by Dave Butler
Willson felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped.
“Jenny,” said her mother, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’d really like to go back to the hotel now, if you don’t mind.”
Willson realized that in telling Berland how she felt about the ski proposal, she’d become as tightly wound as he’d been. And she hadn’t even told him her real reason for starting the investigation. For that, she felt a momentary twinge of guilt.
By asking her the right questions and listening sincerely without judging, Berland had helped her to articulate how she felt. It was the first time in a long time she’d been open and honest with anyone. She looked at the reporter with new eyes. Sharing thoughts and emotions was a new and different experience for her, frightening. Nausea again tickled her stomach. The fact that they’d both learned from each other by probing and listening did not escape her. But neither did it make her more comfortable about being laid bare so easily.
“Okay, Mum,” she said, putting her hand on her mother’s. She turned back to Berland. “My mind’s reeling from what I’ve learned from you, Mike. I need time to think about where to take things from here.”
“And now that Austin has raised his head again, you’ve rekindled my interest in him,” said Berland. “So we both have some thinking to do. Thanks.”
“Mum and I are heading home tomorrow. How about if I give you a call in a week or so? We can talk then about if and how we could work together, and what the next steps might look like.”
“I’d like that,” he said, taking her hand in both of his.
She liked it right back.
CHAPTER 14
FEBRUARY 4
On her first full day back in Golden, Willson drove to the Service B.C. office on the north edge of downtown, passing the blackened skeleton that was once Albin Stoffel’s office. It was now encircled by a chain-link fence likely erected by an insurance company worried about theft or children playing in the ruins. It was also a stark reminder to everyone about the power of fire. She saw a bundle of flowers, now brown and dried out, tucked against one corner of the fencing. Someone had cared for Webb, and that someone was now suffering her loss.
During the trip back north from Boise, Willson’s mother had become increasingly silent. As they crossed the border into Canada, the weather worsened; a low-pressure storm was pushing in from the west. Willson hadn’t needed to turn her head to see her mother wringing her hands in her lap, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. The anxiety was palpable. Was she worried about winter driving, or was it something else, a response to the cold weather and the memories it blew in? Time for an educated guess.
“How do you feel about coming home again, Mum?” she’d asked.
“I had a nice time with you, Jenny, and it was wonderful to be in a different place for a while, where no one knew me, or asked me how I was feeling … or watched or judged me.”
“Do you like living in Golden?”
“I’ve asked myself that same question. I’m not sure anymore. I have friends, but the town reminds me so much of your father that I still see him everywhere. At the hockey arena, at the restaurants we used to go to, on the trail where we used to walk along the river. And every time I hear a train coming through town, I can’t help but think about the horrible way he left us. Those trains set my heart racing.”
“Mine, too. Do you see yourself ever moving somewhere else? You’ve lived in Golden a long time.”
“I’m not sure. It would be nice to get a fresh start somewhere else. But I’d be leaving my friends. And it would feel as if I were abandoning your father’s memory somehow, all that we built together. I don’t know.” Her hands moved quickly. “I don’t know if I’m ready to do that. It scares me to think about it.”
“It’s okay, Mum. I’m not pushing you. You should do what feels right. You know I’m here to support you, whatever you decide.” Without conscious effort, Willson’s right hand had found her mother’s left; their hands had remained intertwined across the centre console for the rest of the trip up the Rocky Mountain Trench.
That evening, they shared a light dinner of soup, crackers, and aged cheese at her mother’s small kitchen table. Speaking little, they were content in each other’s company. More than ever, Willson knew, her mother needed someone to talk to in order to help her through the worst of the depression and finally, after twenty years, fully come to terms with the loss of her husband. It was as if her mother had stayed trapped in the past for all this time with no way forward. And this time of year, with the cold, snowy, dark days, was obviously the toughest for her.
It occurred to Willson that she’d seen this before in warden colleagues who’d dug skiers from avalanche rubble, or located the battered bodies of dead rock climbers, or found missing hikers mauled and literally torn apart by grizzly bears. In their male-dominated world, it was common for wardens to ignore the horror they’d seen, push it to the far corners of their brains, get back on the proverbial horse, suck it up, and move on with life. But those horrible experiences, if not resolved, would lurk like a malignancy in the mind’s hiding places, waiting to show themselves when least expected. Willson was no psychiatrist, but she thought it possible her mother had some kind of undiagnosed post-traumatic stress disorder to do with her husband’s death. Willson vaguely recalled a checklist of symptoms one was supposed to look for … she should’ve paid more attention during that PTSD session at work. It would explain a lot. As soon as she could, she’d ask her human resources department for the name of a good crisis counsellor. They’d know where to start.
Thinking about helping her mother take that first step gave Willson a sense of relief. It was definitely past time for her to get her mother the help she needed.
“I’m Jenny Willson with the Yoho Warden Service. I’d like to do a company search, please.”
