A Killing Tide (22 page)

She fell silent, her face unaccountably sad.

Michael's family had been lucky—they hadn't lost anyone in more than fifty years. But he'd seen the effects of such tragedies on the other fishing families back East. He'd always been in awe of their acceptance of the hardships they put up with, year after year.

The waves suddenly lessened in intensity, and the rough water changed texture. They'd left the river bar behind and entered the Pacific. Kaz's shoulders visibly relaxed, and she turned to him with a slight smile that was perhaps a peace offering. "We've got about 45 minutes 'til we reach the pots. Let's use it to get warmed up—it'll be our last chance."

He wanted to touch her, to rub those proud shoulders and soothe the rest of the tension out of them. Looking at her made him ache to help her. But he held back. Instead, he said, "I'll bring you some more coffee—I'm going to wait a bit."

"While you're down there, throw on hip boots and a sou'wester, along with rubber gloves. You don't want your hands icing up when we start lifting the pots."

#

Hugging the coastline, they traveled south until they came to a string of buoys whose colors matched the black and green stripes painted on the sides of the
Kasmira B
.

The weather, Kaz noted worriedly, was getting nastier. The wind had picked up, and there was considerably more sleet and snow mixed in with the rain. She cut the engines down to a low rumble as they came alongside the first buoy. Then she came out on the deck, dressed in hip boots, pulling on her gloves.

Michael was already kneeling alongside the railing. He glanced up at her. "I'll lift and rebait—you steer the trawler."

She shook her head, moving the hydraulic block that they would use to haul the pots out of the water into position. "It would be better if we had a second crewman, but you're stuck with me. It'll go faster if I help."

They worked in surprisingly companionable silence for the first twenty minutes or so. Michael had slipped easily into the rhythm of the work—lifting the pot while she chopped the frozen bait with a cleaver, working with her to throw back the females and undersized males, then baiting and dropping the pot back into the water, only to repeat the process with the next one down the line. Every so often, she stopped to readjust their position along the lines, then come back out on deck to help.

The catch was looking good, thank God. The business needed the money—this was only their second lift of the season. If production stayed this steady, it might cover some of the repair expenses they'd already incurred. The catch a few days ago had been much lighter; she'd begun to wonder whether she'd have to move her pots to slightly deeper water. They were at twelve fathoms now—a good depth in most years.

She glanced sideways at Michael. He was working steadily and not saying much, evidently content with the screech of the gulls, the lap of the water against the hull, and the sound of the wind. They were both icing up from the freezing spray and sleet, though, and would need to take a break soon.

He was good. Almost as good as Bjorn's son. And they were progressing much faster than she could on her own.

She'd never felt this kind of easy companionship with Phil, not in the three years they'd been together. She'd always had to struggle, to concentrate on making the relationship work. With Michael, though, everything felt natural. She was starting to depend on him, look forward to the time they spent together. And that was very scary indeed.

It was becoming harder and harder to lie to him, even through omission. He'd been right when he'd told her that she'd have to trust someone. She came to a decision. Once they were back in port, she'd sit down and level with him. Tell him everything.

She stopped chopping bait to listen to the chatter on the radio for a minute. The fishermen had been talking continuously for the last half hour, joking with each other, reporting fake locations meant to confuse the larger, commercial trawlers who might horn in on their catch, and generally keeping each other company. She recognized almost all of the voices—Svensen's, Bjorn's, those of Jacobsen's crew, and others. Svensen was nattering on about something having to do with too many dogfish in his net when she stopped what she was doing to stare intently at the radio.

Michael straightened from throwing crabs over the side. "What?"

She listened for another few moments and then shook her head, perplexed. "Nothing, I guess. It's just that Svensen gave out a location that wouldn't fool anyone—it's too close in to shore. I thought he was smarter than that."

"Maybe not. How well do you know him?"

She shrugged. "We grew up together, but I'm not all that fond of his type."

"Type?"

"The kind of fisherman who only gets into the business for the money," she explained. "He fell into an inheritance, bought up several trawlers from folks who'd tried their hand at fishing and had failed, and put a lot of crews behind hauling big catches, fast. Make the money and get out—that's his attitude. Guys like him don't last through the lean years, because they fail to meet their expected profit margin and there's no love of the work to see them through. From what I hear, no one expected him to make it this long."

"What about the other guy you were talking to earlier?"

"Bjorn?" She grabbed another handful of frozen bait and brought the cleaver down hard. "He's okay, third generation, like Gary and me. He's got a large family—several of his teenage sons are already crewing for him. One of them helps Gary out from time to time."

"Kaz."

The grim tone alerted her even before she turned around. She saw the broken line he was holding up. "Sonofabitch!" She stabbed the cleaver into a hunk of bait and dropped down to look over the side, then along the line of buoys as they stretched out into the distance. She stood and moved into the wheelhouse to run the trawler up to the next buoy.

Michael leaned over the side and snagged the buoy. He connected the line to the hydraulic block and hauled up the first pot. On the other end of the pot, the line had been cut, just like the one before.

"Check the others," she ordered, her anger growing.

For the next hour, they ran the rest of the first half of the pots. Each buoy had one pot attached, then the line was cut. All in all, she estimated that they'd lost well over three quarters the pots. It was a devastating financial blow, not so much the pots but what had been in them. Unless Gary relented and let her invest some of her own savings in the business, it could go under.

