He turned to face the bar and pointed with his chin at Mayor, who was inside chatting with a bearded man and his wife.
“Look at William in there,” said Falkenham. “There was no reason to chase him off the way you did. He was just checking up on us. If you learned to think about other people’s feelings, you’d do a lot better in life.”
He turned to look out at the choppy water. “When we met, I was one of a dozen guys haggling on the wharves around here, buying lobsters from these fishermen, guys with nothing to do all day out on the water but think of how they can fuck over the lobster buyers. Now I own a lot of their fucking boats, supply restaurants and fish markets all over the goddamned place.”
He gestured with his glass at the boats in the twilight, his domain. “You think I got all that by fucking people over? No fucking way. I’m good at figuring out what people want and giving it to them.”
Scarnum stared at him. “You finished?” he said.
Falkenham turned to look at him. “What?” he said.
“You finished with your bullshit?” said Scarnum.
Falkenham sighed. “I shouldn’t have wasted my breath,” he said.
“If you’re finished, why don’t you go fuck yourself?” said Scarnum.
Falkenham laughed and shook his head, but Scarnum could see he was very angry.
“What a hardass,” Falkenham said. “That’s not really necessary, for me to go fuck myself, is it? I’ve got Karen for that. You know that.”
Scarnum’s fists clenched and his face got red, but he stopped himself from punching Falkenham. He glanced inside at Mayor, who was watching them.
Scarnum laughed and shook his head. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he said. “Tell me this: What do you do with the cocaine once you get it ashore? I can’t see you cutting it up into little vials and retailing the stuff. You must be dealing with some bad people in Halifax. Isn’t that kind of a risk? Badass Mexicans running around with machine guns. Bodies washing up. I can see why you would have needed the money in the early days, but surely you’re making too much money from lobster now to fuck around with this cocaine shit.”
Falkenham finished his whisky in one gulp. “Scarnum, the longer I stand here talking to you, the more depressed I get,” he said. “Stay away from me and Karen.”
Scarnum stepped forward and blocked the door to the clubhouse. “Make the Mexicans leave me alone,” he said. “Convince them I don’t have their fucking cocaine.”
Falkenham smiled at him. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Phillip, but I’ll tell you something. If I had some cocaine that belonged to some badass Mexicans, which I think is what you’re saying, I’d give it to the motherfuckers.”
He pushed past Scarnum and into the clubhouse. “Adios,” he said.
Scarnum was getting ready to round Birch Island, with the sails taut on the port side and a good west breeze blowing, when he looked back over his shoulder to look at the light from the sunset hitting Chester. In the day’s last light, he saw a little speedboat, looked like a seventeen-footer, being pushed by an outboard. It had no lights. There were two men in it — both wearing life jackets — and it was on his course.
When full dark fell, Scarnum changed course, steering east to a fog bank rolling in from the outer bay. After he turned, he looked over his shoulder again and strained his eyes searching the black water of the bay. He spotted the boat again when it blotted out the reflection of a light on the inky water — a dark spot on the dark water, heading straight for him on his new course.
When he entered the clammy wall of fog, he switched off his running lights and changed course again, aiming for the open water behind Lynch Island. The fog was thick and wind-driven and cold, whirling past him above the black, choppy water. With no lights, he could barely even see the bow of his boat. He steered by the compass, and he listened to the sound of the wind, the waves, and the little creaking sounds of his rigging and sails.
He sang to himself, very softly.
In South Australia I was born,
heave away, haul away.
In South Australia ’round Cape Horn,
we’re bound for South Australia.
He stopped singing when he heard the faint buzz of the speedboat’s engine, and he sat up straight and looked behind the boat, searching the fog and the darkness.
The noise got louder quickly, and then he could see it — a dark shape off his stern on the starboard side, heading straight for him. The sea was high and choppy outside the shelter of the bay, and the little speedboat was skipping over the waves, slamming from one to the next.
