Rogue Justice (20 page)

Katrina held up a hand. "Don't even go there, Zora. Listen, I break one law or another in just about every field study I go on. If I didn't, I would never get anything done, what with all the government regulations. So, if capturing a five-ton killer whale is our only option, then that's our only option. Let's just make certain you, your crew, and the animal aren't harmed in the process."

"Are you sure?"

"Damn right I'm sure. And if we play our cards right, nothing happens to your mother and we expose these people for who they really are."

Zora had no reason to doubt Katrina's resolve, had watched her chew out a couple of obnoxious tourists who impeded their efforts to save the injured sea lion off the Galapagos Islands. When it came to justice and fair play, this mild-mannered scientist could be a pit bull.

"You heard about the horrible accident in Japan, right?" Katrina asked. "Involving the killer whale and his trainer?"

Zora nodded.

"Well, I gotta believe it's the driving force behind all this."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean one more incident with a sick or dying animal would be a lightning rod, maybe force these morons to stop exploiting captive whales altogether, even release them back into the wild."

"KOS owns parks all over the world, right?" Zora said. "So we're not just talking about one location then."

"Exactly. Which explains the heavy-handed tactics, and why the GM in Seattle hasn't called. His deadline passed a couple of hours ago. I had no problem cutting him some slack, but now—"

Zora stood up and walked to the edge of the patio. Her whole world was closing in around her, yet she felt helpless to stop it. "I'm flying blind here, Katrina. I catch fish for a living. I'm not sure where to even
find
a killer whale, let alone capture one."

"Well, this is your lucky day, girlfriend," Katrina said, sidling up to Zora. "Because it just so happens I know someone who does."

Zora felt her pulse quicken. She turned to face her friend. "Seriously?"

"Seriously! His name's Houdini. I met him during a hiking trip last summer up on Vancouver Island."

Zora considered that. "Okay, I give. The only Houdini I know of was named Harry, and he's been dead a really long time."

"Well, it's safe to say
this
Houdini wields his own brand of magic. He's a shaman, actually, which might sound a bit far out. I thought so too at first. But he's the real deal. He has this amazing connection to killer whales. I've seen it, Zora. I watched him paddle out in his kayak, maybe a hundred yards from shore, and within minutes, he'd be surrounded by orcas. Sometimes they'd hang around for half an hour or more." Katrina leaned in, her voice dropping. "Here's the other thing. Typically it takes forty, fifty years to acquire the wisdom and knowledge needed to become a shaman, so most are well into middle-age, if not older. But Houdini is something special. He's all of thirty-five, if that."

"And what makes you think he'll even
consider
getting involved in something like this?"

"I don't, not for sure," Katrina said. "But I can come up with three good reasons why he will. First of all, he's a Makah Indian. His people have suffered terribly, so he knows all about threats and coercion. He's seen the destruction of an entire way of life—broken treaties, forced relocation, and worse. Second, his parents are not well. He'll relate to this awful situation with your mother. Lastly, he'll see the potential here, the potential to free all those tormented orcas trapped in theme parks."

Zora shook her head, unconvinced.

"Look, Zora, scientists like me know a collection of facts about orcas. We believe they're armed with telepathic sensors, that their discrete calls constitute a language. We also believe they communicate as we do, only better. But there's so much we
don't
know, so much we can learn from someone like Houdini. He knows orcas... relates to them... thinks like them. He told me once how very humbling it was to be in their presence, how it taught him about listening, about respect, about the mysteries of the universe. I totally get it. I've been there myself. So yes, if he really believes there's a chance to make their world better, I think he'll be open to it."

"Would you trust him with your mother's life, Katrina?"

"Yes, absolutely."

Zora gazed into Katrina's eyes, squeezed her hand, and took a deep breath. "Okay, I believe you. But is he even around? We don't have much time here."

"I know. Houdini's usually off in the wilds of Alaska somewhere, but I just spoke with him the other day. He's visiting his parents over in Neah Bay. I'll call him in a bit. And remind me to give you his number before you leave so you have it too."

"Okay, fingers crossed," Zora said. Her mind then immediately shifted to Mack Bowen. If she couldn't convince him to lease his seiner, the rest of this wild scheme didn't really matter.

"So I'll see you back at my place later on," Katrina said. "The spare room's all made up."

Zora sighed, hugged her friend. "Yeah, sounds good. And thanks, Katrina. This means more to me than you will ever know."

Chapter 22

31 March, 6:15 PM PDT

Kiotlah Point,

Olympic Peninsula,

Washington

One hundred miles to the west, a lean, ruggedly handsome young man with long, raven hair traversed a steep wilderness trail. It was a fine trail as trails went and he knew it well. He'd been coming here since he was a boy, to the top of this jagged ridge, to a lone cabin tucked away in a mature grove of hemlocks, alders, and stories-tall cedars.

A forest so green, it shimmered.

The young man stopped in a small meadow, breathing deeply of the ageless cedar and rich organic soil, listening to the sounds of the wild. His eyes missed nothing. He felt at home here. He was part of this place. Moments later, he was moving again, traversing the downsloping switchback with Zen-like efficiency and all the confidence of a jungle cat. The trail soon narrowed, then turned back on itself. To the north and far below him raged the furious waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a ninety-five-mile-long channel that connected the Georgia Strait and Puget Sound to the open Pacific. Twenty minutes after that, he approached his destination, overcome as he always was by a deep sense of reverence, for the individual he loved and respected more than any other on earth called this place home.

