Salvage

by Stephen Maher

  “In the water,” said Scarnum, pointing between the lobster boat and the sailboat. “I got his gun.”

  The other Zinck boys walked up the dock behind their brother, shotguns held at their hips, peering down into the water.

  “Come on out, Falkenham!” shouted Hughie. “Time to make a deal. You want to wake up tomorrow, you gonna have to let go a lotta money in the next five minutes.”

  “All right,” Falkenham called from the water. He was in between the lobster boat and the sailboat, although they couldn’t see him. “All right. I surrender. Let me come up and we’ll talk.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Money Bags, you come up,” said Hughie. “You swim out the end of the wharf where we can see you.”

  Falkenham swam out into the open, to a ladder of rusty steel rebar jutting out from the concrete wall of the wharf. He grabbed hold of the rungs and looked up. His face was a broken, bloody mess from where Scarnum had pounded him, and the look of defeat on his face was complete.

  He looked up at the faces of the five Zincks staring down at him. Scarnum watched from the deck of the lobster boat.

  “Boys,” he said. “I’m a rich man, but all my money isn’t going to do me any good if you shoot me here. Won’t do you any good, though, either. Let me climb up and drive away from here and I’ll make you rich, and you’ll never hear a fucking word from me again.”

  “All right,” said Hughie. “Just answer one question first.”

  “Anything,” said Falkenham.

  “Why’d you kill Jimmy?”

  Falkenham looked up at Hughie and at the ten shotgun barrels pointed at him. “Please,” he said. “You can have everything.”

  Hughie lifted the shotgun to his shoulder. “I don’t think you got nothing worth half as much as my little brother, you fucking cocksucker,” he said.

  Hughie’s big round face was bright red. His mouth was a little pink line. He stared down the iron sights of the old 12-gauge, one eye closed.

  Scarnum shouted at he top of his lungs, “Wait!”

  The Zincks and Falkenham all turned and looked at him.

  He climbed up onto the wharf and held out the machine pistol. “Shoot him with this,” he said. “That way the Mounties will think it was the Mexicans.”

  They put the bodies of the Mexicans and their guns in the back of the SUV and drove it to the end of the pier. They looped a line through the front bumper and ran it to the stern of Martin Zinck’s lobster boat. He gunned the diesel and inched forward until the line was taut. Then they put the SUV in neutral and pushed it over. When its nose went over the edge, Martin hit the diesel hard and the line went taut and the SUV shot out off the end of the pier and hit the water with a huge splash. Martin kept the diesel open and pulled the SUV, sinking, out past the breakwater and into the harbour. He kept pushing the motor until the boat was well out in the harbour, when the SUV hit bottom, and the boat strained against the rope without moving. Martin went back then and untied one end of the rope and hauled the line to the surface.

  After they dumped the SUV, Scarnum went onto Orion, where he drove wooden plugs through the holes in the hull. Before he went up onto the dock, he looked at Falkenham’s body. He was face down in the water, with bullet holes in his head, neck, and back. Scarnum pulled him into the cockpit of his boat.

  The Zincks were laughing on the dock, drinking cold cans of Alpine, when Scarnum, pale and gaunt-looking, came over the edge of the pier.

  “Jesus, Martin, you come right on to ’er,” Hughie said. “I t’ought you were fixing to drive that rig across the bay, maybe sell it to one of them fellows over Hunt Cove.”

  Scarnum took a can of beer and sat on the lip of the pier. “Boys,” he said. “Don’t never tell nobody what we did today.”

  They stopped laughing and looked at him.

  “These boys got what was coming to them,” he said. “It was them or me, and I’m sure glad it’s them and not me, but I’m not happy about it. And the Mounties wouldn’t be happy about it neither if they ever get a whisper of who done it.

  “We’ d all spend years in Dorchester if they ever hear about this.”

  Hughie nodded. “Nobody say nothing. Never.”

