One Careless Moment (15 page)

I drive fast enough to arouse the concern of a cop going the other way on the highway. He flashes his lights but doesn't bother turning when he passes and sees the Forest Service logo on the side of the truck. It's going to be tight, but I should have just enough time for another trip to the fire. I roar up the Blood Creek Road, nearly fly into the trees at one curve. They've got security at the trail leading to the canyon, but the rent-a-cop sees the logo and waves me past. I've got immunity, at least for the time being. Smoke lingers like fog, but no flames are visible from the toe of the southern ridge, and the fire is considerably more docile now, with the still air and rise in humidity. I park and head straight for the area where the fire jumped the dozerline.

After crossing the dozerline, the fire backed into the wind, down to the road. Trees that were green when I first arrived at the fire are now black spikes. The dozerline windrow — a ridge of tangled trees, roots, and earth pushed by the dozer — has been reduced to ash. Nothing looks the same. I stand at the junction of road and dozerline, picturing what it looked like when I first arrived, trying to project where it must have crossed. Impossible from here. I'll have to track it back, like any other origin.

At first, deeper within the fire, there isn't much to see as entire trunks are deeply burned. Closer to the road, there's a noticeable transition as the char line drops on the trees. Wind blowing around a tree will form a slight vacuum along the lee side of the trunk, sucking flame and char upward in a chimney-like vortex, and I trace the height of this char to where it drops and finally vanishes, indicating the fire backed into the wind. Fifty yards from the road, and ten yards from the dozerline, a cluster of a dozen trees have very low char lines. Somewhere among these trees is a secondary origin and I study the ground, looking for fusee droppings, the spine of a matchbook — anything that might indicate arson — but there's nothing, which is consistent with an airborne ember or firebrand. Perfectly normal, predictable fire behaviour at the head of a fire. But this isn't the head; this is the tail. Wind here should have driven any firebrands harmlessly into the interior of the burn, suggesting it could have been a secondary arson — a theory I find appealing as it implies I hadn't misjudged the safety of the ridge.

I sigh heavily, stare at the ashen ground of this second origin, at black tree trunks marching up the ridge. Have I developed a numbed sense of danger — the curse of the overworked firefighter — or is it conceivable someone took advantage of the situation, removed Brashaw for some personal gain? At this point, I'm not prepared to accept either explanation without more evidence.

9
•

IT'S A QUARTER past four when I arrive back in town. I've missed my plane. I'm expecting Aslund or Grey at the cabin, a little pissed off, but when I pull through the gates of Lakeside Estates, I'm greeted by a somewhat larger delegation. Grey is here, but so are Castellino and Noble. They're sitting on the veranda, two suits and a uniform, and stand when I drive in. Nobody is smiling. I feel like a teenager caught playing hooky with his father's truck. I'm tempted to turn around and drive back to Canada.

I park, brace myself for the inevitable. Grey pointedly looks at his watch. Noble has a sort of wistful expression on his broad face. Castellino appears intent, lips pressed tightly together.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” I say quickly. Always best to cut them off at the pass.

“Yeah, you're late,” says Grey. “And you're not packed. Any special reason?”

“No, I just lost track of time. I'll grab my gear.”

I move toward the door, thinking there'll be another flight soon enough, but Castellino lifts an arm, blocking my retreat. He motions me aside, without saying anything, leads me around a corner along the veranda. There's a hanging bench with a lovely view of the lake.

“Have a seat, Mr. Cassel.”

I sit, watching Castellino. He props himself on the handrailing. His dark face is composed. He seems very calm. I try to match his repose, so I don't look as nervous as I feel, but I could use another fix of

painkillers. He clears his throat, glances toward the lake, then at me.

“How is your investigation going, Mr. Cassel?”

I've been told not to investigate on my own, but there seems little point denying that I have.

I shrug. “Not so good.”

“Is that why you missed your plane?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I was following up a lead. Took a little longer than I thought.”

