The Fourth Betrayal

by Bruce Burrows

  Eventually the children’s eyes shut and their breathing deepened, and I stole out of the room. I poured myself a glass of wine and went out to sit on the front porch, waiting for Oshie to come home from her art class.

  It was almost full dark, and I counted all the porch lights up and down the quiet street. I knew nearly everybody on the street and they were all decent people. I was about to venture into an area where I didn’t know anyone and many people were not decent. As I pondered that, the air cooled and the shadows deepened and the evening sky imagined our fate.

  Seven

  1990

  ON A MISERABLE AFTERNOON IN mid-March, I caught the four-thirty ferry and drove to the Nimpkish dump. It was dark when I got there. I took the getaway vehicle’s two rear wheels out of the box of my pickup, bolted them on, jacked the truck down, hooked up the battery and was relieved when the engine started at the first turn of the key. Leaving it to warm up, I hid my truck behind an old skidder, climbed back into the encouragingly smooth-running GV and left.

  I drove straight to Coastwise Marine in Port McNeill and around to the back of its unfenced storage yard. Our Zodiac was, not unexpectedly, unsold, and grunting softly, I pulled it into the box of the GV. Thence to Beaver Cove and a secluded beach, where I launched the Zodiac and ran it around to Octopus Beach, on the unoccupied north shore of Malcolm Island. Mounting the prestashed bike, I rode into Sointula and entered the pub at 8:00 PM.

  Dougie was there and we played pool and drank—less than normal, but enough not to be suspicious. We stayed until the last ferry had left, and having thus established an alibi we hoped we’d never need, we left in Dougie’s truck.

  Back at Octopus Beach we clambered down the steep bank and were away in the Zodiac by nine twenty-five. At nine fifty we arrived at Beaver Cove, and the two of us had no trouble dragging the Zodiac up the beach and loading it into the GV. We now faced a two-hour drive to the launch point at Little Espinosa, and my nerves vibrated more tautly with every minute. The reality of what we were doing, two middle-class, small-town kids committing a major felony, soon to be pointing a gun at people and uttering grievous threats, began to sink in, and my stomach took a moral position of queasy nausea. My hands tightened on the steering wheel and I glanced at Dougie. The dim lights of the dashboard showed only that he was staring straight ahead, features obscured. Neither of us spoke.

  By the time we got to the launch point, the weather had eased somewhat. The rain had stopped and there were breaks in the clouds. We never saw the moon, but enough light filtered through that the hills showed black against the sky. Fortunately, that was all we needed for navigation, because charts in an open boat with any kind of a breeze were a pain in the ass. Within minutes we were skimming over the flat, black, inscrutable surface of the inlet, and I felt calmer.

  There was only a light breeze, but we were doing about twenty knots and the wind chill became our sole focus. We huddled behind the windscreen on the console and donned our ski masks earlier than intended. There was only the roar of the outboard and the rush of cold air as we hurtled forward, and the blackness, which constantly receded from us like a reluctant lover.

  An hour later we were at the mouth of Esperanza Inlet, and the Zodiac hurdled the troughs between low swells as we rounded the headland into Mary Basin. As soon as we saw the lights of the anchored boats, Dougie slowed to an idle. It looked like a small town had grown up on the waters of the anchorage. There were fifty or sixty anchor lights, although the majority of them would be gillnetters. It would not be difficult to differentiate the fifteen or so larger hulls that were our targets: the packers.

  It was just past midnight when we became criminals. At this point I sort of went on automatic pilot. Dougie told me later it was the same for him. It was almost as if we were outside of ourselves, watching ourselves do things in a dream. The first packer we came to was recognizable by silhouette alone. Long and low in the water except for a high bow, the Eastern Express was an ex-minesweeper. It was built of wood because wood doesn’t set off mines—but it doesn’t prevent robberies.

  We idled up to it and bumped gently against its port side. I climbed quietly over the rail, carrying a duffel bag empty except for several rolls of duct tape, and secured our bowline. Dougie joined me on the deck, carrying his uncle’s shotgun, and we locked eyes for a second before moving toward the galley.

