by Dave Butler
Eastman, driving a dark panel van he’d rented in Cranbrook two days earlier, led Castillo back to Highway 3. They headed west, passing the open hayfields and cattle ranches in the broad valley bottom of the Kootenay River. Cottonwood trees framed the river in brilliant yellows, signalling an early start to another Kootenay autumn. The men passed the wetlands of the Creston Valley Wildlife Management area, now a temporary home to the first wave of southbound waterfowl. To the north was Kootenay Lake and dramatic views of the western side of the Purcell Mountains.
Thirty minutes later, the two vehicles arrived at the summit of the Salmo-Creston highway, a 1,774-metre-high pass through the craggy Selkirk Mountains and Stagleap Provincial Park. The ground cover under the Engelmann spruce and subalpine firs was a quilt of oranges and reds, hinting at shorter and colder days ahead.
Eastman and Castillo pulled over beside Bridal Lake, a wind-free mirror of the ridge to the north. They both waited in the van with Castillo’s car tucked in behind it so that the Washington State licence plates were hidden from passing traffic. As the last light of day faded to the west, the two men walked briskly across the highway and then climbed a rough access road to the south. Eastman knew where they were heading because he’d been there the day before, scouting, wanting to be as sure of success as possible. They both carried packs and Castillo had a rifle partly hidden under his coat, tucked against his leg.
About two kilometres up the road, they came to another small pass and began hiking toward the west, slowly and quietly, along a rocky, treed ridge. Large patches of arboreal lichens hung from the spruce and fir trees like ominous, black spiderwebs.
Within moments, Eastman saw the first signs of their quarry. With Castillo peering into the dark trees, the guide stooped to look at multiple sets of tracks in a patch of mud. “These are really fresh,” he whispered, “and they’re headed the same direction we are.” He rose and then followed the tracks along the ridge.
The two men heard the animals before they saw them. It was the telltale clicking of tendons over bony protuberances in the animal’s lower legs as they walked.
The men moved as silently as they could, stepping carefully over a piece of deadfall. They finally glimpsed a female on the other side of a copse of dark spruce. Beyond, a much larger male moved into a small clearing. His nose was blunt and square, his neck and mane a lighter brown than the rest of his body, his ears pointed and alert. Even though this was a week or two before the start of the rut, the male’s focus had already shifted to females. Eastman saw him lower his head to sniff a fresh puddle of the female’s urine, likely testing for the smell of estrus.
He slowly moved his arm to point at the target, but saw that Castillo was already raising his rifle. It was almost dark, but the rising sliver of moon was bright enough to allow the hunter to get a clear view of his target. Eastman watched as Castillo followed his normal practice of deep breathing. When it came, the shot was deafening.
In an opening of the ridgetop forest barely lit by the waning moon, a massive bull caribou dropped to the forest floor, its heart ripped open by a high-calibre bullet. It was a male in the prime of his years, one of the few remaining animals in an endangered herd of the mountain ecotype of the woodland caribou, a herd that moved back and forth across the border between British Columbia and Idaho. With one shot, Castillo had taken a healthy male from the shrinking population.
Castillo looked at Eastman and smiled, his white teeth the only feature visible in the dark. No words were spoken. The men pushed their way between two conical spruce trees and looked down at the fallen animal. The antlers were massive, pointing backward from the head and then expanding forward, like giant, palmated hands. While the antlers were impressive, it was the fact that this was a rare and valuable individual from an endangered species that made it so attractive to Castillo. As he would with the skin on a woman’s inner thigh, he ran his fingertips slowly and lightly along the main oval-shaped beam onto one of the large brow tines, imagining the trophy on his wall in Spokane. He seemed lost in the moment, as his hand moved back and forth, back and forth, with a featherlight touch.
Eastman broke the silence. “We better get movin’ in case someone heard the shot,” he said. “Do you want a picture?”
Castillo handed his cellphone to Eastman, who took a single flash picture of the man kneeling beside the fallen bull.
