One Careless Moment (27 page)

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I WAKE WITH a start, still hurtling toward the trees, breathing hard, my muscles tense. Instead of the impact my body has suddenly braced for, I see white walls, a heart monitor, hear the gentle sigh and bleep of a hospital ward. An accident. I was in an accident, but I'm alive. My head is throbbing, my cheek burns, my ribs ache with every breath. When I lift a hand to explore a lump on my forehead, a tube running from my wrist brushes across my face. I'm plugged into a machine. A cord hanging conveniently close by invites me to press a bright red button for the nurse. I give it a try. A minute later, a smiling nurse appears.

“You're back with us,” she says. “How do you feel?”

“Like a soccer ball. What happened?”

She leans over, shines a light in my eye. “You had a bit of an accident.”

“I figured that part out. I just don't know why.”

“What do you remember?”

“It's still a little fuzzy. Was anyone else hurt?”

She frowns thoughtfully. “Not that I know of. You're the only one they brought in.”

That, at least, is something. I recall an intersection, a car travelling the opposite direction. The memory is distant, like the flash impression of a blink.

She finishes taking my vitals. “Any dizziness? Loss of coordination?”

“Nothing more than usual. How long have I been out?”

She consults her watch. “An hour and forty minutes since arrival.”

“And when was that?”

“Just after seven.”

She finishes up, updates her clipboard. Something occurs to me.

“Who's paying for this?”

“A Mr. Grey from the Forest Service has taken care of all the paperwork.”

Grey — my guardian angel. I thank the nurse, who assures me the doctor will be along shortly. Then I'm alone, listening to the patter and moan of the hospital. I struggle out of bed, hobble to the small bathroom, towing my IV stand. I'm bruised, have a few cuts along one temple. Sutures not stitches — always a good sign. There's a goose egg on my forehead, no doubt from the steering wheel. All in all, I didn't fare too badly; I'm sore but mobile, anxious to get out of here. I splash a little cold water on my face, towel off, smooth down my hair as best as possible and return to my bed to await the doctor.

He tells me I have two more cracked ribs and a mild concussion, and that I'll be here overnight, as a precaution to make sure there's no swelling in the brain. I can't help thinking what Telson might say to that, smile a little sadly. Then, once again, I'm on my own.

Not for long. Castellino comes in.

“Mr. Cassel — back to the land of the living.”

“For the time being.”

Castellino nods. In his dark suit, he looks like an injury lawyer, doing his rounds, looking for customers. “Tell me about the accident.”

“I was driving, minding my own business, and the brakes failed.”

“Any prior indication? Any warning they might not be fully functional?”

“Not that I can think of,” I say, then pause, my mind going back to the near-miss as I entered the highway. The logging truck that blasted its horn at me. “Well, actually, the brakes did seem a bit spongy when I stopped to enter the highway, just prior to the accident. I drove to the intersection by the sawmill and turned east. The brakes failed as I was turning.”

“Nasty timing,” he says, stroking his moustache. “Hazardous thing, driving an old vehicle like that. Never know what might go wrong.” He props a foot on a plastic chair near the bed, gives me a hard look. “So is shaking every goddamn tree, just to see what might fall out.”

“What are you talking about?”

Castellino allows himself a small, unamused smile. “Knowing the way you operate, I figured you might have pissed someone off, so I had your wreck towed to our yard. One of our mechanical contractors looked at it. It seems the brake line was loose where it connects to the reservoir. Every time you pumped the pedal, you squirted out fluid until there was none left. Did you notice anyone lurking around your motel room?”

“Not that I recall. Could it have been the result of wear?”

Castellino shakes his head. “Our mechanic didn't think so. Said he could tell where the grime on the fitting had been recently disturbed. There's a puddle of brake fluid in your motel parking lot. Looks to me like someone wanted you out of the picture, and nearly succeeded. Is there anything you might want to share? Anyone in particular you've pissed off lately?”

Telson is the first to come to mind, but she wouldn't do something like this. And Erwin needs me, for another day or so anyway. That just leaves Hutton, with two strikes against him already. But I've barely spoken to him, so he would have little reason to get that nervous. Castellino is waiting, watching me with X-ray eyes. Maybe I should tell him my suspicions. Maybe he'll take it more seriously than the Bob Capsan fiasco. I'd better wait until I have something a little firmer.

“Nothing substantial.”

