The Darkening Archipelago (20 page)

“Be my guest,” Jacob Ravenwing called from the bridge. The officer took off his cap.

“Did you find anything?” Grace asked, Cole standing close by her side.

“Nothing yet,” he said.

“You're going to continue the investigation?” asked Cole.

“Yes, as a missing person's case.”

“Can we have a look?” asked Darren, emerging from the bridge.

“I think we could use your help to tell us if anything is missing,” said Derek Johns.

“We'll do what we can,” said Darren, stepping onto the dock, pulling on his dirty orange coat. Grace came up beside him and the group made its way back to the
Inlet Dancer
.

When they reached the moored boat, they noted that Winters and Bertrand had left. Derek Johns turned to them and said, “Please, don't take anything off the boat. And touch as little as you can. What I'm asking you to do is tell me if anything is missing. pfds, gear, and whatnot. I really don't know how this will help, but right now we've got to examine all the possibilities. My sergeant is working with the PEP….”

“What's pe p?” asked Cole.

“Provincial Emergency Program. He's working with them to see if maybe Archie used his cellphone while out on the water. We didn't find a cell aboard the boat and we know he had one. If he made a call later in the day, we might be able to triangulate where he was before he went overboard….” Derek Johns stopped. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I know this is hard. But we've got to exhaust every angle. It might help pinpoint the search.”

Grace Ravenwing drew a sharp breath and stepped forward, putting a foot on the heavy gunwale, and then she dropped onto the deck of the boat. The others watched her. Derek Johns stood with his head slightly bowed, his hand resting on his heavy belt.

Grace walked to the stern of the boat and into the open pilothouse. She stood at the helm of the boat and placed her small hand on the wheel. She let her eyes roam around the pilothouse, aware of the eyes of the four men on the dock. She touched the bungee cord hanging from the wheel.

“Darren,” said Cole, “you know the boat best. Maybe you could help the constable here with the question of the PFDs.”

Darren smiled and said, “Sure. No problem.” He stepped onto the boat and moved to the pilothouse.

“What do you make of this?” Grace asked Darren, touching the bungee cord that hung from the wheel.

“That was our autopilot,” he said. “Archie and I'd sometimes use one of them to hold a bearing when we were alone on the boat. You know, if we had to deal with nets or gear or take a leak.” He smiled weakly.

“I saw that and wondered about it too,” said Johns. “My guess was that he had to deal with some kind of emergency and needed to keep her nose into the storm. But we looked over the engines and all the mechanical, and there doesn't seem to be anything ailing her now. Maybe Mr. Ravenwing was able to fix whatever it was quickly.”

“I can't imagine what it could have been,” said Grace. Then, turning to Constable Johns, she asked, “Do you think that he could have tied the wheel off to check into something and been washed overboard when the boat turned sideways to a wave?”

“It's a possibility.”

Grace looked away from the young officer and away from the eyes of Cole and Jacob, and looked out at the wharf beyond the government dock. Darren First Moon put a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?” he asked, smiling.

“Thanks, Darren. Yeah, I'm okay.”

Darren continued his search of the boat. “I don't see any pfds missing. Archie almost never wore one. Lots of old-timers are like that,” he said. “It's like seat belts. They know they save lives, but…” He let his thought trail off, aware of Grace Ravenwing nearby. “I'll look around and see what else is missing. Lots of the gear got strewn about in the storm.”

Cole and Jacob climbed onto the boat and helped Darren First Moon do an inventory of the equipment. The deck was strewn with fishing tackle, rods, tools, and even a coffee thermos. Cole went below deck, moving through the pilothouse and the companionway, to inspect the crew's quarters. There were a few inches of water in the galley. He sloshed through it and inspected the bunk beds, the small cooking area, and the storage lockers. A few personal effects floated in the water, but otherwise things seemed to be in place. “We'll need to pump this water out,” he called up from below, and saw Darren First Moon poke his head through the companionway.

“There's a bilge pump built in. We'll get her fired up,” he said.

Cole emerged from below deck to see Darren and Jacob in the pilothouse. Jacob was looking over the instrument panel and had concluded that, though there was a little water damage, it was likely cosmetic and the boat would indeed be seaworthy. Darren fired up the
Inlet Dancer
's twin Cummings inboard engines and gave a thumbs-up sign to Jacob and Grace before he shut them down again. “Looks like she's good to go,” he said to no one in particular. “But we should have a look below just to make sure.”

“I'll do that,” said Jacob, moving to the stern of the boat.

Darren nodded and began untying a length of rope from the lee-side cleat in the stern.

“What have you got there, Darren?” Cole asked, walking past the fish box to stand beside First Moon, watching the big man's hands pull at the loops of rope and its frayed end.

“Don't know. Looks like Archie got himself tangled up here,” he said.

Cole looked at the orange rope that was made fast around the cleat, and then at the rope that was tightly coiled and draped at the bow of the boat. “Looks like he had to hack at this with a machete,” said Cole, touching the end of the rope where it was frayed.

“Funny thing,” said Darren, finally loosening the rope.

“Wound up pretty tight, hey?” said Cole, looking at Darren.

“I'd say for sure. Like he had tied it off to a tree or something, and the boat had pulled real hard on it. Maybe he had to go ashore for something, you know, maybe snooping around somewhere, and the boat got pulled tight against the line and he had to cut it.”

“Did you find a machete on the boat? Did Archie keep one?”

“We always had an axe and a fish gaff on board.”

“Are they here?”

“I don't see them,” said Darren, coiling the rope. “Must have got washed overboard. Or maybe Archie has them at home.”

Cole held out his hand and Darren placed the rope in it. Cole looked to see if Derek Johns was watching and slipped the rope into his coat pocket. “I'm going to hold on to this.”

