Salvage (17 page)

“Thas right,” said Gabriel.

“Now, I keep telling Gabriel that won't be necessary,” he said. “I don't see any reason to kill you or start cutting off your nuts. For one thing, I don't need the Mounties nosing around any more than they already are. MacPherson's a good fellow, but that little French cunt makes me nervous.

“Anyway,” Falkenham said, holding his hands by his sides, palms up. “You got a pretty easy choice to make here. If you tell us where the coke is, maybe we kill you, maybe we don't. If you don't tell us, Gabriel will cut off one of your nuts, and then you'll tell us. And you know what?” He pushed his finger against Scarnum's nose again.

Scarnum yelped, “What?”

“If you don't tell us, if you bleed to death after we cut off your nut or whatever, we'll have to grab Angela, put the knife to her. She's pregnant, right? I bet she'd talk if Gabriel jabbed the tip of his knife into her belly.” Falkenham laughed.

“She could be carrying your baby,” said Scarnum.

“Well, all the more reason to cut the whore's throat,” he said with a smile that was more of a grimace. “The last thing I need is a bastard from Angela. She could milk me like a cow for twenty years. And if she doesn't know where the coke is, we'll cut her throat and put the knife to Charlie. Cut off one of his balls and see what he has to say. I wouldn't really want to do that, though. I like the old son of a whore.”

Falkenham pressed the palm of his hand against Scarnum's nose again and pressed down, pressing harder as he spoke and speaking louder, until he was screaming at the end, his mouth inches from Scarnum's face, spit flying.

“So what do you say you just tell us what you've done with the cocksucking cocaine, you stupid little fucker!”

“I will,” said Scarnum, gasping, eyes wide. “I will. I will.”

Falkenham pulled his hand away and looked at Gabriel. “What do you think, Gabe?” he asked. “Think we should listen to him?”

“I think we should cut him first,” said Gabriel, and he again pressed the knife blade hard against Scarnum's throat. “Then we should listen.”

“Hold up, Gabriel,” said Falkenham, and he put his fingertip back on Scarnum's nose. “It's up to you, Phillip. You tell us where you hid the fucking coke and we get it, we got no reason to fuck with Angela, or you, ever again. You can sail away from here with both your balls. How's that sound? Pretty good, huh? Nobody's gonna offer you a better deal than that today.” He grinned in Scarnum's face.

“It's on the boat,” said Scarnum. “It's on my boat.”

“Where you been keeping it?” asked Falkenham.

“In the bay,” said Scarnum. “I never found it until you came in the canoe that night. After I chased you off, I put the packages in the dry bags and sunk them in the bay behind Charlie's. I chained them together, used my anchor to hold them down. I fished it out a few days ago, before I went down to Jimmy's funeral. I hid it on Rockbound Island, was going to leave it there for a while. But when I was in jail I decided to take off with it, see if I could unload it in Newfoundland, then take the fuck off and never come back here.”

Behind him, the Mexican hissed. “He's lying,” he said, and he pressed the flat of the blade harder against Scarnum's Adam's apple, tearing the skin. Scarnum gulped and whined with fear.

“Let me cut him and he tell the truth,” said the Mexican.

Falkenham held up his hand. “Whoa,” he said. “If he's lying he's fucking dumber than I thought, because the boat's right there.”

Falkenham stood up, straddling the canoe, leaned forward so that his face was inches above Scarnum's, then reached down and grabbed Scarnum's nose and twisted it. The pain made Scarnum yelp and whine.

“Tell you what, Phillip,” he said. “Let's go out to the boat, see if the coke's there. If it is, we take it and let you sail away. If the Mounties think you killed Jimmy and you disappear, so much the better. And I think you will stay away, because if you ever fucking come back to Nova Scotia, I'll fucking kill you.” Falkenham twisted Scarnum's nose again.

“On the other hand, if the coke isn't there, Gabriel will cut off one of your nuts and we'll ask you again. After you tell us, we'll get the coke, then cut your throat and sink your boat. Does that sound fair?”

