One Careless Moment (9 page)

“But you are a wildfire investigator,” says Noble.

“We've established that,” I say flatly. “Did you find anything further this morning?”

“Nothing,” says Noble.

“No droplets or small blobs of slag?”

“Not yet, but they're still looking.”

“What about soil and ash samples? There should be traces.”

“I don't think we'll be taking soil samples,” says Noble. “Too expensive. Even if we knew exactly where to look, which we don't, we'd have a lot of material to analyze. We'd have to move truckloads of dirt just to look for a few microscopic castoffs.”

“But it would give you some physical evidence.”

“We had physical evidence,” Grey mumbles under his breath. I give him a look he pretends not to notice. Castellino catches this little exchange, fixes me with a stern look. He has the expression of a man used to asking uncomfortable questions.

“Tell me about the ribbon,” he says.

“I marked the site with pink ribbon and notified the crew leaders.”

“Did you consider posting a guard?”

Here it comes. “We were pretty short-handed.”

Given what happened, it's a lame excuse. A moment of carelessness. Nobody says anything, which makes it worse. I try to look as though it doesn't bother me, my statement hanging in the air like an accusation. “Anyway,” Castellino says charitably, “at least you marked it. I understand you did a search of the firefighters before releasing them from the site.”

I nod, thinking about Bickenham and his panties.

“How did that go?”

“No one had any pink ribbon.”

“Did you search all the firefighters?”

“No. We missed the smokejumpers.”

“You gotta be careful about that,” says Noble. “Searches are tricky legal ground.”

There's a pause as the investigators refer to their notes. I think about Noble's earlier comments regarding my identification of the origin, Castellino's question about guarding the site, the complete lack of physical evidence to support my claims. Searches may not be the only tricky ground.

Castellino gives me a dismissive nod. “Thanks for your time, Cassel.”

I settle into my cozy little log cabin; this takes about two minutes after Deputy Compton drops off my bedroll. Then I'm left wondering what to do. I'm supposed to stay out of sight; avoid the road and don't leave the grounds. I wander through the ponderosa, inspecting my cage. There's a razor-topped wire fence hidden in the greenery. Minimum security — all that's missing are a few guard towers. I check out the beach, wade up to my ankles, kick pebbles into the water, but I'm not really in the mood. So I sit in the shade, whittle a round stick into a smaller round stick. I call Telson's cellphone but there's no answer, so I leave a message. I call my sister, talk for an hour, run up the Forest Service phone bill.

I'm sure I won't be able to sleep, but suddenly it's morning.

Breakfast. Then I'm wandering the compound again, standing on the dock overlooking the calm waters of the lake. Despite the tranquil setting, there's a storm raging in my head. I need another look at the fire. There must be something left at the origin; some clue in the vicinity. But they've left me without transportation and it's a long walk back to town — longer to the fire. I stand at the gate, contemplate the road. I'm about to hitchhike when a Forest Service truck rattles around a bend. The driver sees me and brake lights flash. It's Grey. He looks strained, the lines in his face a little deeper. The truck stops in a cloud of dust and he rolls down the window.

“Going somewhere?” he says.

“Just looking over the fence, Warden.”

Grey looks worried. “You just take it easy for a day or two — you've been through quite an ordeal. I'll get someone to bring you back to town. Hell, I'll do it myself. Where do you want to go?”

“I don't need a babysitter,” I tell him. “I just need a truck.”

6
•

THE ROAD TO the fire has improved considerably. A grader has been hard at work, smoothing over ruts and filling potholes. A steady stream of water trucks and service vehicles rumble in both directions. A few minutes later, I arrive at the toe of the south ridge and stop for a moment — the same location where I stopped with Brashaw.

Smoke hangs in the air, thick and pungent, obscuring the northern ridge. The canyon is a dark trough filled with branchless trees. The southern ridge where BB died rises beside me like a great, ashy monument. Helicopters circle through the haze, audible over the thrum of the truck's engine. No problem getting aerial resources now. In a fresh clearing at the tail of the fire, a city of tents has sprung up. Base camp. The radio blares, announcing a wide load coming up behind me, and I ease down the toe of the ridge, create a parking space next to a grumbling generator. A sign announces all visitors must check in at the Service Tent.

