One Careless Moment (31 page)

Dancey is the only customer in icu, a small, three-bed ward just off Emergency. He's in an isolation tent — a plastic shroud hung around the bed to ward off bacteria — and is heavily bandaged. I have to check his chart to make sure it's really him. Half his face is all that is visible and, despite what he's done, I can't help feeling sorry for him; the possibility of burns like these haunt every firefighter. He's sleeping, or unconscious, and I watch him through the plastic for a few minutes, listening to the beep and sigh of life support. I want to ask him about the Holder fire. About Karalee Smith. I want to hear him explain why, but he's beyond reach — another victim of the curse.

“Dancey,” I say quietly. Nothing. Then a little more loudly.

Movement behind the eyelid. I lean closer — as close as the shroud will allow.

“Can you hear me, Dancey?”

The eye struggles, slowly opens. It's disconcerting, like watching a corpse return to life.

“Can you talk? Concentrate, this is important.”

The eye wanders, fixes on me. He moans and the rhythm on the heart rate monitor intensifies. There's a long silent pause. Beneath the edge of the bandages covering half his face, there's a tube going into his mouth. He talked to the police, but that was before they pumped him full of narcotics. And the tube won't help. He might not be able to speak — but I'm willing to bet he can hear me.

“I'm going to ask you a few questions. Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

He blinks twice before I ask the first question.

“Did you start the fire in the canyon?”

Nothing. Then a hoarse whisper. “Fuck you ...”

I stand up, shocked. Half-dead and helpless, and still he gives me attitude. Then it occurs to me that he can talk, although with considerable effort. I hear voices in the hall as two nurses walk past. I'll have to make this quick, so I pull open the plastic shroud. “Listen Dancey,” I say, leaning close, looking him in the eye, “I know what you told the sheriff, but it's just the three of us here now — you, me, and life support. I want a few answers, for my own peace of mind. Then, if you're lucky, you'll never see me again. Did you start the fire in the canyon?”

A long pause. Dancey turns his head slightly, toward the battery of equipment next to his bed, then looks at me. “Hutton,” he whispers.

“It was for the pot, wasn't it?”

A single blink.

“And the waitress?”

A longer pause. His heart rate changes on the monitor again, a little faster, and he swallows painfully. His eye wells up. A tear trickles down his cheek. “Hutton,” he repeats in a faint breath.

“It was all Hutton, was it?” I say angrily. “You had nothing to do with it?”

“Had to,” he sighs. “The fire. Murder.”

So there it is — the truth, as I had suspected. They murdered Karalee because of the runaway on the Holder fire, which killed Brashaw. They were covering their tracks. If no one had died on the Holder fire then Karalee would still be alive. I stand up, a little faint, my anger displaced by a sickening feeling of guilt. One last question comes to mind.

“You tried to kill me too, by cutting the brakes on my truck.”

Dancey stares at me, then blinks — twice.

A sharp voice behind me. “What are you doing?”

I turn. A nurse stands just inside a closing door, tray in hand. I look at Dancey. The shroud hangs open. “He was trying to say something,” I mumble. “I couldn't hear —”

“Well, you should have called,” says the nurse, her expression changing from shock to annoyance. She sets aside the tray, quickly checks on Dancey, shooing me out of the way. I step back, glancing toward the door. “You shouldn't be here,” she says over her shoulder. “He could get infected.”

“I'm sorry. I just wanted to see how he was doing.”

“We have procedures to follow,” she says, closing the shroud. “For the safety of the patient.” She checks the instrumentation, making nervous, clucking sounds, then looks over at me, her expression softening slightly. “I'm sorry — this must be hard for you.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

The nurse glances toward Dancey, leads me out of the room, into the hallway.

“We're not sure yet,” she says in muted tones. “He's pretty badly burned and there are a lot of unknowns. Infection is always a serious threat. But he's starting to stabilize enough that we can move him to Missoula, where they have a better burn facility.” She hesitates. “Who did you say you were?”

“Just a fellow firefighter.”

She smiles, pats me on the shoulder. “You're all such heroes. Keep up the good work.”

