One Careless Moment (30 page)

18
•

DEL IS WAITING at the motel when I get back to town. She's been busy. The desk is covered with strips of shredded newspaper, like a gerbil has been making a nest. “What took you so long?” she says, raking a hand through her hair. “Where's Lyle?”

“Lyle is fine,” I say, closing the door.

She stares at me like I'm crazy. “So where is he?”

“Working. There's another fire by the canyon.”

For a moment she just stands there, her hand in her hair, trying to connect the dots. She can't and sits on the edge of the bed, looking at me, her hands in her lap. She looks confused and distraught, but I've begun to suspect she's good at looking whichever way best suits her need.

“The well at the squatters' camp blew out.”

“What?” she says, frowning.

“Erwin and his buddies had lines tapped into an old wellhead. One must have been leaking.”

Her frown intensifies. “Is anyone hurt?”

I shake my head. “I don't think so. The camp seems to have been deserted.”

“Good,” she says slowly. “That's good. But how did the meet go?”

“Not so good,” I say, tossing my jacket over the back of a chair, scooping the gerbil strippings into a nearby wastebasket. I'm not in a hurry to talk about the meet because I'm not yet sure what I want to say. Del sits tensely on the edge of the bed, watching me. Waiting. “Well

— tell me, for Christ's sakes,” she says impatiently. “Were they there?

Did you give them the diary? What happened?”

“Yeah — they were there.”

“Was Lyle okay?” She's kneading the bed sheets.

“He was a little freaked out, but he was fine.”

“And you gave them the diary?”

I nod.

“So what didn't work out so well?”

I hesitate, take a deep breath. I might as well tell her. Better she hears it from me, rather than Castellino. “They liked the diary — real top-notch work — but they weren't so keen on letting Lyle and me go. In fact, they had a little surprise ready for us.”

“That's what I was afraid of,” Del says, almost in a whisper.

I wait, to see if there's anything she'd like to add, but she just watches me.

“They were going to kill us, Del, just like you suspected, but the strangest thing happened.”

I pause, watching her face. Her expression doesn't change. She's very good.

“Erwin and his buddies came along and saved us. It was amazing.”

“Erwin?” she says, looking perplexed.

“Yeah — Erwin, and a few friends. They must have been following me, or Hutton, because they knew where we were. They set off the wellhead as a diversion, then swooped in and rescued Lyle and me. Very coordinated. Like a military operation.”

Del manages to look stunned. “That's incredible. Have you told the police?”

“Not yet,” I say, shaking my head.

There's a long moment as Del and I watch each other. I try not to betray the mix of feelings churning inside. Anger at her betrayal — at being used. Gratitude for being rescued. Annoyance that we have to play these games. Sorrow for everything lost.

“What happened after they rescued you?” she says, her voice catching just slightly.

“I don't know. I didn't hang around.”

She nods, waiting anxiously. She knows there's more.

“I think you can bring Melissa home,” I say, handing her the revolver.

There's a brief hesitation, then she lets out a sigh, sags a little. “Thank God.”

It's done and I don't want to prolong our goodbye. There are a few things I have to do, I tell her. A few loose ends. She catches my meaning, excuses herself, tucking the revolver under her jacket and saying she has to get back to the greenhouse. Please stop by for supper. About six. I thank her for the invitation. Then I'm alone, staring at the phone. I wait a few minutes, until my pulse returns to something resembling normal, then rummage in the small trash can on the floor, pull out the strips of newspaper. At the bottom is a wrinkled nugget of a different kind of paper and I open it up, smooth it out. It's from the pad next to the phone, has the motel logo in one corner. It's been shaded grey with a pencil, like a kid taking a rubbing off a coin, but the message is more specific: directions to the meet. I shake my head. Another thing I should have seen coming. Del wanted me to continue investigating for a reason. She was the one who gave the gun back to Erwin. She kept him at the greenhouse overnight, worked out the details. She played me like a pro.

I flush the note down the toilet, along with most of the pad, tearing the sheets off one at a time, watching them swirl away. Del has her revenge and, in a way, so do I. But it doesn't feel like much. I pull a phone book from a drawer in the table, look up travel agencies. There's a flight tomorrow afternoon, at twelve thirty, leaving from Missoula. I book a seat, eat supper alone.

I sleep late the next morning, ignore the phone. Breakfast is a gourmet affair involving a fist full of coins and a vending machine. Home seems achingly far away. I can't wait to see my sister Cindy and her kids. But my simple morning is interrupted when Deputy Sheriff Wayne Compton calls, offering me a ride to the ranger station. I'm not keen on another tour, but participation is mandatory. Castellino, Batiste, and Haines are in a room downstairs, scowling over a table covered with photographs and reports.

“Cassel,” Castellino says dryly. “Glad you could make it.”

“I had a good chauffeur.”

“You weren't going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?”

