The Darkening Archipelago (34 page)

Cole looked up. “Nice boat.”

“It was my father's. He passed it on.”

“Mind if I look around?”

Dan Campbell looked at him from under his ball cap. “What for?”

“Maybe I want to go hunting.”

Campbell laughed. “Right. Go ahead. Don't make no difference to me.”

Cole stepped onto the boat. It was a forty-foot steel-sided troller that had been converted for fishing trips and passengers. Cole walked around the cabin looking at the gunwales and at the cleats. Ropes were neatly stacked and coiled on the deck. Cole slipped from his pocket the length of rope he had taken from the stern of the
Inlet Dancer
and examined it. He looked at Dan Campbell's ropes. Rats, he thought. Weathered and worn and all of the same sort. He couldn't find any that had recently been cut, or looked new enough to have been replaced.

“You about done?” asked Campbell, spitting on the dock.

Cole stepped down. “Got any other boats?”

“Sure,” said Campbell, “but I don't see how this is any of your business. What are you up to, Blackwater?”

Cole stood sideways to the man. “Here's the thing, Dan,” he said. “I think that Archie Ravenwing was murdered.”

Dan Campbell choked on a laugh. He sounded like a dog barking. “Oh, you really crack me up, Blackwater,” he said when he had stopped laughing. “That's rich. Archie goes out in a storm and gets himself washed overboard and you come around here telling people that he was murdered. That's fucking rich. Next thing you're going to tell me is that you think I did it.”

“Did you?”

“You are really something, Blackwater. I read about you in the newspaper. I read about you in Alberta and your little games. I read all about that mine manager and how you helped solve his murder. Now you're looking for a killer under every rock, is that it? Want to make yourself famous?”

“Dan, it's no secret that you hated Archie. Hated his race, and hated what he stood for.”

“I got to get some work done this afternoon, Blackwater. It's been nice talkin' with you.” He put a foot up on the gunwale of the boat and was about to step onto it. Cole grabbed his arm. Dan wrenched it from Cole's grasp, his hat flying off as he did. “Get your fucking hands off me, you environmentalist fuck. If you put your Indian-loving hand on me again I'm going to break your neck.”

“Is that how you killed Archie Ravenwing?”

Cole could see Dan's face turn red, his eyes bulge. His thin hair stood on end, and he looked like a madman. Cole readied himself for violence.

“You better get your ass out of Port Lostcoast, and take that piece of pussy you brought here along with you. If I see you again, I'm going to knock every one of your goddamned teeth right down your throat.”

“You'll see me again,” said Cole, fighting to control his breath and avoid choking on his words. “I guarantee it.” He turned his back to Dan and walked back toward town.

23

They met at Greg White Eagle's home. It was almost noon when Nancy arrived, and the house was filled with the smell of food. Nancy was greeted at the door by a middle-aged woman in a long, blue dress and printed apron. “Come in,” the woman said. “You must be the reporter.” Nancy smiled and stepped into the house, directly into the kitchen. A square table was in the middle of the room, and the aroma of cooking fish filled the air.

“Can I offer you coffee? Greg is on the phone right now. He'll be right out.”

“Coffee would be nice,” said Nancy.

“I'm Martha. Greg's wife.” She offered a hand.

“Pleased to meet you.”

Nancy took a seat at the table and sipped her coffee. The room was bright, the cupboard painted white and the linoleum floor polished to a shine. But the house felt small and a little damp, and Nancy thought maybe the floor listed to one side a little.

She sat a moment in silence, watching Martha put the finishing touches on a fish chowder. As she placed slices of bread into a pan, the room filled with the sizzle and smell of frying.

Greg White Eagle entered the room like a storm. “You must be Nancy. I see you've got a cup of coffee. Have you eaten? Let's have a quick lunch and then talk. Martha, can you set Ms. Webber up?”

Nancy didn't have time to protest before a bowl of soup was set in front of her, and she had to admit that she was famished. They ate a lunch of chowder with grilled cheese sandwiches on the side. “I'm a simple man,” said White Eagle, a few crumbs falling from the corner of this mouth onto the plate. “I have simple tastes.”

They finished their food, and Martha cleared the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you. That was really delicious.”

“More coffee?”

“No, thanks. I'm fully caffeinated.”

Greg White Eagle laughed. “Come, let's sit in my office.”

Nancy followed the big man to the back of the house. The hallway was dark, the wood panelling stained with water in a few places.

“This place belonged to my father,” said White Eagle, noticing Nancy's gaze. “He built it himself after World War II. He was stationed overseas. Used up his soldier pay building this place for my mama. It's hard to keep anything from rotting in this climate.” Greg smiled, pointing to a stiff-backed chair for Nancy to sit in. His office was a tiny room off the back of the house. His desk was piled with papers and clippings and file folders, his computer nearly buried in folders and stacks of assorted reading material.

“Thanks for coming by,” he said, sitting just a few feet from her.

“Thanks for returning my call.”

“Not every day we get a reporter like you in Port Lostcoast. Are you here for the announcement?”

Nancy felt a flash of heat in her face. She held his gaze. “That's right.”

“Good news, you know. Good news. We've been working on this for years. It's good news for the people of Port Lostcoast and for First Nations all up and down the coast.”

“Good news?” Nancy said, sounding quizzical.

“Good news,” repeated White Eagle. “The First Nations Opportunity Fund is just the sort of thing that coastal communities need to turn themselves around. It's the sort of investment that will allow our communities to prosper.” His words sounded rehearsed to Nancy, and she flipped open her notebook as encouragement.

