The Darkening Archipelago (19 page)

Nancy rinsed the last of the pots and searched the soapy water for any final items that needed cleaning. Then she emptied and cleaned the sink.

“Was Cole here when his father died, Mrs. Blackwater?”

“Oh, Nancy, I just can't talk about that. It was horrible.” Dorothy composed herself and then said, “Come, let's sit in the living room and have our coffee. I'll show you some pictures of the boys when they were little.” She collected the coffee service and headed for the living room, leaving Nancy to dry her hands and follow behind.

They were seated on the sofa, leafing through a thick album of black-and-white photos, a few colour images toward the end of the book, when Nancy heard a car door slam. For a moment, her heart leaped to her throat. She held her coffee and tried not to stare toward the back entrance, her fingers trembling a little.

“Oh, that must be Walter. He said he might come by this evening.” Nancy sipped her coffee and tried to breathe, but found her chest tightening.

“Hey, Mom,” came a voice from the mud room.

“I'm in the living room, Walt.”

“Whose car is that, Mom?”

“We've got company. A friend of Cole's.”

Nancy heard a man walk into the kitchen.

“Come and have a cup of coffee, Walter, dear.”

The sound of heavy feet neared the living room, and at the kitchen doorway a broad man, thick in the chest and arms, appeared. He was wearing the tan shirt and green pants of a park warden and wore a clean Stetson on his head, the brim rolled neatly on either side, his polished badge held fast with a thick brown band of leather. The man removed his hat when he stepped into the room. He reached a large hand toward Nancy. She stood up.

“I'm Walter Blackwater,” he said.

She took his hand, which eclipsed her own. “Nancy Webber.”

Walter smiled. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

14

The wind blew through Cole Blackwater's curls as he stood on the flying bridge of Jacob Ravenwing's boat, the Salmon Pride, powering across the mouth of Blackfish Sound toward Cormorant Island and Alert Bay. Jacob owned a 1972 thirty-two-foot Grand Banks cruiser that had seen better days but still maintained some semblance of its original glory. When they had boarded the boat that morning in Port Lostcoast, Jacob told Cole that he had bought it at auction five years ago in Seattle after selling his commercial trawler. Now he lived on the boat, most often moored in Alert Bay, and took tourists fishing for halibut and salmon when it was necessary to earn a little money.

Above, dark clouds scudded on the western horizon, tripping over the low mountains at the north end of Vancouver Island. By the end of the day, Cole guessed, it would be raining again. Cole Blackwater was ready for spring. Or maybe
this
is what passed for spring in this neck of the woods.

Beside Cole was Darren First Moon, and below, next to Jacob at the wheel, was Grace Ravenwing. The four of them had agreed earlier that morning to go have a look at the
Inlet Dancer
in Alert Bay. If it was seaworthy, and the Coast Guard and RCMP were through with it, then Darren would pilot it back to Lostcoast.

The two men stood in silence for much of the trip, the wind pushing at them. Cole felt chilled right through to his bones, even with one of Darren's old slickers worn over a heavy fleece coat. Cole had a black wool longshoreman's cap pulled down over his ears, but a few errant curls escaped. He wore heavy woolen gloves on his hands, and still he shivered.

“Why don't you go down below?” shouted Darren.

“I don't get to do this very often,” said Cole.

The truth was, he was embarrassed and didn't want to face Grace Ravenwing. After he had come in from the bar, drunk and bruised, she had given him a frosty reception. When she had asked about the fight, he had been evasive, not wanting the ugly undercurrent of racism that had provoked the bout to further impinge on her already troubled week.

