No Place for Wolverines

by Dave Butler

  Over the rim of her mug, Ilsley looked at the faces of Columbia Valley Environmental Society’s executive committee. Tom Bradley, the president, a bearded man in his late sixties, was a sheep farmer in the Blaeberry valley. The distinctive smell of livestock emanated from his clothing, his skin, and the shock of white hair on his head; he brought it to all Society meetings, no matter where or when they were held. It was, unfortunately, a smell that lingered long after his departure, like an unwanted guest overstaying his welcome.

  To Bradley’s left was Carol Kraft, the Society’s vice-president, a thirty-something single woman who’d in­­herited a backcountry ski-tour lodge west of Golden after her parents were killed in an avalanche in the French Alps. She was fit and confident and always moved like a caged animal whenever she was indoors.

  Beside Kraft, Bob Price held his mug to his face as if it would protect him from having to express an opinion. As the society’s treasurer, Price’s expertise lay with numbers and spreadsheets, but he seemed uncomfortable with loud discourse or vigorous debate. If asked any question that didn’t involve the Society’s finances, he would mumble and say little of value.

  To Price’s left, past president Wayne Warman sat smiling, perhaps with the knowledge that his time on the executive was coming to an end just as this controversial campaign was beginning to simmer.

  “That’s the strategy recommended by the campaign committee,” said Ilsley, her right hand leaving her mug to indicate the flip chart facing the table. “As you’ve seen and heard, the proposed campaign slogan is Keep Collie Wild. The strategy includes a list of tactics, from social media to political advocacy and from working with First Nations to protest camps and legal challenges. We want the world to know that Collie Creek is a wild and special place that does not deserve to be spoiled by a ski resort that makes absolutely no sense. We’ve done a few things already, like trying to submit our own expression of interest to compete with Austin’s. It’s time to get smart and organized. As the society’s executive committee, we’re asking you to support the campaign committee’s recommendation and sign the funding agreements with the American foundations I mentioned earlier.”

  “We thank you for your willingness to lead this, Sara,” said Bradley, taking the lead after Ilsley’s summary. “It’s good work. My first question: Have we forgotten anything?”

  “The committee tried to think of all possible scen­arios and then plan for each,” said Ilsley in response, “and I think we’ve done a good job of that. But the strategy can’t be chiselled into a stone tablet, Tom. We must remain focused on stopping the project, but in doing so, we’ve also got to stay flexible … we can’t plan for everything. The review process could take a long time, and it might look very different five or ten years from now. The people involved may change, the proposal might be altered or evolve, and even the process may change. That’s why fighting these big hairy projects can be so challenging.”

  “Fair enough,” said Bradley. “I think you and your committee have done an amazing job in a short time. I move that we support the plan and officially launch the Keep Collie Wild campaign.”

  With a unanimous show of hands, the committee voted in favour of Bradley’s motion. As always, Price’s hand was the last to come up, slowly and cautiously, because he always supported the majority opinion. Bradley then signed the funding agreements with three family foundations from the U.S. This meant that hundreds of thousands of dollars would flow to their war chest over the next three years; it was an amount they all hoped would shift the balance of power away from the proponent. Price smiled for the first time that night.

  “Thanks to all of you,” said Ilsley, also smiling. “Now … there’s one more thing we need to talk about.” At that moment, a dark cloud covered the sun, the first sign of a storm boiling over the Purcell Mountains to the west. The light was flat and ominous.

  “What’s that?” asked Bradley.

  Ilsley took her time. Her expression was dark. “Two days ago, I had a visit from RCMP Corporal Fortier and a Yoho Park warden named Willson. They wanted to talk about the shooting at Stafford Austin’s place.”

  “Right. I heard the gunfire that night,” said Bradley. “My sheep went crazy. Why did they want to talk to you?”

  “They asked if I had any idea who the shooter may be, and whether the Society knew anything about it.”

  “What? You weren’t involved, were you?”

  “No, of course not. They didn’t suggest I was. But they seemed to think that because we’re so vocal in our opposition to the project, one of us might have decided to cross the line.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Kraft. “Why would they think you — or any of us — were involved?”

  “They said we had the most to gain if the proponent was scared away from the project … or if he died or disappeared. And because they know that Albin Stoffel is working with us, they hinted that the shooting might have been retaliation for the firebombing of his office and the death of Sue Webb. From the look in her eyes, I don’t think the warden completely bought that theory, but she sure as hell wants to find out who is responsible. As for Fortier, I’ve seen some poker faces in my business career, and his was as good as any I’ve seen. I don’t know what he thinks.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them that violence was against our bylaws and not a tactic we would ever use or condone.”

  “Good,” said Bradley, the relief showing on his face. “I would’ve said the same thing, and I will if they interview me. Do you think that’s the end of it?”

  “No,” said Ilsley, “I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they obviously think that someone in our group, or someone linked to our group, may have been the shooter. And they haven’t ruled anyone out yet for the arson.”

