by Dave Butler
When the ambulance arrived fifteen minutes later, it took the two paramedics, both Mounties, and Willson nearly half an hour to free Springer from the hood of the truck, get him onto a stretcher with a spine board and neck brace, and carry the unconscious man up the hill and into the back of the red and white B.C. ambulance.
After the ambulance left, followed by the other police car, Willson and Fortier stood in the middle of the road and stripped the bloodied blue latex gloves from their hands.
“Time to find out why he was in such a hurry,” said Willson, heading back to the wrecked truck.
They methodically searched the truck’s cab, but could not locate the duffel bag or the rifle case that Springer had allegedly taken with him. Knowing that the items, like the driver, could’ve been ejected in the crash, they expanded their search in an arc around the truck, peering behind trees, under logs, and through the dried and twisted stems of plants left from the previous summer. It was Fortier who found the duffel bag jammed under a large branch that had fallen from the spruce. Ten minutes later, Willson found the padded nylon rifle case, scratched and muddied, lying at the edge of a small creek ten metres below where the truck had landed. As soon as she lifted the case off the ground, she knew by its weight and bulk that it did contain a weapon.
After ensuring that the truck held no other useful evidence, Willson and Fortier climbed up the bank to the road and lay the bag and the case on the opened tailgate of the police vehicle. They slipped on fresh latex gloves.
With Willson peering over his shoulder, Fortier unzipped the canvas duffel first. From its dark interior, he pulled out pieces of clothing that appeared to have been tossed in quickly, followed by a small zippered toiletry kit and two boxes of ammunition.
“This was packed in a hurry. He was only at his place for a few minutes before we got there,” said Fortier.
“It’ll be a while before he can explain why he was in such a hurry,” Willson said. “Let’s check out the rifle.” She unbuckled the straps of the black nylon case and slid the zipper down its length. Pulling apart the padded sides, she pulled out the rifle, pointing it away from Fortier. “I don’t know rifles that well, but this looks serious.” Its stock and barrel were white, with an overlying camouflage pattern. A large scope was mounted along the top, parallel to the barrel, looking like a weapon unto itself. There was a small dropout magazine on the lower side, just in front of the trigger.
Fortier whistled softly. “That is a serious hunting rifle. I think it’s a Venture Predator bolt action. I’ve seen it at Cabela’s in Calgary.” He took it from Willson and carefully peered at the barrel, then at the stock. “It’s set up for shooting .270 Winchester ammunition, which is what’s in his bag. Nice gun.”
“Unless this is a prized possession that he always took with him whenever he travelled,” said Willson, watching Fortier look at the rifle with the same passion he’d shown for his fiancée, “I wonder if this is the rifle that was used to shoot at Austin and Myers?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Fortier, running his hand slowly and lightly down the white stock.
“Jesus,” said Willson. “Should I leave you two alone? Are you going to need a cigarette after this?”
“You’re not a hunter, so I don’t expect you to understand,” Fortier said, smirking. He ejected a bullet from the chamber by sliding back the bolt handle, then removed the magazine before reluctantly inserting the gun back into its case. “With the magazine, I believe this will fire four bullets before the user has to reload, which matches Myer’s claim that he heard four shots that night. I’ll send this to the crime lab as soon as I’m back in the office to see if Springer’s fingerprints are on it, and to see if there’s a match with the bullets we found embedded in the wall and fireplace at Austin’s. It’s certainly the same calibre.”
“If it is a match,” said Willson, “that would provide us with a hell of a strong suspect in at least one of your investigations. Right?”
“Exactly. But we still don’t know who burned down Stoffel’s office. That’s still my primary focus.”
Willson stared down the road, her eyes unfocused. “Isn’t it interesting that no matter where we look, the common denominator seems to be those two guys and their idiotic project? They’re like the eye of a storm, violence and intimidation swirling around them, spinning outward like deadly shrapnel. We’ve got to find our way to the eye of that storm … and soon.”