Scarnum looked frantically around the cockpit, his mouth a thin line, but he couldn’t see anything that might help him.
The speedboat pulled up beside him, pounding the water about six feet off to his starboard, and he could see the Mexicans. The young one was sitting in the back, with his hand on the outboard. The older one was in the bow, kneeling with his elbows over the gunwales. He was holding a machine pistol in his right hand, pointing it straight up in the air.
When he fired a burst into the air, the muzzle flash lit up his face. He was grinning, with his teeth bared. Scarnum sat frozen in place.
“Stop the fucking boat,” the Mexican screamed at the top of his lungs. “Stop the fucking boat or I’ll fucking shoot you.”
Scarnum stared at him without speaking. He couldn’t think what to do.
He spun the wheel hard, turning to port, away from the speedboat. It was much faster than his sailboat and easily caught up with him. It was soon skipping from wave to wave just a few feet from the starboard bow. The older Mexican fired into the sky again.
“Stop your fucking boat,” he screamed, and he levelled the machine pistol at Scarnum’s bow. The muzzle spat again and the night filled with the staccato rattle. The bullets thudded through the hull of Scarnum’s boat from the bow to the mast and left a row of exit holes in the deck.
Scarnum looked down at the Mexican with a look of confusion on his face. He stood up in the cockpit. “All right!” he shouted. “I surrender. Let me drop the sails.”
Then he spun the wheel to starboard, bringing the bow around hard, into the path of the little boat.
The younger Mexican didn’t notice until too late, and the starboard bow of Scarnum’s boat slammed into the speedboat just as it crested a wave. The boats made a nasty sound as they collided. The speedboat’s nose was thrown up, and it flipped over backwards into the choppy sea. The older Mexican fired wildly into the air as he fell from the boat.
Scarnum, his hands tight on the wheel, looked back over his shoulder, keeping a bead on the upside-down speedboat.
He turned into the wind, dropped the sails, and cranked on the diesel. He turned downwind, opened the diesel up all the way, and aimed for the upside-down boat. He hunched down in case they shot at him from the water as he approached. With one hand, he made a loop in the end of his sternline. The Orion ran straight into the speedboat with a dull thud. The impact drove the smaller boat underwater and brought the bigger boat almost to a halt. Scarnum put the diesel to idle and stood crouched in the cockpit, looking in the darkness for the Mexicans. When the older Mexican surfaced just off his starboard side, sputtering, Scarnum dropped the looped rope around his neck and tightened it with a jerk. The Mexican gasped and clutched at the noose. Scarnum tied the line off on the starboard stern cleat, so the Mexican’s head was lifted about a foot above the water, and he gunned the diesel. As the boat surged through the waves, the Mexican was pulled back so his legs streamed behind the stern. He clutched at the loop around his neck, trying to relieve the pressure. His face bulged. Scarnum looked down at him impassively.
Scarnum put the diesel to idle and turned the Orion so he could keep an eye on the speedboat. He could see the young Mexican holding the side of it.
Then he looked down at the older Mexican. His eyes were bulging and he was having a hard time breathing.
“Shouldn’ta shot up my boat,
you fucker,” said Scarnum. “I don’t know why you’re fucking with me. I don’t have your fucking cocaine.”
The Mexican seemed to be expressing wholehearted agreement with his eyes.
Scarnum took the jib line and ran it through the armhole of the Mexican’s life jacket and up through the neck. He tied it there, then ran it round the jib winch. As he cranked the winch, it lifted the Mexican out of the water and eased the pressure on his neck. The Mexican gasped and inhaled long and hard.
Scarnum grabbed the stern line and tightened it again, straining against the Mexican’s fingers. The loop tightened again and the Mexican frantically shook his head.
Scarnum eased the line and the Mexican gasped again. Scarnum let him catch his breath. He hit him once, smartly, on the forehead with the winch handle.
