Salvage (19 page)

"Oh." Owen's shoulders slumped.

"
However
, the true worth of a find like this is its rarity," Howard said, running a thumb over the etched lettering. "I've always told Howie there's nowt left in Chapel Lake but loon shit,
je m'excuse mon Français terrible
. But here you've proven me wrong. Countless divers have combed those depths for weeks and months and come up sour of countenance, lamenting their ill fortune. You've earned their jealousy, at the very least."

"Cool," Owen said.

"'Cool'!" Howard repeated, chortling at his audience, who joined in halfheartedly. "
That
, my boy, is what we in the salvage business refer to as an understatement." Howard winked at him, and Owen chuckled dutifully. "May I ask where you found it?" he said.

Owen opened his mouth to tell him, and then thought better of it. Howard apparently noticed the hesitation, and raised a bushy brow. "It was in an old junker car," Owen said. "In the glove compartment."

Howard hummed in consideration.

"I guess you wouldn't want to take it off my hands."

"It's true, as Howie might have told you, the treasures I'm looking for are of a more personal nature. Alas, this is of no value to me. It belongs to you, son. It's an
achievement
. Treasure it as such."

Owen grinned, amused by the old man's hyperbole. Howard Sr. jingled the ice in his otherwise empty glass to get the bartender's attention.

"What are you drinking?" Owen asked.

"Chivas Regal," the old man said, and waved a dismissive hand when Owen rose up from his stool for his wallet. "Don't trouble yourself."

"I insist."

The old man smiled. "Well, if we must drink to buried treasure, let's the both of us have something from a slightly higher shelf, hmm? Say, Macallan 18?"

He raised an eyebrow at Tina, who'd just sidled over. She gave Owen a look:
Are you sure?

"Macallan 18," Owen nodded. "For the three of us."

Howie seemed to light up at this, but Howard nixed his son's participation with a wave of his hand. "Oh, Howard doesn't drink scotch. Says it tastes like turpentine—isn't that right, Howie, my boy?"

"Wight-o, Pops," Howie mocked, grimly eyeing his plate as he smeared the last chip in the dredges of ketchup and plopped it into his mouth.

"Two Macallan 18s, dear."

"And another Ceaser for Howie," Owen added, hoping to shore up the father-son rift.

The bartender shrugged and went to the shelf. Howie wiped his mouth and dropped the napkin on his spotless plate, having swiped the last of the ketchup with his thumb and eaten it plain. He pushed the plate forward with deliberate loudness, and stood to belch softly with a fist held at his sternum. "Twy the fish next time, Owen. It was
dee
-lish." Howie grinned over his unintended bon mot. "That fish was delish," he repeated, chuckling as he made his way around the bar.

Owen hadn't made a dent in his wings yet, having been more interested in Howard's lesson than his food. "So what
are
you interested in, Howard? Can I call you Howard?"

"I insist that you do." Howard's eyes lit up as Tina brought over the scotches. He took his immediately and savored its bouquet, nostrils flaring. "You can practically
taste
the peat," he said, which Owen had to guess was meant as praise. He couldn't imagine Howard being able to smell much of anything, with the tangle of gray hairs in his nostrils. The old man downed the scotch in one gulp. Owen raised his to his nose and took in a whiff of moldering butterscotch. He considered plugging his nose, thought it might offend the old man, and drank it in two volcanic gulps. The heat kicked him in the chest, much hotter than the hot wings, and he slammed down the glass with a fiery gasp.

Howard laughed and patted him on the back. "Not much of a drinker, are you?"

"No," Owen croaked on a fiery breath.

"You'll have to do better than that if you want to play with the big boys, as they say. You've got salvage fever in your blood now. I expect to see you anon with a fanciful yarn or two."

Owen grinned. The heat had mellowed to a pleasant warmth in his belly. "Howie must be fun at home," he said.

"A queer fish, that boy," Howard remarked, peering blearily across the bar at his son, who stood in front of the jukebox bobbing his head to unheard music. "But I love him to death."

"He is pretty amusing," Owen agreed.

"Amusing
how
?" Howard said, scowling at Owen with his owlish eyebrows as if he'd been offended.

Hoping the old man didn't think he was making fun of Howie, Owen quickly added, "He's got a great sense of humor."

Howard Sr. seemed mystified now, rather than upset. "
Does
he?"

