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Authors: Stephen Maher

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BOOK: Salvage
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“Almost always,” he said. “Although there's this French Mountie keeps giving me funny looks.” He laughed.

“I am but mad north-north-west,” he said. “When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

“Jesus,” she said. “Shakespeare. Who the fuck you trying to impress?

They laughed and then sat in silence again. Scarnum ran his fingers lightly through her hair and studied the firelight on her face. He kissed her softly under her ear.

“I won't kill him unless I have to,” he said.

Karen turned to look at him. “I guess I don't care too much if you do,” she said. Suddenly, she was crying. “That's terrible, but I don't,” she said.

Scarnum reached to hold her, but she pulled away and went and looked out the window, her back to him, a nude silhouette against the shimmering ocean.

“I loved him,” she said. “I loved him for a few years. He was so fun, so full of life. Very generous, not just to me, to everybody. He made things happen. Made rooms light up. But there was always this other side to him. Greedy. Selfish. Couldn't see why he shouldn't always get exactly what he wanted. Over the last couple of years, I've watched that side take over.”

She turned and walked back to the coffee table to get a cigarette, lit it, and went to stand at the window again.

“Why would he kill Jimmy?” she said. “He was stupid to use him for his coke runs, fucking dummy like that, and stupid then to party with him, fuck his wife, let him fuck me. Then he realizes he's put his nuts in the hands of this fucking half-psycho lobsterman, and he just figures,
fuck it, I'll have him killed. Why not? It's OK, because it's what I want.
Jesus.”

She wept quietly at the window with her back to Scarnum, arms crossed below her breasts.

“You should go back to Ontario for a while,” said Scarnum.

“I should fucking go someplace,” she said. “France. Tired of painting this fucking shit anyway. Paint some warm beaches.”

Then she stamped her foot. “Fuck! How's that gonna look? I go to the Côte d'Azur and he gets himself killed, or disappears?”

“Tell them you had problems going way back, lately he had started getting weird, violent, jealous, hitting the coke harder and harder,” said Scarnum. “Think of Scarface when you're telling them. Tell them you had enough of his shit.”

“Jesus, you're cold,” she said, turning to look at him.

“I've learned to be,” he said. “I had to. Tell them he mentioned some Mexicans. Tell them you don't know anything about his business. Cry. Think about how he was in the good days, and use that to make yourself cry.”

She started to cry then, hard, disconsolate, head bowed.

He took her in his arms and she let him hold her this time.

“I'm sorry to be like this, baby,” he said and he nuzzled her hair, breathing the scent of her deeply, trying to capture it in his head forever. “I'm scared to death and I have to be fucking cold if I'm gonna get through this alive and stay out of prison.”

She snuffled against his chest, then pushed him to arm's length and stared at his eyes.

“How much cocaine did you take off that boat?” she said.

“A hundred keys,” he said. “It's mine. It's salvage. Just like the fucking boat. Those hombres could have asked for it back, made a deal. Instead, they tried to stab me in the fucking eye, beat me on the head. Machine-gunned my boat.”

His grip on her arms tightened without him noticing.

“You've had it pretty good for the past years, and good for you. Good for you. But I've had some lean years. Nobody's taking anything from me that's mine. Sorry. No. I'd rather they kill me than give them what they want.”

He noticed how tight he was holding her and eased his grip.

“You're scaring me,” she said.

“I'm sorry, baby,” he said and pulled her head to his chest again. He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed the crown of her head and held her. He stroked her back, then moved his hands down, caressed her, felt that she desired him, felt himself become aroused, felt her move against him. She turned her face up to his, with her eyes closed, and kissed him, first sensually, then harder, then so hard that she tore the skin on his upper lip with her teeth. He yelped at the sudden pain, picked her up in his arms, carried her to the bed, and threw her down. She stared up at him, darted out her tongue, licked his blood from her lip, smiled at the coppery taste and laughed. He wiped his mouth, looked at the blood on his finger and laughed with her. He climbed onto the bed, took her arms in his, and kissed her tenderly, his lip throbbing, then stared into her eyes as he pushed himself inside her.

A
fterward, he slept and she sat up, smoking and drinking whisky, watching him sleep, until the sun came up and he stirred.