The men look haggard. Castellino is in jeans and a rumpled shirt, stained dark with sweat under his arms. Batiste is sullen and stoop-shouldered. Haines has bags under his eyes, hair plastered to his sweaty scalp. They're all grubby and unshaven. “We had a bit of an interesting night,” says Batiste, waving at the table. “You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

I move closer, take a look. The photos on the table are the usual ash and blackened bits of wood. Grids and measurements. Burned-out truck. But there's something else here that makes me shudder — shots of a corpse, mummified to charcoal. Black on black. I think of Brashaw and my heart races.

“You all right?” says Castellino. “You look a little flushed.”

“Fine,” I mumble, staring at the mummy.

“You sure? You look like maybe you're going to faint.”

I force myself to look away from the horrifying images. “Who is that?”

“Interesting question,” says Castellino. “Glad you asked. Would you like to guess?”

I wait, wondering if it's Hutton or Dancey, and what happened to the other.

“No guesses?” Castellino walks around the table, picking up photos and offering them to me. Dropping them when I don't move. “Pity,” he says. “Because I'm willing to bet you have a pretty good idea.” When I don't bite, he drops the last photo, looking disgusted. “Let me give you a clue. Male. Early forties. Worked for the Carson Lake Volunteer Fire Department. Still don't know?”

“Hutton?”

“Yes!” He slaps the table hard enough several pictures drift away. “Telford Hutton.”

“Give the man a prize,” mutters Batiste.

“What happened?”

“What indeed?” says Castellino, walking to the far side of the table, so he can stare at me across the grisly expanse of photographs. He seems a little melodramatic — a little manic — but that's what you get from long hours and too much coffee. “Well, so far as we can tell, Mr. Hutton was trapped in a burning structure outside of town. Exactly how he came to be there is a matter of some conjecture. When was the last time you saw him?”

“A few days ago, at the fire station.”

Batiste raises an eyebrow. “What were you doing at the fire station?”

“You know very well what I was doing,” I tell them, not bothering to keep the irritation from my voice. “I told you everything when we set up the sting at the grocery store. I was looking for some information on how the vfd were dispatched to the Holder fire.”

“Ah, yes — the sting,” Castellino says, giving me a humourless smile.

“You mentioned a structure,” I say. “This didn't happen at the wellhead fire?”

Haines gives me a thoughtful frown. “No, this was an old house.”

“Was anyone injured at the wellhead fire?”

“It appears the camp was empty,” says Castellino. “Which I find interesting.”

“Empty,” I echo. “You're sure?”

“Reasonably. The vehicles were gone and the trailers appear to have been vacant.”

I think again about the children. “That's a relief.”

“Indeed,” says Castellino. “Another interesting thing — there was no pot in the forest, none that we've found yet anyway, although we've found some interesting trails and a few unmistakable indications.” He pauses significantly. “You know what I think, Mr. Cassel?”

I shrug — it's best never to answer a question like that.

Castellino wags a stubby finger at me. “I think you told these pot growers your suspicions regarding Mr. Hutton and his associate. They pulled up their crop and staged both of these fires, trapping the men in an old house and using the wellhead fire as a diversion.”

He gives me an intent look, waiting for a reaction.

“I didn't tell them anything,” I say truthfully.

“Really. When was the last time you saw them?”

“Days ago. I talked with one of them — a young guy with heavy sideburns — hoping he might give me some insight as to why someone would want to burn out the valley, but he wasn't very co-operative.”

Batiste glances at Castellino. “Matches the description from the break-in.”

Castellino nods. “I've seen him around. Not lately though. What's his name?”

“Erwin,” I say. “Erwin Smith.”

“Ah, yes,” Haines mutters. “The ubiquitous Smith family.”

“You did more than talk with him,” says Castellino. “It seems the two of you were getting pretty chummy. You were seen driving around with him. Visiting the motel clerk.”

He pauses, watching me carefully. “You sure you didn't visit our cabin together as well?”

“I was trying to work with him,” I say, ignoring the question. “I thought I might be able to make some headway before the squatters became nervous and pulled up stakes. It didn't seem likely they would talk to anyone in law enforcement, and they seemed to trust me.”

“Really?” says Batiste. “Why would they do that?”

“Because of what happened on the fire.”

There's an uncomfortable silence. I avoid glancing at the photos on the table.

“What did you and Mr. Smith talk about?”

“Not much. He had no idea who was after his pot.”

Castellino smiles, without much humour. “But you did, didn't you, Mr. Cassel? You were certain enough that Telford Hutton was responsible for the fire that you set up that little Gong Show at the grocery store. You sure you didn't let Mr. Smith in on your plans?”

I shake my head. “We parted ways long before that.”

“Did you discuss Karalee Smith?”

“He confirmed she was his sister.”

“That's it?” says Batiste. “He didn't tell you anything else?”

“No.” I glance at my watch. I'm missing my plane. “What happened to the other guy?”

Castellino gives me a crafty, appreciative look. I think he was testing me, trying to trick me into revealing that I knew there was more than one man involved in the house fire, but he let it slip, and I pretend I just caught it. “At the house fire?” I prompt. “You mentioned an associate of Hutton's.”

“Yes. Henry Dancey — your friend from the grocery store.”

“What happened to him?”

“Mr. Dancey was rather badly burned,” says Batiste.