I skip the check-in protocol, walk north along the road. I pass the area where I think I found the fusee cap, spend a few minutes looking around. Everything looks different. Trees have been pushed back to make room for parked equipment. A few minutes of searching between the black knuckles of burned tree roots yields nothing. If there was anything here, it's gone, turned to ash. I leave the burn, stand on the narrow road, picture an approaching vehicle. The road dead-ends, so somewhere up ahead the vehicle would have to turn around. The arsonist would likely do this before starting the fire, so he would be positioned for a quick getaway. There may be tracks up ahead, where the vehicle backed off the hardened trail. Looking ahead, I cross the creek — the washout repaired with a new culvert — pick up the start of the game trail, and enter the burn.

Ahead, the origin beckons, marked with yellow crime scene tape.

I duck under the tape, look around. Despite the attention this area has received, there isn't much here. Ash has been trampled into the ground in a brownish patchwork of trails. A red pin flag is planted where I located the origin for Aslund. More pin flags are scattered throughout the area — other possible origins identified by Noble? Or evidence markers? I inspect the flagged sites, examine char patterns, search the ground. Nothing but trampled ash. The char patterns are more confusing than the first time I looked this area over and I spend an hour walking in ever-widening circles, not sure what I'm looking for, frustrated the physical evidence has vanished. Someone tore down my flagging, perhaps by accident. Removing the fusee slag is another thing — firefighters all have basic training regarding origin protection. It makes no sense that a firefighter would deliberately sabotage the origin. It had to be the arsonist, hidden in the trees, watching the fire. He sees me hang the flagging, waits for me to leave, and quickly pulls it down, pocketing the fusee slag.

But why take the risk when a fusee is so common?

And how did he get out of here? We didn't encounter any vehicles.

I look around. There are only two ways out of here: the road or the forest. The timber is dense with understory — perfect cover for a getaway. The arsonist could have been on horseback, on foot, or had an all-terrain vehicle stashed somewhere. There must be trails and cutlines through the forest, same as anywhere. Or the arsonist didn't have far to go, I think, looking at the smoky outline of the northern ridge. But what motive would the squatters have? A fire this close could risk burning them out.

I head back to the road. It's time to meet the hippies.

The road drops around the toe of the northern ridge, then slowly begins to rise again, meandering like a riverbed among the tall trees. There are enough gullies and rills to discourage a hunter, and I can scarcely imagine anyone travelling this route frequently. But maybe that's the idea. I watch for some indication that a vehicle was turned along the trail, but find nothing. No broken branches, no tread marks, but there are several spots where a vehicle could have turned without leaving evidence and I drive on. A half-hour of thumping and rattling and I reach a crude gate, built of heavy poles. Pieces of plywood have been painted into signs with homey messages like: KEEP OUT, VISITORS NOT WELCOME and THIS MEANS YOU. The road beyond the gate bends so I can't see how far the old wellsite might be and I hesitate. What was it Brashaw said when I suggested we evacuate them?

“You can try, but you might get shot.”

The road doesn't go much farther, so I park and continue on foot. The gate is positioned to block the line of sight into the small settlement. They probably didn't need to bother — the sight of this place would turn back all but the most intrepid. Three old trailers are set on blocks along one side of the clearing. The trailers are well past their prime, aluminum siding peeled back like half-opened sardine cans, pink fibreglass insulation hanging out like ragged tissue from a wound. Several vehicles are in various stages of demolition, one riddled with bullet holes. Empty tin cans and scraps of wood are littered everywhere. In the centre of the clearing is an old wellhead, next to which sits a toilet, spray-painted gold and propped on an immense chunk of ponderosa. A bathroom sink, complete with cabinet, has flowers growing in it. You know you're on the fringe when bathroom fixtures serve as lawn ornaments. I wander toward the wellhead and I hear voices — children playing in the dirt next to an old truck. They see me and stare, then scramble to a woman on the far side of the clearing, working over an old stock tank. I'm surprised I didn't see these people before; they sort of blend in with their surroundings.

