The Wild Ways (2 page)
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54809-7
S.A.
For Heather Dale,
who sang about Selkies and inspired the whole thing.
who sang about Selkies and inspired the whole thing.
ONE
A
MELIA CARLSON’S OFFICE was large and the wide window overlooking Halifax Harbor kept it well lit in spite of the traditional dark woods of the paneling and furniture. Nothing in the room screamed money, but everything said it quietly, well aware—given the quality of the furnishings—that shouting wasn’t necessary to make the point.
MELIA CARLSON’S OFFICE was large and the wide window overlooking Halifax Harbor kept it well lit in spite of the traditional dark woods of the paneling and furniture. Nothing in the room screamed money, but everything said it quietly, well aware—given the quality of the furnishings—that shouting wasn’t necessary to make the point.
All right,
Algoma Hill
, the Lauren Harris painting hanging across from her desk, screamed money but only because the price paid during the So-theby’s auction, while unfortunately not a record, had been high enough to make the front page of even the American papers. She’d purchased it anonymously, of course, but the people it had been bought to impress recognized it and exhibited the expected sticker shock. So much easier to attract investors when her personal salary allowed her to purchase a painting by one of the Group of Seven.
Algoma Hill
, the Lauren Harris painting hanging across from her desk, screamed money but only because the price paid during the So-theby’s auction, while unfortunately not a record, had been high enough to make the front page of even the American papers. She’d purchased it anonymously, of course, but the people it had been bought to impress recognized it and exhibited the expected sticker shock. So much easier to attract investors when her personal salary allowed her to purchase a painting by one of the Group of Seven.
And
they
said that when her father died, the company had died with him. She may have been a competent Vice President of Exploration and Development, but
they
didn’t hesitate to announce that a fort . . .
thirty-six
-year-old woman with a twent . . .
fifteen
-year-old engineering degree couldn’t run the second largest oil company in the Maritimes. She wasn’t a member of the old boys’ club and she wasn’t a hot, young Ph. D who’d picked up an MBA on the way to a petrochemical doctorate. Worst of all, at least to those running the
largest
oil company in the Maritimes, she had no extended family to help her.
They
said she’d run the company into the ground in two, three years at the most. Several of them had offered to take the company off her hands.
they
said that when her father died, the company had died with him. She may have been a competent Vice President of Exploration and Development, but
they
didn’t hesitate to announce that a fort . . .
thirty-six
-year-old woman with a twent . . .
fifteen
-year-old engineering degree couldn’t run the second largest oil company in the Maritimes. She wasn’t a member of the old boys’ club and she wasn’t a hot, young Ph. D who’d picked up an MBA on the way to a petrochemical doctorate. Worst of all, at least to those running the
largest
oil company in the Maritimes, she had no extended family to help her.
They
said she’d run the company into the ground in two, three years at the most. Several of them had offered to take the company off her hands.
A year later, a year of betting everything on one roll of the dice, and she was on the verge of gaining the rights to one of the biggest fields in the North Atlantic. After that debacle in the Gulf, no one else had the balls to try for it, to spend three hundred and sixty-five days quietly working behind the scenes convincing the decision makers to make the
right
decision. And they all had. The moment the Minister of the Environment stopped faffing about, appearing to weigh the potential of spilled oil against jobs and tax income, and issued the drilling permit, the barges would be out of Sydney Harbor so fast they’d look like jet skis.
right
decision. And they all had. The moment the Minister of the Environment stopped faffing about, appearing to weigh the potential of spilled oil against jobs and tax income, and issued the drilling permit, the barges would be out of Sydney Harbor so fast they’d look like jet skis.
Granted, even given near guarantees of five hundred million barrels accessible of a three billion barrel potential by the best geophysicists in the business, there was no oil at all until drilling replaced science. Which was why the drilling platform had to be in place as soon as possible. Once they started production, they’d quickly surpass Hibernia’s fifty thousand barrels a day.
The board of directors had given her until the end of the year to get the permit. She’d been promised it by the end of the summer.
They
could shove their sexist, patronizing, dumbass . . .
could shove their sexist, patronizing, dumbass . . .
When the door opened, she raised her head, her expression neutral, and met the worried gaze of Paul Belleveau, her executive assistant.
“It’s happened,” he said, “just like she told you it would. The Ministry of the Environment is being pressured by
Two Seventy-five N
, the same Hay Island group that stopped the seal hunt.”
Two Seventy-five N
, the same Hay Island group that stopped the seal hunt.”
“Nice to have so much free time,” she muttered.