  Scarnum nodded. “You want my advice, don’t never even talk about it to each other,” he said and took a long drink of beer. “After today, pretend that it never happened. Anybody asks you about me, tell them you don’t know me. Anybody asks about Jimmy, tell ’em you’ d sure like to find out who killed ’im. Anybody asks about Falkenham, tell ’em you heard the same fellows got Jimmy mighta got him.

  “Don’t tell your wives, or your cousins, or nobody, nothing, especially not when you’re drinking. Don’t tell them that the people who got Jimmy were sorry in the end.”

  He looked around at them all. They were listening. “They were, though,” he said. “You bet your fucking boots they were sorry in the end that they fucked with Jimmy Zinck.”

  He held up his can of beer. “To Jimmy,” he said. “To the loving memory of James Zinck.”

  They toasted and drained their cans and swore and wiped tears from their eyes.

  Then Scarnum went down and did a rough patch job on the bullet holes in the deck of his boat, and the Zincks sat around and talked about Jimmy.

  Scarnum sailed through the evening and into the night, first heading well offshore, then sailing northeast.

  He had no GPS, so he sailed by dead reckoning, steering a compass course in the darkness, with no running lights on his boat. He made notations of his speed and course in a little notebook, and fiddled with his chart by flashlight, and watched the horizon for lights and counted their flashes, and looked them up on the chart.

  He was very tired, and once he fell asleep for a few minutes and awoke with a start, confused and disoriented. He smoked to keep himself awake, and took tiny nips from his bottle of black rum, and sang.

  Hip your partner, Sally Thibault.

  Hip your partner, Sally Brown.

  Fogo, Twillingate, Moreton’s Harbour,

  all around the circle.

  After a while, he started to talk to his old friend Falkenham, whose body was in a heap on the floor of the cockpit.

  “I’m sorry, old son,” he said. “I’m sorry that I let them kill you. Shouldn’ta fucking killed Jimmy. Whatcha do that for? Whatcha do that for? Huh? He wasn’t a bad boy, just a bit fucking stupid, is all. Whatcha kill him for? Huh? Why would you do that? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  As the night stretched on, he spent more time crying and telling Falkenham that he was sorry. He was holding his cold, lifeless hand in the darkness toward morning, when he finally spotted the lights that marked the channel through the Sambro Ledges.

  There was a big fishing boat moving through the ledges, coming back from an offshore run for tuna or swordfish, Scarnum supposed. He was afraid whoever was steering might see his sails, so he dropped them to the deck and let his boat drift in the darkness of the sea and the sky, while he watched the fishing boat move through the channel.

  He sang softly to himself as he waited.

  I don’t want your maggoty fish,

  they’re no good for winter.

  I could buy as good as that

  down in Bonavista.

  When the boat was through the ledges, Scarnum pulled his sails back up and sailed in through the channel. When he was just off Sandy Cove, he pulled Falkenham by his armpits and let him flop over the stern of the boat. Then he turned around and headed for Rockbound Island.

  He was glad when the sun came up, for he didn’t see how he could stay awake any longer in the darkness, and glad that the wind was cold in his face. He was sorry when he came to the bottom of the bottle of rum and cursed as he threw it into the dark sea.

  When he finally got to Rockbound Island, he dropped the sails and motored around until he found his little buoy. He pulled it up and threw the whole rig — anchor, line, buoy, and GPS — into the cabin.

  Then he anchored and got o
ut his bucket and brush, and, staggering like a drunk, hauled in bucket after bucket of cold seawater and scrubbed the cockpit till there was no trace of blood and his hands were frigid and cramped.

  When he was done, he stripped off his clothes, threw them in the water, then went below and collapsed, shivering, in his V-berth.

  Monday, May 3

  CHARLIE CALLED OUT WHEN he saw the Orion coming up the bay, and Annabelle, who usually steered clear of the boatyard, was by his side on the dock when Scarnum drifted in, dropping the sails and getting the dock lines ready.

  The morning sun was sparkling on the waves in a gentle breeze, and the air felt warmer than it had all spring.

