Salvage

by Stephen Maher

“Christ,” said Scarnum, and switched the battery switch off.

  He found the electrical panel and switched everything off except the cabin lights. He turned the battery switch on again and the cabin lit up. When he turned to look around, he swore again.

  There was a big pool of dried blood on the floor in front of the throttle. There was blood on the wheel, blood on the inside of the wheelhouse door, and blood all over the throttle handle, which was smeared, he saw now, with his own handprint from the night before.

  “Son of a whore,” said Scarnum, and he stood looking at the mess for a long time. There was a trail of blood — dried pools of blood — from the wheelhouse door to the wheel. The biggest pool was beneath the wheel. But there were spots by the electrical panel, and there was blood, Scarnum saw now, on the battery switch.

  The trail did not continue down to the crew quarters. Scarnum switched off the wheelhouse light and went below, sloshing through the flooded cabin. He started at the bottom, searching the bilge and the engine room, and then he methodically searched the sleeping area, the galley, and the head, leaving the duffle bag for last.

  In the bag there was a copy of Barely Legal, socks, underwear, T-shirts, heavy long underwear, one pair of Guess jeans, size 34, and one black long-sleeved shirt with silver stripes, a nightclub shirt, it looked like.

  In the shaving kit there was a razor, shaving cream, a toothbrush, Tylenol, some condoms, and an unlabelled pillbox with a few grams of white powder in it. Scarnum put some on his fingernail and snorted it: cocaine.

  He laid out two thin lines on the cover of the Barely Legal magazine and snorted them through a twenty-dollar bill. The head rush was immediate and overwhelming. It was powerful pure cocaine. He shook his head, honked on his nose, and inhaled deeply.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said.

  At the bottom of the shaving kit was a cardboard box full of Viagra. On the side there was a prescription label from the Chester Pharmasave. JAMES ZINCK, it said.

  Scarnum sat down heavily on the bunk. “Jimmy Zinck,” he said out loud. “Jimmy Zinck.”

  Scarnum packed everything up carefully and left it as it was — except for the cocaine, which he put in his pocket — and went above and started to search the deck, shining his flashlight methodically around the boat.

  In the back of the wheelhouse, near the roof, he found a row of little holes.

  They were tiny bullet holes and there were seven of them in a row. He stared at them for a time and ran his fingers over them. Then he went inside and found the exit holes, also seven, in the roof of the wheelhouse.

  He went back and forth twice, trying to figure out the angle of the shots.

  He went back to the stern and crouched down, trying to imagine he was the shooter. It looked to him like the shots came from behind the boat.

  Behind the wheelhouse, in the lobster boxes, he found ten plastic-wrapped packages, each one exactly big enough to fit snuggly in a box. They were shrink-wrapped and industrial-looking — ten kilos each. Scarnum stacked them on the deck and used his knife to peel back the plastic from one of them.

  He put a pinch of the white powder on the tip of his knife and put it to his nose and snorted.

  Cocaine.

  Saturday, April 24

  SCARNUM WOKE AT TEN, when Charlie came down and banged on the side of his boat with an old oar.

  When he stuck his head up out of the bow hatch, blinking at the light, Charlie gave him a lopsided smile.

  “Good morning, slugabed,” he said, waving a piece of paper in his hand. “Your lawyer called, said he had news.”

  “Thanks, Charlie,” said Scarnum, taking the sheet of notepaper with the number. “I’ll be up in a minute to use your phone, f’you don’t mind.”

  He made the call from Annabelle and Charlie’s deck, jabbing at the little cordless phone, with a cup of coffee in his hand and a smoke at his lips. The sun reflected on the still waters of the bay, making a mirror of the sky, except in the shadow of Charlie’s wharf, where Scarnum could see the rocky bottom. A school of tiny fish darted around the wooden pilings of the wharf.

  Mayor came on the line straightaway. “This one was easy, Mr. Scarnum,” the lawyer said, laughing. “SeaWater is offering $125,000, to be paid immediately, so long as you sign the salvage release contract by nine a.m. tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

  Scarnum yelped with pleasure. “Get out,” he said. “Get out.”

