Day Into Night (8 page)

The cutblock is long and undulating, the road below invisible, dug into the sidehill. I catch drifted bits of conversation, the sound of a vehicle engine, but can see little. I follow the edge of the timber toward the valley bottom, using the cover of the forest. This far in, the edge of the block is barely visible, a demarcation of openness indicated by fewer trees. Suddenly, I hear a motor very close, catch a glimpse of blue metal a dozen yards downslope and drop to the ground as a truck whines past on the hidden road. I lay flat for a while, my cheek pressed against pine needles and dry moss, paranoid I’ve been spotted and will have to explain myself. But no one has seen me and, crouching, I retreat farther into the forest.

I stop and rest, catch my breath, consider my options. It’s still an official crime scene and I have no business here. No official business anyway. But the post blast team is probably at work and I want to watch from the anonymity of the forest, just for a few minutes. Unfortunately, the forest is too sparse here, the trees too far apart to offer screening. I don’t have binoculars. The smart thing to do would be to get the hell out of here, return to my bike and forget the whole thing. But I can’t forget and it seems a shame to have come this far for nothing. If I could find an outcropping, some sort of promontory, I might be able to watch the activity in the cutblock.

I start working my way upslope again, searching ahead for cover.

Near the top of the cutblock, I angle toward the open and see a jut of rock on the other side. From higher on the slope, I could descend through the trees to the outcropping, where I’d be invisible from below. My stomach protests — it’s purged the poisons and wants compensation. I’ll spend a half-hour watching, no more, then start back, hopefully make it to town by supper.

I make a wide arc through the trees, above the cutblock, and begin my descent. It’s much steeper here and the going is slow, the trees providing handholds. I lose sight of the outcropping and when I see it again I freeze.

Someone else has the same idea, and he’s considerably more prepared.

He’s prone, belly-down on the rock, dressed in forest camouflage, his clothes a pattern of dark brown tree trunks against light grey so he looks like a truncated deck of logs. If he’d been standing still in the forest, I would probably have walked right past him, but he’s out of his background — the perpetual problem with camo. He’s wearing a cap of the same pattern, the visor crimped like a steeple, his face obscured. He might be a hunter, or a police sharpshooter, but the way he’s aiming through the scope of his rifle, I don’t think so. It’s the Lorax and for a moment I remain frozen in mid-stride, awkwardly clinging to the stem of a slender pine, waiting for the shot.

The shot doesn’t come — he’s just watching.

Carefully, I take a few steps back and crouch, paranoid he’ll hear me breathing, my heart thumping. He doesn’t know I’m here and so presumably I have the advantage. But it dawns on me there is little I can do. The Lorax has a gun; I’m unarmed. I could work my way back down the slope, through the trees so he wouldn’t see me, and talk to the Mounties in the cutblock. But by the time I explain what I’m doing here, and convince them there is someone watching them through a riflescope, he’ll be long gone.

I stand up — I can’t let him get away.

Everything about me is loud. My breathing, the way I set my feet and even my clothes are sure to alert the man with the rifle lying on the rock a hundred yards away. Any second I’m sure he’ll roll over, point the rifle at me. What I’ll do then, I have no idea.

A few minutes of creeping forward and I’m close enough to see he’s got a knife on his belt and that he’s wearing black boots, double laced around the upper. Hard to tell how tall he is though, prone like that. I need something to establish scale —

There’s a scrape and dry clatter as a plate of loose rock shifts under my weight, sends a sprinkle of scree rolling a short distance downslope. Instinctively, I freeze. Should have been paying more attention to the ground, but it’s too late now — he’s turned over and is sweeping the hillside with his scope. That he’s using a scope is my only advantage — the magnification at this range makes me difficult to find — and I bolt sidehill and then down, pivoting on tree trunks and jumping over deadfall. I slip, twist my ankle hard enough to know I won’t be running much longer, drop behind two crossed logs.

There’s a crunch of dry moss from somewhere uphill, then silence.

We’re both waiting. I hug closer to a fallen log, cautiously peer over — nothing but trees. I want to go after the bastard but I might not see him and he has a gun. The odds aren’t in my favour. Better to make it to the police, let them call in the dogs and helicopters.

I retreat down the slope. The trees are slender pine and offer pathetically little cover. I feel like a cartoon character trying to hide behind a light post as I dodge from trunk to trunk, attempting to keep my chest and head hidden. I’m making too much noise — snapping twigs — to tell if he’s following me. Not that he has to. With that rifle, all he needs is a clear line of sight. A long shot would be better for him too, give him more time to get away —

“Don’t fucking move.” I raise my arms, turn very slowly. It’s a young cop, his face flushed, a pistol in his hand. “I said ... don’t ... fucking ... move ...”

