Past Imperfect Read Free

wasn’t sure where it had rolled to.
    Behind him, in a weak pool of electric light, Nels Bertelsen sat on the damp deck boards with his back against the door of an unpainted pine cabinet, and his feet, in heavy rubber boots, extended before him. His wool shirt lay discarded at his side, and his waterproof overalls and woolen longjohns were pushed down to bunch around his knees, exposing a torso that glowed stark blue-white, ironically reminiscent of the fish he had come seeking. The pallor of this ample mid-section gave way abruptly to a deep purplish-brown on his throat and forearms. The contrast was even more pronounced between his weathered face and the fringe of white hair that straggled, scarecrow style, from under the tattered gray stocking cap. His eyes, staring out through the hatch, were the hazy blue of a winter sky. Fully clothed, Bertelsen’s stockiness, ruddy cheeks, and snowy hair had always given him something of a clown-like appearance. This morning the watery light revealed chest and shoulders wrapped with muscles like steel bands—a body that radiated vigorous masculinity. McIntire could scarcely comprehend that there was no life in it.
    The doctor turned back to Bertelsen and tugged at the overalls to cover the soiled underclothing. He picked up the hypodermic syringe that rested against the lifeless fingers, and stood erect, his feet wide apart on the wet deck boards. At the sight of the constable, he boomed, “Christ Almighty, if you weren’t more or less standing up, I’d think I had two corpses on my hands! I’d sure as hell hate to see what you’d look like if we were actually out in the lake—in a moving boat—with maybe a wave or two thrown in.”
    McIntire put a hand against the boards of the hull to steady himself. “I’d hate to be feeling what I’d feel like if we were really out in the lake, and I’d appreciate it if you’d avoid making references to undulating water.”
    The doctor chuckled at McIntire’s discomfort, his verbiage, or both. He could afford to laugh, McIntire thought. For all that Guibard had spent a lifetime dealing with death, disease, and traumatic injury, it seemed that such human misfortunes could never touch him personally. He had the body and constitution of a man half his age. And the vanity. Even this morning he was pressed and polished and brushed to perfection, and exuded a cloying aura of Old Spice and Wildroot Cream Oil. McIntire would have paid money to see how he had managed to effect such sartorial splendor between the time his call had rousted the doctor from his bed and the fifteen minutes later that he had come charging over the water to snatch McIntire off the end of Bertelsen’s dock.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Guibard advised, with a hint of a smile still lurking in his eyes, “I know it’s hell, but in all my years of practice, I’ve never seen anybody die of
mal de mer.
” He dropped the syringe into his bag. “I have come across quite a few who would have liked to, though.” His expression became marginally more sympathetic. “But take a few deep breaths and try to pull yourself together. We’re going to have to lay him out straight before too much rigor sets in. And the term ‘dead weight’ is an apt one; he’ll be heavy and every bit as uncooperative as he was in life. You think we should get…?” He nodded toward the thin back of Jonas Lindstrom, just visible through the opening to the pilot house.
    McIntire considered, and shook his head.
    A deck a few feet wide ran around the perimeter of the boat’s interior. Straight down the center was an area open to the bowels of the vessel, revealing the engine, some components of the steering mechanism and, McIntire supposed, a place for holding fish. The boards on which Bertelsen sat were water-soaked and slimy with the residue of Simon Lindstrom’s