No Place for Wolverines

by Dave Butler

  But it was already too late, she knew. One wall collapsed in a shower of sparks. It was only a matter of minutes before the building would be reduced to a blackened shell. No matter how good the local fire­fighters were, she knew they wouldn’t get there in time.

  Turning away from the disintegrating studio with tears in her eyes, she was shocked again when she spotted the brutal defilement of her house. BACK OFF BITCH! was scrawled across one wall in huge capital letters, the red spray paint still fresh and dripping, like blood from a wound.

  As she stood in the chill of early evening, the fire behind her magnifying her shadow, she suddenly had the feeling she was being watched. She spun around, staring into the forest that surrounded her property, realizing that the individual or individuals responsible could still be nearby. She was in the open here, vulnerable. Panicking, she bolted up the front stairs of the house. Fumbling with the keys, her hands shaking, she managed to get the door open and get inside. Then she stood with her back against the locked door, breathing hard.

  CHAPTER 32

  APRIL 20, 9:00 P.M.

  Jenny Willson was speeding through the small village of Parson, northbound on Highway 95, going well above the posted eighty-kilometre limit, when her cellphone rang. She answered over the Bluetooth system.

  “Willson here.”

  “It’s Ben.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “No, we haven’t found her yet, but everyone’s out looking. I even asked the off-duty guys to come back on shift. Where are you?”

  “In Parson, on my way.” To her left, Willson could see the marshes of the Columbia River wetlands glowing in the last light of dusk. “I should be there in about twenty minutes. Why?”

  “I’m at Sara Ilsley’s house, and there’s something here you should see.”

  “Why the hell are you there, instead of looking for Mum? Can’t it wait?”

  “Jenny, I have a small army out looking for her, but I got an emergency call to come out to Sara’s place. I really think you should stop here on the way north. It may be connected.”

  “Connected to what?”

  “Ilsley arrived home tonight to find her studio on fire and a message spray-painted across the side of her house.”

  “A message?”

  “It says, ‘Back off, bitch.’”

  Willson’s mind instantly jumped to Stafford Austin and Hank Myers.

  “Why do you want me there?” she asked. “I need to find Mum.”

  “Because you need to see the video from the security camera. It’s important.”

  “All right, all right,” said Willson. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  She pounded the gas pedal and watched as the dotted highway lines flew toward her like yellow tracer bullets, trees streaking by to the left and right. Her mind scrambled for answers. What was on the video that was so important? What could it mean to the investigation? Most importantly, with the entire Golden RCMP detachment still searching, where the hell had her mother gone?

  When Willson reached the Ilsley house, she had to dodge two fire trucks to get up the driveway. The firefighters had already begun their mop-up, pouring water on the smoking hot spots and exposing the areas under the fallen walls to search for embers that might flare up later.

  She stepped from her car and paused, her right arm resting against the top of the door, as the scene in front of her transported her back to the burnt log building that had been Sue Webb’s funeral pyre four months earlier. She remembered standing next to Fortier that morning, staring at the blackened ruins. She turned to see him staring down at her from Ilsley’s front porch.

  “Remind you of anything?” Fortier asked, his gaze shifting to the smoking building.

  “I was just thinking that. Eerily similar, isn’t it?”

  The Mountie nodded once but said nothing.

  Willson slammed the car door shut and followed Fortier inside.

  Ilsley was sitting at the kitchen table, silhouetted against the illuminated screen of a laptop.

  “Sara!” said Willson. “I’m so sorry about your studio. Are you okay?”

  Ilsley turned in her chair. “A bit shaken up, but I’ll be fine.”

  “What have you got for me to see?” Willson struggled to concentrate, desperately wanting to get back to Golden to find her mother.

  “I arrived home at about seven-thirty and the fire was going pretty good,” said Ilsley, “so let me scroll back to about thirty minutes before I arrived.” She moved the mouse across the Calgary Flames mousepad until the time stamp on the screen indicated 7:00 p.m.

  Willson looked down and saw a business card on the desk beside her. Matt Merrix, Professional Sports Agent. “Who’s that, Sara?” she asked, pointing at the card.

  Ilsley told them about the protest at the airport, and how the man whose card now sat on her desk had approached her. “He seems to be one of Austin’s invest­ors,” Ilsley said, “or at least he represents some of them. I’m not sure.”

  “And he asked to speak with you?”

  “He did, and I was more than a little shocked. It was unexpected, like he was looking for someone to talk to. He acted like he didn’t want to be there.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “No, that was it. They flew away and we left. I haven’t had a chance to call him yet. I’ve been a bit busy since I got home,” she said, grimacing.

  “I need that number,” said Willson.

  “Take it,” said Ilsley. “I expect to be occupied with insurance and restoration companies for a while. All I ask is that you send me an email with his contact info so I can call him later.”

  “Done,” said Willson. She picked up the card and waved it slowly up and down, as though drying wet ink.

  Ilsley hit play on her laptop. It wasn’t HD-quality video, but it did offer a somewhat clear view of the driveway in Ilsley’s yard, with the studio still intact in the background. “Here we go,” said Ilsley.

