White Death (NUMA Files 4)

Gamay nodded, and a few minutes later she was taking the turnoff that led to town. The village was hardly quaint, and she could see why it was only a footnote in the travel guide. The houses were pro- tected against the weather by asphalt shingles of drab green and faded maroon, and the roofs were covered with aluminum to allow the snow to slide off. There were few people or cars around. Some of the shops in the minuscule business section posted signs that said they were closed until further notice, and the town had an abandoned look. The harbor was picturesque, as the tour book said, but it was empty of boats, adding to the town's forlorn aspect.

The fish pier was deserted except for a ragg

ed flock of sleeping gulls. Gamay spotted a restaurant/bar neon sign in a small square building overlooking the harbor. Paul suggested that she grab a table and order him fish and chips while he meandered around and tried to find someone who could tell him about the Oceanus plant.

Gamay stepped into the yeasty atmosphere of the restaurant and saw that the place was vacant except for a heavyset bartender and one customer. She took a table with a view of the harbor. The bartender came over for her order. Like the people she'd met in the general store, he proved to be a friendly type. He apologized for not having fish and chips, but said the grilled ham and cheese sandwich was pretty good. Gamay said that would be fine and ordered two sand- wiches along with a Molson. She liked the Canadian beer because it was stronger than the American brew.

Gamay was sipping her beer, admiring the fly-specked ceiling, the torn-fishnet-and-weathered-lobster-buoy decorations on the wall, when the man sitting at the bar slid off his stool. Apparently, he had taken the sight of an attractive woman drinking alone in a bar at mid- day as an invitation. He sidled over with a beer bottle in his hand and ran his eyes over Camay's red hair and lithe, athletic body. Unable to see her wedding ring because her left hand was resting on her knee, he figured Gamay was fair game.

"Good mornin', " he said, with an amiable smile. "Mind if I join you.

Gamay wasn't put off by the direct approach. She moved well among men because she had a talent for thinking like they do. With her tall, slim figure and long, swirled-up hair, it was hard to believe that Gamay had been a tomboy, running with a gang of boys, build- ing tree houses, playing baseball in the streets of Racine. She was an expert marksman as well, thanks to her father, who'd taught her to shoot skeet.

'Be my guest," Gamay said casually, and waved him into a chair. 'My name's Mike Neal," he said. Neal was in his forties. He was dressed in work clothes and wore shin-high black rubber boots. With his dark, rugged profile and thick, black hair, Neal would have had classic good looks if not for a weakness around the mouth and a ruby nose colored by too much booze. "You sound American." "I am." She extended her hand and introduced herself. "Pretty name," Neal said, impressed by the firmness of Gamay's grip. Like the general store cashier, he said, "Just passing through?"

Gamay nodded. "I've always wanted to see the Maritime Provinces. Are you a fisherman?"

"Yep." He pointed out the window and, with unrestrained pride, said, "That's my beauty over there at the boatyard dock. The Tiffany.

Named her after my old girlfriend. We broke up last year, but it's bad luck to change the name of a boat."

"Are you taking a day off from fishing?"

"Not exactly. Boat shop did some work on my engine. They won't release Tiffany until I pay them. Afraid I'd take off without paying."

"Would you?"

He smirked. "I stung them for a few bucks before." "Still, that seems shortsighted on their part. With your boat, you could go fishing and earn the money to pay them back."

Neal's smile dissolved into a frown. "I could if there were fish to sell."

"Someone at the general store mentioned that the fishing was bad."

"Worse than bad. Rest of the fleet has moved up the coast. Some of the guys come home between trips to see family."

"How long has this been going on?"

" 'Bout six months."

"Any idea what's causing the drought?"

He shrugged. "When we talked to the provincial fisheries people, they said the fish musta moved off, looking for better feeding. They didn't even send someone like we asked. Don't want to get their feet wet, I guess. The marine biologists all must be busy sitting on their fat asses looking at their computers."

"Do you agree with what they said about the fish moving off?" He grinned. "For a tourist, you've got lots of questions." "When I'm not a tourist, I'm a marine biologist." Neal blushed. "Sorry. I wasn't, talking about your fat ass. Oh, hell-"

Gamay laughed. "I know exactly what you mean about computer biologists who never leave their lab. I think fishermen have more practical knowledge of the sea than any scientist. At the same time, professional expertise doesn't hurt. Maybe I can help you figure out why there are no fish to catch."

A cloud passed over Neal's features. "I didn't say there are no fish.

There are fish all right."

"Then what's the problem?"

"These aren't like any fish I've seen in all my years of fishing." "I don't understand."

Neal shrugged. Apparently this was one subject he didn't want to talk about.

"I've studied fish in and out of the water all over the world," Gamay said. "There isn't much that would surprise me." "Bet this would."