One Careless Moment (24 page)

I go for a drive, on my own, the old AM radio in the Cornbinder turned up high. Sometimes a man just needs to drive. Clears the mind. Trees and mountains. Small lakes in the valley bottoms. After a half-hour, I pull into a campground, rattle around a loop filled with motorhomes, then head north again on the highway. I'd like to go farther but the gas gauge has stopped working again and my thumps on the dash are ineffectual; I don't have quite the same presence as Erwin. I don't want to be gone too long, either. I'm a little worried about Del, alone with the Rottweiler.

And Telson.

And what might happen when the Sasquatch finds out his son has been shot.

The Cornbinder starts to cough and splutter on the final hill. I pat its dash, whisper encouragement, and we make it back to town, stopping at the first gas station, where I treat the old girl to a quick oil change — you gotta maintain a good working relationship with a vehicle of this vintage. She purrs a little more smoothly as we roll through town. I pass a side road close to the lake, where I see fire engines gleaming in the evening sun, and double back. A sign at the intersection invites me to support my local community and become a volunteer firefighter. The doors on the small station are wide open, men sitting out front, cleaning equipment and stringing hose. I turn in, park by an engine I recognize from the fire.

No one pays much attention to me as I walk up.

“Had a little action?” I say to a young lad tinkering on one of the engines.

He looks down, blinks at me. “Yeah. Trailer fire. Shop went too.”

“Anyone know why?”

The kid is about nineteen, tall and lanky, with haystack hair and lots of freckles.“Electrical, I think,” he says, then looks thoughtful. “You a reporter?”

“Just visiting. I work fires too.”

“Yeah?” he says. “Where you out of?”

“Up north. You mind if I look around?”

He shrugs. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” I pause. “Who does your dispatching?”

“I don't know,” he says. “Mostly 911, I think. Ask the chief. He's in the office.”

There's a small, shaded porch in front. Music from a local station drifts from an open door. Inside, Hutton is sitting on the corner of a desk, talking to a woman who's peering intently at a computer screen. Hutton, naturally, is wearing his dark sunglasses. He gives me a crooked smile.

“Porter Cassel,” he says. “You still here?”

“Yeah, I'm still here.”

“You buying a place? Moving in?”

“Maybe,” I say. “The country is nice and the people are so friendly.”

The woman looks up at me, no doubt catching the sarcastic edge in my voice. There's a casual arrogance about Hutton that rubs me the wrong way. “I was just looking for the chief.”

“That's me,” says Hutton, giving me another confident grin.

“You're that guy from the fire,” says the woman. “The Canadian.”

I nod. She's in her forties, sunburned, looks tired.

“I was wondering how you were dispatched to the Holder Canyon fire,” I say, looking at them both. The woman probably does administration, might be responsible for dispatch records. She frowns, thinking about this. “I think it was 911,” she says. “I could check.”

“No need, Connie,” says Hutton. “It was direct. Some guy driving past on the highway.”

“You sure?” says Connie. “I thought it was 911.”

“No.” Hutton slides off the corner of the desk. “It was direct.”

He wanders into the adjoining room and I follow, believing this to be some sort of cue, but he's just going for coffee. He offers me one, which I decline, then stands by the machine, sipping and looking at me through his dark glasses. “Why are you interested in the dispatch?”

“Just curious. Arsonists sometimes report their own fires, so they can watch the action.”

He nods. “I've heard that. I doubt that was the case here, though.”

“Really? Why?”

“It was just some guy, driving past and saw the smoke.”

“And he knew the number here?”

Hutton shifts on his feet, glances toward the open door leading to the front office, like he's anxious to be somewhere else. “We have signs along the highway,” he says. “You've probably seen them.”

“Probably,” I say, but I don't remember any.

“Are you on the investigation team?”

“Not really,” I admit. “I'm just looking around.”

“Ah.” He sips his coffee, looks amused.

“You said it was reported directly here. Who took the call?”

“I did. I was in, doing some paperwork.”

“What did the caller say? Did he leave his name?”

Hutton looks at the floor for a minute, then at me. “I've been through all this with the sheriff and the Forest Service,” he says, with exaggerated patience. “But I'll go through it, a third time, just for you. The guy was driving on the highway and saw the smoke, so he called here. From the sound of it, he was on a cellphone. He gave us an approximate location, from the peaks he could see, and said the smoke was coming from somewhere low.”

