The Darkening Archipelago

by Stephen Legault

  But she couldn’t help dwelling on her suspicions — of Cole himself. While she, Grace, Cole, and Darren worked through the various motives, means, and opportunities of the people who might have wanted Archie Ravenwing dead, Nancy reviewed what she knew of Cole’s motive, means, and opportunity to want his own father six feet under.

  She doodled in her notebook as she thought, slowly twisting back and forth in the chair. She wrote the word motive. Under it she wrote, “abuse, beatings,” and then she wrote “humiliation.” She tapped her pencil on the page. She drew a question mark and wrote “mother?” Cole knew. His mother had told him. Could that have pushed him over the edge?

  She drank her coffee. Clear motive. No question about it.

  Means. That seemed pretty easy. She wrote down “shotgun.”

  Opportunity. She wrote, “Cole on the farm. First time in twenty years. Father dies.”

  She drew a barn. Could Cole have entered the barn with a shotgun, walked right up to his old man, and blown his head off? Would the old man have seen him coming or not? Reimer had told her the blast was from below and into the face. Point blank. The sort of rage necessary to do that was beyond Nancy’s comprehension. But then she hadn’t been beaten as a child. And Cole certainly possessed a rage that at times made Nancy uncomfortable. That rage had seemed to fester since Oracle.

  Sometimes those powerful emotions in Cole became passion, and it was that passion that had attracted Nancy to Cole in the first place. That continued to draw her to him.

  She drew a drop of blood dripping from the barn.

  The phone rang on Archie’s desk and she jumped, almost knocking over her coffee.

  “Ravenwing residence,” she answered.

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Nancy Webber.”

  “Just the person I was looking for,” said the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line.

  — Cole Blackwater stepped into The Strait and crossed the plank floor to the bar, his boots making a heavy sound as he walked. Half a dozen tables were occupied, mostly by men eating a midday meal. The room was hot, and that warmth felt oppressive to Cole coming in from the cool of the harbour. He scanned the room and immediately recognized Dan Campbell sitting at a table with three other men. The conversation in the room grew quiet for a moment, and Cole could see out of the corner of his eye that his every step was being watched by the four men at Campbell’s table.

  The same bartender was there, placing a plate of food in front of a customer who sat on a stool. He looked at Cole. “Don’t want any trouble from you today. We clear? You white boys want to mix it up, you go out in the street.”

  Cole grinned. “You got it. What’s the lunch special?”

  Cole ordered food and a pint of Kokanee and sat at the bar, his back to Campbell. He took a long pull on the beer, his mind thumbing through the information that Cassandra Petrel had just given him about Stoboltz. But while he was thinking, his attention never left the table of men just twenty feet behind him.

  If Petrel’s suspicions were true, and Archie Ravenwing had found out, then there was a very clear motive for keeping Archie silent. But killing the man? Cole hadn’t had more than a casual introduction to anybody at Stoboltz, but he did have a hard time imagining anybody at one of the world’s largest aquaculture companies killing someone, even if that someone was an irritating First Nations activist like Archie. Then again, Cassandra Petrel’s hunch was very serious. Businesses did hire people to take care of irritating problems, but in the western world? Here? Cole Blackwater assumed that sort of thing was reserved for Central America, South America, the darker corners of southeast Asia. And usually the businesses themselves weren’t on the up and up to start with. Could that be the case with Stoboltz? What might they be hiding?

  His food arrived. Cole hazarded a glance around the room as he slipped off his coat. Dan Campbell and his friends were still at their table.

  He took a long drink of his beer and began to eat his sandwich and fries. Cole was halfway through his lunch when he heard a chair scrape back from Dan Campbell’s table. He took a deep breath and focused on his surroundings. He turned slightly and watched from the corner of his eye as all four men at the table stood, wiping their mouths and hands on paper napkins. Three of the men scowled at Cole as they made their way toward the door, but Dan Campbell wasn’t among them. Instead he pushed his chair in and walked to the bar where Cole sat. Cole looked straight ahead and drank from his beer.

  “Had to get me some stitches the other night,” said Dan, pointing to his chin.

  Cole turned to look at him. “Yup,” he said. “That doesn’t look too comfortable,” he said.

  “I could press charges, you know. You started it.”

  Cole shrugged. “Go ahead,” he said.

  Dan looked around him. “Yeah, well,” he said, “that’s not the way we do it out here.”

  “If you’re saying that you want to settle a score, then let’s get it over with,” said Cole.

  “Whoa, take it easy there badass,” said Dan.

  “What do you want then?”

  “I’m told it’s you that was asking around for me.”

  “Word travels fast.”

  “It’s a pretty small town.”

  “It is that.”

  “What do you want then?”

  “Let’s take a walk,” said Cole, fishing a wad of money, gas receipts, elastic bands, and paperclips from his pocket. He found a five and a ten and left them on the bar. He threw back the rest of his pint and put on his coat. The two men left together. The rest of the people in the bar watched them go.

  They stepped into the grey afternoon, the chill air feeling good against Cole’s face and in his lungs. Cole had steadied himself for an attack once he had stepped outside, but none came.

