One Careless Moment (26 page)

My photocopies from the fire station identify Henry Dancey and Doug Bradley as the two firefighters who were with Hutton at the canyon. Dancey was at the station when I talked to Hutton, so I decide to start with Bradley. He's the youngest and, I'm hoping, the easiest to talk to. The personnel file lists him as working at the sawmill, but when I pull over and use the pay phone at the Filling Station, a polite receptionist tells me Bradley isn't working today. So I drive to his house, a small cedar-sided bungalow set amid the pines. There's a swing set in the yard, plastic toys scattered across the lawn. His wife answers the door in sweat pants and a loose T-shirt.

“Is Doug home?”

“He's in the garage,” she says, brushing dark hair out of her face. “Hiding from the kids.”

I thank her, walk around back, picking my way through a minefield of toys. Bradley is in a small garage, the door open. He's crouched next to a dirt bike, up on a stand. Most of the engine is in pieces on a cluttered workbench. Bradley looks at me, his ball cap backwards, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Taking apart, or putting together?” I ask.

“Putting together,” he says. “I think.”

I introduce myself. “Porter Cassel.”

“I know,” he says, standing up. “From the fire.”

There's a conspicuous pause. He doesn't offer to shake my hand, but then again his hands are covered to the elbow with grease and dirt. He's wearing jeans, equally soiled, and an old AC/DC T-shirt. He looks very relaxed. Either he doesn't think I'm a threat, or he doesn't know anything.

“You want a beer?” he says.

“No thanks, I better not.”

He opens an old fridge next to the workbench. “You sure?”

“Maybe a quick one.” A small sacrifice, in the line of duty.

He hands me a can and we crack our beers, sip for a minute staring at the disembowelled motorcycle. I get the impression Bradley would be happy to stand around drinking beer with me all afternoon, no questions asked. An endearing quality, but after a few minutes I bring up the ugly topic of work. “I'm assisting the Forest Service investigators, looking into the arson,” I tell him, stretching the truth just a bit. “I wanted to talk to you about the fire.”

“Okay.” He shrugs. “What do you want to know?”

“How were you guys dispatched?”

“Air raid siren. That sucker goes off, you just about jump out of your skin.”

“That's how you were dispatched on this fire?”

“Yeah. I was downtown, just coming out of the hardware store.”

“And you went straight to the station?”

“Sure.” He sips his beer, gazes outside.

“Does everyone normally head straight to the station?”

Bradley sniffs, carefully rubs his nose with a clean spot on his forearm. “Normally, we call on the radio first. We all got radios in our trucks, so we can call the fire hall, see how many guys are needed. That way, if they don't need you, you don't waste your time. We got a lot of members.”

“Do you get a lot of calls?”

“Tons,” he says, nodding. “But not everyone goes out each time.”

“And you were called for this fire?”

“Naw,” he says. “I was just close. Sometimes, we sort it out at the station.”

“How many guys usually roll on a call?”

Bradley shrugs. “Depends on what sort of fire it is.”

“What about a wildfire? Like the one at the canyon.”

“Half a dozen, maybe.”

“But there were only three on this fire,” I say. “You and two other guys.”

“That's all that showed up,” says Bradley.

“Is that usual?”

“Sometimes. It's volunteer, and everyone's busy.”

“So they couldn't get any more guys?”

“I don't think they needed more. They said they just needed two.”

“Who said that?”

“The Chief — he was there. And Henry.”

“But you went anyway.”

“Sure.” Bradley squats beside his bike. “I was ready.”

There's a lull in conversation. Bradley spins the back tire of his bike, thrums his fingers on the spokes. It seems odd only two men would go to a wildfire, instead of the usual half-dozen. If the fire were reported by a passing motorist, they would have no idea how large it was, or what it was doing. Under similar circumstances, I'd send everything I could spare. Better to return a few resources rather than risk losing the show. Perhaps I'm jumping to conclusions. Wildfires aren't the primary concern of a volunteer fire department. They would want to keep the maximum resources in town.

“Were you aware the Forest Service was already on the fire when you were dispatched?”

