The Darkening Archipelago

by Stephen Legault

  Nancy didn’t reply. She had no breath to waste on words. God, how she wished she had got that last workout in. Her legs felt like rubber, her lungs screamed. But the adrenalin that coursed through every cell in her body kept her moving. Just another hundred feet. Eighty feet. Sixty feet. Almost there. What she would do when she reached the boat, she had no idea.

  “I won’t say a thing, I swear it,” said Petrel.

  “No, you won’t,” said Darvin Thurlow. “Because you won’t have a chance, after a very unfortunate accident,” he said, standing.

  She screamed and he reached across the table and hit her in the mouth. Petrel’s head bounced off the wood-panelled backing to the galley booth. Her eyes glazed over momentarily, and then he was beside her, taping her mouth and, grabbing the roll from the bench seat, adding another layer over the one already there.

  Thurlow bent and reached under the Force 10 stove and found what he was looking for. He watched Petrel while he fiddled with something beneath the stove. “Looks like you forgot to hook up the gas when you did some work on the stove, Cassandra. That’s very unfortunate. Such a tragedy.”

  He stood and said, “Nice working with you, Dr. Petrel.” He reached over the table to take the lamp, and Cassandra saw her opening; she lurched toward him. Arms still tied at her sides, she drove her head into his ribs. He stumbled backwards into the stove and managed to bring his right knee up, driving it into her chest, knocking Petrel to the ground. The smell of gas was thick in the room. She lay on the floor, sucking air and gas through her nose, and blacked out. Thurlow regained his composure, straightened his coat, and stepped to the door. He put a hand on of — the railing that led to the companionway and the centre cockpit the boat and raised the lit lantern over his head.

  Nancy heard a scream from Cassandra Petrel’s boat, muffled by the sound of the harbour, the whine of an inboard motor revved to capacity, and her own heart pounding in her ears.

  Petrel’s boat was twenty feet away. Nancy’s legs pounded on the planks of the dock. She was aware of Grace somewhere behind her. She reached the centre cockpit of the boat and slowed and jumped onto the deck, landing hard, skidding on her side and colliding with the hatch to the rear state room. She righted herself and made for the companionway hatch behind the cockpit seat. As she did, the hatch flew open, smashing her arm against her chest and knocking her backwards. A blast of heat jumped from the hatch. A man, backlit by flames, stood in the companionway. She stumbled to her feet and without thinking leaped at him. She connected with his body at the chest, both of them careening off the narrow hatch and landing side by side on the hard floor of the cabin.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Nancy heard him hiss as he punched and kicked at her. She locked her arms around him as tightly as she could to restrict his movement. She looked wildly around. A woman was tied up on the floor a few feet away. The space was hot and smelled like gas, and a lantern was smashed on the floor just a few feet from her face and was burning, the flames fuelled by the air that was being sucked into the cabin through the open gangway hatch.

  Thurlow connected a jab to her stomach and Nancy gasped for air. It tasted like gas. Then she bit down on any part of him she could reach, his nose as it turned out. He hollered and thrashed his head, but she didn’t let go. Nancy Webber tasted hot, salty blood on her tongue. Finally he ripped himself free, blood splashing on Nancy’s face, and drove his fist into the side of her head. The world went dark.

  The boat hadn’t stopped when Cole jumped, life jacket still snug on his body, onto the foot of the pier adjacent to Cassandra Petrel’s boat. He stumbled and almost ran off the side of the dock and into the harbour, but managed to right himself in time to see Darvin Thurlow burst from the cabin of the boat, knocking a bewildered Grace Ravenwing to the deck. The distance between them was no more than thirty feet, and Cole lunged at Thurlow as he made the dock and started to run for the village.

  “Cole, Nancy!” came Grace Ravenwing’s desperate cry from where she lay on the deck of the boat.

  Cole skidded to a stop. “Where is she?”

  “In the boat!”

