Salvage

by Stephen Maher

“Yeah?” said Dr. Greely. “What’s it explain?”

  “Nobody wants to know where you’re going, doctor,” said Scarnum. “At least, I don’t. But some fellows might want to know where I’m going. I’ll tell you about it over a beer at the Squadron one of these days.”

  Scarnum took a seat in the corner of the very last pew of the pretty little wooden church, next to two elderly women. He could see Angela in the front, sitting between her mother and her sister. They were holding her hands.

  The Zincks, looking both sad and uncomfortable in the church, were across the aisle from Angela’s family.

  Sergeant MacPherson and Constable Léger were sitting a few rows ahead of Scarnum.

  Big Hughie Zinck turned around and saw Scarnum in the back row. He looked straight ahead for a moment, then got to his feet and walked back. He edged into the cramped pew and whispered to the old ladies. They squished over and Hughie sat next to Scarnum. Scarnum put out his hand and Hughie took it. It felt like he could crush it easily. Scarnum could smell him.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Scarnum.

  Hughie leaned over and whispered in Scarnum’s ear. “Don’t give me that shit,” he said. “You’re probably in with the boys who killed Jimmy. How else d’you know where to find the boat?”

  Scarnum didn’t say anything for a minute. He leaned over and put his mouth next to Hughie’s ear. “I wish to fuck I’d never found that fucking boat, Hughie,” he said. “I didn’t know whose fucking boat it was, or what the fuck it was doing. I just came upon it on the rocks and towed it home, like anybody would. You’d do it yourself if you come across a fucking abandoned boat out on the water.

  “Ever since then, I’ve been in the shit. The Mounties locked me up, and the same fucking crazy Mexican fuckers that killed Jimmy are after me. I’m scared to death. They took a shot at me last night. Go have a look at my boat after if you don’t believe me. There’s fucking bullet holes all through it. I’m lucky to be alive.”

  At the front of the church, the minister started the service.

  Hughie leaned over and whispered in Scarnum’s ear. “How do you know that it was these Mexicans killed Jimmy?” he asked.

  “Well, they had a machine gun, for one thing,” said Scarnum. “I think Jimmy was bringing in drugs on the boat. Only reason I can see he’d be out there alone at night.”

  Hughie leaned in again. The ladies next to him shushed him, but he didn’t even look at them. “If I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll fucking kill you,” he said.

  “I know that,” said Scarnum. “Believe me, I know about you, Hughie. Angela asked me to try to find out what happened to the father of her baby. I did. This is what I found out. It hasn’t done me a lot of good, I’ll tell you.”

  “How come you’re doing that for Angela?” asked Hughie.

  Scarnum thought for a minute. “Well,” he said. “I’d rather not say, but I’m fucking her. After Jimmy was killed, she needed someone to hold her. I did. She asked for my help. Don’t blame her. She loved him, but he’s dead and she don’t know where to turn. You prob’ly heard what she’s like. She’s a good girl, but she’s wild.”

  He could hear Hughie breathing deeply next to him.

  Scarnum leaned over. “Hughie,” he said. “You knew my father, didn’t you?”

  “The Skipper,” he said. “I surely did. He was one tough old Newfie.”

  “He was fishing out of Hunt Cove since before you or me was born,” said Scarnum. “He and your old man would meet on the water, they’d tie up, have a jaw, pass a bottle of rum back and forth, if they was lucky enough to have one.”

  Hughie listened.

  “You ever hear your old man say anything bad about my father?” he asked, his lips actually touching Hughie’s ear. “Y’ever hear him say my old man lied to him, or cheated him, or said a bad word about somebody didn’t deserve it?”

  Hughie shook his head.

  “Look,” said Scarnum. “Angela asked me to find out who killed Jimmy. It was these Mexican fuckers, and now they’re after me. What am I supposed to do now? Tell her? Tell the Mounties? I’m thinking about it, but I don’t really know if that would do any good. I don’t think they’d catch these boys, and I don’t think they could protect me or Angela.”

  “Where they at?” asked Hughie.

  “I got no idea,” said Scarnum. “I don’t know where they’re staying, what car they’re driving. Nothing.”

  He coughed. “Did Jimmy tell you he was bringing in coke?”