Castellino purses his lips, frowns a little.“Is this lead going anywhere?”

“I'm not sure. It could go either way.”

He allows himself a small smile.“I admire your ambition, Mr. Cassel. Your resolve. I'm handicapped by procedure. By laws. You, on the other hand, are a take-charge kind of guy. As misguided as you are, you get things done. You don't let a little thing like breaking and entering stop you. Or invasion of privacy.”

Damn. He knows about the real estate agent. I'm about to say something, but he cuts me off.

“Mr. Capsan is quite upset. Conducting an illegal search is a serious matter.”

“It wasn't really a search —”

“Just as withholding evidence is a serious matter.”

Another pause. Castellino waits, hands clasped over one leg. He's warning me about my methods, yet he's ready to accept whatever information I might have dug up. Another testimonial for tacit consent. Not that I want to push his limits — it doesn't much matter any longer; I'll be home on the next available plane.

“I went to the fire again,” I say, leaning forward so the swing will stop swinging. “I wanted a look at the origin of the secondary fire, which ran up the ridge. It occurred to me, after visiting the real estate office and seeing the scanner, that Capsan would know Brashaw was on the fire. He'd also know where the origin was, and that Brashaw was on the ridge.”

Castellino looks thoughtful. “You're suggesting there are two arsons?”

“It's possible. Char patterns indicate a second origin. It could be —”

“Just a minute,” says Castellino, holding up a hand. “I want the others to hear this.”

He calls for Grey and Noble, who join him at the rail, looking politely inquisitive. “Mr. Cassel was just explaining his suspicions about Bob Capsan,” says Castellino. All three give me an expectant look. I recap my visit to the fire, which has Noble frowning.

“You didn't actually find physical evidence of a second arson?”

“Nothing physical, but it seems to be a point source ignition.”

“Like a spot fire.”

“Yes, but spotting is a little unusual at the tail of a fire.”

“Perhaps in your experience,” says Noble. “The winds in that terrain are pretty variable —”

“Look — we've been through this before. You think I screwed up, going onto the ridge. If you're right, then it's something I'll have to live with. But you have to admit there's a possibility the burnover on the ridge was set intentionally. The flagging I hung at the origin vanished, and so did the fusee residue. Someone was messing around up there. It's not such a stretch they'd light a second fire, particularly if they saw some gain.”

“It's possible,” Noble says reluctantly.

“What's Capsan's motive?” says Castellino.

“He's wanted Brashaw's land for years, but Brashaw wasn't selling.”

“Why would he want Brashaw's land?”

“There's a natural hot spring out there that he wants to develop.”

A moment of silence as all three ponder what appears to be new information. I'm surprised they didn't know this. But then again, they wouldn't unless Capsan made his plans public, or Brashaw told anyone of the offer. Castellino asks how I know this and I tell him of seeing Capsan on my visit to Del's Greenhouse, finishing by telling them of the financial straits the greenhouse is in as a result of Brashaw's death. Castellino looks thoughtful. Noble looks puzzled. Grey is shaking

his head.

“I don't buy that,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because of the Public Safety Officers' Benefits Act. The families of victims who die in the line of duty receive a considerable compensation package. I'm willing to bet that whatever Delise Brashaw owes on the greenhouse could pretty much be paid out with that.”

There's a thoughtful silence. “Unless Capsan didn't know that,” I say quietly.

“Well, we'll look into it,” says Castellino.

I want to point out that Capsan did make an offer of some sort after Brashaw's death, but I'm not sure they want to hear it; the mood of the group has already shifted from thoughtful to relieved — they're clearly glad to be rid of me. “There's another plane tomorrow at ten,” says Noble. “In the interests of preventing an international incident, I suggest you make every effort to be on it. In fact, we'll make sure someone is here, bright and early, to pick you up.”

Grey holds out a hand. “I'll take your keys, since you won't be needing the truck anymore.”

“What about supper?”

“Call a cab,” says Noble.

