by Dave Butler
“Seems like a nasty virus has infected the entire organization and it’s spreading like the plague,” said Willson, again glaring at the little man across the table. “Ebola seems friendly compared to this.”
Before the superintendent had the satisfaction of dismissing her, Willson gathered her files from the table, pulled on her uniform jacket, and left the room. As the door swung closed behind her, she heard the chief park warden’s words echoing in the near-empty room. “You guys both know this is bullshit, pure and simple.”
Willson was numb as she walked across the parking lot behind the building. She unlocked the door to her truck, climbed in, and just sat. She was angry, surprised, shocked, the emotions boiling in her like a biblical thunderstorm. Her gaze focused on a layer of dust along the edge of the dashboard, light grey against dark brown.
This was the first time that politics had affected Willson so directly and so overtly. She’d heard about it, watched it from afar through some of her colleagues’ experiences, but had never been this close to it. It looked bad, smelled bad, and tasted just as bad. The directions from the higher-ups had been very clear, and there appeared to be little to no wiggle room for her.
She reflected back to her first days on the job and the pride she’d felt when she first put on the park warden uniform. She’d joined Parks Canada to protect these special places, she thought, not to sit idly by while nervous bureaucrats allowed assholes like Eastman and the American to violently and brazenly steal from them.
She had, however, enough experience in government to know she had to be smarter than the little man from Calgary. She had to play his game if she was going to be successful in keeping this moving. But she’d never played this game before, didn’t know the friggin’ rules. Without help, the chances of her winning were, she knew, slim.
Despite the warm spring, Willson shivered, so she turned on the ignition to activate the heater. As the cab warmed, she relaxed a little and realized she needed guidance from someone with experience in political sword-fighting, someone who knew how to parry and thrust, who could teach her how to play offence rather than defence. While she respected Frank Speer, she also knew that asking him for suggestions would put him in a difficult position. His retirement was on the horizon and she didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.
Angry and confused, Willson thought about her wilderness-loving hero, Edward Abbey, as she often did at times like this. What would Ed do? she thought. For times like this, she needed a T-shirt with that question across the chest. And then she recalled one of her favourite Abbey sayings. He had compared society to a pot of something, a stew or a soup. Without regular stirring, thick scum would form on top.
She realized that she’ d run smack into that scummy layer. Time to do some stirring. With inspiration from Abbey, Willson then thought of her uncle Roy, of his many years in the RCMP. He might know what to do in a situation like this, she thought. He’d recently transferred to the detachment in Cochrane, Alberta, likely his last posting before he retired. She called him using her personal cellphone, just in case. He picked up after three rings.
“Yello,” her uncle answered.
“Hi, Uncle Roy, it’s Jenny.”
“Hey, Jenny, it’s great to hear from my favourite park warden,” said her uncle. “Stand by one, please.” She heard him speak to someone in the background, his voice slightly muffled. “You guys go ahead … I’ll catch up with you.”
He came back on the line. “Sorry about that, Jenny. I just met with our corporals about changes to our shift schedules. We were about to head out for lunch, but they’ll save me a chair. You know I always like to hear from you, but why in the middle of the day like this? Is everything okay?”
“I’m good,” she said. “There’s nothing to worry about. But I do need advice from you, Uncle Roy. Can I drive to your place this weekend so I can tell you a story?”
Chapter 20
June 5
Kimberley’s Centennial Hall sat a few blocks north of the Platzl, the Bavarian-themed downtown famous for its yodelling clock and annual accordion festival. Alone at the north end of Wallinger Avenue, the hall was long, cream-coloured, and tucked in a narrow valley framed by forested hillsides to the north, south, and west not easily seen from neighbouring houses. Baseball diamonds lay empty to the east.
Wendy Clark parked on the east side of the building, headlights off. She looked at her watch: 2:59 a.m. Kimberley, a town of 6,500 people, was quiet, its restaurants and bars closed after a busy Saturday night. Wendy knew there was little chance of traffic at this time of the morning on a road that led only to residences, the hospital, and the Cominco Gardens. Other than a fluorescent security light around the corner, the only illumination here was the red glow of her cigarette as she took a drag. A cool wind blew from the Purcell Mountains.
Wendy sat for no longer than ten minutes before a black Dodge pickup drove up beside her, its headlights off. With massive off-road tires and a black canopy over the bed of the truck, it was large and menacing in the darkness. She took a deep breath, quickly exited her car, and leaned against the hood, trying to appear calm.
The truck’s engine was running, its exhaust drifting upward. The driver’s door opened and a man stepped down. He moved toward Wendy while a second man, visible only for a second, remained in the passenger seat. The man coming toward her was not tall, but she could tell from his solid frame and swagger that he was muscular. Most of the man’s face was hidden beneath a black hoodie.
“Are you here for a delivery?” Wendy asked, trying to see the man’s eyes.
“Yeah,” the man said. “We talked on the phone. Are you Wendy? Have you got what I ordered?”
“I am and I do,” she said. “Have you got the money?”
“Of course I do. But I want to check the stuff first,” said the man.
