The Darkening Archipelago (31 page)

Cole passed a totem pole lying in the grass at the side of the road; it was a work in progress. Beyond it were the native docks, where Jacob's boat, the
Salmon Pride,
was moored. Cole could see the U'mista Cultural Centre adjacent to the school, its long, low cedar construction culminating in a Big House where more than a hundred potlatch masks had been repatriated and carefully presented to the public. Cole walked past the leafless trees in the yard of Namgis House and stood, hands in his pockets, looking up at the structure. A sign attached to a fence on one side of the building read “Watch for Falling Bricks.”

He drew a deep breath of sea air and exhaled.

Murdered. Though the RCMP hadn't yet finished their investigation, Cole knew in his gut that Archie Ravenwing had been murdered. He just knew. And so did Grace. And now, so did Nancy. He shook his head. The undeniable truth was jarring. For a man to die at sea, doing what he loved, was one thing. But to be killed, in what must have been such a brutal fashion, was another altogether. Cole was both shocked by and strangely accepting of Archie Ravenwing's unnatural death. He didn't know which upset him more.

So much pain, he thought. Standing in front of a place where children had been taken from their families and subjected to myriad of cruelties — from the loss of their families, culture, and language to physical and sexual abuse — Cole felt the culmination of that pain, now born out of Archie's demise. He felt hot tears welling in him and turned away from the building, embarrassed and ashamed. Weeping doesn't help a damn thing, his father had once told him when he had jammed his hand in the barn door bringing in the horses. He had been eight. His father had flown into a rage at the sight of Cole's tears, and Cole had never again cried in front of his father. He had never again cried, period. Not until recently.

Cole walked across the lawn of the band office toward the water, his eyes red. He rubbed them with his knuckles to banish the tears. Tears wouldn't bring Archie Ravenwing back from the dead, and tears wouldn't erase the century of abuse and cultural genocide inflicted on the First Nations people who lived on these remote islands. Instead, Cole did what he always did: he got angry. He let the sorrow for the loss of his friend and the agony of a people who now, after more than one hundred years, were reclaiming their own culture, dissolve into rage. Rage was acceptable to his father. Rage his father could understand.

Cole stood on the pebbled shore, watching the boats return at the end of the day, watching the sun sink low through the jumble of clouds over Vancouver Island. The tears were gone; now he had fuel for the work that needed to be done, to find the man who had killed his friend. Cole Blackwater's fuel was anger.

22

By the end of the following day, they had returned to Parish Island. Darren First Moon, Grace, and Jacob Ravenwing, along with Cole and Nancy, sat in the
Salmon Pride's
cabin for the journey through Cormorant Channel, across the southern end of Queen Charlotte Strait, and into the mouth of the Broughton Archipelago. Nancy watched the islands pass by as Jacob threaded his boat through the twists and turns of the passage.

“It is so beautiful here,” she said, smiling, watching the cedar- and fir-draped domes of tiny islands pass to the port and starboard of the
Salmon Pride
.

Cole watched Nancy. There is no doubt, he thought, that having her here is going to help us get to the bottom of this. She's got a sharp mind, a keen intellect, and is, without a doubt, a good investigative reporter. Cole watched her observe the clutch of tiny islets between Fold and Parish Island on the starboard side of the boat.

“Eagles,” she said, pointing. Cole peered through the windows of the boat and saw a half dozen bald eagles perched in the tops of trees on an island no bigger than a soccer field.

Cole told himself that he had involved Nancy because she could help Archie's family in clearing up Archie's death. But he knew there was more to it than that. How much more, he just wasn't prepared to deal with. He did know that from the second she had arrived the day before, he had felt lighter somehow. Now it seemed that the weight of the world was evenly distributed between
two
sets of shoulders. But there was more to it than that.

They reached the harbour at Port Lostcoast near dark, unloaded themselves and their gear, and agreed to meet at the bluff house after supper.

“I'll see if the old lady will let me out of her sight again,” said Darren First Moon, a big smile on his broad face. “I think I can talk her into it.” He set off, lugging his duffle bag homeward.

They went their separate ways, with Grace, Cole, and Nancy walking up the hill toward the house. Cole filled Nancy in on Port Lostcoast's demographics as they went.

“I find it hard to believe that a man like Dan Campbell would live here, given that the town is three-quarters First Nations.”

“It's the closest settlement to Knight Inlet. It's the best point of access for all the salmon farms on the southern part of the archipelago. They all use this harbour as a re-supply point. People like Dan come here because of the economic opportunity,” said Grace Ravenwing.

“
White
people like Dan?” asked Nancy.

“Not just white,” said Cole.

She looked over the ramshackle houses that made up most of the town of Port Lostcoast. “Doesn't really seem like that economic opportunity is evenly distributed.”

“It's taken my people some time,” said Grace, “to adopt the mindset of capitalism. I'm not saying that we were a perfect people before George Vancouver, just different. We had plenty of commerce, we even had slavery, but we also had the potlatch, where we gave away much of our wealth to one another. It's taken a real shift for us to view the ocean and the forests as resources to be exploited. For ten thousand years we were stewards. More than that, really. We were completely dependent on a living ocean for our very lives. Our lives were inextricably linked. To a raven, from above, we were just another animal living in harmony with the ocean, with the woods.

“Now, for the last hundred years, we've been told to steal. Many of our people have resisted this lesson. Some haven't. It's very difficult when you're surrounded by exploitation, and you watch everything you believe in taken from you for shortsighted profit, not to want to be a part of that.”

Cole and Nancy were silent the rest of the way up the hill.

They reached the house and went inside. Grace showed Nancy to the spare bedroom. Cole moved his things into Archie's office and would sleep on the hideaway couch in the living room.

“This is very gracious of you,” said Nancy.

