The Darkening Archipelago (22 page)

Archie cut him off. “Let's not be naive, Lance. The minister is doing the minimum necessary to avoid ending up in court on federal fisheries charges while capitulating with Stoboltz and the other salmon farmers in the slow, silent demise of wild salmon.”

“Archie, I have to be going now.”

“One more question.”

Grey was silent on the other end of the phone. Archie heard typing.

“I wonder what Stoboltz intends to do with all of that data, really?”

“You'd have to ask them. I don't know any of the details of their work, Archie.” The sound of typing continued. Was Lance Grey checking his email while talking with him? Archie wondered.

“Do you think it's possible that Stoboltz is going to use the data they get to justify their expansion into other areas of the Broughton?”

“Again, you're asking the wrong guy, Archie. I don't know what they plan on doing with the data.”

“But they would have had to specify the purpose of the research on the application for the permit to collect.”

“Look, I know that the minister signed it, but it was one of dozens that came across his desk from the department. I didn't even look at them.”

“Do I need to go through Access to Information?”

“You seem to know how.”

“You never know what I might find, Lance.”

“Are we through here, Archie?”

“One more question.”

“You said that four questions ago.”

“These are multi-part questions, Lance.” Archie laughed. “Is it possible that Stoboltz is looking at sea lice so they can figure out a way to breed resistance in their Atlantic stocks?”

“Wow, Archie,” said Grey, the typing silenced. “Where did you come up with that theory?”

“Well, they aren't doing it out of the goodness of their hearts. And they aren't doing it to figure out how to restrict the expansion of their operations. They are almost certainly going to use their data to expand, but from what I've seen, the data they've come up with is even worse that what Cassandra and I are finding.”

“You've seen the data?”

“Yes.”

“Stoboltz gave you access?”

“No.”

“Archie, how did you come to see what Stoboltz likely considers a trade secret?”

“I'm not prepared to say, Lance,” said Archie, smiling.

“You're playing a dangerous game, my friend.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, Archie. I don't know what you and Cassandra Petrel are trying to get at, but I can tell you that Stoboltz is a very serious company. Very serious.”

“They should lighten up. So should you, Lance. You're going to have a heart attack before you're thirty.”

“Laugh if you want, Archie. You've been warned.”

The line went dead.

Archie put down the phone and turned his head to look at the harbour. Ravens circled overhead. Was it a murder of ravens? No, that was crows.

“I'm on a roll,” he said out loud. “Why stop now?” He snatched the phone and dialled another familiar number, this time with a Vancouver prefix.

“Stoboltz Aquaculture, how may I direct your call?”

“Erik Nilsson, please.”

“Erik Nilsson's office.”

“Is Mr. Nilsson available?”

“Who can I tell him is on the line?”

“It's Archie Ravenwing.”

There was a momentary pause. Archie pictured the c eo of Stoboltz's Canadian operations contemplating whether to ignore a gadfly named Ravenwing or not.

“Hi, Archie, how's it going? It's been a while.”

“Yeah, it's been a few months. I was feeling lonely, thought I'd give you a call, Erik.”

“How can I help you?”

“Can you tell me what you're doing collecting sea lice in Tribune Channel?”

There was a moment's pause. “We're monitoring the impact of sea lice on both wild salmon and our penned Atlantic salmon. I would have imagined you'd be happy about that.”

“I am happy. Very happy. When were you going to tell us?”

“The Aquaculture Advisory Task Force was told last month, Archie. Greg was there.”

“He doesn't pass this sort of thing on to his constituents.”

“Maybe he doesn't have as good a relationship with the media as you did, Archie. The thing is, we're not exactly ready to have a public discussion about it. It's early days yet.”

“Let's level here, Erik, what gives? Why the sudden interest in sea lice?”

“Same reason you and Dr. Petrel are interested, Archie. We want to be good corporate citizens. Contribute to the body of knowledge. Plus, it's to our advantage to understand more about how the lice affect livestock.”

Ravenwing smiled at the use of the word. Livestock. It was jarring to hear a word he usually associated with cattle applied to salmon, even if they were non-native Atlantics. “The lice don't affect your fish, isn't that what you keep saying?”

“So far, but who knows about the future.”

“I've seen your data.”

There was a pause. “Really? That's interesting.”

“Interesting, yeah, if you consider results that show the sea lice you've collected are nearly twice as virulent as the ones Doc Petrel and I have collected. What the hell is happening up in Tribune Channel?”

“I'm not really ready to discuss that, Archie.”

“Think that maybe the media would be a good place to have this conversation?”

“I don't appreciate you threatening me, Archie. We've always worked to keep this civil, haven't we?”

“You've got information in your possession that shows that sea lice are getting stronger somehow. That they're having a larger and larger impact on salmon smolts.”

“It's isolated, Archie. It's a single capture point.”

“I want to see all your data. Cassandra and I need to have access to it.”

Erik Nilsson was silent. “Okay. I'll ask Dr. Thurlow to drop in the next time he's heading to McNeill. Okay?”

“I want to see it before the month's out, Erik.”

“Archie, you'll see it when Thurlow can get over to present it in person. If I hear anything about this from the media, I'm going to ask the RCMP to investigate how you got the data in the first place, are we clear?”

