Salvage (4 page)

By the time he was moving again the man in the canoe had too much of a head start. Scarnum watched him jump from the canoe onto the rocks and run up to an SUV parked in the shadows. As Scarnum's boat approached the shore, he saw the tail lights of the SUV take off down Walker's Road.

Scarnum tied the canoe onto the stern of the aluminum boat and motored back to the dock, where Charlie sat waiting, sipping a can of Keith's. Another one sat on the wharf next to him. The shotgun was cradled across his knees.

“Holy Jesus, b'y,” he said as Scarnum tied up the alum­inum boat. “Two salvages in three days.”

Scarnum laughed and sat next to the other man. He opened the beer and drank half of it one long swallow. His hands, he noticed, where shaking.

“Holy fuck,” he said. “That was fucking weird.”

They sat in silence for a minute.

“Fellow wanted to get aboard the
Kelly Lynn
, did he?” said Charlie.

“Yuh,” said Scarnum. “He come up the bay in his canoe, paddling along very quietly. I was up having a piss and a drink of water when I spied him. So I snuck up and watched him from behind the wheelhouse of the
Martha Kate
.”

He turned to look at Charlie. “I owe you a new battery.”

Charlie cackled. “Don't tell me you threw my hundred-dollar deep cycle marine battery at the cocksucker in the canoe, did you?”

Scarnum grinned. “Time you got a new one, anyways. When I get my cheque for the
Kelly Lynn
, I'll buy you ten batteries.”

“So, did you hit the fucker?” said Charlie.

“No, but I hit the canoe and scared the fucker off,” said Scarnum. “And I did hit him with a five-inch nut from that bucket, right in the middle of the back. I'd a caught him, too, if that old Evinrude woulda started. That's what I'll buy you, a new Honda for your runabout.”

Charlie, who loved old American motors, scowled. “I don't want no fucking Honda,” he said. “That Evinrude always starts for me. It's just you fucking Newfies who don't know how to run them.”

Scarnum told him how the man in the canoe had gotten away in an SUV but had left the canoe floating in the water.

They walked over to look at it, Charlie shining the flashlight on it. “Nice canoe to leave floating in the bay,” he said.

It was a seventeen-foot Old Town Kevlar back country canoe — worth thousands of dollars.

Charlie shone the light inside the canoe. “Lookee here,” he said and bent at the waist. Inside, under the bow seat, there was a stack of vinyl bags. Charlie pulled them out and dropped them on the dock. On the floor of the canoe, under the bags, there was a silver half-pint flask in a leather case.

Charlie passed it to Scarnum, who unscrewed the lid and sniffed at it. He took a sip and passed it to Charlie, who also took a slug and grimaced.

“Well, it's not Canadian Club, I'll tell you that,” said Charlie.

It was whisky, though, Scotch whisky, thought Scarnum. It tasted of seaweed and peat. He took another drink and swished it around in his mouth. “Scotch,” he said. “Expensive Scotch, I'd say.”

Charlie waved the flask away. “You tuck that away, my son.”

He shone the light down on the vinyl bags.

They were dry bags — the kind of heavy, watertight bags canoe campers used to keep their gear dry on camping trips — with heavy rubberized seals at the top.

There were ten of them.

“Well, that's a queer thing, isn't it?” said Charlie. “I wonder what a fellow would want ten dry bags for?”

Scarnum said nothing.

“How carefully did you look around the
Kelly Lynn
?” Charlie asked.

“Not carefully enough,” said Scarnum. “I'll go out and have another look now.”

“Might be a good idea,” said Charlie.

They stood looking at each other for a moment.

Well,” said Charlie, “I s'pose I'll get back into bed. I doubt that fellow in the canoe will be back tonight.”

Scarnum put his hand on the old man's shoulder. “Thanks, Charlie.”

S
carnum got a flashlight and some gloves from his boat and paddled the canoe out to the
Kelly Lynn
.

He started in the wheelhouse. He found the battery switch, which was off, and switched it on.

Everything on the boat lit up: the running lights, the cabin lights, the big thousand-watt deck light behind the wheelhouse. All the instrument panels started to hum and come to life.

“Christ,” said Scarnum, and switched the battery switch off.