The government agent was balanced on a stool behind the counter. She looked Willson up and down, taking in her warden’s uniform. No judgment, just verifying. “Not a problem,” she said. “As a government employee, it will cost you ten dollars per search. What kind of information are you looking for?” Her hands were poised over her keyboard as if ready to play a sonata on a grand piano.
“I don’t think the company has been in existence long, but I need anything you can give me. I want to know who owns it, who the directors are, whether they’re up to date on their corporate filings, office location info … the whole package.”
“I can do that for you. What’s the company name?”
“Collie Creek Resorts Limited.”
“Ah … you’re the first. I wondered when someone would ask for this.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, the company and the Top of the World project are the talk of the town,” said the agent, her fingers flying, “and because of the connection to the national park, I’m not surprised you’re asking.”
“It’s all part of due diligence so we know who we’re dealing with,” said Willson. “Have you heard anything about them?”
“Nothing official,” said the agent, “but I know that the folks in the resort development branch of our government are all over the proposal. And that provincial ministers and members of the legislative assembly are asking a lot of questions.”
“Do you know if the Province of B.C. has an official position on the proposal yet?”
“It’s probably too early,” said the woman, “but I’ve seen this many times before. The formal government statements at this stage of a major project always express a degree of conceptual interest. Senior people know not to go beyond that because it could come back to bite them later, in the media, in a court of law, or in the court of public opinion. So any real interest is couched in paragraphs of political or bureaucratic double-speak. They have whole departments specializing in media releases that say nothing.”
“Just like the federal government …” said Willson with a knowing nod.
“Just like it … and here we go,” said the woman, pointing at
the screen. “I’ll print you a copy of the company summary. It should give you everything you need.”
Willson absentmindedly passed the woman her credit card while she scanned the summary report. The two pages were a quick, superficial glimpse into Collie Creek Resorts Ltd. From having investigated other companies in earlier cases, Willson knew this information was just the face of the business that they were required to show to regulators. But it was never the whole picture. Not by a long shot.
Collie Creek Resorts had been incorporated for fourteen months. Its registered office was in Golden, just a few blocks away, while its records office was at an address in Calgary. From the number and street name, Willson assumed the office was a law firm, one of many specializing in people and businesses at the edge of both their budgets and the law. No surprises here. The company was in good standing, the annual report up to date, and there were no liquidation proceedings under way, nor any receivers involved.
On the second page, Willson found the key names in the company. Stafford Austin was listed not only as a director, but also the president. Hank Myers, whom Willson had also met at the open house, was a director and the vice-president. It seemed to Willson a strange role for someone who looked like he’d be more at home on the set of a military thriller than in a boardroom.
The corporate secretary was a Francine Rhodes, based in Calgary. Willson figured she was one of the Calgary lawyers. The remaining two directors listed were John Theroux and Sandra Jane Trueman, both with the same Golden address. Willson hadn’t heard either name since returning to town. She tapped her finger on each of the names, one at a time, as though it were an internet link she could click to reveal the person’s real history. I already know something about Austin, and a little about Myers. Who are the rest of you, and what role do you play in this thing?
Time to spend a few hours with Mr. Google and the police information database.
Despite her intention to start the deeper search, Willson spent the rest of the week preparing for a trio of court cases in front of the provincial court judge who came to Golden from Cranbrook a few times a month. She knew him to be friendly and fair, but his expectations were high for those appearing before him. The three files had been left a mess by her predecessor, so she’d invested many hours re-interviewing witnesses and reassessing evidence. In the end, it was worth her time; she got convictions on two out of the three cases. The third, a charge of illegal dumping, was tossed out by the judge because the evidence didn’t directly link the dumped material and the alleged offender beyond a reasonable doubt. While disappointed that she hadn’t gone three for three, Willson knew the judge had made the right call. Before her cases had come up, she had seen Benoit Fortier across the room, looking damn good in his uniform. He waved and smiled when she caught his eye. Never mind her success in court; that, she decided, had been the best part of her day.
After a debriefing in the hallway with the Crown prosecutor, Willson turned quickly and bumped hard into Fortier, who was standing behind her. He caught her shoulders with his strong hands, a grin on his face.
“Whoa, there!” he said.
“Sorry,” said Willson, though she was far from sorry. “I didn’t see you there.” She took her time releasing her own grip on his waist.
“It’s okay. As promised, I came to tell you we got the coroner’s report back on Sue Webb.”
“Cause of death?”
“It looks as if she died of smoke inhalation.”
“Huh. It’s such a small building. Why wasn’t she able to get out when the fire started?”
“There’s more to it,” said Fortier. “She had a head injury that would likely have incapacitated her. The coroner’s report suggests that it happened before she died.”
“Really? You said you found her body under a collapsed wall. Could that have caused the head injury?”
“I wondered that as well,” said Fortier, “but the fire investigator is convinced that the wall came down well after the fire had started, and that she was already dead by then.”