  “Oh my gosh,” said Annabelle, when Scarnum and Charlie had made the boat fast, and Scarnum took her in his arms and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

  She pushed him away and looked at him and hugged him again. “What happened to your face?” she said.

  “Managed to get smacked right on the nose by the boom,” he said.

  He winked at Charlie. “Might have been overserved,” he said. “Fella’s got to learn to turn a drink down every now and then.”

  Charlie laughed and called him an old Newfie drunk, but there was a forced quality to his laughter, and Annabelle kept hold of Scarnum and walked with him, arm in arm, up to the house, where she cooked him ham and eggs and poured him coffee.

  “So, where you been?” she said.

  “Out the bay,” he said. “Sailing around. Taking some fresh air. Nice time of year to be out on the water, before all the Yanks and Halifax people are up here, tacking in front of ferries and running into bridges.”

  “Oh,” said Annabelle. “I’ve got some mail for you. From Dr. Greely.”

  She gave him the envelope and he let out a little hoot.

  “Somebody’s going to the Anchor!” he said.

  When Charlie came down to see him later, Scarnum was tearing up the deck of his boat, hurriedly cutting through the fibreglass with a power saw. He killed the power when Charlie came up.

  “Be easier to do that up in the cradle, wouldn’t it?” Charlie said. “And you should’ve traced out the templates before you put the first cut into her. The hull will pop out now when you remove those pieces.”

  Scarnum looked at him and looked away, and rubbed at his eyes. “I know, Charlie,” he said. “I know.”

  “They found Falkenham’s body,” said Charlie. “Found him dead up on the same beach where they found Jimmy.”

  “When?” asked Scarnum.

  “Today,” said Charlie. “Mounties took him to the morgue in Halifax. Gerald heard it on his scanner.”

  “Thanks, Charlie,” said Scarnum, and he turned the saw back on.

  Charlie wandered over and started scrubbing at the Martha Kate. Every now and then he’d look up and watch Scarnum working on Orion.

  After he had covered up the open deck with a tarp, Scarnum went below and tore up the teak floor in the cabin. Then he took the wood and the fibreglass he’d cut from the deck and threw them in an old oil barrel behind the boat house. He dumped in some scrap lumber from around the yard, doused it all with gas, and lit it on fire. He went back to his boat, leaving the fire to burn unattended.

  Scarnum was on his knees, measuring one of the bullet holes in the bottom of the hull when Charlie stuck his head in the hatch.

  “You putting in some new through-hulls, there?” he asked.

  Scarnum looked up with a grimace, then looked down at the row of four little holes jammed with little wooden plugs.

  He looked back up at Charlie and gave him a tired smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I want to put some through-hulls in here.”

  They worked together, hurriedly, for the next hour, drilling out the holes and hammering in new one-way valves as seawater poured through the holes and the bilge pump whined.

  Then they hooked up clear plastic tubing to the valves and ran it over to the sink on the other side of the boat, where they tied it into the sink drain, which already had a perfectly good line running to a through-hull nearby.

  When they were finished, Charlie looked at it and giggled. “There,” he said. “Sink should fucking drain all right now.”

  Then Charlie measured the floor and ran out into the yard, looking at all the sailboats on the cradles. He went into his shop and brought out a pry bar and a hammer, propped an old wooden ladder against the side of a Hunter 35, and tore the hasp and padlock off the cabin hatch.

  He looked down at Scarnum, who was watching him, blank-faced. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get a new floor in your boat before the fucking Mounties get here.”

  Together they tore up the floor from the Hunter 35, cut it down to size on the table saw in Charlie’s shop, and carried it to the Orion, where they bolted it in place.

  Charlie broke down in giggles while they were finishing the job. “Don’t know how I’m going to explain to MacDonald why some thieves broke into his boat and stole his floor.”

  The two men, side by side on their hands and knees, laughed for a long time.

  Scarnum was nursing a can of Keith’s and measuring out templates for a new deck when Constable Léger drove up.

  She got out of her cruiser and stood on the dock.

  “Good afternoon, Constable,” said Scarnum. “Beautiful day.”

