Day Into Night (3 page)

After the fire, I have to get away from everything connected with the Forest Service. I take my old Land Rover for a drive. From Fort Vermilion, I go south then west toward Dawson Creek. From there, I just keep going.

Music has always been my drug of choice. Turn it up loud enough and you don’t have to think. Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Dylan, T-Bone Walker, Hendrix. At Dawson I turn north onto the Alaska Highway, switch tapes, drink a few Jolt colas, have a dozen cups of coffee. No sleep, no thinking, just music, driving and caffeine. By the time I reach Fairbanks 2,000 miles later I’m exhausted, empty and numb. But salved.

Two days of sleep in a motel and I’m ready to head back.

The trip south doesn’t require music. I’ve travelled far enough that distance serves as a proxy for time, separating me from Arthur Pirelli and Malostic’s questioning look. I’m content to listen to the hum of my tires, watch the endless green forest slide past.

When I finally reach home, my sister’s place in Edmonton, my credit card balance has grown, fed on gas station bills, but I’m back to level. I pull Old Faithful into the driveway behind my sister’s minivan and spend a few minutes listening to the engine cool as I try to make out stars through the light pollution of a million streetlights.

No luck. The ancient patterns remain hidden. Closer, a modern pattern emerges as windows light up; Cindy on her way down. She answers the door, dressed in her blue housecoat, her brown hair messed. “Oh, Porter, thank God. Come in.”

Inside is the familiar and comfortingly domestic pattern of scattered toys and clothes. Cindy has three kids, a full time job as a social worker and a deadbeat ex-husband, so housework is low on her list of priorities. I pick up a few strategically hazardous toys near the stairs, drop them in a cardboard box that doubles as toy chest. The clock on the bookshelf says two in the morning.

“Sorry Cin, I shouldn’t have come so late.”

She takes a seat at the tiny kitchen table, smoothes back her hair, waves off my apology.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Someone called for you an hour ago. I was still awake.”

I’m annoyed. No one calls me at that hour unless it’s a fire. “Who was it?”

“A forestry guy.”

“What did he want?”

Cindy frowns. “I’m not sure but he said it was important.”

“It’s always important this time of night.”

She smiles regretfully. “I get those calls and they’re never important. Or sober.”

“Shawn?” I never hear the phone at night when I’m staying here.

She nods, tries to look as though this doesn’t bother her. Shawn, her ex-husband, is not one of my favourite people. “Usually right around closing time,” she says. “He’s drunk and lonely.” She’s playing with an action figure, an overpriced chunk of moulded plastic on steroids, absently sliding it back and forth on the table. Her lip trembles. “He’s struck out with the bimbos at the bar and wants to come home.”

3

CARL MACKEY SITS hunched forward, his long arms draped over the steering wheel of his Forest Service truck, not saying anything. We’d talked the night before, small talk to avoid the reason for my early morning arrival. Now, only a few miles from the site, I watch grey tree trunks glide past, shift my gaze to the road, to the Forest Service sticker on the dash admonishing me to drive safe, and it’s like I never left. We could be on our way to a fire or logging inspection, but this time Carl is the only one wearing a uniform.

“You sorry I called?” he says.

I shake my head.

“We could turn back.”

“No. I need to do this.”

We come around a bend and the valley widens. Carl downshifts and I get a panicky, want-to-go-home feeling. Ahead, there’s a string of trucks parked in the ditch; extended-cab, four-wheel drives with metal toolboxes and quads in the back. Closer, I can read the decals — Curtain River Forest Products, Puddle Welding, Search and Rescue. Locals and loggers. Two police suburbans are angled to block off a narrow road leading up from the valley. A cluster of about 30 men mill in front of a tiny trailer. We drive past and park.

The sun is still behind the rocks and it’s cold this morning, raw and still like you get in the foothills at this time of spring. Carl pulls on winter boots, his heavy Forest Service coat and grabs his tin of sandwiches. He’s always eating. When we used to go out together, I’d have to drive, so he could eat. He’s like a parking meter — if he goes more than an hour without being fed, he’ll expire. I pull on the insulated coveralls he’s loaned me and we walk along the road toward the trailer.

The trailer, a boxy little thing with a narrow door and one window, has been hastily set up, the hitch propped on a freshly cut tree trunk. There’s a small deck of logs nearby, over-lengths that have been bucked off by log trucks at the intersection of the two roads, and this is where many of the men sit, smoking and sipping coffee out of metal Thermos cups. Carl introduces me to a short, chubby guy upholstered in the latest Gortex outerwear. Casey Fredricks, head of the Curtain River Search and Rescue. He hands me a clipboard and pen.

