The Cardinal Divide

by Stephen Legault

  Tracey sat back in her chair and pressed her knuckles into her eyes. “I’m OK .” She sighed. “I guess I’m in denial. I keep expecting him to walk in through the door like he was just back from a trip to Toronto and say ‘Hi’ya Trace.’”

  “Did he travel a lot?”

  “He went to Toronto once a month to visit his family and work out of head office for a week.”

  “Did he seem happy to be heading there, or happy to be coming back?”

  Tracey thought about it. “He seemed pretty happy either way. He was a pretty happy man.”

  Tracey’s eyes were red. The talk of Mike Barnes brought on fresh tears.

  “You miss him?”

  “Of course,” she said, almost defensively. “We worked together for almost a year. He was a great boss. If I needed an extra day off, or if I had to leave early to take my kids somewhere, it was never a problem. He was easygoing and never grumpy.”

  “Now what?”

  “I don’t know. I’m holding down the fort until they find a new manager.”

  “What about Hank Henderson?”

  “Oh, him. What about him?”

  “He’s parked his big Chevy in the mine manager’s stall.”

  “He’ll never be manager.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Tracey grew quiet. Her gaze roamed over the desk and down the hall. “He’s just too old school. He doesn’t see the role this mine plays in the bigger picture of the company. To him, it’s all about this mine. But it’s a global market today, and this mine is part of a company that leverages other investments for its shareholders.”

  So Tracey knew.

  “But shouldn’t the manager be looking out for the best interests of the mine?”

  “Not at the expense of the company.”

  Cole put his best face forward. “Tracey, I need a favour.”

  His best face wasn’t much. She looked at him. He didn’t have much left to charm with. His nose was out of whack. The bruise on his eye had faded, leaving the eye puffy and pink. The jagged cut across his cheek was still bright red and bristling with black sutures like hair growing out of an ear. “Like what?” she asked.

  “I need to have a look around Mike’s office.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s possible, Mr. Blackwater.”

  “Tracey,” he said calmly, “I think the person who killed your boss is still loose.”

  She looked at him askance. “The Mounties got their man. Dale van Stempvort is in jail.”

  “I don’t think he did it. I think someone else killed Mike Barnes.”

  “You would, wouldn’t you, Mr. Blackwater?”

  “I’m an environmentalist, yes, but Dale van Stempvort is not a killer. He’s a big mouth and a bit of an idiot, but I don’t think he killed Mike. I’m trying to figure out who did.”

  Cole held her gaze. “I don’t think so,” she finally said. “I think you want to get at some company files to get inside information to help out your friends. To help them stop the mine.”

  “Tracey, you and I both know that this mine is stopping with or without the Eastern Slopes Conservation Group.”

  She looked surprised. “How do you know that?”

  “A little detective work. I put two and two together. It may be that the real killer did too.”

  She looked down at the desktop.

  “There’s more, Tracey. Did you know that Mike was having an affair?”

  She looked up, her eyes swimming in tears. “It was nothing,” she said, the tears spilling over. “We just had some innocent fun.”

  Good God, Cole thought, Mike Barnes should have been giving lessons. How many women was he sleeping with?

  Cole knew he had to get out a big gun. “Look, Tracey, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Mike Barnes was having an affair with Deborah Cody.”

  “From the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  She put her face in her hands and cried quietly, her shoulders shaking with waves of despair and disappointment. After a minute she straightened up, wiped her face, and handed Cole a key from her pocket.

  In silence he took the key and walked past her to the mine manager’s office. He inserted the key into the lock.

  Inside, the office was as he remembered.

  Except Mike Barnes’ appointment book was missing.

  “Tracey?” he called.

  She walked into the room, Kleenex in hand.

  “Mr. Barnes’ Day-Timer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did the police ask you about it?”

  “They did and I told them he must have taken it home with him that night. He often did that.”

  “The police haven’t found it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Tracey stood by the door while Cole searched the shelves, the drawers, and under the chairs. He excused himself and closed the door slightly to look behind it.

  “Do you recognize this coat?” It was a charcoal suit jacket, hand-tailored, very expensive.

  “It’s Mike’s, it was Mike’s I mean.”

  “When did you see it on him last?”

  “I can’t say for sure. But I think,” and she took a little breath, “I think he was wearing it on Wednesday.”

  “When I met with him he wore suit pants and a green shirt.”

  “He often took the jacket off as soon as he walked in the door. I told him he could show up in jeans and nobody would care. At least he stopped wearing ties after the first few weeks.”

  “Did he ever leave his coat at the office, you know, just forgetting that he had worn a coat?”

  “No. He was a really classy guy. Always finished things right. Tidied up the loose ends. Plus, you don’t just forget your coat at minus twenty.”

  So Mike Barnes hadn’t left the building. He had been killed here. But where?

  Cole got down on his hands and knees and peered under the desk. He checked under the tables and chairs and looked closely at the carpet.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for blood.”

  Tracey covered her mouth. She joined him on the floor. “You think he was killed here?”

  “Well, I don’t think he left the office building that night. The RCMP think he was killed in the mill, but I don’t see it.”

