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 drove down to his parking spot next to the dock and climbed out of the truck.
He left the champagne, the anchor, and the battery in the truck.
As he walked to the dock, he could see that one of the two Mounties there was Sergeant Robert MacPherson, who had booked him once for assault after he punched a drunken fisherman outside the Anchor one night. The other was a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair and big brown eyes.
He nodded at Charlie and smiled at MacPherson. “Good day, Corporal MacPherson,” he said. “Nice to see you again.”
The female Mountie corrected him. “Sergeant MacPherson,” she said.
Scarnum smiled. “Congratulations, Sergeant,” he said.
MacPherson, a big stern fellow with black hair and a grey moustache, didn’t smile back. “I’ve got some questions about your salvage vessel here, Mr. Scarnum,” he said.
Charlie spoke up then. “They’ve been asking me all about it, but I told them I don’t really know nothing,” he said.
MacPherson