My heart is pounding as I leave the hospital. Seeing Dancey burned like that. Admitting they killed Karalee. Confirmation that I was the catalyst for these events. And then the nurse, saying we're all heroes. I stand in the parking lot in front of Emergency, cloaked in sweat and breathing hard. I want to leave this place so badly I nearly call a cab, head straight for Missoula, but I think of Grey; I haven't yet thanked him for taking care of the paperwork at the hospital, after I totalled the Cornbinder. I walk in the blistering heat to the motel, where my luggage is waiting, stowed at the checkout counter. Grey shows up at half past six, parks his green truck in front of the small motel office. I grab my luggage, toss the bags into the back of the truck, climb in without saying anything.

We turn left onto the highway — headed north, instead of south toward Missoula. I assume Grey plans to stop for gas, but we pass the Conoco. I watch the church slide past at the north end of town.

“Isn't Missoula in the other direction?”

“Shortcut,” says Grey. But he's grinning.

“Okay — I'll bite. What's going on?”

Grey shrugs. “Just a little barbecue at the greenhouse. Del made me promise to stop by with you. Threatened me with bodily harm if I didn't.” He looks a little sheepish. “I never argue with a redhead.”

I nod, with a fleeting urge to decline, but it seems best to go with the plan. We rattle up the gravel road to the greenhouse and I take the opportunity to thank Grey for his generosity at the hospital. It wasn't something he had to do — I wasn't employed by the Forest Service when I had the accident. He tells me not to worry about it. The parking lot at the greenhouse is crammed. We squeeze in next to a row of fruit bushes. Melissa is playing at one of the cribs filled with aquatic plants, up to her armpits in water.

“Uncle Porter!”

She runs over, gives my leg a wet hug. “I was on holiday,” she says, beaming.

“Good for you. Did you have fun?”

She assures me she did.

Aunt Gertie comes out of the main building, looking around. “There you are,” she says, picking up Melissa. “Mommy needs your help.”

I follow them inside, past rows of hanging flower baskets and towering tomatoes, loaded with ripening fruit. Men and women wander among the aisles, chatting, carrying trays of cold cuts and crackers. Someone presses a beer into my hand. Outside, Del is talking to an old guy with a spatula in his hand. He's supervising a large, home-built barbecue and is wearing an apron with a picture of a flaming steak. Del sees me, thanks me for coming, asks if she can get me anything.

I show her the beer, tell her I'm fine.

“Are you, really?” she says, meeting my eye.

“I'm working on it.”

She nods, tells me we'll talk later — she still has a hundred things to do. I wander off among the vegetables, thinking about marijuana. So much trouble over a plant. The firefighters arrive in their crew bus, still in yellow fire shirts, green pants, and White's fire boots. They're grimy, covered with soot, but joking and talking as they trickle into the greenhouse, comparing notes on the day's effort. I wait as they wash up, then mingle and ask them how the fire is going. The wellhead has been capped and the fire is contained at seventy acres. Dozerline around everything; should be mopping up in a few days.

“What about you?” says Cooper, sitting on a picnic table. “What have you been up to?”

Mopping up a different fire, I tell him.

Steaks are flopped onto the grill and the air fills with tantalizing odours. Garlic. Roasting meat. Potato salad. Grey lugs a keg of beer out of a van and offers me the privilege of tapping, drawing the first mug. I play bartender for a while. Finally, when everyone has a steak on their plate, Del takes a seat beside me. “I thought it would be nice to have a barbecue,” she says. “Like BB used to.”

I nod and for a few minutes we eat in silence.

“You see that chair over there?” she says, pointing with a fork.

I follow her direction. It's a massive wooden chair, built of logs; it looks like a medieval throne. That's BB's chair, she says. He'd sit there during these barbecues, watching his flock — it's how he got his nickname: BB the King. Now it's empty. As we watch, Cooper wanders past, holding a heavily loaded paper plate, looking for a seat. He's out of luck — the throne is the only vacant spot. He glances around, sees Del watching. She nods, waves for him to sit down. Cooper hesitates, but then acknowledges the honour with an abashed nod, and sits primly on the edge of the big chair. Del sees I'm watching her.

“Life goes on,” she says, smiling wistfully.

She finishes her meal — she's just having salad and a baked potato — and moves off toward the grill, checking on the steaks. Checking to make sure everyone has enough to eat and is having a good time. Harnack is at the grill now, wearing the apron. He says something to Del and she laughs. He pulls her close, whispers in her ear. The firefighter beside me at the picnic table stiffens.