Castellino leans forward, rests his arm on the bedrail and lowers his voice confidentially. “You know, if I really wanted to, I could find out what you've been up to. But that would be a lot of work, would waste valuable resources which should be spent doing real police work. Mr. Noble warned me that you have a reputation for doing whatever you want, regardless of the legality. Something about an investigation into a string of bombings up north, and an arson. I hope that isn't the case here.”

I shrug, try to look harmless. Right now, it isn't that difficult.

“When I'm certain of anything,” I tell Castellino, “you'll be the first to know.”

“You intend to continue investigating?”

“Within the limits of the law.”

Castellino sighs heavily, rubs his temples as though he suddenly has a migraine. He's haggard, aged these last few days. He glances into the hall as a nurse whispers past and shakes his head.

“I can't talk you into just going back to Canada?”

“I thought you wanted me to stick around.”

“I'm starting to regret that.”

The next morning, the doctor seems pleased. My eyes are equally responsive to light and my goose egg is down to extra-large. He'd like to keep me another day, but I'm too restless for further captivity and check myself out, stopping on the way to fill another prescription for painkillers. While I wait for the narcotics to do their magic, I call Del from a pay phone in the hospital lobby, explain what happened, and apologize for destroying her father's truck.

“Don't worry about that,” she says briskly. “Are you okay?”

“I think so, but I'm never quite sure.”

“Are you still at the hospital? I'll come pick you up.”

I tell her no thanks — not yet anyway. I'll call her in a few hours and we'll do lunch.

Heat coming off the parking lot envelops me like fever. Everything ripples and shimmers. Quarter past nine in the morning and the pavement is already hot enough to fry bacon. I walk as quickly as my ribs will allow, planning my route based on the availability of shade. Score one for old-fashioned verandas. I find a pay phone, flip through the wrinkled pages of a directory. I could get the same information from the photocopies I left at my motel room, but that's too many blocks in the wrong direction, and the address is right here.

Hutton, Telford. 201 Larch Street.

I stop at a tourist booth, get a town map, and have the lady there point out Larch Street. It's eight blocks away. I'm feeling a little faint but fortunately there are more trees closer to my destination, more patches of dappled shade. I rest frequently, wishing I'd had the foresight to bring a water bottle. Number 201 is a small, vinyl-sided bungalow with matching garage. What looks to be a '68 Corvette Stingray convertible is the only vehicle parked outside. The car has seen better days, the paint badly chipped, upholstery cracked and peeling like an old bandage. A set of booster cables are curled on the passenger seat: the car has been recently moved. No licence plate. I confirm there's no one home and start with the garage, gaining entry by using my credit card as a shim.

The garage is full of motorcycles, Harleys — five of them. Rather a lot of pig iron for one guy. Closer inspection reveals a lack of serial numbers; they must have been ground off and painted over. It's a little hard to register them that way, so I can only assume the bikes are for parts. But this is no chop shop, just a holding area. If nothing else, I could turn Hutton over for possession of stolen property. Maybe he'll talk if they give him a deal, tell the cops about the arson. Then again, if he's involved in the arson, he could be looking at a manslaughter charge — worse if they connect him to the death of Karalee Smith. A few stolen bikes are small change.

The back door on the house is a little more difficult — there's a deadbolt I can't get around. I try the windows, find one not quite locked. Using the tip of my pocketknife, I edge it loose, slide it open. Checking to make sure no one is looking, I push in the mosquito screen, heave myself into Hutton's bedroom. It's immediately apparent that Hutton lives alone. The bedroom is scattered with dirty clothes, empty bottles, and biker magazines. The rest of the house is marginally cleaner — no underwear hanging from the lampshades. The living room is almost civil; this must be where Hutton entertains his more respectable company. Not that he'll ever be featured in Good Housekeeping. A small hobby room has a computer, scanner, and printer. A fantasy poster occupies one wall: a futuristic soldier in a swamp, shooting a massive serpent as it rises out of the mire. Facing this is a movie poster that makes me shiver: Woody Harrelson, shaved bald for Natural Born Killers, looking sufficiently demonic. I turn on the computer but there isn't anything particularly interesting. Lots of games. I'd love to read his email but it's passworded and, once again, I'm no hacker. I know just enough to check his Internet files, scan the list of cookies posting the addresses of the sites he's recently visited. Porn. Bikers. Guns. More porn. No startling revelations here. I rummage around a little, listening for the sound of an approaching vehicle. In a cardboard box under the computer table is a collection of photos Hutton no doubt eventually intends to scan. Biker trash. I keep looking, sitting on the floor, while trying to find a position that'll ease the ache in my side.

