Full Curl

by Dave Butler

  “Kootenay Warden Office, MacDonald,” answered the familiar voice.

  “Hey, Peter,” said Willson. “It’s Jenny from Banff. How’s it going over there?”

  “Hi, Jenny,” said MacDonald. “I work for the federal government, so I’m living the dream.” It was his standard response after twenty-five years with Parks Canada. “What can I do for you?”

  “Are you guys missing a mountain goat?” she asked.

  “Uh … not that I know of,” said MacDonald with a short laugh. “Why? Did you find an extra one?”

  “Not exactly. Do you remember when I was talking to you last week about the elk-poaching investigation I was working on?”

  “Yeah. When we spoke, you were on to some new leads.”

  “Well, we interviewed one of the suspects two days ago in Cranbrook,” she said. “He confirmed that the guy we’re looking for shot the Banff elk. But then, he let slip that the same guy also shot a goat in your park, near Mount Wardle. He did it with a local guide-outfitter.”

  “Are you kidding me?” MacDonald sounded aghast.

  “No. Unfortunately, I still don’t have the name of the hunter, but I know he’s American.”

  “That doesn’t help much, does it,” said MacDonald. “Most of the guys who come up here with outfitters are from the U.S. Who’s the outfitter?”

  “A guy by the name of Eastman, Bernie Eastman, with a territory in the Purcells west of Fairmont. Based on what our suspect said — and this was confirmed by an anonymous phone call from someone across the border — it looks like Eastman is offering guaranteed hunts. And our American suspect took him up on it.”

  “I’ve heard of Eastman. He’s supposed to be a real piece of work. What’s a guaranteed hunt?”

  Willson explained the guarantee, adding, “It’s like you and me are protecting private hunting reserves for these fuckers. Nice of us, eh? You’d guess right if you said this American paid a premium. Our guy told us it was an extra ten grand on top of the regular cost of a ten-day hunt. It looks like Eastman is using at least three of the national parks. Clark told us that after they started working together, Eastman and his client rarely bothered going to his territory anymore. They now head to one of the parks as soon as he arrives in the country. From what we got in the interview, we’ve confirmed that Eastman and the American got the elk in Banff, the bighorn ram in Wilcox Pass in Jasper, and … your goat in Kootenay.”

  “Unbelievable,” said MacDonald. “But wait. I didn’t hear anything about a bighorn sheep in Jasper.”

  “Oh, sorry. The Jasper wardens have been keeping that quiet because they want to solve it themselves — to impress the brass in Ottawa,” said Willson.

  “You’re not talking about our friend and brown-noser Paul Hunter, are you?”

  “What a surprise, eh?” As she spoke, she heard the click of computer keys at MacDonald’s end of the phone line.

  “Wait,” said MacDonald. “I do see a report in our system about a goat.” He paused for a moment; Willson assumed he was reading.

  “One of our new wardens found a goat carcass near Mount Wardle on April second,” said MacDonald. More keys clicking. “The report says it was a couple of hundred metres uphill of the highway. I guess he found it because he saw a bunch of ravens on it. Apparently, he checked and it was mostly bones by the time he got there. He mentioned there was no head or cape and the parts were scattered. The report states that either wolves or coyotes had been on the carcass by the look of the tracks around it, so he assumed they dragged the missing pieces off elsewhere. He thought it might have been killed in a fall or an avalanche. Geez, the fact the hide was missing should have been a clue for him that something wasn’t right. This goat might be what your suspect was talking about, Jenny.”

  “Yup, that could be it,” she said. “Could you possibly get your guy to go back there with a metal detector and see if he can find a bullet? We seized rifles from the outfitter and it would be huge if we could get a ballistics match. We know from the interview they used a .308. We’ve got a signed statement from the suspect who says he was there; finding the bullet would be another nail in the coffin. A few photographs of the scene would help. Send me his written report, as well?”