He’s gulping, trying to catch his breath. How could I have not heard him running up behind me? “Take it easy. The guy you want is up there.” I point. Once again, a bad idea. He’s nervous enough already.

“There’s a guy up there with a rifle, dressed in camo —”

“On the ground!” This cop looks like a rookie but when it comes to restraint he’s paid attention in class. Or he’s played football because the next thing I know I’m belly-down, his knee between my shoulder blades as he cuffs me hands behind back.

“What the —? Why are you arresting me?”

He’s breathing in my ear. “We’ll figure that out soon enough.”

“Are you nuts? Listen —” I’m trying to explain but it’s hard to talk with moss and pine needles in your mouth, no air in your lungs. “The guy that did this is getting away —” He yanks me to my feet, nearly dislocating both shoulders, shoves me forward.

“Jesus Christ.” One last try. “Cuff me to a tree. Go after him.”

“You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so —”

Given how pissed I am by now, it’s a right I waive.

6

THE LOCAL RCMP detachment is in a renovated old house next to the hospital, in the heart of Curtain River’s only real residential area. The interrogation room was probably a walk-in closet at one time, or some old ladies’ sewing room. Now, it has somewhat less class. There’s an institutional brown metal desk, wide enough that it divides the narrow room, trapping me in the end. A few equally appealing chairs complete the ensemble.

Rachet and a younger cop I don’t remember having seen before come in. The second Mountie, an older version of the Gerber baby with thin blonde hair, closes the door, which barely misses the edge of the table. Rachet plunks down an old battery-operated cassette recorder, the flat five-button type that was state-of-the art 20 years ago. He unwraps a fresh tape, shoves it into the machine and pockets the crinkling plastic wrap. By way of introduction, he waves toward the other Mountie. “This is Constable Bergren. Local detachment.”

I nod to Bergren. He nods back. We all sit down. The two Mounties span the width of the narrow room. I’m exhausted, at the tail end of a hangover and brutal bike ride. My ankle has swollen so that I’ve had to loosen my boot. They could have offered me some ice. Or taken a few minutes at the crime scene to question me, allow me a chance to explain. But after Rachet assured the rookie I likely didn’t pose an immediate threat, they uncuffed me and offered temporary accommodation in the back of a cruiser, my other choice being to limp through the bush to my bike, then try to ride home. Since they wanted to talk to me later, I humoured them and stuck around.

Rachet leans his elbows on the armrests of his chair, crosses his hands. The long day is written on his face and he’s ready to go home, prune his rose garden. Bergren too looks tired, eyes squinted and puffed red from the sun. Everyone wants to be somewhere else. “Sorry about Constable Harder,” Rachet says. “He’s a bit enthusiastic. Watches too many cop shows.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t need those ribs anyway.”

Rachet leans forward, stabs a button on the recorder hard enough to make me wonder how the machine survived this long, provides a quick monotone summary of our little meeting. “May 3, 1998. Curtain River Detachment. Interview with Porter Cassel.”

“So this is an interview, not an interrogation?”

Rachet shrugs. “Call it what you want.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No. At this point we just want to talk to you. Give you an opportunity to explain a few things. So there are no misunderstandings. Of course, you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say may be given in evidence.”

“So I can leave?”

“Sure, you can leave.” But neither of the Mounties move. I’d have to climb over the table, and both of them, to get out. More intimidation, but I’m not really worried. There’s little they could charge me with as I’m pretty sure there’s no law against walking through the forest, even if it does take you within the vicinity of a crime scene. But I’m more than a little uncomfortable — the last time I was in a room like this with Rachet, Nina’s blood was still on my shirt.

“Do you mind telling us what you were you doing out there?”

“I was just going for a walk.”

“A walk, eh?” The Mounties exchange a look that clearly indicates they don’t believe me. Under the table, I massage my ankle, think about how long it would have taken me to walk back to the tower, bike into town. I’d be arriving just about now. At least I got a free ride out of the deal. Makes the afternoon a wash. But now the meter’s running and I want to get back to Carl’s museum for a cool sasparilla and a colder ice pack, a fist full of painkillers and a long stretch of shut-eye. “And you just happened to end up at the crime scene?” Rachet says.

“I didn’t know it was still a crime scene.”

