No Place for Wolverines

by Dave Butler

  Austin felt a jolt of anger and fear that clenched at his heart and his guts like a claw. “How did that happen? Was it one of you?”

  “No,” said Trueman, “it wasn’t us. I don’t know how they know … but they know!”

  She began pacing back and forth across the room like a caged animal.

  In his world, Austin recognized that doing business with people like these two was a necessary evil. He couldn’t succeed without them. However, they were often the weakest link in the chain and required the most care and attention.

  Theroux spoke next, clearly trying to calm the situation. “Our contact in the group told me it was a female warden from Yoho Park who told them about it. She and a local cop showed up at the society president’s house yesterday. I guess they’re still trying to figure out who killed that researcher and who shot at you guys. But after that, the warden asked other questions about the project, and specifically about you, Stafford. This is third-hand information, of course, but it sounds like she’s investigating you as much as she is the project.”

  “What warden are we talking about?” asked Austin.

  “Her name’s Jenny Willson. She’s the park’s law enforcement warden. She lives in Golden.”

  “Huh,” said Austin, his eyes shifting to Myers for a moment, a silent message passing between them. “When we were interviewed after the shooting, that Mountie did tell me that someone named Willson was here with him that night after we went to the hospital. You think she’s investigating me?”

  “It sounds like it,” said Theroux. “She apparently asked what the Society knows about your business background, where you came from before you arrived in Golden, whether they knew who your investors were … that kind of thing.”

  “That’s what she was asking?” The claw gripped his insides tighter.

  “Is there … something you haven’t told us?”

  Austin glared at Theroux. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”

  Trueman continued her pacing. “Our guy told us that the Society talked about you and the project at a meeting last night after the warden talked to the president. Why doesn’t she mind her own goddamn business? Her meddling could put the whole plan at risk.…”

  “Have they interviewed you yet, John?” asked Myers.

  “The cop came and interrogated us the day after the rally in Golden, showed up at our house without warning. We talked to him for a half hour or so because I sensed we didn’t have a choice. He asked me and Sandy about the fire at Stoffel’s office, you guys getting shot at, the broken window at the coffee shop. He seemed to believe us when we told him we had nothing to do with any of it. I haven’t talked to him since. And I’ve never spoken to this warden. I have no idea how she’s involved, or why.”

  “Hmm,” said Austin. He gazed out the window. “Same with us. We’ve talked to Fortier a few times, but I’ve never met this warden. Is your cousin aware of this turn of events?” he asked, referring to Brian Cummings at the PMO. Few people besides those in the room and Cummings himself knew of the family connection between Cummings and Theroux. And they wanted it to stay that way.

  “I haven’t talked to him for a few weeks, so unless he’s heard about it from someone else, no.”

  “This is unfortunate. I’ll have to advise him that someone in the federal government — this Willson woman — seems to be operating outside the review process. That’s not good for any of us.”

  “Is there something you want us to do?”

  “No. Stay low for now. I’m sure your cousin will want to know about Willson’s activities. I’m betting he’ll have a chat with her bosses in Parks Canada. If she wants to keep her job, that should be the end of it.” Austin paused. “And I’m thinking that Hank and I should have a talk with her. She needs to understand that Top of the World is a bona fide project that’s right where we want it to be and she shouldn’t concern herself with anything other than that. I’m a simple entrepreneur trying to do something good for this community.”

  “And that’s the truth, right?” asked Theroux, his head slightly tilted.

  Austin took a step toward him. “Are you doubting me now, after all I’ve done for you?”

  Theroux raised his hands, palms open. “Geez, Stafford, I just want to know the facts. I’m out on the pointy end of the stick for you and your project.”

  “That’s what I’m paying you for … and paying you well. I can’t afford for you to be anything but fully committed.”

  “Calm down, Stafford,” said Theroux, stepping back, “I am fully committed.”

  “And so am I,” Trueman said. “But I need to do something. I can’t just sit on my hands while all this is going on.”

  “No!” yelled Myers, glaring at her. Even with his injured arm in a sling, he was still intimidating. “Nothing is exactly what you should do. Part of the reason we’re in the middle of this is because of what you’ve done already. We don’t need any more of that!”

  “But we were just trying to help!” said Trueman, her stridency turning into petulance.

  “If you want to do something useful,” said Austin, his voice calm and quiet despite the frustration he was feeling inside, “focus on the ski society. Keep the group on track. Keep pushing the positive messages about the project. Keep looking for new members who want to see the ski resort move ahead. And be ready to counter anything coming out of the environmental groups.”

  He moved toward the front door, signalling the end of the meeting.

  Through the window, Austin and Myers watched the couple return to their truck. Trueman was still talking and waving her arms. They saw Theroux pause, turn, and look back as if he wished he could stay with them rather than endure another life-threatening ride with his agitated wife.

