Silver Totem of Shame

by R. J. Harlick

  “Cloë, get a hold of yourself. You can’t settle it this way. Let the due process of law be the judge,” he said.

  “Hah! You believe that shit. He’ll get off on a technicality. They always do. Give me the gun.”

  As she reached behind his back, Siggy grabbed the rifle and removed the cartridges.

  “Child, I feel your pain,” Louise said. “I’ve lost him, too. But killing the person who put an end to his short life won’t heal your pain or mine. We must let destiny take its course. What will be, will be. Come, sit beside me.”

  Cloë continued to glower at Eric and Siggy, then, with a deep sigh, she sat beside Louise on a sofa. But before she did, she retrieved the urn and placed it between the two of them.

  Fifty-Eight

  We waited as the morning sun gradually lit up the red geraniums on the sill of Siggy’s bay window. After the unsettling conversation between Louise and Siggy, Eric and I had been expecting something to happen. But the elder remained sitting beside Cloé. Occasionally she would pat her grandson’s urn as she sipped her Darjeeling tea. Not once did she choose to break her silence.

  Meanwhile, Becky and I busied ourselves by doing the dishes with hot water scooped from a large battered pot simmering on the woodstove.

  Cloë hummed softly to herself. I was worried about her. After she had tried to grab the rifle, she’d returned to this almost trance-like state, seemingly oblivious to what was happening around her. I wasn’t sure whether it was a result of her overwhelming grief or her concussion. She no longer wore the bandage. In a fit of fury yesterday, she had ripped it off when it slipped down over her eyes. After checking the wound, Eric felt it was healing nicely and no longer needed the bandage. She hadn’t complained about dizziness or headaches in well over a day. So I was hoping it was only her grief that was affecting her. That we could deal with. A worsening brain injury we couldn’t, not this far away from medical help.

  Eric tried distracting her by suggesting a walk, but she ignored him. After several more rebuffed entreaties and a “best leave her alone” from Louise, he turned his attention to the strange apparatuses strewn around Siggy’s house.

  An initial query about a web-like piece of wire attached to the ceiling brought Siggy running to proudly declare it was an aerial for his shortwave radio, which he immediately turned on to some Japanese station to show how effectively it worked. He then set out to explain all the other gizmos he’d invented to make life easier on the edge of the world.

  After a couple of hours, Louise finally stood up and declared that it was time to go. She walked across the room to where her pack lay propped against the rest. After putting on a heavy wool sweater, she pulled out her red and black button blanket and draped it around her shoulders, snapping the clasp into place. Next she rummaged around in the pack until her ceremonial cedar bark hat appeared in her hands. She shook it vigorously to get rid of the creases. Placing it over her short, curly white hair, she tied it securely under her chin with a thin strap of braided cedar bark. A leather pouch came next. This she placed in the pocket of her jeans.

  Taking this as a sign that we were about to leave for Llnagaay for the scattering of the ashes, I put on an extra sweater and my Gore-Tex jacket. I was hoping I wouldn’t need the cumbersome wet weather gear. For the moment the sky was cloudless. Hopefully if rain were coming we’d be back inside the dryness of Siggy’s house by the time it arrived.

  I insisted Eric wear an extra sweater too. Though he showed no signs yet of a cold after his soaking, I wanted to make sure he didn’t get one.

  Cloë remained seated, her eyes focused on her son’s urn, which now rested in her lap.

  “You better put on some warmer clothes,” I said. “We’re going.”

  Louise looked up. “Oh dear, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. We’re not going to Llnagaay right away. There’s something I have to do first and I need to do it on my own, although I want Eric and Siggy to come with me. I will need them as witnesses.”

  “Happy to,” Eric said. “What will we be witnessing?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “I want to respect your ways, Louise, but I would feel much better if my wife came with me. I don’t feel comfortable leaving her here on her own.”

  “She will be quite safe here, as will Becky and your sister.”