Rachet knits his fingers together, leans back in his chair, settling in. Not a good sign. Bergren is slouched, watching me. When we make eye contact, he looks down. I wonder if they know I took the shard of metal. Did someone see me? The possibility causes an anxious clench in my gut. “So why didn’t you just come up the road?” Rachet says. “Or is this an old forest ranger habit, crashing through the bush?”

“Something like that,” I say. “Good for the constitution.”

The look on Rachet’s face tells me he thinks he’s being clever, humouring me a bit.

“You know, Mr. Cassel, I don’t much believe in coincidence.”

That makes two of us.

“So I would like to know what exactly you had in mind this afternoon.”

“You catch the guy who was watching you?” I ask. “The guy in camo, with the rifle?”

Bergren pushes himself up on the armrests of his chair and with an audible series of pops and crackles, straightens himself out. Nice to know I’m not the only one with a back that sounds like breakfast cereal. “What’s this?” he says, craning his neck and leaning forward to get that last vertebrae in line. “You were out there with someone?”

I find it hard to believe Bergren doesn’t know — another game in their repertoire.

“I thought he might have been one of yours,” I say.

“One of ours? Really? How so?”

“He was geared up like a sharpshooter.”

The two Mounties look mildly curious.

“Camo, black boots — the whole fashion statement. His rifle looked military.”

Rachet purses his lips, traces a damp pattern on the edge of the table. I’m hoping I won’t have to repeat the whole story for Bergren’s benefit but when Rachet looks over at me he raises an eyebrow as if this were new information. I sigh, rub my ankle — a long day is getting longer.

“We didn’t have anybody up there did we?” says Bergren.

Rachet shakes his head.

“So he wasn’t one of ours —”

It’s warm in here, the buzz of fluorescent lights a soothing white noise, and I begin to fantasize about a Sealy Posturepedic with proper lumbar and neck support, nearly drift off, force myself to concentrate on Bergren. He crosses his arms — a display of white skin and freckles that would encourage anyone to wear sun block. “Let me get this straight,” he says. “You were out for a little stroll and you just happened to end up at the crime scene. At the exact spot where there was this mysterious sharpshooter.”

I don’t want to explain how I thought the rock outcrop would be a good lookout, how I was just going to watch for a few minutes, but I can see they’re ready to play this up any way they have to. “Look ...” I raise my hands — I’m starting to talk like Rachet. “I was just out for a bike ride. I went up this road to a forestry tower and when I saw the pattern of the cutblocks I realized the bombing site was only a few miles away. I was curious, so I went for a little walk.”

“Curious about what Mr. Cassel?” Rachet says. “You were just there the day before.”

“I know, but I didn’t think there would be any harm in taking another look.”

Rachet gives me a consoling nod. “I see. How did you find the man with the rifle?”

I tell them how I went to the rock for a look, to make sure it was okay before going further down. Not quite the truth, but close enough. Once again, I describe the guy with the rifle, the sort of camo he was wearing. By the end of this, Bergren is cleaning his nails again. Rachet looks bored. “Maybe he was a hunter,” Rachet says, looking toward Bergren. “When’s the spring bear hunting season over?”

Bergren consults an interior calendar. “Another ten days.”

“I had a feeling he was hunting,” I admit. “But not bear.”

Both cops ponder this. Rachet drums his fingers on the table. “Did you see his face?”

“It was painted with camo. I didn’t get a close look.”

“How tall was this individual?”

“I’m not sure — he was lying down. Maybe six feet.”

“You’re positive it was a man?”

I hadn’t considered it might be a woman and search my fading impression for a waistline, some clue that might indicate an armed member of the fairer sex. “It would have to be a sturdy woman.”

“So you really have no idea what this individual looks like?” Rachet says.

“Like I said, the face was painted.”

“Did this individual see you?”

“He must have. I made some noise and he turned on me.”

“And you still didn’t get a good look at him?”

“He had a rifle. I wasn’t sticking around for introductions.”

There’s a pause, filled by the tape player with a low thumping squeal, like my Land Rover in low gear. Rachet rubs his forehead, massages his temples. He looks ready for an Advil commercial. “An interesting story,” he says. “The phantom gunman watches from the shadows.”

For some reason, I get the feeling they don’t believe me. “Did you go after him?”

Rachet fondles his moustache. “I’m more interested in why you were there.”

“Tell me you went after him.”

A dismissive wave of the hand. “We sent up a chopper. They didn’t see anything.”

“He was wearing camouflage,” I mumble. They must think I made up the gunman to divert their attention from my being there. Or they’re hiding something — they must have looked harder than that. My pulse quickens — maybe they caught him and they’re just tying up loose ends. Suddenly, the room seems humid, sticky.