“Tell me more about that.”

“Well, what the fund will do is put money into communities like Port Lostcoast to help us train our people to meet today's employment needs. The idea is to help our people train for work in resource-based economies. So folks in the interior will be trained in forest management. Folks in the north, mining. Here on the coast, fisheries and aquaculture.”

“Haven't we seen this sort of program before?”

“I guess so. I'm new to this politics thing, so I don't have all the history. But I've been working with Victoria on this now for about a year, and I feel this will be a real boon for our nation.”

“Can you say what makes this one different?”

“Well, industry is on board with it. That's going to make all the difference.”

“What do they get?”

“Cash. Cash for training. Cash to subsidize on-the-job instruction. Businesses can apply to the fund to work with communities like Port Lostcoast to put people to work. Did you know that at certain times of the year our unemployment hovers around seventy percent! Nearly everybody in this town is out of work. Nearly everybody in this town depends on welfare at some point in the year. These people are dirt poor. It's time somebody did something about it. That's my job. I take it pretty seriously. And I'm sorry to say that my predecessor did not.”

Nancy made some notes on her pad.

“Look, I know that you must have some kind of connection there. That's obvious. But I got to tell you, Archie Ravenwing didn't do much to lift this community out of poverty. He was too busy trying to shut down the employers, like salmon farms and grizzly hunting guide outfitters. The man was obsessed.”

“Didn't sport fishing and the native fishery keep people employed?”

“To an extent, yes, but it was seasonal. The native salmon fishery has been in decline for more than a decade. If there are no fish, there are no jobs.”

“I think that was the point,” said Webber. “I think that was Archie's point, wasn't it?”

“You can stand around waving your arms all you like about the disappearing salmon, or you can do something to help your people adapt to the new reality. I'm choosing to help my people react to the new reality. Archie was stuck in the old days.”

Nancy tapped her pencil. She looked around the humble office. “Some people would say that by working with Stoboltz and other salmon farming companies you're colluding with the enemy. You're working with the very people who are responsible for the demise of the wild salmon.”

“Sea lice are natural —”

“But not in the numbers that we see today,” said Nancy, finding herself on shaky ground. She'd only just read some material that morning, and was searching her memory for arguments.

“Look, whether we like it or not, Stoboltz is here to stay. They have two dozen operations in the Broughton alone. If we play our cards right, people around here might have a shot at good paying jobs that last nearly year round. Imagine that, year-round employment! People stand to make a lot of money if we play our cards right.”

“What about you?” said Nancy, reaching for her trump card.

“What about me?” said Greg, tilting his head to the side.

“What do you stand to gain?”

“If I do my job right, my people will re-elect me. That will be gain enough.”

Nancy steadied herself and said, “I have information that suggests Stoboltz provided you with money during the election. Money that went above and beyond a campaign contribution.”

Greg looked as if he had been punched in the stomach. “What are you accusing me of?”

“Nothing, Mr. White Eagle. But I have seen this information, and it reflects very poorly on you, on Stoboltz, and on certain members of the provincial government.”

“That's horseshit, and you know it.” Greg White Eagle sat back in his chair and looked out the tiny window.

“Did you accept a bribe from Stoboltz Aquaculture that you then passed onto others in this community in return for votes?”

“Where do you get off coming in here and making accusations like that?”

“Did you? Did Stoboltz give you money in return for your support for expanded salmon farming in the archipelago?”

Greg White Eagle shifted his bulk in the chair. Nancy watched him, saying nothing. Let him play out the rope, she thought.

He turned to look at her. “I think you're in with that Cole Blackwater character, aren't you?” he asked. “I think you and he are working together. I know that he and Archie were pals. I know all about Archie, see. Archie, the white knight. Archie, the noble savage, protecting his people's traditions and culture. Archie, salmon king. Well, Archie Ravenwing was a bold-faced crook. Bet your Cole Blackwater didn't tell you that, did he? Bet he didn't tell you that Archie Ravenwing had been stealing money from his own people for personal gain.”

“I know about it. Grace told me,” said Nancy, trying to remain calm. “But I'm not asking about Archie Ravenwing, Councillor. I'm asking about you.”

“I've got all the financial records,” said White Eagle, ignoring her. “Looks like old Archie Ravenwing was even skimming money from his friends. Invoices sent by a company called Blackwater Strategies were to be paid in cash, according to Archie. I wonder if that money ever made it to your friend?” White Eagle smiled a smug grin. “You start writing about corruption, Ms. Webber, I'll see to it that all sorts of stories get told.”

Nancy smiled. “Where were you on the night Archie disappeared, Mr. White Eagle?”

“Right here at home.”

“You didn't go out that night? Or maybe in the afternoon?”

“I was in Alert Bay for a band council meeting in the morning, and I got home around suppertime.”

“Were you seen?”

“What do you mean, was I seen? Of course I was seen. My kids saw me, my wife saw me. Maybe even my neighbours saw me! What are you suggesting?” he yelled.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I want to write a story about Port Lostcoast on the day Archie went missing is all.”

Greg White Eagle took a deep breath and let it out. “You got a particular way of asking things, Ms. Webber, that gets a man pretty riled up. You know that?”

— “It's my specialty,” said Nancy Webber, standing and extending her hand.

Grace Ravenwing heard the phone ringing as she walked up the pathway that cut through the windblown grasses from the dirt road. She ran the last twenty feet and burst through the unlocked door in time to catch the phone on the fifth and final ring.