Darren shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just a worthless piece of rope as far as I can see.”

Cole walked to the back of the boat. Grace was still in the pilothouse. Jacob had the heavy panel open that gave access to the motor, and had his torso below deck.

Cole looked at Grace. She was sitting on the high seat that her father had used so many times. She was staring straight ahead, through the dirty glass of the pilothouse. In her hand she held the dented aluminum thermos.

“You know, I sat here with him so many times when I was younger. He got this boat when I was maybe twelve or thirteen, and after Mom died he would take me out with him when the salmon were in season, and sometimes when he had tourists, too. He would stand and I would sit here and watch the waves and the shore and the sky. He always had a thermos of coffee with him.” She smiled, still looking ahead. “In the morning we'd sit on the fish box and we'd share a cup of coffee.” Cole could see her eyes growing moist. He wanted to put his arms around her, to comfort her, but his legs would not budge. “I found this on the deck at the back of the boat,” she said, looking down at the cylindrical thermos as if seeing it for the first time.

“For some stupid reason I never believed this sort of thing could happen to Archie,” she said, calling him by his first name for the first time Cole could remember. “To Dad.” She smiled again. “It seems as if he was more apt to walk on water than drown beneath it. At least that's the impression he wanted everybody to have of him.” She slipped down off the seat. Cole watched her intently. His face was pale beneath the black cap, except for the dark bruise on his left cheek.

“You look really silly dressed up like a fisherman,” she said, punching him in the arm. Cole grinned.

“How's it coming, Jacob?” she said, turning to Jacob and tugging on his leg.

“Okay, okay, it's all looking good down here. Got a lot of water during the storm, but it's pretty good. We'll run the bilge pump and if that doesn't do it, I'll bring a pump from my boat in the morning and we'll dry this out. Otherwise, it looks pretty good.” Jacob reappeared, wiping his hands on a rag. “Cole, help me shut this thing, okay?”

Cole grabbed the heavy door and was about to close it when Grace said, “Wait a minute.” Her voice was soft but urgent.

“What is it, Grace?” Cole said.

“What's this here?” she said, putting a finger in the runner where the heavy aluminum door fit into the deck of the boat.

Jacob and Cole came close. Darren First Moon stood at the door of the pilothouse, squinting at them.

“I don't know,” said Cole. Grace touched it with a forefinger. It was a thick, reddish-brown substance that seemed to have congealed in the crack where the engine door closed directly behind the pilothouse.

“Could be grease,” said Darren, helpfully. “You know Archie, always a little sloppy.”

“He was a pig around the house,” said Grace. “But you could eat off the deck of this boat. Constable Johns, could you have a look here?”

Derek Johns stepped onto the boat and moved easily to the stern where he edged past Darren First Moon's bulk. “What's got everybody so interested here?” he asked.

Grace held up a finger.

“Well, well, well,” he said, coming closer. “What
have
we here?” He bent and touched the substance.

“Looks like engine oil,” said Darren again.

“No, not oil. It's not greasy. It's tacky,” said Johns, pressing his fingers together and smelling them.

Cole was beside him. He followed the young constable's eyes from the compartment door to the back of the open pilothouse, the high seat, and then to the gunwales. Derek Johns was thinking the same thing that Cole Blackwater was: when Archie went overboard, he must have hit his head on something pretty good. Hard enough to cause a wound that would bleed heavily. And that wound must have knocked Archie Ravenwing unconscious. Otherwise, how would the blood have found its way back here? A pool of blood must have seeped from the wound where Archie lay unconscious — or worse — on the deck of the
Inlet Dancer,
and crept the distance between his prone body and the compartment for the inboard engines, a distance of four or five feet. That's a lot of blood, thought Cole, especially in a big sea where waves were likely breaking over the bow.

From where he crouched Cole looked up at the gunwales of the boat, more than a foot and a half in height. It would take a powerful wave to lift Archie Ravenwing's body from the deck of the
Inlet Dancer
over those gunwales and into the sea. How would that happen without capsizing the boat, or ridding it of things like fishing tackle or a coffee Thermos?

Constable Johns stood up and unclipped the radio receiver from his shoulder flash and depressed the microphone button. “Alert Bay, this is pc Johns.”

“This is Alert Bay, go ahead,” crackled the microphone. Cole and Grace stared up at the RCMP officer.

“Tell Sergeant Winters that we've turned up a foreign substance on the boat. Tell him that we're going to need a forensics team in from Campbell River. That we're going to need this boat up and out of the water first thing. We're going to need to lock it down.”

15

“What do you think they're up to?” asked Archie Ravenwing. He was sitting in Cassandra Petrel's galley on the
Queen Charlotte
Challenger
. The boat rocked slowly back and forth in the quiet harbour.

“I don't know. But as the saying goes, something fishy.” Petrel was pouring tea, the steam from the kettle clouding up the portholes in her galley.

“Tell me what you know,” Archie said. He was sitting sideways on a bench seat at the table, which doubled as Petrel's desk. Stacked with reports and papers, the makeshift desk was cluttered with vials of sea lice specimens, and on it a laptop hummed. Archie rested his back on an overstuffed cushion, his feet dangling off the end of the bench.

Petrel handed Archie a cup of tea, which he held in both hands for warmth. November had grown cold, and it had rained every day for the last week. Not heavily, but steadily, and the wind had blown down the Queen Charlotte Strait, bringing with it cold air direct from the Alaska panhandle. Archie sipped his tea, blowing on it with closed eyes to savour the warmth. Petrel sat across from him.

“I don't have any proof yet,” she said, “so don't go flying off in a rage, Archie. Got it?”