High Citadel / Landslide

by Desmond Bagley

  McDougall clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘Don’t be naïve, Boyd.’ He ticked off points on his fingers. ‘The option was to be exercised at book value and by the time Donner had finished juggling the books my guess is that the book value had slumped in some weird way. That’s one angle. Secondly, the Chairman of the Board of Trustees is William Justus Sloane, and W.J. practically lives in Bull Matterson’s pocket these days. The Board of Trustees promptly reinvested what little they got from Matterson right back into the newly organized Matterson Corporation, and if anyone controls that dough now it’s old Bull. Thirdly, it took the Board of Trustees an awful long time to get off its collective fanny to do anything about ratifying the terms of the trust. It took no less than four years to get that Department of Lumber Technology going, and it was a pretty half-hearted effort at that. From what I hear the department is awfully short of funds. Fourthly, the terms of the sale of Trinavant’s holdings to Bull were never made public. I reckon he should have cut up for something between seven and ten million dollars but the Board of Trustees only invested two million in the Matterson Corporation and in non-voting stock, by God, which was just ducky for Bull Matterson. Fifthly…aaah…what am I wasting my time for?’

  ‘So you reckon Bull Matterson practically stole the Trinavant money.’

  ‘There’s no practically about it,’ McDougall snapped.

  ‘Bad luck for Miss Clare,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, she did all right. There was a special codicil in the will that took care of her. John left her half a million dollars and a big slice of land. That’s something Bull hasn’t been able to get his hooks on—not that he hasn’t tried.’

  I thought of the tone of the leader in which the recommendation had been made that Miss Trinavant’s education should not be interrupted. ‘How old was she when Trinavant was killed?’

  ‘She was a kid of seventeen. Old John had sent her to Switzerland to complete her education.’

  ‘And who wrote the leader on September 7th, 1956?’

  McDougall smiled tightly. ‘So you caught that? You’re a smart boy, after all. The leader was written by Jimson but I bet Matterson dictated it. It’s a debatable point whether or not that option agreement could have been broken, especially since Clare wasn’t legally of John’s family, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He flew out to Switzerland himself and persuaded her to stay, and he put that leader under her nose as an indication that the people of Fort Farrell thought likewise. She knew the Recorder was an honest newspaper; what she didn’t know was that Matterson corrupted it the week Trinavant died. She was a girl of seventeen who knew nothing about business.’

  ‘So who looked after her half million bucks until she came of age?’

  ‘The Public Trustee,’ said McDougall. ‘It’s pretty automatic in cases like hers. Bull tried to horn in on it, of course, but he never got anywhere.’

  I went over the whole unsavoury story in my mind, then shook my head. ‘What I don’t understand is why Matterson clamped down on the name of Trinavant. What did he have to hide?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ confessed McDougall. ‘I was hoping that the man who consulted that issue of the Recorder after ten years would be able to tell me. But from that day to this the name of Trinavant has been blotted out in this town. The Trinavant Bank was renamed the Matterson Bank, and every company that held the name was rebaptized. He even tried to change the name of Trinavant Square but he couldn’t get it past Mrs Davenant—she’s the old battle-axe who runs the Fort Farrell Historical Society.’

  I said, ‘Yes, if it hadn’t been for that I wouldn’t have known this was Trinavant’s town.’

  ‘Would it have made any difference?’ When I made no answer McDougall said, ‘He couldn’t rename Clare Trinavant either. It’s my guess he’s been praying to God she gets married. She lives in the district, you know—and she hates his guts.’

  ‘So the old man’s still alive.’

  ‘He sure is. Must be seventy-five now, and he wears his age well—he’s still full of piss and vinegar, but he always was a rumbustious old stallion. John Trinavant was the brake on him, but when John went then old Bull really broke loose. He organized the Matterson Corporation as a holding company and really went to town on money-making, and he wasn’t particular how he made it—he still isn’t, for that matter. And the amount of forest land he owns…’

  I broke in. ‘I thought all forest land was Crown land.’

