Salvage (19 page)

SCARNUM TOOK UP HAND
lining that summer and when anybody asked him about it, he told them it reminded him of fishing with his father when he was a boy.

He had found an old clinker-built St. Margarets Bay trap boat under a pile of rotting plywood behind Charlie's workshop while looking for a piece of hardwood to use in the bulkhead of a Bluenose he was working on. Charlie didn't know where the boat had come from. In fact, he said he'd never seen it before Scarnum dug it up. So Scarnum sanded it down to bare wood, replaced some of rotten strakes, and then painted it a cheery red. When he was finished, he rigged it up with oars and took to going out jigging in the Back Bay after dinner.

He'd row out, the long oars pushing the beautiful boat through the water very nicely. Then he' d sit in the bay in the evening sun, holding a wooden batten wrapped with heavy cod line, jerking his arm back and forth, so the steel cod jig on the end of the line would bounce along the bottom, up and down, flashing an invitation that proved to be irresistible to the occasional mackerel, rock cod, or pollock.

He was rowing in with a pollock in the bottom of the boat when Constable Léger rolled into the boatyard and got out of her cruiser. She stood on the dock and watched Scarnum row in.

He smiled at her as he climbed out with the fish in his hand. “Want a pollock for your dinner?” he asked.

“Are you trying to bribe me?” she said and smiled.

“No,” he said. “I may be stupid, but I'm not that stupid.”

“I brought you your GPS and a pair of boots with fish blood on them,” she said. “You have to sign the form.”

He signed the sheet and thanked her. “I haven't been able to go anywheres since you took that thing,” he said.

She stood and smiled at the sun setting over the Back Bay. “You know,” she said, “whoever shot Bobby Falkenham shot him in the water. The coroner's analysis shows that the bullets travelled through salt water before they hit him. But then the wounds aired out. He was out of the water for fourteen to sixteen hours before somebody dumped him back in the water again.”

She kept smiling out at the bay. “Why do you think somebody would do that?” she said.

Scarnum whistled low. “You're asking the wrong guy,” he said.

“Am I?” she asked. “Maybe somebody wanted him to be found. It would almost have to be that. Why else would they take him out of the water and dump him back in?”

Scarnum stood beside her, looking out at the water, holding the fish in his hand.

“I dunno,” he said. “Terrible business. First Jimmy, then Bobby.”

She turned and looked at him. “First Jimmy, then Bobby,” she said.

“Yuh. Seems to be over now,” said Scarnum.

“
Tu fais semblant d'être tr
è
s simple, mais je crois que t'es un grand comédien,
” she said. “
Rusé comme un renard.
”

Scarnum shook his head. “Huh?”

“
Et je sais que tu parles Français, aussi, Monsieur Scarnum,
” she said, turning to walk back to her car. She stopped after she opened the door and looked back at him.

“We ever find out you killed Falkenham or Zinck, we'll put you away,” she said. “We'll never stop working on this.”

“I never killed nobody,” he said.

She looked at him coldly and got into the car and started it. She put it in gear, but before she drove off, she rolled down the window and fixed him with her pretty brown eyes. “Watch out for Mexicans,” she said.

“I do,” he said very quietly as she drove off, and he waved the fish at her goodbye.

FINALLY, SCARNUM CAUGHT
something bigger than a fish.

When the jig snagged on something, he wiggled it back and forth, rowed a few strokes and tried again, tugging gently, trying to get a feeling for what it was attached to.

Then he reached into the bottom of the boat where he had a length of heavy chain with big hooks hanging from it. It was tied to the end of a quarter-inch nylon rope.

Scarnum lowered the chain to the bottom, hand over hand, next to the cod line. Then he held one piece of line in each hand and stared up into the air and pulled the lines back and forth. Eventually, he snagged something with the chain. He pulled it gently, testing the connection underwater, and then rowed back to the dock slowly, playing the nylon line out very carefully. He tied up the boat and tied the end of the nylon line to a cleat on the dock.

After dinner, he came back to the dock and picked up his fishing gear. He carried the stuff to the
Orion
, including the end of the nylon rope. He wrapped it there around a winch on the
Orion
.

He went into Charlie's workshop then and borrowed a heavy block and tackle — two wooden pulleys with rope stretched back and forth between them. He fastened one end to a heavy piling on the dock and laid the other end in the cockpit.