  “No,” said Hughie, “but I wondered. He started having a lot of money, lot of cocaine. Said business was good. Last time he come up, two weeks before he died, he said Falkenham was going to set him up to run his business down here, give him a piece of the action. Now he’s dead. Now my little brother’s dead.”

  Then Hughie bent over and started to cry, his big shoulders shaking with deep, wracking sobs. It was a heart-rending sound. The Zincks, at the front of the church, heard him and they started to cry, until the church filled with a chorus of keening. The minister paused in his sermon, frowned with sadness, then continued. Scarnum frowned self-consciously and put his arm around Hughie’s shoulder and hugged him.

  As everyone milled out of the church, Scarnum found Angela, with her mother and her sister on either arm. She was wearing a modest black dress. Her eyes were bright red from crying. He gave her a hug and whispered in her ear, “You take care of yourself. I’ll call you soon.”

  She held him tightly and nodded.

  Scarnum went up to Momma Zinck, who was standing with her boys and their wives, and held out his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  She gave him a hard look, then nodded.

  He shook hands then with Hughie and his two brothers. Hughie leaned into him when he took his hand. “We want to know where these Mexicans are at,” he said.

  Scarnum pulled back and looked the big man in the eyes. “I find out, I’ll tell you,” he said.

  Sergeant MacPherson was waiting for him on the wharf, leaning on a piling next to where Scarnum’s inflatable was tied up.

  The wind was blowing from the land, so the bow of the sailboat was pointed up the cove, and its port side — the side without the bullet holes — was facing the wharf.

  “We’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” said MacPherson.

  “Well, I haven’t been home,” said Scarnum. “Didn’t know you were looking for me.”

  “Where you been?” said MacPherson.

  “Well, I ran a schooner I’d been working on into Halifax,” he said. “Then I come back, took my boat out, anchored here and there around the bay. Taking a little break. Having a few drinks. Little vacation. How you fellows doing on the case? Any chance of you releasing the Kelly Lynn any time soon? I got a big cheque coming to me when you do.”

  “I’m asking the questions,” said MacPherson, and he stood up and walked toward Scarnum. “I’m sick of your shit and I want some straight answers. Now.” The big Mountie jabbed Scarnum in the chest. Scarnum backed up.

  He could feel the wind changing, shifting from the land. Over MacPherson’s shoulder, he could see his boat turning on its anchor, moving so that the starboard side was visible.

  “Sergeant MacPherson, I already told you fellows everything I know,” he said.

  “We found your fucking fingerprints on the boat,” said MacPherson. “Great big fingerprints in the blood. And we found your fingerprints and Jimmy’s fingerprints on that bottle of cocaine.”

  “When I went on the boat that night, it was pitch dark,” said Scarnum. “I didn’t see no blood. I told you that. I don’t know nothing about that cocaine.”

  MacPherson jabbed him in the chest again. Scarnum took five steps further back.

  “How long you been fucking Angela Rodenhiser?” MacPherson asked.

  Scarnum stepped back. “Me and Angela been friends for a long time,” he said. “But we’re just friends.”

  Scarnum heard a sound from the r
oad. He looked over and saw Léger walking toward them. He took a step back.

  Léger walked up to the two men. She was staring at the Orion, which was now pointing down the bay. A row of bullet holes was clearly visible on the side.

  “What happened to your boat?” she said.

  MacPherson turned and looked at the boat. “Jesus Christ!” he said.

  He stomped over to the edge of the wharf and peered at the boat. His face was bright red when he turned back. “Are those fucking bullet holes?” he said.

  Scarnum looked at MacPherson, then at Léger. “B’y, I t’ink so,” he said. “That’s my best guess, anyways. I noticed them the other day when I came back to my boat.”

  MacPherson took out his handcuffs. “What a crock of shit,” he said. “Where’ d your boat get shot up?”

  Scarnum looked at his boat for a minute. MacPherson was looking at him, red-faced, with a scowl. Léger looked curious.

  “I think I want to talk to my lawyer,” Scarnum said.

  “You can talk to him in jail,” said MacPherson. “I’m charging you with the murder of James Zinck.”

  Scarnum got to talk to Mayor that evening, in an interview room at the Chester RCMP detachment.