  “Get off the boat,” she said. “Sergeant MacPherson is on his way down here with a search warrant.”

  Scarnum stood up. “But that don’t make no sense,” he said. “You had it on the town dock just this week. What? Do you think you missed something? By the Jesus, I don’t know why you keep after me.”

  She just stared at him. “Get off the boat,” she said.

  He climbed off his boat, then stepped back on to get his six-pack.

  “What happened to your face?” she asked.

  “Got hit by the boom,” he said.

  “How come you tore up the deck?” she asked.

  “Well, somebody shot it up,” he said. “Ever find out what kind of a gun did the shooting? Now that I’m sobered up some, it’s kind of bothering me.”

  “Where were you for the past few days?” she asked.

  “Well, when I seen you last I anchored on the waterfront for a while,” he said. “When I woke up, I found it a bit too busy, so I sailed out to Rockbound Island and anchored out there. Was out there for the past two days.”

  “Did you know that they found Bobby Falkenham’s body?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Charlie told me today. Terrible thing.”

  He looked down the bay. “First Jimmy, then Bobby,” he said. “Something bad’s been happening in Chester.”

  He sat on Charlie’s Cape Islander and watched them search his boat, MacPherson and Léger and even some fellows who he believed came down from Halifax.

  In the end, they took away an old pair of boots and his GPS.

  “That’s fish blood on them boots,” he said, helpfully, as they gave him a receipt for the evidence.

  Charlie came down for a beer after the Mounties were finally gone.

  “Did you have a nice time sailing around the bay?” asked Charlie.

  Scarnum gave him a long look. “No,” he said. “Not a nice time at all. Worst time I ever had in my life.”

  “You gonna be sticking around here for a while?” he asked.

  “I think so, Charlie,” he said. “I got every reason to believe so. Yes.”

  “It’s over?”

  He looked at Charlie and smiled. “Jesus, I hope so.”

  Scarnum walked up to the house with Charlie and called Angela’s cellphone.

  “You should come back to Chester,” he said. “Weather’s lovely.”

  Sunday, August 22

  SCARNUM TOOK UP HAND lining that summer and when anybody asked him about it, he told them it reminded him of fishing with his father when he was a boy.

  He had found an old clinker-built St. Margarets Bay trap boat under a pile of rotting plywood behind Charlie
’s workshop while looking for a piece of hardwood to use in the bulkhead of a Bluenose he was working on. Charlie didn’t know where the boat had come from. In fact, he said he’d never seen it before Scarnum dug it up. So Scarnum sanded it down to bare wood, replaced some of rotten strakes, and then painted it a cheery red. When he was finished, he rigged it up with oars and took to going out jigging in the Back Bay after dinner.

  He’d row out, the long oars pushing the beautiful boat through the water very nicely. Then he’ d sit in the bay in the evening sun, holding a wooden batten wrapped with heavy cod line, jerking his arm back and forth, so the steel cod jig on the end of the line would bounce along the bottom, up and down, flashing an invitation that proved to be irresistible to the occasional mackerel, rock cod, or pollock.

  He was rowing in with a pollock in the bottom of the boat when Constable Léger rolled into the boatyard and got out of her cruiser. She stood on the dock and watched Scarnum row in.

  He smiled at her as he climbed out with the fish in his hand. “Want a pollock for your dinner?” he asked.

  “Are you trying to bribe me?” she said and smiled.

  “No,” he said. “I may be stupid, but I’m not that stupid.”

  “I brought you your GPS and a pair of boots with fish blood on them,” she said. “You have to sign the form.”

  He signed the sheet and thanked her. “I haven’t been able to go anywheres since you took that thing,” he said.

  She stood and smiled at the sun setting over the Back Bay. “You know,” she said, “whoever shot Bobby Falkenham shot him in the water. The coroner’s analysis shows that the bullets travelled through salt water before they hit him. But then the wounds aired out. He was out of the water for fourteen to sixteen hours before somebody dumped him back in the water again.”