One Careless Moment (17 page)

10
•

I HAD EXPECTED the GMC to turn right and head north, toward the canyon and the squatters' camp, but it's going south, out of town. It's easy to follow here, plenty of curves and only a few gravel side roads, so I hang back. Once again, I'm driving a conspicuously distinctive vehicle. Everything rattles, from the floorboards to the roof, popping and warbling. The steering wheel is as big as a ship's tiller.

After an hour, we're on the big highway, headed toward Missoula. When the GMC takes an off-ramp I groan; I'm not real good at following in the city, but he stays on the outskirts like a country boy. When he stops at a Conoco, I ease in behind the station, find an air hose to fill a soggy tire, then watch from around a corner as he fuels up. He's a big guy in his mid-twenties, broad-shouldered without a lot of fat. Unlike Harnack, he looks like he'd know how to use his size. He's wearing dirty jeans and a couple of shirts with holes in the sleeves. Most striking are his dense brown lamb-chop sideburns, ending just shy of his nose. Thick curly hair crests from beneath a ball cap. He looks like Hugh Jackman playing Wolverine in the X-Men, complete with the antisocial frown. It occurs to me that he bears a striking resemblance to the Sasquatch. He must be the ape-man's son. When he goes in to pay, I go into his truck, rummage in the glove box. There's a pair of tin snips and a crescent wrench, but no registration or insurance. I retreat. The licence plate says Florida. I jot down the number.

From the Conoco, he goes for lunch at a drive-through, then stops at a grocery store. He's inside for a while and I consider another pass through his truck, but there isn't much point. He wheels out a heavily-loaded cart, slings bags in the back of the truck, then we're on the road again, passing through an industrial area. I'm pretty sure I've wasted an afternoon watching him buy groceries, but he has one stop left — a feed store. He tosses in a couple large bags of fertilizer. So much for high intrigue.

I let him get way ahead of me on the drive back. Rain spits on the windshield. The wipers are old and missing most of their rubber. To see where I'm going, I lean over the steering wheel, peering through a single two-inch clear arc of windshield. It doesn't improve my mood. I've pissed off the Forest Service just to waste the afternoon and fifty bucks on gas. Then it occurs to me that I didn't notice a garden at the squatters' camp. In fact, the old wellsite is clay so hard you could play tennis on it. There could be a garden out in the trees though, but it seems strange to drive all the way to Missoula to buy groceries and fertilizer, when both are available in Carson Lake.

Unless you don't want anyone in Carson Lake to know you're buying fertilizer.

Suddenly, it all makes sense — the squatters, the canyon, the curse, and the fire.

It's raining steadily when I stop on the Blood Creek Road. The rent-acop on the trail leading to the canyon is in his truck and doesn't look real happy when I lurch to a stop in the muddy intersection. He makes a show of pulling on his hood and wading through the muck. “This is a restricted area,” he says, when I roll down the window.

“Yeah, I know. I'm headed to the fire.”

He glances at the panel. “What's your business up there?”

It seems a little absurd, after all I've been through, to have to justify why I'm here, but it's a different rent-a-cop today so I don't get by on recognition. “I'm delivering commissary.”

He hesitates, then shrugs and waves me through.

The steep uphill grades have not improved in the rain and the panel slides and spins. By the time I make it to the fire, there's so much mud on the Cornbinder I could park in the middle of the road and it would be invisible. Base camp looks deserted, the tents dark and slick. Nothing more depressing than fighting fire in the rain. I drive on. The road past the fire hasn't been graded but hasn't had a lot of traffic to churn up the mud — a single set of vehicle tracks meander up the hill. Water runs in rivulets down eroded gullies, collecting at the bottom of dips. I plough through these little ponds, muddy water splashing the windshield, seeping through rotted floorboards. I pull over, nose the panel as close to the trees as I can and pocket the keys.

As soon as I step onto the road, mud begins to collect on the soles of my boots. I take half a dozen steps but quickly collect twenty pounds of gumbo on each boot. My bruised vertebrae and cracked rib let me know just what a fool I am. I pop a few painkillers, swallow them dry as I'm pelted with rain, and head into the bush. It's not much better in here. Dense alpine fir loaded with moisture slap water over my arms and legs but since I'm soaked already, I plough through. At least I can walk and I'm not leaving an obvious trail. I parallel the road as much as possible, following the line of least resistance. It takes over an hour to reach the edge of the squatters' wellsite. I nearly blunder right into the open.