He was groggy and mute as he put on his dank wetsuit and drank the coffee she made for him. He looked out the big window at the choppy bay awaiting him. She sat on one of the old kitchen chairs in her T-shirt and looked at him.

He shivered and zipped his freezer bags back into the wetsuit.

“Tell me you'll call me when you're settled someplace,” he said. “Leave a number with Charlie and I'll call you back.”

“OK,” she said.

He walked to her and hugged her hard, smelling her deeply, for a long time. “I still love you,” he said. “Haven't been able to stop.”

“I love you, too,” she said.

He pulled himself away and went to the door. He looked back at her.

“What?” she said.

“I tore the ladder off your wharf,” he said. “You need to get it replaced or you won't be able to get down to the floating dock.”

Friday, April 30

THE WIND WAS AT SCARNUM'S
back this morning, and it was fun to paddle the canoe down the bay toward the docks of the Chester waterfront with the waves pushing him along. He sang a Stan Rogers song as he paddled along.

Where the earth shows its

bones of
wind-broken
stone

and the sea and the sky are one,

I'm caught out of time, my blood sings with wine,

and I'm running naked in the sun.

There's God in the trees, I'm weak in the knees,

and the sky is a painful blue,

I'd like to look around, but honey, all I see is you.

Orion
was tied up at the town wharf next to the
Kelly Lynn
, with yellow police tape along the edge of the dock. Scarnum tied the canoe to the stern of the
Orion
and climbed up a ladder to the dock.

Léger was waiting for him, sitting on the deck of
Orion
, holding a clipboard.

“Been scuba diving, Scarnum?” she asked.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” said Scarnum. “I got some head onto me. Was overserved last night, woke up snuggled up to some missus. Couldn't find me frigging clothes so I borrowed her husband's wetsuit.” He laughed, then stopped and rubbed his eyes.

“Who was the woman?” asked Léger.

“Well now, I don't think she'd like it if I told you that,” he said. “Better if her husband never finds out where his wetsuit went. D'you figure out who shot up my boat?”

Léger handed him the clipboard. “Sign here,” she said.

“Praise Jesus,” said Scarnum. “I intend to go anchor someplace and have a little sleep. Then maybe I'll fix those fucking holes.”

Léger got off the boat and Scarnum untied her lines.

“What did you do with the cocaine from the
Kelly Lynn
, Scarnum?” she asked as Scarnum hopped aboard.

Scarnum looked at her from the cockpit. “I don't know nothing about no cocaine,” he said, and he cranked the diesel.

S
carnum anchored a couple hundred feet away, just offshore the Chester waterfront, and went below. He found the little transmitter duct-taped in the bilge. He set it on the chart table and stared at it.

Then he took off the wetsuit and poured a bowl of cereal. He carried the transmitter with him to the little table in the salon, and he looked at it while he ate his cereal.

Then he showered and took the transmitter into the V-berth with him. He looked at it until he went to sleep.

When he awoke, it was late afternoon. He peeked out the window and scanned the waterfront for a time but could see no sign of the Mexicans.

He put on dark clothes, ate a sandwich, then went above and pulled the anchor and raised the sails.

He sailed out around the peninsula and dropped the anchor in the lee of Rockbound Island, a windswept chunk of rock in the open ocean. He went below and brought up a flashlight, a paper chart, a small anchor, a coil of yellow nylon line, a small buoy, a freezer bag, and a roll of duct tape. By the light of the flashlight, he put his little handheld GPS in a freezer bag and then wrapped it with a quarter of a roll of duct tape. He tied one end of the line to the anchor and dropped it in the water and let out line until it hit bottom. He left a few feet of slack above the surface of the water. He cut the line, tied it to the buoy, and then used most of the rest of the roll of duct tape to attach the GPS to the line, just below the buoy.

He hauled up his big anchor, put up the sails, and sailed past Mader's Cove to Herman's Point. It was getting dark as he dropped the sails and then the anchor, then took his binoculars and got into the canoe.