  “Let’s walk down by the harbour,” said Cole. “You got a boat here?”

  Dan pointed toward a slip at the far end of the harbour. “The last slip that way. The Queen Mary Two,” he said.

  “Let’s go have a look,” said Cole.

  They walked along the harbour and onto the dock.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Dan.

  “You and Archie weren’t very good friends, were you?” asked Cole.

  Campbell laughed. “You can say that again.”

  “And it wasn’t just because he was an Indian, was it?”

  “Look,” said Campbell, “this is a free country. A man’s got a right to his opinions.”

  “True,” said Cole, “but part of living in a free country means that a man doesn’t have the right to promote hatred.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “You’re a bigoted prick,” said Cole without looking at him. “You hate these people. What I can’t figure out is why you live here with them. Why not live in Port McNeill or Port Hardy, or up the coast?”

  “Hunting is good along the coast. Hunting is what I do. And I don’t see where you get off calling a man a bigot. I don’t hate the Indians. But I think they’re lazy sons of bitches that would rather sit on their asses than work, and I’m sick and tired of my hard-earned money getting taken by the government to pay these people to sit around and carve masks.”

  Cole drew a breath. “Archie worked hard.”

  “Archie Ravenwing was a pompous jackass,” said Dan.

  Cole began to think that this had been a bad idea. They stepped onto the pier in silence and made their way toward the Queen Mary Two.

  “But he worked hard. What did you have against him?”

  “Same thing I have against you, Blackwater. He was a meddler, just like you. Sticking his nose in where it don’t belong. Fucking bleeding-heart liberal faggots always trying to tell other people how to live their lives. Don’t do this, don’t do that. Save the bears, save the trees. Look around you, Blackwater. Do you see any shortage of trees?” Campbell opened his arms and made a complete turn on the dock. “There is no fucking shortage of trees. And the be
ars are stumbling over one another to get at the salmon. I’m doing them a favour shooting them. Makes more room. But Archie was always sticking his nose in where it don’t belong. It finally did him in.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Silly bastard was out in that storm is what I mean. Out dipping his nets for that bitch Petrel. And for what? What did it get him? Got the stupid bastard killed is what it got him.”

  Cole looked up. “Nice boat.”

  “It was my father’s. He passed it on.”

  “Mind if I look around?”

  Dan Campbell looked at him from under his ball cap. “What for?”

  “Maybe I want to go hunting.”

  Campbell laughed. “Right. Go ahead. Don’t make no difference to me.”

  Cole stepped onto the boat. It was a forty-foot steel-sided troller that had been converted for fishing trips and passengers. Cole walked around the cabin looking at the gunwales and at the cleats. Ropes were neatly stacked and coiled on the deck. Cole slipped from his pocket the length of rope he had taken from the stern of the Inlet Dancer and examined it. He looked at Dan Campbell’s ropes. Rats, he thought. Weathered and worn and all of the same sort. He couldn’t find any that had recently been cut, or looked new enough to have been replaced.

  “You about done?” asked Campbell, spitting on the dock.

  Cole stepped down. “Got any other boats?”

  “Sure,” said Campbell, “but I don’t see how this is any of your business. What are you up to, Blackwater?”

  Cole stood sideways to the man. “Here’s the thing, Dan,” he said. “I think that Archie Ravenwing was murdered.”

  Dan Campbell choked on a laugh. He sounded like a dog barking. “Oh, you really crack me up, Blackwater,” he said when he had stopped laughing. “That’s rich. Archie goes out in a storm and gets himself washed overboard and you come around here telling people that he was murdered. That’s fucking rich. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you think I did it.”

  “Did you?”

  “You are really something, Blackwater. I read about you in the newspaper. I read about you in Alberta and your little games. I read all about that mine manager and how you helped solve his murder. Now you’re looking for a killer under every rock, is that it? Want to make yourself famous?”

  “Dan, it’s no secret that you hated Archie. Hated his race, and hated what he stood for.”

  “I got to get some work done this afternoon, Blackwater. It’s been nice talkin’ with you.” He put a foot up on the gunwale of the boat and was about to step onto it. Cole grabbed his arm. Dan wrenched it from Cole’s grasp, his hat flying off as he did. “Get your fucking hands off me, you environmentalist fuck. If you put your Indian-loving hand on me again I’m going to break your neck.”

  “Is that how you killed Archie Ravenwing?”

  Cole could see Dan’s face turn red, his eyes bulge. His thin hair stood on end, and he looked like a madman. Cole readied himself for violence.

  “You better get your ass out of Port Lostcoast, and take that piece of pussy you brought here along with you. If I see you again, I’m going to knock every one of your goddamned teeth right down your throat.”

  “You’ll see me again,” said Cole, fighting to control his breath and avoid choking on his words. “I guarantee it.” He turned his back to Dan and walked back toward town.

  23

  They met at Greg White Eagle’s home. It was almost noon when Nancy arrived, and the house was filled with the smell of food. Nancy was greeted at the door by a middle-aged woman in a long, blue dress and printed apron. “Come in,” the woman said. “You must be the reporter.” Nancy smiled and stepped into the house, directly into the kitchen. A square table was in the middle of the room, and the aroma of cooking fish filled the air.

