No Place for Wolverines

by Dave Butler

  Willson turned to Theroux and saw in his eyes that he wasn’t surprised by the presence of her mother’s car in his barn.

  “Okay,” said Fortier. He pointed at the senior constable. “Chris, I want you to take pictures of the car inside and out, and then I want it towed to the detachment. I want no new fingerprints on it until we dust it and go over it with a magnifying glass. Please take that shotgun with you until we sort things out.” He turned to Theroux. “Tell me what you know about the car and why it’s on your property.”

  Theroux’s crossed his arms across his chest. “I’ve got nothing more to say. I want to talk to my lawyer.”

  “You said your wife has your truck, John?” Fortier asked, referring to his notebook. “Is that the old Ford F150, red, a white canopy on it, with the back panel on the driver’s side in grey primer? The one I saw when I was here the last time?” He read out the licence plate number from his notes.

  Theroux shrugged and smiled. Willson felt an urge to kick his teeth down his throat, but knew she’d have to get past Fortier to do it.

  Fortier turned to the other constables, maintaining the demilitarized zone between Willson and Theroux. “Get on the radio and get this description out to all our guys, and to officers in Invermere and Revelstoke, just in case Trueman decided to take a trip. She could be travelling with Anne Willson. We’ll assume that Willson is not with Trueman voluntarily. You already have Anne Willson’s description. We’re good here, so how about you three try to cover as much ground as you can to see if you can find them.”

  The officers quickly left the house.

  “Could your wife have a gun with her?” asked Willson, still glaring at Theroux.

  At the mention of his wife with a weapon, his eyes widened. “We have a loaded .38 revolver in a kitchen drawer, but I don’t think she’s crazy enough to take that with her.”

  Theroux began to move toward the kitchen. “Whoa,” said Willson, putting her hand on his arm. “I’ll get it. How about you point us to where it is.”

  They moved to the kitchen, Willson leading. Theroux pointed to three drawers to the left of the fridge, his hand shaking. “It’s in the middle one,” he said. “It’s loaded and there should be a box of bullets with it.”

  Willson opened the drawer and pawed through a noisy spider web of metal utensils. “Not here,” she said. After she’d checked in the remaining two drawers, it was clear the revolver was missing.

  “It looks like she’s armed,” said Willson.

  Theroux looked paler than he’d been when the officers first showed up at the door. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Where did you get the gun? Is it registered?” asked Fortier.

  “Sandy got it from Hank Myers. He said we might need it for protection because the people opposing the resort might try to scare us, or worse. As to whether it’s registered or not, I doubt it.”

  Willson suddenly understood how Sandy Trueman had persuaded her mother to miss work, how she’d forced her to participate in the arson and vandalism at Ilsley’s house. A gunpoint threat was a great encourager. And she suddenly understood the degree to which her mother was in danger, having been abducted by an unhinged fanatic with a weapon. Fear filled her veins like a shot of poison. She looked at Fortier, who had obviously come to the same conclusion. “We’ve got to find them, Ben.”

  “What was your wife wearing when you last saw her?” asked Fortier.

  Willson saw that Theroux was almost in shock now, his face white, his body slumped. Whether he loved and was worried about his wife, or he was concerned about the trouble they both were in, she didn’t know and didn’t care.

  “Uh,” Theroux said, scratching his head, “I think she was wearing jeans, hiking shoes, and a purple fleece jacket. Sometimes she jams an old baseball cap on her head, but I can’t remember if she had that on or not …”

  Fortier called in the description of the missing truck and the missing women and relayed the fact that one of them might be armed.

  “Again, John, what does your wife have against my mother?” asked Willson.

  Theroux waited before speaking. He was clearly shaken. “Nothing that I know of. I don’t know if Sandy had ever even met your mother.”

  “Then why was she with her at Ilsley’s place?”

  “The only thing I can think of is that she’s furious with Ilsley and you, and she’s using your mother to get at you. When Austin phoned a few days ago and told us about the articles that that American wrote about the project, and about your secret investigation, he said he needed our help. He sounded different than any other time we talked to him. Desperate. Angry. When Sandy heard that, she went berserk, throwing things, swearing. It got worse as each day passed. She was up all night a few nights ago, wandering the house, muttering to herself. And then when Ilsley showed up at the airport yesterday and Sandy saw her talking to one of the investors, it was as if something broke in her, like a dark cloud had come over her. She was quiet, which is rare. I think she must have thought that the project was unravelling, that everything we were working for was under threat, and that Ilsley had something to do with it. That’s when she drove off in a cloud of dust. I’m betting she sees you two as being the cause of it all. So, in her disturbed mind, she’s either trying to get you to back off, or she’s out for revenge.”

  Willson’s mind was reeling. “Is she violent, John? Would she physically hurt my mother if she’s that angry?”

  “Up until the last few days, I would have said no. Now, I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll ask you one more time,” said Willson, “where the hell would she go?” She grabbed Theroux by the shirt again. “It’s my mother we’re talking about here.”

