by Dave Butler
“Sounds like a clusterfuck before it even gets out of the gate,” said Willson.
Summers guffawed. “Like I said, you don’t know the half of it. Along with us and the provincial department in charge of ski hills, there’s also the local regional district that will deal with land-use zoning, and then there are at least two First Nations bands involved. And a long list of other agencies and departments that want a piece of the action. The public will also want its say.”
“Jesus. Why is this even going ahead?” asked Willson. “It seems like such a huge uphill battle — not something you want for a downhill ski area. And on the surface, it appears to be such a far-fetched idea —”
“I’m wondering that, too,” said Summers, nodding. “There are more questions than answers at this stage. But you know how these things work better than I do. Governments these days tend not to turn things down early in the process, particularly not economic development projects … no matter how crazy they seem. We have to follow our policies and procedures so the processes are seen to be fair. In this case, the ball is rolling.”
Or the avalanche, thought Willson. She pictured a mass of snow moving out of a starting zone along a rocky ridge, with Stafford Austin standing at the top, the large human trigger. The mass would slide slowly, then, as gravity took hold, pick up speed, threatening to smother everything in its path — including unsuspecting humans. Large amounts of anything moving downhill is rarely a good thing in the mountains.
“The proponent submitted an expression of interest to government very soon after the park legislation changed, so you can think what you want about that. He’s been using the label Top of the World since he first submitted it. It’s now moved on to what’s called the formal proposal stage, which is why we’re starting to get more detail,” Summers said, indicating all the binders on the table.
“And what are the next steps?” asked Willson, bracing herself for the loss of another long, irreplaceable chunk of her remaining time on earth listening to Summers.
“Honestly, that’s a mystery. This isn’t something any of us have ever dealt with. We’ve got an interagency team set up. Like I said, I sit on that for Parks Canada. Together, we’ll have to figure out the process and then, I assume, we’ll review their submission to see how it stacks up against a long list of fiscal, environmental, and social criteria. This won’t be a fast process, and it’ll cost the proponent a pile of money.”
Willson thought of her conversation with Frank Speer. “Do you know if Parks Canada has taken a position on it yet?”
“Not officially.” Summers looked toward the door and lowered her voice. “But between you and me, I’m getting the sense from Calgary that there’s support for it both there and in Ottawa. And maybe you’ve heard that our park superintendent is supportive.”
“I have. But why do you think Parks Canada likes it?”
She shrugged. “You’ve seen more of those subtle messages come down the food chain than I have. Where the people who sit on the fence between bureaucracy and politics talk about encouraging investments in parks, getting more visitors into parks, looking for new sources of revenue to cover the costs of parks … You know the kind of message I mean …”
“None of that gives me confidence,” said Willson. “In my experience, if politicians want this bad enough, they’ll make it happen. And if they don’t want it, it’ll die a slow, painful, and costly death in the black hole of process.” In that moment, she recalled one of her favourite quotes from the American wilderness enthusiast and all-around shit-disturber Edward Abbey: “A patriot must always be ready to defend his country against his government.” Willson realized that she was starting to embody his prediction.
“You’re probably right,” Summers said. “Do you want me to walk you through the binders?”
“No, no, that’s fine,” replied Willson quickly, knowing she might be here for hours (or days or weeks) if Summers got started on those binders. “What do you know about the proponent?” she asked, shifting gears. “I met him at the open house in Golden.”
“Then you’re ahead of me. I don’t know anything more than what’s in the proposal. Like I said, the proponent is a B.C.-registered company. The president is Stafford Austin, a land developer originally from Boise, Idaho, now based in Vancouver. He claims to have experience in developing ski areas. I guess we’ll be looking at that once the process begins.”
Willson had noticed Summers’s tendency to say like I said even when she hadn’t previously said that thing. Maybe I’ll bang her forehead on the table instead of mine.
“Austin seems confident that the project will go ahead,” she said. “But I’d expect nothing less.” She thought about the fire, the body found in the blackened building, Austin’s response to the female protestor at the open house, and his alleged threats against Stoffel. Was he willing to bully and burn and even murder his way to a yes?
CHAPTER 9
JANUARY 7
Stafford Austin and Hank Myers sat on opposite sides of the desk in their Vancouver office ten floors above the corner of Granville and Hastings. It was a small, sparse space rented month-to-month, a place to keep files organized, track money flowing in and out of the investment fund, prepare client statements, and plan next steps in the business. A part-time assistant sat in the outer office, talking on the phone. The sounds of the city floated up from below: the hiss of cars, the whine of electric buses, the shouts of passersby. The office also included a small boardroom, but Austin preferred the Terminal City Club for client meetings. It was a more inspiring location for persuading wealthy people to invest their money.
“C’mon, Stafford,” said Myers, “if I’m going to find more investors, I need news about the project.”
“I wish I had something for you,” said Austin, “but these goddamn government processes are slow as glaciers.”
“I know there are advantages to the process taking longer,” Myers said. “I get that. But I’ve got three people on the verge of investing, and I’m talking to more this week. Between them, they represent over two million dollars in new capital. Two of them came to us via your Matt Merrix. They’re this close to signing,” he said, holding his thumb and index finger less than an inch apart, “but they need confidence that this thing is moving in the right direction.”
“That’s perfect timing, because the first quarterly payments are due to initial investors by the end of this month.”
“Exactly. So what can I tell them?”
“How about we make a phone call to Paul DeSantos and see what he’s got for us.” Austin reached for his cellphone. “We haven’t talked to him in a while. It’s important to stay in touch.”
“Good afternoon. Resort Development Branch,” said the female voice that answered.
“I need to speak to Paul DeSantos.”
“Can I tell him who’s calling, please?”
“No, you can’t,” said Austin. “But I guarantee he’s expecting my call.”
DeSantos came on the line about twenty seconds later. “Paul DeSantos speaking.”
“Paul, it’s Stafford Austin. You’re on speaker. Hank Myers is with me. We’d like an update on our Top of the World project. Where’re we at?”
“Oh. Hello,” said DeSantos.
Austin detested wasting time on pleasantries. He saved that ridiculous dance for dealing with people with money, and only then because it was a necessary part of the courting ritual. Low-level government staffers weren’t on his dance card. Instead, he waited in silence.
“Uh … okay … you want an update,” said DeSantos awkwardly. “Here’s what I can tell you. We’ve got the multi-agency review team set up, the process to review your proposal is under way, and we’ve contacted both First Nation bands to find out how and when they want to be involved.”
“Is it looking good, Paul?”
“It’s too early to tell, Mr. Austin. We’re only starting to hear what the other agencies are thinking.”
“Wh
en are we going to get an answer, Paul?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s much too early to know.”
“Paul,” said Austin, “we’ve got potential investors lined up who will bring millions of dollars in capital to this project. We need to give them some good news.”
“I wish I could give you more —”
“I need you to do more than fucking wish here, Paul.” Austin chose to play a major card in his deck. “Do you remember when the three of us were on-site last fall? Do you remember when we talked about how important it is that this project keep moving ahead, why that was important, and what we needed you to do?”
Austin knew that DeSantos’s mind would jump back to their conversation in Collie Creek in late September of the previous year, and, more importantly, to his family. They’d sat on the shore of a glacial lake in the upper part of the drainage near where the resort base was planned. It had been a long and exhausting field day, with Austin and Myers showing DeSantos where each part of the project would be located. DeSantos had made several notes, taken lots of pictures, and asked many questions. Compared to Austin, who was out of shape and easily winded, DeSantos had looked as if he could hike the area all day.
The three of them had sat alone in a patch of alpine heather, waiting for the helicopter that would take them back to Golden. Prompted by a nod from Austin, Myers had pulled a photo out of his briefcase. In it, DeSantos was standing in the doorway of a house, passionately kissing a woman who was not his wife. Staring at DeSantos, Meyers spoke with no emotion in his voice. “We need you to keep this project moving, Paul, not too quickly, but not too slowly, either. We’ll tell you what we need and when we need it. We’ll also need you to give us updates on who is saying what … whenever we ask for them. The why of this is not your concern, but I’m certain you’ll do what we ask so that this picture, and others even more interesting than this, do not get shown to your wife and daughter. You’ll do that, won’t you, Paul?” Myers had drawn out the single syllable Paul with chilling emphasis, with each repetition of DeSantos’s name delivering a jab of intimidation — just as Austin was doing today on the phone.
“I suggest that you don’t speak of this to anyone,” Myers had continued. “If you do, we’ll deny it, you’ll be removed from the project for appearing biased … and you will still face the loss of your family, at least half of your government pension, and your reputation.” Myers glanced down at the picture, then back at DeSantos again. “You’ll agree, I’m sure, that the consequences of doing anything other than complying with what we want would be devastating to you and your family. Do you understand, Paul?”
They’d watched a confident, experienced bureaucrat transform into a pale, shaking shell of a man, too shocked to ask how they’d gotten the photo. After a long moment, DeSantos had nodded in response to Myers’s question, then remained silent for the rest of that afternoon.
Through the speaker now, they could hear DeSantos’s breathing, quick and sharp. “Okay,” he whispered. “There seems to be some political support for the project, but I’m guessing you already knew that. There’s also local opposition. But so far, I’m not hearing about any showstopper issues, at least not from the provincial side. A big point of discussion is road access, but I understand you have something in the works there. The feds, however, are a different beast, and I have no control over them. They’re concerned about the resort’s impact on the national park and a Canadian Mountain Club hut they recently approved, and they’re raising red flags about wilderness and wolverines. As you know, that’s an endangered species they can’t ignore.”
“And?” said Austin.
“And you’ll probably be asked to undertake more detailed environmental and geophysical studies of the area.”
“No problem there,” Austin remarked.