  “I was surprised myself,” said Mayor. “Fastest salvage claim I’ve ever handled. They didn’t even need to see the affidavit. I told SeaWater’s lawyer your story yesterday afternoon and this morning he calls back to tell me they’ll settle today. They must be keen to work on a Saturday. So, what do you say? Want to come down and sign?”

  “You’re goddamned right I do,” said Scarnum. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Charlie and Annabelle had the good grace to pretend they hadn’t been listening when Scarnum walked into the kitchen for more coffee.

  “A hundred-twenty-five big,” he said. “They’ll pay out quick, too, so long as I sign the form today.”

  Charlie whistled and Annabelle’s pretty brown eyes got as big as pie plates.

  “Holy smokes,” she said and hugged Scarnum and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “I guess maybe it was worth the risk.”

  Charlie laughed and even assayed a little jig. “By the merciful Jesus,” he said. “I suppose it was at that.”

  Mayor was waiting for him in his office with a lawyer who was as slim as Mayor was fat.

  “This is Michael Keddy,” he said as Scarnum shook hands with him, “of Keddy and Associates, acting for SeaWater Limited.”

  Keddy was slim and balding, about forty-five, with wispy, thinning blond hair, little blue eyes, expensive glasses, an expensive-looking blue suit, and a fancy leather briefcase.

  Scarnum pumped his hand, smiling, and pumped Mayor’s hand with just as much gusto.

  Mayor had them sit down and passed Scarnum the contract.

  “Now, what this says is that you surrender all claim to the Kelly Lynn and forgo all liabilities, blah blah blah, and in exchange SeaWater will write you a cheque for $125,000 within twenty-four hours of taking possession of said vessel,” he said.“Mr. Keddy here tells me the boys will be over to tow it back to SeaWater’s wharf this afternoon. That means they’ll have to cut a cheque tomorrow.”

  Scarnum looked at the contract, then looked up at both men. “Is that right, Mr. Keddy?” he asked.

  “That’s about the size of it,” the lawyer said. “It’s lobster season and the Kelly Lynn isn’t doing anybody any good moored in the Back Harbour. SeaWater wants its boat back.”

  “Well, that sounds pretty good to me,” said Scarnum, “but give me a minute to read this thing, will you?”

  He sat for five minutes, flipping through it, then looked up and smiled.

  “Got a pen?” he asked.

  On his way home, he stopped at the chandlery shop, where he used his credit card to buy a new battery for Charlie and a new thirty-pound Danforth anchor for himself.

  He stopped next at the liquor store, where he bought a two-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne, an eight-pack of Keith’s, and a quart of Crown Royal.

  He was driving home, whistling and grinning in his Toyota until he got to the lane that led down to Isenor’s boatyard.

  There were two Mountie cars parked next to the wharf, and two Mounties were in the process of rowing out to the Kelly Lynn. Two more cops were standing on the dock, talking to Charlie.

  Scarnum drove down to his parking spot next to the dock and climbed out of the truck.

  He left the champagne, the anchor, and the battery in the truck.

  As he walked to the dock, he could see that one of the two Mounties there was Sergeant Robert MacPherson, who had booked him once for assault after he punched a drunken fisherman outside the Anchor one night. The other was a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair and big brown eyes.

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nbsp; He nodded at Charlie and smiled at MacPherson. “Good day, Corporal MacPherson,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”

  The female Mountie corrected him. “Sergeant MacPherson,” she said.

  Scarnum smiled. “Congratulations, Sergeant,” he said.

  MacPherson, a big stern fellow with black hair and a grey moustache, didn’t smile back. “I’ve got some questions about your salvage vessel here, Mr. Scarnum,” he said.

  Charlie spoke up then. “They’ve been asking me all about it, but I told them I don’t really know nothing,” he said.

  MacPherson turned to Charlie.

  Scarnum nodded toward the Kelly Lynn, which the Mounties were getting ready to board. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know if you tell those Mounties to stay off my salvage,” he said. “My lawyer tells me I’m not to let anyone on it until we make a deal with the owner.”

  MacPherson dug into his pocket for a flimsy piece of paper. “This is a warrant to impound the Kelly Lynn,” he said. “We have reason to believe that James Zinck was murdered on that boat, and we’re going to run it into town.”

