Headwinds: seeking a murder forgotten

Chapter 1

The day started out so well.

I was flying below the rim of a steep-sided canyon, following the glacier-green Stikine River as it snaked along the canyon's floor on its way to spill into the Pacific at Wrangell, Alaska.

It was a perfect day for flying. The river sparkled in the sun; and high overhead in a cloudless blue sky, an eagle soared in lazy circles.

The scenery was so wildly beautiful, so awe-inspiring with waterfalls and glaciers and icebergs the size of houses, shouldering into the river, that I had a flash of guilt for trespassing through God's country. Then I thought, trespassing Hell…the thundering motor noise of a DeHavilland DHC-2 Beaver floatplane—with its nine pistons the size of gallon jugs, slamming up and down 1,800 times a minute—echoing down the canyon was as irreverent as shouting obscenities in a cathedral.

Nevertheless, nothing was going to spoil my reveling in the pure joy of steeply banking the plane, hunkering down behind the wheel and leaning into the river's tight curves, flat-out, like a Rally Car driver on a mountain highway.

Beneath the plane, the river frothed and swirled in violent upheaval even though spring freshet hadn't yet come to the north. What it must be like kayaking these upper reaches of the Stikine River, I'll never know. This part of the river, known as the Grand Canyon of the Stikine is one of the most challenging whitewater runs in the world and stymies all but the most experienced kayakers.

The lower Stikine is less challenging, and during the 1890 Klondike gold rush the river served as a watery corridor for miners rushing to the interior on paddle wheelers that left from Wrangell to Telegraph Creek. Later it was found that the river was paved with gold, far richer than the gold fields. Had they known, the miners might have paused to pan the gravel banks; but they wouldn't have found much—the gold is buried in the rock.

For me, Darwin Marsh, the gold was in being paid for the privilege of ferrying this old beauty from Whitehorse to Vancouver over gorgeous terrain. I was having so much fun that it crossed my mind that my big dream of getting into the airlines couldn't come close to the enjoyment of bush flying.

Despite all my ass-puckering, scary, winged experiences, I love flying on the coast for Wildcat Air, a charter floatplane company based in Vancouver, and I wouldn't even consider the airlines if bush pilot's wages were anything but meager.

Still, the thought of a six-digit salary tantalizes me, as does sporting Captain's stripes that actually mean something, instead of the generic epaulette-type shirts that Gerry, the bossman, insists we pilots wear. Gives you bums a professional look, he'd say.

Every morning that I get dressed for work and look in the mirror, I see a deliveryman. Maybe that's not too far wrong. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that most flights from Vancouver and around the Gulf Islands are scheduled deliveries of people and their baggage: propane tanks, groceries and their ever lovin' pets. I've been bitten twice by don't worry they won't bite you dogs.

Not having to worry about pets or passengers or a schedule to keep, helped make this day a pleasurable piece of cake.

Unfortunately, the joy didn't last long. Seemingly, only minutes after my euphoria over the scenery, the radiant blue sky turned grey. A little farther along the river, thick clouds hung in festoons below the mountaintops and rolled down the canyon walls.

While this was no surprise, the situation was getting more serious than I'd thought would be possible on such a perfect day.

Still, there's always an element of danger in flying out to the Pacific coast where notorious weather systems blow in from the sea, bringing blinding rain over the mountains and thick fog deep into inlets and river valleys.

Fog was my worry. How thick it could get was always up for grabs. Sometimes it's only a mist; other times fog can be a wall that completely plugs a canyon. Every pilot that flies on the coast knows the danger and better be ready to pull a 180-degree turn or risk ending up strewn over a mountainside.

At the moment, I was still betting odds-on that the fog wouldn't get worse, but with each bend in the river, it thickened even more, forcing me to fly ever closer to the bottom of the narrow river gorge.