“Thanks for comin’. You gotta sign in.”

I hesitate, wondering if I should use my real name and not sure why I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to be here. Maybe I want to pretend I’m someone else. I sign my name anyway. Porter Cassel. Next to my name is another column. Organization. I nearly print Forest Service then hesitate again, wondering what to put down. Fredricks notices.

“Just put down Search and Rescue,” he says.

I nod and copy from the line above. High security operation they got going here.

Fredricks takes back the clipboard, hands it to Carl. I look around, hoping to see something of the crime scene, but it must be farther up the logging road. We seem to be waiting, so I wander to the log deck and take a seat among the other searchers. Talk is subdued; no one really knows what’s going on. Carl chats with members of Search and Rescue, then comes over and stands next to the deck. His Forest Service coat has tiny pinholes burned in the arms, from sitting around campfires.

“So what’s the plan?” I ask.

He shakes his head and frowns. “Just wait I guess.”

“When did it happen?” Out here, it seems okay to talk about it.

“Shift change,” he says. “Between 10:30 and 11 last night.”

“He’s switched to night operations.”

Carl nods, chewing his lower lip.

“What’s the damage?”

He shrugs. “Three pieces. Probably worth about a million and a half.”

The sun creeps above the jagged, snow-covered horizon of the Front Range, brushing the clouds orange and pink. All heads turn to watch the show and for a moment talk ceases. It’s a little like morning prayers but no one’s lips are moving. The colour begins to fade as the sun climbs above cloud level. Prayer time is over, for most anyway. I’m saying a little invocation before asking the question that’s been on my mind half the night.

“Anybody hurt?”

Carl looks away, toward the trees. “They’re not sure.”

“Not sure? How can they not be sure?”

My voice is a helium octave higher and a few men glance in my direction. Carl swallows, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing like a gopher peeking out of a hole. He’s nervous, doesn’t want to freak me out. It’s a little late for that. “I was talking with Casey,” he says. “A lot of explosives were used. Apparently, there isn’t much left of some of the machines.” He pauses, the unsaid message hanging heavy. What if there was someone in one of the machines? “That’s why the cops want help,” he says.

“To find the pieces.”

Carl nods.

“But they have no reason to believe anyone was hurt,” I say hopefully.

“They found someone’s truck,” Carl says, rubbing a bony finger under his nose. “Near one of the machines. Of course, it could just be a coincidence. You know what these logging operations are like — trucks all over the place. Someone drops his truck off for later, gets a ride back. Or it breaks down. It could be anybody’s truck.”

He’s trying hard to reassure me, but I don’t much believe in coincidence anymore — not the type that brings good news anyway. Carl falls silent, gives me a sympathetic look. I’ve seen him once in the past three years, at a fire, and our previous nights talkativeness has thinned. It’s easier to just lean on our familiarity. He makes a big production of sitting down, shifting a loose log on the deck as he gets comfortable, begins to desecrate his lunch box. Fredricks ambles over, the clipboard tucked under his arm, looking important.

Carl pauses, lowers his sandwich. “So what are we waiting for Case?”

The big guy rolls his neck like a wrestler getting ready for a match, gestures toward the trailer. “More cops, some guys from Major Crimes up north. Same guys who’re investigating the other bombings. The local boys want to wait until they get here.”

The other bombings. A memory fades in like a scene change in a bad horror movie. I’m sitting on the metal steps of a trailer, shivering as much from shock as cold. A stranger leans too close, asking questions. Why did I park there? Did I notice anything unusual? Did the girl work for the Forest Service? Why was she dressed like that? It’s taking all of what little control I have left to pretend I’m listening as I stare at the stranger’s big nose, grey eyes and the coarse, aging flesh of his cheeks, touched pink from the cold. My attention is riveted on details, unwilling to face the bigger picture. Finally I can no longer stand the look of the stranger’s face, the tone of his questions —

“Porter, you okay? You want a sandwich?”

Carl is offering me tuna salad on rye, his generic solution for life’s little problems. This one’s going to take more than tuna salad. I shake my head and look at Fredricks. “You know any of their names?”

“Who?”

“The investigators from up north.”

Fredricks looks down at me and frowns. He gains a few chins.

“Andre Rachet?” I prompt.

“Yeah, maybe. I think I heard that name.”