Scarnum nodded his head. “It's on the boat,” he croaked.

Falkenham let go of his nose and looked down at his bloody hand with disgust. He wiped his fingers on Scarnum's shirt and stood up.

He looked around at the Mexicans. “Let's get the cocksucker in the boat.”

They threw Scarnum on the forest floor and the two older Mexicans stood guarding him while the younger men dragged the Zodiac to the water's edge. The black waves smashed against the granite rocks and the wind whipped in off the water.

Falkenham climbed into the stern of the boat and started the outboard. Gabriel and the fat Mexican wrestled Scarnum into the middle of the Zodiac, with his feet on one gunwale and his head on the other. They got in the bow of the boat.

Falkenham gave the motor some gas and angled the Zodiac through the waves.

Behind his back, Scarnum pulled the end of the rope out of his pants. His fingers were now very numb from the handcuffs.

“Don't let them kill me,” he said to Falkenham as they moved along.

Falkenham winked at him. “You'd better hope the coke is on the boat,” he said.

Behind his back, Scarnum tied one end of the rope to the line that ran along the top of the Zodiac's starboard inflatable tube. The other end he wrapped around his hand.

When he finished the knot, they were about halfway to the sailboat. Scarnum cleared his throat.

“Bobby,” he said. Falkenham looked down at him.

“I don't know nothing about no cocaine,” he said, and he threw himself to his feet.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” said Falkenham, looking up at him with alarm. “Sit the fuck down or you'll tip the fucking boat, Phillip, you fucking idiot.”

Scarnum hauled the rope tight behind him and stepped up onto the port gunwale, leaned as far out as he could, pushing himself out over the waves. His weight, pulling on the rope attached to the opposite side of the boat, jerked it up out of the water.

He stared down and grinned at the look of confusion on Falkenham's face.

He let out a bit more of the line clutched between his fingers, and leaned out a bit more, until the other side of the boat lifted up out of the water. He was afraid for a moment that the boat wouldn't flip, that it would settle again, but the fat Mexican made a lunge for him and his bulk made the difference, and the Zodiac went over upside down into the waves, and all four men were dumped into the water.

Scarnum untangled the line from his hand and dove down into the icy water. He turned onto his back and pulled his legs through his bound arms, so that his hands would be in front of him. His lungs screamed for air. Above him, he could see the upside-down Zodiac, with the legs of Falkenham and the two Mexicans kicking in the water around it. He swam back to the surface, angling to come up underneath the boat, gasping for air as he surfaced, trying to be very quiet.

In the darkness underneath the boat he felt for the stern, where the motor was attached. He could hear Falkenham outside the boat, screaming at the Mexicans.

“Find him!” he was shouting. “Grab hold of the cocksucker! Where is he?”

Scarnum worked as quickly as he could, unscrewing the clamps that held the motor in place with his clumsy, numb fingers. When it let go and sank to the ocean floor, he took a big gulp of air and dove down and as far away from the Zodiac as he could get.

When he came to the surface, he kicked his legs hard to lift his head above the water until he caught sight of his sailboat in the distance. He swam toward it as hard as he could, using his bound arms in an ineffective breaststroke, gasping for air and kicking his legs hard. He was terribly cold and exhausted and he had to force himself to keep swimming so hard.

It took him a long time to swim in the darkness, and he had to keep stopping to make sure he was still headed to the boat.

When he finally got in the lee of the boat, though, he could see Falkenham had gotten ahead of him and was hanging onto the ladder at the stern of the boat.

Falkenham wasn't climbing the ladder. He was resting, his chest heaving, catching his breath.

He was finally moving to haul himself out of the water when Scarnum got to the stern of the boat. Scarnum reached up and managed to grab Falkenham's shoe. Falkenham yelped in shock and kicked down at Scarnum, and his bound hands were so numb that he almost lost his grip. Scarnum took the kick in the face and his nose exploded in pain, but he managed to get his bound wrists locked around the front of Falkenham's ankle. He bit him then, in the back of the ankle just above his boat shoe, as hard as he could, tasting blood as he forced his teeth together.