Sweat prickled in the crease above my chin as evidence of plain fear—an old friend that appeared when the weather worsened or when there was a new sound in the motor over rugged peaks or rough water. Fear was something to be reckoned with, restrained so it didn't spiral into terror. But not so controlled that it could be overcome by arrogance and cocksure, rash, decisions.

If a bush pilot didn't know fear, he didn't live long flying the coast. As the saying goes: there are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots.

I swiped away the sweat, adjusted the map on my knee and cursed not having a GPS.

The contours of the map matched the turns in the river, making me pretty confident of my location, but a GPS would have confirmed positively where I was. I nudged the left wingtip closer to the canyon wall, in case the fog worsened and I lose visibility of the other side of the canyon. If that happened I'd make that turn, but to what avail I didn't know—there wasn't enough fuel in the tanks to get me very far—the point of no return was passed miles back.

I had just broken a pilot's golden rule of never getting into a situation without having a viable alternative. Originally, I'd planned to fly a shorter route over the Chilkoot Pass, but a pilot at Whitehorse warned me that he'd seen a line of thunderclouds already building over the mountains when he went through the pass early in the morning.

Welcome to unpredictable northern bush flying, some old bush dog had said into his beer last night in the pub. Lots of traps for young players.

I chewed my lower lip and considered the options.

Below, the river had transformed into a minefield of braided sandbars and menacing snags; a guarantee for a hellish crack-up and a long stay camping in a fuselage, waiting for a helicopter.

All I had on my side was my luck at winning high-risk gambles. Nonetheless, I don't like to be reckless for the simple reason that skill, no matter how honed, is no match for capricious weather.

There was nothing for it but to carry on with the hope that the fog wouldn't worsen the closer I got to the coast. If the fates were with me, I'd sail through; if not, fog would plug the canyon ahead, and I'd need more than luck not to end up just another Alaskan aviation accident statistic. Bloody poor odds.

Goddamn fog.

My eyes strained forward into the gloom, and my left hand ached from the death grip I had on the control wheel. I unfurled my fingers and pumped my hand to get circulation moving.

The plane followed a tight bend in the river—holy crap—white was everywhere!

A warning shouted in my brain. Slow down, slow down! Stiff fingers fumbled for the throttle. Yes, yes, slow down. The noise of the motor lessened. The airspeed drained. I pumped on 20 degrees of flap.

At least if I connected with the mountainside, my speed would be as slow as possible.

My eyes flicked everywhere. Beyond the wing tips…the grey contours of the canyon faded in and out of the gloom…ahead only faint outlines could be seen.

Keep it level. Keep it level. My eyes brushed the instruments. My heart hammered in my chest. Panic rippled dangerously close to the surface.

The fog thinned…a swirling, teasing peep show of canyon walls and river below. Maybe I'm through the plug.

I held the course a little longer. When to call it, when to turn?

My finger pressed into the map where seconds earlier a narrow valley cut into the rock wall had passed beneath my wing…the last confirmed position.

My eyes bore into the fog, searching for the next telling topography that matched the lines on the map.

An outcropping of grey rock slicked with water passed dangerously close to the left wing tip. Before it slipped behind, I glimpsed a rivulet of water cascading into the river valley below. A quick glance at the map showed a small, wriggly black line, depicting the tiny river. Good.

I couldn't be positive it was the same rivulet, but hope lessened my anxiety that I didn't know where I was and that I was going to crash. My finger inched forward on the map.

The fog swirled.

I hung on, trusting the map. I had to.

Another quick glance at the chart showed that the canyon had already flattened out into a wide delta. And yet, canyon walls still shouldered my side of the plane. Oh God.

Shaking fingers reached for the Automatic Direction Finder knob and turned it on to pick up the Wrangell coastal beacon.

Any second now the instrument should respond to the signal.

An eternity passed with every nerve vibrating. My hunched shoulders screamed from tension, and my eyes burned from not blinking in case I miss a fleeting glimpse of terrain.

Why doesn't the ADF pick up a signal? I rapped my knuckle on the instrument's glass, trying to jog the needle into performing. Nothing. I wriggled the knob. Nothing.