“I can't believe he's moving in on her again.”

It's Phil, the guy with the bear claw necklace. He's cutting his steak with a Bowie knife. “After they broke up,” says Phil, pointing his knife toward Harnack, “he followed her around for weeks. BB finally had to give him a talking to, to get him to lay off. Now he's in there again, like a dirty shirt. The old man would be turning in his grave.”

I watch Harnack for a minute. Del pulls away from him and he reaches for her again. When she evades him, he forces a laugh — I can hear it all the way over here — but he looks a bit put off. Del waves at him, pretending it's a game, and moves into the crowd. As Harnack turns back to the grill, stabbing at the steaks with a pair of tongs, I remember what Del told me.

“I can handle Lyle Harnack.”

But I wonder — who benefited most from BB's death? Harnack is the only clear winner here. With BB out of the picture he has a clear shot at Del once again. He had the means, motive, and opportunity. He knew Brashaw was on the ridge — just as any firefighter could have known. He had the training to set the fatal blaze. If he could get away from his crew long enough, he'd certainly have had the opportunity. It would be the perfect crime — an arson within an arson. Who would suspect? And once the deed had been done, Harnack followed me around claiming he wanted to help me investigate, no doubt to keep tabs on the investigation.

I've lost my appetite and sit frowning over my food, watching Lyle Harnack flip steaks. If he set the fire outside the dozerline — the fire that killed Bert Brashaw and nearly killed me — then he's responsible for everything that happened after as well. His actions led to the death of Karalee Smith — not mine. I take a sip of beer without tasting it, watching Harnack.

“Phil, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah — sure,” says Phil, around a mouthful of steak. “What's up?”

“On the canyon fire, just before the blow-up, do you know where Harnack was?”

Phil thinks, chewing vigorously. “Can't say. Wasn't with me.”

“Do you think anyone knows where he was?”

Phil turns in his seat, giving me a troubled look. “Why?”

I don't answer and Phil's expression turns ugly.

“Can you ask around?” I say. “Discretely?”

Phil pushes away his plate, sheaths his knife. “You got it.”

Phil is gone for half an hour. My steak is cold and my beer is warm, but I barely notice, thinking about Harnack and BB and Karalee. Trying to convince myself I'm way off base. But I can't. I keep picturing Henry Dancey, burned and bandaged. Henry Dancey when I asked him about the brakes on the Cornbinder. He didn't know what I was talking about. Phil returns and heaves himself onto the seat next to me, breathing beer and garlic in my face.

“No one seems to remember,” he says.

“No one saw him right before the blow-up was reported?”

Phil shakes his head. It could mean Harnack was going for some hose, or scouting ahead — or even just in the bushes relieving himself. Or it could mean Harnack is Brashaw's killer.

I thank Phil, start to leave. He grabs my arm.

“What are you gonna do?” he whispers hoarsely.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just talk to him.”

“You need help?”

I shake my head — this is something I need to do alone — and I find Del. She's helping Melissa load her plate with cake and cookies. I wait until she's done, pull her aside.

“I need a favour, Del.”

“Sure,” she says, brushing back her hair. “What's up?”

“I need you to invite Lyle for a little dip in the hot tub.”

“What?” Her expression darkens.

“Just invite him. Tell him to wait a few minutes, then to meet you there.”

Del frowns, looking at me suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

“I just need to talk to him. Alone. I'll tell you later.”

Del hesitates, glancing toward Harnack, then nods. I watch her talk to him — the way he brushes his hand against her thigh. Then she wanders away, in the direction of the little building over the hot spring. I follow, taking a circuitous route through the greenhouses, meet Del going the other direction. She gives me a look — I'd better explain later — as she brushes past. I crouch inside the dark building, moist and heady with the vapour of sulphur and minerals. A few minutes later the door opens, casting a shaft of light across the steaming water, and Harnack enters.

“Del?” he says, standing by the door, peering over the wooden tub.

I wait. He closes the door, reaches for the light. A single bulb casts weak illumination in the steamy room. Harnack frowns as I stand; he's confused. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk, Lyle.”

He glances around, as if Del might be hiding among the tools. “No we don't.”