Falkenham screamed and tried to tear his foot away from Scarnum, then kicked him in the face with his other foot. He lost his footing and fell, and almost lost his grip on the ladder. Scarnum's head was pushed below the water, but he kept biting, even as Falkenham kicked at him. He could faintly hear the other man screaming.

As Scarnum felt he was going to black out from lack of air, Falkenham, unable to take the painful bite, gave up and pushed himself off the ladder, wrenching his foot free at last. Scarnum let go of Falkenham and pushed himself up, gasping for air and reaching desperately for the ladder. Falkenham grabbed at him as he pulled himself out but it was too late, and Scarnum managed to haul himself into the cockpit.

Falkenham tried to pull himself up after him, but Scarnum jumped to his feet and kicked him in the face, hard. Falkenham fell back into the water, and Scarnum grabbed at the ladder, pulling it out of the water so that Falkenham had no way of getting up.

Without pausing to catch his breath, Scarnum started the diesel, then ran to the bow and untied the anchor line, letting it drop over the side. He ran back, popped the motor into gear, and steered the boat toward the open ocean.

W
hen Scarnum was a few hundred yards offshore, he ran below and dug out a heavy pair of bolt cutters from a storage locker. It took some doing, but eventually he was able to cut through the chain that bound his hands together. It was harder still to cut through the cuffs themselves, but in the end he succeeded. His hands were purple and swollen, and when he freed them they throbbed terribly as the circulation came back, and he moaned and did a little dance of pain.

He ran back to the cockpit, corrected his course, lashed the wheel in place, and went below again, where he cleaned his nose with hydrogen peroxide. In the mirror he looked gaunt and terrible, with two black eyes and a nose that was raw and bleeding. His neck was bleeding. He had Falkenham's blood on his chin. He cleaned himself as best he could, squealing and yelping as he daubed at his wounds and inspected his testicles, which were sore and swollen. He ate some Tylenol, the bottle rattling in his shaky, clumsy hands, and changed into dry clothes, dug out a bottle of rum, and went to the cockpit with his cellphone.

He had a long drink of rum and called Angela.

His voice sounded weak and hoarse and nasal when he said her name.

“What's wrong, Phillip?” she asked.

“Falkenham got ahold of me, Angela,” he said. “He and the Mexicans worked me over a bit, but I got away.”

“Oh my God, Phillip, are you OK?” she said.

“Not too good right now, Angela,” he said. “Not too good. They're going to try to kill me tomorrow. If they do, they told me they were going to come after you next, put a knife to your belly.”

She was silent.

“Angela, you need to get the fuck out of here for a while,” he said. “These boys isn't playing. Get in the fucking car and go someplace where nobody knows you. Don't tell nobody where you're going, and if you hear that I've turned up dead, or disappeared, don't come back.”

He could hear her crying on the line. He cried, too, then, and covered the phone so that she couldn't hear him. He took another drink of rum and stared out into the inky darkness ahead of the boat.

“Angela, you got to tell me you're gonna do that, OK?” he said, his voice choking.

“I'll do it,” she said. “Be careful. Don't let them kill you.”

“I know, baby,” he said. “Listen, though. If they do find my body full of holes, call Constable Léger at the Chester RCMP. Don't tell her your name, but tell her I wanted her to know that I believed Bobby Falkenham and four Mexican gentlemen were trying to kill me. All right?”

He killed the connection before she could hear him crying.

He had a smoke and a drink of rum and got himself under control, and then he called Hughie Zinck.

IN 1985 THE DEPARTMENT
of Fisheries and Oceans built a fishing harbour at Rocky Point, at the tip of the d'Agneau Peninsula, with a stone seawall and three concrete piers.

The idea was that fishermen from the little coves on both sides of d'Agneau Harbour would give up the little rickety wooden wharves and stages they'd built in front of their houses and fish out of Rocky Point, which would be more convenient for fish buyers and department inspectors.

