by Dave Butler
The sound of breaking glass broke Willson’s train of thought. To her right, she saw the front window of the Golden Coffee House explode inward in thousands of glittering pieces, like a blizzard of ice chips. She sprinted toward the shop, pushing past people frozen in place by the sudden violence. When she reached the front window, she saw a woman inside slumped forward on a table, blood streaming from her neck and head. It was the same young woman she’d spoken to just moments ago.
Willson stepped though the open space where the window had been, already on autopilot. Turning to a man standing behind by the register, she yelled, “Call 911 and confirm for me that you’ve reached them and that an ambulance is on the way.”
“I’m a nurse,” said a woman whose arms were filled with napkins gathered from the counter. “I’ll help you until the ambulance gets here.” The woman hadn’t asked Willson if she knew what she was doing. It was obvious.
They worked on the young woman for the next ten minutes, careful not to push any shards of glass deeper into her body, and calmed her down, keeping their voices low and confident. The nurse held the young woman’s hand. She had cuts all across the back of her head and neck — some deep and some superficial. As she edged toward shock, she kept saying over and over again, “My husband told me I shouldn’t come today. I should have listened to him. I should have listened….” Like all head wounds, hers bled profusely. The pile of napkins quickly became soaked. The woman had been lucky to be wearing heavy winter clothes; the lack of a hood on her jacket explained the location of her injuries.
The ambulance arrived at the same time as Ben Fortier. He helped the paramedics load the woman onto a stretcher, and she was quickly transported to the hospital.
“Did either of you see what happened?” Fortier asked, notebook in hand.
“No,” said Willson. “I was on the other side of the crowd when I heard the window break. I didn’t see anything.”
“I was inside,” said the nurse. “Something broke the window, but I didn’t catch what it was or where it came from.”
“What was going on at the time?” Fortier asked Willson.
“It was the pro–Collie Creek rally,” Willson answered as Fortier peered through the broken window. “They were finishing the speeches. John Theroux was challenging the audience to speak up against those who oppose the resort. I wouldn’t say it was getting nasty, but there was an edge to it. And he certainly had the crowd whipped into a frenzy. All eyes were on him, including mine, so I didn’t see what happened.”
“There’s a paving stone on the floor here,” said Fortier. “Could Theroux have thrown it?”
“Definitely not,” said Willson. “As I said, he was at the front, preaching to the crowd.”
“Shit,” said Fortier, staring at the blood and the broken glass. “I knew about the rally. One of my constables was supposed to be here to keep an eye on things. But he was called away to a motor vehicle accident south of town. I was just about to leave the office to cover for him when we got the call.” He pulled off his cap and scratched his head. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that someone would target a coffee shop that’s known locally for being one of the project’s biggest opponents.” Fortier turned toward the now-dwindling crowd. “Where’s Theroux now? I need to talk to him.”
Willson pointed at a red pickup truck speeding down the street away from them. “You’ll have to catch him first,” she said.
Fortier stared at the truck until it turned onto the highway and disappeared. His gaze shifted back to Willson. “I’ll find him,” he said, his brow furrowed. “But starting now, it looks like you and I are going to have to work more closely. It seems some or all of this recent violence is connected to Collie Creek, or at least to people on one or other side of the issue. We need to find out what the hell’s going on before someone else gets injured or killed.”
With one person dead and three injured, the situation Willson had gotten herself involved in had become more dangerous than anticipated. It was time to come clean to Fortier.
“Let’s go somewhere to talk,” she said. “I’ve got some things to tell you.”
CHAPTER 17
FEBRUARY 22
Willson sat in her small office in the parks compound west of Field. She’d spent most of the late morning reading every page of the Top of the World Resort submission, with cups of Kick Ass fuelling her focus. Her mind was filled with a haze of facts and figures, promises and projections, stats and statements, her desk littered with the binders Austin had dumped on the two governments like a load of foul-smelling manure.
Leaning back precariously in her chair (and ignoring the reprimands of every schoolteacher she’d ever had), Willson considered everything she’d read. What would happen to Collie Creek, the surrounding area, and Golden itself if the resort was approved? That wild place would be no more. It would become just like so many other valleys in North America and Europe. Edward Abbey had compared growth like that to a cancer that inevitably led to the death of its host. He’d written about the expansion of human communities and how it often destroyed the very thing that attracted people to them in the first place. In this situation, she completely agreed with Abbey.
She also thought about the breakfast meeting she’d had with Frank Speer. They’d met at the corner of a quiet café in Lake Louise and she’d told him about her investigation, recounting her discussions with Mike Berland in Boise and then describing the recent violence in Golden. When she told him about her decision to tell Officer Fortier what she was doing and why, she’d expected her boss to be angry. But she was surprised by his quiet acceptance of her decision.
“I thought you’d be pissed,” she said.
“It’s the right thing to do, Jenny. We’ve got no choice now. This is well beyond anything I ever imagined.”
“What about Jack Church? He’s going to find out what I’m doing.”