They made the turn at Pearse Island by noon, then entered Broughton Strait, making for the docks at the north end of Alert Bay. Jacob slowed as they passed the Fisheries and Oceans pier, and the foursome strained to see the
Inlet Dancer
. Grace Ravenwing climbed the ladder to the flying bridge and stood between Darren and Cole. They peered toward the dock, eyes roving over the shapes of the boats for the
Inlet Dancer
. They spotted it next to the
Cape Sutil
, a Canadian Coast Guard search-and-rescue boat from Port Hardy. They motored on beyond the government docks and entered the sheltered waters where Jacob Ravenwing's berth overlooked the cultural centre and museum and the houses of the reserve beyond. Jacob piloted the boat while Darren climbed down to the deck to help guide the
Salmon Pride
into the slip.

“It looks to be all in one piece,” said Cole.

Grace nodded. He could see tears in the corners of her eyes. He slipped an arm around her small, solid shoulders and she let herself be pulled into him.

“I'm sorry about last night,” he said, looking down. She was silent. “I know you don't like that. You told me before,” he said.

Grace Ravenwing breathed heavily.

“Anyway, I'm sorry.”

She smiled up at him, pushing a few tears from her cheek with a gloved hand. “Let's go have a look at Dad's boat,” she said, and stepped onto the dock. The four of them made their way along the uneven pier toward the road that ran the length of the harbour. Like Port Lostcoast, the town of Alert Bay was divided in two. To the east of the ferry terminal was the white community with its neat houses and storefronts laid out along the water, bulging into a paved road that seemed as if it were an afterthought. To the west, the First Nations reserve, with the U'mista cultural centre, ceremonial Big House, and the world's tallest totem pole.

The four friends stepped from the pier onto the road. Cole stopped. “What the hell is that?” he said, pointing at a four-storey brick building adjacent to the cultural centre and museum. Through the leafless trees the building was imposing, and in many places bricks had become dislodged and fallen from the ageing structure.

“That's the band office,” said Jacob.

“It looks like a prison,” said Cole.

“It used to be the residential school,” said Grace.

Cole nodded. “Figures,” he said.

“Come on,” said Grace, pulling Cole away from his dark thoughts.

— The Coast Guard vessel
ccgc
Sooke Post
had been on patrol north of the Broughton Archipelago when the overdue report was filed by the Port Lostcoast harbour master. The Joint Rescue Coordination Centre in Esquimalt, bc had notified the RCMP's marine headquarters in Nanaimo, which dispatched boats from its detachments in Alert Bay and Port McNeill. The
Sooke Post
's crew of four had made for the mouth of Knight Inlet and led the search on the first day, aided by the two RCMP patrol boats and a flotilla of local fishermen. On the second day, they had been joined by the
ccgc
Cape Sutil
, under the command of Captain John Bertrand, as it responded to the call from its patrol around the Scott Islands north of Vancouver Island. The RCMP dispatched its Air8 helicopter, and the Comox Canadian Forces base deployed the cc-115 Buffalo airplane and the ch-149 Cormorant helicopter to the region. For two days the region buzzed with activity, but there was no sign of the
Inlet Dancer
or its captain.

After three days, only the
Cape Sutil
, the RCMP, and a dozen local fishermen continued with the sad hunt.

“We found her run aground on Protection Point,” said the wiry Captain Bertrand, standing on the dock next to the
Inlet
Dancer
. He was a solidly built man in his early forties, with a thick mustache and a slight French-Canadian accent. “As you can see, her port side is a little banged up,” he said, pointing to several dents in the fibreglass that covered the boat's sturdy wooden hull. “But as far as we can tell, she's seaworthy. We ran her in under her own power. The
Cape Sutil
accompanied her amidships only for safety sake.”

Bertrand paused, then spoke what was on everybody's mind: “There's no sign of Mr. Ravenwing, nor do we have any clues as to what might have happened to him. I'm sorry. We've handed this over to the RCMP. The locals here in Alert Bay will carry on with the investigation. They've assigned a liaison officer. He should be here shortly.”

The five of them stood on the dock and regarded the boat.

“I suppose we can all guess what must have happened,” Jacob Ravenwing said, looking into the pilothouse.