  “This is exactly what I was worried about,” said Austin as the truck bounced away from the house. “Their impulsive actions are going to draw attention to us, the wrong kind of attention. Now we’ve got the cops digging into things … not just the Stoffel situation, or the shots fired at us, but into our business. We can’t afford to let that happen. Not when money is flowing into both investment funds.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, grimacing as he experienced a flash of pain from his injured hand. “What do you think?”

  “I think we need to regain control of this. And it sounds like this warden, Jenny Willson, is the key to doing that.”

  “Do you think she’s working on her own, or with the blessing of the government?”

  “No idea. Cummings will have a better sense of that.”

  “I wonder how much she knows.”

  “We can’t be sure until we talk to her. I know you’ve been careful, Stafford, but no one leaves a trail without any clues. We’ve got to ensure she doesn’t dig up something she shouldn’t.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Like you said earlier, the first step is to meet her face to face. We should do that as soon as we can. If we can persuade her that she’s barking up the wrong tree, everything might calm down again.”

  “And if not?” Austin asked.

  “If using all our charm, good looks, and powers of persuasion doesn’t work? Then we might need something more dramatic to get our point across.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not sure yet,” Myers said. “I’ll need to look into Willson, find out what drives her, what her weakness is. Only then will we know how best to persuade her.”

  “And then?”

  “And then it will be her choice as to how co-operative she wants to be.”

  “Hmm. I agree,” said Austin. His anger and apprehension had now come to the surface. He felt it in the warmth in his cheeks, the unconscious clenching of his fists, the tension in his lower back. He’d experienced this kind of outside interference before, always forcing him to abandon his dreams and move on right when he was on the verge of achieving his goals. He refused to let it happen again. “I won’t accept some park warden getting in my way,” he said, “and
destroying my relationships with investors and the government. This is too important for some low-level bureaucrat to screw up. We need to do whatever it takes to prevent that from happening.”

  “I understand,” said Myers, his face absent of expression. “That’s why you hired me, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER 25

  APRIL 7

  “Well, that was an interesting afternoon,” said Berland, “and more than a bit painful. I need a beer.”

  Willson smiled. “I told you Albin was passionate about wolverines, didn’t I?”

  “Jesus. That’s not passion. That’s borderline obsession.”

  “When it comes to conservation, there’s a fine line between the two. Those who toil in the trenches of research or advocacy drift back and forth across that line every day.”

  They were sitting in a Parks Canada truck parked in the pouring rain outside Stoffel’s new office in downtown Golden. It had seemed small the last time Willson had been there, with just two of them in it. With three people, it had been downright uncomfortable.

  “I’ve learned more about wolverines than I ever wanted to know,” said Berland, shaking his head. “That guy would have talked the entire bloody day if we hadn’t finally shut him down.”

  “If you’re going to work with me on this, you need to understand the whole picture. And because I like to share, I didn’t want you to miss out on that experience while you’re here.”

  “Thanks a lot, Jenny. That was very generous of you.” He returned her wry smile and looked down at his notebook. “Did you get anything new this time?”

  “I did. Stoffel confirmed that Collie Creek is home to at least one wolverine den site, and that Collie Creek, along with the Blaeberry to the north and Yoho Park to the south, forms part of the home range of at least six different animals. That’s significant in the world of wolverines.”

  “Why?”

  “Wolverines cover large areas in low densities. Collie Creek and the Blaeberry are clearly a special area for them. In places like Yoho, the home ranges for males can be 600 to 1,000 square kilometres — half that for females, particularly those with young. The presence of a confirmed den site in the valley — and as you heard from Stoffel, those are often found at high elevations —means the female will leave her young there for a few days at a time to find food. At that time of year, in late winter and into the spring and summer, they’re extremely vulnerable to any disturbance.”

  “And what are the implications of this knowledge for the ski area project, highway, and pipeline?”

  “Because wolverines are classified as endangered under federal species at risk legislation, both levels of government must protect the animal’s critical habi­tats. And recent research has shown that cutting the north-south connectivity between the animals with highways or other developments can cause population and genetic declines. That’s bad news not just for the ski area, but for the other two proposals, as well. The animals and their habitats can’t legally be ignored, not without going all the way to the level of the minister of the environment and the Cabinet. So, it puts the federal government, particularly Parks Canada, in a real quandary. Like we said when we were up there in the helicopter, if they allow a ski area to go ahead in Collie Creek, and at the same time approve a highway and a pipeline through the Blaeberry and Banff National Park, then those valleys will sure as hell be no place for any wildlife.”

  “Does that mean that Austin’s proposal is doomed, then?”

  “Far from it,” said Willson. “What it means is that this thing is going to get more complicated, and a whole lot more political than it already is.”

  “And our friend Stafford is right in the middle of it all with his questionable background, a string of unanswered questions that follows him around like a marching band, and unhappy investors from previous projects.”

  “Exactly.”

  Willson’s phone buzzed in her pocket just as she was about to pull out of their parking space on 9th Avenue. “Willson here.”

  “Hi, Jenny. This is Tara at the Yoho warden office.”