  “None of us would do something like that,” said Warman, looking around the table as though searching for confirmation. “In fact, the first thing I thought of when I heard about it was that Austin somehow set up the shooting himself to discredit us, to keep us occupied with a police investigation.”

  “I did suggest that to them,” said Ilsley. “They said they were looking at every angle. But I got the sense that they didn’t believe someone would agree to be shot, or even shot at, as a distraction. They asked for our member­ship list,” she added.

  Bradley looked concerned. “Did you give it to them?”

  “I had no legal reason to deny their request and it was sitting right on the desk in front of me, so I did. If I’d told them they needed a warrant, they’d be cranking up the heat on us even more.”

  “That’s good, I guess,” said Bradley. “We’ve got nothing to hide. Does that mean they’ll be looking at every one of us, though, asking us to verify where we were the night of the shooting?”

  “It’s likely they’ll follow up with everyone.” Ilsley paused, remembering the evening meeting at her house a few weeks earlier. “But we might have a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Toward the end of our first committee meeting in early December, a young guy from Parson, Leo Springer, asked if our campaign had to ‘follow the rules.’ I asked him what he meant, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he ranted about the process working only in favour of rich people. I think he called it an out-of-control steamroller or something like that. He suggested that our only option to fight the resort might be to ‘put sugar in the gas tank of the process’ or ‘blow the fucker up.’ I remember those words very clearly. He frightened me that night, and I sensed that others felt the same. But he never came to another meeting after that, so I didn’t think anything more about him. At least until I heard about the shooting …”

  “Did you tell Fortier and Willson about him?”

  “I didn’t. In hindsight, I probably should have. But I wanted to talk to all of you first.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell them?” asked Kraft.

  “Because if Austin or the gove
rnment finds out that one of our members was involved in the shooting, it will undermine everything we’re doing. Our credibility will be toast. But more importantly, every person who was at our meeting that night will be at risk. Springer didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would appreciate being turned in. I’m no psychologist, but he seemed a bit unstable. If they interview him, but can’t find evidence to link him to the shooting, he might come after us, or do something to damage the campaign.”

  “I see your point,” Bradley said. “This puts us in a tough situation.” He paused. “You said Springer hasn’t shown up to any meetings since then?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “What if we revoke his membership?” asked Kraft. “Won’t that put some distance between us and him, our views and his?”

  “Perhaps,” said Ilsley. “But maybe it’ll just piss him off.”

  “Do you think he did it?” Kraft asked.

  Ilsley remembered Springer’s hooded eyes that night, the atmospheric shift in their meeting, abrupt and shocking, his profile as he had driven off into the darkness. She shrugged. “I have no idea. It was the first time I’d met the guy. He might have been blowing smoke, or simply trying to get a rise out of us … but he might have been serious.”

  “Shit,” said Bradley, planting his elbows on the table and resting his forehead on his palms. “This is not the way to kick-start an important campaign.” He lifted his head and looked around the table. “What the hell do we do?”

  “There’s only one thing we can do,” said Ilsley, “and that’s to meet with Fortier and Willson and be completely honest with them. We need to convince them that we don’t promote or use violence to achieve our goals and we had nothing to do with the shooting. And we’ve got to tell them about Springer. They need to take a closer look at him.”

  “Does everyone agree with that?” asked Bradley. Once again, his gaze circled the table, searching for consensus. And once again, Price’s head was the last to nod a cautious yes.

  “This isn’t the start I was hoping for,” said Bradley. “We’ll have to keep the campaign a bit low-key until this is sorted out.”

  Ilsley shared the disappointment and concern written on Bradley’s face. The best laid plans …

  CHAPTER 19

  APRIL 2

  As Mike Berland unwound himself from his black Jeep on the street outside her house, Jenny Willson peered out through a narrow gap in her front drapes. The journalist stretched and gazed up at the Rockies to the east and the Purcells to the west. The valley here would be more dramatic than those Berland was used to in Boise; it was much narrower, the mountains on both sides more rugged. And there was no sagebrush this far north.

  When she’d phoned Berland the week before and he’d agreed to drive north to join her on a tour of Collie Creek, Willson had felt the same thrill she got whenever she was in the midst of a major case. It was a tingling in her spine, a buzzing in her brain as her neurons fired with crackling energy. Part of that feeling was because Berland’s presence was a critical next step in her investigation into Austin and his project. Despite Speer’s direction to the contrary, she was ready to fill him in on almost everything she’d learned to date and to share her suspicions, theories, and concerns. Together, using their combined investigative talents, they might be able to make some progress with the long list of questions that swirled around the ski area proposal like mist on a mountain peak. But first he’d have to be willing to play by her rules.

  Willson also understood that some of her anticipation was more than professional. It had to do with the unexpected connection she’d felt between them when they’d met, the sense of common understanding that had grown gradually and organically as they’d sat in that coffee shop, the world all but disappearing around them. Since Berland had agreed to come north, Willson found herself analyzing that new feeling at strange and unexpected times of the day and night, poking and prodding at it like a specimen in a lab. In the end, she hadn’t come to any conclusion about how she felt about the American. That left her uneasy, on edge.