  I eased open the top half of the galley door and leaned in for a look. They had left one light burning above the oil stove. I knew the boat had a crew of four. The skipper had a stateroom behind the wheelhouse, and the deckhands slept down below in the fo’c’s’le.

  We snuck up to the wheelhouse first, in order to disable the radios. This was accomplished by simply cutting the mic wires and stowing the mics in my bag. We kept our eyes open for handheld radios and discovered two being charged. There were no unoccupied chargers, so we were sure we’d got them all. And now to wake up the captain.

  This was ratcheting things up a notch, since we were now dealing with another human being. I knew who the guy was. He’d been pointed out to me in a bar, but I was fairly sure I’d never been pointed out to him. And even if I had been, I hadn’t worn a ski mask in the bar, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to recognize me by body type alone. I realized nervousness was making me over-rationalize things.

  He woke as soon as we opened the door to his stateroom, and when he saw the shotgun he knew exactly what was going on. No words were needed or spoken as I taped his arms behind his back and led him back to the galley. The deckhands were slightly more vocal when we woke them, but a long gun wielded by a faceless man can be a bit of a conversation dampener.

  When they were all safely taped up and seated with the galley table blocking any desperate lunges, I said what they all knew they’d hear.

  “Where’s the money?”

  “We don’t carry any cash. The company just gave us a checkbook.”

  There was a TV bolted in the corner just above their heads. Without a word Dougie blasted it. The sound in the small galley was shocking. The cathode ray tube imploded with an echo of the shotgun blast, and bits of glass and plastic showered down over the cowering bodies. Dougie shoved the barrel of the gun into the captain’s throat. “There’s one loaded barrel left. Where’s the money?”

  “Cashbox. Under that bench.”

  I pulled the cushion off the forward galley bench and removed the wooden top. There, in the traditional grocery storage space, was a locked gray steel box.

  “Key?”

  “The jacket hanging in my room. Left-hand pocket.”

  I got the key and opened the box. It contained a lot of money. I took the money and left the box, making a mental note to maintain that order of operations. “We’re leaving now. If we hear any noise or see anyone waving or trying to attract attention, we’ll be back.”

  We climbed back into the Zodiac and headed for our next victim. “Figure anyone heard that shot?”

  “The cabin would have muffled it pretty good. Anyway, it could just as well have been a drunken deckhand throwing seal bombs.”

  I nodded. We’d both been there, done that. The next packer, the Red Dragon, had a party going on. There was a guy on deck taking a leak. We came alongside, and I asked him if they had a spare hydraulic fitting, a number twelve female swivel. He must have thought my ski mask was for the cold.

  “Hang on, I’ll ask the chief.”

  We followed him into the galley, where there was a poker game in progress. Dougie produced the gun and I pushed Mr. Helpful down onto the bench so that he was behind the table with the others. We were looking at four moderately drunk, semi-irritated people, but I did a quick search of the boat just to make sure we had everyone.

  “Where’s the money?”

  “We don’t carry any cash. We’re dealing with all company boats.”

  Another TV bit the dust. This time the cash was hidden in a bag in the engine room. I got grease on my hands as I was climbing back up the ladder
.

  That night we killed nine television sets. On three occasions we were given the money solely on the basis of our ferocious manner. Not bad, I thought, for two guys who cringed at the Punch and Judy violence of professional wrestling. When we left the last packer, we took a prisoner with us. We also took its skiff, which we towed a couple of miles north before placing the prisoner in it and instructing him to row back and release everyone we’d tied up.

  Having thus engineered time for our getaway, we ran for home. I couldn’t believe it. We’d pulled it off! Almost. Almost home and dry. Another half an hour and we’d be back at the launch point.

  When the outboard quit, my heart stopped as well. After the constant roar there was only the soft swish of water slipping beneath us as we coasted to a stop. Dougie and I stared at each other, an unspoken “oh fuck” hanging between us like a flashing neon sign. We began a frantic diagnostic scramble.