  ‘In British Columbia ninety-five per cent is Crown land, but five per cent—say, seven million acres—is under private ownership. Bull owns no less than one million acres, and he has felling franchises on another two million acres of Crown land. He cuts sixty million cubic feet of lumber a year. He’s always on the edge of getting into trouble because of over-cutting—the Government doesn’t like that—but he’s always weaselled his way out. Now he’s starting his own hydroelectric plant, and when he has that he’ll really have this part of the country by the throat.’

  I said, ‘Young Matterson told me the hydro plant was to supply power to the Matterson Corporation’s own operations.’

  McDougall’s lip quirked satirically. ‘And what do you think Fort Farrell is but a Matterson operation? We have a two-bit generating plant here that’s never up to voltage and always breaking down, so now the Matterson Electricity Company moves in. And Matterson operations have a way of spreading wider. I believe old Bull has a vision of the Matterson Corporation controlling a slice of British Columbia from Fort St John to Kispiox, from Prince George clear to the Yukon—a private kingdom to run as he likes.’

  ‘Where does Donner come into all this?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘He’s a money man—an accountant. He thinks in nothing but dollars and cents and he’ll squeeze a dollar until it cries uncle. Now there’s a really ruthless, conniving bastard for you. He figures out the schemes and Bull Matterson makes them work. But Bull has put himself upstairs as Chairman of the Board—he leaves the day-to-day running of things to young Howard—and Donner is now riding herd on Howard to prevent him running hogwild.’

  ‘He’s not doing too good a job,’ I said, and told him of the episode in Howard’s office.

  McDougall snorted. ‘Donner can handle that young punk with one hand tied behind his back. He’ll give way on things that don’t matter much, but on anything important Howard definitely comes last. Young Howard puts up a good front and may look like a man, but he’s soft inside. He’s not a tenth of the man his father is.’

  I sat and digested all that for a long time, and finally said, ‘All right, Mac; you said you had a personal interest in all this. What is it?’

  He stared me straight in the eye and said, ‘It may come as a surprise to you to find that even newspapermen have a sense of honour. John Trinavant was my friend; he used to come up here quite often and drink my whisky and have a yarn. I was sick to my stomach at what the Recorder did to him and his family when they died, but I stood by and let it happen. Jimson is an incompetent fool and I could have put such a story on the front page of this newspaper that John Trinavant would never have been forgotten in Fort Farrell. But I didn’t, and you know why? Because I was a coward; because I was scared of Bull Matterson; because I was frightened of losing my job.’

  His voice broke a little. ‘Son, when John Trinavant was killed I was rising sixty, already an elderly man. I’ve always been a free-spender and I had no money, and it’s always been in my mind that I come from a long-lived family. I reckoned I had many years ahead of me, but what can an old man of sixty do when he loses his job?’ His voice strengthened. ‘Now I’m seventy-one and still working for Matterson. I do a good job for him—that’s why he keeps me on here. It’s not charity because Matterson doesn’t even know the meaning of the word. But in the last ten years I’ve saved a bit and now that I don’t have so many years ahead of me I’d like to do something for my friend, John Trinavant. I’m not running scared any more.’

  I said, ‘What would you propose to do?’


  He took a deep breath. ‘You can tell me. A man doesn’t walk in off the street and read a ten-year-old issue of a newspaper without a reason. I want to know that reason.’

  ‘No, Mac,’ I said. ‘Not yet. I don’t know if I have a reason or not. I don’t know if I have a right to interfere. I came to Fort Farrell purely by chance and I don’t know if this is any of my business.’

  He puffed out his cheeks and blew out his breath explosively. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘I just don’t get it.’ He wore a baffled look. ‘Are you telling me that you read that ten-year-old issue just for kicks—or just because you like browsing through crummy country newspapers? Maybe you wanted to check which good housewife won the pumpkin pie baking competition that week. Is that it?’