"Sure," Owen said, amazed the old man hadn't noticed. "He could do stand-up."

Howard seemed to think this over. His brow furrowed deeply. "It's not bloody cricket what happened to Howie and his mother, but he seems to be making a good fist with the cards he's been dealt, and his sister Nan does well by him. His refuse operation does quite well, too, and I'm glad of that." He exhaled deeply, shoulders sagging as if he were a deflating balloon. "Still, it's difficult, on occasion, not to feel as though one has suffered the trials of Job."

"Job?"

"From the Bible," Howard said, mild exasperation in his tone.

"I know Job," Owen told him. In fact, he knew much more about Job than he'd previously thought, the memories of his Bible teachings dredged up by his proximity to the lake. "I guess I'm not sure what you mean."

Howard smiled patronizingly and patted Owen's hand. "You will, dear boy. In good time, you'll know exactly what I mean."

The implications of this sort of talk bothered Owen, and he decided to change the subject before the conversation grew anymore melancholy. "You mentioned personal treasure before. Did you used to live down there in Peace Falls?"

"For quite some time, yes. I was a barrister once. Money for old rope, being a financial barrister in the Square Mile. After I left for Canada—had an uncle in Dunsmuir, you know—I did a good heap of pro bono work to even out the score with the master of the house." He grunted a melancholic laugh; now that Howie was off by himself, his father appeared to have slipped headfirst into Sad Drunk mode, and Owen wasn't prepared to enable him much longer. He'd suffered Gerald's drunken rants because his young age had prevented him from speaking up, or being heard. "And still, He plagues me with sores," the old man finished—or if he wasn't finished, Owen was done with him.

"Right," he said, raising his hand for the bill. Tina caught his eye and winked.

"No, I mean literally," Howard said, his head swaying drunkenly. "I've got hemorrhoids the size of walnuts, I tell you."

Tina came by with the bill, and Owen—who had polished off his chicken wings and celery, but had left the carrot sticks, as they weren't his favorite—paid her in cash. Then he tipped her with some of the change he'd found under the dock, which he'd rinsed in the bathroom sink at Fisherman's Wharf.

"Well, Howard, it was really nice to meet you," he said, having to shout over music that had begun to blast over the speakers from the juke. A strident trumpet solo, a jazzy beat brushed on a snare.

Howie stepped over to the bar, picked up the fresh Caesar Owen had bought him, and took a defiant bite out of the celery garnish. As he did, Sinatra began to sing, his voice unmistakable, telling his fans to forget their problems and just get happy. Somebody at the tables groaned.

The old man seemed oblivious to the music, though he'd had to raise his voice to be heard over it. "A genuine pleasure to meet you again, Owen," he said, raising a drunk-limp hand toward Owen. They'd never met before, Owen made to say, but the music was too loud, too eerily familiar. Instead, he took the man's hand and shook it gently. "And do let me know how your treasure hunting goes. I'm anxious to see what you find."

Meanwhile, Sinatra kept on telling the bar to get happy in time for Judgment Day—not exactly something to be happy about, in Owen's opinion. It reminded him of his encounter with the Blessed Trinity Mission and their attempt to "save" him, and suddenly an image came back to him with such force it could only be a memory: a man's large, rough hands laying him in frigid, turgid water, teaching him to swim. Did he have a life jacket on? He couldn't tell. He didn't even know how old he'd been. All he knew for certain was he'd been frightened, and this man, who must have been his father, had been uncannily determined for young Owen to submit to his will.

Red Trucker turned to Blue Trucker and said, "Christ, not
again
."

Something beyond Owen's comprehension was happening here—the atmosphere was electric. Howie had stormed off to put this song on the jukebox, something he'd apparently done at least once before to warrant exasperation from the regulars. And for some reason, Owen had connected this song with a repressed memory of his father. Meanwhile, Howard's right eye had begun to twitch irritably.

"Would you excuse me a moment, dear boy?" Without waiting for a reply, the old man scooched loudly off his stool and staggered around the bar.

"There goes trouble," the trucker in red remarked.

"Shucky darn," said his friend.

Howard stopped at the foot of the jukebox, while trumpets swelled and jazzy drums kept the beat. Howie sipped his drink with a mischievous grin, watching his father bend to yank the plug.

The music ended abruptly as the Chairman of the Board sang about washing away sins—but the old man's pained yelp filled the silence as he grasped blindly at his back with both hands.