“What colour was the smoke?”

“White.”

Which means the fire was just getting started. “What time was the call?”

Hutton smoothes back his already smooth hair. “I'd have to check.”

From his tone, I gather he's not particularly eager to rummage through his files.

“Did you ask his name?”

“He didn't say. We're just glad they call.”

“Of course. Did he say where he was calling from?”

“On the highway, north of town.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I'm just curious.”

“Well, I'm busy. I don't have time for curious.”

“Then could I see the dispatch record?”

“Hell no,” he says. “We're not a library.”

I glance toward the open door, where I'm thinking it would be easier just to ask Connie.

“It was a couple of miles from the Jack Creek Store,” he says. “Now you know everything.”

He drains the rest of his coffee, tosses the Styrofoam cup into a wastebasket, and walks out of the ready room. I follow past Connie, hard at work, to the front of the building, where Hutton begins to talk with several of his men, his back to me, as if to prove that he's busy. They discuss equipment, the trailer fire they were on, a training course that's coming up. It's becoming a regular staff meeting and I can't help feeling Hutton is doing this to put me off. Then again, they are all volunteer, and waiting to go home. So I hang back, decide to be patient. One of the other men from the Holder fire is in the group, a guy with a brush cut and a face like a ripe pomegranate. He keeps glancing at me. Finally, they run out of things to talk about and the men begin to haul equipment back into the building. Hutton heads for his truck. I head him off before he gets there.

“I was wondering — do you check with the Forest Service before heading to a wildfire?”

Hutton regards me as though I were an unexpected roadblock on the way home from the office.

“No,” he says, stepping around me.

“Why wouldn't you do that?”

He ignores me, gets into his truck. I stand by the window.

“What?” he says, rolling down the window.

“Why wouldn't you check with the Forest Service before heading to a bush fire?”

“That's not how it works,” he says, his patience clearly at an end. “We get a call, we roll. If someone else is already there, then that's wonderful, but we don't count on it. It's better too many people respond than not enough. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a life to get back to.”

I'm about to thank him for his time, but he backs away and roars off, leaving me in a cloud of dust. Fire engines start to move, returning to their stalls. Someone tells me to move my truck. I start up the Cornbinder, head back to the motel. Halfway there, I remember Roy and his list, pull into the parking lot of the Paradise Gateway Motel. I've been here so many times, it's starting to feel like home. Roy is less thrilled than Hutton to see me.

“Where's the gorilla?” he says, from behind the safety of the bar.

“Back in the zoo, for now. You have that list?”

“Yeah.” He reaches under the bar. The list is on a napkin. It's not a large napkin and there's plenty of space left.

“Is this all you have?”

“Hey, man — it's a bar. People come and go.”

“There were about a hundred people here that night. You have eleven names.”

“That's all I could remember.”

“I doubt it.”

Roy looks insulted. “I did my best.”

There are a lot of things I could say to that, but there isn't much use. I take the napkin, head back to the Super 8. Telson is there, reading a book. Erwin and Del are gone. There's a plastic garbage bag by the door. Telson snaps her book shut.

“About time,” she says. “Where'd you drive? California?”

“It crossed my mind. What's in the bag?”

“Bloody bed sheets,” she says, giving me a sweet smile. “The usual gangster laundry.”

“Wonderful. What are we going to do with them?”

“What do you think?” she says. “Oh, I forgot — you're a man. We're going to wash them.”

“I love it when you get domestic.”

“Don't get used to it. I'm not that kind of girl.”

We take her car, forage for a laundromat. Bored housewives give us strange looks as we stuff bloody sheets into an industrial-sized machine, but no one asks questions. Telson borrows some bleach, turns the machine onto the heaviest setting. Then we go for supper at Pop's Family Restaurant. The food comes quickly and the burgers are good — high-quality cholesterol delivery systems. Telson must be famished because she eats most of her burger before asking the question I know must be killing her.

“Now will you tell me how your buddy Erwin got shot?”

I chew my burger, ponder the wisdom of answering.

“Come on, Porter. You can't still be angry.”

“He was cleaning his gun.”