  Before he caught her staring through her curtains like a peeping Jenny, Willson moved to the front door to welcome him. She opened it just as he was stepping onto the dilapidated front porch. He had a nylon computer case, blue and bulging, in his left hand, and a duffle bag in his right.

  “Welcome to Golden,” she said.

  “Thanks, Jenny,” he said, looking cautiously at a gap in the floor. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “One of the Government of Canada’s finest heritage buildings …” she said with a grin. “Come on in. But move quickly before your foot disappears.”

  When Berland reached the doorway, he dropped his bags and they both found themselves engaged in the uncomfortable dance of two people unsure of their relationship. It was part handshake, part hug, with awkward arm movements. They both laughed.

  Willson closed the door behind him. “How was the drive?”

  “It was fine. A Border Services agent gave me a hard time, though. I told him I was a journalist, but he didn’t believe me when I said I was coming up to visit you. I had to go inside and answer a bunch of questions, and he went through my briefcase and laptop. I was there for an hour before he finally let me go. Maybe it’s because I’m a persuasive guy … or maybe it was the long line of cars waiting to come north.”

  Willson laughed again. “So … beer or coffee?”

  “Both sound good,” said Berland. “Let’s start with the coffee.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, they sat on battered couches on opposite sides of the small living room, talking about ski resorts, violence, Stafford Austin, and the cast of local characters who were linked to the project in Collie Creek, some of them directly, many indirectly.

  “You’re telling me,” asked Berland, “that after an arson that caused a death in early December, there have been two attempted murders and the vandalization of a business? Since I spoke to you last? Wow.”

  “People from both sides of the debate are taking this very seriously. And because Austin’s project seems to be the common denominator in all of this, I’m working closely with the RCMP on their investigation. I’ll make sure you meet Corporal Ben Fortier at some point while you’re here.”

  “Who do you think is responsible? Someone is crossing major ethical and criminal lines.”

  Willson paused. She needed to be honest with Berland if this was going to work. There was no doubt that the journalist could dig where she couldn’t, and that his ability to get the story into newspapers and on websites across North America meant that it would be safe from the muzzles of politicians with a pathological need to control narratives, bury embarrassing information, or, as she’d seen with her poaching investigation, take credit that didn’t belong to them. But she had to get his confirmation that he would be willing to work within her boundaries and agree that any reporting he did on the case not jeopardize the ongoing investigation with Fortier — not to mention Fortier’s career, her career, or the retirement plans of her chief park warden. A lot was riding on getting this right.

  “Before I answer,” she said, “I want you to understand that I do want to work with you on this. That’s why I asked you to come. But if I’m going to tell you more than I did in Boise, then I need you to agree to some ground rules first. Nothing personal, Mike, but I usually try to avoid reporters like the plague. There are clearly things you can do that I can’t, and there will be things only I can do and information only I can access. In a best-case scenario, we’ll both get what we need out of this. You’re going to see inside information that no one else will, and you’ll eventually be able to tell the stories that people in my own organization, and the proponent himself, won’t want told, and in ways that no one else can. But I need you to agree to my rules right now, or you might as well go back to Boise.”

  Berland sat forward, his lanky knees sticking up. “As a journalist,” he said, “I don’t like the sound of that. But let’s see wher
e the discussion takes us. How about if you start with what’s really going on and then I can decide whether I can or will agree to your rules.”

  Willson smiled. “Nice try, Mike. I need you to agree that nothing I tell you, nothing you learn while you’re with me, will be printed by you, online, or in a news­paper or magazine, until I say it’s okay.”

  “That doesn’t really work for me …”

  “Do you want to head back now, or wait until the morning?”

  Berland smiled. “You really are a hard-ass, aren’t you?”

  “Hard-ass, kick-ass. You have no idea.”

  “All right, then,” said Berland, waving a napkin as a white flag. “I give. I’ll agree to your terms. But since I’m the writer and you’re not, here’s my condition: you can approve what I write about and when, but you don’t get to edit how I write.”

  “That’s fair,” said Willson, reaching across to shake Berland’s hand. “I’m not much of an editor, anyway.”

  Still holding his hand, Willson realized that this was the moment of truth. Time to lay it all on the line.

  “When we met,” she said, releasing her grip, “I told you that my being in Boise was simply part of our agency’s due diligence on Austin’s project.” She wrapped her hands tightly around a now-empty coffee cup. “What I didn’t tell you is that my investigation hasn’t been formally sanctioned by Parks Canada. The chief park warden from Banff didn’t know what to do about the project because he was concerned it wouldn’t get an open and thorough review by folks higher up on the chain of command. I suggested being transferred here so we could both find out what was really going on. He reluctantly agreed, and we’ve only recently let my boss in this park in on what I’m up to. So I’m sure you can understand why I need to control the information flow.”