  He was rubbing at the handcuff marks on his wrists when Léger let Mayor in.

  “Where’s my boat?” said Scarnum.

  “They’ve impounded it,” he said. “They sent a boat from Oikle’s down to tow it back. Should be here early tomorrow.”

  “How long can they hold me?” said Scarnum.

  “Well, that’s up to the judge. We’ll probably get a court appearance tomorrow. They’ll want to hold you until the ballistics tests come back, to see if the bullets were fired from the same gun that killed James Zinck. Could take a week or so. They’d be more likely to let you go if they thought you were levelling with them.”

  “I told them everything I know,” said Scarnum.

  “Who shot up your boat?” said Mayor.

  “I got no clue,” said Scarnum. “It must have happened when I was away from the boat. I was boozing pretty hard these past days. First time I noticed the holes was, uh, Tuesday, I think. Woke up with a bad hangover and noticed water dripping in. So, it might have happened Monday. Figured some fucking kid might have shot at it with a .22.”

  Mayor looked at him quizzically. “MacPherson says it looks like a machine gun,” he said. “Didn’t you think about that?”

  “Tell you the truth,” said Scarnum. “I never did. I ain’t been doing too much thinking lately.”

  “All right,” said the lawyer, pulling out a legal pad. “Let’s see if we can get this straightened up and get you out of here. I want you to tell me everything that you been doing since the night you salvaged the Kelly Lynn.”

  He gave Scarnum the big smile. “I want you to feel free to tell me everything,” he said. “I can’t help you unless I know what’s what. Remember, I’m bound by attorney-client privilege. That means I can’t tell the RCMP, or anyone else, anything you tell me unless you give me the say-so. OK?”

  He bent over his pad and wrote the date at the top.

  “Let’s start with that night,” he said. “The RCMP say they found your prints inside the Kelly Lynn. Did you go aboard the boat after you brought it to Isenor’s?”

  Scarnum opened his mouth and closed it. He leaned back and rubbed his wrists, and turned and looked at the door to the interrogation room.

  “I don’t think I want you to be my lawyer no more,” he said.

  For a minute, it was like Mayor hadn’t heard him. When Mayor looked up he was smiling, but it wasn’t as bright as his usual grin. “Are you sure, Phillip?” he said. “Is there some problem?”

  “I want you to handle my salvage,” said Scarnum. “But the last time I saw you, you said I should think about hiring Joel Freeman. Can you call him up, see if he’ll handle this?”

  “Sure I can,” said Mayor. “But it’ll cost you a lot more. And who knows when he’ll be able to get down here, or whether he’ll take the case. You might spend more time in here that way.”

  Scarnum rubbed his eyes. “Tell you the truth,” he said. “Might do me good to stay in here a few days. Keep me off the booze, anyways.”

  Thursday, April 29

  FREEMAN WAS IN THE next morning.

  He was sleek, with an olive tan and a fringe of carefully combed brown hair around the base of his bald head. He wore a grey wool suit with diamond cufflinks, which matched his diamond pinkie ring.

  “Good morning, Mr. Scarnum,” he said as they shook hands. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing pretty good, all things considered,” said Scarnum.

  “I understand you want me to see if I can get you out of this place,” and he gestured at the ugly little room with its painted cinder-block walls.

  “Yes, sir,” said Scarnum.

  “Well, let’s see what we can do,” said Freeman.

  He sat down, opened his briefcase, and slid a two-page contract across to Scarnum. “This is my standard retainer contract,” he said.

  He went through it quickly, explaining the clauses in a practised routine. The last clause had to do with payment: three hundred dollars an hour.

  “Charles Isenor arranged for a two-thousand-dollar retainer fee today,” said Freeman. “But we need to arrange for payment. Can you afford me, Mr. Scarnum?”

  “I’m expecting a $125,000 payday on my salvage claim,” said Scarnum.

  “Mr. Mayor explained that,” said Freeman. “But now that the police have seized the Kelly Lynn, we have no idea of when that might clear, if ever. Do you have other assets that you could use as a surety for my legal services?”

  “I have a few grand in the bank,” he said. “And my boat. Orion. Probably worth about $20,000.”

  “Orion,” said Freeman. “Which the RCMP have also seized.”