Telson watches me, trying to decide if I'm teasing her or really won't answer. When I continue to eat instead of saying anything more, she lets out a heavy sigh, shakes her head. “I thought we settled this,” she says. “I thought we were working together.”

“We are. But you don't need to know everything.”

I've insulted her journalistic instincts. “It's all or nothing, Porter.”

“What if it's illegal? Forces you to withhold evidence? Aiding and abetting?”

She laughs. “Give me a break. Our relationship is based on aiding and abetting. I didn't turn away from you when the cops were after you. I aided and abetted. I withheld evidence. Christ — I nearly got killed helping you out.”

“I know,” I say quietly. Telson stares at me, realizing she just made my point.

She leans forward, gives me her best serious look. “Treat me like a grown-up.”

It's not a request — it's an ultimatum. I sense I've pushed this as far as I can, so I take a deep breath, wait until the waitress is out of earshot, and tell her the whole, bungled story of the break-in at the cabin. When I'm done, she leans back, thinking. “Are the two cops okay?”

“I think so. I haven't heard anything on the news.”

“You want me to look into it?”

“Yes — if you can without raising suspicion.”

“I can do that,” she says, giving me an encouraging smile. I have to admit, it's a weight off my shoulders, knowing I don't have to fight with her over this anymore. Not tonight anyway. On the way to the laundromat, she asks the inevitable question.

“Did you find anything at the cabin?”

“Not much. The fire was reported by a passing motorist, but that's about it.”

“And the Smith death?”

“Nothing. They must be running that somewhere else.”

“Seems like a lot of risk for no payback,” she says.

I nod, thinking she's pretty much summed up my entire trip to Carson Lake. I consider telling her about my visit to the volunteer fire station, but there's really nothing to mention. We arrive to find our bed sheets have completed their cycle, and we go back to the motel to mess them up again.

The next morning after breakfast we head out for a little road trip in the Cornbinder. Telson would prefer to take her car, but then she would miss out on a truly unique travel experience. The sides of the panel shake as I gear up. Everything begins to rattle.

Fortunately, we're not going far — just north to the Jack Creek Store. Hutton didn't specify in which direction the man who reported the fire was travelling, so I keep glancing to the side, try to pick out the fire. It's not easy — trees crowd both sides of the road most of the way, and the smoke is long gone. Finally, I find a spot where the road rises over the lake and the black scar of the fire is visible, on the lower slope of the mountain. I pull over, take a good look.

“Where exactly are we going?” says Telson.

“Right here, I think.”

“Lovely. Why?”

“This may be where the guy who reported the fire first saw it. Do you have your cellphone?”

Telson does. I ask her to check for coverage. There isn't any.

“He could have called from anywhere,” she says.

True, and a column of smoke would be visible from several locations. We drive to the Jack Creek Store, losing and picking up cell coverage intermittently. When we have coverage, it isn't for long — not long enough for much of a conversation. Which could be why the caller didn't bother to leave his name. Or the call was made from farther down the road.

I didn't notice any signs with the phone number of the volunteer fire department, just a generic Forest Service placard sternly reminding me to make sure my fire is out. But I might have missed it — the sign would likely be close to town and facing traffic travelling in the opposite direction. Regardless of whether or not there was a sign, the caller could have been local and knew the phone number to the fire station. Either way, I'm in no position to trace the call, which leaves me nowhere. We drive a few miles north of the store, make sure all the ground has been covered.

“Why is this important?” asks Telson.

“I'm not sure it is.”

She props a boot on the dash. “Oh well, lovely day for a drive.”

I agree. The sky is blue and cloudless, the trees vivid, the motor-homes white and sparkling as they blow past, rattling our windows. We keep checking — and losing — cell coverage. I try to imagine what the smoke would have looked like from this narrow, winding road, hemmed in with tall ponderosa. A puff here or there above the treetops. At first anyway — after it really started to cook you could probably see it from Missoula. But none of this means anything and, once again, we're at a dead end. I complain about this to Telson, who nods, doesn't seem concerned this morning. I think she's just waiting to step out of the Cornbinder again, return to good old terra firma. Nearly back in town, her cellphone rings. No problem with coverage here.

“It's for you,” she says, raising an eyebrow as she hands me the phone.