  ‘No dice, Mac,’ I said. ‘You won’t get it out of me until I’m ready, and I’m a long way off yet.’

  ‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve told you a lot—enough to get my head chopped off if Matterson hears about it. I’ve put my neck right on the block.’

  ‘You’re safe with me, Mac.’

  He grunted. ‘I sure as hell hope so. I’d hate to be fired now with no good coming of it.’ He got up and took a file from a shelf. ‘I might as well give you a bit more. It struck me that if Matterson wanted to erase the name of Trinavant the reason might be connected with the way Trinavant died.’ He took a photograph from the file and passed it to me. ‘Know who that is?’

  I looked at the fresh young face and nodded. I had seen a copy of the same photograph before but I didn’t tell McDougall. ‘Yes, it’s Robert Grant.’ I laid it on the table.

  ‘The fourth passenger in the car,’ said McDougall, tapping the photograph with his fingernail. ‘That young man lived. Nobody expected him to live, but he did. Six months after Trinavant died I had a vacation coming, so I used it to do some quiet checking out of reach of old Bull. I went over to Edmonton and visited the hospital. Robert Grant had been transferred to Quebec; he was in a private clinic and he was incommunicado. From then on I lost track of him—and it’s a hard task to hide from an old newspaperman with a bee in his bonnet. I sent copies of this photograph to a few of my friends—newspapermen scattered all over Canada—and not a thing has come up in ten years. Robert Grant has disappeared off the face of the earth.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Son, have you seen this man?’

  I looked down at the photograph again. Grant looked to be only a boy, barely in his twenties and with a fine full life ahead of him. I said slowly, ‘To my best knowledge I’ve never seen that face.’

  ‘Well, it was a try,’ said McDougall. ‘I had thought you might be a friend of his come to see how the land lies.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mac,’ I said. ‘I’ve never met this man. But why would he want to come here, anyway? Isn’t Grant an irrelevancy?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said McDougall thoughtfully. ‘And maybe not. I just wanted to talk to him, that’s all.’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s have another drink, for God’s sake!’

  That night I had the Dream. It was at least five years since I had had it last and, as usual, it frightened hell out of me. There was a mountain covered with snow and with jagged black rocks sticking out of the snow like snaggle teeth. I wasn’t climbing the mountain or descending—I was merely standing there as though rooted. When I tried to move my feet it was as though the snow was sticky like an adhesive and I felt like a fly trapped on flypaper.

  The snow was falling all the time; drifts were building up and presently the snow was knee-high and then at midthigh. I knew that if I didn’t move I would be buried so I struggled again and bent down and pushed at the snow with my bare hands.

  It was then that I found that the snow was not cold, but red hot in temperature, even though it was perfectly white in my dreams. I cried in agony and jerked my hands away and waited helplessly as the snow imperceptibly built up around my body. It touched my hands and then my face and I screamed as the hot, hot snow closed about me burning, burning, burning…

  I woke up covered in sweat in that anonymous hotel room and wished I could have a jolt of Mac’s fine Islay whisky.

  TWO

  The first thing I can ever remember in my life is pain. It is not given to many men to experience their birth-pangs and I don’t recommend it. Not that any commendation of mine, for or against, can have any effect—none of us chooses to be born and the manner of our birth is beyond our control.

  I felt the pain as a deep-seated agony all over my body. It became worse as time passed by, a red-hot fire consuming me. I fought against it with all my heart and seemed to prevail, though they tell me that the damping of the pain was due to the use of drugs. The pain went away and I became unconscious.

  At the time of my birth I was twenty-three years old, or so I am reliably informed.

  I am also told that I spent the next few weeks in a coma, hovering on that thin marginal line between life and death.

  I am inclined to think of this as a mercy because if I had been conscious enough to undergo the pain I doubt if I would have lived and my life would indeed have been short.