“Now, listen here, buddy, you’re going to answer a few questions for me,” he said. “If I like the answers, I’m gonna let you swim back over to your boyfriend over there and you two can get that boat up and get back to town. If I don’t like the answers …”
Scarnum tightened the loop again and looked away. He could see the younger Mexican was trying to turn the other boat upright. It was hard because the waves kept hitting it.
When he looked down at the older Mexican again, his face seemed to be turning purple.
“You gonna answer my fucking questions?” he asked.
The Mexican nodded enthusiastically.
“All right,” said Scarnum, and he eased the line. He watched as the Mexican inhaled big gulps of air.
“I bet that water’s some cold,” he said. “That makes it hard enough to breath without having a noose around your fucking neck.”
The Mexican tried to speak, but a wave splashed his face and he got a mouthful of water. “OK,” he said, finally. “Don’t choke me no more.”
“All right,” said Scarnum. “Tell me how you killed Jimmy Zinck. And don’t give me no bullshit.”
“We met him offshore,” said the Mexican. “We were in a big boat, up from Mexico, like a yacht. It was simple. Boats tie up, side by side. He gives us the money. We give him the cocaine.”
“How many times you do this?” said Scarnum.
“Maybe five times this year with Jimmy. Easy. But this time, my boss tells me to throw the guy in the water, let the boat drift. We load the cocaine. The boy goes on to help him. He waits to push Jimmy in the water while he’s tying up the boxes. But Jimmy was fast. He sees what the kid is doing, he throws him in the water. He unties the boat, drives off. I shoot him, but he’s still alive. We had to pull the fucking kid out of the water. When we get him on the boat, Jimmy’s gone. Can’t find him in the dark.”
“You guys aren’t so good in boats,” said Scarnum.
The Mexican said nothing. He was shivering hard.
“How come the boss wanted you to kill Jimmy?”
“Boss said Falkenham asked him to do it,” the Mexican said. “He was a bad soldier. Stealing.”
“What were you supposed to do with the cocaine?”
“There was another boat.”
“But instead of getting the cocaine, they get you.”
“Yes. Boss tells us to get the cocaine back.”
“What’s the name of the other boat?”
“I don’t remember.”
Scarnum jerked on the loop again. The Mexican kicked and splashed in the water. Scarnum looked away and watched the kid trying to get the water out of the speedboat. He didn’t have a bailer and it wasn’t going well.
He eased off on the line and waited for the Mexican to get his breath.
“What was the name of the other boat?”
“I don’t know!” the Mexican shouted. “I don’t know! What do I care? My job isn’t boats.”
“What’s your job?”
The Mexican looked at him impassively. “Guns. Knives.”
Scarnum digested that and looked down at the man in the water. His black eyes shone in the darkness.
“What was the boat like?”
“Big white fishing boat. Like the other one.”
“Where did it drop you off?”
“Sambro,” he said. “Man drove us to Halifax.”
“And that’s where you bought those nice clothes,” said Scarnum.
“Yes,” he said.
“Who told you I was going to be in Halifax?”
“Falkenham.”
“He told you I have the cocaine?”
“Yes. Said he tried to get it off the boat but you stopped him. Said you took it and hid it someplace.”
“Well, that’s a fucking lie,” said Scarnum. “I don’t know where the fucking cocaine is. Maybe Falkenham has it, but I sure as fuck don’t.”
“OK,” said the Mexican. “No problem.”
“Did you ever ask yourself if maybe Falkenham is lying to you? Ever think he has the cocaine?”
“Yes,” said the Mexican. “I think about that.”
“Who told you I was at Falkenham’s place?”
“Falkenham called. Said not to do anything in front of the woman, just scare you off.”
“And how’d you know I was at the yacht club tonight?”
“Falkenham called.”
“You ever meet Falkenham?”
“He came to Halifax to see us the day after we kill Jimmy.”
“Where’d you get the speedboat?”
“Bought it today. So we could chase you on the water.”