It's Del, and she's a little upset. A group of strange, hairy cavemen appeared at the greenhouse and claimed Erwin, taking him away. He needs more rest. He needs the antibiotics they forgot to take. From her description, it has to be the Sasquatch and his clan. Did they say anything? No, she says — not really. Except they want to see me, right away. I'll know where to go.

I thank her, tell her not to worry. She tells me to stop by for the antibiotics.

“What did she say?” asks Telson, taking back her phone.

“Erwin went home.”

“That's it?”

“She just wanted to let me know.”

“I see,” says Telson. “Sounds like crucial information.”

“Don't start.”

She's quiet for a moment. I'm not taking her with me to the squatters.

“I need you to do something,” I tell her, handing her Roy's napkin. She takes it without saying anything. “Those are some of the people who were at the bar the night I was jumped, which I think happened because I tried to talk to Karalee Smith. Unfortunately, the list isn't very comprehensive. I'd like you to track down the people on the list, see how many more names you can add.”

“Okay. What are you going to do?”

“See what I can find out about cellphone records.”

It's not exactly the truth, but Telson doesn't question it. I drop her at the motel, then head to the greenhouse, where Del gives me the medicine for Erwin. I inquire how her night passed and she rolls her eyes, tells me Erwin was no trouble. He's a nice guy, really. She must be using a different yardstick; one with flowers on it. Maybe she's just attracted to misfits. I take the vial of antibiotics, head north to the Blood Creek Road, then up the winding trail to the fire. Base camp is quiet now. The rain a few days ago did most of the work and the fire is in babysitting mode. I drive past, take the time to heave open the squatters' heavy gate. There's no one in sight when I park at the edge of the old wellsite, but Erwin's truck is there so I get out, wander past the wellhead, which is oozing natural gas vapours. A trailer door slaps open. The Sasquatch stares at me.

“Come in,” he says gruffly.

I hesitate, wondering what it is he plans to do that can't be done out here. He stands in the open trailer door, waiting. I trudge across the clearing, past the car riddled with bullet holes. The Sasquatch steps back and I heave myself into the trailer. Erwin is seated at a small, flip-down table, the sleeves on his hairy arms rolled back, idly shuffling a deck of cards. He glances at me, goes back to shuffling. He looks pale, but better than last night. The Sasquatch motions me to take a seat. I decide to stand, as close to the door as possible.

“The boy here tells me you got him shot,” says the Sasquatch.

I look at Erwin. That's one version of the events I hadn't considered. “Not exactly.”

Erwin glances at me, then back at his cards. One eyebrow twitches. He's more scared of his old man than he is of me, which is probably why he twisted this around. Given the stakes, it's not something I'm willing to let him get away with. “Erwin got shot,” I say, looking the Sasquatch in the eye, “because of his own stupid idea. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen.”

The Sasquatch looks at Erwin. “That right, boy?”

Erwin looks at his father, but can't hold his gaze. There's an ominous silence. I glance around the trailer. I was expecting a slum, but it's pretty tidy in here. The counters are clean and there's a picture of a younger Karalee beside a jar filled with wildflowers. There's also an old scanner and shortwave radio, turned way down. “We went together,” Erwin says finally.

“These cops he knocked,” says the Sasquatch, nodding toward his prodigy. “Are they okay?”

“You mean — are they going to live?”

The Sasquatch catches the sarcasm in my voice and his expression darkens. I make a mental note — no more sarcasm. “What've you heard about them?” he says.

“Nothing. But I haven't seen them around town, either.”

The Sasquatch swears, points a thick, dirty finger at Erwin. “How many times do I have to tell you not to mess with the cops, boy? You hurt them, they take it personal. Every cop in the state gets excited. Last thing we need is more attention.”

Erwin shrugs, looks uncomfortable.

“Kids,” says the Sasquatch, shaking his head.

I nod in commiseration, edging toward the door.

“He's been talking to the cops,” says Erwin. “That's why they came.”

The Sasquatch turns on me, his eyes narrowed. “That right?”

“The cops came here?” I ask innocently.

“Damn right they came,” growls the Sasquatch.

“What did they want?”

“What do you think? They asked about Karalee.”

“I told you they would make the connection —”

“Take a seat,” says the Sasquatch, grabbing me above the shoulder with a grip that causes a flash of pain. Shoving me toward the table.