He found the electrical panel and switched everything off except the cabin lights. He turned the battery switch on again and the cabin lit up. When he turned to look around, he swore again.

There was a big pool of dried blood on the floor in front of the throttle. There was blood on the wheel, blood on the inside of the wheelhouse door, and blood all over the throttle handle, which was smeared, he saw now, with his own handprint from the night before.

“Son of a whore,” said Scarnum, and he stood looking at the mess for a long time. There was a trail of blood — dried pools of blood — from the wheelhouse door to the wheel. The biggest pool was beneath the wheel. But there were spots by the electrical panel, and there was blood, Scarnum saw now, on the battery switch.

The trail did not continue down to the crew quarters. Scarnum switched off the wheelhouse light and went below, sloshing through the flooded cabin. He started at the bottom, searching the bilge and the engine room, and then he methodically searched the sleeping area, the galley, and the head, leaving the duffle bag for last.

In the bag there was a copy of
Barely Legal
, socks, underwear, T-shirts, heavy long underwear, one pair of Guess jeans, size 34, and one black long-sleeved shirt with silver stripes, a nightclub shirt, it looked like.

In the shaving kit there was a razor, shaving cream, a toothbrush, Tylenol, some condoms, and an unlabelled pillbox with a few grams of white powder in it. Scarnum put some on his fingernail and snorted it: cocaine.

He laid out two thin lines on the cover of the
Barely Legal
magazine and snorted them through a twenty-dollar bill. The head rush was immediate and overwhelming. It was powerful pure cocaine. He shook his head, honked on his nose, and inhaled deeply.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

At the bottom of the shaving kit was a cardboard box full of Viagra. On the side there was a prescription label from the Chester Pharmasave.
JAMES ZINCK
, it said.

Scarnum sat down heavily on the bunk. “Jimmy Zinck,” he said out loud. “Jimmy Zinck.”

Scarnum packed everything up carefully and left it as it was — except for the cocaine, which he put in his pocket — and went above and started to search the deck, shining his flashlight methodically around the boat.

In the back of the wheelhouse, near the roof, he found a row of little holes.

They were tiny bullet holes and there were seven of them in a row. He stared at them for a time and ran his fingers over them. Then he went inside and found the exit holes, also seven, in the roof of the wheelhouse.

He went back and forth twice, trying to figure out the angle of the shots.

He went back to the stern and crouched down, trying to imagine he was the shooter. It looked to him like the shots came from behind the boat.

Behind the wheelhouse, in the lobster boxes, he found ten plastic-wrapped packages, each one exactly big enough to fit snuggly in a box. They were shrink-wrapped and industrial-looking — ten kilos each. Scarnum stacked them on the deck and used his knife to peel back the plastic from one of them.

He put a pinch of the white powder on the tip of his knife and put it to his nose and snorted.

Cocaine.

SCARNUM WOKE AT TEN,
when Charlie came down and banged on the side of his boat with an old oar.

When he stuck his head up out of the bow hatch, blinking at the light, Charlie gave him a lopsided smile.

“Good morning, slugabed,” he said, waving a piece of paper in his hand. “Your lawyer called, said he had news.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” said Scarnum, taking the sheet of note­paper with the number. “I'll be up in a minute to use your phone, f'you don't mind.”

He made the call from Annabelle and Charlie's deck, jabbing at the little cordless phone, with a cup of coffee in his hand and a smoke at his lips. The sun reflected on the still waters of the bay, making a mirror of the sky, except in the shadow of Charlie's wharf, where Scarnum could see the rocky bottom. A school of tiny fish darted around the wooden pilings of the wharf.

Mayor came on the line straightaway. “This one was easy, Mr. Scarnum,” the lawyer said, laughing. “SeaWater is offering $125,000, to be paid immediately, so long as you sign the salvage release contract by nine a.m. tomorrow. How's that sound?”

Scarnum yelped with pleasure. “Get out,” he said. “Get out.”

“I was surprised myself,” said Mayor. “Fastest salvage claim I've ever handled. They didn't even need to see the affidavit. I told SeaWater's lawyer your story yesterday afternoon and this morning he calls back to tell me they'll settle today. They must be keen to work on a Saturday. So, what do you say? Want to come down and sign?”