  Scarnum’s face was blank. “Jimmy Zinck,” he said, and he sat down on a box on the wharf. “Jimmy Zinck is dead?”

  “Mr. Scarnum,” said MacPherson, “where were you the night of April twenty-first? That’s two nights ago, the night before you salvaged that lobster boat.”

  “Jesus,” said Scarnum. “You don’t think I had anything to do with killing Jimmy, do you? Christ. Why would I want to kill Jimmy?”

  He looked at the impassive faces of the two Mounties and shut his mouth.

  “I was here on the night of April twenty-first, finishing up some work on Cerebus there, getting ready to take it to Halifax the next day.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?” asked MacPherson.

  “Well, let me see,” said Scarnum. “I suppose Charlie came down to see how I was getting on at some point that night. I’d have to think.”

  “Yes, I did,” said Charlie. “I can tell you he was here.”

  MacPherson and the young Mountie looked at each other skeptically.

  “Mr. Scarnum,” said MacPherson, “with your permission, we’d like to have a look at your boat there, see if we can find anything that confirms your story.”

  “You don’t have my permission,” said Scarnum. “I don’t know nothing about Jimmy Zinck’s death and I don’t think I have to prove that to you.”

  At that moment MacPherson’s walkie-talkie went off. He stepped away and looked out at the Kelly Lynn, where one of the Mounties was standing in the wheelhouse, with his walkie-talkie to his ear.

  “Are you sure?” said MacPherson. “All right. Over.”

  He turned to Scarnum, his face cold and angry. “I don’t give a good goddamn if you give us permission or not,” he said. “We have the right to search your fucking boat and we’re going to. And you’re going to wait in the back of the cruiser here.”

  Scarnum didn’t move. “I want to call my lawyer,” he said.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you want,” said MacPherson. “Put your hands behind your back. Put the cuffs on him please, Constable Léger.”

  It wasn’t until the two Mounties actually boarded the Orion that Scarnum remembered the pillbox of cocaine that he’d left in the pocket of the pants he wore yesterday.

  He started to sing softly to himself as he waited for MacPherson to walk back holding it.

  “I’s the b’y that builds the boat and I’s the b’y that sails her,” he sang. “I’s the b’y that catches the fucking fish and brings ’em home to Liza.”

  MacPherson came out after five minutes with the pillbox in one plastic evidence bag and Scarnum’s GPS in another. He stopped on the dock and made a call on his walkie-talkie, then one on his cellphone. He opened the front door of the cruiser and tossed the plastic bags on the dashboard. He looked through the steel grill at Scarnum.

  “You, Mr. Scarnum, are under arrest for possession of an illegal narcotic,” he said.

  Charlie tried to talk to MacPherson, but he ignored him, slammed the door of the cruiser, and went to the dock to wait for one of the Mounties on the Kelly Lynn to fetch him in a little rowboat.

  Charlie wandered back to the cruiser. “What the fuck they got you in there for, Phillip?” he shouted.

  Scarnum grinned up at Charlie. “They think they found some cocaine on Orion,” he shouted, so Charlie could hear him through the reinforced window.

  “Call the lawyer, Charlie,” he said. “Call Mayor and tell them they’re taking me to the detachment.”

  They didn’t leave him in the interrogation room to sweat it out for long.

  MacPherson and Léger came in after only about twenty minutes.

  “Look,” said MacPherson. “We got you fair and square on the coke, and that means you are sure as shooting gonna do some time in one of Her Majesty’s federal penitentiaries.”

  He leaned back to let that sink in and chewed on the cap of a pen.

  “You’re a good-looking fellow,” he said. “I bet you’d be popular in Dorchester.” MacPherson laughed at his own joke.

  Scarnum stared at him. “I think I want to talk to my lawyer,” he said.

  MacPherson stared him down. “What did you think of all that blood in that lobster boat?” he asked. “You’re an icy fucker, aren’t you?”

  Scarnum stared back at him.

  “If you didn’t kill him, why didn’t you give us a call when you saw the boat was full of fucking blood? What’s wrong with you?”

  Scarnum said nothing.