Hutton must be the photographer because he isn't in most of the pictures. I notice him occasionally, hanging with a crowd that would make the Sasquatch feel right at home. I flip through a little faster, anxious to get out of here. Near the bottom of the box a particular photo catches my eye, not due to editorial content, but because of a sudden similarity, and I look a little harder. It's another group shot — a dozen of America's smelliest hoist beer cans toward the camera. Most are wearing colours but, from the angle, I can't make out the fraternity. Hutton is plainclothes. He's off to one side, his arm around a big bald guy with a beard. The bald guy is a few years older but their features are almost identical. I'm no genealogist, but it's obvious the men are related and it finally sinks in. Hutton is hanging out with his big brother. Idolizing him. Trying to impress him. So the bikers give him an odd job or two. Store a few stolen Harleys. He's got a perfect cover: community volunteer, chief of the fire department. Respectable citizen. Then one day Hutton is scouting the canyon and comes across the pot gardens. Naturally, he calls big brother. Baldy is interested but there's a problem — Hutton doesn't own the pot. He could just cut it, like any patch pirate, but that's dangerous — he just wants to be the middleman. So he goes looking for the owners — not difficult when you know the pot is there — and uses Karalee Smith to send his offer, which is not well received.

Why wouldn't Erwin have known that Hutton was behind the offer?

Hutton was operating anonymously. He probably contacted Karalee through the phone, or slipped her a note. Maybe he approached her directly, threatening her if she revealed his identity. Either way, she figured out who was leaning on her, which is why she was so evasive in the bar that night, with Hutton watching. So nervous when I talked to her later.

She was biding her time, doing her correspondence, hoping it would all blow over.

Hutton, however, became impatient, made his point by starting a little fire in the canyon. Just to let them know what he's capable of. But he underestimated the terrain and weather conditions, and the fire developed into something bigger than anticipated, ran up the ridge and killed Brashaw. Now everything is different. The pot is gone — some of it anyway — and the squatters will never co-operate with him. The sheriff is gunning for a manslaughter conviction and everything is fucked up. Then I come along, questioning Karalee in the bar in sight of Hutton and his buddies. They introduce me to their tire iron but when I don't leave, they get nervous and take out Karalee.

Damage control. I'm suddenly covered in a prickly sweat. If I hadn't gone blundering around, asking questions, talking to Karalee, she might still be alive.

One careless moment leads to another, and people keep dying. I've got to get this mess under control. Got to make things right. I stand, woozy, shove the photo of Hutton and his brother into my pocket. The other photos go back into the box under the computer desk and I exit through the bedroom window, replace the screen, and slide it shut. Then I'm in the alley, sweating, breathing hard, holding my side as I walk. I'm halfway back to Main Street when I remember I left Hutton's computer turned on.

Fuck it — I'm not going back. I have more important things to do.

I stop at a pay phone next to a Conoco on Main Street, look up Lyle Harnack's number. He sounds surprised to hear me but quickly recovers. Where am I? He'll be right over. I buy a bag of ice from the cooler out front, sit in the shade with the ice pressed to my head. I get a few strange looks but the ice feels good. The parking lot shimmers like a desert mirage. The Volkswagen van pulls into the lot, parks in front of me. Harnack hangs out the window.

“You okay? I heard you were in an accident.”

“I'm fine,” I say, staggering as I stand up. Water trickles down my neck.

“Really?” says Harnack. “Because you look like shit.”

“Thanks.” I climb into the passenger side of the van. “You'd make a great doctor.”

Harnack looks a little uncertain as I buckle myself in. “What're we doing?”

“Just drive,” I tell him. “I need some wind.”

Harnack drives. Wind blows in through the window, not cooling me much. The bag of ice melts at my feet. Harnack thumps the steering wheel. “So, what happened?” he says, glancing over at me. “What's with the accident?”

“I'm not sure. Something went on the old beater. I lost the road.”

Harnack nods. “I saw them loading it on a truck last night. Nasty.”

I ask him how he made out on the smokejumpers. He frowns thoughtfully.“Not that good. I had a friend in Missoula check the flight manifest — those guys are from all over.”

“And gals,” I add, thinking of Sue Galloway.