“I don't think we'll ever be able to say with certainty,” said Bertrand, crouching down to put a hand on the hull of the
Inlet Dancer
, his orange float coat bunching up under him. “But I'd say that during the storm, the
Inlet Dancer
was making for home out of the mouth of Tribune Channel, moving through the opening of Knight Inlet, and Archie was swept overboard. The boat appears to have never capsized. There's some water damage to the instruments in the pilothouse, but nothing serious. There's even some fishing gear on the deck, so I think the
Inlet
Dancer
stayed upright through the storm.” Bertrand pointed to some of the clutter there. “I think we can rule out the boat having gone over. I would say that, at some point, the
Inlet Dancer
must have been taken on the side by a rogue wave — maybe five or ten metres high — and Mr. Ravenwing swept overboard. We had fifty-knot winds that night in the strait, a violent storm rating on the Beaufort scale. It's not outside the realm of possibility to get waves of that height with such high winds. If Mr. Ravenwing was caught on the deck during one of those waves —”

Bertrand cleared his throat. “If one of you can tell me which pfds are present and accounted for, we might be able to determine if he was wearing one at the time, but it seems academic at this point.”

“Our people are continuing to search,” said Darren First Moon. It was a statement, but it sounded like a question.

Bertrand nodded solemnly.

“Can we pilot her home?” asked Darren.

“The RCMP will want to go over the boat, but I don't imagine why you wouldn't be able to take her home before the week is out.”

“Can we go aboard?” asked Cole.

“Best to wait for the liaison officer to arrive. He was tied up when we brought her into port. He should be here shortly,” said Bertrand. And at that Cole and the others turned to see a white Suburban with the RCMP insignia pull up onto the docks. Two uniformed officers stepped from the cab and Cole had a moment of vertigo, thinking about his time in Oracle the previous year.

The officers walked onto the dock and stepped close to the
Inlet
Dancer
. The first was tall, lean, and clean shaven, and couldn't be more than thirty years old. He wore a ball cap and looked crisp and efficient in his uniform. He wore long sleeves, and he rested his hand on his overloaded utility belt when he stopped before the group. The second man was older and shorter and wore what had once been the regulation police mustache. His face was wide and red, and his eyes seemed to be in a permanent squint. He brandished sergeant's stripes on his arms.

“Hi, Jacob,” said the younger man.

“Hey there, Derek,” said Jacob, extending his hand. They shook.

“Derek here is what the cops call a First Nations Community Policing Officer,” said Jacob, grinning. “They send him out to deal with us Indians when we get into trouble. We like him, even if he's white,” he joked.

Derek Johns introduced himself to the others and to Bertrand, then introduced Sergeant Barry Whiteside. The group chatted for a few minutes about how the
Inlet Dancer
was found, and about the boat's history, with Darren, Jacob, and Grace offering insight into its seaworthiness and Archie's predilection for not wearing his pfd. Finally there was a silence.

“Can we have a look around the boat?” Grace addressed Derek Johns.

The young man looked at his colleague and then back at Grace. “This is still a missing person's investigation unless we find some sign of trauma. We're going to count on you to help us understand what might have happened here. The first thing we need to do here is have a look over the boat ourselves, and then we'll let you come aboard for a look around. Sergeant Whiteside and I will examine the
Inlet Dancer
and its contents, and let you know when it's okay for you to join us on board.”

“You said trauma. What do you mean?” asked Darren.

“Only that we're cautious about these things, Mr. First Moon,”

said Johns.

“Can you tell us more?” asked Cole.

“Not really,” grunted the sergeant. “Let us have a look and we'll notify you when we're through.”

Grace was standing close to her brother. She looked at the
Inlet Dancer
, its hull dented but otherwise intact. “Okay,” she said. “We'll be on the
Salmon Pride
.”

It was late in the day when the young constable knocked on the gunwale of the
Salmon Pride
and asked if he could step aboard.