The more Julia thought about her situation, the more she became certain she and everyone in the cargo hold around her were going to be murdered.
THE OWNER OF THE SMALL GENERAL STORE AT ORION LAKE, ninety miles due west of Seattle, turned slightly and peered at the man who opened the door and stood momentarily on the threshold. Orion Lake was off the beaten track to most traffic, and Dick Colburn knew everyone in this rugged area of the Olympic Peninsula mountains. The stranger was either a tourist passing through or a fisherman from the city trying his luck with either the salmon or trout stocked in the nearby lake by the Forest Service. He wore a short leather jacket over an Irish knit sweater and corduroy pants. No hat covered a mass of wavy black hair that was streaked gray at the temples. Colburn watched as the stranger stared unblinkingly at the shelves and display cases before stepping inside.
Out of habit Colburn studied the man for a few moments. The stranger was tall; his head cleared the top of the door by less than three fingers. Not the face of an office worker, Colburn decided. The skin was too tan and craggy for a life spent indoors. The cheeks and chin were in need of a shave. The body seemed thin for the frame. There was the unmistakable look about him of a man who had seen too much; who had suffered hardship and grief. He appeared tired, not physically
tired, but emotionally used up, someone who cared little about life anymore. It was almost as if he had been tapped on the shoulder by death but had somehow shrugged him off. Yet there was a quiet cheerfulness in the opaline-green eyes that broke through the haggard features, and an obscure sense of pride.
Colburn concealed his interest well and went about his business of stocking the shelves. “Can I help you with anything?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Just dropped by to pick up a few groceries,” replied the stranger. Colburn's store was too small for shopping carts, so he picked up a basket, slinging the carrying handles over one arm.
“How's the fishing?”
“Haven't tried my luck yet.”
“There's a good hole at the south end of the lake where they've been known to bite.”
“I'll keep that in mind, thank you.”
“Got you a fishing license yet?”
“No, but I'll bet you're authorized to sell me one.”
“Resident or nonresident of the state of Washington?”
“Non.”
The grocer pulled out a form from beneath the counter and handed the stranger a pen. “Just fill in the applicable blanks. I'll add the fee onto your groceries.” To Colburn's practiced ear the accent was vaguely southwestern. “The eggs are fresh. Laid right here hi town. There's a sale on cans of Shamus O'Malley's stew. And the smoked salmon and the elk steaks taste like they came from heaven.”
For the first time a hint of a smile crossed the stranger's lips. “The elk steaks and the salmon sound good, but I think I'll pass on Mr. O'Malley's stew.”
After nearly fifteen minutes the basket was full and set on the counter beside an antique brass cash register. Instead of the usual selection of canned goods picked by most fishermen, this basket was filled with mostly fruits and vegetables.
“You must be planning on staying awhile,” said Colburn. “An old family friend loaned me his cabin on the lake. You probably know him. His name is Sam Foley.”
“I've known Sam for twenty years. His cabin is the only one that damned Chinaman hasn't bought up,” Colburn grumbled.
“Good thing too. If Sam sells out, there won't be an access for fishermen to launch their boats on the lake.”
“I wondered why most of the cabins looked run-down and abandoned, all except that odd-looking building. The one on the north side of the lake opposite the mouth of that small river flowing west.”
Colburn spoke as he rang up the groceries. “Used to be a fish cannery back in the forties until the company went broke. The Chinaman picked it up for a song and men remodeled it into a fancy mansion. Even built a nine-hole golf course. Then he began buying every piece of property that fronted on the lake. Your friend, Sam Foley, is the only holdout.”
“It seems half the population of Washington and British Columbia is Chinese,” commented the stranger.
“The Chinese have poured into the Pacific Northwest like a flood tide since the Communist government took over Hong Kong. They already own half of downtown Seattle and most of Vancouver. No telling what the population will look like in another fifty years.” Colburn paused and punched the TOTAL lever on the cash register. “With the fishing permit, that'll be seventy-nine-thirty-five.”
The stranger pulled his wallet from a hip pocket, handed Colburn a hundred-dollar bill and waited for the change. “The Chinaman you mentioned—what sort of business is he in?”
“All I heard is that he's a wealthy shipping tycoon from Hong Kong.” Colburn began sacking the groceries while gossiping away. “Nobody has ever seen him. Never comes through town. Except for drivers of big delivery trucks, nobody goes in or out. Strange goings-on, if you ask most of the folks around here. He and his cronies don't fish in the daytime. You can only hear boat motors at night, and they don't run lights. Harry Daniels, who hunts and camps along the river, claims he's seen an odd-looking work boat traveling the lake after midnight, and never under a moon.”
“Everybody loves a good mystery.”
“If I can do anything for you while you're in the neighborhood, just ask. My name's Dick Colburn.”
The stranger showed white, even teeth in a broad grin. “Dirk Pitt.”
“You be from California, Mr. Pitt?”
“You'd do Professor Henry Higgins proud,” said Pitt light-heartedly. “I was bom and grew up in Southern California, but for the past fifteen years I've lived in Washington.”
Colbum began to smell new ground. “You must work with the U.S. government.”
“The National Underwater and Marine Agency. And before you misreckon, I came to Orion Lake strictly to relax and unwind. Nothing more.”
“If you'll pardon me for saying so,” said Colburn sympathetically, “you look like a man who could use some rest.”
Pitt grinned. “What I really need is a good back rub.”
“Cindy Elder. She tends bar over at the Sockeye Saloon and gives a great massage.”
“I'll keep her in mind.” Pitt took the grocery sacks in both arms and headed for the door. Just before stepping outside, he stopped and turned. “Out of curiosity, Mr. Colburn, what is the Chinaman's name?”
Colburn looked at Pitt, trying to read something in the eyes that wasn't there. “He calls himself Shang, Qin Shang.”
“Did he ever say why he purchased the old canning factory?”
“Norman Selby, the real-estate agent who handled the trans-action, said Shang wanted a secluded area on water to build a fancy retreat where he could entertain affluent clients.” Col-burn paused and looked positively belligerent. “You must have seen what he did to a perfectly good cannery. Only a matter of time before the State Historical Commission would have named it as a historic site. Shang turned it into a cross between a modern office building and a pagoda. An abortion, I say, a damned abortion.”
“It does have a novel look about it,” Pitt agreed. “No doubt Shang, as a neighborly gesture, invites the town citizens to parties and golf tournaments?”
“Are you kidding?” said Colburn, venting his anger. “Shang won't even allow the mayor and city council within a mile of his property. Would you believe he even erected a ten-foot chain-link fence with barbwire on the top around most of the lake?”
“Can he get away with that?”
“He can and did, by buying off politicians. He can't keep people off the lake. It belongs to the state. But he can make it hard for them to get on.”
“Some people have a fetish for privacy,” said Pitt.
“Shang's got more than a fetish. Security cameras am armed goons crawl through the woods all around the place Hunters and fishermen who accidentally wander too close art hustled off the land and treated like common criminals.”