The Darkening Archipelago (29 page)

“I know that you hate them, Archie, but what can I do? I got debts, you know. I got bills to pay. And they offered me good work.”

Archie opened his eyes. The clear night sky shone with stars. The moon, nearly full, sat fat in the sky, kissing the harbour with white light.

“Archie, come on, say something.”

“There's nothing to say, Moon.”

“Damn it, Archie. You got to understand, I got debts. I got bills to pay.” Darren First Moon buried his hands in the pockets of his orange slicker.

“We've all got bills, Darren. We get by.”

“Easy for you to say, living up on the bluff, looking out at the town. Easy for you to say with your new deck and new addition to your place. You don't have any bills for all that, do you?”

“I don't know what you're getting at.”

“I've been hearing things….”

“What are you saying?”

“I've been talking to Greg White Eagle. He's told me what you done.”

Archie blew a cord of mist into the night air.

“Pretty easy to be all high and mighty, Archie, when you yourself are dipping into the kitty, hey?”

“That was a mistake, and I aim to come clean on that.”

“Yeah, well, don't go looking down your nose at everybody else for doing an honest day's work when you're stealing money from the band. That's fraud. So just don't do it, Archie.”

Archie Ravenwing felt his heart in his throat. He said: “Stoboltz is up to no good, Darren.”

“Come off it, Archie. I'm not listening to any more of your conspiracy theories.”

“It's not a theory, and I don't know who else you've been listening to these days. I've got proof, Darren, that Stoboltz is up to something and the government is in on it, too. I'm going to blow the lid off their whole racket. I'm going to sink those fuckers.”

“You're just doing this to get back at me, ain't you? Because you think I'm stabbing you in the back, hey?” Darren paced back and forth in front of Archie now, hands at his side, breathing hard.

“That's not true, Moon. You've been like a son to me these last ten years. I love you. I'm not doing this to hurt you. I admit that to hear you're going to work for the goddamned fish farmers feels like a knife in my back.”

Darren stopped pacing. “What have you got on Stoboltz, Archie?”

“I can't say, Darren.”

“Come on, Archie. Maybe it will change my mind?”

“I very much doubt that, Darren.”

21

Cole stood next to the barnacle-speckled hull of the Inlet Dancer. The boat was resting on a series of wooden pilings and secured with heavy metal jacks. Cole could see where the boat's solid fibreglass and wooden hull had been dented where it hove up on the rocks of Protection Point. Derek Johns and Sergeant Winters stood next to him, regarding the boat. With them were half a dozen other RCMP officers. Two forensics experts dressed in their white jumpsuits were combing over the boat. Cole's cell-phone rang. It was Nancy. She was just outside Port McNeill and wanted to know where she could meet him. He directed her to the docks.

Cole had been standing for an hour in the chill afternoon air watching the RCMP scour Archie's boat for further evidence of trauma. Cold air had moved in from the north that morning, butting up against a warmer air mass, and a heavy fog had fallen over the mouth of Alert Bay. The air was now utterly still.

The forensics team arrived from Campbell River via Port McNeill an hour after Cole had visited the
Inlet Dancer.
Now, it seemed, the entire detachment of Mounties from both McNeill and Alert Bay was standing on the dock watching the two-man team methodically work their way over the boat. They looked for fingerprints, scoured the boat for any suspicious objects, and spent considerable time examining and sampling the tacky red substance on the engine compartment at the boat's stern. They then used ultraviolet light to look for minute traces of blood on the gunwales, the pilothouse, and elsewhere on the boat. Cole then watched as the forensics team sprayed the boat down with Luminol, hoping to detect additional evidence of blood. Dozens of items were bagged and placed in chests for transportation back to Vancouver and the major crime unit's labs there.

Cole thought of the rope and the map that he'd removed from the boat the previous day; he began to consider the wisdom of his actions. He stood, arms crossed, and watched. From time to time he talked with one of the uniformed officers, who permitted, but did not welcome, his presence on the pier. Only Derek Johns seemed to tolerate his presence, but then again, Johns had been assigned the task of liaison with the Ravenwing family; it was his job to put up with Cole, the family's unofficial representative.

All the while he watched out of the corner of his eye for the arrival of the ferry bearing Nancy Webber. When the boat did finally arrive, cutting through the swirling fog, he didn't rush to meet her. Instead, he stayed back and watched. At last, she emerged from the fog like a ghost from his past. He saw her walk to the edge of the government pier's ramp and stop, looking for him. He strode toward her, hands swinging at his sides, his attention distracted by what was beginning to seem like incontrovertible evidence that his friend and colleague Archie Ravenwing had been murdered.

“It's good to see you,” he said when he reached the end of the dock. She stepped toward him and they moved into an awkward embrace. It was always like this with Nancy. Two steps forward and one step back, he thought.

“I'm glad to be here, Cole. Thanks for arranging a warm welcome,” she said, looking around her as the mist swirled off the water like dry ice on a B-grade horror movie set. “It's so cozy, it makes me want to curl up with a good book.”

“Welcome to the wet coast,” he said.

“I'm really sorry to hear about Archie,” she said, her face becoming serious.

“You said that already. On the phone.”

“I know, but we thought it was just an accident then.”

Cole was silent. “Okay,” he finally said. “Do you want to see the boat?” He started to walk away.

“I do, but there's something we have to clear up first.”