Howie sprang up from his seat and ran to his father with the speed of an EMT, laying a gentle hand on the old man's back. Owen got up to see if he could lend a hand, though not as swiftly, his core muscles still sore from vomiting at the lake. Others stood up from their seats and gaped, but didn't come to the old man's aid.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," Howie cooed, throwing his father's arm over his shoulder and ushering him to a seat at the closest table. "I'm sorry. I'm stupid. I'm so stupid."

"No, no," Howard groaned, eyes narrowed in agony. "It's my fault. I occasionally forget how decrepit I am. Tina!" he called over Howie's shoulder. "Would you be a lamb and call the paramedics?" The bartender picked up the telephone. "There's a girl," the old man said with a pained smile, as his son shushed him, smoothing the straggly hair on his crown.

4

It took an exceptionally long time for the paramedics to arrive, but the volunteer firefighters came first, and an OPP officer who introduced himself as Constable Selkie, a name he recognized. Once things had settled down, and the senior Howard's vitals had been taken, Owen stood with Selkie out front of the Pony. Howie threw Owen a cheerful wave from a seat in the back of the ambulance as the EMTs closed the doors and carted them off to the hospital in Peterborough.

"So," the police officer said, once Tina and the regulars had shuffled back inside. "You're the brother, are you?"

Owen turned to him, ready for it. Selkie was young, with sharp, handsome features, his cheeks as smooth as a baby's, dark hair slicked back on his pale scalp. He'd been rocking back and forth on his immaculately shined boots as he watched the paramedics help the elder Howard into the ambulance, which seemed to be a nervous habit.

"Name's Mike," Constable Selkie said. "Howie Lansall and his pop are my in-laws."

"Really?" He had seemed especially familiar with the two, and Owen had just chalked it up to small town friendliness. Now it made sense. He shook the man's hand.

"You bet," Selkie said. It was a firm grip, but Owen hadn't expected anything less.

"They're good people," Owen said. "Real friendly."

"Yup, just the best." He rocked on his boots. "Lot of friendly people in the Chapel," he said, and for a second, Owen thought he meant the chapel in the lake. A drop of cold sweat struck his ribs as he thought of that cold, murky tomb, and the house on the hill underwater, where he'd almost died. "Lotta friendly people in the Chapel," the cop repeated, then gave Owen a serious look over the rim of his sunglasses. "Quite a few people eager to get
un
friendly to out-of-towners asking the wrong kind of questions, if you know what I mean."

Owen nodded. "Mr. Wickman already gave me the spiel."

"Well, that's fine. I'm sure he did. Now I warned your sister the same as I'm warning you, to keep you two out of trouble, and I don't mean any disrespect to you or your family, but she didn't exactly heed my advice."

"Meaning… what?"

"I'm just saying, be careful, is all."

"You don't think what happened to her was an accident?"

Constable Selkie went pale. He held up a hand, palm-out. "Now, wait a second, I am
not
saying anything like that. You're putting words in my mouth, sir."

"Then, what are you saying?"

"Look, your sister had suspicions somebody was putting the screws to her, and I was the officer who got the call."

Putting the screws?
Owen thought.
Do people actually say that outside of dime-store murder books?

The cop gave him another suspicious look over his sunglasses, then settled them back on the bridge of his nose. "Look, I just want to make sure you're careful about who you ask… certain things."

"About the church."

"You got it. For your edification, we received two calls stating you were seen snooping around the church today, and that was well before noon. I'm sure the news spread pretty quick, especially after what happened with your sister. My condolences, by the way. She seemed like a real nice girl."

"She was," Owen said. Funny how much easier it was to think of her in the past tense now that he was so much closer to her. "Somebody really called the police about me?"

"You gotta understand, Chapel Lake breeds a special kind of what I politely like to call 'people watchers,'" the cop said. "Some of these older folks, they spend their whole day smoking ciggies and peeping out the blinds through binoculars. Some of them have
telescopes
—and that's not to look at the stars, Mr. Saddler, no sir. It's to see what other people are
up to
. They may call it Neighborhood Watch—say they're performing a civic duty—but it's
spying
, to speak plainly, and honestly, it disgusts me.
Busybodies
." He sneered. "Nothing better to do than meddle in other people's business and waste the force's time and resources."