Someone had done this, and made it look good enough so that no one would notice. That took time and determination. She returned to the wheelhouse and unhooked the handset for the radio. "This is the
Kasmira B,
over."

"Kasmira B,
nice to hear from you." Bjorn's voice boomed across the airwaves.

"We've got a problem here. You guys see anyone around my lines the last couple of days?"

"State your situation."

"Lines cut, pots not retrievable." She waited. Michael came to lean against the door, pulling off his rubber gloves and rubbing the ice from his coat.

The radio remained silent.

She clicked to retransmit. "I repeat, lines cut, pots not retrievable. I'd appreciate a report of who y'all have seen over here lately."

Silence.

Her gaze met Michael's. His expression was hard. She swore and tossed the handset onto the console.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

"Bad enough." She rubbed the back of her neck. "Let's take a break, then see what else we can salvage."

She headed down to the galley, and Michael followed. While she was pouring coffee, he came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She tensed.

He overrode her resistance, pulling her back against him and wrapping his arms around her. "All this will be over soon, and these guys will come around." He placed his chin on top of her head. "They probably didn't want to talk because I was on board."

"Maybe." She sniffled once, appalled at how close she was to tears. For something of so little consequence compared to everything else she'd faced in the last week, the cut lines were, for some reason, the last straw. But she knew it wasn't the lost pots, not really. It was the silence on the radio that had gotten to her.

Michael tightened his arms for a moment, then let loose of her. He moved around her, got sandwiches out of a Styrofoam cooler, unwrapped them, and handed one to her. "Eat."

She stared at the sandwich, which looked totally unappetizing. "Do you always push food as a universal solution?"

"I can think of other remedies, but they're harder to implement when swathed in four layers of foul weather gear."

That got a small laugh out of her. "Valid point." She took the sandwich.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, warming themselves next to the oil stove. The ice on their coats melted and dripped, making a soggy mess of the carpet.

"So what now?" Michael asked.

"We pull what we can, then head for port. I'll see if it's possible to get a diver out here, but with these currents, it's probably a lost cause. Someone knew what he was doing."

"Someone who knew your colors, and who knew what to do to inflict maximum damage. Someone in the fishing fleet."

"Yeah." She tossed down the rest of her sandwich, no longer able to swallow.

Someone not only wanted to frame Gary, but put them both out of business. That took a lot of hate.

Or a lot of desperation.

She'd faced hostile corporate boards, and over the years, she knew she'd made some enemies. They'd undercut her and take her next client maybe, or try to block the merger she was working on. Tit for tat. But that was business.

This felt personal.

#

It took them five hours to run the rest of the lines. She'd lost the majority of their pots. Tired and discouraged, she turned the
Kasmira B
toward port. The ride back over the bar was a silent one, but Michael never left her side.

They docked the
Kasmira B
well after dark, then went straight to the storage unit to retrieve the money to turn it over to the authorities.

It was gone.

~~~~

Chapter 18

When Kaz and Michael walked out of the storage unit, several police stood waiting for them. Lucy's expression was grim, Ivar's sympathetic.

Sykes stepped forward and handed Kaz a folded document. "General search warrant," he explained. "Covers your cold storage unit, your boats and vehicles, and your house. We're looking for evidence related to the arson and the murder of Ken Lundquist."

Kaz took the document, unfolding it with shaking hands. The impersonal legalese brought home the gravity of Gary's situation. And hers. "You already have an arrest warrant." She angrily waved the search warrant. "Why are you doing this?"

Clint Jackson, who was standing next to Sykes, smirked at her.

"We've arrested your brother in the past and couldn't make it stick," Sykes said. "This time, I'm personally making sure the DA has all the evidence he'll need to convict."

Kaz rounded on Michael. "Did you know about this?" She'd trusted him, been ready to confide in him. Now she could only choke on his betrayal. Why did it hurt so badly?

He shook his head. "I only knew about the arrest warrant." When he reached out a hand, she shoved the paperwork at him.

She wanted to believe him. But he had to have suspected this would happen. Why hadn't he warned her? For that matter, why hadn't Lucy? The betrayal stung, and her eyes welled with tears.

She held out her key ring to Sykes. He took it, telling her to wait nearby, then he and Clint entered the storage building.

To put some distance between herself and the others, she walked over and sat down on the cold, wet concrete curb of the parking lot. She couldn't shake the feeling that events were spinning out of control. If Sykes and Jackson had searched the unit even a few hours ago, they'd have found the money and been able to use it to build the case against Gary.

It made sense that Gary had moved the money—maybe after he'd seen her go into the storage unit that morning. If so, then he had to be hiding out nearby, perhaps using one of the many abandoned warehouses that were strung out all along the waterfront. The crumbling old buildings were some distance from Astoria's business district—only fishermen would've been close enough to see him coming and going, and they wouldn't say anything. Fear for him made her stomach cramp. He was taking insane risks, moving around in broad daylight.

Lucy came over and dropped down beside her, giving her a hug. "I tried to call you several times today—"

"We were out working the lines."

Lucy's expression turned wry. "So I heard, from just about everyone at the Redemption. No one was happy about you taking a newcomer out."

Kaz shrugged.

"The chief got Judge Banks on his cell phone," Lucy explained quietly. "Banks was out elk hunting and was reluctant to issue a warrant over the phone, but after Sykes told him about the blood on the tire iron matching Ken's, he didn't really have much choice."