By Nevada Barr
Park ranger Anna Pigeon returns, in a secret that unfolds in and round Lake more advantageous, in whose chilling depths sunken treasure comes with a dangerous expense. In her most up-to-date secret, Nevada Barr sends Ranger Pigeon to a brand new put up amid the chilly, abandoned, and remoted great thing about Isle Royale nationwide Park, a distant island off the coast of Michigan identified for wonderful deep-water dives of wrecked crusing vessels. abandoning thoughts of the Texas excessive barren region and the environmental rip-off she helped discover, Anna is adjusting to the cool damp of Lake improved and the spirits and lore of the northern Midwest. but if a regimen software for a diving let finds a grisly underwater homicide, Anna reveals herself 260 ft less than the forbidding floor of the lake, trying to find the relationship among a drowned guy and an age-old shipment send. Written with a naturalist's think for the desert and a prepared knowing of characters who thrive in severe stipulations, a solid loss of life is a passionate, atmospheric page-turner.
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Sport fishermen had powerful lobbyists. The fishes did not. So Mrs. Denny Castle would count PCBs and swat mosquitoes in the island’s interior for twelve weeks. A crash and a curse saved Jo from further scrutiny. Scotty had knocked over his beer. Cigarette butts were floating out of the ashtray and down the white tablecloth on a foaming tide. Anna guessed he was drunk. He had the look of a man who’s been drunk often enough that he’s learned to cover it with a modicum of success. Mopping up the mess with a peach-colored napkin, he was muttering: “Jesus, I’m sorry.
She braced herself between the dash and the butt-high pilot’s bench and picked up the radio mike. “The Low Dollar, the Low Dollar, this is the Belle Isle. ” Through the garble of static a man’s voice replied: “Yeah, yeah. ” Not for the first time Anna marveled at the number of boaters who survived Superior each summer. There were no piloting requirements. Any man, woman, or child who could get his or her hands on a boat was free to drive it out amid the reefs and shoals, commercial liners and weekend fishing vessels.
The fisherman at the Low Dollar’s starboard quarter began to tie the sterns together. “Hey! ” Anna shouted. “Don’t you tie my boat to that-” “Piece of junk” was the logical end of the sentence, but a fairly recent lecture from Lucas Vega on the importance of positive visitor contact and maintaining a good relationship with the armies of sport fishermen that invaded the island every summer passed through her thoughts. “Untie that,” she shouted against the wind. ” The man, probably in his mid-forties but looking older in a shapeless sweatshirt and cap with earflaps, turned a blank face toward her.