  He watched as Thurlow made for the end of the dock. He felt Darren First Moon running past him, too. Both men about to escape, Cole jumped onto the boat and ripped the companionway door open. A billow of smoke and heat flashed in Cole’s face. He put his nose and mouth in the crook of his arm and jumped down the stairs into the dark belly of the burning boat. He nearly tripped over Nancy, who was coughing on the floor. He grabbed her under her arms and hoisted her up the steep steps to the deck of the boat. A stabbing pain ripped through his body where his ribs were cracked. He managed to push Nancy up and out of the galley and onto the deck, where Grace took over, dragging Nancy over the gunwales and onto the dock.

  “Where’s Cassandra?” he shouted at Nancy. Her face was red and her mouth had blood running from the corner. Her eyes were bleary, but she managed to point toward the hatch.

  “Below.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled. Then he yelled, “Get her out of here,” to Grace, and plunged back into the darkness.

  The cabin was filled with blue-black smoke and he could taste the gas. He pressed his face into the crook of his arm and tried not to breathe. Seconds, he thought. Mere seconds. That’s all I’ve got. In a couple of seconds the bell will ring and the final round will end.

  He went down on his hands and knees, remembering fire safety lessons from first grade, and made his way through the galley and toward the hall that connected with the head and the state room. Dark-coloured flames licked at the walls and surged back toward the stove with its ruptured gas line. He could see better from the floor but gagged on the smoke. He found her on the floor that led to the sleeping quarters, her hands tied, her mouth taped shut. She was unconscious. He took her arms and hoisted her onto his back. Stumbling to his knees, he made for the direction of the hatch. The heat of the flames and the noxious smoke made his ears burn and he thought he might collapse from lack of air.

  The faint glow of daylight through the dark press of the toxic smoke guided him. “That’s how the light gets in.” He remembered Leonard Cohen once again, as he had in Oracle: “There is a crack in everything….” Then he thought how funny it was what came to mind just before you died. He passed the stove where the reek of gas was powerful and the crackle of flames was right behind him. With a roar he hoisted Cassandra Petrel upward and reached for the companionway. The darkness engulfed him and, in the final step before the ladder, he tripped and fell forward, Petrel’s weight coming down hard on him, his chest colliding with the heavy wooden steps. He cried out in pain — the ribs he had cracked the night before shot daggers into his central nervous system. He cursed and stumbled forward, making the companionway and up into the cool air. He could hear the shouts of other men from the village. He was in daylight now, surrounded by billowing smoke, confused and striving to get Petrel over the gunwales and onto the dock. He stood on the bench of the cockpit and was about to make the final step from the boat onto the dock when the Queen Charlotte Challenger exploded.

  31

  It was like being born. The cold rush around him. The heat surging past, the whistle of air, the sharp spasm of relief as he hit the water. He couldn’t hold onto her, and he felt her body slip away.

  Time slowed as he hurtled through the air. The force of the explosion jettisoned him over the stern of the boat and into the water behind it. The harbour was dark and cold and, as Cole plunged under the surface, the salt water stung his eyes and burned in the fresh wounds he bore from his confrontation the night before. But his life jacket gave him buoyancy, and he bobbed to the surface like a cork. He gasped for air and did not see Petrel. Her hands were bound. He struggled to press himself below the frigid water, but his life jacket prevented it. He tore at the zipper and managed, despite the spasm of pain in his chest, to shake it free and plunged down into the darkness. He swam down fifteen feet, following the starfish-studded pilings of the dock, and rea
ched her before she touched the bottom. She was conscious, her mouth still taped shut, eyes wide, nose leaking bubbles. Pulling her by a wad of clothing at her shoulder, Cole swam awkwardly for the surface. When he broke through into the air above, he gasped for breath and she sputtered salt water through her nose. With his free hand he tore the tape from her mouth and she sucked air greedily into her lungs.

  He heard the commotion of police sirens and wondered where a cop car might be coming from. He saw men on the dock spraying water on Petrel’s boat. His eyes stung and his entire body burned, but he clung to Cassandra Petrel. From above, like angels, two men climbed down the ladder at the end of the pier to fish them from the sea.

  They sat on the dock, heavy blankets around them, the scent of the sea air tinged with the must of the wool. Cassandra Petrel shivered, her face between her knees. Cole sat next to her, an arm around her back, rubbing in slow, absent-minded circles.