  “What did you say you used that building for, Sara?”

  “It was my stained-glass studio.”

  “Ah,” said Willson. She hadn’t realized that people needed studios to make stained glass. “Okay,” Ilsley said, “watch carefully now. I’ll slow it down to quarter speed.”

  As she spoke, two figures, both in dark hooded jackets, moved across the screen from the driveway toward the studio, jerkily, furtively. Willson couldn’t tell if they were male or female, but the taller of the two held something in a gloved hand. There was a flicker, a flash, and then the figure threw the object, now spouting flame from one end, at the studio windows. In the absence of sound, Willson imagined the high-pitched crash of the shattering glass. There was a larger flash as something inside the building exploded in a cloud of fire.

  “I think that was my turpentine,” said Ilsley, shaking her head.

  The figures on the screen stood there for a moment as though admiring their work, two black silhouettes against the orange light of the flames. The pair then moved toward the house, the hoods still shading their faces. The second figure reached into a bag and pulled out a cylinder.

  “This is where they painted the graffiti on the house,” said Fortier.

  “But we can’t see who it is.”

  “Wait for it …” Ilsley said.

  And then, for what lasted two or three seconds on the slow-motion video but was likely only a blink of an eye in real time, the heads of both figures turned toward the camera. The fire’s brilliance caught their features. One was fierce, manic, feminine. The other was also feminine, and clearly frightened. And then one pushed the other out of the frame.

  “Holy shit!” said Willson. She stood back from Ilsley, in shock. She turned to Fortier. “Is that who I think it is?” But it was a question that didn’t need to be asked. She already knew the answer.

  “It is, Jenny,” said Fortier, returning her gaze while zipping up his uniform jacket. “We need to find them. And fast.”

  CHAPTER 33

&
nbsp; APRIL 21, 3:30 P.M.

  “I need to speak to Brian Cummings,” said Austin, holding the phone to his ear. He glanced over at Myers, sitting across from him in their Vancouver office. Myers had his hands steepled, fingers tapping against each other as if counting the seconds, his eyes angry and dark. “He hasn’t returned my calls.”

  Wendy Thomas’s response was uncharacteristic­al­ly soft, not at all like the confident, enthusiastic MP that Austin had met nearly a year earlier. “I know he’s focused on a major project … something to do with a senator and an underage parliamentary page,” she said. “I spoke to him yesterday in the hallway outside the PM’s office here in Ottawa. He told me he would call you.”

  “I need to explain something to him and to find out what the hell is happening,” said Austin. “You folks probably saw that article about me and my investment fund. It was all bullshit. You have my word on that.”

  Thomas asked the question that Austin was most concerned about. “Is that the first article you’re talking about … or the one that came out a few days later online, the one that named some of your investors?”

  “I guess both,” said Austin. “There’s nothing to either of them. I’m assuming that everyone at your end understands that. But I want to make sure Cummings understands that. The second piece, written by the same American journalist, named a sports agent who’s representing some of my investors. Because he and his clients are now all threatening to pull their money out of the fund, I’ve got to get confirmation from Cummings that the highway and pipeline projects are still on. And I need to know how close your government is to approving our Top of the World proposal. I might be able to persuade most of my investors to stay in, but it’s going to take one hell of a Hail Mary at this point.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I need more than that, Wendy. I need him to call me today. I’ve got a lot at stake here, and I don’t need to remind you that you have just as much to lose as I do.”

  “No, you don’t have to remind me of anything. My reputation and my career mean everything to me.”

  “Then we understand each other. Have you heard anything there to suggest that your government has softened its commitment to any of the projects?”

  “Uh … commitment is a stronger word than I would use. All along, we’ve indicated an interest in these pro­jects, Stafford. Committing to them, or approving them, is quite another thing.”

  “I don’t like what I’m hearing, Wendy. It sounds like some serious political backpedalling.”

  “No, I’m just being honest, Stafford. I hope you haven’t misunderstood anything that Brian or I have said to you.”

  “What about our conversation in the restaurant in Red Deer, or the many discussions since then? You both led me to believe that the federal government was committed to a partnership with me on these projects.…”

  “Again, Stafford, when you suggest a ‘commitment to a partnership,’ you’ve gone well beyond what I believe we ever said. That might have been your interpretation, but it’s definitely not ours. When you deal with government, that kind of commitment only happens through written contracts, contracts that occur after the review processes are finished and only after a decision by the federal Cabinet. A highway through Howse Pass would have to go through the whole federal environmental assessment process. A pipeline would be the same, but then you’d also have to add into that equation the National Energy Board assessments and hearings. You understand that none of that has happened yet.”

  “I’m getting more and more pissed off with each sentence that comes out of your mouth, Wendy.” Austin felt his blood pressure rising along with the volume of his voice, and again felt a prick of uncertainty, of fear. This vagueness was not what he wanted to hear. Combined with Mike Berland’s recent articles, it was becoming a worst-case scenario for him. He could feel his plans caving in around him, not unlike what had happened in South America … and in Salt Lake City … and then in Boise. But this was like all of them happening simultaneously. And this time, he had much more to lose. And fewer options for moving on. He felt a red mist float across his eyes.