“Poetic, Jenny, very poetic. You know that before you reach the eye, you have to get safely through the storm, right?”
“Batten down the hatches, Ben.”
CHAPTER 28
APRIL 9
When Willson arrived home in the midafternoon, she was weary and hungry. She’d waited for the tow truck to come and extricate Springer’s pickup, then gone to the station with Fortier to write up her statement about the chase and the accident. Leo Springer had been airlifted to Foothills Hospital in Calgary with serious back, neck, and internal injuries.
“Hi honey, I’m home!” she said, hoping that Berland might be back from the library, ready with a smile and a laugh and a cold beer. Or a burger. A big, juicy burger. But instead, silence. She paused for a moment, disappointed that she was alone in the house. And then she felt disturbed about being disappointed. It was a new and strange feeling after having lived alone for nearly ten years. Was she finally enjoying the experience of sharing space with someone, anyone, even if it was only temporary? Or did she simply miss the lanky reporter? Or was it both?
Pushing those thoughts aside, as she often did when it came to her emotions, Willson walked to the kitchen, pulled open the refrigerator door, and stood staring into the lit space, hating its emptiness. She slammed it shut and grabbed an overripe banana from the counter beside the sink, drank a glass of water to help her choke down the mushy flesh, then discovered a granola bar in the cupboard, the kind of bar that had a half-life rather than a shelf life and would still be edible after a nuclear war.
“Enough feeling sorry for yourself,” she said aloud. “Time for a ride.”
While chewing on bites of the bar like a beaver tackling an aspen, Willson hung her uniform on a hanger, locked her gun in the portable safe in her closet, and pulled on her mountain biking clothes. After locking the front and back doors, she bumped her bike down the back stairs and wheeled down Alexander Street. Despite her original intention to ride some of the Mountain Shadows trails south of town, she found herself instead heading toward the library.
Jesus, she thought, what the hell has gotten into you? You’re like a friggin’ schoolgirl.
Willson locked her bike to the rack in front of the library and jogged up the steps. Inside, she was heartened to see Mike Berland and her mother hunched over a table, laughing. When they saw her, they both looked up as though guilty of doing something subversive.
“What are you two plotting?”
“Hi, Jenny,” said her mother, turning. “We weren’t plotting anything. It’s quiet now, so Mike was telling me about a race he was in two years ago … where he got lost in the middle of the course.”
“How the hell did you get lost in a race?” asked Willson, grinning at Berland.
“That’s what I was explaining to Anne when you walked in. It was a marathon in Coeur d’Alene. I was having trouble with my right knee, so I was overly focused on that. More than I should’ve been. I missed a turn, and about ten minutes later, I realized I didn’t know where the hell I was. All I knew was that I wasn’t on the course anymore. All my competitors had disappeared, as well as any local supporters along the side of the road.”
Willson chuckled. “What did you do?”
“I approached some retiree watering his lawn in middle of an army of creepy garden gnomes. He pointed me back in the right direction. To say that I didn’t set a personal best that day would be an understatement.”
“What have you got against garden gnomes?”
“Don’t get me started,” s
aid Berland with a shudder. “They’re no better than clowns.” Another shudder. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“You don’t like helicopters or anchovies or olives, and now I find out you’re scared of garden gnomes and clowns? You’re one troubled guy, Mike.”
“You say troubled, I say mysterious and unpredictable.”
“I better get back to work and leave you two to your debate,” said Mrs. Willson, placing her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Thanks for the laugh, Mike. I needed that.”
She walked back to the circulation desk, where an elderly couple was waiting to check out a stack of books.
Willson sat in the chair vacated by her mother. “Thanks for cheering her up, Mike. I think she likes you. How’s the article coming along?”