  “Absolutely,” said MacDonald. “Since he’s the only one who knows where the carcass was, I’ll send the guy there tomorrow with one of our avalanche techs, just to be safe. There’s probably snow still hanging up high, waiting to come down.”

  “Keep me posted, will you, Peter?” asked Jenkins.

  “Hey, hang on a minute,” said MacDonald. Willson heard more clicking. “There’s another potential connection here. A few days before the goat was found, one of our highway maintenance guys died in a traffic accident in the park. I forgot about that.”

  “How’s that a connection?” asked Willson.

  “We didn’t find him until the day after he died,” said MacDonald. “His truck was upside down in a pond near the Kootenay Crossing Warden Station. The potential connection is this: in his last radio transmission, he said he was following some guys with what he thought was a rifle.”

  “How did he know they had a rifle?”

  “He said something about them being parked, so he must have seen it as he went by.”

  “Are you kidding me?” asked Willson. “Do you know how he died?”

  “He broke his neck,” answered MacDonald. “The only evidence the RCMP’s accident reconstruction guys have is that he slammed his brakes on and then went over the guardrail into the pond. The truck probably flew a good thirty metres before hitting the ice.”

  “Were other vehicles involved?”

  “They couldn’t tell. They found other skid marks but told us that because of the road conditions, they couldn’t be sure if they happened at the same time.”

  “Did the guy say anything more before he died?” she asked.

  “We’ve all listened to the recording many times,” said MacDonald, with a catch of emotion in his voice. “All he said was that he was following a suspicious vehicle with three occupants … he didn’t say male or female … he’d seen them parked and thought he saw a rifle. The transmission ended just as he was telling us where they were going. It shook us all up. He left a wife, two kids, and five grandchildren.”

  “Holy shit,” said Willson, sitting well back in her chair, the back legs audibly complaining. She remembered what Clark had told her about Eastman slamming on his brakes when they were being followed. Did they cause the park worker’s death?

  “You got that right,” said MacDonald. “With what you’ve told me, Jenny, I’m thinking we can connect some dots that we hadn’t connected until today. As soon as I can, I’m going to get our guys up to the site where the goat was found. If we find something, do you want me to send it to you or direct to the crime lab?”

  “Send it direct to the crime lab,” said Willson. “I’ll give you our file number so they can check the bullet against the rifles we seized. The rifles are already at the lab.” She read the number to MacDonald. “I’ll also call the RCMP in Invermere about the possible link to the death of your colleague. They’ll probably want to talk to Eastman.”

  “Consider it done, Jenny,” said MacDonald. “Thanks again. Until your call, we were completely in the dark about this. As this keeps moving, let me know what I can do to help.”

  “Absolutely,” said Willson. “Thanks, Peter.”

  Willson put the phone on the table, stood, and then paced the length of the house from the back kitchen to the front living room, back and forth, her hands clasped behind her back, the old floors creaking under her as if offering advice. She stared out the front window onto Cougar Street and saw a middle-aged couple dressed in hiking gear, confused looks on their faces despite the map in the man’s hand. Another pair of tourists lost in the town of Banff. “At least you have a map,” she muttered. “That wou
ld be real helpful to figure out where the hell I’m going.”

  Chapter 18

  May 20

  Bernie Eastman watched Wendy Clark steer down the long driveway leading to his house, her beat-up Pontiac splashing through puddles in the gravel. It was the second week of May and spring had the East Kootenay in a warm embrace. Wendy stopped the car. Eastman saw her take a generous mouthful from a bottle hidden under the passenger seat. Some things never change, he thought. The woman is still a drunk.

  Wendy walked to the front door of the log house and pushed the doorbell repeatedly. After getting no response, she turned back toward her car, her eyes widening when she noticed Eastman leaning against it.

  He scowled at her, his arms folded across his barrel chest. “What’re you doin’ here, Wendy?”

  “I need to talk to you, Bernie. It’s about Charlie. I think he talked to the cops,” she said.