  “You’re going to this Otter Inlet, aren’t you?” I said. “You want to confront your grandson’s killer. Is it Ernest?”

  As if I hadn’t said a word, she continued, “If we don’t return within a few hours I want you to call the RCMP on Siggy’s satellite phone.”

  “Why not bring them in now?” I asked.

  “Because there are things I must do that don’t concern the police.”

  “I don’t want my husband going.”

  “I know it’s asking a lot of you, but I need him. Besides, he won’t come to harm. This only concerns me and my family.”

  “It’s okay, Meg. I’ll be careful.”

  “But Eric, I almost lost you once. I don’t want to lose you again.”

  He wrapped his arms around me. “My Miskowàbigonens, don’t worry. I won’t do anything silly. Besides, I’ve only used up two of my nine lives. I still have seven more.” He grinned.

  Louise walked over to Cloë. “Child, do you mind giving me your son, my grandson.”

  “Why?” The distraught mother clung to the velvet bag. “I want to scatter his ashes, too.”

  “I promise you we will do this later, together, but first I need him. He has one last duty to perform.”

  Cloë continued to clutch the heavy bag to her breast. Louise waited.

  Finally Cloë spoke. “I don’t understand why you need my son, but he is Haida. He must follow your ways.” She brushed her lips against the soft velvet before handing it to Louise.

  Siggy, decked out in a black and red lumberman’s shirt with a black watch cap pulled down over his unruly hair, tossed Eric a rifle from a cupboard. “I’m assuming you know how to use this.”

  Eric nodded grimly. I didn’t like this at all.

  Siggy helped himself to the other rifle in the cupboard, but left the one Cloë had gone after propped beside the door.

  “Auntie, be safe.” Becky gave her a long hug.

  “You take care of yourself too, child.” She patted the young woman gently before turning to leave.

  While Cloë remained inside the house, Becky and I escorted the three of them down to the water and watched silently as the Red Rocket, with Louise sitting proudly in the bow gripping her hat, sped across the bay and disappeared into the channel beyond.

  We returned to the house with the instructions to call the RCMP if they didn’t return by 4:00 p.m., six hours from now.

  I chose to ignore those instructions. I called the number Siggy had given us to let them know that the killer of Allistair Zakharov could be found on Otter Inlet at the south end of Moresby Island. I didn’t care if Louise got angry with me. My husband’s life and hers and Siggy’s were more important to me than letting her keep her secrets.

  I asked them to hurry.

  Fifty-Nine

  While I anxiously watched the clock, waiting for the police to arrive, Becky tried to hide her own nervousness by flipping through a book. She was in complete agreement with my decision to call the police. If I hadn’t, she would have.

  The house was quiet, almost too quiet, but for the ticking of the clock and the rustling of the pages. None of us was interested in talking. Surprisingly, Cloë had roused herself a short while ago and gone outside. She’d said nothing since passing her son’s ashes over to Louise, so I had no idea what she was feeling or whether she appreciated the danger her brother might be in. And I hadn’t asked. I was too worried about Eric.

  “You know, in the old days the matriarchs were often the ruling force in our communities,” Becky said, putting the book down. “When the men screwed up, the women took over.” She laughed and then grew serious. “I think that’s wha
t Louise is doing. But I’m worried. Whatever this is about, it might be more than she can handle.”

  “She has Eric with her. If any man can handle a difficult situation, he can. I suspect Siggy would be a good man to have around too. Still, I’m worried. When someone has killed, they won’t hesitate to do it again.” I shuddered and said a silent prayer for Eric. “Do you think the murderer could be Ernest, even if he has an alibi?”

  “I don’t know him that well. But apart from shouting at Allie whenever he screwed up, Ern always treated him with respect. Besides, what reason would he have for killing him?”

  “That’s the problem. There doesn’t seem to be any motive. What about Louise’s nephews? Could either of them have done it?”

  “God, I sure hope not. But, you know, I was surprised to hear Siggy say that Col was here.”