The sky was dark and cloudy and the water was black and choppy in a strengthening west breeze. He paddled across Herman's Point and pulled the canoe under a tree. He scrambled through the woods to the edge of the little look-off at the end of Herman's Point Road. Scarnum went out into the gravel clearing and looked around. He spied a deadfall, heavy with moss, and darted to it. He lay on his belly, under the deadfall. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and watched the road and clearing.

The black SUV pulled up about ten minutes later. Falkenham got out of the driver's seat and walked to the water's edge, peering at
Orion
's anchor light in the distance. He held a little device in his hand.

Soon the other doors of the SUV opened and four men got out. Scarnum didn't know the man who got out of the front passenger seat, but he knew two of the three men who got out of the back. Scarnum could see through his binoculars that Villa and Zapata were still wearing the same clothes. They were empty-handed.

The two new men also looked like Mexicans. They were both carrying machine pistols. One of them was young and skinny. The other was a big man, fat and bulky and strong looking, with heavy, fatty arms and a torso like a bull's.

The men stood around for a while. Scarnum could see Falkenham was doing most of the talking, gesturing at the boat in the distance, pointing to the receiver in his hand. Then the fat man talked, gesturing at the bushes on the other side of the clearing. The kid ran and hid there. The other two men got in the SUV and drove away.

Scarnum waited ten minutes, then crawled backwards, very quietly, from his hiding spot, and then stayed low, moving away from the clearing until he was well down the road, where he crossed and headed as quietly as he could through the woods to the shore. He crept along the edge of the pine woods back toward the canoe, finding it just as dusk was falling.

He bent over the canoe with one hand on each gunwale, preparing to hoist it on his back to carry it to the water.

He had just a glimpse of the fat Mexican's black eyes and moustache before he felt the blow on his nose, and his eyes closed and he couldn't see anything.

The Mexican had been lying on his back in the canoe, waiting for Scarnum. When Scarnum had bent over the canoe, the Mexican gave him an open-handed uppercut, connecting hard with the fleshy part of his hand on the underside of Scarnum's nose, and Scarnum fell back on the ground, blinded and stunned.

The Mexican gave a little shout of triumph and leaped out of the canoe, moving fast for a fat man. Scarnum, blinking and blind, held his arms weakly in front of his face. The Mexican kicked him hard in the balls, and Scarnum doubled over onto his belly and vomited onto the pine needles of the forest floor.

The Mexican laughed and spoke roughly in Spanish.

He dropped on top of Scarnum, straddling his back, and pulled his arms behind him and secured his wrists with handcuffs pulled as tight as he could make them. He grabbed Scarnum by the back of his hair then and ground his face into the forest floor.

He spoke in Spanish again, and Scarnum didn't understand.


Donde esta la coca, pinche maricón?
” he said, and Scarnum did understand: Where's the coke, faggot?

He tried to say “I don't speak Spanish.” It sounded like, “I dob peak push.”

Scarnum's voice was nasal and choked, and his vision was dark and clouded. His crotch throbbed with a dull, deep pain, and his mouth tasted like vomit and blood.

The Mexican, still sitting on Scarnum's back, took a cellphone from his pocket and made a quick call, speaking Spanish quietly.

He got off Scarnum, picked up his machine pistol from the canoe, and walked back and placed the cool muzzle against Scarnum's ear, so that he could feel it and know that he had a gun.

The Mexican spoke softly in Spanish. He grabbed Scarnum's hair and pulled him to his knees. Scarnum could see his blood and vomit on the forest floor.

The Mexican hauled him by his hair, stumbling, to the canoe, and pushed him roughly down, so that his feet were resting on the bow seat, his ass was wedged into the floor of the canoe, and his bound arms were jammed against the bow.

The Mexican sat on the crosspiece in the middle of the canoe and pointed the machine pistol in Scarnum's face. He had a big smile on his face, but it didn't light his black eyes. He had gold fillings in the front of his rotten teeth. He had a tattoo — looked like a dragon — running up from his shirt to his neck. His features were heavy and ugly. His moustache was thick and bushy.

Scarnum breathed heavily and looked from side to side. His face was covered in vomit and blood and his nose and testicles throbbed.

The Mexican touched the muzzle of the gun to Scarnum's nose and grinned as he twisted away from the pain.