They called him the Old One. And for as long as anyone could remember, he had served as elder statesman of the Makah Tribe, a proud and ancient People who had once held vast areas of inland and coastal territories on the Olympic Peninsula. Days that had long since been buried in a painful past. It was said that the wise old sage had one foot in this world, the other in the otherworld. And while the young man had just turned ten when they'd first met, he quickly came to understand why everyone sought his counsel.

After rounding a sharp bend in the trail, the Old One's cedar cabin came into view. A green wave of mountains was visible above the tree line behind it, their jagged peaks glistening white with snow. North of the property, a fast-moving stream cut through the deep woods, and to the south, an eagle stood guard on a wooden fence post. The cabin itself was small and tidy, and it occurred to the young man that the place had aged as well as its occupant. The front porch was weathered but solid, with firewood piled high on one end. A few feet away, two fan-backed chairs framed a large picture window.

As he crossed the sturdy footbridge, the young man could smell smoke curling up from a splendid stone chimney. He walked briskly to the front door and before he had a chance to knock, it opened. As was his custom, the Old One greeted him with a warm embrace. After a long moment, he took a step back and placed his right hand flat over his friend's heart. Only then did he speak, in a voice that was richly accented, strong, and resonant.

"My son, it is so nice to see you. It has been far too long."

"Thank you, Old One, it's good to be back."

He never changes,
the young man thought as he stared into his mentor's intense brown eyes.

The Old One was small and sinewy with workingman's hands and long stringy white hair. His face, though still strikingly handsome, looked as if it had been sandblasted, his high cheekbones the reddish brown of the clay. He wore a denim jacket, faded jeans, and weathered cowboy boots. The years had slowed his step, but his mind was as bright and clear as it had been half-a-lifetime ago.

"You look well," the young man said.

"Well enough. My eyes are failing me, and my appetite isn't what it used to be. I eat mostly salmon, buckskin bread, and a few huckleberries. I don't need much more. Long walks, my pipe, and my books, they keep me going."

As they turned to go inside, a small bird landed on the porch railing and skittered toward them, singing its heart out. The Old One acknowledged his colorful, feathered friend with a wave and a smile. "He's a plucky little critter, that one. Comes and goes on a whim, much like you, my son. Where have your travels taken you this time?"

"Spent most of the winter on Vancouver Island, up in Nitinat Lake," the young man said, flashing a happy-go-lucky grin. "Bought me a new camera, captured some great shots. For some reason, I can find just the right light, in the right place, at the right time up there. Even got myself an agent. She works exclusively in nature photography, sells to select magazines and some stock photo houses. But I've been really bad about e-mailing digital files, so I don't think she's real happy with me right now. Not sure where I'm off to next. Somewhere wild, I guess."

The Old One frowned, the deep wrinkles on his forehead forming a tight knot. "I am afraid modern technology has passed me by, my son, but this I
do
know—you are well suited for the path you have chosen."

"Yes," the young man agreed. "I like to think so." For more than a decade he'd been kayaking up and down the coasts of British Columbia and southern Alaska, spending months on end in parts unknown. He would disappear in the wink of an eye, then reappear in a shadow, seemingly out of nowhere. It was how he'd earned his nickname: Houdini. Some in Indian country considered him to be mischievous and rambunctious, traits of the oft-maligned Coyote Trickster.

Others called him a visionary, mostly for his insight into nature and his love of books. He quoted everything from Homer's
Odyssey
to
Forrest Gump
and carried the bible of counterculture cool with him everywhere, Jack Kerouac's
On the Road
. Some said he was too handsome for his own good, but he never saw himself that way. When cash ran short, as it often did, he had no trouble scaring up jobs. He had acquired an arsenal of useful skills over the years and often found work on commercial fishing boats.

"Is it your father's stroke that brings you back to us this time, my son?"

Houdini nodded, a pained expression on his face. "He spends most days chained to a wheel chair. His arms and legs are useless, and I can barely understand a word he says. He's a broken man."

"And your mother?"

"She's struggling too, arthritis in both hands. It's all she can do to get Dad to the doctor. I told her I'd move back home, help her take care of him, but she wanted none of that. She told me to follow my heart and my dreams. Theirs were over, she said."

"This troubles me deeply. They are fine people, your mother and father."

Houdini sighed. "I'm not sure what to do about it, Old One."

"Sometimes the answer is asking harder questions. And how we ask those questions will often affect the answers. You must always remember that a change in perspective changes everything. Come, we have much to talk about."

* * *

Moving inside the cabin, Houdini was instantly struck by the incense-like aroma of Turkish tobacco. The smell permeated every nook and cranny of the sparsely furnished home. The Old One had a fine collection of pipes, but his brand had never changed.

Neither did their routine, not since Houdini's first visit more than two decades earlier. He began by making a pot of herbal tea in the neat, well-stocked kitchen. Next he would build a blazing fire in the stone hearth and sit for hours, spellbound, while the Old One read works by the Masters—Dickens, Melville, Steinbeck, Faulkner, Stegner, and other literary giants. He took their stories, lifted them off the pages, and gave them a sense of time and place. He gave them a soul. It was here that Houdini had also learned about his brothers and sisters in other Native tribes and the ways of his own People. He learned of ancient traditions, not recorded in some holy text, but rather passed down orally from one generation to the next.