  When I recovered consciousness again the pain, though still crouched in my body, had eased considerably and I found it bearable. Less bearable was the predicament in which I found myself. I was spreadeagled—tied by ankles and wrists—lying on my back and apparently immersed in liquid. I had very little to go on because when I tried to open my eyes I found that I couldn’t. There was a tightness about my face and I became very much afraid and began to struggle.

  A voice said urgently, ‘You must be quiet. You must not move. You must not move.’

  It was a good voice, soft and kind, so I relaxed and descended into that merciful coma again.

  A number of weeks passed during which time I was conscious more frequently. I don’t remember much of this period except that the pain became less obtrusive and I became stronger. They began to feed me through a tube pushed between my lips, and I sucked in the soups and the fruit juices and became even stronger. Three times I was aware that I had been taken to an operating theatre; I learned this not from my own knowledge but by listening to the chatter of nurses. But for the most part I was in a happy state of thoughtlessness. It never occurred to me to wonder what I was doing there or how I had got there, any more than a newborn baby in a cot thinks of those things. As a baby, I was content to let things go their own way so long as I was comfortable and comforted.

  The time came when they cut the bandage from my face and eyes. A voice, a man’s voice I had heard before, said, ‘Now, take it easy. Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them.’

  Obediently I closed my eyes tightly and heard the snip of the scissors as they clipped through the gauze. Fingers touched my eyelids and there was a whispered, ‘Seems to be all right.’ Someone was breathing into my face. The voice said, ‘All right; you can open them now.’

  I opened my eyes to a darkened room. In front of me was the dim outline of a man. He said, ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

  A white object swam into vision. I said, ‘Two.’

  ‘And how many now?’

  ‘Four.’

  He gave a long, gusty sigh. ‘It looks as though you are going to have unimpaired vision after all. You’re a very lucky young man, Mr Grant.’

  ‘Grant?’

  The man paused. ‘Your name is Grant, isn’t it?’

  I thought about it for a long time and the man assumed I wasn’t going to answer him. He said, ‘Come now; if you are not Grant, then who are you?’

  It is then they tell me that I screamed and they had to administer more drugs. I don’t remember screaming. All I remember is the awful blank feeling when I realized that I didn’t know who I was.

  I have given the story of my rebirth in some detail. It is really astonishing that I lived those many weeks, conscious for a large part of the time, without ever worrying about my personal identity. But all that was explained afterwards by Susskind.

&nbs
p; Dr Matthews, the skin specialist, was one of the team which was cobbling me together, and he was the first to realize that there was something more wrong with me than mere physical disability, so Susskind was added to the team. I never called him anything other than Susskind—that’s how he introduced himself—and he was never anything else than a good friend. I guess that’s what makes a good psychiatrist. When I was on my feet and moving around outside hospitals we used to go out and drink beer together. I don’t know if that’s a normal form of psychiatric treatment—I thought head-shrinkers stuck pretty firmly to the little padded seat at the head of the couch—but Susskind had his own ways and he turned out to be a good friend.

  He came into the darkened room and looked at me. ‘I’m Susskind,’ he said abruptly. He looked about the room. ‘Dr Matthews says you can have more light. I think it’s a good idea.’ He walked to the window and drew the curtains. ‘Darkness is bad for the soul.’

  He came back to the bed and stood looking down at me. He had a strong face with a firm jaw and a beak of a nose, but his eyes were incongruously soft and brown, like those of an intelligent ape. He made a curiously disarming gesture, and said, ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  I shook my head so he hooked his foot on a chair and drew it closer. He sat down in a casual manner, his left ankle resting on his right knee, showing a large expanse of sock patterned jazzily and two inches of hairy leg. ‘How are you feeling?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ When I made no answer he said, ‘Look, boy, you seem to be in trouble. Now, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.’

  I’d had a bad night, the worst in my life. For hours I had struggled with the problem—who am I?—and I was no nearer to finding out than when I started. I was worn out and frightened and in no mood to talk to anyone.

  Susskind began to talk in a soft voice. I don’t remember everything he said that first time but he returned to the theme many times afterwards. It went something like this: