The River Killers Read Online Free PDF

knowing how deep. The only thing I was certain of was that no matter how much Bob liked me, and I was pretty sure he did, there wasn’t much chance that he would go out on a limb to defend me. DFO lifers like Bob may have managed to retain some semblance of human values after thirty years in the “civil” service, but only if not pushed too often to express them. I sat down and looked across the desk at Bob, but he refused to look at me.
    â€œWhat the hell were you up to last night? Were you drunk? You upset Griffith and now he’s pulled funding from the disease-transfer study. He can’t fire you because you’re a member of the union, but five contract employees are going to lose their jobs.”
    I felt guilty and then angry. Trust Griffith to make innocent people pay. It was his stock in trade. I searched my memory for the five unlucky ones, too junior to have any protection. “Maryanne and Cindy are going back to school anyway. I’ll call in some favors and try to get the others reassigned.”
    â€œAlready done.” I looked at Bob in surprise. He must be closer to retirement than I thought. Still, he’d stuck his neck out, a little at least. “I’m tired of seeing people treated like shit. Plus, that’s an important study. I need to be able to show those aquaculture idiots that their fish are making my fish sick.”
    By “my fish,” he meant wild fish. I moved him up another two notches on my decent person scale. “So what’s my penance?”
    â€œYou, my friend, are being kicked out of this nice warm office and going back into the field. Central Area Herring Manager. They start testing next week so you better get out there in a hurry.”
    Bob was actually doing me a favor. He probably assumed that, like most bureaucrats, I would hate having to leave my cosy office, especially for the central coast of BC in the middle of April. The truth was I would love it. And being back in BC would allow me to snoop around the West Vancouver lab. It was at the center of a couple of mysteries, not the least of which was, what had happened there that made Fleming Griffith feel vulnerable?
    Three days later, I was sipping vodka and grapefruit juice at my sort of going-away party. I was definitely going away but it was only sort of a party. Mind you, it was early. There were maybe a dozen of us at a big table in Patsy’s, Ottawa’s only jazz bar. We were not quite succeeding at avoiding shoptalk, and I kept one eye on the door, hoping Bette Connelly would show up. I’d had several conversations with her voicemail, and in Ottawa an electronic surrogate is often preferable to its owner. But not in this case. I desperately wanted to talk to her before I left. When she walked in the door at about nine o’clock, my mood elevated to a point somewhat below rapturous bliss, but much higher than the muddy depression I’d been mired in. I stood up to shepherd her toward the bar where we could have a few words in private.
    She was dressed in office clothes, dark skirt and light top, rather than the jeans and T-shirt I’d last seen her in. Her glasses were more stylish as well, and I would have said they made her look even more intelligent, except that would have been gilding the lily. She greeted me with a wry smile. “Danny Swanson. Tamer of small hamlets and slayer of evil ADM s. I knew you’d get in trouble the minute I turned my back.”
    The thought flickered quickly, I’m kind of sorry you turned your back. Out loud, “Sorry, Mom. I lost my head. Let me get you a drink and then pick your brain.”
    â€œYou West Coast boys are such charmers. But it’s your party. You still drinking vodka and grapefruit juice?”
    â€œIt’s a health thing.”
    The easy banter reminded me of how well we’d gotten along when we were chasing lobster around the Bay of Fundy. While Bette got our drinks, I ruminated on