Bunker 01 - Slipknot Read Online Free PDF

it might be prudent to give her a heads-up before presenting her with a long, expensive list of to-dos that would soon be on its way to her insurance s l i p k n o t
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    provider. So, up the external stairs I went. At the top of the stairs, I let myself through a heavy wooden door into what appeared to be a waiting area. Two chairs upholstered in the
    “harvest gold” that was fashionable in the 1970s straddled a low table littered with issues of National Fisherman magazine and many thin copies of The Working Waterfront.
    Although the entrance to the inner sanctum was closed, Ginny’s voice flowed with the stream of daylight through the gaps between door and jamb. As I raised a fist to rap on the door, a headline glared and caught my eye from the glossy June National Fisherman : green haven, maine, weighs in on new cod regulations—page 37. Curious, I dropped my clenched hand and sat to read and wait, thereby not interrupting Ginny, who sounded very busy. As I took a seat, my buttocks forced air from the vinyl-covered chair, resulting in a faint flapping between the top of the cushion and the backs of my thighs. I held my breath, anticipating a blast of immediate verbal wrath from the other side of the door. But the haggling over the price of salt persisted, so I relaxed and flipped through the magazine to page 37.
    I skimmed the editor’s note at the top of the page, which explained the venue for what appeared to be a series of letters written by Green Haven fishermen in response to an article in the previous issue entitled “The Expense of Saving Fish.”
    Reading through the letters, I quickly learned of the common thread.
    I could see both sides of the debate. I sympathized with the fishermen, who were so heavily regulated and trying to make a living. And I understood the environmentalists’ concern for

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    L i n d a G r e e n l a w
    dwindling fish stocks. I detested groups like Greenpeace, which always seemed to target the wrong enemy. On the other hand, I winced at the sense of entitlement expressed by many fishermen. Didn’t everyone have to cope with government interference? Blah, blah, blah, I thought as I read more of the usual rhetoric. As I didn’t yet have anyone to kibitz with, I knew I would keep all opinions to myself as I read the final letter, airing the only opposing view.
    It was written by one claiming to be a longtime deckhand who had served aboard much of Green Haven’s cod-fishing fleet. He had, according to his letter, witnessed the near-annihilation of the species and had been privy to blatant disregard of laws and outright cheating among the various captains and boat owners driven by greed. He had seen the senseless killing of tens of thousands of immature fish for the harvesting of those few marketable. The letter was passionate and well written, making it weighty and credible. I froze at the signature: It had been composed by none other than Nick Dow. Dow hadn’t made many friends with this letter, I thought. Not along the waterfront, anyway.
    As I sat and waited for Ginny to give the phone a break, I surmised that if there were to be a murder investigation, this letter would be considered a piece of evidence. It must have pissed off a lot of Green Haven residents who depended on the commercial harvesting of fish for their income. But could a letter drive someone to murder? Perhaps it had been forged to frame Dow and put him in harm’s way. Well, none of this was my concern. I was a marine safety consultant and insur-s l i p k n o t
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    ance investigator, not a criminal investigator. Murder was no longer in my repertoire. I could now sleep at night. But I closed the magazine and slipped it into my messenger bag.
    Old habits die hard.
    From the other side of the door came the slamming down of the phone’s receiver. Before I could collect myself and approach to knock, I heard a rapid and, I sensed, frantic and agitated dialing. Only five digits—a local call. I sat