The Zincks, who had always had the bottom half of the d'Agneau Peninsula to themselves, watched sullenly as fishermen from around the bay drove up and down the potholed gravel road in front of their ramshackle houses. They kept their old wooden Cape Islanders moored in the snug cove at Lower Southwest Port d'Agneau in front of their houses, where they could keep an eye on them.

Fishermen from around the bay found that their gear and catch weren't safe at night at Rocky Point. They'd come back to find their diesel had been siphoned, lobsters stolen from the underwater storage pens, and bullet holes in the cabins of their boats.

Then, in the summer of 1986, a spring gale tore out half the seawall. The government finished an even more modern harbour on the other side of the bay, and soon the concrete piers at Rocky Point were abandoned.

The Zincks moved in after the other fishermen moved out, tying up their boats along the innermost pier and letting the outer piers act as a seawall, the waves washing over the concrete in any kind of sea. Thanks to a cousin at the head of the bay, they always knew when the fisheries inspectors or Mounties were on their way down Peninsula Road.

Soon the point was littered with old plastic fish boxes, discarded pallets, rotting lumber, and bits of old traps, boats, and engines. In the summer of 1990, young Jimmy Zinck tore the sign off the big steel DFO shed and spray-painted
ZINCK POINT
on the side with rust paint. When the sliding steel door stopped working, the Zincks tore it off and replaced it with unpainted wooden doors, like on every fish shed they'd ever built.

The Zincks — three brothers and two cousins — waited for Scarnum inside the shed, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee spiked with black rum. When they spied his mast coming up the bay, they went down to the pier and waited for him there, holding double-barrelled 12-gauges.

Scarnum, pale and tired after sailing all night, waved to the boys, then rafted his boat up alongside a beat-up Cape Islander.

He shook hands with Hughie on the dock.

“What's wrong with your fucking face?” said Hughie.

Scarnum gave him a hard look. “Falkenham and his Mexican friends got hold of me,” he said. “Damn near killed me.”

Hughie gave him a hard look back. “We find out you been fucking with us, we'll finish the job for them,” he said.

Scarnum looked at the hard faces of the Zincks and nodded. They all wore fishing coveralls and they all had the same haircut.

“I know that,” he said.

Hughie stared at him for a minute, then nodded. “So, there's five of 'em?”

“That's right,” said Scarnum. “Four Mexicans and Falkenham. Jimmy was bringing in coke for him. Jimmy was pushing for a bigger piece of the action and fucking Falkenham's woman, so Falkenham had the Mexicans kill 'im. Jimmy went out, thinking he was picking up another load of coke. One of the Mexicans tried to push him in the water so people would think he drowned, but he threw the Mexican in instead. So they shot him, but he managed to get away.”

Scarnum looked out at the water. “He had three bullet holes in him, but he gave 'em the slip,” he said. “Come on to 'er, opened the throttle up all the way, tried to make it to land. Ended up fetched up on the Sambro Ledges. Swam to the fucking beach and died there.”

He looked at the Zincks. “He was a tough one, that boy,” he said.

“How come they're after you?” said Hughie.

“They think I have the coke that was on the boat,” said Scarnum. “But I don't. I don't know where the fuck it is. Bottom of the fucking ocean, most likely. They tried to cut me, shot at me with a machine gun, smashed my nose, put a knife to my throat. Look at the fucking bullet holes in the side of the boat. I keep telling them I don't have their fucking cocaine, but they won't stop.”

“How do you know they're coming here?” said Hughie.

Scarnum reached into his pocket and pulled out the little transmitter.

“They put this on my boat,” he said. “Only found out two days ago. How they been tracking me.”

Hughie took the little thing in his big, calloused hand and looked at it.

“Jesus,” he said. “And it sends a signal to them?”

“They got a little receiver,” said Scarnum. “Like a GPS, shows my location on a map. Or they can look on the internet.”

“How do you know they're using it?” asked Hughie.

