Salvage. Stephen Maher
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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