Wolverine's truck sits close to one of the trailers. Everyone must be inside. Rain drums softly on trailer roofs and old vehicles. Puddles dance. I shiver — I forgot how cold it gets at this altitude during a good rain, even in the middle of summer. All I have is a thin denim coat. No hat. I should turn back before I get pneumonia. I breathe into my cupped hands, which are turning a little blue.

Better keep moving.

I circle the camp well back, searching for a trail. There's a nasty-looking outhouse without a door, and a lot of garbage — old mattresses and empty, rusting fuel drums. I walk past the trail twice before noticing it; it's been well preserved, very few branches broken off. But it's impossible to completely hide a trail that receives any sort of regular use and, glancing back to make sure no one is watching, I start to follow.

The squatters' camp is in a valley about a third of the way up the mountain. The valley is wider and shallower than Holder's Canyon, which it roughly parallels, separated by a high ridge. It's hard to imagine anyone lugging heavy bags of fertilizer along a trail this rugged and the farther I go, the quicker I push on, cursing myself for wasting more time. I top the main ridge after what seems an eternity and have a sudden view of the fire. Or what used to be the fire — now just a black smear in the valley below. Burned branchless trees look like stubble. The perimeter, well up the valley, is a sharp line of green.

I stand for a while, staring at the ridge on the far side of the valley. It's a long black hump, like a whale coming to surface. I can see where Brashaw and I were trapped. From here the cliff looks low, like you could just step off it. I'm no longer certain what I'm doing out here, slugging through cold bush in the pouring rain. Cold, wet, and discouraged, I head downhill. At least it'll be easier to walk back through the burn.

The trail forks in several places on the way down. I stick with the route that heads most directly toward the fire, walking quickly, sliding in the steeper areas. I almost don't see the trap, and save my eyes by the merest coincidence as I slip on a greasy patch and fall painfully onto my back. When I look up, there's a series of fish hooks strung across the trail at eye-level. They're big barbed hooks, hung from monofilament fish line, bare of any lure and nearly invisible against the surrounding forest. I'm not sure how effective they might be, but they get their message across well enough — stay the hell away. I continue on, walking slower, my heart beating a little faster. In the dense green jungle it would be easy to hide more booby traps and I search the ground and branches, keep checking my back trail. It feels like someone is following me. The trail drops sharply and there's a pale grey snag at a downhill bend. I stop. A dead tree is nothing unusual, but it bothers me, at the side of the trail like that.

It's a marker. The users of the trail would need to know where their booby traps were set, so they wouldn't stumble into them. I'm willing to bet there was a marker by the fish hooks. I leave the trail, work my way downhill through dense green branches that scratch my hands, slap me with their load of moisture. My detour pays off. Nailed to the side of the dead tree, at just below head level and positioned to be invisible from uphill along the trail, is a heavy-duty spring-loaded rat trap. A short section of pipe is clamped to the trap and inside the pipe is a 12-gauge shotgun shell. A stub has been brazed onto the jaw of the trap, to align with the primer of the shotgun shell — a firing pin. Heavy fish line runs down along the side of the tree, around a thread thimble anchored to the trunk, and across the trail, about eight inches from the ground. It's a pretty deadly looking trip gun. I cut the line, releasing slowly as I do the jaw of the trap. The firing pin lines up perfectly with primer and I shudder. I walk very slowly now, paranoid I'll trip another wire or fall into a spiked pit.

I make it to the edge of the burn without further incident.

