She sat back and soaked in the salt air, turning up her collar to the damp sea spray. She sailed toward a small group of islands east of Victoria, letting the Wayfarer run free while her mind did likewise. Twenty years before, she and T.J. had sailed across the Pacific on a much larger boat. Crossing remote stretches of ocean, she found that the solitude gave her a sense of comfort. She always considered the sailboat to be a remarkably therapeutic device. Just a few minutes on the water purged away the daily stresses while calming her emotions. She often joked that the country needed more sailboats and fewer psychologists.

The small boat skimmed through quietly building swells as Finlay crossed the open bay. Approaching Discovery Island, she tacked to the southeast, breezing into a sheltered cove on the green island that stretched only a mile long. A pod of orcas broke the surface nearby, and Finlay chased after them for several minutes until they disappeared under the surface. Tacking again back toward the island, she saw that the nearby waters were clear of other vessels, save for the runabout that had passed earlier. The powerboat seemed to be running in large circles ahead of her. Finlay shook her head in loathing at the disruptive noise from its large outboard motor.

The runabout suddenly stopped a short distance ahead of her, and Finlay could see the occupant fidgeting with a fishing pole. She shifted the rudder and tacked to her port, intending to pass offshore. Skirting by a few yards away, she was startled to hear a loud splash followed by a cry for help.

Finlay looked to see the man flailing his arms wildly in the water, a sure sign that he didn’t know how to swim. He appeared to be weighed down by a heavy jacket and plunged under the water for a moment before struggling back to the surface. Finlay cut the tiller sharply, catching a quick burst of wind in the mainsail that shoved the boat toward the stricken man. Drawing closer, she quickly dropped the sails and drifted the last few yards, steering the sailboat alongside the flailing man.

Finlay could see that he was a hefty man, with short hair and a weathered face. Despite his panicked motions, the man looked at his rescuer with penetrating eyes that showed a complete lack of fear. He turned and gave an annoyed look at the black Lab, who stood at the sailboat’s rail barking incessantly.

Finlay knew enough not to try and struggle with a drowning victim, so she scanned the deck for a boat hook. Not finding it, she quickly coiled up the sailboat’s stern line and expertly tossed it to the man. He managed to loop an arm around the rope before slipping once more underwater. With a leg braced against the gunwale, Finlay pulled on the line, heaving the deadweight toward her. A few feet off the stern, the man popped to the surface, wheezing and sputtering for air.

“Take it easy,” Finlay assured the man in a comforting voice. “You’re going to be all right.” She pulled him closer, then tied off the line on a cleat.

The man regained his composure and pulled himself to the stern while breathing heavily.

“Can you help me aboard? ” he rasped, extending an arm skyward.

Finlay instinctively reached down and grabbed the man’s thick hand. Before she could brace herself to pull, she felt herself roughly tugged toward the water. The man had gripped her wrist and flung himself backward, pushing off the sailboat’s stern with his feet. Taken off balance, the slight older woman flew over the railing and struck the water headfirst.

Elizabeth Finlay’s surprise at being pulled over the rail was surpassed by the shock of immersion in the frigid waters. She gasped at the cold, then regained her bearings and kicked to the surface. Only she couldn’t get there.

The drowning man had let go of her wrist but now gripped her about the arm above the elbow. To Finlay’s horror, she found herself being dragged deeper under the water. Only her safety harness, stretched to its full extension, kept her from descending farther into the depths. Caught in the middle of a lethal tug-of-war, she looked through a churning veil of bubbles at her underwater assailant. She was shocked to see that he had a dive regulator in his mouth spewing a stream of exhaust bubbles. Writhing to break free of his grasp, she pushed against him and felt a spongy layer beneath his clothes.

A dry suit. The horror of it all suddenly set in. He was trying to kill her.

Fear and panic preceded a surge of adrenaline, and the tough little woman kicked and flailed for all she was worth. A swinging elbow connected with the man’s face, knocking the regulator from his mouth. He momentarily let go of her arm, and she made a desperate kick for the surface. But his other hand reached out and clutched her ankle just before her head broke the water, and her fate was sealed.

Finlay struggled desperately for another minute, her lungs screaming for relief, before a shroud of darkness clouded her vision. Amidst the terror, she curiously fretted about the safety of her pet Lab, whose muffled bark could be detected underwater. Slowly the struggle eased as the oxygen flow to her brain ceased. Unable to hold her breath any longer, she involuntarily gasped for air, filling her lungs with cold salt water. With a spastic choke and a final flail of the arms, Elizabeth Finlay collapsed.

Her assailant held her limp body underwater for another two minutes, then cautiously surfaced alongside the sailboat. Seeing no other vessels about, he swam to the runabout and hoisted himself over the side. He pulled off a loose overcoat, revealing a dive tank and weight belt that he quickly unbuckled. Stripping out of the dry suit, he threw on some dry clothes, started the outboard, and quickly sped past the sailboat. On board the dinghy, the black Lab barked morosely as it eyed its owner drifting lifelessly off the stern.

The man gazed at the dog without pity, then turned from the scene of death and calmly cruised toward Victoria.

The Ventura’s arrival at its home port of Kitimat created an immediate stir. Most of the hamlet’s eleven thousand residents knew the dead fishermen as neighbors, friends, or acquaintances. It was only minutes after Dirk docked the boat at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police wharf that word leaked out to the local townspeople. Family and friends quickly assembled on the dock until being pushed behind a temporary barricade erected by a bull-sized Mountie.

Tying up the NUMA research boat just astern, Summer joined her brother, attracting curious gazes from the nearby onlookers. A hospital van was backed down the dock and the three bodies loaded aboard on covered stretchers. In a dingy bait shack a few feet away, Dirk and Summer chronicled their morbid discovery.

“All three were dead when you went aboard?”

The monotonous tone of the questioner’s voice matched his face. Kitimat’s police chief peered at Dirk and Summer with unblinking gray eyes that glared over a small nose and an expressionless mouth. Dirk had immediately pegged the inspector as a frustrated lawman trapped in a job too small for his ambitions.

“Yes,” Dirk replied. “First thing I did was check for a pulse, but it was evident by their color and skin temperature that they had died at least a short while before I got aboard.”

“Did you move the bodies?”

“No. I just covered them up with some blankets when we got close to port. They looked to me like they died where they fell.”

The chief nodded blankly. “Did you hear any distress calls on the radio beforehand? And were there any other vessels in the area?”

“We heard no calls on the radio,” Summer replied.

“The only other vessel I noted was a cruise ship sailing down the passage. She was several miles to the north of us when we found the Ventura,” Dirk added.