No Place for Wolverines

by Dave Butler

  “That goddamn son of a bitch!” Austin yelled as he reached the end of the page. “I thought he was another Parks guy, not a fucking reporter.” The implications of what he’d just read came over him like a boiling thundercloud. “I told them to mind their own fucking business.” He grabbed the edges of the newspaper and violently tore it in half.

  “Mr. Austin,” said his secretary, timidly poking her head into his office, “I have Matt Merrix on the phone. He’s demanding to speak with you.” She stared at Austin and the torn newspaper clutched in his hands. “Is everything okay?”

  “A minor glitch, Carol. Tell him I’ll call him right back.”

  “I tried that,” she said, her voice trembling, “but he said that if you didn’t take his call, he was coming right over here. He’s very insistent.”

  “Shit!” he said, staring at the torn newspaper as though wondering how it had happened. “All right, put the call through.”

  The secretary disappeared more quickly than she’d arrived, then Austin’s desk phone rang again. He picked it up after the second ring.

  “Good morning, Matt. I hope you’re well. Carol said you needed to speak with me?”

  “Tell me there’s no truth to what’s in the Sun today, Stafford.”

  Austin recognized Merrix’s opening to be as much a statement as a question. “What are you referring to, Matt?”

  “Don’t yank my chain about something this important, Stafford. You know what I’m talking about. The Sun article. The one that questions you and your investment fund, the investment fund into which many of my clients have put their hard-earned money. Two of them phoned me this morning before I’d seen it myself.”

  “My apologies,” said Austin. “I’m looking at the art­icle as we speak, Matt. I’m not sure where the reporter got his information from, but you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Nothing to worry about? If there’s even a glimmer of truth in there about your background or about the fund, then it seems I do have a hell of a lot to worry about!”

  “There’s no truth in it at all. I met with the reporter the last time I was in Golden, and I sorted out his confusion. At least I thought I did. Frankly, I’m surprised and disappointed that he wrote this, and astonished that the paper printed it without fact-checking. I’ll be on the phone to my lawyer as soon as I hang up.”

  “So you’re telling me you weren’t charged with any financial crimes in the United States or in Chile?”

  “I’ve never been convicted of any financial crimes, Matt. I was chased a couple of times by some eager prosecutors who were too inexperienced to understand what I was doing with some complex yet successful investments. But I was never convicted of anything.”

  “Why does that not give me any comfort? Not being convicted is not the same as being innocent, Stafford. And it’s certainly not the same as never having been involved in anything illegal, conviction or otherwise.”

  “Believe me,” said Austin, keeping his voice calm and slow, projecting an air of professional confidence, “there’s nothing to this, Matt. I’ll certainly admit that the reporter didn’t like me or the project. He must be in the pocket of the local enviros. This is nothing more than an overzealous reporter trying to scuttle the project, make a name for himself.”

  “And what’s with the references to an investigation by the RCMP and the Parks department and possible links to arson and murder?”

  “That’s nothing more than crazy speculation. Fake news. That reporter is out of control, and I’ll be directing my lawyer to immediately file a libel suit against him and the papers that printed the story. I’ve spoken with the RCMP and the warden about all that stuff. They’ve got no evidence connecting any of it to our project.”

  “Jesus, Stafford. This changes everything. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “I’ll deal with it, Matt. I’m sorry this reporter’s incompetence has created a headache for you. You can tell your clients that you’ve checked with me, and everything is good. You have my word.”

  “I’m starting to question the value of that, Stafford. The reporter also seems to know about the highway and pipeline connection. According to you, that was supposed to be confidential. What’s the deal?”

  “Apparently someone in the federal government has a big mouth. I certainly can’t control what they say. It could be some bureaucrat who doesn’t like the idea, or a politician who wants to take credit for something before he should. Or maybe it’s a smokescreen to divert attention away from other bigger controversies. Either way, this shouldn’t affect our project. Don’t worry, Matt. It’s possible that having some of these ideas out in the open will attract more investment and interest.”

  “More investment might work for you, Stafford, but it doesn’t necessarily benefit me or my clients. With an article like this out there — not only in the Vancouver paper, but in Calgary and Toronto, too — my guys are freaking out. They’ve all heard the stories or talked to players who were caught in the Bear Mountain situation on Vancouver Island. And everyone knows how much money the players who were represented by Alan Eagleson lost years before that. They’re not going to take my word for it.”

  “I’m organizing a flight up to the project site for some of my investors. Would you and some of your guys like to come along? Might help to calm the waters and get them feeling better about what they’ll be a part of. Seeing the place, and seeing the plans for the place when you’re standing in the middle of it, is very powerful.”

  “I’ll ask, but I get the sense that won’t be enough. They’re spooked. And once they start talking to each other, their concerns will only build.”

  “What do you need from me, Matt?”