Damn!

In the short instant that my attention was on the instrument, the shadowy canyon walls vanished. Fog congealed around the plane in a white cocoon. My equilibrium spun wildly. Stay level…stay level.

A grey glimmer of reflection off the river steadied me, and I held course.

The river all of a sudden, widened into a broad, shallow estuary. This is right…isn't it? Everything confirmed I was over the delta, out of the canyon, but still the Direction Finder needle didn't budge.

Am I wrong?

Seconds seemed like minutes as my heart tried to escape the confines of my chest. I needed that signal. Without it all I had was hope.

The ADF needle twitched, and I took a shuddering quick intake of breath. The needle wavered and then pointed solidly.

All the tension drained away as if someone pulled the plug on an overflowing sink. I gave a rebel whoop. I made it. I'm on my way home.

Ahead, shafts of light sliced through the white…and below—was I seeing things? No, there it was; between banks of swirling fog was the Pacific Ocean, gleaming slate grey in a pale sunlight.

Another lucky gamble paid off.

Later I learned how lucky I'd been—that ADF Beacon had been out for a week and was still out when I left for Wrangell for home.

The next day as I made my turn over the No. 2 Road Bridge to land on the Fraser River, I was hot, sweaty and dying for a beer.

Being Tuesday, it was Danny the dock boy's day off, meaning there was no help tying up the plane, which was no problem most of the time, but when the river's current was in full spring freshet, it was difficult.

That was why, after tying up my plane at the dock, and after walking halfway up the ramp to the Wildcat Air office, I dropped my stuff and turned back to help a fellow pilot who was making his final steep turn for landing on the river.

The Beaver landed in a spray of water and turned toward the dock. That was when the sun's rays glinted off the pilot's grey hair. Shit, it was Gordon, the Wildcat Air bully and my personal badger.

Gordon is a perfect example of a schoolyard bully, whose advancing years have only served to further sour his tongue. And because I'm the most recent pilot at Wildcat and he's the old boy, which makes me the brunt of his jabs.

At least that's the only reason I can think of for his enmity towards me. I have nothing but respect for him as a pilot. He's one helluva good pilot—too bad he can't give me my due. Most of all, it's too bad I didn't get one day of respite without having to endure his insults.

I didn't have to wait long.

As his plane drifted to the dock, I grabbed the rope hanging from the strut and pulled the big plane in the final two-feet to the dock.

Gordon eagerly scrambled out of the cockpit and stood on the float grinning nastily at me. Brought the Beaver back in one piece eh, hotshot? he said. I figured we'd find your bones up in some blind canyon. Don't think getting back early is going to save your lily-white ass with Gerry though…I hear he's pretty pissed. What did you do?

I was about to whip his plane's line around the dock's rail, but after hearing Gordon's spiteful tone, I dropped the rope on the dock, leaving him to make a hurried jump. Nice to see you too Gordon, I said and without looking back, I picked up my gear off the ramp and headed for the office, expecting to face Gerry's anger.

Gerry's mercurial moods were no surprise. He might flip his top at the simplest thing or let something fairly big go without a word. He'd had a mad on over this one for a while now, and I knew all about it. Before leaving for Whitehorse, one of the other pilots had tipped me off that Gerry was livid and wanted to see me before I left. Skipping out early probably wasn't a great idea, but I hoped that while I was away, he'd cool off. Apparently not.

Now I had to face the music for what I'd said. Shit.

I could have bit my tongue off the moment the words came out of my mouth. But there it was—I couldn't change what I'd said.

The amazing thing was that a Ministry of Transport Inspector would ask the question in the first place: What do you do up north for aviation fuel? he'd asked.

What a stupid question. The Ministry must know that there's so little aviation gas up the coast that it's a joke.

Well, we have to use boat gas, I said, not thinking for a moment about the consequences of such a statement. Of course we sometimes have to use ordinary gas, what did Transport expect…send for another plane from Vancouver to fly up with aviation fuel?

