The Wind Will Howl: Book 3 Raleigh Harmon P.I. (Raleigh Harmon P.I. Mysteries) by Sibella Giorello

Author:Sibella Giorello [Giorello, Sibella]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-01-08T16:00:00+00:00

In the year 1700, a massive earthquake shook the Pacific Northwest. On a modern Richter scale, the quake would’ve registered around magnitude 9—the kind of earth-shaker that makes humans wonder about heaven, hell, and the end of the world.

And for the Makah people living at this far tip of the Northwest, it looked like the end.

Tidal flats split open. Entire shorelines plunged, disappearing into the ocean. Above the beaches, hillsides collapsed. Hundred-foot walls of rock, clay, and trees slid down the mountains. Within seconds, one landslide had swallowed an entire Makah village, killing hundreds of men, women, and children, all of them buried alive.

More than 200 years later, archeologists discovered the site, and found thousands of artifacts eerily preserved by the damp clay. Human skeletons. Sealskin parkas. Ivory sewing needles. Reed baskets. Children’s toys carved by hand.

“Like a time capsule,” said Katrinka, leading me through the exhibits. “It’s considered one of the greatest archeological finds in all of Washington.”

Although interested by these artifacts in near-perfect condition, the earthquake captured my full attention. According to the geologic record going back thousands of years, a catastrophic quake had struck the Pacific Northwest on a regular basis, roughly every 300 years. Which meant the region was overdue for the Big One by about twenty years.

“These are tribal coats that were worn by Makah elders,” she continued, gesturing toward the clothing embedded with seashells and shark’s teeth. But my mind was still thinking about The Big One, how that road I’d just driven to get here would plummet into the ocean. The only way out of here would be by plane or boat.

A boat like the one Katrinka now stood beside.

She was still talking, but my blood ran cold.

The canoe was hand-carved. From a tree trunk.

“And then, in the year 2000,” she was saying, in her steady tour guide voice, “the federal government returned whaling rights to the Makah people. We celebrated by…”

I barely listened.

The canoe rested on a low platform surrounded by the other exhibits. But no velvet ropes were around it. No signs reading Do Not Touch. I laid my hand on the stern. Katrinka didn’t even flinch. My fingertips explored the hand-hewn tool marks, and my gaze fixed on the prow. A carved bird. The same carved bird that was on the canoe containing Brannen Bower’s body.

“…but when the gray whale was taken off the endangered species list, the Makah could begin hunting them again.”

Four stones were attached to the canoe, dangling over the side. Just like the stones tied to Brannen’s body. And a yellow nylon rope, just like the one that twisted around my ankle. I picked up one stone. It was gray plutonic rock, the surface smoothed by eons of erosion. But a narrow depression had been carved around its middle, like an equator. Apparently to keep the rope from slipping. A chill ran across my shoulders.

“…but we have to obey the international whaling commission. It allows the Makah only four hunting weapons. They are—”

“Katrinka?”

“Yes?’

“Sorry to interrupt.” I raised the stone higher.

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