I shake my head and sigh. Fredricks looks at me a little harder, glances at his clipboard as if to assure himself that I should be here. Apparently satisfied, he wanders off. Carl gives me an understanding glance as he lights a smoke. There’s a quiet moment, then the door to the trailer opens and three cops get out. The Mounties look us over, go to their car to make a call on the radio, then stand apart from the rest of us and talk. One of them is an older guy with greying hair and his life’s savings hanging over his belt. The other two are younger: one dark-haired, the other blonde and thinning. I stand and edge closer, until I can hear what they’re saying. They’re talking local shop, biding time until the boys from Major Crimes get here. The older guy looks over at me. Not wanting to be conspicuous, I retreat. Good doggie. I sigh and sit beside Carl on the log deck, stare at the trees.

“I shouldn’t have called you,” he says. “Dredging up all those memories.”

He’s watching me like the night nurse on a psychiatric ward.

“I’d have heard about it anyway.”

“Sure. But it wouldn’t have been as bad as actually seeing it.”

Interesting theory. I offer him a conciliatory smile to let him know I’m holding up. But I’m not sure I am and wonder again what I’m doing here. Facing my demons? Or maybe I’m just a sucker for punishment. Maybe I need punishment.

Carl looks toward the road and a few seconds later I too hear the approaching vehicle. It’s a white car, an RCMP cruiser, and everyone watches it roll slowly to the barricade like a parade float. The engine’s so quiet you barely notice when it’s shut off. The door opens and three men get out. They’re older men, steely grey bristle visible below their dark blue hats — the weary, serious faces of old soldiers. I’ve seen them before, shared hours in a small room, sweating as they ask me questions I didn’t really want to answer. The most pointed questions came from the senior of the three, a tall man with a prominent hooked nose and dark suspicious eyes. Sergeant Andre Rachet. He’s grown a moustache since the last time I saw him, giving him the distinguished look of a general. Or maybe it’s just the way he carries himself. He scowls, takes a minute to look around. When he sees me, his scowl deepens and I look away. Then his back is turned and he’s talking to the other cops. They move toward the trailer and motion us over. I stand at the periphery of the crowd, try not to stare at Rachet as he opens the proceedings.

“Thank you for coming. I’m not sure what you’ve heard but we’ve had a bit of nastiness last night.” Rachet’s manner of speaking is succinct and, with its light French accent, almost formal. “What we know so far is that someone was in here and blew up three pieces of logging equipment — a grader, a feller-buncher and a Cat. A lot of explosives were used and there are pieces everywhere. Our job this morning is to find all the pieces. The scatter pattern will help determine the amount of explosive used and where it was placed —”

Rachet looks us over as he talks. He’s all business, laying it out quickly, and I feel a surge of hope. Maybe this time they’ll find who did it. But my hope ebbs. In the three years since Nina’s death, the cops have had no suspects.

Rachet holds up a jar, filled with loose bits of metal and wire. “Some of the pieces may be from the device itself. It’s important to know if you think you’ve found a piece of the device.” He shakes the jar, rattles the contents. “These are examples of what you might find — bits of blasting cap, wire, fragments of casing — so have a good look. If you find anything like this, you will plant a red flag.” He holds up a long wire pin with a square of red plastic on the end — the same sort of marker oil and gas companies use to mark their seismic shot holes. “If you find a piece of the machine or anything foreign to the forest environment, you will plant a yellow flag.”

The jar is handed to me and I turn it over, look at the bits of metal, the snippets of coloured wire. They could be the remnants of someone’s stereo. But I can’t help wondering if they’re from an actual crime scene, if they killed anyone. If they killed Nina. I pass the jar to Carl.

Rachet continues. “Remember not to move or touch any object you find. Mark everything with a flag, including cigarette butts and pop cans. Do not drop anything at the crime scene. No smoking. No blowing your nose and dropping the tissue. Be careful, watch where you step.”

Carl drops his cigarette, grinds it out under his boot.

Rachet turns to the other cops. “Anything more to mention?”

They look at each other, shrug. One of the local Mounties points to a man in the crowd. “Maybe I’ll just introduce Al Brotsky.

He’s the harvest supervisor for Curtain River Forest Products, and he’s the guy who discovered this mess. He’s familiar with the layout of the area and he’ll be helping to coordinate the search.”

Brotsky glances around, nods briefly. He’s tall and wiry, looks to be about 45 and in good shape. My immediate impression is he’s a serious guy, the type you don’t want to piss off at the bar. But then again, he’s got every reason to be serious this morning.

“We ready to head up?” asks Brotsky.

“Yes, in a moment.” Rachet looks us over. “One more thing. There is a vehicle parked at the crime scene. We’ve been unable to locate the registered owner.” He pauses, lets this sink in. His next words are slow, deliberate, and cause an unpleasant clench in my gut. “If you find anything of a potentially human nature, you will mark the location and immediately notify one of the members.”

There’s a respectful silence.

“Okay.” Rachet nods, purses his lips. “Let’s head up to the site.”