  Constable Derek Johns hunched over Cole, administered first aid to Cole’s injuries, dabbing at the jagged gash on his face, questioning him about its origin. Cole looked around. Ten feet away Nancy Webber sat sucking air from an oxygen bottle, her face black with soot. Grace Ravenwing was beside her, a small, strong hand resting on Nancy’s forearm. An RCMP officer with a life jacket still tied to him was talking with Nancy, inquiring, no doubt, about how she came to be on the floor of Cassandra Petrel’s boat, unconscious, and about Darvin Thurlow.

  Cole watched the activity on the pier. Half a dozen men from the village had finished dousing Cassandra’s boat with water from a hose that ran from a pump at the harbour master’s station. They stood around smoking and talking about the excitement. The harbour master was making an inspection of the boat, taking notes in a spiral-bound notebook. There was very little left of the ketch to make notes about.

  Glaucous-winged gulls wheeled overhead. A raven croaked from a thermal-air mass rising along the bluff.

  “Where’s Darren First Moon?” Cole said aloud, to no one in particular. Constable Johns didn’t say anything. He put a clean set of steri-stips on the wound and said, “You’re going to need to get into Port McNeill as soon as possible, Cole. We can take you back when we’re through here. You’re going to need stitches, which is going to hurt like hell given how old this wound is.”

  “Something to look forward to,” said Cole. He stopped rubbing Cassandra Petrel’s back, squeezed her arm, and looked at her. “You okay?”

  She nodded and forced a weak smile. Her face was white. Cole stood and paused as a sharp pain shot through his body. “And you’ll need some x-rays,” the constable said helpfully. Cole smiled. He walked to where Nancy and Grace were talking with Detective Alan Bates. Cole held his arm close to his side, protecting his ribs.

  “Nancy, how are you?”

  She looked up at him, the mask still on her face. He thought he could see a faint smile through its plastic. He raised his eyebrows, and she took the mask off. “I’m okay. Just sucking at the oxygen here. Happy as a clam.”

  Cole hunched down next to the officer. “Where is Darren First Moon?”

  Alan Bates nodded down the dock. Cole got up and walked its length, past the clutch of men beside Petrel’s boat. He nodded to them and clasped a few hands as he made his way down the pier. There was another group of men there, standing around, talking, smoking. Cole eased through them and saw Darren First Moon standing next to a lamp post, his hands shackled to the pole, his face down. A second uniformed RCMP officer stood next to him. Darren looked up as Cole approached, and their eyes met. Cole held Darren’s gaze a moment, then Darren turned his eyes away and looked toward the tiny town. Fifty feet from where he was shackled was a tan-coloured tarp in the middle of the road, with the unmistakable outline of a man beneath it. There was a shape protruding from the body beneath the tarp, creating a bulge about where the corpse’s back would be. Cole could guess what the object was. The hatchet intended for Darvin Thurlow had found its mark.

  32

  “This is the first time I’ve ever owned a boat,” said Cole. He was seated on the fish box on the deck of the Inlet Dancer with a beer in his hand.

  “Does that make you a captain?” asked Denman Scott.

  “If you put a dinghy on the back of this, you could call yourself admiral,” said Sarah. Her nose was sunburnt and her face freckled.

  Cole laughed. “Admiral Blackwater. Got a nice ring to it.”

  “Don’t get him going,” said Nancy. “Next thing you know I’ll have to identify him as admiral in any stories I write about him.

  Cole looked at her across the table. “I think a little respect would be nice,” he said, but he was smiling. He lifted his can of Race Rocks to his lips and drank.

  “It’s too bad you’re only captain for a day,” said Nancy.

  “I don’t think so,” said Cole.

  Grace Ravenwing was seated on a blue Coleman cooler next to the fish box. “Got those papers, Grace?” asked Cole.

  She smiled and fished an envelope from her jacket. She handed it to him.

  Cole found a pen and flipped through the pages, signing next to the yellow Sign Here stickies. He grinned as he signed.

  “You know the paperwork wasn’t really necessary. The lawyers don’t think so, anyway,” she said.

  “I think it is,” said Cole. “I don’t want anybody ever questioning this. I don’t want there to be any suggestion that I contested the will. This way there is clarity around who owns the Inlet Dancer.” Cole handed the papers to Nancy to witness. When she was done he put the pen back in his jacket pocket. He folded the papers and handed them to Grace. “She’s all yours.”