“Yeah — right. Anyway, I tried to get some info about them, but those records aren't in Missoula. Or, if they are, not somewhere I can get access. You think it's worth digging deeper?”

Harnack gives me a look of exaggerated nonchalance. The role of detective is new to him and he's going by what he's seen on tv. With his long hair and adolescent manner, it's a little comical. I try to keep a straight face. “I think we can drop that. I have a more promising lead.”

“Really?” His face lights up. “What is it?”

Ever since the idea occurred to me, I've been debating the wisdom of involving Harnack, but I need a local for this to work. Someone young, about Karalee's age.

“I've got a suspect,” I tell him.

“Right on,” says Harnack. “Who is it?”

“That's not important right now. The less you know, the safer you are.”

Harnack's face drops. I'm worried that if I tell him, he'll do something stupid.

“But I need your help,” I say, and he cheers up a bit. “I need you to make a phone call.”

“A phone call.” He was expecting something a bit more daring.

“A very important phone call, Lyle. One that might break this case wide open.”

“All right,” he says, nodding. “Now we're talking. Where do we make the call?”

“From a pay phone. The one back at the Conoco will be fine.”

I brief Harnack as we drive. It's a simple plan — shake the tree, see what falls out. As much as Castellino despises my methods, they work more times than not; you'd be surprised how many rotten apples can fall from a tree. Harnack listens intently, which is good because he has a script to follow. We drive around the block a few times as he rehearses. If he sticks to the script, he'll do fine.

“That's good,” I tell him, after the third recital. “I think you've got it.”

We park at the Conoco. I don't want Harnack to know who he's calling and ask him to keep an eye on the highway traffic while I look up the number — Hutton's work number at Precision Log Homes. I motion Harnack over and when Hutton comes on the line, hand the receiver to Harnack.

“Hello.”

I hear Hutton's voice. Harnack freezes, a look of horror on his face. He's forgotten his lines.

“Who is this?”

The silence lengthens. I'm pretty sure Hutton won't wait long and reach for the phone — we'll have to try this later, after a little more practice — when Harnack comes to life. “This is Lyle Harnack,” he says. “And I got a message for you.”

I groan — he wasn't supposed to use his name. I reach for the receiver again, to stop this before it's too late, but Harnack turns away, blocking me.

“I know what you did to that waitress,” he says, segueing into the script.

Hutton's reply is muffled but harsh. “I don't know what the fuck you're talking about ...”

“Lyle —” I whisper, but it's too late. Might as well let him finish.

“And I know why you started that fire. I know everything.”

“Bullshit ...”

Harnack is holding the receiver too close to his ear now to hear everything Hutton is saying.

“She was my girlfriend, asshole,” says Harnack, and I'm impressed with his sincerity. “And she kept a diary,” he says. “She was pretty thorough. Your name comes up a lot. You want me to read some?”

Silence. Then I hear Hutton's reply, muffled but distinct. “What do you want?”

“Not much,” says Harnack, really enjoying his role. “Just a little compensation.”

A pause, then Harnack says, “Twenty grand.”

Another pause. I can hear Hutton arguing, but can't make out more than the tone.

“Fuck you, too,” says Harnack. “Now it's thirty, or the book goes to the cops.”

I'm waving at Harnack — he was supposed to ask for ten. Now he's haggling. He gives me a wicked grin, like I'm supposed to be impressed with his negotiating skills. “Okay,” he says into the phone, “so it's agreed then. We'll do it tonight, at the grocery store. Somewhere nice and public. You bring the cash, I'll bring the diary. Six thirty in the produce aisle.”

There's some murmuring from the phone, a little more subdued.

“Damn right,” says Harnack. “And don't fuck us around.”

Then he hangs up, beaming, proud of himself. “How was that?”

“You idiot!”

His grin falters.

“You told him your name. You haggled over the price.”

“I got him up to thirty grand,” Harnack says defensively.

“We're not selling him a car. The diary doesn't even exist.”

“So what?” says Harnack, regaining his composure and looking offended. “He doesn't know that. I had to make it sound real. Now we know he's really interested.”

I close my eyes for a moment, try to regain my own composure. The worst mistake is what Harnack added toward the end, to sound like a tough guy. “Don't fuck us around.”

Us. Hopefully, Hutton wasn't paying attention.

“Okay,” I say finally. “It's done.”

“Now what?” says Harnack.

“Now we get the players together.”