“Your mother … I mean Anne … is great. I enjoy her company, too.” Berland ran his hands rapidly back and forth across his shaved head, as though trying to get the blood flowing, or start a fire. “It’s not ready quite yet, but I got a good start on it today. Anne was a big help finding research material. I’ve got solid historical background on the Blaeberry Valley, and she dug up a 2005 economic feasibility report on the Howse Pass highway. I didn’t know it existed.”
“I remember hearing about that. Does the highway make any sense at all?”
“Forget that,” said Berland, shifting closer and glancing over at Anne. His eyes were wide. He clasped his hands in front of him as if begging. “I need to tell you something, and I don’t want you to freak out.”
“Oh, ye of little faith. Why so serious?”
“Hank Myers was here this afternoon, chatting with your mother.”
“What?” said Willson, loud enough to make her mother turn and look.
“Keep it down, Jenny. I asked you not to freak out. He was here this afternoon and he spent quite a bit of time talking to her. Chatting. Flirting. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Are you friggin’ serious? You better be pulling my leg. And if you are, I’m going to pull one of yours right off.”
“I am serious, and I need both my legs, thanks very much. They must’ve talked for a good fifteen minutes. He even waited off to the side while she served some customers.”
“Did you do anything?”
“I did what I could. I was over in the corner where the light was better for reading.” He pointed to a distant chair against the window. “I saw them talking. Myers didn’t see me at first.”
“You didn’t stop it?”
“I went up and asked her a question about the Wi-Fi, to let Myers know I was there.”
“And?”
“And he just smiled at me and waited for me to leave, like he was pleased that I’d seen him.”
“What did you do?”
“I stayed there. It was like a standoff, me glaring at him, and him sneering at me. I’m sure your mum wondered what the heck was going on.”
“Who blinked?”
“Myers did. He told your mother he’d enjoyed talking with her, said goodbye, looked at me one more time, and then left.”
“Did you tell Mum who he was, that he’d threatened us?”
“And terrify her? Of course not. Anne seemed happy — she was laughing quite a bit — and she didn’t seem to mind the attention. I simply told her that Myers was someone she might want to avoid.”
“Son of a bitch, Mike. This is not good. From everything I’ve heard, Myers is dangerous — scary dangerous. I’m pretty sure Austin didn’t hire him for his financial acumen.”
“Maybe it’s nothing …”
“Come on. You’re an experienced reporter. Do you believe in coincidence? After what they said to us at Austin’s place, do you really think this was a harmless chance encounter? I’ve got to assume Austin is trying to get to me through my mother. That’s not good.”
“You’re probably right, unfortunately,” said Berland, his face a mask of hurt and concern. “Which is why I told you about it. I’m sorry, I should have been more forceful. What are you gonna do?”
“I’ve got to tell Mum, persuade her not to see or talk to Myers ever again. She needs to understand how dangerous he is. I’d like to tell Myers to leave her the hell alone, but that would just confirm for them that they found my weak spot.”
“Agreed. I can be there when you talk to her, if you’d like.”
“Thanks, but no.” Willson felt a single tear of anger and frustration run down her cheek. “Shit, shit, shit. If she was smiling and apparently enjoying whatever it was that Myers was saying, then it’s going to be a tough conversation. She’s so fragile and unsure of herself. If she realizes that she misread the situation, or maybe inappropriately opened up to that asshole, even just a little bit, it’ll knock her back.”
“I’m sorry, Jenny.”
“It’s okay, you tried. It’s done now.” She sat back in the chair. “We always knew they’d push back. I just didn’t think it would come this soon, though, or in this form. They’re obviously concerned about what we’re doing. I better talk to her now.”
“Wait,” said Berland, putting his hand on Willson’s arm like she’d done to Fortier earlier. “Why don’t you wait until she’s finished work for the day? Talk to her in private. It wouldn’t be fair to her to say something now. With both of us here, nothing will happen.”
Willson stared at her mother. She was smiling and laughing, interacting with the couple at the desk. It was a glimpse of the gregarious mother she remembered. “I guess you’re right. We’ll stay here until she’s done.”