  I checked the gas tank and hose while Dougie flipped the engine up and checked the water intake. An instant before panic completely overwhelmed us, we solved the problem. The plastic ring holding the kill switch in the run position had vibrated out. I improvised a solution by cutting a piece off my Sointula library card. When the engine roared back to life it was the sweetest thunder imaginable.

  Blessedly soon we were back at the launch point. Stiff with cold, it nevertheless took us only a minute to load the Zodiac, our gear, and the well-stuffed money bag into the GV. Then we were away on the last leg. Not far now, not far, damn it.

  We reversed the order of operations that had got us to the launch point, restoring the GV to its resting spot at the Nimpkish dump, putting the Zodiac into my truck, and then running it back to Malcolm Island to drop Dougie off. I returned to Beaver Cove, and by the time I dropped the Zodiac back at Coastwise Marine, dawn was threatening the darkness of the eastern sky.

  I drove to a secluded logging road and succeeded in getting a bit of sleep before it was time to catch the 4:00 PM ferry back to Sointula. Camouflaged among all the commuters, I kept my head down. After disembarking in Sointula, I turned right and drove fast. Kaleva Road led me home like a gentle river. The evening sky imagined our fate.

  Dougie had set the table with an unopened bottle of vodka and a spring salmon stuffed with onions and wild rice. There were baked potatoes wrapped in tin foil and peas in a colander. Dougie stood at the table like a host welcoming a long-absent friend. Without a word, he opened the vodka, poured two drinks and handed me one.

  “What are we toasting?”

  “Success.”

  “How much success?”

  “One million, six hundred and forty-seven thousand, seven hundred and ten successes.”

  My triumphant yell could have been heard all the way into town. We smashed our glasses together and hugged each other, heedless of the spilt alcohol. “I can’t believe we did it. We actually pulled it off. Two hicks from the sticks pulled off the biggest heist in BC history.”

  “Who you calling a hick? The important thing now is not to act like a dumb hick. We both keep our jobs for now. Maybe next year I’ll enrol at SFU. But no brand-new trucks and no buying rounds at the pub.”

  “You never bought a round in your life. And I love my old truck. But a year or so from now, I’d like to put a down payment on a boat. Everyone will think I borrowed the money from my folks, and my folks will think I got it from Mummu but they’d never ask.”

  By the time the food and the alcohol were finished we were drifting in a glorious haze of plans and promises and pontifications. “Hey, Dougie, this reminds me of our grad night. God, that seems ages ago. Well, we’ve really graduated now.” Another clink of the glasses and slack-jawed grins.

  Morning brought a mood that was slightly less celebratory, but a mere headache couldn’t completely dampen the lingering sense of triumph. As I sipped coffee and admired the view of our woodpile, I turned my mind to a problem that many people would love to have. What to do with one million, six hundred and forty-seven thousand, seven hundred and ten dollars? Or more specifically, where to hide it so it would be reasonably accessible but safe. I didn’t want to lose our hard-earned money to sleazy thieves, fire, or even nest-building squirrels.

  When Dougie got up, I waited until he had a cup of coffee firmly gripped in both hands. “Dougie, it’s about time we put in a bodaidoe patch.”

  He looked at me blankly. “Huh?”

  “We can’t put our money in the credit union. Next best? The potato patch. Individually wrapped bundles of fifty grand. When we need some cash, just dig a few bodaidoes.”

  “We won’t be here forever. What happens if the next tenant decides to do some gardening?”

  “We’ll be here for at least a year. After that I’ll come up with another brilliant idea.”

  “I’m sure you will. Hey, let’s listen to the news.”

  Dougie turned on the CBC news and we discovered we were headliners. The announcer’s comfortable CBC voice, usually staid to the point of tedium, what I referred to in my very own mind as a stadium voice, displayed just the faintest tremor of excitement. Reminiscent of when they’d covered the Queen’s last visit. Armed thieves have raided the West-Coast herring fleet and made off with well over a million dollars. RCMP are searching for leads. I think they were shocked that that much money had been in the possession of a few grubby fish boats.