  Like a rag doll, Theroux offered no resistance to Willson’s shaking. “I told you, I don’t know,” he said, a tear dropping down his left cheek. “And I’m not saying another word until I speak to my lawyer.”

  Willson let go of him and stood back, her arms limp at her sides. As she stared at the dishevelled, tear-stained face of the man in front of her, she had a blinding flash of self-realization. She now saw that her obsession with the investigation had put in jeopardy the one person in her life she really cared about.

  What the hell have I done?

  CHAPTER 35

  APRIL 22

  “Paul, do I need to remind you about the photographs?” asked Austin.

  “I’m telling you all I know, Stafford,” said Paul DeSantos. “This project has moved beyond my level; I’m no longer in the loop on the discussions. I was told to put my work on the resort on hold until some key decisions are made. I’m like the meat in a sandwich here, being squeezed from both sides. This is a no-win situation for me. My hands are tied.” There was a catch in the bureaucrat’s voice. “Look, Stafford. About those photos. It would be great if you could keep them to yourself. Deleting them permanently would be the best. There’s honestly nothing else I can do here other than tell you what I know. And it’s not much.”

  Austin was doodling on a piece of scrap paper. The more he heard from DeSantos that was of no value to the situation, the harder he pressed down, eventually tearing through the paper to the wood desk underneath. He needed answers. “What can you tell me?”

  “Our deputy minister is talking to her counterpart at the federal level. From what little I’ve heard, the feds seem to be doing an about-face on the ski area, shifting from general support over to the no side.”

  “What’s changed their minds?”

  “The word is there were two things making them nervous. The first was the release of Albin Stoffel’s initial research paper. It was published in a scientific journal, but the popular press picked it up. The Globe and Mail did a big piece on it this past weekend. It says that Collie Creek and the Blaeberry area, as well as the wild northern parts of Banff and Yoho parks, are pretty much the epicentre for wolverines in the Canadian Rockies. It’s not crawling with them, but compared to many other mountain areas in the West, it has more than its sha
re. You already know they’re on the species at risk list, so it’s not a result anyone can ignore. The Globe article specifically referenced your project, again calling it a mega-resort, and quoted Stoffel saying it would have a dramatic negative impact on the species if it were built. Also, based on the research results, one of the First Nations groups in the area has announced its opposition to the project. The Globe journalist openly questioned why anyone in government was still giving it any consideration at all.”

  Shit, thought Austin. I should have done something more about Stoffel when I had the chance. Fucking wolverines. “And the second reason?” He waited, but DeSantos was silent for nearly ten seconds. “Paul?”

  “The second reason is that they’ve all seen the articles by that American journalist. They’re extremely nervous about the authenticity of your project funding. I’ve personally done three separate briefings for the deputy on that very subject, but no matter what I say, no matter what assurances I give her, I can’t seem to convince her that this is a bona fide project with bona fide investors. The feds may feel the same.”

  Like a deflating balloon, Austin felt his body empty of any last semblance of hope that the deteriorating situation might be turned around. “So that’s it, then?”

  “It’s not dead yet,” said DeSantos. “Don’t get me wrong. But in light of the questions and the fact that I’ve been told to focus on other things, it’s not looking good.”

  “And the money I’ve invested to date in application fees, research projects, consultant studies, reports, and submissions for you?” If he couldn’t get answers, Austin knew he needed all the money he could get his hands on. Even refunds would help, whether in the thousands or hundreds of dollars.

  “You and I both know that was part of the process, Stafford. I’m not in a position to refund any of that if the project is denied … or if you pull out.”

  “What’s the timing on the decision, Paul? When will I know one way or the other?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What if I do threaten to pull out if they don’t give me an answer by a specific date?”

  “You could do that, but an ultimatum like that might give them the very escape hatch they’re looking for.”

  “I’m screwed if I push … and screwed if I wait.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s about where you’re at. I wish I could tell you different, but I can’t.”

  “I thought I could count on you, Paul.”

  “I did my best, Stafford. Now, what about those photos?”

  In a calm, deliberate motion that contrasted the storm of his emotions, Austin hung up the phone. He sat unmoving, his hand still on the receiver. With Myers pushing him from one side, now demanding an immediate larger share, and with the ski area project falling apart on the other, he understood that his situation matched DeSantos’s: meat in the middle of a sandwich. In his case, he didn’t have a career or marriage at stake. But he did have millions of dollars in play, which in his mind was much more significant. Unlike DeSantos, however, he did have an exit plan, developed months earlier with this very scenario in mind.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a hesitant voice from the doorway. “Mr. Austin?” said his assistant. He looked up at the young man, who looked mildly confused, as if waiting for an explanation. “You have an appointment with Ms. Liang at two p.m. at the Terminal City Club?”