  Eastman stared at her for an awkward moment. “Come inside,” he said. He directed her to his den in the back of the house. They sat across from each other in matching chairs covered in green camouflage. In the background, he heard the sound of his two sons playing video games, their laughter and loud voices abrupt and unpredictable. He knew that his wife was elsewhere in the house, on the goddamned computer, racking up more debt. The bitch held her financing of his territory over him like a hammer. And he was the nail.

  “How ’bout a drink?” asked Wendy, her eyes darting around the room.

  “Forget the drink,” said Eastman. “Tell me what that little shithead has done now. I told him not to say anything to anybody.”

  “I don’t know for sure,” she said. “I have no idea where he was one day last week, but when he left, he told me he was meetin’ with the lawyer. He came back home late that night, a real mess.”

  “He hadn’t been drinkin’, had he?”

  “No way,” she said. “He doesn’t do that anymore because of the drugs he’s on. But he was shaking and wobbly and mostly incoherent. It was the worst I’d seen him since he was diagnosed.”

  “Jesus, Wendy,” said Eastman, “what did he say? Get to the fucking point.”

  When they were younger, before either of them were married, Eastman and Wendy had engaged in a weekend affair. Eastman had been dating Wendy’s sister at the time, but that had unravelled when the sister discovered the affair. Regretting that fling more with each passing year, Eastman saw that Wendy was aging as badly as any woman could age. She almost made him physically ill — the sight and sound of her, her frizzy hair, her wrinkled frown, and her cigarette-ravaged voice. That the woman worked for him did nothing to diminish his disgust.

  “He staggered into the trailer, fell into his chair, and then ranted about lawyers and cops and goin’ to jail,” she said. “I’m worried he mighta done somethin’ stupid.”

  Eastman’s impatience began to grow. “What specifically did he say, Wendy?”

  “Well, he rambled on and on about makin’ deals,” she said, “and refusin’ to tell people where the dope came from. And he kept blamin’ it all on the fuckin’ Mexican, sayin’ over and over again it’s his fault we’re in this mess.”

  “Did you ask him any questions?”

  “I did,” she said, “but I got nothin’ outta him. Once he wound down, he fell asleep pretty quick … and then wouldn’t talk the next day.”

  Eastman pondered the implications of what she said. When the park warden and conservation officers had shown up to search his house, Eastman was surprised. He’d thought his trophy guarantees were bomb-proof and that his tracks were covered. As a result, he’d kept his mouth shut when they poked, prodded, and pried into his possessions that evening. And he hadn’t talked to any of them since. He wasn’t going to lift a goddamn finger for them, but couldn’t help wondering how they’d found out what he’d been doing over the last year. When he heard they’d searched Clark’s trailer the same night, he knew his potential problems had multiplied.

  “Shit, Wendy,” he said, his face red, his eyes burning into her. He was trying to stay calm, but failing. “You and I both know there’s a lot at stake here — for all three of us. We can’t afford to have that husband of yours opening his big mouth. Castillo will go crazy if he finds out that Charlie might’ve talked to the cops about the animals we took — or about the dope. None of us can afford for any of this to get out.”

  “I know, I know. Them findin’ my stash was bad luck,” she said. “When Charlie jumped on that woman warden, they knew somethin’ was in that shed. I tried to stop him but …”

  “This is not good,” said Eastman. “I have to talk to Charlie again. He’s gotta understand he has to keep his mouth shut, no matter what. Are you sure you don’t know what he said to them?”

  “I don’t have a fuckin’ clue, Bernie.”

  “I gotta talk to him and I gotta talk to him soon. Castillo’s gonna want to know.”

  “Speakin’ of that,” she said, “I need more dope, Bernie. The cops took all I had when they hit our place. I need to get some cash comin’ in so I can pay the lawyer you sent to bail out Charlie.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” asked Eastman. “You already owe me for what the cops took from you.”

  “I won’t keep the dope at the house,” she said. “But you know very well that workin’ with the lawyer is the only way we can control what Charlie might do. With the lawyer, we might stop Charlie from doin’ somethin’ stupid. Without him, who knows what he’ll do or say. You and me got no other choice, Bernie.”