“Good call. While we’re waiting, why don’t I tell you what I discovered today?” He opened his notebook, half full of scribbled notes and diagrams and bulging with photocopied pages from articles and books. He paraphrased the contents of the highway economic study, telling Willson that it suggested, while making many untested assumptions, that the highway would do better than break even. “But what was most interesting,” he said, “was my conversation with the mayor of Golden. She came in this afternoon and your mum introduced us.”
“Jo-Ann Campbell?”
He nodded. “She said she was a year ahead of you in high school?”
“That’s right.” Willson recalled a tall blonde who was confident and friendly with all of the disparate groups in her graduating class — a successful politician even then.
“What did you tell her about why you’re here?”
“Just like I told your mother, I said you and I are friends from university, that I’m writing a novel, and I came to the library to do some research while you were at work.”
“So you asked her about Collie Creek?” asked Willson. She glanced over at her mother again, still worried that Myers might return.
“I asked her what she thought about the new ski area and she told me the Town of Golden no longer supports the project. Apparently, at first most of the town councillors were excited, but that didn’t last long. She said she was angry about the way the project has run roughshod over the community and divided it in two. She brought up a lot of the things you mentioned at the coffee shop in Boise. She was frustrated that the process didn’t allow for rational discussion between the sides or take into account what the community wants. Austin did make a presentation to the town council, but it was glib, cagey, and avoided most of the tough questions. Without enough proof that the community would benefit from a project so far from town, the council voted to oppose the project. She seems exhausted by it all, and relieved that it’s over, at least from Golden’s perspective.”
“What about the highway and pipeline?”
“Council discussed them, but because both corridors would connect to the Trans-Canada Highway nearly twenty kilometres north of town, they concluded that traffic and visitors and business would be diverted away from town rather than toward it. In the end, it wasn’t that they supported the arguments of project opponents. They just realized that the projects would sideline the community, isolate it, and destroy its economic future.”
Willson was shaking her head. “Jesus. These review processes are completely fucked up. They pit people against each other and tear communities apart. The winners celebrate, and the losers commiserate and keep fighting. Who believes that doing any of that is a good idea?” She looked at her watch. “It’s closing time. I’ll leave you to find your own dinner tonight, Mike. I’m going to walk my mum home and have a talk with her.”
Berland began packing his documents, notebook, and laptop into his briefcase. “Not a problem. Unless you want me to stay, I was actually thinking I’d start back to Boise tonight. I was only supposed to be here a week, so my editor is expecting me tomorrow. If I can get back to the office by noon, he might not fire me. I can show him what I’ve done and finish the article there. It’ll be ready when you give me the okay.”
“Yeah … I guess that makes sense.” Willson spoke the words haltingly, looking into his kind brown eyes, that strange feeling of disappointment coming over her again in a wave. This time, she also felt an unexpected ripple of loss. I thought we’d have more time. She continued to stare into his eyes. “Travel safe, Mike.”
From the sympathetic look on Berland’s face, she could tell that he’d mistaken her sudden change in mood for worry about her mother. And that was fine with her.
Just as he had two weeks earlier, the tall American wrapped his arms around her in a warm hug that nearly brought tears to her eyes for the second time that afternoon. It was a hug that made her feel safe and appreciated. “You’re a hell of a daughter, Jenny,” he whispered in her ear. “Your mother is lucky to have someone who cares so much. Don’t ever let the bastards grind that out of you.”
CHAPTER 29
APRIL 17
Austin’s desk was littered with client statements, phone messages, and consultant reports. But instead of paperwork, his attention was on the business section of the day’s Vancouver Sun. His phone was ringing; he let it continue until it fell silent. With his meaty finger rapidly sliding across the page, line by line, and his blood pressure rising at an alarming rate, he read the article under Mike Berland’s byline. The article questioned the legitimacy of his investment fund.