  “Tara, what’s up?”

  “This is strange. I just got a call from Stafford Austin. He says he wants to talk to you.”

  Willson looked at Berland, her eyebrows up. “Stafford Austin wants to talk to me?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “I asked him, but he only said that it was important he speak with you at your earliest convenience. He definitely put the emphasis on earliest.”

  “Isn’t that intriguing? I was literally just talking about him, and then he crawls out from under his rock, demanding to talk to me. Did he leave a number where I can reach him?”

  Summers read the number out to Willson, who scribbled it in her notebook. “Will you let me know what he says? We’re keeping detailed records of every conversation we have with him.” She chuckled. “Not that we don’t trust him, of course. But we’ve been burned too many times by proponents claiming they’d been told things by Parks staff when, in fact, they hadn’t.”

  “I will,” said Willson. “I only met the guy once at an open house, and even then, I didn’t tell him who I was. I wonder why he wants to talk to me now.”

  But her confusion was for Summers’s benefit. Willson knew. She must have turned over the right rocks in the right places, asked enough questions of the people on the periphery of Austin’s world, poked and probed and agitated just enough. In only a few months, she’d done enough to send him an unambiguous message: she was circling him, hunting him. Truly, it hadn’t been a matter of if he would approach her, but when and how. The time had come. He’d received her message.

  “Good luck, Jenny,” said Summers before ­disconnecting.

  “Unbelievable,” Willson said, staring across the truck cab at Berland, a wry smile on her face. “How would you like to make the acquaintance of one Stafford Austin?”

  Berland smiled back. “It’d be my pleasure to finally talk to that son of a bitch. Honestly, I didn’t think it would happen this soon. You sure you want me with you?”

  “Absolutely. He has met me before, although he may not realize it. And he might recall your name from his days of dodging you in Boise. Or maybe not. If he does, seeing us together should set him back on his heels. If he’s feeling confident about what he wants to say to me, having you there should knock some of that out of him. And seeing that will be worth the price of admission.”

  “What about your Mountie friend?”

  “Good question. I’ll let Ben know that we’re meeting with Austin and that we can play the tape for him after.”

  “We’re recording it?”

  “Yep. I’ll have a world-class investigative journalist with me. He’ll be recording the conversation so that his quotes are accurate.”

  Berland grinned. “You said ‘world-class,’ so you must be speaking about me. And I guess this means I won’t get my beer quite yet.”

  Willson still had her cellphone in her hand, so she keyed in the number and put it on speaker so Berland could hear. It rang three times, then they heard a deep voice with a strong southern accent. “This is Stafford Austin.”

  “Stafford,” said Willson, pausing for effect. “I understand you’re looking for me.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Jenny Willson, Yoho National Park warden. I was told that you’d phoned our office.” She heard a pause at the other end.

  “Ah, yes, Ms. Willson. I’ve been led to believe that you’ve been asking questions about me. I thought it would be worthwhile for us to meet so I could explain some things to you.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea, Stafford. When and where would you like to meet?”

  “Can you come out to my house on Blaeberry River Road? Does this afternoon work for you? I understand from Corporal Fortier that you were out here once before, although I didn’t get a chance to meet you because I was on my way to the hospital. I expect you know your way.”
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  “I certainly do. We’ll be there in about an hour.”

  “We?”

  “Yes,” said Willson. She disconnected the call, hoping that she’d already put Austin on edge wondering who she was bringing with her.

  Shortly after 5:00 p.m., Willson drove down the gravel driveway toward Austin’s sprawling log home. The last time she’d been here, it had been dark, the house and yard illuminated by red and blue flashing lights. Now, with the valley illuminated by the bright spring sun, she could see more clearly how large the house actually was. It sat in a large open acreage with the trees cleared back for at least two hundred metres on all sides. As she had on her first visit, she was wearing her full warden uniform, including a bulletproof vest, and she had a 9mm pistol in a leather holster on her right hip.

  “Nice place he has here,” said Berland.

  “Don’t be too impressed,” Willson said. “It’s a rental.”

  When they reached the front yard, she turned off the ignition and faced Berland. “Let’s have some fun, shall we? I won’t tell him who you are unless he recognizes you himself.” She also wanted to minimize the chances of Berland’s presence being leaked to Speer or Church.

  “Fine with me,” Berland said, nodding. His eyes shone bright. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for at least a year.”

  They jumped out of the truck, and Willson placed her Stetson firmly on her head as they walked toward the front stairs. She noticed that Berland’s attention was drawn to the snow-covered peaks around them; his head slowly swivelled from left to right. Willson paused and pointed to the east. “We’re in the widest part of the main Blaeberry River drainage now. From where we’re standing, through where it narrows in that direction, it’s about fifty kilometres to the headwaters at the west boundary of Banff National Park. Collie Creek, where we were a few days ago, is up that way and to the right.”

  “This is quite the view. I’ve never seen anything like it.”