  “You even bought champagne, didn’t you, ready to celebrate your big payday, huh?” said MacPherson. “Man, that’s cold.”

  Scarnum looked away and answered, measuring his words. “I only went into the cabin of the boat once and it was pitch black, and I was some fucking tired after hauling the cocksucker, excuse my language, Miss Léger, after hauling the Kelly Lynn off the rocks. I didn’t see no fucking blood and I don’t have the first clue who shot Jimmy Zinck.”

  “How well did you know him?” asked MacPherson.

  Scarnum pondered, then replied. “Not well. Seen him a few times at the Anchor. Young badass lobsterman. Talked loud. Never did business with him.”

  “Where’d you get the coke?” said MacPherson.

  “What coke?” he said, quickly. “I don’t know nothing about no coke. If you found coke on my boat someone else must have put it there, maybe whoever shot Jimmy Zinck. Maybe you’d be better off looking for that guy instead of bothering me.”

  “All right,” said MacPherson. “We’re bothering you. Innocent Phillip Scarnum. Wouldn’t say shit if his mouth was full of it.”

  He paused and looked down at the pen top in his hand, which he had chewed to pieces. “Tell me, Phillip, how’d you know Jimmy Zinck had been shot?”

  Scarnum answered quickly. “I never said he’d been shot,” he said.

  “Yes you did,” said MacPherson. He turned to Léger. “He did say that, didn’t he?”

  Léger nodded, staring at Scarnum. “He said it twice.”

  “We never told you he was shot,” said MacPherson. “All we told you is he was killed. For all you know, he could have been fucking strangled. And you didn’t seem too surprised.”

  Before Scarnum could answer there was a knock on the door.

  A constable nodded at MacPherson, who walked out.

  Léger kept staring at him. “Was there anything on the boat?” she asked. She had a thick, musical French accent. Scarnum said nothing.

  “What did you buy a new anchor for?” she asked. “What happened to the one on your boat?”

  When MacPherson came back he didn’t look happy. “Get up, Scarnum, your lawyer’s here.”

  “Praise the lord,” said Scarnum.

  “It was an illegal search,” said Mayor, as they walked to the lawyer’s car. “They didn’t have ‘reasonable and probable grounds’ to search it without a warrant. So it was an illegal
search, unless you gave them permission, and I don’t believe you’re dumb enough to do that, not when there was a pillbox of cocaine sitting in the front pocket of your pants.”

  “Nope,” said Scarnum. “I’m not that dumb.”

  “That’s the good news,” said Mayor. “They haven’t dropped the coke charge but I can’t imagine a Crown prosecutor agreeing to go ahead with it, since the only evidence was obtained through an illegal search. The bad news is they’ve impounded the Kelly Lynn, so there’s no cheque for you until it’s returned to SeaWater, and who knows when that’ll be, given that the boat appears to be a murder scene.”

  Scarnum nodded. “I was afraid of that.”

  The lawyer turned and looked at him. “Look,” he said. “I’m not really a criminal defence lawyer. If you’re in real trouble here, you’d be better off getting another lawyer.”

  Scarnum looked out the window. “S’far as I know I’m not in real trouble,” he said. “I don’t know who killed Jimmy Zinck.”

  He looked back at the lawyer. “What did they tell you about that?” he asked Mayor.

  “Zinck was found washed up on the beach at Sandy Cove, near where you found the boat. The Mounties think he was shot on the water, then ran the boat up on the reef and swam ashore. They think he died on the beach.”

  “I guess he was a tough one,” said Scarnum.

  “I guess so,” said the lawyer. “They say he had a couple of bullets in him. It looked like a machine gun, they said. Christ. A machine gun. Here in Chester. You know any people who go around with machine guns?”

  Scarnum looked at him and laughed. “Nope,” he said. “Christ.”

  But the lawyer didn’t laugh, and when he dropped Scarnum off at the boatyard, he took a business card and wrote a name on the back: JOEL FREEMAN.

  “You get yourself arrested on something like this again, this is the guy you want,” he said. “This cocaine and machine gun stuff is not my, um, speciality. That OK with you?”

  Scarnum said it was and shook his hand, and the lawyer drove off.