“Okay,” she said as she moved toward the trunk of her car. As she did so, she saw the second man getting out of the truck. Her pulse quickened. She knew this was the riskiest part of the transaction. The men’s behaviour — cautious, secretive, and intimidating — didn’t help. She leaned over to pull a package of dope wrapped in plastic and packing tape from inside the horse blanket, and turned toward the two men.
At that moment, she felt a shock of pain as a fist crashed into the side of her head. She bounced against her car, her cigarette spinning away, and dropped to the gravel. The package did the same. “What the hell?” she cried. “Why’d you do that?” Her ears were ringing, and pinpoints of light flashed in her eyes.
The passenger kicked her in the ribs and another jolt of pain coursed through her body. Her breath left her lungs in a rush. She lay gasping on the ground, trying to catch the lost breath.
“Do I have your attention now?” asked the man in the black hoodie looming over her. She saw that both packages were tucked under his arm.
“Jesus … what do you want from me?” she asked, looking up at the man. “I only came here to sell you dope. I don’t want any trouble from you guys.” She couldn’t see the man’s eyes, but the skin on his lower face was pitted with acne scars.
“I don’t give a crap what you want,” said the man. “What’s important now is what I want. Do you know what that is?”
Wendy, still lying on the ground, shook her head to show she had no idea. She groaned in pain the instant her head moved.
“What I want is to put you, and everyone else in the East Kootenay, out of business,” said the man. “And you’re going to help me by telling me who your supplier is. Not only that, but we’re going to pay him a visit. You got that?”
Wendy’s shock turned to fear as she realized that the two guys were serious, very serious, and that this was already beyond a drug deal gone bad. “C’mon. You guys know I can’t do that,” she said, her eyes pleading. “I’ll get seriously hurt.”
The passenger again kicked her in the ribs, this
time in the same spot. She shrieked in pain and curled into a ball, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest.
“You can be in pain today … or in pain tomorrow,” said the driver. “Your choice.”
Wendy croaked out the words she thought the driver wanted to hear. “Okay, okay, I’ll take you to where I get my stuff. Please don’t hurt me anymore.” She exhaled on a wheeze.
She could see the man’s teeth gleam as he smiled in the darkness. “Good decision,” he said. “You’re a smart lady.” He turned to the passenger. “Grab her, let’s get out of here.”
The passenger pulled Wendy up off the ground by her hair and belt and dragged her to the truck. He pushed her into the small space behind the front bench seat. She gasped again as her broken ribs made contact with the transmission hump.
The driver turned to look at her, his right arm across the top of the bench seat. “Which way are we going, Wendy?” he asked.
“Head north to Ta Ta Creek,” she said through gritted teeth.
Fifteen minutes later, after Wendy had described who owned the place and where it was, the truck slowly pulled up to the front of Bernie Eastman’s house, its headlights off again. The building was dark. Eastman’s truck was gone, as was his family’s Jeep Cherokee.
The driver again spoke to Wendy, this time without turning around. “You may have gotten lucky,” he said. “It looks like your friend ain’t here. Too bad, I was looking forward to meeting him.”
“I forgot he’s away for the weekend,” she said as the men dragged her out of the truck. Her legs were wobbly, her breathing laboured. Each intake of air led to a sharp stab of pain in her chest that forced the air out again quickly.
The three of them stood beside the truck. The driver gazed around the property and then turned to Wendy. “So, where’s the dope at?” he asked.
“If I tell you, Bernie will kill me,” she said, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Please don’t make me do this.”
The passenger grabbed her by the front of her coat, pushed her hard against the side of the truck, and punched her again. This time, she saw the fist coming at her face and felt and heard her nose break. More pain. She would’ve fallen, but the passenger held her up like a rag doll.
“You dumb bitch,” said the driver. “If you don’t talk, this situation is going to get worse for you — in a hurry.”
“Oh, my God,” Wendy gasped, then spat blood on the ground. She was beyond caring what Eastman would think. She wanted for this to be over and for the men to leave her alone. “I’m gonna show you.”
The three of them walked across Eastman’s yard, Wendy propped up between the two men, her toes leaving a furrow in the dirt. Her mind and heart racing, she pointed them to the Quonset-style garage, the entrance to which was protected by a steel door and a padlock. A large bolt cutter wielded by the passenger made short work of the lock. The driver flicked a switch to the right of the door and a bank of halogen bulbs popped on, illuminating the inside of the structure. It was empty, except for a steel fuel tank against the far wall.
For the first time, Wendy could see the driver’s face. She saw broad features, a wide nose, and a small soul patch below his lower lip. The man had no eyebrows and appeared to be bald, although he still had the hood of his jacket pulled up.
“You stupid bitch,” said the driver, “there’s nothing here. Now isn’t the time to play games.” He made a move as if to slap her across the face.
“Wait, wait, wait!” she wailed, desperate to avoid more pain. “Pull on that lever over there.” She pointed to a place on the near wall about three metres from where they stood.
The driver walked across the concrete floor and pulled the lever, a steel handle about half a metre in length. He was strong but it took both hands to move it. As he brought it to a full upright position, a metal panel in the floor the size of a door and to the left of the fuel tank swung upward on hydraulic hoists. Light shone up from the hole.