Eastman then dropped his pack to the ground and slid a hunting knife and a butcher’s saw out of side pockets. He pulled a headlamp onto his forehead, and with a click, its bright bulb illuminated the previously dark workspace. With deft strokes, Eastman first cut a jugular vein lengthwise, holding the bull’s head above the ground while blood ran onto the mossy forest floor. Soon after, he separated the head from the rest of the body, wrapped it in a plastic tarp, and tied it to the outside of his pack. The body remained behind. It would be a multi-day meal for bears, wolves, and ravens.
With Eastman in the lead, his headlamp flashing alternately between the trees and the rough road, they descended the hill to a bend in the road only metres from the highway. The guide dropped the heavy pack, sliding it under a spruce. He turned off the headlamp and Castillo stepped into the shadows of the forest. Pulling the keys from his pocket, Eastman waited for a transport truck to pass by, hauling a load of wood chips to the pulp mill in Castlegar. He heard it engage its engine brakes, like the repeated, rapid hammering of a giant MRI machine, as it began its steep descent down the west side of the pass. And then he jogged across the highway to his van.
Eastman turned the key in the ignition, put the van in gear, and made a rapid U-turn across the two lanes of highway. The van was now parked facing northeast, sitting at the bottom of the dirt road. He turned off the lights, left the engine running, and made his way to where Castillo stood beside the hidden pack. In the darkness, the men shook hands.
“Well done,” said Castillo. “I am pleased with the animal we got today. I will assume that all arrangements have been made. As we discussed, I expect to see this trophy in Spokane, soon. When that happens, you will be paid in full.”
“I’ll get it there,” said Eastman. “You have my word.”
“Bueno,” said Castillo. “While we’ve had troubles along the way, you are a good guide, Señor Eastman. I have enjoyed the pursuit of many fine animals with you. You understand, I am sure, why I will not be coming to Canada to hunt with you again. Tonight was our last time together. And we will not speak again of what we have accomplished together, not to each other or to anyone else. As for our other business, I will wait to see if you can restart production now that I’ve removed your local competition.”
“I understand,” said Eastman. “Thanks, I guess.” He looked at Castillo, his face partly illuminated by the distant lights of the highway compound to the east. At that moment, the man almost looked melancholy. But Eastman knew better; the man would sooner shoot him than hug him. And he felt the same. The American had been a reliable buyer of his products and services for the past two years. But now that this part of their relationship was ending, he wasn’t going to miss the arrogance or the drop-whatever-you’re-doing-whenever-I-call attitude. His mind wandered back to the meeting in the Bonners Ferry casino. It had been awkward and embarrassing and he was still furious at Castillo for the way he’d been treated. He didn’t need this guy in his life. If things had been different, he would’ve laid a beating on him to teach him a lesson about arrogance. But it was time to move on. Good fuckin’ riddance. Eastman knew he now had bigger things to worry about.
When the pass was clear of traffic, Castillo slid open the door of the van and stood aside as Eastman quickly loaded the tarp-covered pack and the rifle into the space behind the front seats. When the door slid closed, Castillo strode across the highway to his car without another word.
Eastman climbed into the driver’s seat of the van, and before turning on the headlights, he looked across the highway to see C
astillo’s car leave the parking area, westbound. He knew that in about forty minutes, the man would re-enter the United States at the tiny Metaline Falls border station, moments before its midnight closure. From there, he’d drive south through the quiet Pend Oreille River valley, arriving home three hours later.
If all works out well at the border, thought Eastman, that son of a bitch will have once again outwitted the jerks up here. He had to give Castillo credit for that. While the cops and COs were probably sitting up in Buhl Creek waiting for them, Castillo had, right under their noses, snagged another trophy, this time from a provincial park. He knew it would seriously piss them off. Smiling, he imagined them up Buhl Creek, clueless. Castillo was no idiot.
After letting an eastbound truck pass his temporary parking spot, Eastman clicked on the van’s headlights and headed downhill toward Creston, his mind on the big payday coming his way.