“Webb was assaulted before the fire started?”
“It could be,” said Fortier, “or she hurt herself trying to get out of the building. Unless we get more evidence, we’ll never know for certain. But either way, this remains a homicide investigation. The Serious Crimes guys are involved, and they’re now trying to figure out whether someone meant to hurt or kill Webb, then set the fire to cover it up … or whether Webb was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and it was, as we first assumed, all about Stoffel and his research.”
“Holy shit,” said Willson.
“Exactly.”
Two nights later, Willson sat in a worn armchair in her small house with a tumbler of Talisker Scotch in hand. It was a crisp, cold night and the sky outside the window was full of stars. Through a gap in the trees, she could see the light from the restaurant at the top of the Kicking Horse ski resort twinkling like one more star.
She flipped through the local newspaper, skimming over stories about kids in trouble with the law, the successes of the local Junior B hockey team, and sales at local furniture and grocery stores. It was a typical small-town newspaper run on a shoestring budget with reporters who were either on their way up or had been there too long. It took only minutes to read, but it was a valuable snapshot into what made Golden tick. She’d read the front-page story about the ongoing investigation into Webb’s death, but it had nowhere near the detail she’d gotten from Fortier. Her mind was still churning after their courthouse conversation. Who had been responsible for Webb’s death? What was the link, if any, between the fire and the resort proposal? Was the ski area so important to someone that they were willing to kill for it?
Willson sipped the smooth Scotch, her left hand gripping the tumbler tightly, her eyes unfocused. She thought about Frank Speer and their agreement. What had at the time seemed like a simple conversation had evolved into something much more complex. This was a project with more questions than answers. Willson pictured an iceberg, most of its mass lurking out of sight below the surface, potentially deadly. And at the centre of it all was Stafford Austin.
CHAPTER 15
FEBRUARY 10
Stafford Austin watched the light of understanding click on in Hank Myers’s face, as suddenly as it had for him in the darkened corner of the Red Deer restaurant. Austin had invited Myers to his rental house on the Blaeberry River Road north of Golden to fill him in on what he’d learned on his trip. He’d chosen this house because it was on a large rural property with a dramatic eastern view through the Blaeberry River valley, framed by peaks of the Rocky Mountains as it narrowed to form the gateway to Collie Creek, to the site of the project he hoped would be his opportunity to prove to members of the Terminal City Club that he belonged there.
The two men sat opposite each other in a pair of overstuffed leather chairs, a single lamp illuminating a circle of the carpeted floor between them. Beside each chair was a small wooden table. Austin’s right hand, resting on a table, held a crystal glass of bourbon. Myer’s left hand did the same.
“You’re telling me,” said Myers, “that they’re asking us to find investors for a highway through Howse Pass, a project that might also become a corridor for a pipeline?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Well, son of a bitch. We were wondering how we were going to finance a highway to the resort and now this falls in our lap. Unbelievable. This changes everything. Do you really think they’re serious?”
“They sure as hell seemed serious,” said Austin. “And if they are, it’s a huge opportunity for us to cultivate a new group of investors and a new stream of income for the investment fund, not only during the design and construction phases, but also from the tolls on the highway and the pipeline. Or we could start a new fund. If we pitch it right, it could be a compelling story to tell existing and potential investors, a way to help them believe in what we’re doing. And as I’m sure you’ve already realized, if w
e’re successful, it could mean a shitload more money flowing to you and me.”
“That never even crossed my mind,” said Myers, smiling and raising his glass.
“But let’s not fool ourselves here,” Austin said. He stood with glass in hand and began pacing. “The more I think about what Thomas and Cummings told me, the more I wonder what’s going on behind the scenes. There’s got to be more to it.” He traversed the carpeted living room, moving from the kitchen door to the fireplace and back again, his reflection passing across the darkened picture window.
“What are you worried about?” asked Myers. “This looks like the ideal scenario for us, better than we could have imagined. We’ll have all levels of government behind us.”
“That’s exactly why I’m not sure what’s going on. I have a million questions about what they’re suggesting. And to be honest, a bunch of it makes no sense. And then there’s the fact that two politicians approached us secretively — one of them elected, the other a back-roomer who normally hides in the shadows. It’s odd. And it makes me nervous.”
“What kinds of questions do you have? It seems pretty straightforward to me.”
“Straightforward? Far from it. The first question I’ve had, right from the moment they started talking to me, is why me? The party in power is supported by big money and way bigger players than me. So out of all their possible choices, all the friends and cronies they could’ve tapped on the shoulder to make this happen, why did they approach me?”
“That’s easy,” said Myers. “Because you’re the guy who’s already stepped up to invest in a project right in the middle of the longest portion of the potential route. You’re the one who’s shown to be willing to make something big happen in that area. And maybe your lack of direct connection to them is useful. Maybe it just makes sense to them because who else has so much to gain if it goes ahead? Who’s going to work harder to make it a reality?”