“She's not coming, Lyle.”

He frowns a little harder, trying to decide what to do. I charge ahead, while he's still off-balance.

“Was it really worth it? Starting that fire? Killing her father?”

Harnack looks at me, shocked — not the sort of shock you see when someone is startled by the unexpected, but a deeper, guilt-ridden sort of shock. His expression changes quickly, covered with a hastily manufactured anger, but I've seen what I came to see.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You knew Brashaw was on the ridge,” I say, advancing on him, forcing him back, away from the door. He's not going anywhere until I get the answers I need. Until he confesses. “You knew I was there too, but that didn't matter. You wanted Del so badly you were willing to kill to get her, so what was an extra body?”

Harnack is shaking his head, a panicky look in his eye. “You're crazy.”

“Am I, Lyle? A perfect little crime — the secondary fire is put down to unpredictable winds at the canyon mouth. The real arsonist takes the blame. But there was a bit of a complication.”

Harnack is at the far side of the big octagonal tub, bracing himself against the cedar boards like a kid in a game of tag, ready to make a run for it, but he's trapped and knows it, so he tries to talk his way out of the corner. “If you think I started the fire that killed BB, you're nuts,” he says, his voice wavering, nearly choked with fear.“I was fight

ing that fire. I was trying to put it out.”

“Where were you, Lyle, right before the blow-up?”

“I was ... going to get some hose. We needed another length.”

“Bullshit!”

Harnack cringes, but quickly rallies, pointing a finger at me. “You better be careful what you say, accusing people. I've got rights, you know. I'll sue your ass.”

“You'll sue me?” I can't help chuckling.

“Damn right.” Harnack stands, sensing victory.

“Well, before you sue me, Lyle, let me tell you what your little fire did. It not only killed Bert Brashaw, and nearly me — it caused the real arsonists more than a little anguish. So much anguish, in fact, that they killed Karalee Smith, thinking they might go to jail for Brashaw's death. For a crime you committed, Lyle. Of course, you know all of this. You're getting mileage out of it.”

“Fuck you,” he says. “I've had enough of this bullshit.”

But he doesn't move toward the door.

“And now the real arsonist is dead, which doesn't break me up much, but here's the kicker Lyle — you're responsible for three deaths. How do you think the cops are going to feel about that?”

Harnack gives me a nervous smile — false bravado. “You don't have any evidence.”

“What do you think Del will say when she learns you killed her father?”

For a few seconds, Lyle just stares at me. It never occurred to him that Del could find out — that even without evidence, all he's worked for could be lost. The nervous, fight-or-flight look is replaced with cold, intense hatred. “You're not going to do that,” he says, coming around the tub. Coming at me. It's a small building and I have about three seconds to decide what to do.

“You should already be dead,” he says.

When he grabs a shovel propped against the wall, I take a step back, reach for the door, but his swing hits me in the shoulder and I stumble backward, pinning the door shut with the weight of my body. I manage to raise an arm to counter the second blow. The force nearly breaks bone and I cringe away, instinctively holding the injured limb close to my body, which is a mistake. The third blow is wild but glances off the door, hitting me in the temple, and I go down amid a shower of bright lights.

A hollow voice. “Slipped and hit his head ...”

Then movement, reeling, like I'm drunk, and hot water in my face, my ears, my mouth. I try to scream, swallow more water and panic takes hold. He's bigger than me, has me pinned against the side of the tub — I can feel the hard line of the wooden rim against my midsection — my head and shoulders underwater. I scramble, chest heaving, frantically searching for something to push against, touch the bench in the water, too far down to do any good, try to trace the wall of the tub up to the edge, but there's nothing. It feels like a car is parked on my back. The heat makes it worse.

Spots, grey against black.

I'm going to pass out ...

Have to breathe ...

Water, hot in my mouth, filling my nose, my sinuses. A buzzing in my ears. Blackness. I'm falling, turning, spinning. Cindy. Mom and Dad. Pressure on my chest.

Gone. All for nothing ...

Then I cough, violently, water bursting from nose and mouth. It hurts. I'm on my side, retching. A blur of colours. A face, close by. Lips over mine, pushing air into my lungs. Another spasm of water and pain and I can breath. Long hair tickling my face. It's Telson.

Oh my God — it's Telson.