An hour later, he turned off Highway 3 into a narrow gravel driveway in Yahk, a small community on the Moyie River, a few minutes north of the Kingsgate border crossing. He beeped the horn, two short honks, as he pulled up to a dilapidated barn. He shut his headlights off, leaving on only the orange parking lights. As he did so, the door of the adjacent house opened, revealing the silhouette of a lone figure in the doorway. The door closed and a man with long, scraggly hair pulled on a coat as he crossed the yard to the barn.
Using both hands, the man pulled open a large door on the front of the old building, exposing the darkened interior. Eastman steered the van into the barn, stopping in the middle of the empty black space and shutting off the engine. The man pulled the door shut behind him and then flipped a wall switch, illuminating the van in the greenish glow of fluorescent bulbs. As it cooled, the van’s engine ticked into silence.
Eastman breathed a deep sigh of relief, hands still on the steering wheel. He’d driven down from Kootenay Pass carefully, doing his best not to attract the attention of the local RCMP highway patrol. He knew that a large, strangely shaped item like the caribou head, wrapped in a tarp in the back of a solitary panel van on a lonely highway late at night, made a tempting target for a curious, well-trained Mountie with a flashlight. But he’d seen no police cars.
Sliding his bulk out of the van, Eastman shook his nephew’s hand. With his long, thinning, reddish hair and his weathered skin a sickly greenish shade from the overhead lights, his nephew looked much older than his thirty years.
“How are you, Stevie-boy?” asked Eastman, continuing to vigorously pump the young man’s hand.
“Good, Uncle Bernie. Have some luck tonight?” Barber asked.
“Yup, we did,” Eastman responded. “Let’s get it unloaded.”
Eastman pulled back the door of the van and slid his pack onto the floor of the barn. Untying the ropes around the tarp, he revealed the head and antlers of the bull caribou. The edge of the neck, where it had been attached to the bull’s powerful shoulders, was ragged and red, but the fur of the neck and mane were still a subtle, yet beautiful tan colour. The eyes were closed in death. The tongue hung out one side of the mouth.
The young man whistled in appreciation. “He’s a beauty,” he said, then reached down to stroke the antlers, repeating Castillo’s motions of a few hours earlier.
“Fuckin’ right,” said Eastman. “My client is pleased. Now we have to get it down to him.”
“Why aren’t you using the trucks like the other times?”
“Because we can’t hunt mountain caribou at all, and we can’t risk the trucks being searched. And because there’s so much money at stake and things are so hot for me that I can’t risk usin’ the same routes as before.”
“Roger that,” said Barber. “When do you need it done?”
“As soon as possible,” Eastman said. He handed his nephew a piece of paper. “When you know your timin’, phone this number and tell whoever answers when the package will arrive at the spot you and I talked about. Someone will meet you there.”
“My plan is to do it tomorrow night, when there’s a new moon,” Barber said. “That way, there will be the fewest shadows. And with a clear sky forecast that night, there’s less chance of lights reflecting against cloud cover. It will be as dark as it’s ever going to get. I’ll call you when I’m leaving here.”
Eastman smiled. The young man had worked for him as a guide trainee for three autumns after high school, and he was pleased to see that he’d learned additional skills, useful skills, during his time in the infantry. “Good,” said Eastman. “Let’s put this away and then I better get movin’.”
The two men carried the head across the barn, each holding one side of the antlers. They placed it behind a stack of cut and split firewood, loosely placing the tarp over it. In the darkness of a far corner of the barn, it would not be seen.
“You sure you don’t want to stay for a beer … or even a coffee?” asked Barber.
“Thanks, but I gotta get on the road,” said Eastman. “It’s been a long coupla days and I’m sure there’ll be cops or COs waiting for me, if not tonight, then tomorrow morning.”
The two men exchanged a quick hug. As Eastman climbed into the driver’s seat with an audible groan, he spoke to Barber through the open door. “Good luck, Stevie,” he said. “Thanks for doing this for me.” He paused before starting the engine. “This is a big deal. I know I can count on you.”
