The Darkening Archipelago (12 page)

“Something like that, man. Time flies.”

“When you're having fun,” finished Darren.

“Well, even when you're not, actually,” said Cole. “I'm heading up to the house. Walk with me?”

“I got to get back, Cole,” said Darren First Moon. “I just wanted to say hey.”

“I'm glad you did. I was surprised when I didn't see you around town the last couple of days. I got in on Sunday.”

“Yeah, I've been out with the Joint Rescue boys looking. And I've been, well, you know …” Darren looked down and kicked at some dirt on the road with his work boots.

“I know. The two of you were like father and son.”

“Yeah, we did some time together,” said Darren, looking out over the harbour.

“What are you going to do now, Darren? Can you keep on fishing and guiding?”

“I don't know, Cole. I suppose if I could get my hands on a decent boat I could, but mine isn't built for commercial fishing or guiding. It's plenty fast, but there's no room onboard for tourists or for a catch. Something will come up. Always does. Maybe I'll go back to logging on the big island.”

“You could do worse,” said Cole, filling the silence.

“Yeah, I could end up working for a fish farm,” said Darren. He let out a half-hearted laugh and looked back at the strait.

Cole looked at him. “Things are pretty tough around here, Darren. Nobody would blame you if you did, you know.”

“Archie would,” he said, looking at the horizon, his face buffeted by the wind.

“Well, Archie is free from worldly concerns now, Darren. A man has to take care of himself and his family. That reminds me, how is your family?”

“Good. We got two on the street and one in the oven,” he said, his face lightening, becoming childlike again.

“That's great news, Darren. You look out for them.”

“I will, Cole. Hey, how long you staying?”

“Just a few more days, and then back to the city.”

“Why don't you come by The Strait tonight? A bunch of us are going to hoist a few in honour of Archie.”

“I might do that.”

“Okay, Cole. Well, be seeing you.” Darren First Moon stuck out his big hand and Cole Blackwater shook it.

By the time Cole Blackwater reached the empty home of Archie Ravenwing, the squall had passed, leaving the ocean bobbing in its wake, the sky calm and dark green. Cole let himself into the house and found a bottle of beer in the fridge. He drank from the bottle as he looked across the tiny town, the harbour, and out at the Queen Charlotte Strait. With the wind down, the temperature was tolerable, so he pulled a chair from Archie's office out onto the deck and sat in the sun, his eyes closed, the warm rays penetrating him.

He pushed the disturbing image of the Blackwater ranch and barn from his brain, chasing it with beer that sluiced over his thirsty pallet. How long he sat there he didn't know, somewhat comforted by the sounds of the ocean, the fading wind, and the calls of ravens circling above the town. He must have fallen asleep, because when Grace spoke to him he was startled awake.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Cole, but there's a message on Dad's phone for you.”

Cole felt his body creak as he stood and moved ponderously across the deck and into the house.

“Thanks, Grace. Guess I dozed off. Didn't sleep very well last night.”

She smiled and handed him the portable phone, restarting the message as she did.

“Hi Cole, it's Mary. I tried to reach you on your cell, but you must have it off, or maybe there's no coverage where you are. At any rate, call me when you get a chance. There's a package here that I think you should know about. It's from Archie Ravenwing.”

Cole switched off the phone. He watched Grace moving about the kitchen. He sat at Archie's desk and dialled his office.

“Blackwater Strategies.”

“Mary, it's Cole.”

“I'm sorry to disturb you today, Cole. Do you want me to open this package that arrived this morning? It's from Archie.”

“When was it posted?”

“March thirteenth.”

“Day before Archie went missing.”

“It was posted by courier, but it can take some time to get anywhere when it's coming from one of the tiny islands. Do you want me to open it?”

“Please,” said Cole, his heart beating hard in his ears.

“It's quite a big package, Cole.” He could hear her ripping the envelope. “Okay, there's a large sheath of papers held together with a big clip, and a cover letter. I'll read you the cover letter.”

Cole closed his eyes.

Dear Cole,
It's been a while since you and I have spoken. Too long,
old friend. I'm sorry for letting our friendship and our
business relationship go cold. I've been feeling pretty
foolish for not insisting the band pay your account in
full, and I guess I felt guilty enough to let that keep
me from calling you. To make amends I've attached a
personal cheque to this letter. It's not the full amount
we owe you, but it's a start. Now that Greg White Eagle
is councillor for the Port Lostcoast band, I doubt that
you'll ever see any money from the band, so I'll do what
I can to pay your old invoices myself.

The main reason for writing you, Cole, is to fill you
in on new information that I dug up with Cassandra
Petrel. What started as an investigation into an Atlantic
salmon breeding program last fall has taken a
crazy turn. I think I've uncovered evidence that points
to genetic engineering being undertaken by Stoboltz
Aquaculture, the company with the vast majority of
fish farms in the Broughton area. At first I thought they
were only doing engineering on Atlantic salmon, trying
to build resistances to disease and to the impacts of sea
lice. But I've learned that they are working on sea lice
themselves. I just don't know how, or why.

Enclosed is a package of information that I have
compiled, in part through my own research and in part
through “brown envelopes” passed to me by provincial
employees. These should help you start building a file
on this matter. I have some maps that might interest
you, too, but I haven't made copies yet.