  “We’ll call you first mate from here on in,” Grace smiled.

  It was late June. The sun was hot overhead, but the breeze that slipped down from the coast range and trailed over the convoluted cluster of islands at the mouth of Knight Inlet gave a reprieve from the heat.

  “What’s happening with Darren?” Cole asked.

  Grace looked at the open water. “He’s still in the psych ward in Vancouver General. The judge has ordered another sixty-day assessment period.”

  “Archie was like a father to him,” said Cole.

  “I think Darren is sick,” said Grace. “He just doesn’t seem to understand what he’s done. He doesn’t seem to see the consequences.” “Is it fasd?” asked Denman. He’d seen the dire consequences of alcohol in the bloodstream of pregnant women in his years in Vancouver’s downtown eastside.

  “Maybe,” said Grace.

  “You think he’ll walk?” asked Nancy.

  “Hard to know,” said Grace. “The Crown has him on both homicides. There were half a dozen witnesses to the killing of Thurlow. Threw that axe from thirty feet. Hard to say what will happen with Dad’s case.”

  “How you holding up?” asked Denman.

  “About as good as could be expected. This community has been great. You know, everybody loved Dad, even when he got in their faces about stuff. But family comes first for my people, and everybody on Parish Island is like a family. We have to be.”

  Nancy looked at Cole. “Did you know —?”

  “Know what?”

  “Know what Darren was going to do to Thurlow?”

  “No. No idea. When we got to Jeopardy Rock, I only had a second to slip that new flashlight of his into my pocket. I thought that he was going to try and get me,” said Cole, aware of Sarah nearby. “He told me on the ride back to Lostcoast that he was really going to try and take Thurlow out.”

  “You believed him?” asked Grace.

  “He didn’t have any reason to lie at that point. The way I see it,” said Cole, “is that Darren figured if he showed up with me at the Jeopardy Rock research lab before Thurlow left, then maybe Thurlow would try something, and then Darren could kill him in self-defense.” Cole looked at Sarah and added, “Big person talk, sweetie. Cover your ears.”

  “Dad, I’m nine. I’ve seen, like, ten thousand murders on tv.”

 
Cole grinned. “That’s great,” he said. “Remind me to talk to your mom about our parenting plan, will you?”

  Sarah grinned back.

  “But Thurlow left early,” said Grace.

  “That’s right. When I think back on it now, it must have been his boat that we saw as we made the turn into McNichol Pass. Darren seemed to just fall apart at that point. He had been all gung-ho up until then. After we saw that boat, he just seemed to lose his steam.”

  “So you think he wanted to get there before Darvin Thurlow left, and use you as bait? Then do a little bait and switch, as it were?” asked Grace.

  “I think so.”

  “How’s that make you feel?” asked Nancy.

  “All in one piece,” Cole said, holding out his arms, being careful not to spill his beer. “Not much else to say.”

  They sat on the large fish box of the Dancer, legs stretched out or hanging over the gunwales. Gulls wheeled overhead. Denman, Cole, Nancy, and Sarah had made the journey from Vancouver to Port McNeill in a rental car in one day, rising early the day before to catch the first ferry from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo, then motoring north along the eastside of Vancouver Island. Jacob Ravenwing had picked them up that morning and now they were all gathered on the Inlet Dancer.

  “What are you going to do next, Grace?” Denman Scott asked, his bald head covered with a flat cap perched at a rather acute angle.

  “I think I’m going to work with Cassandra. We’ll use the Inlet Dancer for research. The government just announced that not only will they be adding fish farms to the Broughton, but they are going to allow Stoboltz to double its capacity at its existing farms. I only found out about this from a source in government. Brown envelope.”

  “You sound like a chip off the old block,” said Denman.

  “My father taught me a lot.”

  “He was a good man,” said Denman.

  Grace was silent a moment. Everybody was. “I miss him,” she finally said. “I miss him a lot.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Anyway,” she said. “I’ll work with Cassandra. And then, if there’s anything left to fish for, I’ll crew with Jacob or one of the locals from Lostcoast to keep the tradition alive each spring.”