Glad I didn't add the last remark.

As it was, the Inspector looked horrified and told me that Wildcat Air didn't have an STC for burning mogas.

That was when I knew that my off-the-cuff reply had blown it, and by the Inspector's reaction, he clearly intended to call Gerry and read him the riot act.

Nearly at the Wildcat door, I gritted my teeth. Seeing Gerry was not going to be pretty and was the last thing I wanted to tackle today—all I craved was a cooling ale poured down my parched throat.

Hopefully, if Gerry was in his office counting up his profits, I might be able to make it to the dispatch desk, pick up the next day's schedule and leave without him seeing me. Ha! I smiled at my fantasy.

My tie, put on for the occasion of arriving home, now seemed tight. I loosened it before pushing through the door into the company's waiting room.

Gerry's office door was closed; Marcy was at the front counter on the phone and two men, sitting in a couch along the wall looked up at me expectantly. Instinctively I checked my watch. Surely Gerry didn't expect Gordon or me to make another flight so late in the day.

I went to the counter and waited. Marcy put down the phone and smiled up at me. Good to see you back.

Hi, Marcy, how's it going?

Oh, you know, same as always. How was your trip? Marcy, the dispatch girl had an unusually cheerful expression for someone who the day before I'd left for Whitehorse, was a sodden heap of tears for having been dumped by her lesbian lover.

I leaned over her counter and said quietly. Hey Marcy, these guys waiting for a flight?

No. She whispered back. They're waiting for you.

Really? Who are they…did they say?

Not a word, but they look like cops to me…don't look.

I hope I haven't got any unpaid parking tickets. By the way, Gerry around?

Gerry's away for three days.

I sighed at the small mercy.

Marcy leaned toward me. Guess you heard that he's mad at you.

I heard, I said. My eyes swept to my message box where the next day's charters would be. It was empty. Hey, nothing for me?

I figured you needed a couple of days off. Marcy gave me a toothy smile. Got you booked for the weekend though, so don't make any plans. Oh yes, and this business card was left for you. Guy named Carlos said for you to call him.

I took the card. It read: Carlos Sanchez, Triad Productions.

Thanks Marcy. I slipped the card in my pocket and walked toward the two men.

Mr. Marsh? said one of the men who stood up as I approached. He was tall and gangly with a trim mustache and shaved head.

Yeah, that's me I said taken slightly aback by being addressed by name.

The other man rose. He was clean-shaven with bristly blond hair on a squarish head and a short neck that kind of nestled between immense shoulders. He would have looked at home in a wrestling ring.

They were both big men and stood side by side with a splayfooted stance and hands folded in front as they looked down on my less than six-foot frame.

I had a brief flash of being caught stealing candy.

Marcy's assessment was right: they oozed cop despite the civvies. Simultaneously, they flashed badges—RCMP.

The blond one turned small piggy, pink-rimmed eyes on me and said. I'm Detective Markin and this is Inspector Finlayson. We'd like a moment of your time…here or outside.

Wariness prickled the back of my neck. I sighed and gestured toward where they'd been sitting. Here's fine.

Cops make me nervous at the best of times. I'm not sure why, but I know that wherever they are, there's trouble.

We all sat down, facing each other. I leaned back against the chair and laced my fingers loosely in my lap, assuming a demeanor of innocence.

What's this all about? I asked.

It's about something that happened on Bolinas Island.

Bolinas Island? I sat upright.

I won't beat around the bush, Mr. Marsh, Markin said. We have a confession to a murder on Bolinas Island in 1980 that involves your grandfather, John Marsh, and yourself.

I could feel my jaw drop and then I saw the humour in the situation. 1980. You're kidding, right? This is some kind of joke.

We're very serious, Mr. Marsh.

I snorted. I never heard of anything so bizarre in my life. I once spent a summer with my grandparents on Bolinas Island, but I'm not sure of the year. I looked from one to the other. You're really not kidding are you?