The fire didn't make it very far up the slope on the northern flank, due to wind direction and higher local humidity. A dozerline winds its way along the lower slope. It takes me some time to climb over the windrow of toppled trees on the outside of the line. The ribbon of bare brown earth is muddy and slick. The dozer operator wouldn't have seen the narrow footpath. Neither would firefighters patrolling the line — the trail in the green is obscured by the windrow and nearly invisible in the burn. But it's there, if you know what to look for. I follow the faint impression, still cautious despite the certainty that the fire should have destroyed any remaining traps. The trail becomes indistinct, then peters out completely. Retracing my route, I search for another trail or some sign I have arrived at my destination, but find neither. The trail had to go somewhere of importance, or why bother with the precautions and booby traps? I take a moment, stand in the charred skeletal forest and gaze around. It's raining harder now. No sound but the patter of rain; air filled with a pungent scent of damp smoke and baked earth. A forgotten graveyard at the end of the world.

I keep looking. Answers are here, somewhere.

The trail clearly does not continue and I'm forced to conclude the squatters purposefully took differing routes to obscure their destination. It seems an extreme precaution, unnecessary as they can't have located far from water. I walk quickly through the burn now and find the narrow channel of a creek. It doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for.

The gardens are small and numerous, close to the creek and connected by a pattern of faint foot trails. The clearings are fairly obvious — open patches of lightly scorched ground. The underbrush was cleared out and irrigation increased soil moisture, decreasing fire intensity, but not enough to save the crop. I wander among the clearings, looking for evidence. Even after a fire there should be plenty — melted blobs of plastic from transplant containers, irrigation line, remnants of more booby traps. But like the fire origin, there's very little here; someone cleaned up. The stalks of the plants, loaded with moisture, should have survived, but even these are gone. This was a big clean-up job and something had to have been missed. Finally, I find several unburned sections of plastic pipe, the blade of a small hand shovel. Not that I needed further confirmation of what was going on here. Until the fire, this was a perfect setup. Free land, a reliable water source, and privacy, courtesy of a local superstition. I'm too cold to stay any longer and head back through the wasteland of the burn.

Finally, I have something to tell Del.

Even with the heater rattling on maximum, the old panel doesn't warm up much and I'm shivering when I climb the stairs to Del's trailer, the back of my hands blue as I fumble with the door latch. Del meets me at the landing, where I drip onto her floor.

“Porter! My God, you look half-dead.”

My teeth are chattering. “Just need ... dry clothes.”

“I have something better than that,” she says, her face assuming a look of motherly determination.

“Oh my —” Aunt Gertrude has joined the crowd. Del turns to her.

“Can you take care of Melissa? I'm taking him to the spring.”

Gertrude nods and Del leads me back outside, into the rain. It's coming down like nails and she doesn't have a coat or hat. I try to protest but she leads me across the yard to a small log building behind one of the greenhouses, next to a treed slope. Even in the pouring rain, I can smell the sulphur. She opens a heavy wooden door, ushers me inside.

It's cramped and dark. I don't go far before thumping my boot against something hard. Del clicks on a low-watt bulb. In the dim yellow light, a wide octagonal tub built of heavy cedar planking. Steam rises from dark water like a witch's cauldron. On shelves around the tub, plastic jugs of chemicals. Tools propped in a corner. A combination garden shed and sauna like a workshop from a Grimm's fairytale.

“This will warm you up.”

I hesitate, looking at the dark water flecked with foam.

“Strip down and take a soak,” she says firmly.

I dip my hand in. Heat burns through skin, scalding cold flesh, but it feels good and I fumble with my shirt buttons. My hands are stiff and clumsy. Del brushes aside my ineffectual attempts, quickly tugs open the buttons. I stand, helpless and more than a little grateful. Droplets of rain nest in her red hair like transparent pearls. Her breath is warm on my chest. So are her hands as she helps me tug off the clinging shirt. It peels away like saran wrap.

“Porter — oh my God ...”

She's behind me, looking at my back, her fingers lightly tracing tender topography. The burn line from the branch that landed on the fire shelter. The bruise from the tire wrench. Assorted abrasions and contusions. I feel like a medical chart; an exhibit in gross human anatomy.

“You didn't just get into an accident with your truck, did you?”

“I ran into the Porter Cassel fan club the other night.”

Behind me, a deep sigh. “This is my fault.”

“No. This would have happened anyway.”

Del drops the soggy shirt, unlaces my boots. She kneels in front of me, reaches for my pants. I'm a little hesitant — it's been a while since a strange woman tugged at my zipper. She tells me to relax.