  On hands and knees they examined the furniture when a voice at the door startled them. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Both Cole and Tracey looked up guiltily.

  “Mr. Henderson!” said Tracey. She stood up and straightened her pants and shirt.

  “Miss Blake. And Mr. Blackwater.”

  Cole stood but didn’t say a word.

  “What are you doing, Miss Blake?”

  “Looking for something we think Mr. Barnes misplaced,” she said weakly.

  “And what would that be?”

  She shot a look at Cole. Help, it said.

  “I came here to try and find a piece of paper I think Mr. Barnes had in his possession the night he was killed.” Cole stared directly at Henderson, aware that if his eyes drifted, the man would know he was lying through his teeth. “It had a name on it of someone who had called him. I think he was going to see that man that evening. If I can find it, it would lead me to the killer.”

  “Miss Blake, why did you let Mr. Blackwater into this office?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Henderson,” she said, and returned to her desk.

  Hank Henderson turned his angry gaze back to Cole. “How about I call the RCMP and have them arrest you for trespassing?”

  Cole shrugged. “I came here to talk to you too, Mr. Henderson. I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

  Hank Henderson laughed. “So you’re not done jerking my chain, are you Blackwater?” he spat.

  “I’m not jerking anybody’s chain. An innocent man is behind bars and I think you know more than you’re telling me.”

  Henderson laughed again, a loud, aggressive snor
t, the kind that preceded the first punch in a bar fight. He sounded like a bull right before all hell broke loose.

  Henderson turned to Tracey. “Call security and have them escort Mr. Blackwater off the property.” She looked briefly at Cole and then picked up the phone.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, Mr. Blackwater, some of us have a job to do. Mine, as it turns out, is to dig a hole so deep into the Cardinal Divide that you and your pathetic band of duck-loving friends won’t be able to see daylight should you fall into it. Now get the hell out of my sight!” This last sentence was delivered as a yell. He turned and walked back toward the stairs.

  Cole followed him. “They were going to shut you down, weren’t they?” he called as Henderson disappeared down the stairs. Cole trotted down the hall. “They were going to shut this mine down and you were going to be out of a job, weren’t you?” Cole caught up with Henderson at the bottom of the stairs.

  Henderson stopped and Cole almost ran into him.

  “Are you trying to get yourself in more trouble, Blackwater?” said Henderson, hissing through his teeth. He was not a big man. Cole guessed him to be a featherweight, super featherweight at best. Cole had fifty pounds on him, but Cole’s bulk wasn’t muscle. Hank Henderson was long and lean, and when he moved his arms, Cole could see the compact bulge of his biceps through his shirt. He might be older than Cole, but Cole didn’t doubt that Hank Henderson could still throw a punch.

  “They were going to take your job from you before you could become manager,” he went on, betraying his excitement and fear with the quickness of his breath.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Henderson. He walked down the hall to his office, which was located directly below Barnes’ office, and closed the door.

  Cole followed after him, opened the door, and walked into the room. It was smaller than the office above it, and it lacked the reception area. It was so unlike the mine manager’s office that Cole was momentarily disoriented. Where Mike Barnes’ office looked like it belonged on Bay Street, Hank Henderson’s office looked as if it belonged in the shop room of the mill. The walls were dark and covered in maps and side-cut illustrations of open-pit mines. The large windows that looked west from the building were covered with cheap Venetian blinds that were dusty and drawn tight. An overhead light fixture gave the room a yellow glow. Two tables in the room were both covered in maps, a hard hat, goggles, drill steel, a few large drill bits, core samples, gloves, and other tools of the trade.

  “Get the fuck out of my office,” said Henderson, and sat down behind his desk.

  “Who else knew that this mine was closing?”

  “Blackwater, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but you’re heading down a dangerous road for damn certain. Haven’t you had enough misery for one week? Isn’t one trip to the hospital enough?”

  “When did you find out that the mine was going to close?”

  “It’s not.”

  “It was when Mike Barnes was manager.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “The environmental assessment seems to suggest it will.”

  “Well, plans can be redrawn. With the right leadership.”

  “Looks like that’s you now.”

  “Looks like.”

  “Convenient.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Mike Barnes was killed just before the plan went public that suggested this mine had no future.”

  “And you think I did it?”

  “Did you?”

  “You’re crazy to come in here and accuse an upstanding citizen of killing his boss to keep a mine from closing. You must be grade A, one hundred percent, certifiably crazy.” Henderson stood.

  “Did you?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Blackwater. I’m going to count to three, and if you’re not out of my office, I’m going to throw you out.” Henderson moved toward Cole now, his hands clenched in fists.

  “Did you kill Mike Barnes to keep this mine from closing?”

  “One.”

  “You were passed over twice, Henderson. That must have really stuck in your craw.”

  “Two.”

  “You knew they would never promote you. Were you going to kill the next manager they sent too?”

  “Three.”

  Hank reached for Cole and Cole stepped sideways. But Henderson was surprisingly fast for a man his age. He managed to get his hands on Cole and manhandle him through the open door. Cole skidded on his feet into the hall.