  “I need up-to-date investment fund statements, preferably by end of day today, for all my clients. I want those statements to detail what they’ve invested, and in many cases reinvested, and what payments are due to them and when. And they’re going to want to see something in writing that confirms they can pull their money out at any time. If all that can be authenticated by a third party, that would be even better.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my plate today, Matt, but I should be able to get those to you no later than the end of the week. As you know, we generate our statements on a quarterly basis, so I’ll have to push to get them out of the system on a different schedule. Because of the concerns you’ve raised, and because of the strength of our relationship, Matt, I’ll make that happen.”

  “Do it,” Merrix said. The anxiety in his voice was palp­able. “The sooner, the better. I’m expecting there’ll be at least two of my guys who’ll want to pull their money out right away. Their careers are almost over, and their investment with you is a big chunk of the money they’ve put aside for retirement. They can’t accept any risk. Even a verified statement might not make them happy. This has put me in a very difficult position, Stafford. If I persuade my guys to keep their money in a bad investment, I’m done. And if I talk them into taking their money out of something that’s given them solid returns to date, then they’ll question my judgment from now on.”

  “I completely understand, Matt. I’ll get those statements to you, and I’ll try to sort things out with the reporter and the papers. I’ll send you details of the site visit once it’s set up.”

  “Right now, I’m sick about this. You’re going to have to do a hell of a lot to get me to feel good again, not only about your funds, Stafford, but about you. And it’s got to be bloody soon. I want those documents, and I want them yesterday.”

  Austin heard a dial tone. He slowly placed the phone back in its cradle. As soon as he’d seen the article by Berland that morning, he’d known immediately that things were on the verge of unravelling. His experience told him that, and the churning in his gut confirmed it. But after hearing Merrix’s response, he realized that everything he’d worked for now sat at a critical juncture. Depending on the path he chose from here, he might get his plans back on track, continue to build the investment fund
s, and continue to push and prod and shepherd the projects toward government decisions. Or he might end up in a spiral that wouldn’t end well.

  He picked up the phone again and dialed.

  “Hank, you still in Golden?”

  “Yes,” said Myers, equally curt in return.

  “Have you seen the Vancouver Sun or the Calgary Herald today?”

  “No.”

  “Grab a copy of either when you can. We told that warden and her sidekick to back off — I think we were very clear. But instead of listening, they ignored us. And it looks like that Mike guy was a reporter. There’s a feature story about me written by a Mike Berland in the business section of both papers, and apparently in the Toronto Star, too. The article raises questions about what you and I are doing, mentions Willson’s investigation into us, and hints at links between our project and the arson and murder in Golden. I just got an irate call from Merrix about it. If he’s any indication of how our investors are going to react, we may have a huge fucking problem.”

  “Were you able to calm Merrix down?”

  “I did my best, mostly by declaring my innocence and promising to send him verified statements for all his clients. But I don’t know for sure. I get the sense he’s right on the edge.”

  “If he pulls his clients’ money out, will we be okay?”

  “If it’s only him, then yes, we can weather that storm. But if he starts talking to others, or if too many other investors see the article — which will probably spread like fucking wildfire on social media — then we’re def­initely screwed.”

  “How much did this Berland get right?” asked Myers. “Is someone talking to him who shouldn’t be? Or was it mostly speculation?”

  “More speculation than anything. But there’s enough there, even when he quotes unnamed sources, for someone who doesn’t know anything about it to assume that things aren’t quite right. And if that someone is one of our investors, or if they’re from the enforcement section of the B.C. Securities Commission, or the RCMP, then we’ve got an issue.”

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Myers. “Do you need a hand with the statements? Or setting up the visit to the site?”

  “Nope. I’ll start on those today. What you need to do is figure out what to do about Berland and Willson. If they keep digging, or if Berland writes any follow-up articles that get coverage like this one has, we will have a major problem on our hands. And as you know, Hank, that problem definitely is our problem. Not just mine.”

  “I understand that, Stafford. I do not need the reminder.”

  Myers paused. In that silence, Austin could sense the man’s anger through the phone. He knew he had to be cautious. Myers was in as deep as he was, and he had as much to lose or gain, depending on what happened next. But he was also dangerous, a man you didn’t want to piss off.

  “Have you got any ideas?” Austin asked, trying to sound conciliatory and collaborative. “Any way we can get them to back off, even though some damage is already done? If we can do that, we might be able to salvage this.”

  “I believe I’ve found Willson’s weak spot, at least one of them. I’ll work on that. But my sources here tell me that this Mike guy left Golden a week or so ago. I have no idea where to, but we’re clearly going to need a more aggressive approach. Apparently, his listening skills aren’t so good. I need to turn up the volume.”

  “I’ll leave that to you, Hank. We’ve got to get them both to back off. I don’t need to know the specifics, but I appreciate you moving as quickly as you can. Time is critical.”

  “Don’t worry, Stafford, I’ll take care of it. After all, as you say, this is a shared problem.”

  CHAPTER 30

  APRIL 20, 6:00 P.M.