“Don't flatter yourself. I prefer my men at room temperature.”

Pants come off, slapping coldly against my legs as I stumble, reaching for balance. The underwear stays on. Her hand is warm on my arm as I fumble my way into the pool. The water is even warmer and I suppress a gasp. My skin prickles as the heat works in. The burn on my back blazes with pain.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

I hadn't realized until now, but Del is soaked to the skin. I shrug, slide deeper into the fiery water. She unbuttons her shirt and I glance away, try to look casual, focus on the pain in my back. She notices my discomfort, laughs lightly as she pulls off her shirt. I can't help glancing over. She's wearing a bra, lacy on the edges. It's wet and I can see her nipples.

“Relax, Porter. You never went skinny dipping with the girls?”

“It's been a while.”

She tugs off rain-spattered pants and boots, slips into the tub in bra and panties, sits on the far side, and slides down in the water, until her breasts are covered. Red hair floats around her.

“That better?” she says.

“That's just fine.”

She smiles, a little amused, a little dominant. I think all women enjoy watching a man squirm. God knows, Telson does. I focus on her, and the fact that Del is Bert Brashaw's daughter. It helps a little. So does the hot water; I'm suddenly very tired.

She leans back, sighs deeply. “Where were you all day?”

“I went for a little walk in the woods, out by the fire.”

“You find anything new?”

“I think I found why the fire was started.”

She stares at me from across the cauldron, wet hair plastered to her neck and shoulders.

“What did you find, Porter?”

“Do you know about the squatters up near the fire?”

Del frowns. “A little. I heard there were some old hippies up there.”

“They're more than just hippies.”

“What do you mean?”

“They're growing pot in the valley.”

Del sits up, exposing well-shaped breasts beneath a very thin, wet bra. “Are you sure?”

I try not to stare. “Definitely.”

“How did you find out?”

“I got to wondering why the squatters were there, on a hardpan old wellsite in the middle of nowhere, next to a canyon that's supposed to be cursed. At first, I thought they just wanted to be left alone. Then I started to wonder why they would want to be left alone. I went for a hike, worked the area around their camp until I found a trail leading to the burn.”

“You found their gardens?”

“Yes, but the fire had wiped them out.”

“Shit!” Del looks furious. “They were after the pot gardens.”

“Why would someone burn the gardens, if they wanted the pot?”

“I don't know, Porter. Maybe they wanted to get rid of them.”

“They could have just called the sheriff.”

“Whoever started that fire killed my father.”

Whoever started the fire wouldn't have known that BB would be killed. At most, they wanted to destroy the marijuana crop, or chase away the squatters. I'm about to bring this up, to caution her, but change my mind. She doesn't want her father's death to be without reason. I'm not sure it makes it any easier.

“So, what's next, Porter? What do we do next?”

“We go to the police. Tell the sheriff. They'll look into it.”

Del shakes her head. “Not yet.”

I give her a questioning look and she floats across to me. “What are the police going to do?” she says. She's very close, practically kneeling between my legs. I don't think she realizes how uncomfortable this makes me. “Look how much more you've done already.”

“I haven't done that much, Del.”

“Sure you have. You know why the fire was started.”

“I don't know anything for certain.”

“But you could find out.”

I'm about to tell her once again how much better it would be to go to the police, let Castellino and Noble make the connections, but Del has a pleading look on her face and I close my eyes for a minute. She wants me to stay so she'll know what is happening — what the police won't tell her until their investigation is concluded. Or she has far more confidence in my abilities than is justified. Either way, I don't have the information she wants, just different pieces of the puzzle. When I look again, she's still in front of me, waiting and hopeful. Vulnerable in her passion for the truth.

“Del, anything I've accomplished has been a result of defying the authorities or conducting illegal searches. This is an open homicide investigation. At some point — and I think that point is now — I have to stop doing things the way I do. If I find out who started the fire that killed your father, whatever evidence I uncover may be inadmissible. There isn't a court in this country that will accept evidence obtained through an illegal search. Instead of catching the arsonist, he could go free.”

Her gaze doesn't waver. “At least we'd know who did it.”