I need to say goodbye to Del Brashaw, again. This time though, she'll have to come to me. I call her from the cabin at Lakeside Estates. She sounds exhausted, but she's glad I called. She'll be right over. She picks me up with a van that has a big plastic carrot on top. We go for supper at the smallest A&W franchise in existence. We get our food, then cram into a booth without enough leg room.

“You look tired,” I say. She has dirt under her fingernails. Her face is sunburned.

“Oh, Porter, you don't know the half of it.”

“Tough day at the office?”

She gives me a trooper's smile. “You know, when you do a little gardening, it seems pretty nice, and you think to yourself — hey, it wouldn't be so bad doing this full time. What you don't realize is how truly backbreaking it is to seed, weed, water, and transplant thousands and thousands of plants.” She sighs, blowing a strand of red hair away from her face. “Maybe I should just sell the whole damn thing to Bob Capsan. If I talk nice, he might give me a good rate on a room in his hotel.”

She looks tired enough to be serious. “Are you worried about the money?”

“Money? Bah.” She waves the thought away.

“I understand the Forest Service will provide compensation —”

“It's not the money, Porter. It's BB. This was just as much his dream as it was mine.”

“I'm sure he'd want you to carry on.”

“Yeah. I know. But it's just not the same. So, what have you been up to?”

I'm not really sure how much to tell her, because I'm not sure any of it means anything, and I don't want her jumping to conclusions. But if anyone has a right to know, she does. I shift in my seat, lean forward, and look around. Her body language changes subtly as well. She folds her napkin, tucks it under an empty mug, tidies up a bit. We're like an old married couple, gossiping about the neighbours. I wish it were that harmless.

“I went to see Bob Capsan this afternoon.”

“You saw him?” she whispers. “You talked to him?”

“Not exactly. I waited until he was out and looked around his office.”

Del doesn't say anything, but her eyebrows are up. She's impressed with my bravado. After what happened, she shouldn't be. But then again, she doesn't have to know. “I was looking for whatever plans he might have drawn up for your place. I figured they might indicate how motivated he is.”

She's nodding, following right along.

“I didn't find any, Del.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. But I was still curious, so I went back to the fire and had a look at where it took off and ran up the ridge. There was a good dozerline there, and I was pretty sure the ridge was safe when I went up there with your father. If I'd've had any doubt, believe me, I'd've stayed away from there.”

She places her hand over mine on the table, gives me an earnest look. “I know, Porter.”

Her hand remains on mine — warm and a little rough, and she gives me a look fringed with pain. It occurs to me just how strong she is, dealing with the horror of her father's death while working and taking care of her kid. I know from experience I wouldn't hold up as well.

“It took a while, but I found where the fire jumped the line.”

She stares at me, frozen. Looks horrified.

“There was a distinct origin area —”

“Which means what?” she says, pulling back her hand.

“Nothing, maybe. It could have been a windborne ember.”

“Or someone could have started it. Like Bob Capsan.”

She has a look in her eye that makes me uncomfortable. “Let's not jump to conclusions,” I caution her. “All I'm saying is that the fire that killed your father had a distinct origin area. More than likely, this is the result of perfectly normal fire behavior.”

“But what do you think, Porter? You don't think it's just a spot fire, do you?”

I sigh, knowing it had to come to this — she doesn't want hints and possibilities, she wants answers. “It doesn't matter what I think Del — and I'm far from certain either way. It's what can be proven. The original fire was arson, but the evidence at the origin was removed. That stuff doesn't just dissolve. At any rate, it's gone, which makes solving the initial fire more difficult. Trying to prove the fire didn't spot over the line on its own is something else.”

Del thinks about this, rubbing a hole through her napkin.

“It's not that I don't want to help. There's just nothing to go on.”

She looks at me. “Who could have started it? The second fire?”

“Assuming there was a second fire, it would have to have been someone who was either already on the fire, or watching it and monitoring the radio.”

“So there are suspects.”

“Sure. Anyone with a scanner. That's why the police use so many codes.”