“Hello,” I say, raising a hand in greeting.

The woman stares at me — not an encouraging stare. She's sturdy, has the ageless look of rough living. Her long hair is pulled back in a ragged ponytail and she sports a pair of immense rubber boots. She's been doing laundry and wipes her hands on an apron as the kids cluster around her.

“Could I have a word with you?” I ask, walking closer.

She watches me approach, her expression stony. The clearing is wide enough she may not have heard me and I'm about to repeat my question when she shoos away the children, who dart under a trailer like frightened moles. With a few quick strides she makes it to a nearby trailer, yanks open a door and heaves herself inside.

Friendly people. I stand near the old wellhead wondering what to do.

It occurs to me, as I'm gazing at the wellhead, that there are hoses and tubes hanging from it. Crude fixtures have been attached, connected with sections of bicycle inner-tube and green garden hoses that snake across the dry ground to the trailers. They're running natural gas here, which is ingenious but more than a little frightening — if there's a leak, or one of the kids pull out a hose, the northern lights will be awfully bright around here. As I look around, I realize this isn't the only adaptation — there's a satellite dish mounted on one of the trailers, which means they're getting electricity from somewhere — a generator probably. All the comforts of home, which makes me wonder how long they plan on staying — and where they get their money. Social assistance? Or something a little less social?

I'm admiring the lawn fixtures when a trailer door slaps open and a creature steps out. He's wearing army boots, dirty sweat pants, and a tattered plaid shirt that hangs over his belly. Brown hair reaches to his elbows, braided into an immense beard. And he's big, in height not just girth.

“What'd'ya want?” he bellows.

I've come face-to-face with the Sasquatch, and he's armed. A sawed-off, double-barrelled shotgun hangs in his greasy hand. Maybe he thinks I'm going to steal his golden toilet. “I was working on the fire,” I say, careful to enunciate so he doesn‘t misinterpret anything. “I just wanted to stop by and talk for a few minutes.”

“Talk?” He scowls. “Your people already been here.”

“I need to ask you a few questions anyway. It won't take long.”

“I don't feel like talkin'. Best you just get going.”

“Is there someone else I could speak with?”

His eyes widen and there's a dangerous silence. I watch the gun, dangling along his leg. He shifts on his feet, tightens the grip on his gun. If I'm going to ask him anything, it has to be now.

“Has anyone been up here recently? Even just to turn around?”

“Best you just back yourself outta here and leave us alone.”

He gives me his best intimidating look, feet planted wide, shotgun a little farther forward. It's pretty convincing. Behind him, a row of curious dirty faces peer from under a trailer. In a window above them, I see another face — a woman, younger than the laundry lady and strangely familiar. Our eyes meet and she ducks out of sight.

“Go on!” he says, stepping forward, trying to shoo me away.

It takes a little resolve — or maybe stupidity — but I stand my ground.

“I'm not messin' around,” he says, hefting the shotgun.

“Look, there's no need for alarm. I'm not with the government.”

He frowns, his expression uncertain. Then his eyes narrow.

“I'm from up north,” I say. “I was working —”

Suddenly, there are two very big holes staring me in the face. The gun is an old coach style weapon with double hammers, and when he cocks both hammers I begin to walk backward as quickly as I can, my hands lifted in a sign of surrender. “Listen — just relax buddy —”

The Sasquatch takes a step forward. “You're goddamn stupid, comin' up here.”

“I don't know who you think I am, but I have nothing against you people.”

I put the wellhead between myself and the Sasquatch. Hopefully, the risk of blowing himself up will deter him from firing, but he doesn't lower the weapon and I keep backing away. With the sawed-off barrels, the greater the distance, the safer I'll be.

“You come back,” he hollers, “and I'll bury you.”

I reach the road, walk quickly along the rutted trail. At the curve I glance back.

The Sasquatch is still there, watching.