I nod thoughtfully, wondering if Erwin intended to let him live.

“So, you haven't seen these squatters in the past few days?” says Castellino, trying again.

I shake my head. “Did you talk to Dancey?”

The three men exchange glances and I wonder if Dancey really did survive, or if they're stringing me along, waiting for me to slip up, but Castellino nods, his eyebrows tented together, as if he can't believe he's telling me this — doing me some sort of favour. “Dancey claims they got an anonymous tip that some kids were going to burn the place down, so they went for a look. No kids visible when they arrived, but they could smell smoke, so they went in. He claims they fell through a weak spot in the floor, into an old cellar. Before they could get out, the house went up like tinder.”

I think of Dancey, pouring diesel.

“Who set the fire?”

“We're not sure,” says Haines.

I glance at the pictures. “How did Dancey survive?”

“He must have pulled himself out. We found him on the ground, about forty yards away.”

“Do you believe him?”

Castellino sighs. “What I believe is irrelevant — it's what I can prove. Both Hutton and Dancey weren't wearing fire gear when they were found at the fire. Nor did they bring any with them. They didn't record their trip in the dispatch log at the fire station and they didn't call 911, like they're supposed to. Seems a little odd, don't you think?”

I wait, keeping my expression carefully neutral.

“If they weren't there on a fire call, it was something else,” says Batiste.

Castellino crosses his arms. “What do you think, Mr. Cassel?”

“I think Hutton and Dancey crossed the wrong kind of people, and it caught up with them.”

Castellino watches me a moment longer, waiting for something more. I hold his X-ray gaze as long as I can, hoping he can't read my thoughts, then drop my gaze to the mosaic of photos on the table. Greed and revenge, reduced to ash. When I glance up, Batiste, Castellino, and Haines seem lost in thought. The confrontational tension is gone from the room. They know I was at the wellhead fire before the other fire was reported, and I have no revelations to offer.

“Do you have any leads?” I ask. “Do you know who these squatters are?”

“The squatters,” Castellino says wistfully. “They're a mystery, these invisible people. No social security number. No driver's licence. Constantly mobile. Even Karalee Smith wasn't using her real name,” he says, looking at me. “We checked back through her correspondence school, thinking she'd want a diploma in her own name, but she was operating under a false identity. The real Karalee Smith died in Minnesota, at two months of age, back in 1983.”

“So they've just vanished? You have no idea who they are, or where they've gone?”

“We're doing roadside checks,” says Batiste. “But so far, we're drawing a blank.”

Perfectly orchestrated, I'm thinking. Erwin. Del. Even Harnack had a role to play. And me — the biggest fool of all, blindly charging ahead, believing I might make a difference. I almost chuckle, but Castellino and Batiste are giving me strange looks.

“What is it, Cassel?”

“A licence plate number,” I say. “From Erwin's truck.”

I concentrate, trying to remember, and they perk up. No harm in giving them the only real scrap of information I have on Erwin's identity — although even that is probably just a front. I dredge up the number from my trip to Missoula tailing the old truck, and Batiste hurries out of the room to use Compton's computer. He's back in minutes and hands a print out to Castellino.

“Typical,” Castellino mutters, frowning. “Plate was stolen from a repair shop in Florida.”

“Shit,” mumbles Haines.

I wait a minute, but no further comment is forthcoming. “Can I go now?”

Castellino gives me a long look before answering. The look on his face — he doesn't quite believe I've told him everything, but he can't think of a way to keep me here. He nods and I wish them luck, take my leave, head up the stairs, and walk through a forest of cubicles, uniformed men and women working at their desks. A few stop what they're doing and watch me pass. In their eyes, I'll always be the stranger who screwed up, got one of their own killed. I hurry through but Grey intercepts me as I pass his office.

“Cassel! Hold up a second.” He's loud enough I can't pretend I didn't hear him. “You all done here?” he says, scrutinizing me.

“Yeah. Back to Canada, with my tail between my legs.”

His moustache twitches and he gives me his best chief ranger look. “Don't leave here thinking that,” he says, standing in the hall. “This is a tough occupation and you did your best. You went through something we all dread, and came out the other side.”

“Thanks,” I say, not very convincingly.

“And,” he says, lowering his voice, “I just want you to know, no matter how things turned out, that I appreciate your sticking around and trying to help on this thing. Most guys would have just packed their bedrolls and ran for the hills.”

I nod, looking at the floor. He asks me how I'm getting home. I tell him I've booked a flight for tomorrow — I've missed my chance today. I'll be heading to Missoula tonight, to make sure I'll be on time, for a change. He tells me he's headed there himself — he'll give me a ride. Seems like a good way to save an expensive cab fare and we agree to meet at the motel later and retrieve my luggage. I finally manage to get out of the ranger station, and I stand in the baking heat of the parking lot, as it occurs to me I'm miles from town without a ride. I consider asking Grey, or Compton, but don't particularly want to go inside again, so instead hitch a ride with a local rancher. An old guy with a big hat, he doesn't say more than two words, which suits me fine — I've got more than enough to think about. By the time we reach town, I know what I have to do, and head for the hospital.