  Eastman paused to collect his thoughts. He was in a no-win situation and getting in deeper by the day.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll give you more — just enough to cover Lindsay’s costs — but I want my goddamn money and I want it soon. You gotta move the stuff quickly and you gotta keep your fuckin’ head down. The cops are gonna be watching you now.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “I talked to a guy who will take it all off me in one deal.”

  “Jesus. He’s not an undercover cop, is he? That’s the last thing we need. Who is this guy?”

  “No way,” she replied. “He’s not a narc. He’s part of a new gang from Alberta. I checked him out. He moved here a while back and works at one of the mines near Sparwood. If it works out, we could move a lot of product through these guys.”

  “They’re not going to be competing with us, are they?”

  “Nope, he said they were going to be selling it in Alberta. I don’t know where.”

  “Shit, Wendy, I’m not sure that’s any better,” said Eastman. “This makes me nervous. But we got no choice. No matter what, you can’t let these Alberta guys find out what we’re doing here.” He stood up from the chair and walked outside, Wendy following him.

  When they reached the front porch steps, Eastman yelled across the yard, “Stevie, are you over there?”

  A man’s head popped out of the door of the barn, a large, Quonset-style building with a half-circle aluminum roof. “Yeah, Uncle Bernie, I’m still here. What do you need?”

  “Bring me two bundles,” said Eastman.

  “You got it,” said the young man before disappearing back into the barn.

  “Is that your nephew?” asked Wendy. “The one who was in Afghanistan?”

  “Yeah, that’s Steve. He’s been back and out of the army for a few months now.”

  “How’s he doin’?”

  “Okay, I guess,” said Eastman, staring toward the barn. “His doctors say he’s got that post-traumatic stress thing, so loud noises startle him. He can’t work in my outfitting business, so he helps me here through the winter.”

  Stevie’s last name was Barber rather than Eastman; his mother was Eastman’s sister, five years his senior. After a six-year stint in the Canadian Armed Forces, the young Barber had recently accepted a discharge, with a case of PTSD as a parting gift. Eastman kne
w Stevie was still trying to figure out what to do with his life. It would be a tough slog, trying to make a living while fighting his demons, demons that had jumped on his back while he dodged IEDs and Taliban snipers, demons that followed him home. For now, he was working on a silviculture crew, cutting and burning brush piles, and helping Eastman with odd jobs. It was tough and mindless labour, ideal for his current frame of mind.

  A few moments later, Stevie walked across the yard, a bundle tucked under each arm. They looked just like the two seized by the RCMP at Clark’s trailer. He handed the parcels to his uncle, nodded at Clark, then walked back across the yard to disappear into the barn.

  Eastman again stared at Wendy for a full minute, anger and frustration showing on his face. She squirmed under his gaze.

  “Don’t screw this up again, Wendy. Neither of us can afford it,” he said, his mouth a grim, straight line. “And like I told you, I need to sit down with Charlie soon, before he does anythin’ we’ll regret. I want you to make that happen. I hope we’re not too fuckin’ late.” He handed her the packages.

  She nodded in agreement. “I will,” she said.

  Eastman watched her put the parcels in the trunk of her car, tucking them into the folds of a horse blanket. She slammed the lid, slid into the driver’s seat, and drove down the driveway. When she reached the highway, Eastman saw her pause to take another drink. She then turned left toward Kimberley, and her car disappeared behind a stand of pines.

  Eastman stood in his yard after watching Wendy leave, his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his worn pants. He looked skyward and shivered, even though it wasn’t cold.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said out loud. “Now I find out that fuckin’ Charlie may have told the cops about Castillo, and they might come after him next. If I tell Castillo, Charlie’s as good as dead. And if I don’t and Castillo finds out the hard way, he’ll come after me.” Eastman knew he had to tell his client what was happening, but he didn’t know how and he didn’t know when.