  But then, just for a moment, he realized that his anger and desperation might be preventing him from hearing what the MP was really saying. “Wait. Are you trying to tell me something, Wendy, something that Brian Cummings is unwilling to tell me himself?”

  “It’s important for you to understand that I can’t speak for the Prime Minister’s Office. And I’m certainly not an official spokesperson for the Government of Canada on these projects. When Brian and I first met with you in Red Deer, we simply indicated an interest in them. Anything more than that is premature.”

  “And …” he prompted.

  “And so, it appears that the trial balloon we sent up about the Howse Pass highway did what we wanted it to do. It showed us that, while there is strong support in my riding for the idea, there’s an even larger amount of opposition to it all across the country. Punching a new highway through one of Canada’s most popular and well-known national parks seems to be a non-starter with the public. At this time in the election cycle, I’m guessing it’s not something the prime minister is willing to take any further.”

  “You’re guessing? Is that a chickenshit way of telling me that the prime minister has already decided? That the highway idea is dead … and that bringing it to my attention, and leaking it to the media and others was nothing more than a fucking trial balloon?”

  “Normally, I hang up when people use that kind of language. I won’t now, because I understand the depth of your concern. What I’m telling you is that the idea of a highway through Howse Pass and down the Blaeberry River is unlikely to go further in the foreseeable future.”

  “And what about the goddamn pipeline?”

  “Without the highway, it makes little sense. I’m sure you understand that, although you may not agree. But even if it did make sense, you may have heard that we recently approved another pipeline route from Edmonton across central British Columbia to the Pacific coast. As a result, the need for this pipeline no longer exists, at least not for the foreseeable future.”

  “So the pipeline along the highway was no more than a fucking diversionary tactic? A way to make the other pipeline seem more acceptable?”

  “Those are your words, Stafford, not mine.”

  “And the ski area? Is that dead, too?”

  “That I can’t comment on. I know it’s become the focus of some delicate, high-level negotiations between the Canadian and B.C. governments. I couldn’t tell you what was happening there even if I knew.”

  “I’ve put a lot of time and effort and money into that project, Wendy, and it makes good sense on every level. I’m distressed to hear that people are negotiating its future without talking to me. This is not acceptable. What’s the potential for it to be approved?”

  “Well, I know there are many people, both inside and outside government, who don’t share your opinion about how much sense it makes. What I can tell you is that, based on what I’ve heard, I would give it no more than a fifty-fifty chance.”

  “That’s the best you can do? A flip of a fucking coin?”

  “Your comment cheapens the depth of our review processes. I’m simply telling you the truth.”

  “The truth? Perhaps you should have told me the fucking truth at the beginning. Do you realize what you and your secretive backroom friend have done to my business, Ms. Thomas? You’ve yanked out from under us two of the key premises on which we attracted significant investments, and now the third seems to be hanging by a thread. To say that puts me in a difficult position is an understatement. I was told that your government was business-friendly, that it wanted to move the economy in this country forward, and that it wanted to work with people like us to make that happen. But obviously that’s not the case. Obviously, that was nothing but a big steaming pile of horseshit. And that shit came out of your mouth. Did it taste good, Wendy?”

  “I won’t justi
fy that with a response. I’m sorry you feel that way, Stafford, and that you appear to have so grossly misinterpreted what we said.”

  “I don’t think I’ve misinterpreted anything. I don’t think so at all. But what I think doesn’t matter anymore, does it? It looks like I’ve been royally screwed.” He paused to catch his breath before continuing. “You’ve left me to fix this mess, with no heads-up from you. Can you at least tell me when the media and the public will be notified about the decision for the highway and pipeline?”

  “Because of the nature of the feedback we got on these two ideas, it’s my understanding that there will be no formal announcement.”

  “In other words,” said Austin, speaking slowly, realizing how quickly the situation was unravelling, “they’ll experience a slow and quiet death.”

  “Again, your words, not mine.”

  Austin glanced over at Myers, who was now leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, and looking pissed, his arms crossed over his chest. “Cummings is not going to phone me back, is he, Wendy?”

  “I can’t say for sure. But if I were you, I wouldn’t wait by the phone. I’m sure you have other things to do.”

  “I bloody well do!” said Austin, “but I haven’t decided yet if that includes directing my lawyer to file a claim against you and Cummings and the Government of Canada, or going to the media to fill them in on your duplicity, or both. But I can assure you that there will be consequences, not only for you personally, but for your government. I will not forget what you’ve done, and you will be sorry.” He slammed the handset down with such violence that it cracked into two pieces of cream-coloured plastic connected only by a trio of wires. Blood from the palm of his hand dripped onto the numbered buttons of the phone.

  Myers’s eyes were like black marbles, his face devoid of emotion. “Not good news, I take it?”

  “Those fuckers have screwed us six ways to Sunday. The highway was a trial balloon, with no commitment behind it. The pipeline was a goddamn political diversion to make another pipeline look more attractive. Our government contacts, who we thought were our partners, are now in full retreat and almost complete denial. And, of course, we’re the ones left holding the bag. This is what happens when you get in bed with the government.”