“Funny thing about that,” said Speer. “Frank phoned me last night in a real flap. In light of the recent events, and with it all being increasingly linked to Collie Creek, he realized that he’s in over his head. He still wants the ski area to proceed, but he doesn’t know what to do about the violence and controversy swirling around it. Like a good bureaucrat, I think he’s worried it’ll blow back on him. So he asked for my advice.”
“And what did you suggest?”
“I said I would ask you if you’d be willing to work with the RCMP — very quietly, of course — to help in their investigations. I told him that was the best way for us to keep on top of what was going on.”
“Did he agree?”
“Let’s just say I made sure he saw no other option.”
At that, they’d both had a laugh. Willson’s original favour to her boss had just been repaid. But his smile had faded when he heard the next part of her plan.
“There is someone else I need to tell,” she said.
“Who?”
“Mike Berland.”
“And who is Mike Berland?”
“He’s the Boise journalist I talked to about Stafford Austin when I was down there.”
“A reporter? No way. We can’t trust the media with something as sensitive as this.”
“Normally,” Willson had said, “I’d agree with you. But in this case, I believe he can do things I can’t. And if he agrees to my rules — like only printing what I say he can print, and only when I say so — then I think he could be a useful avenue for releasing facts that might not otherwise see the light of day.”
Speer had continued to shake his head. “I understand what you’re saying, Jenny. But it goes too far. Even though we have some limited whistle-blower protection in Canada, you know how governments feel about employees going rogue when it comes to dealing with the press. Besides that, I think you’re being naive here … you’re gonna get burned.” He pulled off his glasses and stared at Willson for a moment. “I know you think I’m wrong, but I’m assuming you’re going to do it anyway …”
Willson
didn’t answer.
“You need to know that if you proceed down this path,” Speer had said, “you don’t have my approval. And I can’t be there to back you up if things go sideways.”
Willson had stared back at him. “Thanks for your advice today, Chief, and for squaring things with Jack Church.”
She’d driven away from Lake Louise with the firm belief that she had to involve Berland if she was going to find out the truth behind Austin and his project. But she also knew that by going against her boss’s advice, she was crossing a line — a line that would lead her in only one direction.
Willson’s agitation was growing. The more she read, the less it made sense. As far as she could tell, the project embodied the build it and they will come theory at its worst. If Austin and his colleagues believed the claims they were making in the proposal, she thought, they were delusional. And if they didn’t believe them, then they were intentionally misleading everyone. Just like her father amid the confusing world of railroad politics, Willson was frustrated with her own inability to understand what was happening behind the scenes, what drove wealthy people to consider these types of projects. What were they thinking?
For Willson, this was about the potential loss of another wild place and the animals that depended on it just so someone could get rich, or richer. But beyond that, she was also increasingly disturbed that no one was asking the community what it wanted. There were no predetermined objectives for an area like Collie Creek, no goals that being proactively developed and agreed to by the community through consultation or even civil conversation. And in her mind, that was the way things should work. Instead, the entire debacle was nothing more than a bureaucratic reaction to a proposal dumped in their laps by an outsider. It was a process managed by faceless government staff who controlled what questions were being asked and answered, what information was made available and to whom, and what timeframes it would all happen within. The people in the community were being treated as outsiders. All they could do was watch the process move toward what Willson saw as a pre-ordained conclusion: approval of the project.
With her feet up on her desk and her eyes closed, Willson realized that, in the last few days, she had turned an important corner. She was no longer doing this just because she had volunteered for it. For her, it was now a race to the truth. She was doing this for her community, for herself, and perhaps, ultimately, for her father. She was in a race to ensure that the project came to a screeching halt, that the lift towers and quad chairs and fancy overpriced condos and violence that came with it faded away like a nightmare dissipating in the light of day. There was too much at stake to do anything but.
Willson’s reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. She saw Tara Summers in the doorway, her red hair in a ponytail, a questioning look on her face.
“Hey there. Have you had a chance to read the proposal yet?” she asked. “Any thoughts or questions?”
Willson moved forward in her chair; the two front legs banged down on the floor and her own legs followed. The revelations of the last few moments had given her a spurt of energy, a refreshed commitment, and a clear path to follow. “I have and I do.”
“Fire away. Like I said, I’m sure you’re going to want to ask me about —”
Before Summers could go off on another rambling sermon, Willson interrupted her. “First, I believe even more strongly than I did before that this is a crazy-ass idea that should experience a quick and painful death. It’s so bad that it doesn’t deserve the slow and horribly polite demise that comes from government process.”
“Uh, okay …” said Summers, clearly surprised by the venomous certainty in Willson’s declaration. She took a step back as though distancing herself from the straight talk she rarely heard in government. “You … you said you had questions?”
“Yes. Why we’re spending time and resources on such a ridiculous idea comes to mind. But consider that a rhetorical question. What I am wondering is why there’s no financial information here other than some wild claims about the direct and indirect benefits that will flow from their investment?”