  Careening out of the final turn, Willson squeezed the brakes of her mountain bike and slid sideways to a stop. The bike nearly slipped out from under her on the pine needles covering the trail. Beside her, Sue Browning did the same. They stood catching their breath after their aggressive ride on the single-track trails along the power­line, which looked down on the city of Cranbrook. Straddling their bikes, they stood on a rocky knoll, the city spread out below them to the west, the Purcell Mountains in the background. The late-afternoon sun was warm on their flushed faces.

  “Who pissed in your corn flakes this morning, Jenny?” asked Browning, breathing hard. “I’ve never seen you ride like that. You kicked my ass on that last hill. And you weren’t even in your lowest gear.”

  Willson stared at her. The two had been friends since meeting in a warden service climbing school eight years earlier. As a mountain guide, Browning had been the instructor, Willson the student. Shortly after, Willson introduced Browning to her university friend Jim Woods, the same Jim Woods whose photographs had helped her crack a major poaching case. Her two friends were now a couple, sharing a strong relationship that Willson envied each time she saw them together. Of the small circle of people whom Willson considered to be close friends, she trusted Browning more than she did anyone else. And today, she needed a confidant as much as she ever had.

  “Was it obvious?” Willson asked with a stilted smile. She noisily sucked water through the tube leading to the reservoir in her pack.

  “It was obvious as soon as we left the truck at the parking lot. You clearly had something to prove … or some serious energy to burn off.”

  “Life sucks right now, Sue,” said Willson, pulling her helmet off her wet head.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m so friggin’ pissed off that I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  “You know I took a temporary assignment in Yoho. What I couldn’t tell you was that I was asked by the chief park warden in Banff to undertake a … um … ­clandestine investigation into the ski resort that’s been proposed on the Yoho park boundary.”

  “That thing? You’d have to be asleep not to have heard of that project. Everyone in our industry thinks it’s ridiculous.”

  “I share that opinion,” Willson said, laying her bike down beside the trail and sitting against a veteran Ponderosa pine, its bark like scaly puzzle pieces against her back. “That’s why I accepted the assignment.”

  “Clandestine? That sounds unusual for the federal government.”

  “It is. But the stakes are high for the park and its wildlife. Once I understood what was proposed, I knew I couldn’t stomach seeing it go ahead.”

  Browning sat beside her with her back against the same tree. “You’re taking the assignment awfully seriously, even for a person as passionate and committed as you usually are.”

  “I am what I am. But that’s not why I came down here. When I was in Idaho a couple of months ago, digging up background on the proponent, I connected with a local reporter called Mike Berland. He’s an exper­ienced investigative journalist who had some history with the ski resort proponent.”

  “Ah. Connected?” Browning’s eyebrows went up and down in an impression of Groucho Marx. “Tell me about this mysterious Mike Berland.”

  “He completely and thoroughly screwed me,” said Willson, “and not in the fun way.”

  “What happened?”

  “My first mistake was trusting him. After he’d persuaded me that he was as interested in the proponent as I was, I stupidly agreed to work with him, let him in on what I was doing. I even told him the truth about my investigation and invited him to Golden to see for himself what was going on. The way I saw it, it was a way to shine a spotlight on a dumb idea: the ski resort. Now, I wonder what in hell I was thinking. I hate reporters almost as much as I hate poachers and ladder-climbing bureaucrats …”

  “And your second mistake?”

  “Letting myself get too close to him.”

  “Uh-oh. You two didn’t hook up, did you?”

  “No. He stayed with me for about a week — in the spare room — and you know, I actually enjoyed his company. Sometimes he was came with me while I was working, like when we fle
w to the resort site, and he came with me to court a few times. But usually, he was off on his own during the day. We spent most evenings together and, I thought, became quite close. I exposed him to Canadian music — Great Big Sea, Blue Rodeo, et cetera — and he turned me on to the blues. Ironic, given how I’m feeling now.”

  Browning grinned. “You just used the words exposed and turned on. Are you sure nothing happened? You were together for a week in the same tiny house …”

  “That was it. But I’ll admit to you, and only you, that I was beginning to think I’d found someone special, someone who brought out the best in me. He actually listened to me, he seemed to accept me for the crazy, intense, cutting person I can be.”

  “What the hell did he do to you, Jenny?” asked Browning, her eyes soft with concern.

  “He left town, literally crossed the border in the dark of night, and a few days later wrote an exposé that appeared in newspapers across Canada. He started the article when he was in Golden, but when I asked to see it, he told me it wasn’t ready. Now I know why the slimy fucker wouldn’t show it to me.” She shook her head. “It was a betrayal, pure and simple. Jesus, Sue, how could I have been so gullible? Even my mother liked him. I’m angry, embarrassed, and hurt. And I hate myself for being any of those things. Feeling all of them at the same time makes me want to puke.”

  “I can see why. Did he name names in his article?”

  “Oh yeah, he named names, including me and my two bosses.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit is right. Now that the story’s out in the open, including what I was doing, the shit has hit the fan.” Willson scooped up a cigar-sized bundle of tan pine needles in her hand and began breaking them into smaller and smaller pieces, a violent counterpoint to he loves me, he loves me not.

  “How so?” asked Browning, concerned about Willson’s agitated behaviour.