Behind his back, Scarnum could feel the thin yellow nylon rope that was tied to the steel fitting at the bow of the canoe. As he twisted away from the gun, he moved his hands to the knot.

He spoke to the Mexican. “I don't speak Spanish, amigo,” he said and tried to smile through the pain. “
No hablo español
. But I'm just going to sit right here and not cause any problems.
No problemo. Si?

The Mexican pointed the machine pistol straight at Scarnum's nose. “Shut you fuck mouth,” he said.

Scarnum nodded and clamped his mouth shut.

His fingers were numb from the handcuffs, but behind his back he started to work the knot loose. It was a bowline, and it had been tied long ago, and it was hard to pull apart.

When Falkenham arrived, Scarnum had the rope untied and was clutching the frayed end in his sore fingers.

Falkenham laughed and slapped the fat Mexican on the back. “Good man, Luiz,” he said. “You caught the slippery mother­fucker.”

Falkenham took the fat Mexican's place in the middle of the canoe. The Mexican stepped behind Falkenham and kept the machine gun pointed at Scarnum.

Falkenham shook his head and looked at Scarnum. Scarnum looked away. Behind his back, he was jamming the nylon rope into the back of his pants, hiding it.

He tried to smile at Falkenham.

“Phillip, you dumb fuck,” said Falkenham. “What have you got yourself into? I gave you every fucking chance to avoid this shit.”

Scarnum looked up at him. “I know,” he said. “I was stupid. I'm sorry.”

Scarnum was a bloody mess and his voice was nasal and weak. Falkenham laughed.

“You'd better be fucking sorry, you fucking retard,” he said. He slapped Scarnum hard across the face, a backhand, then looked down at his hand with distaste. He wiped the blood and vomit off on Scarnum's shirt.

“Let's see if we can get you out of this, OK?” he said. “Let's see if we can leave here today with you alive.”

Scarnum stared up at him and shook his head. “You're going to kill me now,” he said. “You're going to let these fellows kill me.”

The other three Mexicans arrived then, awkwardly hauling a Zodiac with a motor through the woods. They lowered it to the ground near the water and walked over to stand and look at Scarnum. The new kid was holding a machine pistol.

“Here he is, boys,” said Falkenham. “Luiz got hold of the slippery little thief.”

Scarnum looked up at the Mexicans he had knocked in the water. They were still wearing the same tourist clothes.

“Hey, boys,” he said. “Aren't you getting tired of those clothes? Must be getting gamy.”

Falkenham gave Scarnum another backhander then and again wiped his hand on Scarnum's shirt. “I'll make the jokes around here,” he said.

Scarnum choked and suppressed a sob. “All right,” he said. “No problemo. I won't make no more jokes. Don't hit me no more.”

The Mexicans stood in a half-circle, watching Scarnum and Falkenham.

“Gabriel,” called Falkenham. “He doesn't want me to hit him anymore. Why don't you come over here.”

The Mexican Scarnum had choked stepped forward. He was holding his knife in his hand and staring at Scarnum.

Falkenham laughed. “Gabriel's been talking about you a lot since you choked him,” said Falkenham. “He has some very clear ideas about how we should proceed when we got hold of you. Don't you, Gabriel?”

“I do,” said the Mexican.

Scarnum looked up at him. “I'm sorry I choked you,” he said.

Gabriel smiled and stepped behind Scarnum and squatted on the bow of the canoe. He pulled Scarnum's head back by his hair and rested the knife against Scarnum's throat. He whispered in his ear. “You should have killed me,” he said and drew the flat of the blade across Scarnum's Adam's apple.

The other Mexicans watched. The two young fellows observed closely, eyes glittering. The fat one looked bored.

Falkenham laughed. “Don't kill him just now, Gabriel,” he said.

He put his fingertip on Scarnum's nose and pressed it, making Scarnum squirm and breath hard at the pain.

“Gabriel says that down in old Mexico, when they catch hold of an hombre who has some information that he doesn't want to share, they tie him real good on a table then cut off one of his nuts, hold it up, show it to him. Then they tell him he can keep the other one if he talks. Gabriel tells me a man can still romance the ladies with one nut. Says fellows get real talkative after he cuts off one of their nuts.”

BOOK: Salvage
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