“But it's a place to start.” Her anger is gone, replaced by the fiery determination I saw during our first encounter at the greenhouse. She's leaning forward, elbows propped on the table, features etched with concentration. I'm leaning back, or our noses would be touching.

“It's a place for someone else to start.”

It takes her a minute, then she frowns. “What do you mean?”

“They're sending me home, Del.”

She's shaking her head in a way that makes me uneasy. “You can't go.”

“I have to. They're not exactly thrilled with my contribution thus far.”

“To hell with them. I need you here.”

I take a moment to consider how best to leave this — it's a little like breaking up, a skill for which I've never had much need.

“I'll pay you.”

“No, Del — no. I don't want money. As it is, I could never repay you for what happened.”

“Maybe not,” she says quietly. “But you could stay a little longer.”

She gives me a look — she knows she has me. Del offers her spare room for the night and gives me a ride to the cabin at Lakeshore Estates, where I pack my bedroll and sneak out like a bad tenant. Now that Del's talked me into staying a little longer, it seems best not to be around the next morning when the Forest Service come to pick me up.

The next morning I'm up early, feeling guilty for standing up the Forest Service. I call the ranger station right at eight o'clock to speak with Grey, but he's in a meeting. So is Aslund. I leave a message — I can't make the flight, something's come up. I'll have to reschedule. The receptionist asks if I want to leave my number but I decline.

Del cooks breakfast. Bacon. Sausages. Eggs. Waffles. Now I know why BB was three hundred pounds. After, she gives me a choice of transportation. I can use the company truck — the van with the big plastic carrot — or a relic sitting in the weeds. Since the bright orange carrot might be a little conspicuous, and because the company truck is needed for deliveries, I go for the clunker. It's a 1966 International panel van.

“BB was going to restore it,” she says, as we contemplate the brooding hulk.

“An optimist.” It gives the term vintage new depth.

“Do you think it'll work?”

I peer under the hood.“I don't know.When was the last time it ran?”

“He starts it up every once in a while,” she says. Like he's still here.

I check the rad. Pull out the dipstick. “Well, there's oil in it.”

“He changed it this spring. Ordered some parts too, I think.”

“Whatever possessed him?”

“He won it in a card game a couple of years ago.”

“Or he lost,” I mumble. “And they made him take it home.”

We crank. We boost. We prime. Finally, it runs. I check the back for plates — it's registered. The glove compartment could double as a safe, the way you have to pound on it to get it open, but there's a treasure inside — the Cornbinder is insured. Thankfully, no one wasted money on collision coverage. I pump up soggy tires with an air compressor Del lugs out of a shed, check fluid levels, say a small prayer to the god of internal combustion. Then I'm off to town. Halfway there, I notice the gas gauge either isn't working, or I'm out of gas. I'm also out of money.

I'll have to find a bank.

“Try Carson United,” says the kid working at the Conoco. “Just up the road.”

The bank is an immense log building a few blocks farther south along the highway. At first, I think it's a hotel or lodge and have to double back, wasting precious fumes. I shut off the Cornbinder, which coughs and sputters to a halt. I'm lost in thought, thinking about the curse, when a van rushes past me. It's an old blue VW camper van. I catch a glimpse of a man's face, young and intent, looking over his shoulder like he's watching me. The van lurches around a corner, merges into traffic on the highway. I make a note to watch my back trail. It seems a little odd, the way he took off after passing. Nervous, like he didn't want me getting a good look at him. I'm pretty sure I'll be able to spot him again though — the windows of the van were hung with bright towels printed with comic book covers. I caught a pretty good look at Spider-Man and the Toxic Avenger.

The interior of the bank is like something out of a western movie. Lots of wrought iron, in the chandeliers, the bars over the windows. I can imagine a rack of Winchester lever-action rifles in a backroom, loaded and ready in case there's a holdup. I make a modest withdrawal and, coming out of the rear of the bank, see the blue VW van lurking in an alley a few blocks away, trying to hide. Sure enough, as I wheel the Cornbinder out of the lot, the van pulls out of the alley.