At 4:00 a.m., he crawled from the cabin into the cockpit and started to turn the winch very slowly, rhythmically, so its clicking blended into the night sounds. After a long time, it got very hard to turn, then impossible, and the pressure from the line started to pull the starboard side of the
Orion
low in the water.

Then Scarnum tied a rolling hitch to attach the nylon line to the block and tackle, and pulled on the heavy rope from the pulley lashed to the wharf piling. It wouldn't budge at first, so he wrapped it around another winch and cranked. Then it gave way and suddenly the nylon line ran freely again.

Scarnum hauled it hand over hand then, quickly and quietly, until it got hard to pull again. He winched it up until he saw he could catch hold of the chain he had laid on the bottom of the bay the night after he salvaged the
Kelly Lynn
.

His old anchor was on one end of the chain. Threaded along it, like baubles on a charm bracelet, were ten dry bags full of cocaine.

THE FIRST REAL SNOW
of the season was falling, big wet flakes driven by a good west wind, when Scarnum pulled his truck up in front of Donald Christmas's place, but the kid on the four-wheeler was only wearing a T-shirt.

“You should be wearing a coat,” said Scarnum as the kid opened the steel gate for him. “And a helmet.”

This time the kid didn't laugh. “Donald's waiting for you behind the house,” he said.

Scarnum drove up, parked, and walked around behind the house. He carried a cheap black gym bag. He put it on the table in front of Donald. “Brought something for you,” he said.

Donald opened it up and peeked inside and closed it back up again. “What the fuck is this?” he said. “That looks like drugs. I don't have anything to do with drugs. You better get off my property before I call the Mounties.”

Scarnum stood looking at him for a minute. Then he took off his coat and turned and faced the chopping with his arms held out from his sides.

After Donald patted him down, he went to the sliding glass door and called into the house. The teenage boy came to the door. Donald spoke to him in Mi'kmaq and the kid moved to take the black bag from the table.

Scarnum stepped forward and put his hand on the bag. Donald looked at him. “He's gonna take it into the woods while we talk,” he said. “You were fucking stupid to bring it to my house.”

Scarnum let go of the bag and looked at the kid. “You should be wearing a coat,” he said.

Donald looked at him. “He's right,” he said. “It's cold out. Put on a coat.”

The kid went in and got a coat, then carried the bag around the side of the house. Scarnum heard the four-wheeler start, then heard the kid drive off.

“So?” said Donald.

“I got nine more of them,” said Scarnum. “Just like that one. A hundred keys.”

“And you want to sell them?” said Donald.

“Yuh,” said Scarnum. “To you. I don't want to meet nobody else, do business with nobody else. A one-time thing. Cash on delivery. Just you and me. Nobody else needs to know where you got the coke. Ever.”

Donald went to the sliding glass door and called out. In a minute, the girl came with two beers.

Scarnum sat down in the plastic chair he'd sat in last time. Donald walked over to the edge of the deck and stood, watching the snow fall on the chopping. Snow settled in his long black hair.

“How much money you want for it?” he asked.

“Six million,” said Scarnum. “It's worth twice that on the street once you step on it.”

Donald laughed and turned around. “No,” he said. “No no no. You want to sell it on the street, you go ahead. I wouldn't recommend it, though, personally. I don't think you'd be good at that.”

Scarnum frowned and squinted. “What do you think would be fair?” he asked.

“Not really the way I work,” said Donald. “What's fair. We're not talking about a fucking old boat here. Question is, what will I give you for it?”

“All right,” said Scarnum. “What will you give me for it?”

Donald leaned back with his hands behind him on the deck rail and looked at Scarnum.

“Tell you how this is going to work,” he said. “I'm going to tell you the number and you're going to say yes and we're going to shake hands and then set up the deal. I'm not fucking haggling with you.”

“What's the number?” said Scarnum.

“Five hundred thousand,” said Donald.

“I want at least a million,” said Scarnum. “Nice round number. A million.”

Donald stared at him. “I told you how this was going to work.”

Scarnum stared back. “Well, I can just sell it to somebody else,” he said. “No problem. Get the kid to bring me my bag back.”