Bradley shrugs. “No one said anything.”

“Did you monitor the red channel on your way out?”

“The what?”

“The red channel. The Forest Service frequency.”

Bradley uses the palm of his hand to slow and then stop the spinning tire. “I think so,” he says thoughtfully. He stands, scratches his forehead, leaving a greasy mark above his eye. “Yeah, we had the radio going, like we always do. Come to think of it, I heard talk about bombers, even heard you call about the arson. Funny though — it never occurred to me that we should check with you guys.”

“Whose call would that have been, Doug?”

“Chief 's, I guess. He was with us.”

“Telford Hutton?”

Bradley nods. He doesn't look quite so relaxed anymore.

“How often do you go out on a fire where the Forest Service is already there?”

“This is the first one since I been on the force. But that's only been two years.”

“And how many wildfires have you been on?”

He frowns, concentrating. “About a dozen, I guess.”

“If you're the first responder, what happens when the Forest Service shows up?”

“We head back to town.” He hesitates, looks a little uncomfortable. “I don't know if I should say this, but I guess it's okay, since you're from Canada. The Forest Service around here is kinda arrogant when they take over a fire. It's like they're the big brothers and they're sending us to go play somewhere else. When they show up, we just reel in our hoses and take off.”

“But you didn't at this fire.”

“No. You asked us to stick around.”

Not quite, I'm thinking. Hutton offered — but maybe that was just because I was a different face.

“Doug, do you receive training on protecting the origin of a fire?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, his face lighting up. “We took a course. In fact, last year we had this house fire where it was obvious someone started it. Used an accelerant. We did such a good job of protecting the origin, we got a commendation from the investigators who come from Missoula.”

I nod, duly impressed. “They catch the guy?”

“Yup.” Bradley takes a big gulp of beer. “Insurance job.”

“What about ribbon?”

“What?”

“Flagging. Do you guys mark things on a fire, using flagging?”

“Sure. Crime scene tape, for the origin.”

“What colour is it?”

“Yellow,” he says. “Don't you watch the movies?”

“What about pink ribbon?”

He gives this some thought. “Not that I'm aware of.”

“On that fire in the canyon, did you see anyone take down any pink ribbon?”

He shakes his head — no hesitation there.

“Did the three of you work together the whole time you were at the fire?”

His expression clouds. “What are you getting at?”

I don't say anything, just watch his face. His brow twitches.

“You think one of us screwed up that origin?”

“I doubt it, Doug. Do you guys receive training on how to burnout or backfire?”

The change in direction catches him off balance. “What?”

“They never taught you about widening a fireline by burning?”

Bradley looks puzzled. “No man, we do structure fires.”

“What about using in-draft to backfire?”

He shakes his head, seems genuinely flustered. I'm interested because if the fire on the ridge that killed Brashaw was a secondary arson, the arsonist would have needed more than a passing knowledge of how to use fire to fight fire. Bradley puts this together and his eyes narrow.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” I tell him. “Don't worry about it.”

But Bradley is worrying. He throws back the rest of his beer and stares at his project bike, frowning, obviously thinking hard. Time to go. I thank Bradley for the beer, leave him to ponder the scruples of his co-workers. I'll drop by in a day or two, talk to him again.

Sometimes, a little worry is a good thing.

Telson's rental car is at the motel when I pull into the Super 8. She's inside, at a little table, poring over photocopies of old newspaper clippings. The shades are drawn and the lamp is on. “Did you know,” she says, with a meaningful glance, “that canyon, where the fire started, has a bit of a reputation?”

“No — really?”

“Yes.” She points to one of the articles. “Back in the early seventies —”

“Bear hunters. Vengeful Indians. That sort of thing?”

She looks deflated. “You knew.”

“That the canyon is cursed? Of course. In fact, I'm starting to believe it.”

“Did you know the Indians were killed by a fire?”

“I seem to recall someone mentioning it. Can we talk about something else?”

She hesitates, then folds together her newspaper clippings.

“How did you do with that list?”