  And they continued to be shocked over the next few days as the RCMP failed to discover any leads. It was as if the thieves had disappeared into a black hole. There was speculation that the heist had been pulled off by Japanese gangsters. That would explain the lack of local leads.

  The next day I had to go to work. My first stop was Old Man Ahola’s place. As I bustled unnecessarily around his kitchen, he looked at me suspiciously. “You’re acting like a dog in a rabbit field. What’s up? You finally got a girlfriend?”

  Christ! Was I sending out signals? “Yahoo! I pulled off a huge score and now I don’t have to worry anymore?” I tried to dampen my tail-wagging vibe. “No one special. I don’t want to make any of them jealous.”

  “Heh heh heh, right. Hey, what about that robbery on the West Coast? I knew that was going to happen sooner or later. Where else in the world would you find millions in cash with not an armed guard in sight?”

  “Sounds like an easy score, all right. But they’ll screw up. Somebody will talk to somebody and the cops will hear about it. Loose lips screw up the best-laid plans.”

  “You’re probably right. Still, I sort of hope they get away with it. Nobody got hurt but a bunch of rich businessmen who’ve been stealing from people like us for years.”

  I agreed with him but thought it wise not to say so. I left the old man sitting at his kitchen table, his still-active mind immersed in plans his body had no chance of implementing. My next client was Mummu. As I walked up to her house I could see water dripping from her eaves troughs. Probably clogged with leaves. My afternoon was now accounted for, but I wanted a chat first. I knocked on the door and entered to find her at the sink, doing dishes. “Mummu! Sit down. I’ll do those.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly capable. Besides, I need something to occupy my time. But I’ll let you make coffee and we can have some lunch.” Five minutes later we sat at the table with fresh mugs of coffee and plates of smoked dog salmon on rye bread. I munched and sipped happily but gradually became aware that Mummu was doing neither. She was staring at me.

  “When your father was your age, he was courting my daughter. Your generation seems hesitant to get on with life, like you’re waiting for training or something.”

  “There’re more choices now, Mummu. More decisions to make. My dad had to decide whether to log or fish. And it wasn’t hard to choose. If the fish were running, you fished. If they weren’t, you logged. And you didn’t need three certificates to do either one.”

  “Maybe things were simpler then. Getting a job was easy, and it didn’t really matter what you did. Your job wasn’t your career. You
r family was. The job was just a way of feeding the kids and keeping a roof over their heads.”

  “I’ll get there sooner or later, Mummu. Dougie and I are saving up a bit of a grubstake and then we’ll head for Vancouver. Try our luck in The Big Smoke. Maybe I’ll meet a nice girl. One that I haven’t known since being in diapers.”

  “That may have been your most attractive age, Ollie. But don’t worry. I’ve got the pictures to show to any girl you bring back here.”

  “Do you want to see me back here or not?”

  She smiled and patted my hand. “You’ll be back, Ollie. You’ll be back when you decide to be happy.”

  I cleaned up our lunch debris, hugged Mummu and wandered out to her yard just as her whist pals arrived. As I leaned a ladder against the eaves, her words rattled around my brain for a while, finally etching themselves in the important-things-you-need-to-remember cortex. Life. Do you live it, or does it live you? Am I just a long-lived sockeye salmon with no choice but to return to his home waters? Or can I deny my biological destiny? Do I want to? When I philosophized this to Dougie, his answer was simple.

  “Salmon have two biological imperatives: spawning and death. You only have one. And it’s not spawning.” That seemed a bit unfair. Drink in hand, I wandered out to the porch. A flock of Canada geese were commuting from their work in Rough Bay to their home in Kemp’s Beach. The southeast wind gusted threats like a belligerent drunk. The evening sky imagined our fate.

  Eight

  AS I SAT ON THE plane, I tried to remember Oshie’s instructions for recovering Dougie’s stolen tapes. I rehearsed her step-by-step instructions and did my best to enjoy what I told myself was a delightful airline breakfast consisting of some sort of brown stuff and something beigey and kind of yellow. My friends the Rockies were hiding under a fluffy blanket. By the time the blanket disappeared, so had anything worth seeing.