  “You said he lived in Vancouver.”

  “Yeah, that’s right …” She began pacing back and forth in front of me. “He used to be a fisherman until the industry went under. He’s a carver now.”

  “Do you think it could’ve been Col who stole Allistair’s totem pole and brought it here?” I asked.

  “That would make him a suspect too, wouldn’t it?” She shook her head. “For Auntie’s sake, I sure hope not. It would destroy her.”

  “Let’s not forget Johnnie’s a suspect in the rope cutting.”

  “I know.”

  “I hope the police come soon.”

  “I don’t understand. They’re both great guys. Sure they’ve got their problems, like a lot of people. But I don’t see either of them being capable of doing such terrible things. Two Finger, that’s what we call Col, because he has only two fingers on one hand, he saved Dad’s life. It was when they were working on the fishing boats. Dad got tangled up in a net and fell overboard. Two Finger jumped in and saved him.”

  She suddenly stopped at a window. “Hey, someone’s out there in a kayak. Where’d they come from?”

  I ran to join her. A yellow and white kayak was about halfway across the bay, headed in the direction the Red Rocket had gone. I felt a sudden chill when I realized the person paddling had blond hair and was wearing a bright blue jacket. “Where’s Cloë?”

  We raced outside, screaming her name. I ran one way around the house, while Becky ran the other. But the only answer to our repeated calls was the waves lapping against the rocks and the cry of gulls from across the water.

  “I’ll check back in the house in case she came inside when we weren’t looking,” I offered as a last hope.

  But I knew deep down that she was the one paddling as fast as she could toward her son’s killer. To confirm my suspicions, the first thing I did when I went back in the house was check to see if the rifle was still leaning against the wall. It was gone. And scattered on the floor was a box of cartridges.

  “The rifle’s gone!” I shouted, running back outside in time to see Becky emerge from some crumbling brickworks.

  “That’s got to be Cloë in the kayak,” she said. “I’ve looked all over.”

  The kayak was moving at a fair clip and had almost reached the channel. I was surprised at Cloë’s paddling skill, given her decidedly urban bent.

  “We have to go after her. Does Siggy have another boat?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’m not sure we should go. Auntie was pretty insistent that we stay here.”

  “Cloë could cause a real mess, especially with that gun. We have to stop her.”

  I ran to where I remembered seeing a couple of overturned kayaks lying on the shore. There was an empty space where one of them had been. When I turned over the other, I groaned at the sight of several gaping holes in the deck and a smashed bow. “Is there anywhere else Siggy might keep a boat?”

  “Maybe in the cove beyond the old whaling station.” She pointed in the direction of the decaying brickworks.

  I ran past her and onto a path that wended its way through crumbling brick buildings, rusting iron vats, and other debris. It opened onto the shore of a rock-lined cove. Moored in the middle of the cove was an aluminum fishing boat, very much like my own putt-putt, complete with an outboard motor. Although there were a few dents in the hull, it appeared seaworthy. Jammed into the rocks next to me was an overturned lightweight plastic kayak with a paddle underneath.

  “Becky, there’s a boat,” I shouted. “I’m going to take it.” I hefted up the kayak and began carrying it down to the water. “Are you coming?”

  I dropped the kayak onto the water, squeezed myself into it, and paddled out to the boat. I gingerly transferred from one boat to the other and fixed the kayak’s rope to a cleat. Crossing my fingers that this motor wasn’t going to be temperamental, I pulled the starter. Miraculously, it caught.

  I shouted Becky’s name again, hoping she could hear me. Although I didn’t want to go on my own, I didn’t have time to coax her. As I was untying the mooring line and securing the kayak to the buoy I heard a noise on the shore and looked up to see her standing on the rocks wearing a life jacket. In one hand she carried another life jacket and in the other a gas can.

  “I think we’ll need these,” she said.