“Pretty good,” she says. “I did a little calling around. At first, no one would co-operate, so I told them I was with the cdc and that one of the patrons in the bar might have a highly infectious virus. Told them I needed the name of everyone who was there that particular night, so I could track them down, prevent an outbreak.” She grins, pleased with herself. “Amazing how forthcoming people are when faced with a public health crisis.”

“That's my girl.”

“There's gonna be a hell of a crowd at the clinic tomorrow.”

I try to smile, share her enthusiasm.

“What's the matter, Porter? You look a little pale.”

“I'm fine. What else have you been up to?”

I haven't been able to think of anything better to get Telson out of harm's way, so I'm going to have to lie to her, which makes me feel sick. I force a smile as she talks about the list, about her theories, about Erwin, about everything. She's so lively, so optimistic.

“What did you do today?” she says.

“Poked around. Looked into a few things.”

“Did you find out anything about cellphone records?”

“What?” I say, then remember with another twinge of guilt that I'd told her I would look into this today. It was just a cover, but I don't want to tell her about my visit to the squatters. Or my suspicions regarding the vfd. It doesn't leave us a lot to talk about. “Apparently, it takes a battery of lawyers and a few pretty good computer geeks to access cellphone records.”

“Too bad. So, what's our next move?”

“There isn't a next move. In fact, this case has pretty much run its course. We should get out of here, turn over what little we have to the sheriff.”

“You're giving up?”

“I have to.”

Telson stares, trying to read my expression. I'm not good at lying, so I glance away, grab a handful of clothes, and stuff them into my duffle bag. “I'm done,” I tell her. “Finished. Which is all for the best, because I'm needed back home in Alberta. There's another fire.”

“Another fire? Can't they send someone else?”

“They could, but there's no need.”

There's a long pause. I'm nauseous and sweating.

“When do you have to leave?” Telson asks.

I glance at my watch. “In about an hour.”

Telson is still staring at me. I continue packing, trying not to look as guilty as I feel.

“Have you told Del yet?”

“No, but thanks for mentioning it.” I look at my watch again. “I better run up there quick.”

Telson chews her lip, watching me. “You want me to come with you?”

“This is something I need to do alone.”

There's an uncomfortable few minutes, with a minimum of small talk and a quick goodbye, then Telson is gone. No kiss. No see-youlater. She's pissed and I wonder if she saw through me. I tell myself it doesn't matter — she's gone and safe. I try to believe it. Then I climb into the Cornbinder and head to Del's, not to say goodbye, but to plan our next move.

“What did you find out about the volunteer fire department?” she says.

“I talked to one of the guys.”

“What did he say? Any clue as to who might have put that ribbon under the seat of the engine?”

“Nothing on the ribbon, but the two guys he went to the fire with weren't real thrilled about taking him along.”

“Which two guys?”

“Henry Dancey and Telford Hutton.”

“Hutton is the chief,” she says quietly.

“It could be nothing,” I caution. “My experience with volunteer fire departments is they never know how many people are available, and they always want to maintain coverage in town. They're generally hard-working, community-minded individuals. Not arsonists.”

She nods, pensive for a moment. “So, now what?”

“We keep looking.”

I'm distracted on my drive back into town. I'm feeling shitty about deceiving Telson and the way we parted. I'm not thrilled about the progress of my investigation. I'm not going to accuse the chief of the volunteer fire department unless I have something solid. And a scrap of pink ribbon under the seat of a truck is hardly a solid lead. It's barely circumstantial.

I'm still not thinking clearly when I reach the highway, nearly blowing past the stop sign into the path of a log truck. I take a few deep breaths, steady myself, ease into the flow of traffic. Coming to the intersection leading to the sawmill, I start to brake. The pedal goes all the way to the floor without meeting resistance. I panic, grab for the gearshift, manage to ram it into a lower gear, overshooting the turn as I do and realizing too late that I never should have tried to turn. I slew sideways, narrowly miss a loaded lumber truck, and lose the surface of the highway. There's a roar of overworked gears, a blur of trees, then something abruptly stops my progress.

A sound of shattering glass.

A crunch of metal.

Darkness.