“Well, that didn’t work too good for you, did it?”
“No,” said the Mexican. “I’m tired of this. I want to go home.”
“Tell your boss I don’t have your fucking cocaine.”
“I will tell him,” the Mexican said.
“I ever see you again, I’ll kill you,” said Scarnum.
“I believe you,” said the Mexican.
“I should probably fucking kill you now,” said Scarnum.
“No,” said the Mexican. “It’s better not to kill if you don’t have to. I seen lots of people die. I killed some people. I never did it when I didn’t have to. You don’t have to kill me. We will leave you alone now. You don’t have the cocaine.”
“You’d better fucking leave me alone,” said Scarnum.
Scarnum went below and found a plastic bucket and two old plastic oars.
When he came back up, the Mexican had managed to pull the loop off his head. He was getting started on the rope on the life jacket.
Scarnum gunned the diesel and ran the boat back over to the foundering speedboat. The younger Mexican ducked behind the gunwales. Scarnum threw the plastic bucket and the oars in the water by the boat.
He untied the Mexican, let him fall, and turned the boat toward the open water.
Wednesday, April 28
SCARNUM SAILED INTO Upper Southwest Port d’Agneau as the sun was rising and dropped the anchor at the head of the bay, not far from a wharf where there were a few lobster boats tied up.
He went below and slept for a few hours, then made a pot of coffee, and pumped up his inflatable boat. He showered and dressed in a wrinkled grey suit. He didn’t have a tie.
He rowed to the wharf, tied up the boat, and walked to the little store down the road from the church and called Charlie.
His lawyer had called. So had Constable Léger, and Sergeant MacPherson, and Dr. Greely, again.
Scarnum called his lawyer.
“Phillip, how are you?” said Mayor. “Haven’t heard from you, so I thought I’d check in. Called the RCMP yesterday and they say they have no idea how long they’re going to hold the Kelly Lynn. And they said they want to hear from you soon or they might put out a warrant for your arrest.”
“On what charge?” said Scarnum.
“Didn’t say,” said Mayor. “So far as I can see, you’re in the clear on the coke charge. They seem to think you know more about the death of James Zinck than you’re saying.”
“Well, I told them what I know,” said Scarnum. “S’pose I should give them a c
all.”
“Probably can’t hurt,” said Mayor. “If you want, stop by and have a chat with me before you talk to them.”
“That would probably be wise,” said Scarnum.
“OK,” said Mayor. “Want to come by this afternoon?”
“No,” said Scarnum. “Can’t make it today. I’ll call you when I’m clear.”
Dr. Greely’s secretary said that the doctor was with a patient and couldn’t come to the phone, but then when he told her his name, she asked him to hold. In a few minutes, Greely was on the line.
“Phillip!” he said. “At last! I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days.”
“Yes,” said Scarnum. “Charlie told me. Said it was very important that I call you. Is there a problem with the boat?”
“No, shit no,” said the doctor. “I’m very pleased with it. Bilge is dry. Bright work looks better than ever. I mailed you a cheque on Monday. No. It’s something else.”
“What is it?”
“Phillip, is there any reason you want to keep tabs on me? You want to be able to keep track of my movements?”
“No,” said Scarnum. “What are you talking about?”
“The night you dropped off the boat, I went over it from stem to stern,” he said. “I wanted to see all the work you’d done, get a feel for it. I found a funny little box down in the bilge, up in the bow, duct-taped to one of the knees,” said Dr. Greely. “I never would have seen it, but the duct tape must have gotten wet when you were sailing it up, and it peeled down. Anyway, I took the thing off the boat and Googled it. It’s a SpyTech 3000 remote tracking device. Has a little GPS and a transmitter, four double-A batteries. Sells for three hundred bucks. Another couple hundred for a receiver, or you can view the tracker’s position on the internet.”
“Sweet Jesus,” said Scarnum. “That explains a few things.”
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