  “Can I offer you coffee? Greg is on the phone right now. He’ll be right out.”

  “Coffee would be nice,” said Nancy.

  “I’m Martha. Greg’s wife.” She offered a hand.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  Nancy took a seat at the table and sipped her coffee. The room was bright, the cupboard painted white and the linoleum floor polished to a shine. But the house felt small and a little damp, and Nancy thought maybe the floor listed to one side a little.

  She sat a moment in silence, watching Martha put the finishing touches on a fish chowder. As she placed slices of bread into a pan, the room filled with the sizzle and smell of frying.

  Greg White Eagle entered the room like a storm. “You must be Nancy. I see you’ve got a cup of coffee. Have you eaten? Let’s have a quick lunch and then talk. Martha, can you set Ms. Webber up?”

  Nancy didn’t have time to protest before a bowl of soup was set in front of her, and she had to admit that she was famished. They ate a lunch of chowder with grilled cheese sandwiches on the side. “I’m a simple man,” said White Eagle, a few crumbs falling from the corner of this mouth onto the plate. “I have simple tastes.”

  They finished their food, and Martha cleared the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thank you. That was really delicious.”

  “More coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fully caffeinated.”

  Greg White Eagle laughed. “Come, let’s sit in my office.”

  Nancy followed the big man to the back of the house. The hallway was dark, the wood panelling stained with water in a few places.

  “This place belonged to my father,” said White Eagle, noticing Nancy’s gaze. “He built it himself after World War II. He was stationed overseas. Used up his soldier pay building this place for my mama. It’s hard to keep anything from rotting in this climate.” Greg smiled, pointing to a stiff-backed chair for Nancy to sit in. His office was a tiny room off the back of the house. His desk was piled with papers and clippings and file folders, his computer nearly buried in folders and stacks of assorted reading material.

  “Thanks for coming by,” he said, sitting just a few feet from her.

  “Thanks for returning my call.”

  “Not every day we get a reporter like you in Port Lostcoast. Are you here for the announcement?”

  Nancy felt a flash of heat in her face. She held his gaze. “That’s right.”

  “Good news, you know. Good news. We’ve been working on this for years. It’s good news for the people of Port Lostcoast and for First Nations all up and down the coast.”

  “Good news?” Nancy said, sounding quizzical.

  “Good news,” repeated White Eagle. “The First Nations Opportunity Fund is just the sort of thing that coastal communities need to turn themselves around. It’s the sort of investment that will allow our communities to prosper.” His words sounded rehearsed to Nancy, and she flipped open her notebook as encouragement.

  “Tell me more about that.”

  “Well, what the fund will do is put money into communities like Port Lostcoast to help us train our people to meet today’s employment needs. The idea is to help our people train for work in resource-based economies. So folks in the interior will be trained in forest management. Folks in the north, mining. Here on the coast, fisheries and aquaculture.”

  “Haven’t we seen this sort of program before?”

  “I guess so. I’m new to this politics thing, so I don’t have all the history. But I’ve been working with Victoria on this now for about a year, and I feel this will be a real boon for our nation.”

  “Can you say what makes this one different?”

  “Well, industry is on board with it. That’s going to make all the difference.”

  “What do they get?”

  “Cash. Cash for training. Cash to subsidize on-the-job instruction. Businesses can apply to the fund to work with communities like Port Lostcoast to put people to work. Did you know that at certain times of the year our unemployment hovers around seventy percent! Nearly everybody in this town is out of work. Nearly everybody in this town depends on welfare at some p
oint in the year. These people are dirt poor. It’s time somebody did something about it. That’s my job. I take it pretty seriously. And I’m sorry to say that my predecessor did not.”

  Nancy made some notes on her pad.

  “Look, I know that you must have some kind of connection there. That’s obvious. But I got to tell you, Archie Ravenwing didn’t do much to lift this community out of poverty. He was too busy trying to shut down the employers, like salmon farms and grizzly hunting guide outfitters. The man was obsessed.”

  “Didn’t sport fishing and the native fishery keep people employed?”

  “To an extent, yes, but it was seasonal. The native salmon fishery has been in decline for more than a decade. If there are no fish, there are no jobs.”

  “I think that was the point,” said Webber. “I think that was Archie’s point, wasn’t it?”

  “You can stand around waving your arms all you like about the disappearing salmon, or you can do something to help your people adapt to the new reality. I’m choosing to help my people react to the new reality. Archie was stuck in the old days.”

  Nancy tapped her pencil. She looked around the humble office. “Some people would say that by working with Stoboltz and other salmon farming companies you’re colluding with the enemy. You’re working with the very people who are responsible for the demise of the wild salmon.”

  “Sea lice are natural —”

  “But not in the numbers that we see today,” said Nancy, finding herself on shaky ground. She’d only just read some material that morning, and was searching her memory for arguments.

  “Look, whether we like it or not, Stoboltz is here to stay. They have two dozen operations in the Broughton alone. If we play our cards right, people around here might have a shot at good paying jobs that last nearly year round. Imagine that, year-round employment! People stand to make a lot of money if we play our cards right.”