“What the fuck?” said the passenger as he stared in disbelief.
The two men dragged Wendy across the floor of the garage to peer down the hole. They could see stairs descending into a basement. The passenger slid a Beretta pistol from under his jacket and cautiously moved downward, the gun in front of him in a two-handed grip. When he reached the bottom, he disappeared momentarily and then Wendy heard him say, “Ho-ly shit. You gotta see this.”
Wendy felt a shove from behind and she stumbled down the steps, barely averting a fall by hanging on to a cable railing on her least painful side. When they reached the bottom, she felt the driver loosen his grip on her when he saw what the passenger had already seen.
The subterranean room in front of them was the same size as the garage above, a massive space with three-metre-high ceilings and concrete structural posts every four metres. Between the posts, row after row after row of tall marijuana plants in large plastic pots under banks of grow lights stretched to the far walls. Plastic pipes supplying water and hydroponic fertilizer to the plants stretched around the room like a massive black spiderweb.
Wendy saw the driver’s eyes wander from right to left and back again. By the look of surprise on his face, she could tell that while he may have seen grow ops in his time, this was unlike anything he’ d ever witnessed — or expected — when he’d brought her here. It was a wall of green, a forest of money. The place was not only brightly lit, but hot and humid, and the man began to perspire. Across the basement to the left a small diesel generator was humming quietly and powering the lights and the myriad fans that circulated air and humidity. Air intake and exhaust vents for the engine and fans ran up the wall of the garage.
“Un-fucking-believable,” said the man, looking at his partner with a smile. “This is a serious jackpot. I got to give your guy credit, Wendy. This is pure goddamn genius. It’s completely self-contained. The cops would never find it.”
Wendy leaned painfully against the nearest post, sobbing and sniffling. “All right,” she said, “you guys got what you came here for. You gotta let me go now.”
The driver laughed. “I know you aren’t stupid enough to go the cops, but you must be pretty dumb to believe we’re simply going to let you walk out of here,” he said.
With a jolt, Wendy realized that the assault wasn’t over. “C’mon. I won’t say a thing to anyone,” she pleaded. “I don’t even know who you guys are. When Bernie finds out I led you here, he’s going to kill me, anyways.”
“And how’s he going to find that out?” the man said, staring out across the sea of green.
“No, no. I mean when he realizes that someone found his plants, he’ll know it was me,” said Wendy.
“That really sucks for you,” said the man. “You should’ve thought about consequences before getting involved in such a risky business.” He nodded to the passenger, who whipped his pistol across the back of Wendy’s head. She dropped like a stone onto the concrete floor.
Wendy Clark came to gradually, trying to figure out where she was and how long she’d been there. Her arms and feet were bound with duct tape, only one eye would open, her face throbbed with pain, and she was on a concrete floor, shivering. She rolled to one side and saw that she’d pissed herself. She lay in a pool of her own urine and blood.
With her one good eye, she looked around the room. A single grow light hung at a crazy angle from the ceiling. It did a poor job of lighting a massive space that had once been filled with plants ready for harvest. The remaining lights were smashed and dark. Now she saw that there was nothing green left in the basement. Every plant, carefully nurtured over the last five months, was gone, the stems cut at soil level. The black pipes lay on the floor in puddles of fertilized water.
Before Wendy’s muddled brain could comprehend what she’d done and what it meant to Eastman’s business, a shadow crossed in front of her, blocking the remaining light. It was a man, a large man, and his fists were ope
ning and closing at his sides. She assumed it was one of the two men who’d brought her to the hidden basement, ready to hurt her again.
“No,” she croaked, “please … don’t.” And then she heard Eastman’s voice, frighteningly calm and slow.
“Wendy,” he said, “what the hell have you done?”
She began to sob. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “They made me do it, Bernie. They hurt me bad. I had no choice.”
“First your husband talks to the cops about one part of my business,” he said, still slow and calm as if in a trance, “and then you do this to the other part?”
She tried to respond. “Bernie, I’m sor —”
But that was all she was able to say before Eastman reared back and kicked her with his lug-soled boot. He kept kicking and kicking until the life in her eyes was gone.
Chapter 21
June 19
“Where are you heading this morning?” said the stocky U.S. Customs and Border Protection agent, two Canadian passports clutched in his left hand.
“Sandpoint,” said Willson. Bill Forsyth sat in the passenger seat beside her, peering at the American officer as he ran through a barrage of questions.
The two wardens had left Banff early that morning, stopping in Invermere for a coffee. This time, Willson had followed Forsyth into the Kicking Horse Café to find out what it was he’d bought for her the last time they were there. When she discovered that it was a blend called Kick Ass, she’d literally whooped with surprise, startling the young girl serving them.
“This is perfect,” Willson had said to the wide-eyed barista. “This is so friggin’ me!” She was so pleased that she’d also bought a black T-shirt with a mule on the front. It was like she’d finally found her spirit animal, even though she didn’t really believe in that shit. Obstinate, intelligent, ready to respond to tormentors — or simply people who pissed her off — with a swift kick where it hurt.