Murder investigations are a serious matter, Mr. Marsh.

But that's nearly twenty years ago. My God, I was only nine years old. Who's supposed to be murdered? Is there a body? Oh crap, this is nuts.

We're aware of the time lapse, but we're also aware that there was a missing person reported from that island at that time. And we have a photograph.

I gasped. A picture…of a murder?

No, no, Mr. Marsh, Finlayson smirked behind his mustache. We have a photograph of you with your grandfather.

Yeah. What's that prove? My God, I sounded like an ex-con in an old B-movie.

Fear wormed its way up my spine. It's the same sort of fear that begins when I'm far back in a line of cars waiting to go through the border. I'm innocent of any crime; carrying nothing, nothing smuggled, nothing illegal, but I feel guilty. Take me away, book me, I must be guilty of something.

Detective Markin gave me a look like a snake eyeballing a rabbit. My unease must be obvious to someone accustomed to surmising culpability from tiny clues. He handed me the photograph.

It showed Granddad all right, with his guitar slung over his shoulder and me by his side. What surprised me was how young and skinny I looked, holding the hand of a robust looking Granddad. Twenty years had done a lot. A date was scrawled across the corner of the photo.

As if Markin read my mind, he tapped the photo. That date, he said, is the year of the murder.

I stared at the photograph, trying to recall when it was taken, but couldn't. Odd, I said, scratching my head. I don't remember anything about that summer. I looked up. Have you talked to my grandfather on this?

Your grandfather told us a great deal.

I flushed with anger. I don't believe you. This whole thing is bullshit. I don't know anything about a murder. So if you're finished with your questions, I have an appointment with a cool beer.

Markin stood up. Yeah, we're done for now, but I suggest you don't try and leave the country while we're conducting a murder investigation. And, Mr. Marsh, I suggest you try to jog your memory.

Oh, just great. You want me to remember how I helped my grandpa kill someone when I was a kid and…

Markin pounced. We didn't say anything about you or your grandfather killing anyone. We only said you were involved in a murder. Is there something you want to tell us?

OK, then…just what are you accusing me and my granddad of doing? Just who was supposed to be killed, anyway?

Maybe you can tell us, Markin said.

Oh come on…I'm not interested in playing your games. I already said I don't remember a thing about that summer.

I see. Finlayson said. Are you telling us that you don't remember the day this photo was taken?

No, I don't, but you're still not telling me who was murdered.

Markin opened his mouth to speak but Finlayson cut him off. The missing man, he said, took up residence on Bolinas Island but went missing after one summer. People describe him as a biker type who didn't win any popularity contests.

I winced as a fleeting pain pierced my skull like an arrow, leaving behind the dull ache of an instant headache. This was all too much for one day.

Well gentlemen, I said, when you can tell me the name of the victim, maybe I'll take all this seriously but, until then, I'm leaving.

Chapter 2

All thoughts of a beer soured under the intensity of my sudden headache. Instead of going directly to the Flying Dragon pub, I took a walk away from the river to where seaplanes were lifted high and dry to sit lined up on the grass.

My path took me behind the hangar where my co-owned Cessna 172, CG-MUG, was tied-down. Don't get me wrong…I'm not rich, although after my girlfriend took a look at it, she said that I had more money than brains. And as she walked away she said, And that's not saying much.

Even now, her ignorance makes me smile. How could I expect her to understand how much it means to me to own my own plane—even if it wasn't perfect? All that's needed is a little spruce up…a little paint and the plane would look much better.

Sure, The Mug, as I liked to call her, had a ghastly colour scheme of yellow and green paint that had obviously been applied with a roller. And sure, the amateur who did the painting didn't worry when paint from one colour leaked around the masking tape into the other.

She was no beauty, that was certain, but she was fixable.

To lighten the burden of operating expenses, I'd invited a couple of private pilots in on a three-way, time-share. Like myself, both prospective partners hated the aesthetics of the thing but shook on the deal anyway, with the promise