“You're goddamned right I do,” said Scarnum. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

Charlie and Annabelle had the good grace to pretend they hadn't been listening when Scarnum walked into the kitchen for more coffee.

“A hundred-twenty-five big,” he said. “They'll pay out quick, too, so long as I sign the form today.”

Charlie whistled and Annabelle's pretty brown eyes got as big as pie plates.

“Holy smokes,” she said and hugged Scarnum and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “I guess maybe it was worth the risk.”

Charlie laughed and even assayed a little jig. “By the merciful Jesus,” he said. “I suppose it was at that.”

M
ayor was waiting for him in his office with a lawyer who was as slim as Mayor was fat.

“This is Michael Keddy,” he said as Scarnum shook hands with him, “of Keddy and Associates, acting for SeaWater Limited.”

Keddy was slim and balding, about forty-five, with wispy, thinning blond hair, little blue eyes, expensive glasses, an expensive-looking blue suit, and a fancy leather briefcase.

Scarnum pumped his hand, smiling, and pumped Mayor's hand with just as much gusto.

Mayor had them sit down and passed Scarnum the contract.

“Now, what this says is that you surrender all claim to the
Kelly Lynn
and forgo all liabilities, blah blah blah, and in exchange SeaWater will write you a cheque for $125,000 within twenty-four hours of taking possession of said vessel,” he said.“Mr. Keddy here tells me the boys will be over to tow it back to SeaWater's wharf this afternoon. That means they'll have to cut a cheque tomorrow.”

Scarnum looked at the contract, then looked up at both men. “Is that right, Mr. Keddy?” he asked.

“That's about the size of it,” the lawyer said. “It's lobster season and the
Kelly Lynn
isn't doing anybody any good moored in the Back Harbour. SeaWater wants its boat back.”

“Well, that sounds pretty good to me,” said Scarnum, “but give me a minute to read this thing, will you?”

He sat for five minutes, flipping through it, then looked up and smiled.

“Got a pen?” he asked.

O
n his way home, he stopped at the chandlery shop, where he used his credit card to buy a new battery for Charlie and a new thirty-pound Danforth anchor for himself.

He stopped next at the liquor store, where he bought a two-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne, an eight-pack of Keith's, and a quart of Crown Royal.

He was driving home, whistling and grinning in his Toyota until he got to the lane that led down to Isenor's boatyard.

There were two Mountie cars parked next to the wharf, and two Mounties were in the process of rowing out to the
Kelly Lynn
. Two more cops were standing on the dock, talking to Charlie.

Scarnum drove down to his parking spot next to the dock and climbed out of the truck.

He left the champagne, the anchor, and the battery in the truck.

As he walked to the dock, he could see that one of the two Mounties there was Sergeant Robert MacPherson, who had booked him once for assault after he punched a drunken fisher­man outside the Anchor one night. The other was a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair and big brown eyes.

He nodded at Charlie and smiled at MacPherson. “Good day, Corporal MacPherson,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”

The female Mountie corrected him. “Sergeant MacPherson,” she said.

Scarnum smiled. “Congratulations, Sergeant,” he said.

MacPherson, a big stern fellow with black hair and a grey moustache, didn't smile back. “I've got some questions about your salvage vessel here, Mr. Scarnum,” he said.

Charlie spoke up then. “They've been asking me all about it, but I told them I don't really know nothing,” he said.

MacPherson turned to Charlie.

Scarnum nodded toward the
Kelly Lynn
, which the Mounties were getting ready to board. “I'll tell you anything you want to know if you tell those Mounties to stay off my salvage,” he said. “My lawyer tells me I'm not to let anyone on it until we make a deal with the owner.”

MacPherson dug into his pocket for a flimsy piece of paper. “This is a warrant to impound the
Kelly Lynn
,” he said. “We have reason to believe that James Zinck was murdered on that boat, and we're going to run it into town.”

Scarnum's face was blank. “Jimmy Zinck,” he said, and he sat down on a box on the wharf. “Jimmy Zinck is dead?”

“Mr. Scarnum,” said MacPherson, “where were you the night of April twenty-first? That's two nights ago, the night before you salvaged that lobster boat.”