“That's not enough,” I say, gently placing a hand on her bare shoulder. “We have to go to the sheriff. Tell them what we know.”

“Okay,” she says, looking at me. “But not yet.”

“Del, there's no point waiting —”

“Yes, Porter — there is.” Her gaze is steady, makes me a little nervous. “What happens if the police become involved with the squatters and they disappear? They're growing marijuana up there and they've got nothing to gain from working with the police. But they might talk to you.”

I think of the Sasquatch and his sawed-off shotgun. “No, Del, we have to go to the police.”

Her jaw clenches and she gives me a look that makes me feel trapped.

“Just a little longer, Porter. Please.”

I sigh, wondering how I can make her believe this isn't a good idea. She's so close now I could lean over and kiss her. “I ran into one of your old flames earlier today.”

She looks puzzled.

“A guy by the name of Lyle Harnack.”

Del's smile is reluctant, wistful. “Oh yes — Lyle.”

“You two actually went out? He seems a little young.”

Del lays an arm along the edge of the tub. Steam rises from her skin. “I met Lyle at a barbecue, here at the greenhouse. BB used to throw them all the time, for the crew. He'd cook the burgers and steaks himself, then sit in a big log chair, sipping his beer and watching his children. Said he felt like a father with twenty adolescent teenagers. The guys would bug him, call him BB the King, sitting on his throne.”

“I wondered where he got that name.”

“Yeah.” Del is smiling. “It just stuck. Anyway, Lyle started on the crew that spring — he's from Colorado originally. He seemed naive and sort of helpless among the other guys. I guess I felt sorry for him. He was so sweet, always bringing me things.”

“Like a puppy.”

She gives me an amused look. “He used to help at the greenhouse during his off days. After a while, I sorta got attached to him.”

“That happens with puppies. Then they grow up.”

“Yeah, well, no danger of that with Lyle.”

“I got that impression. That why it didn't work out?”

Del shakes her head. “It never would have worked out. We had a thing for about a month, but he really isn't my type.” She frowns, looks away.“It happened at a bad time, close to the anniversary of when Jack left. It was just a rebound thing.”

“No explanation needed.” “Well, you asked.” “True. You know, Lyle said he was the one who broke it off.” Del chuckles, without much humour. “Yeah, he'd say that.” There's a pause. Somewhere, something is dripping, steady as a heartbeat. “Where did you run into Lyle?” she says suddenly, looking at me. “At the fire, initially. Lately though, he's been following me around.” “Following you?” “When I stopped him, he said he was trying to help you.” “How could following you help me?” “I'm not sure, but Lyle seems to think it might.” She looks puzzled. “He wants to catch BB's killer. He thinks you'll appreciate that.” Del sighs. “That'd be Lyle. Doesn't know when to quit. Is he helping any?” I think of the plugged toilets. “I've given him a few things to take care of.” Del looks amused. “That'll keep him happy.” There's a sudden scrape as the door opens and a cool breeze wafts in. Christina Telson stands in the doorway. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I thought you were alone.”

I take my hand off Del's shoulder and she retreats to the far side of the tub, a questioning look on her face. Telson's look is questioning too, but in a different way — she's surprised and more than a little angry. I try to think of something to say but I'm too slow, fighting heat, fatigue, and painkillers. The door closes before I get out the first words.

“Christina —”

“Who was that?” Del says quietly.

I don't bother answering and charge after Telson. She's halfway across the yard when I make it outside, in my underwear, dripping and steaming. It's not very dignified, but I've gotten past dignified a long time ago. “Just wait,” I holler, and she turns around. She's wearing tight black jeans and a red plaid flannel shirt. Her curly brown hair is getting wet, sticking to her face. She looks fantastic.

“It's not what you think,” I say. The most overused line in history.

“Whatever,” she says, turning away. “You're obviously busy.”

“Just hang on a second!”

Telson is nearly to her rental car and I consider sprinting across the yard, but notice I'm now in plain view of the greenhouses. Two old ladies stand under an awning, watching me with great interest. I back away, watching Telson's car splash through puddles as it turns. It stops for a few seconds, the window coming down.

“I'm in town,” she hollers. “Drop by, when you're not so busy.”