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breath. It didn’t seem possible. Just last year, cruising up the inside coast, he had become involved in a search for a missing woman—Claire was that woman—and now here it was happening again. Walker would probably tell him that he attracted these events. Or more likely he would say the events attracted Dan—reached out to him somehow. That was how Walker explained the things that happened in his world, but Dan didn’t buy it—although, now that he thought about it, it had certainly seemed that way when he’d been on the police force. They’d called him “Copper” Connor because his watch always seemed to cop the big ones, and that had been fine with him. Why not? It was why he had joined up. But now? His life had changed. He had moved on. This had to be coincidence. But Dan didn’t believe in coincidence.
    He pushed himself up from the table, feeling three pairs of eyes follow his progress.
    â€œI’m going to go back out to the boat,” he told them. “I need to check on her. The tide’s dropping, and she’s in pretty close.” He saw them all nod their understanding: these were people who lived with the sea. “I have to call my partner too. I’m supposed to meet her up in Kyuquot in a few days, and if I don’t get out of here today, I might get held up by the weather.”
    All three heads turned automatically to the barometer hanging on the wall and then moved in unison to look out the window before swinging back to focus on him. Dan fought back a smile. Old habits kicked in no matter what the situation.
    â€œI won’t be long, although if the guys haven’t arrived by the time I’m finished, I might take another look around the cove,” he said, turning to leave.
    Only Gene watched him go. Mary was already bent over Jens, comforting him again.
    â€”
    On board Dreamspeaker it took less than a minute for Dan to confirm what he already knew: the boat was fine, sitting in thirty feet of water well off the shoreline, bow steady to the wind. And he didn’t call Claire. He hadn’t planned to. She would still be down on the south end of the island, maybe meeting with the people at the Pacific Biological Station in Nanaimo, or testing out the Boston Whaler she had bought to replace the boat she had lost last year. Dan wasn’t happy with her choice. He didn’t like the idea of her taking what was essentially a small power boat out on the open ocean of the west coast for the research she planned to do, but he had found out she could be at least as stubborn as he was. Their argument had been short but intense, and he had lost—although making up afterward had eased the sting. He would call her tonight. Let her know there was a chance he might be delayed. He would blame it on the weather. No need to stir up bad memories with stories of a missing and possibly murdered woman.
    He made his way out to the aft deck and pulled a length of yellow nylon rope out of one of the lockers. Nootka Island was a popular destination for kayakers and boaters, and the old totem was one of the best-known artifacts there. It was still early in the season, and so far today they had been lucky in not seeing any visitors, but that could change at any time. At least he could rope off the area and preserve whatever evidence was there.
    He thought about digging out his shoulder holster and gun from the locked compartment up on the bridge where he kept them, but decided against it. He had no authority even if he did happen upon something, and it would be hard to explain a gun to the police when they arrived. Instead, he slid a leather knife sheath onto his belt and settled it comfortably in front of his hip. Sailors and wood-carvers always carried a knife, didn’t they? So what if this one had a six-inch blade honed to a razor-sharp edge?
    Dan motored back to shore and pulled the dinghy up on the beach a few yards away from the totem, near