Donald walked up to Scarnum and reached out and stroked his hair, a strangely intimate gesture. “I want to do this friendly,” he said. “I don't want no hard feelings.”

He walked back to the railing. “But I got to tell you, you can't sell it to nobody else. I think if you think about it, you'll see that I'm right.”

He turned his back on Scarnum. “Think hard, amigo.”

Scarnum didn't say anything, but sat frowning, looking at his hands.

He looked up at Donald, who turned, raised his eyebrows, smiled inanely, and shook his head from side to side and waggled a finger in the air.

“No no no,” he said. “I can see what you're thinking, and I'm telling you, you're thinking about it all wrong. I am your customer, and I'm paying you a lot of money for something you found. So cheer the fuck up and shake hands with the Indian who's gonna give you $500,000, and then shut the fuck up while I tell you how we're going to do this.”

Scarnum stood up, smiled, and shook his hand.

It was a thin smile.

Christmas didn't let go of Scarnum's hand but stood there holding it, looking at him closely.

“The thing you got to be happy about, Phillip, is this way, I got no reason to kill you,” he said. “Believe me, you don't want to give me a reason to kill you.”

SCARNUM ROSE BEFORE
dawn and put on thick wool pants, rubber boots, a black and red hunting shirt, a heavy sweater, and a blaze-orange hunting jacket and cap.

He went out to the parking lot carrying two hockey bags. He put them in the bottom of a beat-up, old fourteen-foot aluminum boat and very carefully lashed them in place. Then he loaded the boat onto the back of the truck, upside down, with its stern against the cab and its bow over the tailgate. He tied a red cloth to the bow of the boat, then he loaded up the back of the truck with a gas tank, a motor, some knapsacks and tarps, locked
Orion
, and drove out of the yard.

He noticed a set of headlights following him through town, and as he hit the New Ross Road and the sun rose, he could see that he was being followed by two middle-aged Mi'kmaq men in hunting clothes driving an old Ford Ranger. One of them was talking on a cellphone.

It was the first day of deer-hunting season, and Scarnum's truck was one of many on the road heading back into the mixed forest behind Chester.

He turned off the main road a few kilometres before the turnoff for the reserve and drove down a logging road, keeping his eye on the speedometer. After five and a half kilometres, he turned left onto a very narrow, old one-lane road with deep wheel ruts and long grass in the middle. The grass rubbed against the bottom of the truck, and in some places the alders grew so close that they rubbed against the side of the truck.

He had to drive slowly, for fear of tearing out his exhaust. The Ford Ranger followed him, about a half-kilometre back.

After he had driven eight and a quarter kilometres, he turned left onto a road that was marked by a piece of orange tape. He drove up and into a chopping. The Ford Ranger backed into the road, blocking it, and as Scarnum drove slowly up into the chopping, he looked in his rear-view mirror and watched the two men get out holding rifles.

Scarnum drove to the crest of the hill, to where the road ended in a circular turnaround. He waited in the cab of the truck, drinking coffee from his Thermos, smoking cigarettes, and listening to country music on the radio.

He was singing along to “He Stopped Loving Her Today” when he heard the four-wheeler.

The kid pulled up next to him and jumped off the machine. He was wearing hunter orange and holding a rifle. He stood well back from the truck.

“Get out the truck,” he said, and Scarnum did.

“Put down the gun,” he said. “I don't have no gun, just like Donald said.”

“Get the bags from the back of the truck and strap them to the back of the bike,” said the kid.

Scarnum stood looking at him. “All right,” he said.

He untied the boat, stood on the back bumper, and turned the boat right side up. He climbed up in it, undid his knots, and threw the hockey bags to the ground. He jumped down and carried them to the four-wheeler.

He turned to the kid. “Where's the money?” he said.

“You'll get it when Donald checks out the bags,” said the kid. “Strap them to the back of the bike.”

Scarnum did.

“Get back in the truck and wait,” said the kid.

After Scarnum was back in the truck, the kid got on the four-wheeler and drove off across the chopping and into the woods.

Scarnum got out, tied the boat down again and then got in the truck and waited. This time he didn't listen to the radio.

After half an hour, the kid drove past, without stopping, and dropped the cheap gym bag that Scarnum had carried to Donald's house the week before.

Inside, there were five thousand $100 bills.