“Clear.” Archie hung up and took a deep breath.

16

Longview, Alberta lay along the banks of the Highwood River where it cut a deep canyon through the layers of sedimentary rock that folded into rounded foothills. South of the town, the river burrowed into the stone and snaked eastward toward High River. Nancy Webber was about to close the circle, in more ways than one, she thought. She drove up the highway from the south, distracted and pushing a hundred kilometres per hour when she saw the lights behind her.

“Fuck,” she muttered, slowing as the first buildings of the tiny town swept past. She pulled over to the side of the road as the cruiser parked behind her, and a man who must have weighed three hundred pounds eased himself out of the driver's seat.

Her cellphone rang.

The constable approached her and tapped on the window, which she rolled down.

“Driver's licence and registration, please,” he said, breathing hard.

Her phone rang again.

She reached into the glove box and produced the necessary documents, along with her driver's licence from her wallet. She snatched up the phone on the fourth ring.

“Webber.”

“It's Sergeant Reimer, Nancy.”

“Funny you should call right at this moment. I'm getting a speeding ticket.”

“That is funny. Where are you?”

“Town of Longview.”

“That's a local. RCMP don't patrol in the town.”

“All the same to us chickens,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“The fox or the chopping block,” said Nancy, looking in her mirror at the patrol car.

“I've got something for you,” said Reimer.

“Can I call you after I empty my wallet here?”

“Sure.” The line went dead.

Ten minutes later Nancy was seated in the Four Winds Café, a cup of strong, black coffee and a menu in front of her. She ordered toast from the waitress, picked up her cell, pressed call return, and waited.

“So, what do you have?”

“You understand that this is deep background. You can't print this.”

“It's not really for a story anyway, but if I do decide to write this one up, I'll get it through official records.”

“Okay. Well, I'm only telling you this because you could have hung me out to dry in Oracle and you didn't. We're even.”

“What is it that needs this much lead up?”

“I talked to the staff sergeant in Claresholm yesterday. He told me a tale of sadness and woe.”

“Go on,” said Nancy, cradling her phone to her ear while she spread peanut butter and jam on her toast.

“It seems that all was not well on the Blackwater ranch.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“If you shut up I will,” said Reimer.

“Sorry.”

“All was not well. It's not in the official record anywhere, but I guess Cole Blackwater used to show up for school pretty busted up sometimes. I mean, he was a boxer and everybody knew it, but he looked like he took a pretty good beating from time to time. Broken nose, black eyes, that sort of thing. Lost a tooth once. That's not the sort of thing that happens in the ring.”

“Mother says it was Walter who laid into him. His older brother.”

“You believe her?”

“I don't know.”

“I know Walter. I met him at a law enforcement training day in the spring. He's a warden at Waterton Lakes National Park. We do an annual firearms training for them. Unless he's changed a lot since he was a boy, he doesn't strike me as the sort. Oh, he could lay a good beating if he wanted to. The man is still rock solid. But he doesn't have the disposition for it, unless he's a psychopath and is just putting everybody on. But if that was the case, he'd have some arrests on his jacket, you know, for assault and the like, but there's nothing. He's clean as a whistle.”

“You checked.”

“I'm trying to be thorough. So Cole shows up pretty beaten up at school. Could be boxing matches with other boys, or maybe a little schoolyard roughhouse, right? Well, I can't say this for certain, but my guess is no, it's not. My friend on the desk at Claresholm thinks it was the old man.”

“Yeah, that listens,” said Nancy, taking a bite of toast.

“Yeah, it lines up. The old man has a record. A pretty long one. No convictions, but lots of arrests. Small-town stuff, you know, some fisticuffs here and there. Settled out of court a couple of times, paid his debt in labour and the like. My friend at the Clarseholm detachment says that Blackwater stayed out of trouble after the sons came along. But Cole started showing up at school pretty beaten up when he was like twelve or thirteen.”

“You say that's not on record?”

“It's a small town. Everybody knows everybody else. No secrets.”

“Right,” said Nancy. It doesn't need to be a small town not to have any secrets, she thought.

“Okay, so that's Cole. So when the old man supposedly pops himself four years back, Cole just happens to be home at the time, first time in years, you understand. Like first time in two decades. People start to ask the same questions you're asking.”

“Was there an investigation?”

“God, no. The old man's prints were on the rifle and the branding iron. No latents from Cole. They did look that far. And the old lady confirms that Cole was in the house when they heard the blast.”

“She could be lying,” said Nancy, lowering her voice, looking around her. “She strikes me as being pretty protective.”

“Fat lot of good it did Cole.”

“Yeah.”

“But,” added Reimer, “you know how that sort of thing goes.

The old lady likely overlooked the whole thing. She didn't want to get into it. Didn't want to believe that her husband was beating her son right under her nose.”

“She said that Walter got the better of Cole while they were training.”

“Well, you and I know that's not the case.”

“Okay, so you're saying that it's pretty likely that Henry Blackwater was laying a beating on Cole on a pretty regular basis. And that there were pretty strong suspicions when the old bastard blew his brains out that Cole had more than a passing interest in seeing him dead.”