I need your help, Cole. I can't trust anybody in Port
Lostcoast, with the exception of Gracie. Cassandra is
above reproach, but she's got a history with one of the
people from Stoboltz that's getting to her. Most others in
town don't care about the ravings of an old man. They've
heard it all before! And Greg is on the pad with Stoboltz.
There's some email documentation here that proves it.
I think they may have even rigged the election last fall
to get him on council to influence how the band deals
with future salmon-farming applications.

I know this sounds like one of my conspiracy theories,
Cole, but you know me well enough by now to realize
that I've got good reason for my suspicions. I'm asking
you to help me find out the truth about what Stoboltz is
up to, and why. Then I need you to help me stop it.

I'm going to head out to Jeopardy Rock tomorrow to
look into what is going on there. I believe that Stoboltz
is using the old Department of Fisheries research station
as a base for their genetic engineering work. I'm
going to case the joint, confront Dr. Darvin Thurlow,
and try to get to the bottom of this. I'll call you if I learn
anything. In the meantime, have a look at the enclosed
documents and see what you can make of it all.

It will be good to work together again, Cole. I haven't
forgotten our friendship.

Hi-ee'chka.…

“It's just signed Ravenwing,” said Mary, finishing.

Cole closed his eyes.

“What do you want me to do with this, Cole?”

He was silent a moment. Mary Patterson knew Cole well enough not to interrupt.

Finally he said, “Make a copy and get that package back up to Port Lostcoast as soon as you can. I'll look around Archie's office for the original file. He wouldn't have sent that.”

“Okay, Cole. What about this cheque?”

“Don't cash it. Not yet.”

When he finished the call he finally opened his eyes. Genetic engineering of Atlantic salmon to make them more disease resistant? And what about sea lice? Why would anybody want to mess with them?

And what exactly had Archie learned when he had visited Jeopardy Rock on the day he had gone missing?

9

They met at the Port Hardy Motor Inn. It was the only accommodation in the northern Vancouver Island town with a conference room, but even so they were crammed one on top of the other. The minister of agriculture had arrived the day before and spent the day meeting with representatives of the salmon-farming industry. Stoboltz Aquaculture had made a boat available, and, together with the heads of three of the largest salmon farming companies, the minister had spent the afternoon on the water, motoring between several of the fish farms in Hardy Bay and around the southern tip of Nigei Island. A television crew, alerted to the possibility of an announcement on the future of fish farms, captured an image of the minister dressed casually, a broad smile on his face as he rode on the flying bridge of the Stoboltz boat flanked by industry representatives.

The mood the following morning was more sombre. In the morning, the minister had invited representatives from industry from the Chamber of Commerce, the North Salish First Nation, and environmental groups in the area to attend a briefing session.

Archie Ravenwing and Cassandra Petrel weren't on the invite list, but they were there anyway. As the media was ever alert to potential conflict, Archie had received calls from c bc radio and television, Global tv, the
Vancouver Sun
, and the
Globe and
Mail
less than an hour after the minister's voyage. Everyone wanted to know if he was going to be at the meeting. Everybody wanted his opinion.

Archie and Cassandra had taken the
Inlet Dancer
to Port Mc-Neill, then caught a ride up the island with Carrie Bright, the locally based leader of the Save Our Seas coalition. Ravenwing called Lance Grey as they drove north to let him know that he would be attending the meeting, and that if Grey or the minister had any trouble with that, they had better call the RCMP.

“No trouble at all, Archie,” Grey had said.

“And the media, you can expect calls from the media too if you don't let us in.” Archie was nearly belligerent.

“Take it easy, Archie. The minister will be happy to see you again. Simple oversight, I assure you.”

When they arrived to find places on the sticky vinyl chairs, there were a dozen other people in the cramped room. The meeting started poorly and went downhill fast.

“It's bloody hot in here,” complained Lance Grey, heaving on a window that refused to open. “I thought it was supposed to be cool up here, even in August.” Disgusted, he peeled off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. “The minister is on a call with some of his cabinet colleagues right now, but he'll be down in a minute. Are we waiting for anybody else?” He looked around the crowded table.

“Nobody that I can see,” said Jerry Cooper, who was sitting at the far end of the table. He was a giant of a man whose bulk threatened to make matchsticks of his chair. “But then there's some here that weren't invited in the first place.”

“Why is Archie here, Lance?” asked Dan Campbell. Seated next to Cooper beside the open door, Campbell wore jeans, a plaid shirt, and a ball cap sporting the bc Wildlife Federation logo. “And what about her?” said Campbell, nodding toward Cassandra Petrel.

“Why don't you ask them yourself, Dan?” said Grey, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

Both Dan and Jerry looked across the table. “Well, Archie?”

Archie smiled. “I've missed your charming disposition, Dan. I don't see you nearly enough around Lostcoast, so I figured I'd come to the big island to bask in the warmth of your adoration.”

“Come off it, Archie. You're not on the a at f anymore. You've been replaced. The band found someone who wasn't so openly hostile to industry. It's bad enough we've got to put up with the enviros getting in our way here, but to have you throwing up roadblock after roadblock — you've been replaced, Archie,” said Dan Campbell, looking over at Greg White Eagle. “Don't you know when you're not welcome?”

Archie maintained his smile and shrugged. “I guess I don't, Dan.”

“I don't think it's right for Archie to be in this room,” said Jerry Cooper, who was sweating profusely in the summer heat. “He's going to leak what goes on here to the media.”