  “You are one crazy son of a bitch,” growled Henderson. “Keep a good look out over your shoulder. Next time it’ll be more than just a couple of goons gunning for you.”

  “So it was you I have to thank for the welcoming party,” said Cole.

  “Watch your back, Blackwater.”

  “I’d be watching more than that if I were you.”

  Cole didn’t have time to think, the punch came so fast. He only had time to react, to let his body do what it had done so many times: respond. He leaned back and arched his spine, but not fast enough to dodge the blow. Henderson’s fist connected with his chin and Cole stepped back, reeling from the punch.

  “Hold it, hold it, hold it!” came a shout from down the hall. Cole leaned into the wall as Henderson came forward and readied himself to step forward and land a right jab at the advancing man when JP, the night watchman, came between them. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Get this jackass away from my mine,” spat Henderson, his anger made it hard for him to speak. “Get him off the property, and make sure he never comes back. Call the RCMP.”

  Cole stood silently, breathing hard but otherwise unscathed. He’d been in enough scrapes; this one didn’t phase him. JP turned to him and said, “Let’s go.”

  “Lead the way.”

  “If I see you on this property again, Blackwater, you’re a dead man!” shouted Henderson.

  Cole smiled to himself. Some guys just didn’t know when to keep their mouths shut.

  They reached the stairwell when Cole touched his chin. It was cut and he was dripping blood. “Mind if I clean this up before we go?” he asked.

  The security guard pursed his lips and looked over his shoulder at Henderson’s office. “Sure,” he said, “but let’s use the can on four. Don’t want you and the old man there to get into it in the bathroom. One of you is likely to drown.”

  They took the stairs to the fourth floor.

  “You got the old man pretty riled up,” said JP as they walked down the hall.

  “Is he always like that?”

  “He’s got a hair-trigger temper,” said the guard. “People tend to give him a pretty wide berth.”

  “No wonder he’s never made manager.”

  “There are many reasons,” said the guard, “and that’s just one of them.”

  “How long have you worked here?” Cole asked.

  “Almost twenty years. I started working in the pit itself, but I messed up my arm so I took a job as watchman eight years ago.”

  They stepped into the bathroom. Cole said, “I’ve got to take a leak.”

  “You’re not going to pull a Houdini in there, are you?”

  “Not likely,” smiled Cole. He tried the first stall, but it was locked. A little piece of paper on the door said that it was out of order. He tried the second and it was open. He stepped in, wadded up some tissue and held it against his chin as he relieved himself.

  “I haven’t seen Henderson hit anyone in a while, mind you,” JP was saying. “I think the last time was three or four years ago. He got into it with one of the mill workers over something. Can’t even remember what.”

  Cole finished and stepped to the mirror. He threw the tissue in the garbage and looked at himself in the mirror while he washed his hands. There was a half inch cut on his chin that bled. He splashed water on his face and dried it with paper towels, which he also threw in the garbage.

  “You’re going to n
eed more stitches,” smiled JP.

  Cole looked at him. “Funny.”

  “I’ll call Doc Frankenstein, see if he’s in.” JP was chuckling.

  Cole grinned back. “You don’t happen to have a bandage, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Would you mind going to see if Tracey has one?”

  “I don’t know, you seem like a good candidate for flight from custody,” smiled JP.

  “Isn’t that what you want? Me to get my butt off the mine property?”

  “Boss said something about the RCMP.”

  “Look,” said Cole, and dabbed at his chin. “If you want, I’ll march right over to the constable at the mill and turn myself in. Make it easier for me to press assault charges. I even have you as a witness.”

  JP shrugged. “I’ll go get you something for your chin.” He stepped out of the bathroom.

  “Thanks,” said Cole. He bent toward the mirror and pressed his fore and index fingers around the cut. He dabbed at it with another paper towel and reached for more, but the dispenser was empty. “Great,” he said, and flipped open the lid of the paper towel holder. Nothing. He used the blood-soaked towel in his hand to clean up his chin. The bleeding slowed. Cole figured a couple of Band-Aids might help, and reached into his pocket to see if there was anything there that might fit the bill. He tugged at something that felt like a Band-Aid and pulled it out, spilling a wad of papers, money, and six deck screws onto the bathroom floor.

  “Mother of Pearl,” he muttered, and discovered that all he had for his efforts was a crinkled gum wrapper. He stuffed it back into his pocket and bent over stiffly to scoop up some of what had fallen to the floor. On his knees he chased down a dime from beneath the sink, looked up, and stopped cold.

  Under the counter, dry and dark red and unmistakable, was blood, sprayed in tiny droplets against the bathroom wall.

  17

  Cole was still on his knees when JP opened the bathroom door. The door hit Cole’s feet.

  “What the hell are you doing down there?”

  “Dropped something,” he said, and picked up the last of the rubbish that had spilled from his pockets. He let the image of the blood burn into his mind. It was sprayed in a pattern more than three feet wide. A terrible image formed in Cole’s mind as he hunched on the floor: the last brutal seconds of a man’s life.