“Last night, before I called you, I anchored off Herman's Point, near Mader's Cove, and paddled ashore. I wanted to know for sure if they were tracking me. I hid in the bushes until they come up in a black SUV. Falkenham got out first, walked up to the beach, looked at a little receiver in his hand. The Mexicans got out, they stand around talking. They leave one of the Mexicans hid in the bushes, case I came ashore. They got hold of me when I tried to sneak back to the boat. They smashed up my nose, put the knife to me but I got away from them. It was the third time they come for me. I'm lucky to be alive.”

He told them how he escaped from the Mexicans in Halifax, how they chased him in a speedboat, and how he choked one of them, and what he said.

“You say these boys got machine guns?” said Hughie when Scarnum was done.

“Yuh,” said Scarnum. “Two of them. Little things. Like a machine pistol. And these boys are the real deal. Hardass cocaine cowboys. Likely been in some gunfights.”

He looked at the five men in their overalls. “You want, I can jump on the boat, sail out of here, stick this fucking thing on a container ship bound for Hong Kong, and sail away for a good long time,” he said. “I'm not gonna fuck around with these boys anymore and I won't blame you if you don't want to.”

Scarnum suddenly heard the theme to
Hockey Night in Canada
. It was Hughie's cellphone.

Hughie held it to his ear, listened, grunted, and then closed it.

“They just turned down the road,” he said. “Gives us ten, fifteen minutes.”

He turned to Scarnum. “You take that thing and get on the boat,” he said. “Close it up and wait for them. If they send Falkenham down to try to get you to come off, tell him no. Act scared. Then he'll bring the Mexicans down. We're gonna wait in the shed. The minute they step on the wharf, we open the doors, shoot them in the fucking back.”

Scarnum said nothing for a minute, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don't need to be on the boat. I'll put the transmitter on the boat and wait with you fellows in the shed.”

“No,” said Hughie. “You're going on the boat. Not much of a trap with no bait.”

Scarnum looked away, then back at their hard faces. “Those fellows get a hold of me, they're gonna put the knife to me,” he said. “Cut me up. Falkenham told me they like to cut one of a guy's nuts off, tell him if he wants to keep the other one, he' d better talk.”

Hughie laughed. “B'y, it wouldn't last long, anyways,” he said. “They'll only use the knife till you tell them where you hid the fucking cocaine,” he said. “Then they'll shoot you.”

“I don't have the fucking cocaine,” said Scarnum.

Hughie looked at him skeptically. “I was thinking about what you said at the funeral,” he said. “And I remembered one thing Dad said about the old Newf. Said he was a bit tight with a nickel, eh. Tighter than an eel's ass, he said. These fellows is after you cause you got their cocaine. Jimmy's cocaine. We're gonna kill 'em for you because they killed Jimmy, but don't pretend you don't have the coke.”

Scarnum shook his head. “The old man was tight,” he said. “Went through hard, hard times in Newfoundland as a boy, his whole family near starved. I'm not like that. I wouldn't risk my life for a bit of cocaine. There was no cocaine on the fucking boat.”

“Get on the fucking sailboat, Phillip,” said Hughie. “Close it up and don't come up till the shooting's over.”

Scarnum bit his lip, looked up the road, looked at the Zincks, then nodded his head. “All right,” he said. Then he looked at the five men. “Turn off your cellphones,” he said. “One of them things rings at the wrong minute, you'll be full of holes.”

He watched them dig into their pockets and pull out their phones.

“You ever have buck fever?” he asked. “You been waiting all day next to a buck rub, then when the cocksucker finally walks up the path and looks at you, you got such a big fucking hard-on that your hands start shaking and you forget to flick the safety, or forget to look through the sights, or you pull the trigger guard instead of the trigger, and next thing you know you're looking at the fucking thing's white ass a quarter mile away?”

He stared at them all. “These Mexican boys won't have buck fever. These boys is bandidos.”

Then he went and got on his boat. “Shoot straight,” he said.

“Don't worry,” said Hughie. “We'll fucking shoot straight.”

Scarnum saluted him, then went below. He turned the boards to the main hatch to his cabin around backwards, so the hasp for the padlock was on the inside, and locked it. He went to the V-berth and closed the handles on the Plexiglas hatch in the ceiling. He made sure the curtains were closed on all the portholes.

