The River Killers by Bruce Burrows

table, poured extremely black coffee into each of them, and pointed at the sugar and can of condensed milk.
    We settled around the table and customized our coffees. “So Danny, how’s Ottawa? You look like you’re still halfway sane anyway.”
    â€œOttawa is Ottawa, unfortunately. It sure feels good to be back out here.”
    â€œYeah, well you sure earn your money. I wouldn’t work back there for anything. So how come you guys got brave enough to leave Shearwater and sneak into Heiltsuk territory?”
    Mark answered, “I heard there were a couple of herring skiffs for sale.”
    â€œYeah, the Glenning boys are selling two ten-ton skiffs. They’re three fingers over, right behind the Cape Morrisey . So you want to quit the big boat stuff? Become a stiff in a skiff?”
    â€œJimmy only lets us have the one seine license. I like to fish it here, but gillnetting is good up north. If I can get a good deal on some gear, I might give it a try.”
    â€œFinish your coffee and we’ll wander over and have a look. The sun’s almost out.”
    The sun might have been out in Tahiti but it sure as hell wasn’t out here. However, the rain was now merely a drizzle and the sky was light enough that you could almost read a newspaper. We walked down the float to the header float and then along it to the third finger. Just as we turned to walk down the outside float, something caught my eye, and I stopped in amazement. A battered aluminum crew boat, maybe twenty-four feet with a forward cabin, and the name in just slightly faded red letters. Kelp .
    Mark and Cecil turned to look at me. “What’s up?”
    I pointed at the Kelp . “Mark, did you read to the end of Alistair’s journals?”
    He shook his head. “I didn’t get a chance to finish them.”
    â€œI’ll explain later, but we need to find out who owns that boat.”
    â€œOkay, let’s take a quick look at the skiffs, and then we’ll find the wharfmaster. He’ll have a record of the owner.”
    As we walked farther down the float, Cecil looked at me questioningly. I shrugged. “It’s a long, strange story, Cecil. I’ll tell you about it some time.” By this time, we were passing the high bow of the Cape Morrisey and could see two flat-bottomed herring skiffs tied side by side. The inside skiff had a FOR SALE sign on it with a phone number. Mark made a note and then began to clamber over the skiffs, inspecting hull condition and welds, as well as the gear. Finally he finished and climbed back onto the float.
    â€œLet’s find the wharfmaster.” We walked toward the wharf head and up the gangway to the parking area. Cecil stopped by a phone booth and began fumbling for change.
    â€œNo lineup. Better phone the wife. See you guys later.” We waved and walked toward a vinyl-sided shack displaying a sign. WHARFMASTER . When we entered, I could see that the sign should have read WHARFMISTRESS . She was Heiltsuk, maybe some white blood, and extremely attractive. As she rose from her desk and approached the counter, I noted, hopefully without staring, her burnished brown skin, high cheekbones, and long glossy black hair.
    â€œCan I help you?” Her voice was as attractive as the rest of her.
    I leaned on the counter and gave her the full benefit of my coolly intelligent but warmly open and honest gaze.
    â€œI wonder if you could tell us who owns that aluminum crew boat, the Kelp .”
    â€œMac McPherson used to have it. Used it to run back and forth to his A-frame show. He sold it about a year ago, but I’ve never seen the guy that bought it.”
    â€œDo you have a name and address?”
    â€œHang on.” As she walked away toward a bank of filing cabinets I prayed my gratitude to the inventor of blue jeans. I glanced at Mark. He must have been struggling with his vow but he was concealing it well. When she reached the filing