“No problem, Uncle Bernie,” the young man said with a wide, shit-eating grin. “Piece a’ cake, piece a’ cake.”
Eastman backed the van out of the barn and drove into the darkness. His tail lights blinked once as he braked and turned left onto the highway.
Barber watched his uncle leave, the sound of the vehicle fading as it moved eastward. He was scared and excited for what was to come. With a jolt of recognition, he realized that the last time he’d felt this way was before his final tour outside the wall of the military compound near Kabul, in eastern Afghanistan. That was six months ago. It had not ended well. Now, as then, he accepted that even the most extensive training and planning didn’t guarantee the success of a mission.
Chapter 28
September 4
Jenny Willson sat on a camp stool in front of a small fire, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee. Steam rose in her face, swirling and mixing with woodsmoke in the frigid morning air. Even in her thick, down jacket, toque, and gloves, Willson felt cold and stiff. Having taken the 2:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m. watch, she now waited impatiently for Peter MacDonald to climb out of the tent and join her. She envied him being there, snoring deep in a warm sleeping bag rather than sitting out here the way she was, freezing her butt off. She realized that she should’ve thought this through more carefully. It was warmer last night.
Clutching the mug below her chin, she inhaled the aroma and thought how this pursuit of a poacher resembled her love life — both were unsuccessful so far. She recalled her most recent date. After exchanging a series of promising emails through the meet-him.com website, and after learning he was a successful architect from Calgary, Willson had agreed to lunch at Earl’s restaurant in Banff. She had enjoyed their light conversation, right up to the moment the man mentioned his wife. It quickly became obvious to Willson that this guy was looking for something on the side. And she was it.
“What’s her name?” she’d asked him.
“Uh … Lori,” he replied, noticeably squirming.
“Lori — nice name,” she said. “Do you think Lori would be interested in a threesome?”
“Are … are you s-serious?” he’d stuttered, his eyes wide, his cheeks flushed.
“No, you dumb shit.”
That was when, with a flick of her wrist, Willson sent a glass of ice water into his lap, signalling the end of another failed date.
As always, Willson wondered what she had done to deserve these losers. Did she give off weird vibrations? Was there something tattooed on her forehead that wa
s visible only to the wrong guys? She understood that the very qualities that made her a good investigator, such as her doggedness, her attention to detail, and her ability to read people, gave her the appearance of a woman with a hard shell that was tough to crack. But she often speculated that it was more than that, that it had something to do with growing up without a father. Was she lacking the ability to trust, so that she unconsciously pushed men away or chose only the ones she couldn’t have? Or was she always comparing them to the high standards set by her father?
When her mug was as empty as the list of answers she always seemed to be chasing for, Willson decided enough was enough. She stood, stretched, and made a noisy breakfast using a pot of hot water perched beside the fire. It took only a few banging pots and clanking spoons before she heard MacDonald stirring and groaning in the tent. As she blew a cooling breath on the first spoonful of thick oatmeal, sweet with maple syrup and plump raisins, she smirked at the sound of the lanky warden thrashing his way out of the tiny nylon shelter.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she said. “It’s about friggin’ time you got up.”
“Thanks for being so goddamn quiet,” MacDonald said. He looked like his hair and a tornado had waged war during the night and the tornado had won.
Willson watched as he stood upright, slowly, working the kinks of out of his back with more groans. “You’re looking good this morning, my dear,” she said with a grin. “Sleep well?”
“Jesus,” said MacDonald, “are you always this obnoxious first thing in the morning? Where’s the coffee?”
Willson laughed and poured another cup of the strong brew, handing it to him as he sat on the other camp stool. She then refilled her own cup. She’d made the coffee, cowboy-style, from a bag of ground Kick Ass beans, dumping four tablespoons of coffee into boiling water, stirring, letting the grounds settle, pouring carefully to keep the grounds on the bottom. The two wardens sat in silence, staring into the flames and savouring the rich flavour. Thank God for this find, thought Willson. She reached down to place more wood on the fire. It crackled and popped and threw sparks into the air.