“You’re okay with having to do more studies?” DeSantos’s voice reflected his confusion.
“We are, and you don’t need to know why. Nor will you tell anyone that we are. Understand?”
“I won’t say anything.”
“Good. Now, I need your honest opinion, Paul,” said Austin. “Do any of the issues raised by the feds so far have the potential to derail our project completely?”
“I don’t know,” said DeSantos. “I haven’t spent enough time with their people to get a solid read on how serious they are. But there’s no doubt that political support high up the chain will make a difference.”
“You can leave that to us.”
“Yes, I expected so …”
“Good, Paul, good,” said Austin. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? We’ll talk to you again soon. Keep up the good work.”
He pushed the end call button on the phone and turned to smile at Myers. “That went really well, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER 10
JANUARY 12
The sun was still an hour from rising. Willson sat in her warden truck in a dark parking lot midway between Lake Louise and Field. It was the same parking lot used as a staging area for the lodge and trails at Lake O’Hara. Hers was the first vehicle in the lot that morning; the truck’s tracks were obvious in the new snow.
It’s always coldest just before the dawn, thought Willson, and it’s freakin’ cold this morning. She turned the truck’s heater up a notch and took a long sip of the still-steaming coffee in her travel mug. On a ridgetop to the east, a line of coniferous trees was backlit by the first hint of sun like a craggy saw blade.
As she waited, Willson pondered the call she’d received from Benoit Fortier the previous evening. Initially, her heart had jumped at the thought that he might have other things on his mind than the fire investigation. But he was all business. He’d phoned to tell her they’d confirmed that the deceased in the fire was indeed Sue Webb.
Willson’s thoughts turned to the young woman, a volunteer who’d unwittingly paid the ultimate price for her commitment to wildlife conservation. She’d never met Webb, but she knew that somewhere, a family was grieving the loss of their loved one.
Fortier had also confirmed that this was now a homicide investigation. “We found evidence of glass on the inside of the building, which suggests that something was thrown through the window from the outside,” he had said. “And we found traces of accelerant in one corner. It looks like someone tossed a Molotov cocktail through the window. With all that shit in there, and the old dry logs in the walls, it wouldn’t have taken much to get a fire raging.”
“Do you know yet how Webb died?”
“No. I’m not sure when we’ll get the coroner’s report.”
“Why’s it taking so freaking long? It’s been like six weeks.”
“Yeah, we’re still getting the ‘we’re backed up’ excuses.”
Willson had asked if they had any suspects.
“Not yet, but we’ve got a long list of people we need to interview. Based on the threats to Stoffel, Austin and Myers are at the top of our list.”
Willson’s thoughts were interrupted by a vehicle turning into the parking lot from the east. Headlights illuminated the surrounding forest in jerkily moving circles until the vehicle slowed and stopped parallel to Willson’s, facing in the opposite direction, with the driver-side doors almost touching. The headlights clicked off. Willson rolled down her window while the other driver did the same. She looked across at Chief Park Warden Frank Speer. Engine exhaust drifted up around them.
“Morning, Chief,” said Willson. “Is this secret agent stuff, or what?”
“What have you got for me, Jenny?” said Speer. No nonsense and no idle chatter.
Willson began the first briefing she’d given to Speer since accepting the special Yoho assignment. “I haven’t dug up anything new about the project besides what’s in the written submissions that I assume you’ve read. There are lots of environmental questions, and people are asking about the cost of the road to the proposed site and who’d be responsible for that. Austin said he’s talking to government about it, but suggested that it won�
��t cost taxpayers anything.”
“You’ve met Austin?” asked Speer.
“Yup. At an open house in early December. I went with my mum. I asked him where the money for the project was coming from and he didn’t answer, other than to say it was from what he called ‘initial investors.’ He hinted more money would be coming in later.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“I didn’t identify myself then because it was a public open house and I was there as a local resident. It’s unlikely he knows I’m a warden, unless he’s taken the time to ask around.”
“What’s your read on him?”
“He’s big and brash, with a classic salesman’s personality,” said Willson. “From what I’ve seen so far, he strikes me as a con man, a huckster who’s shown up selling a miracle cure. He’s got lots of compelling reasons why this is the best thing to hit Golden in a long time. You can probably tell from the project name that he’s saying it’ll be the highest, the biggest, the best. His so-called colleague, the guy who seems to be working most closely with him, has a sketchy background after time spent in the military. It’s very strange.”
“Huh. Any specific intel on Austin so far?”
“I’ve picked up three things,” said Willson. “The first is that he seems to have done a masterful job at building a support network in the community. It’s mostly businesses and local politicians. He’s also created a local ski society to act as project cheerleaders. At least, I think he created it — it’s an interesting mix of people, lots of backcountry skiers and snowmobilers, people who wouldn’t normally support a ski area. They say they’re a bunch of interested citizens trying to help the project succeed, but I’ve heard rumours that some of them are on his payroll.”
“He’s clearly being proactive. What else have you got?”