“Jesus,” said Scarnum. “You don't think I had anything to do with killing Jimmy, do you? Christ. Why would I want to kill Jimmy?”

He looked at the impassive faces of the two Mounties and shut his mouth.

“I was here on the night of April twenty-first, finishing up some work on
Cerebus
there, getting ready to take it to Halifax the next day.”

“Can anyone confirm that?” asked MacPherson.

“Well, let me see,” said Scarnum. “I suppose Charlie came down to see how I was getting on at some point that night. I'd have to think.”

“Yes, I did,” said Charlie. “I can tell you he was here.”

MacPherson and the young Mountie looked at each other skeptically.

“Mr. Scarnum,” said MacPherson, “with your permission, we'd like to have a look at your boat there, see if we can find anything that confirms your story.”

“You don't have my permission,” said Scarnum. “I don't know nothing about Jimmy Zinck's death and I don't think I have to prove that to you.”

At that moment MacPherson's walkie-talkie went off. He stepped away and looked out at the
Kelly Lynn
, where one of the Mounties was standing in the wheelhouse, with his walkie-talkie to his ear.

“Are you sure?” said MacPherson. “All right. Over.”

He turned to Scarnum, his face cold and angry. “I don't give a good goddamn if you give us permission or not,” he said. “We have the right to search your fucking boat and we're going to. And you're going to wait in the back of the cruiser here.”

Scarnum didn't move. “I want to call my lawyer,” he said.

“I don't give a fuck what you want,” said MacPherson. “Put your hands behind your back. Put the cuffs on him please, Constable Léger.”

It wasn't until the two Mounties actually boarded the
Orion
that Scarnum remembered the pillbox of cocaine that he'd left in the pocket of the pants he wore yesterday.

He started to sing softly to himself as he waited for MacPherson to walk back holding it.

“
I's the b'y that builds the boat and I's the b'y that sails her
,” he sang. “
I's the b'y that catches the fucking fish and brings 'em home to Liza
.”

MacPherson came out after five minutes with the pillbox in one plastic evidence bag and Scarnum's GPS in another. He stopped on the dock and made a call on his walkie-talkie, then one on his cellphone. He opened the front door of the cruiser and tossed the plastic bags on the dashboard. He looked through the steel grill at Scarnum.

“You, Mr. Scarnum, are under arrest for possession of an illegal narcotic,” he said.

Charlie tried to talk to MacPherson, but he ignored him, slammed the door of the cruiser, and went to the dock to wait for one of the Mounties on the
Kelly Lynn
to fetch him in a little rowboat.

Charlie wandered back to the cruiser. “What the fuck they got you in there for, Phillip?” he shouted.

Scarnum grinned up at Charlie. “They think they found some cocaine on
Orion
,” he shouted, so Charlie could hear him through the reinforced window.

“Call the lawyer, Charlie,” he said. “Call Mayor and tell them they're taking me to the detachment.”

T
hey didn't leave him in the interrogation room to sweat it out for long.

MacPherson and Léger came in after only about twenty minutes.

“Look,” said MacPherson. “We got you fair and square on the coke, and that means you are sure as shooting gonna do some time in one of Her Majesty's federal penitentiaries.”

He leaned back to let that sink in and chewed on the cap of a pen.

“You're a good-looking fellow,” he said. “I bet you'd be popular in Dorchester.” MacPherson laughed at his own joke.

Scarnum stared at him. “I think I want to talk to my lawyer,” he said.

MacPherson stared him down. “What did you think of all that blood in that lobster boat?” he asked. “You're an icy fucker, aren't you?”

Scarnum stared back at him.

“If you didn't kill him, why didn't you give us a call when you saw the boat was full of fucking blood? What's wrong with you?”

Scarnum said nothing.

“You even bought champagne, didn't you, ready to cele­brate your big payday, huh?” said MacPherson. “Man, that's cold.”

Scarnum looked away and answered, measuring his words. “I only went into the cabin of the boat once and it was pitch black, and I was some fucking tired after hauling the cocksucker, excuse my language, Miss Léger, after hauling the
Kelly Lynn
off the rocks. I didn't see no fucking blood and I don't have the first clue who shot Jimmy Zinck.”