Two Seventy-five N
were a group of crazy environmentalists run by an old Cape Breton family. The name referred to life jacket buoyancy. Measured in newtons, one newton equaling one kilogram of flotation, a two seventy-five newton life jacket was intended for extreme conditions. Amelia admitted it was a clever name and despised the anti-development, anti-growth rhetoric the group clung to. Until recently, she’d believed the group’s successes could be laid at the door of deep pockets and an underemployed membership with time to meddle, but new information had revealed they were so much more.
Two Seventy-five N
were a group of crazy environmentalists run by an old Cape Breton family. The name referred to life jacket buoyancy. Measured in newtons, one newton equaling one kilogram of flotation, a two seventy-five newton life jacket was intended for extreme conditions. Amelia admitted it was a clever name and despised the anti-development, anti-growth rhetoric the group clung to. Until recently, she’d believed the group’s successes could be laid at the door of deep pockets and an underemployed membership with time to meddle, but new information had revealed they were so much more.
“We’re front page in the
Herald
,” Paul continued. “There’s articles in both the
Globe
and the
Post
, and their objection to the well was the lead on Canada AM’s business report. Mr. Conway isn’t returning my calls, but his aide . . .”
Herald
,” Paul continued. “There’s articles in both the
Globe
and the
Post
, and their objection to the well was the lead on Canada AM’s business report. Mr. Conway isn’t returning my calls, but his aide . . .”
“The chatty one?”
“Yes. He says that the minister is talking about a class two environmental assessment or even asking for a Royal Commission on offshore drilling, so he doesn’t actually have to make a decision.”
Royal Commissions could take years and were the traditional way politicians avoided handling hot topics while still looking like they gave a shit. With the investment Carlson Oil had already made in this well, they’d never survive the delay. She could feel the edges of her very expensive manicure cutting half moons into the equally expensive wood of the desk.
“Rallies and protests against the drilling are in the planning stages,” Paul finished, “although reports from the legislature say Mr. Peterson has already added us to his inventory.”
Gandalf Peterson—he’d had his name legally changed—sat in front of the provincial legislature Monday to Friday, eight thirty to five thirty, protesting the Sable Island wells with a rotating series of sandwich boards. He was out there rain or shine, whether the legislature was in session or not, reasonably well behaved unless he recognized one of the industry players; then all bets were off. One of the most recognizable, Amelia made it a point to walk directly past him whenever she had to enter the building, accepting his vitriol as evidence of a job well done.
“All right.” She took a deep breath and forced her fingers to release their hold on the edge of her desk. “
She
told us what was going to happen and she was right about everything up to and including Mr. Peterson. That leads me to believe her when she tells us she can fix things in our favor.”
She
told us what was going to happen and she was right about everything up to and including Mr. Peterson. That leads me to believe her when she tells us she can fix things in our favor.”
“Ms. Carlson . . .”
“You don’t believe her?”
“Believe her?” Paul shook his head. “I’m not sure I believe
in
her. Or them. Or any of this.”
in
her. Or them. Or any of this.”
“Any of this?” Had the Botox allowed her to arch a brow, she would have. “And yet, you still cash your paycheck.”
“I believe in you.”
“I’m pleased to hear that.” When he smiled, Amelia took a moment to admire the effect. While undeniably gorgeous, with the shaved head and neat goatee she felt only black men could successfully pull off, Paul’s good looks were surpassed by his skill at the job which was surpassed in turn by his extreme discretion. He’d been with her just over two years, cut from the herd of brand new MBAs the company employed, and she didn’t know what she’d do without him.
Beyond the obvious: work twice as hard and get half as much done.
“All right,” she said again, although it wasn’t. “She’s proven her point. Turn her loose.”
“No love, we’re from Cape Breton.”
“But you say
b’ye
like you’re from Newfoundland. How’s it going, b’ye. You want another beer, b’ye? What’s up with that?” Charlie glanced around the tiny table at the four men who’d asked her to join them for a drink between sets—Fred Harris, Tom Blaine, Bill Evans, and Bill McInna, although Bill McInna had told her to call him Mac. Not that it really mattered what she called him since after tonight’s gig, she’d never see them again and they all seemed like the type to think
call me anything you want but don’t call me late for supper
was a lot funnier than it was.
b’ye
like you’re from Newfoundland. How’s it going, b’ye. You want another beer, b’ye? What’s up with that?” Charlie glanced around the tiny table at the four men who’d asked her to join them for a drink between sets—Fred Harris, Tom Blaine, Bill Evans, and Bill McInna, although Bill McInna had told her to call him Mac. Not that it really mattered what she called him since after tonight’s gig, she’d never see them again and they all seemed like the type to think
call me anything you want but don’t call me late for supper
was a lot funnier than it was.
