. The pilot brought it in way too fast, the bow kissing the dock hard just seconds after the engines had been cut. A tall man in a flannel shirt burst from the wheelhouse, grabbed a bow line, and leaped to the dock. Quickly tying the line behind the NUMA boat, he stomped along the pier, his boots pounding the wooden planks. Summer noted his rugged features and shaggy hair as he approached but sensed a measure of grace in his wide, dark eyes.
“Are you the folks who found the Ventura?” he asked, giving Dirk and Summer a hard stare. The voice was refined and articulate, which seemed to Summer an odd contrast to the man’s appearance.
“Yes,” Dirk replied. “I brought her in to port.”
The man nodded briskly, then stormed down the dock, catching the police inspector as he stepped ashore. Summer watched as the man engaged the Mountie in an animated conversation, their voices elevating to a high pitch.
“Can’t say we’ve had the warmest of welcomes,” Dirk muttered, climbing into the NUMA vessel. “Does everybody here have the demeanor of a grizzly bear?”
“Guess we brought too much drama to sleepy little Kitimat,” Summer replied.
Securing their boat and retrieving their water samples, they headed into the north-woods town, finding it not so sleepy after all. A miniboom was taking place in Kitimat, an outgrowth of the deepwater port facility located southwest of downtown. International industry had quietly taken notice of the shipping capabilities and was turning the town into the busiest Canadian port north of Vancouver. A longtime Alcon Aluminum smelter had recently undergone a billion-dollar expansion, while logging operations and tourism continued to grow.
Locating a shipping office, they overnighted their water samples to a NUMA lab facility in Seattle, then grabbed a late dinner. Walking back to their motel, they took a detour to the dock to retrieve a few items from the boat. Standing on the bridge, Summer found herself staring at the Ventura, moored in front of them. The police had finished their investigation and the boat sat empty, a silent blanket of morbidity hanging over it. Dirk stepped up from belowdecks, noticing his sister’s concentration.
“Can’t do anything to bring them back,” he said. “It’s been a long day. Let’s head to the motel and turn in.”
“Just thinking about that message on the footwell and what the captain was trying to say. I wonder if it was a warning of some sort.”
“They died quickly. We don’t even know if it was a last message.”
Summer thought about the inscription again and shook her head. It meant something more than it appeared to, of that much she was certain. Beyond that, she had no clue. Somehow, she told herself, she would figure it out.
6
The restaurant’s decor would never be featured in Architectural Digest, Dirk thought, but the smoked salmon and eggs certainly rated five stars. He grinned at the moose head protruding above Summer as he swallowed another bite of breakfast. The moose was only one of a dozen stuffed animal heads mounted on the wall. Each seemed to be staring at Summer through hard glassy eyes.
“All this roadkill is enough to make a person turn vegan,” Summer grimaced, shaking her head at the bared snout of a grizzly bear.
“Kitimat’s taxidermist must be the richest guy in town,” Dirk replied.
“Probably owns the motel.”
She sipped at a cup of coffee as the door to the café opened and a tall man entered the restaurant. He strode directly to their table as Dirk and Summer recognized him as the agitated man they’d encountered on the dock the day before.
“May I please join you?” he asked in a nonthreatening manner.
“Please do,” Dirk said, pushing out a chair. He stuck his hand out at the stranger. “I’m Dirk Pitt. This is my sister, Summer.”
The man’s brow rose a fraction as he gazed at Summer.
“Glad to know you,” he replied, shaking hands. “My name is Trevor Miller. My older brother, Steve, was captain of the Ventura.”
“We’re sorry for what happened yesterday,” Summer replied. She could tell by the look in the man’s eyes that he was deeply shaken by the loss of his brother.
“He was a good man,” Trevor said, his gaze turning distant. He then looked at Summer and offered a sheepish grin. “My apologies for the gruff behavior yesterday. I had just received word of my brother’s death over the marine radio and was a little upset and confused.”
“A natural reaction,” Summer said. “I think we were all a little confused.”
Trevor inquired about their involvement, and Summer told of their discovery of the fishing boat while surveying the Hecate Strait.
“Your brother fished these waters for some time?” Dirk asked.
“No, only two or three years. He was actually a doctor who sold his practice and turned to fishing out of passion. Did pretty well at it, too, despite all the restrictions placed on commercial fishing these days to protect the stocks.”
“Seems like an odd career transition,” Summer remarked.
“We grew up on the water. Our father was an engineer for the local mining company and an avid fisherman. We traveled around a lot but always had a boat. Steve would be on the water every chance he got. He even crewed on a trawler in high school.”