“Oh, the proponent was required to provide that. Along with the market analysis you saw, they submitted capital cost projections, an analysis of the economic feasibility of the project, and proof of their ability to finance it.”
“I didn’t see that anywhere in this stinking pile,” said Willson, waving an arm at the binders.
“No, it’s not there.”
“Why not? Where is it?”
“Only a few politicians and senior government staff have seen that stuff. To do so, they sign nondisclosure agreements with the proponent. I’m not in that loop, so I don’t have access to the dollars and cents of the project. But from what I know —”
“How the hell is anyone supposed to develop an informed opinion on whether this project makes any sense or not?” asked Willson, interrupting again. “How’s the public supposed to provide input?”
Summers chuckled, but her eyes showed neither joy nor humour. “C’mon, Jenny, you know that the folks who make decisions are under no illusions that they have to please the public. I haven’t been in this job long, but even I know that’s not the way it works. Like I said, the best scenario for them is that the public is divided, like they seem to be on this project. Then, the decision-makers can do whatever they want … whatever they were going to do anyway.”
“Shit,” said Willson, “you’re right. Sorry I went off on you, Tara. This is completely fucked up.” While she didn’t always agree with Edward Abbey, she was quickly developing a much better understanding of why her hero had been a proponent of anarchy. In his mind, it was a truly serious approach to democracy. In situations like this, it seemed to Willson that democracy took a back seat to the driving frenzy of more business, more development. And government processes led by faceless bureaucrats only made it worse.
“Is anyone taking a run at this thing, Tara, anyone truly opposed to it and making a serious stink? Or is the project nothing more than rainbows coming out of unicorn butts?”
Summers chuckled again. She leaned against the doorway, clearly enjoying the conversation. “I wondered when you’d ask that. You won’t be surprised to hear that the two lodges in the adjacent valleys have come out swinging. And the Canadian Mountain Club has already started a letter-writing campaign that’s being noticed by key people in Calgary and Ottawa.”
“So it should be,” said Willson. “Our agency has screwed them something serious on this one.”
“I agree. Like I said, they were blindsided by this after a long and very public fundraising campaign to finance the new hut. They have every right to be angry. From what I hear from my friends at the CMC, their lawyers are pursuing a court injunction. If they don’t get that, and if the project goes ahead anyway, they’ll be looking to Parks Canada to pay them back every dollar they invested in the hut, which was about five hundred thousand — plus interest.”
“Jesus. I can’t believe we let them go ahead with their project when this proposal was hiding in the weeds. Folks in Ottawa must have known.”
“I guess we’ll never know,” said Summers, “but it’s something we should all be embarrassed about.” She peered around the doorway as if to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “I also heard that the Town of Golden now opposes the project. Despite what Austin claims, they quickly realized that a resort located sixty-five kilometres from their town isn’t going to provide them much in the way of benefits, not in the long term. But even that wasn’t unanimous.”
“I wondered when they would figure that out.”
Summers nodded. “But most aggressive so far has been the Columbia Valley Environmental Society. Early on, they tried to throw a wrench in the works by submitting their own expression of interest not long after Austin’s hit government desks. That had everyone in Calgary and Ottawa turning in frantic circles, at least until someone in the B.C. government decided that the Society’s expression was not bona fi
de. Without discussion, they dismissed the submission, then gave the go-ahead for Austin to be the sole proponent. You’ve got to give the enviros credit. They tried, and it certainly slowed things down for about six weeks.”
“Good on ’em,” said Willson with a grin. “I like the way those folks think.”
“Since then, the Society has persuaded a trio of American conservation foundations to fund environmental assessments of the area and the project, the kind of assessments the two governments will also ask the proponent to undertake. They’ve also got money for a media campaign. Collie Creek will soon be crawling with biologists and engineers and snow science experts and journalists. We’ll end up with a battle of the studies — it’ll no doubt be fought in the media. And there’ll likely be a documentary film or two. It’s only going to get more interesting.”
“You got that right,” said Willson. She paused for a moment, head bent over one of the binders, her hand tapping the cover. “I’ve got another question for you, Tara. Do you think any of the people you’ve met who are involved with any of these groups, either for or against the resort, would be willing to use violence as a means to an end?”
“Like I said, most of the participants on both sides are extremely strident in their views. No compromises. They don’t seem violent to me … but I guess one can never be sure what someone will do when they’re pushed.… The fact that you’re even asking me this tells me just how screwed up this whole thing is. It’s pushing people to do things they shouldn’t, and it’s tearing the community apart.”
“You’re right,” said Willson, shaking her head. “It’s a mess. And unfortunately, it seems like it might get worse before it gets better.”
CHAPTER 18
FEBRUARY 27
The sun, which seemed to be rising higher in the sky with each passing day, shone through the large picture window of Sara Ilsley’s kitchen. Her presentation finished, Ilsley circled the large table, pouring coffee from a pitted old enamel pot. Steam rose from mugs that were gripped, for comfort, warmth, or both, by five pairs of hands.