“They got the b’ye from us, didn’t they?” Frank grinned and raised his beer. The other three returned the salute. “I mean, yeah, this here’s the Newfoundlander’s Bar . . .” The bottle became a pointer—at the flags, at the photos, at the fish mounted on dark walls barely visible behind the Friday night crowd. “. . . but it ain’t just the b’yes from the Rock heading west looking for a way to keep body and soul together, is it? Economy’s in the shitter all through the Maritimes. DEVCO’s closed the coal mines, steel mill’s been shut in Sydney . . .”
“Used to make good money there,” Tom sighed. He was the oldest of the four, late thirties Charlie figured, and the one with the strongest family ties to the east. She could almost see them stretching out and away, linking him with the people he’d left behind. It was one of the reasons she’d sat down. Her family, the Gale family, understood those kind of ties.
“Used to make good money,” Frank repeated. “That’s my point, isn’t it? And those suits in Halifax are telling us we should just be quaint for the tourists; like the Rankin family can put a roof on the house and oil in the furnace of the whole God damned place. Freezing our asses off in Fort McMurray, paying nearly three grand a month rent on a shithole apartment north of the downtown, complete with a leaky ceiling and rotten windows, that’s the best option we’ve got left.”
“And now they’re talking layoffs.” Bill glared at the wet ring his bottle had left on the tabletop. “Investments are down, aren’t they? Gotta cut the costs of getting’ the oil out of the tar sands, so they’ll find guys willing to work for less.”
“It’s how they built the fucking railroads,” Mac growled.
Frank rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Mac, you’re a welder; you’re good. They bring in cheap labor from overseas and it’s the rest of us poor buggers that’ll be heading home and back on the dole.”
“Don’t be giving him any sympathy now,” Tom said before Charlie could speak. “B’ye just bought himself a brand new F250.”
“Needed something that’d fit the new ATV in the back, didn’t I?” Frank laughed. “And who knows, maybe it won’t be so bad going home. I hear rumors offshore oil’s expanding again, and we’ve got mad oil field skills.”
Bill laughed with him. “Yeah, and the fishing’s already for shit, so when the drilling platforms break up and dump a few million gallons of crude, who’ll notice, eh?”
“How long can you tread water?” Tom snorted. Charlie knew he was quoting, but she didn’t know what.
“When my brother called . . .” Something in Mac’s voice said this was important and Charlie wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. Frank and Tom and Bill turned toward him, closing him in the circle of their attention, closing out the rest of the bar, their silence pushing back the ambient noise. They’d have closed her out as well, but Charlie refused to go. “When he called, he said he heard Carlson’s trying to get permits to drill near Hay Island.” Mac picked at the label of his bottle. The other three watched him watch his moving fingers.
Hair lifting off the back of her neck, Charlie froze in place, breathing slowly and quietly through her nose so as not to spook them. If they remembered she was here . . .
“Hay Island. That’s the seal rookery,” Tom said at last.
Mac nodded. “My brother says there’d be a couple hundred jobs on the rig and more in the refinery they say they’ll build by Main-a-Dieu, but his wife, well, she’s against it.”
“Yeah, well, she would be, wouldn’t she?” Frank’s grin twisted into a curve that hinted of secrets.
Charlie had a Gale girl’s objection to secrets she, personally, wasn’t keeping, and it struck her that this particular secret wouldn’t be pried loose by smiling and looking interested—no matter how few women there were in Fort McMurray. Prying free this particular secret would require a completely different skill set. She’d drawn her finger through a puddle of condensation and sketched out the first curves of a charm when a familiar hand landed on her shoulder.
“Charlie, come on!” Tony, the drummer for
Dun Good
, had to lean forward and shout as the noise of the crowded bar rushed back in to fill the space around the table. “Break’s over!”
Dun Good
, had to lean forward and shout as the noise of the crowded bar rushed back in to fill the space around the table. “Break’s over!”
Wiping out the half drawn pattern with one hand, Charlie set her empty bottle down with the other and shoved her chair back to a chorus of protests from her companions. “Sorry, boys, music calls.”
The music was, after all, why she was here.
By the time she picked up her guitar, grinning at the raucous welcome the band’s return to the stage evoked, she’d almost forgotten how that secret had licked a frisson of
strange
across her skin.
strange
across her skin.
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