  After paddling the boat close enough for her to climb in, we took off after Cloë. The putt-putt motor might not be a racing machine, but it would be faster than her paddling. Although she’d already disappeared around the point, I was hoping we would catch up to her before she reached the others. Thankfully, the water conditions were with us, not quite flat calm, but not choppy enough to slow us down either. When we moved into the channel, the wind picked up along with the waves. Fortunately they were going in our direction.

  “I don’t see Cloë. Do you?”

  “No, but the entrance to Otter Inlet is another kilometre or so ahead. She’s probably already reached it,” Becky yelled from her seat in the bow.

  “It’s a bit rough for a kayak. Do you think she could’ve dumped?”

  “We’d see the yellow bottom of the kayak. She looked like she knew what she was doing, so I think she made it to the inlet.”

  We skirted along the inhospitable shore and passed an opening to a lagoon with a sizeable beach. In the trees beyond, I could make out something orange.

  “Keep further out,” she shouted. “There are some rocks up ahead.”

  I saw their jagged tops in time and dipped around them.

  We chugged along for another fifteen or so minutes, then Becky said, “The entrance to the inlet is just beyond that dead tree.”

  I reduced our speed. “I’ll go slow. No telling what might greet us when we round the corner.”

  We skirted the carcass of a once-mighty Sitka spruce and inched along the shore until it fell away to reveal the calm waters of a deep narrow inlet surrounded by steep mountain slopes. At the far end, a kilometre or two away, I could make out the white hulls of two large boats. Siggy’s Red Rocket floated closer to shore beside another boat, grey in colour. Halfway between us churned Cloë’s yellow and white kayak.

  The scene appeared deceptively calm. I couldn’t make out anyone on the boats or on the shore. More importantly, I didn’t see Eric’s bright red jacket.

  Where was everyone?

  Sixty

  Revving the engine, I yelled, “We’ve got to get to Cloë before she reaches the boats.”

  We churned through the water toward the blond head. She glanced back at us and I could sense her horror as she realized she was being chased. She paddled harder. For a second she seemed to move away from us, until I opened up the throttle completely.

  “Come on, old girl,” I muttered under my breath. “Don’t conk out on me now.” My own aging outboard sputtered at the mere hint of going full speed. But this one seemed to thrive on it. Thank god.

  Despite Cloë’s frantic paddling, we were gaining on her. But she was closing in on the first moored boat, a sleek, expensive-looking seagoing yacht whose pristine newness made me hazard a guess on the ownership. I waited for someone to emerge.


  Eric’s sister slowed down and scanned the boat carefully as she drifted past. When no one appeared, she picked up her speed and paddled to the next high-class yacht. This one I did recognize.

  “Becky,” I shouted, “that’s Ernest’s boat, isn’t it?”

  “Yup. My cousin made those curtains in the main cabin.”

  “Sure has done well for himself, hasn’t he?”

  We were nudging the kayak’s stern by the time Cloë reached the boat.

  “Leave me alone,” Cloë shouted. She dropped her paddle onto the kayak deck, lifted out the rifle from between her legs, and pointed it at us. “I’ll shoot, if you come near me.”

  I put the engine into neutral. “Please, Cloë, come with us. It’s not safe here. You could get killed.”

  “I don’t care. I’m going after my son’s killer. Do you know which boat is his?”

  “Killing him won’t solve anything.”

  “With Allistair dead my life is over anyways. I wasn’t always there for my son. This time I will be. I’m going to make damn sure this man pays for what he has done to me.”

  “Look, Cloë, the police will soon be here. Let them deal with him.”

  “Hah! You honestly think our judicial system will give him what he deserves. Like hell. Even if they manage to convict him, he’ll be walking free in five years or less while my poor Allistair is gone forever. Now back off or I’ll shoot.” As if to emphasize the point, she fired the rifle into the air, sending a flock of gulls soaring. She aimed the rifle back at us.

  What to do? I figured with one very forceful thrust, I could overturn the kayak and Cloë into the water along with the rifle, rendering it useless. But could I do it before she shot us?