  “That’s right,” said Scarnum.

  “All right,” said Freeman, and he took another contract from his briefcase. He filled in the name of Scarnum’s boat, and passed it to Scarnum.

  “This says that you acknowledge I will have a claim to any salvage payment from the Kelly Lynn, and on the Orion, to the amount that I bill you for my legal services,” he said. “The long and short of it: If I have any trouble getting paid, I can take your boat.”

  Scarnum looked at the form. “You don’t work for nothing,” he said and signed.

  “You are absolutely correct,” said Freeman as he took the form back. “Now, what did you tell the police? We’ve got a bail hearing at one p.m.”

  Léger and MacPherson didn’t bother putting handcuffs on Scarnum for the drive down to the provincial courthouse in Bridgewater — half an hour down the highway — but they didn’t talk to him either, driving in silence, listening to CBC on the radio.

  Scarnum sat cramped in the back of the cruiser, looking out the window at the woods beside the highway. In one clearing he saw a deer — a young buck with stubby little antlers — browsing at some birch saplings. Near Bridgewater, Scarnum saw an eagle fly by with a big mackerel in its talons, on its way back to its nest for dinner. He thought about how the mackerel had lived its whole life under the water, and wondered what it thought of its last view of the world, looking down at the water for the first time in its life.

  When they stopped for gas in Bridgewater, and MacPherson got out, Scarnum spoke to Léger.

  “I figure you got a good idea I didn’t have nothing to do with killing Jimmy,” he said.

  Léger turned around and stared at him. Her face was calm and her pretty brown eyes were narrow.

  “Who shot your boat?” she said and studied his face.

  Scarnum looked away and then scratched his head. “Jeez, Constable, I’d sure like to know dat meself,” he said. “I t’ought it was some kid wit a .22, but sitting in jail there I started to wondering who mighta done it. Do you t’ink it was de fellows killed Jimmy?”

  Léger laughed at him. “Do you think I’m stupid?�
�� she said.

  The provincial courthouse had seen better days. It was a fine old wooden building, now clad in cheap vinyl siding. And the courtroom, where Scarnum sat in the prisoner’s bench, had handsome wood panelling on its high, beautifully vaulted ceiling. But years ago, someone had boarded over the windows set into the panelling, and the carpet and chairs in the public gallery were cheap and rundown.

  MacPherson and Léger sat in the front row of the gallery, which was separated from the court by a wooden rail. Charlie and Annabelle, who looked worried, sat a few rows behind the police. Keddy, the lawyer for SeaWater, sat at the back of the courtroom. There were a few reporters.

  A sheriff in a bulletproof vest sat to one side, looking like he was trying not to fall asleep.

  When Freeman came in, he strolled over to Scarnum, told him not to worry, then introduced himself to Michael Smith, the young Crown prosecutor, who looked startled to see him. Then Freeman spread his papers out on a wooden table and kept his head down until Judge William Fraser entered and everyone stood up.

  Justice Fraser, a short, bespectacled man in his sixties with a grey beard, took his seat under an old portrait of a smiling Queen Elizabeth. He looked bored.

  Smith nervously jingled the coins in the pocket of his brown suit as he stood to address the judge.

  Sergeant MacPherson gave Scarnum a hard look as the young prosecutor got started.

  “Your Honour,” said Smith. “The Crown has charged Phillip Scarnum with the murder of James Zinck. The remains of Mr. Zinck were found at Sandy Cove, near Sambro, on Saturday, April twenty-fourth. The evidence indicates that he perished on the beach after being shot” — Smith paused, mid-sentence, and looked up at the judge — “with a machine gun, on a fishing vessel, the Kelly Lynn, on April twenty-first. The evidence indicates that after being shot, Mr. Zinck tried to get to shore. When he ran the Kelly Lynn aground, he swam to shore, where he expired on the beach.

  “Mr. Scarnum salvaged the Kelly Lynn on April twenty-second, and boarded her. The RCMP subsequently found his fingerprints in Mr. Zinck’s blood on the boat. Mr. Scarnum filed a salvage claim, and when the RCMP went to investigate the Kelly Lynn, on April twenty-fourth, he had just purchased a bottle of champagne, apparently to celebrate the payday that he anticipated.