“What's that?” he said, turning to face her.

“What capacity I'm here in.”

“What do you mean?”

“Am I here as Nancy Webber, journalist, or Nancy Webber, friend?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, I am here as your friend, Cole. I want to help. But I'm also here as a journalist. If there is a story here, I want it.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Cole said, turning to walk down the dock.

“What do you mean by that, Blackwater?”

“Nothing. Take it easy,” he said, turning once again.

“I fly all the way out here, drop what I was working on, to help you out on another crazy situation, and you give me attitude?”

“I'm not, really.”

She looked at him.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Come.”

She walked beside him through the fog to the slip where the
Inlet Dancer
was moored.

The RCMP officers turned to regard her.

“She's with me,” said Cole. Cole introduced her to Derek Johns.

“Are you a friend of the family?” he asked.

“Yes. And I'm a reporter.
Edmonton Journal
.”

“Okay. All press comment will have to go through our strategic communications officer in Victoria.”

Nancy nodded and turned back to the boat.

Cole told her where the Coast Guard had found the boat, and showed Nancy where it had been damaged when it had run aground. “They say it's seaworthy. Jacob, Archie's son, looked it over. Says it will be fine to get back to Port Lostcoast, depending if there is an investigation, that is.”

“That's still up in the air?” asked Nancy.

“Guess it depends on what those fellas make of the red sticky stuff.”

“Blood?”

Cole told her.

“Jesus,” she said.

“Come on, let's walk. You need to meet Grace and Jacob. And Darren First Moon.”

Cole turned to Constable Johns. “Derek, will you call Grace and keep her up to date?”

“I will, Mr. Blackwater.”

“Thanks,” Cole said and turned back to Nancy. The other officers regarded them with taciturn silence.

“First-name basis with the coppers now, are we?” said Nancy as they walked away.

“Johns is actually a good guy. The others are a pretty serious bunch.”

“They seem pretty cranky.”

“No Tim Hortons in Alert Bay.”

“That must have you on edge, too. Last I saw, you had a double-double in your hands and one of those apple fritters stuffed in your mouth,” Nancy said.

“I can get by. I've kicked the doughnut habit. There's decent coffee at the place I'm staying.”

“They got a cappuccino machine?”

“I'm sure we can find someone to put some foam on your five-dollar coffee.”

“Thank God for small mercies.”

“So, what were you working on in Calgary?” Cole asked, idly, as they walked along the water toward the restaurant where Grace was waiting out the day.

“Oh, God,” she said, “nothing of any consequence. The
Journal
is doing a five-part series on climate change so they sent me into the eye of the storm to talk with all the big oil and gas producers. But who knows when, if ever, it's going to run.”

“Is the paper getting heat?”

“Something like that.”

“Most important issue of our time, the thing that will define the twenty-first century, and all the Association of Oil Producers and those mother —” He bit his tongue, remembering his promise to Sarah to curb his language. “All those fine upstanding corporate citizens can think about is their wallets.”

Nancy changed the subject. “Does Grace know I'm a reporter?”

“I told her last night. I figured she needed to know. Watch what she said and all. Jacob will want to frisk you for a wire,” Cole said.

She punched him the arm. “Get off it,” she said.

He grinned. “This is the place,” he said, pointing to a two-storey grey motel called Black Jack's.

“Charming.”

“I'm staying up the road at a B&B, but it's not the sort of place where we can sit and talk, really,” he said. “Grace is likely in the coffee shop. Come on.”

They found Grace Ravenwing at a table by a window, drinking coffee and reading the previous day's
Times Colonist
.

“Grace, this is Nancy Webber,” said Cole.

Grace stood and extended a hand.

“I was a fan of your father's,” said Nancy. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks. Cole tells me you met him in Ottawa.”

“At the Assembly of First Nations. When I was a reporter there.”

Grace sat down. A waitress arrived and took their orders. Cole and Nancy ordered lunch, while Grace asked for more coffee.

“Can we talk here?” Nancy asked, looking around.

Grace looked, too. The place was empty. “May as well.”

“Let's go over what we know,” said Nancy.

“All business, this one,” said Cole, nodding toward Nancy.

They discussed the facts. Archie Ravenwing had been digging into the activities of Stoboltz Aquaculture after the minister of agriculture had announced new salmon farms in the Broughton Archipelago. He had apparently been tipped off by a character who had produced a large envelope of information about Stoboltz's operations.

“Have you seen it?” asked Nancy.

“No, it arrived at my office after I left. Now it's probably sitting at Grace's place on Parish Island.”

“We had better get back there to have a look,” said Grace. “It could be important, now that we know what we know.”

“Agreed,” said Cole, continuing the recap. “Archie had apparently been zeroing in on the salmon farm at Jeopardy Rock.” Cole told Nancy about the map, the Xs, and the date on the last X on the map corresponding with the night of his disappearance.

“What do you make of his writing on the map?” asked Grace.

“It looked like he was making notes to himself. ‘Call Cole, call the RCMP, call the media,'” he recited. “Sounds like a to-do list for the next day.”

“He must have found what he was looking for,” said Nancy. “What do you figure it was?”

“Something to do with one of two things, I think,” said Cole. “Dirty tricks by Stoboltz, or dirty politics,” he said, looking around.

Grace told Nancy about Archie's suspicions about Greg First Eagle and the likelihood that Greg had some dirt on her father.