Dark Earth

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The following Monday Rowan went to stay with Emmett and his family. I had to take the boat out with Tom, not only did I have contracts to fill, but both Tom and my two deckhands needed a paycheek.

Come to think of it, a steady paycheek would come in mighty handy for me too.

My phone rang as we were loading bait onto the boat early that morning. I tossed on the coil of rope I had in my good hand and scrounged through my pocket to get the phone. I answered it just in time before it went to voicemail and listened to the detective who had been assigned my case.

He wanted me to come in so he could talk to me, but I told him I was headed out for a few days fishing. He insisted, and so did I. He finally convinced me when he asked me if I had recognized my attacker.

Something clicked, even though I couldn't place just what it was. I just knew that the nagging feeling was justified. Annoyed with myself for not being able to draw a line between the dots, I agreed to meet him and hung up.

"Tom, I hate to do this man, but you've gotta take the boat out," I told my first mate.

He looked at me, curious, then grinned. "Sure thing skipper," he said. "Don't worry, we can handle it."

"I know you can," I said, clapping him on the back. "That's what I'm afraid of-soon you guys are going to figure out you don't need me!"

Tom laughed and the other two looked up at us, wondering what was going on. Tom winked at me, letting me know he understood. My deckhands were good guys, but I had only brought them on a few months ago when the last two I had went back to collage. Not the kind of people I felt comfortable sharing my personal problems with.

At the station I instantly felt nervous and guilty again. I tried to shake the feeling but figured that everything from the way the place was built to the way the police interacted with me was designed to keep me on the defensive. When I reached the detective's office he had me sit down and smiled almost apologetically at me. We talked, briefly, but it did little to smooth my ruffled feathers. He pushed a folder across his desk to me and asked me to open it.

I found myself looking at a mug shots of the guy whose prints matched the ones on the gun. My blood felt like ice in my veins as I stared at the name and the face of our attacker: Johann Pederson. He looked different, but he was the same guy. The pictures were seventeen years old. I saw the date on them and looked up, my mouth open. I saw the man and then I saw him in my mind.

I remembered looking around from the front of my truck in Alaska and seeing the wrecked truck that had hit us. It had rolled a complete circle by the time it hit us, and I saw the man's face, though he was unconscious, against a cracked window.

"Mr. McCann? Ethan?"

I heard the words and knew that the detective was speaking them. Reacting to them, that was an entirely different thing. I felt like I was floating in the eye of a giant storm. Smooth waters threatening on every side big enough to plunge me to the bottom and leave me there.

I finally looked up and whispered harshly.

"He killed my wife,"

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