  Austin looked at his Rolex. Ten minutes to two. “I didn’t realize the time, Barinder,” he said, with a thin, forced smile. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  Rain fell lightly during the short walk from his office to the club. Austin turned his attention to the meeting ahead. Suzanne Liang was an unknown, a referral via a text from Matt Merrix. His first thought when he’d read Merrix’s message the day before was that Liang was an investigator from the B.C. Securities Commission or the police, and that Merrix had turned him in rather than wait any longer for his clients’ money. After Berland’s articles had come out, Austin had expected that the authorities would be onto him eventually, appear at his door either formally or covertly. After the investors’ visit to Collie Creek, he had sensed in Merrix a man who’d made up his mind to pull his clients’ money out. Thus it was surprising to receive his text suggesting Liang had funds that she wanted to invest, and quickly — that in itself sounded suspicious.

  But Austin desperately needed cash. The next set of quarterly payments was overdue and he couldn’t put them off much longer. If Liang was a legitimate investor, then he couldn’t risk losing her money by refusing to meet with her. So he’d decided to proceed, but with significant caution. He’d been pursued by investigators in the past; he felt confident that he could pick up the signals of a person digging for details for the wrong reasons.

  When the club’s host pointed him to Liang, seated at a table by the window, Austin smiled and walked across the room toward her, his confidence returning. He was a salesman at heart and had no doubt that he could be persuasive when it came to pitching an investment. He would confidently and nimbly push her emotional buttons, moving swiftly from one plucked heartstring to another, most of them in the key of greed.

  Liang was a slim woman who looked to be in her early forties. Her white pencil skirt and pink stilettos showed off her shapely legs to full effect, and her creamy, translucent blouse showed a hint of pink bra underneath. Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her makeup was subtle yet enchanting, her eyes dancing in the light of the window. Instantly he decided that even if this woman was only acting the part, he would still enjoy the encounter.

  “Ms. Liang?”

  “That’s me,” she said, smiling. “Please, call me Suzanne. You must be Stafford Austin.”

  As he reached out to shake her proffered right hand, he noticed that her nails were painted the same shade as her shoes. Her left hand was resting on the table — a quick glance confirmed she was not wearing a wedding ring.

  “At your service, Suzanne,” he said, sitting down. He ordered a caffè Americano from the server, who was already hovering at his elbow. “I understand that you got my name from Matt Merrix. How do you know Matt?”

  “He represented my nephew Simon when he played in the Western Hockey League for the Kootenay Ice.”

  “Ah … is Simon still playing?”

  “No. He was drafted by an NHL team, but never really made the pros. After a month or two on some team called the Greenville Swamp Rabbits with only a tryout contract, he quit and came back to Vancouver to attend school. Playing in the minors was a horrible life, even if it was only part of a season — long bus rides, cheap hotels, empty arenas. He played four years for the UBC hockey team and now he’s a chartered accountant, working for the family business.”

  Austin listened carefully; these were background details he could easily verify with a quick web search. “And what’s the family business?”

  Liang’s lips, also pink, shifted upward in a barely perceptible smile. “For the sake of this discussion today, let’s say it’s an international import-export business.”

  “And what do you import or export?”

  The smile remained. “Anything that will make a profit for us.”

  Austin returned the smile, then took a sip of his coffee, which had already been discreetly delivered. It was hot and fresh and strong. But his sense of urgency overrode his patience. He placed the cup back on the saucer — slowly, gently — trying to calm the slight tremble in his hand.

  “Matt sent me a message suggesting that you might wish to invest in one of my funds.”

  “Good,” said Liang. “I asked him to do that. He told me how successful you’ve been with your funds … at least until recently.”

  “We’re still doing well. It is true that a journalist took a run at us a few weeks ago, tried to suggest something that wasn’t true. But it was nothing more than speculation and exaggeration. My lawyer’s dealing with it now. I’m pleased to confirm that the projects I’m investing in are indeed moving ahead, and th
at our investors are continuing to receive impressive and consistent returns.”

  Liang lifted a crystal glass filled with ice and a clear liquid. The cubes tinkled against the sides and she peered at him over the rim of the glass. “Matt suggested that there might be delays in dividend payments, and that some investors who’ve tried to move their money out of the funds haven’t been able to do so. Is he right? Also, I need to ask: is there really no truth to the journalist’s story?”

  Austin paused before responding. If she was legitimately interested in investing with him, then these were questions any prudent investor would ask — due diligence. In his experience, he knew that wealthy people did not stay wealthy by being foolish, at least not the majority of them. But if she was something else, someone other than who she claimed to be, then she might be digging for details she didn’t have or could only guess at, trying to catch him in a lie. In that case, he had to take great care in his answer. “I suggest that Matt is somewhat overstating the situation, despite my explanations to him to the contrary.” Another pause, another sip of coffee. “The last round of dividends has been delayed slightly only because I’m focused on meeting government demands for more environmental information relating to the Top of the World project. Mine is a small company with very little overhead. I want my investors’ money to work hard, not be swallowed up in administration costs, so I have to do most of the work myself. The government’s requests come in waves, with very tight timelines. This short delay is only temporary, and I remain very confident. You have my word on that.”

  “I don’t know you very well though, do I? How do I know your word is good?”

  “I expected you to ask that question. I would ask the same. I can certainly give you a list of people who are pleased with what I’ve done for them.”