“You caught him, didn’t you?”

They look at each other and I realize how wrong I am.

“Did you send any men up the hill? Dogs to track?”

Rachet leans forward, intent. “So, really, why were you there?”

I sigh, lean back, massage my eyes. Maybe when I look again they’ll be gone. No such luck. Rachet is still leaning forward, his elbows on the table. I wonder where the file Bergren has open on the table came from — I was pretty sure he was empty-handed when he came in. But then again I was sure they would go after the gunman too.

“You don’t think much of our police work do you?” Rachet says. His hands are still and he’s watching me carefully. He’s picked a bad time to ask that question — I’m furious they didn’t look harder for the stranger in camo — but at the moment, honesty may not be the best policy. I shrug. “I haven’t paid it much attention.”

Rachet’s eyebrows go up. “Honestly Mr. Cassel, I find that hard to believe.”

This seems a prelude and I get a bad feeling again about the shard of metal I borrowed. I try to remember if anyone could have seen me. I doubt it — Carl is the only one who knows and he wouldn’t say anything. I look Rachet in the eye. “I just want the bastard caught.”

“As do we. But sneaking around a crime scene won’t help.”

“I wasn’t sneaking —”

“Right — you were going for a walk. But considering your background, that interests me.”

“My background?”

Rachet looks at Bergren, gives him a slight nod. Bergren opens the file, flips a few pages, pausing here or there. “A year of instrumentation at college before you dropped out. Then there’s a blank in your record while you were bumming around, presumably finding yourself. You enrolled in forestry, became a Ranger. After that bombing killed your fiancée, you quit the Forest Service and spent a year bumming around, losing yourself — there’s a couple of drunk and disorderlies on record here.” He goes on, reading my personal history as though it were a technical manual, making me feel like a lab specimen, pinned to a slide and under a microscope. It’s disconcerting and I’m pretty sure that’s why he’s doing it. God knows my resumé has nothing to do with anything. He ends his dissertation on a more personal note — returning to the bombing up north that killed Nina.

“You were cleared,” says Rachet. “But no one was ever arrested.”

“No kidding.”

Rachet looks thoughtful. “That would burn me, piss me right off.”

“Is there some point to this?” They’re playing a game for which I have no patience.

“Maybe. You tell us.” Rachet is staring at me again, waiting for a wrong move, anything suspicious. It makes me feel suspicious. Like slowing down on the highway when you see a cop, even though you’re not speeding. “Your girlfriend is killed and the bombings stop. Then, all of a sudden, they start again and there’s another fatality. Seems odd you’ve been involved with both.”

“You know exactly how I’m involved. I came here to help, for Christ’s sake.”

They look at me as if they know something I don’t. This might work on real criminals who have something to hide but on me it only raises my blood pressure. I want to say more but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t come out well and the recorder is running. Instead I grind my teeth, stare at the table and wait for the pressure to subside. Rachet and Bergren must be able to see I’m close to the edge because they give me a minute. But only a minute. They’re like kids with a magnifying glass, torturing an insect, careful not to burn it too much so that it keeps moving.

“Did you know Hess?” Rachet says.

“Did I know him? Only his ribcage, which I met yesterday.”

“Hmmm, that’s interesting —” Bergren is flipping through his file again like a student looking for a lost research note. “Because both you and Hess worked in the same area when your fiancée — what was her name — was killed.”

“Nina,” I say coldly. “Her name was Nina.”

“Right ... Nina. Here it is.” He pulls out a sheet and holds it up. “Ronald Hess worked at KCL Logging out of Fort Termination the same time you were a ranger there.”

This is news to me. “A lot of people worked there.”

“Did you ever meet Hess?”

“I don’t know. What does he look like?”

Bergren thumbs through the file, pulls out a picture of Ronald Hess and his wife, posed against an azure backdrop in some photographer’s office. The picture must have been pulled out of a frame because you can see the fade line on the emulsion. Hess’s wife is wearing a coffee-coloured long dress. She’s blonde, slim, good-looking and seated on a bench beside Hess, who’s in a dark suit with an equally serious look — the old school of thought where it’s not manly to smile at the camera, even on your wedding day. Especially on your wedding day. He’s young — early twenties — has short, dark hair and a tanned complexion.

I shake my head. “Never met him.”

“What about Nina?” says Rachet. “She ever meet him?”

I don’t like where this is going. “What are you suggesting?”

Rachet shrugs. “Nothing. Just trying to establish a connection.”