“Just trying to curry favour is all,” said Grace, smiling.

Grace made a fish stew and they ate it with defrosted bread. They opened a bottle of wine.

“Has anybody talked to Cassandra Petrel?” asked Grace after they had finished supper.

Cole thought about it. Finally he said, “I can't believe I haven't yet.”

“Who's Cassandra Petrel again?” asked Nancy.

“Dr. Cassandra Petrel. She's one of the world's leading experts on sea lice. She lives on a boat in the harbour here. She and Dad have been like two peas in a pod this winter,” said Grace. “Dad would help Cassandra with sampling, and Cassandra would prepare the materials and send them off for analysis. She's the brains of that outfit.”

“I'll talk with her in the morning,” said Cole, fidgeting.

“Let's make some coffee. Darren and Jacob will be here soon.”

They sat around the kitchen table, the lights low, the moon fat on the horizon. Darren was the last to arrive, begging forgiveness. “Nearly got skinned alive,” he cracked, coming in the door. They offered him coffee and he joined them.

“Okay, let's review what we've learned,” said Cole, assuming the position of chairperson. “Grace?”

“I looked into the rope before we left Alert Bay,” she said. “First I cruised the docks, just on the off chance that I might find a rope that matched the one we found on the
Dancer
. No luck. So then I went to Tagarts and Barry's Marine and asked about recent purchases of rope of any kind. At Tagarts they told me that they don't keep track. At Barry's an old high-school friend was behind the counter and he said that he'd try to get the records and call me. I think that the rope thing is a dead end, though. I mean, everybody has enough rope on their boats to replace a bow line when it breaks. It's unlikely that we're going to find Dad's killer that way.”

“Worth a shot,” said Cole.

“And I'll be checking in with the harbour master tomorrow about the comings and goings on the day of Dad's disappearance,” added Grace.

“Will you talk with folks around town about any money that might have crossed hands?”

“That's going to be a harder nut to crack,” said Grace. “If people took gas money to get to the polls, they're not going to want to admit it, are they?”

“Likely not,” said Cole.

“I can do that,” said Darren First Moon.

Cole looked at him. “You sure? You won't be making any friends. Maybe I should.”

“Like an Indian is going to tell a white guy that he took cash to vote.”

“Fair point,” said Cole. “Okay, Darren is on the bribery squad.

What about you, Webber?”

Nancy smiled. “Well, I made a bunch of calls from my hotel room in Alert Bay. Tried to reach this Thurlow guy, but the best I could do was leave messages for him. The Vancouver office told me he's in the field, whatever that means. I gave him my cell number and this number like you said to, Grace, and we'll see what happens. I'll keep trying tomorrow.”

“What about Grey?”

“Better luck there. I reached one Mr. Lance Grey this morning. Told him I was doing a story on fish farms for the
Post
, and he was more than happy to talk. We spent most of the time talking about the issue of whether or not fish farms were harmful to the environment. I learned a lot. I don't know what you are all so upset about. According to the government, there are really no serious impacts —”

“Come off it,” said Cole.

Nancy smirked. “The guy is a mouthpiece for industry. I'm going to have to do some background checking on him, 'cause he's way too enthusiastic to merely be a proponent. He's more like a booster. I did ask him how often he got up here, and he said not often enough. He was here for the potlatch, which you all know. He said the last time he was here before that was in August.”

“That figures. I guess we couldn't exactly expect him to place himself at the scene of the crime if he was involved though, could we?” said Cole.

“I'm going to put a request in for his schedule,” said Nancy. “But that could take a month or more to get through Freedom of Information.”

Cole exhaled. “Okay, what else have we got?” He looked around the room.

“What did the RCMP say?” asked Darren.

“Well, not a whole lot. Those guys are a reticent bunch. I spoke with Constable Johns again this morning. He says the Campbell River team have finished their work. Says they did an inch-by-inch search of the boat. As you all know, they are holding the
Inlet Dancer
until they get the results. That's why our man Jacob here is playing water taxi for us.”

Jacob smiled.

“They didn't say that they were opening an official investigation?” asked Nancy.

“Just that Archie is still considered a missing person until they find conclusive evidence otherwise.”

They sat around the table and sipped coffee.

“I feel like we're getting nowhere,” said Grace.

“Me too,” said Darren.

“We've got a lot of work to do tomorrow, folks. Maybe it's time to pack it in.”

“Are we sure we're on the right track?” asked Darren.

“You mean, are we searching in the right places for a killer?”

“I mean, maybe he was swept overboard.”

“It's not out of the realm of possibilities,” admitted Cole.

“I think it is,” said Grace. “We all saw the blood. He was on the deck of that boat long enough to leave a lot of blood behind. Waves don't pick up one-hundred-eighty-pound men and leave a thermos. This was no accident.”

They sat and looked at each other.

“Okay,” said Cole. “There you have it.”

In the morning Grace walked down to the general store while Nancy and Cole drank coffee and ate toast. She came back with a heavy brown envelope, which they eagerly tore open. Cole re-read the letter from Archie and felt a knot form in his throat. He handed it to Grace to read, and tears formed in her eyes as his words sunk in. Finally, Grace gave the letter to Nancy.

Cole stood up abruptly. “I've got to talk to Cassandra Petrel,” he said, grabbing his coat and heading out the door.

There was a sharp wind blowing from the north, churning the channel outside the tiny harbour into whitecaps. Cole turned up the collar of his leather coat and stepped into the wind, making his way down through the clutch of houses to the docks. He found his way onto the slip where Grace had told him he would find Petrel's Whitby. Locating the boat wasn't hard; it was the only sailboat in a harbour full of fishing rigs. Cole looked around to see if he was being observed, then knocked on the cabin of the boat above the companionway. The wooden door opened and Cassandra Petrel's grey head poked out. She smiled.