He got his big hunting knife and sat down in the salon. He put the transmitter on the table in front of him and sat and stared at it. He took his bottle of black rum from a cupboard in the galley and sat back down and took a big drink from the neck. He lit a cigarette and took another drink of rum.

He got up and put the rum away and sat back down. Then he put his elbows on the table, clasped his hands in front of him, and closed his eyes and prayed.

He was still praying when he heard the faint sound of wheels on the gravel road. He sat stock-still then and listened very carefully. He went to peek out a porthole but he couldn't see anything but the white fibreglass hull of the lobster boat next to him.

He sat back down and took the knife out of its sheath.

Soon he heard a thump, the sound of someone jumping onto the lobster boat.

“Phillip?” It was Falkenham.

Scarnum heard him walk back and forth along the deck of the lobster boat.

“Phillip, I know you're here,” he shouted. “You locked the hatch from the inside.”

Scarnum said nothing.

“Phillip, come on out,” Falkenham shouted. “I want to talk to you. I know you're in there. Come on out. Stop this foolishness.”

Scarnum answered then. “How'd you know I was here?” he said.

“Never mind that,” said Falkenham. “A little fucking bird told me. Come up. Drop your cock and grab your socks. We need to have a little chat, mano-a-mano. I'm trying to save your ass here, kid, and you're not giving me much help.”

“You can talk from there,” said Scarnum. He got to his feet and moved toward the bow.

“Fuck off with this foolishness,” Falkenham shouted. “I'm running out of fucking patience. These Mexicans are gonna fucking kill you. I told them I'd try to talk to you one more time. Because of Karen. You understand, you stupid cocksucker? Because of Karen. You think I want to fuck around with this shit?”

Scarnum said nothing.

“Phillip, you fucking bit my fucking ankle so bad it's all swollen. You dumped us in the fucking water. You stole a whole load of cocaine that don't belong to you. I can't fucking believe I'm still trying to save your life, but I am.”

Scarnum stood below the mast, between the salon and the forward cabin. He stuck his head into the salon and shouted, “What do you want?” and then pulled his head back.

“I want you to come up and talk to me,” Falkenham shouted. “I want you to tell me where you hid the fucking cocaine. Then the Mexicans will leave you alone and you can waste the rest of your life however you want. You got about ten seconds to get up here.”

“I don't have the fucking cocaine,” said Scarnum.

“Yes you fucking do, and we both fucking know it,” said Falkenham. “You want to end up like Jimmy? You think Jimmy was glad, in the end, when he bled out on the fucking beach? You think he was happy that he risked his fucking life for some cocaine? Huh?”

“All right,” said Scarnum. “I'll come out. Wait a minute.” But he didn't move.

“Now, Phillip,” said Falkenham. “Get your arse up here right now, out the forward hatch, with your hands up, or I'm gonna shoot up your fucking boat.”

Then Scarnum heard the rattle of the little machine gun.

“You hear that?” shouted Falkenham. “You come up right now or I'm gonna start shooting. I start, I won't stop until I shoot you or I fill your boat so full of holes that it sinks. Now.”

Then he fired a short burst down through the deck of the boat, from the stern forward. The bullets left a row of holes through the deck and through the teak floor of the salon.

“Now!” he shouted. “Now. Out.”

Scarnum dropped his knife and cried out, “Stop! OK. OK. Stop. Don't shoot. Jesus. I'm coming out.”

He flipped open the hatch and stuck his empty hands out.

“That's it,” said Falkenham. “Come on out, Phillip.”

Scarnum stuck his head out of the hatch. Falkenham was standing on the deck of the lobster boat, pointing the machine gun at his head.

Scarnum was crying. “Don't shoot me,” he said. “Fuck. Don't shoot me. I'll tell you where the fucking cocaine is.”

“All right,” said Falkenham. “It's gonna be OK. Come up out of the boat, onto the deck, and close the hatch.”