I head downtown, keeping an eye on the comic book van. The van hangs back, makes a bad pass, fights into position behind me. I watch in the rear-view mirror until I lock eyes with a young guy who looks vaguely familiar. Startled, he hits the brake and is nearly ploughed over by a log truck, which honks at him and roars past in a parallel lane. I can't believe anyone could follow this badly, and I have a little fun with him in the back alleys. Finally, I get tired of playing and shake him, then pick him up at the edge of town and start to follow. He heads south on the highway, turns onto a gravel road, vanishes in a dust cloud. After a few miles, he hangs a right and pulls into a small yard. I accelerate, pull in right behind him, and jump out before he has much of a chance to do anything. He sees me coming but he's too surprised to react. I shove him hard, slamming him against the side of his van.

“Hey!” he says, rubbing an elbow. “What'd you do that for?”

“Why were you following me?”

“Following you? What do you mean? I wasn't —”

I'm not crazy about the rough stuff — with my cracked ribs, this is hurting me more than him — but I shove him again and he thumps his head against a window.

“Take it easy dude. I don't know what your problem is, but I wasn't following you.”

He's just a kid, maybe nineteen. I raise my hand like I'm going to hit him and he cringes.

“What's your problem, man?”

“Look, kid, there's a few things you need to learn about tailing someone.”

“But I wasn't —”

“Like hanging back a bit farther instead of sticking your nose right up my ass.”

He looks offended. “Just because I was behind you doesn't mean I was following you.”

“And don't use a vehicle you could pick out of a Superbowl parking lot.”

There's a silence as we size each other up. He's bigger than me but I can see right away he doesn't have the confidence to use this to his advantage. He's more than a little familiar. He's a firefighter from Brashaw's crew. I can't believe I didn‘t recognize him earlier. As much as it's nice to see a familiar face, my concern increases.

“Whose squad were you on at the fire?”

“Cooper's,” he says, looking a little embarrassed.

“What's your name?”

He hesitates, sticks out a hand. “Lyle Harnack.”

I ignore the proffered hand. “Why were you following me, Lyle?”

Harnack looks uncomfortable. “I was just a little curious.”

“Curious, huh?” I give Harnack a hard look. “Don't bullshit me. You were following me around like that van of yours was on a tow rope. That's more than curiosity. That's obsession. Or guilt. You feeling guilty about anything, Lyle?”

“No.” Harnack shakes his head, but his cheeks colour a little.

“Then what was it? Puppy love?”

He gives me a grim look, doesn't answer.

“You can talk to me, Lyle, or you can talk to the cops.”

He frowns. “Okay man, I'll level with you. But you gotta promise not to laugh.”

“No problem there.”

Harnack shifts on his feet, frowning, looking at the ground. “I heard you were a private investigator or something. That you were just working on the fire by coincidence. After what happened, with BB getting killed and all, I figured you'd want to investigate the fire.”

“The Forest Service is doing that.”

“Yeah,” he says, kicking dirt. “I know.”

“So what's any of this got to do with you?”

He gives me a cautious glance. “If it were me, I'd want to help.”

“Well, it wasn't you on that ridge, Lyle. And for your sake, I hope it never is.”

There's a pause filled with the sound of distant traffic. Harnack leans against his van, scuffing dirt with his boot, not looking at me. “That's what you're doing though,” he says quietly. “Helping out. Investigating the fire.”

It's my turn to be uncomfortable. “What gives you that idea?”

He looks amused. “Everyone is talking about it. They know you missed your plane. Twice. There's only one reason for that. You're running your own investigation.”

“Really?” I try to sound surprised.

He makes eye contact — he's regained most of his confidence. “Sure,” he says, watching me, sensing my anxiety. “They know you're doing your own thing and it's making them nervous.” He tosses hair out of his eyes. “This fire is an embarrassment. They want you sent back to Canada.”