The Cardinal Divide

by Stephen Legault

  “I’m mostly worried about losing my source on this story,” she said, but she smiled when she said it.

  Cole was back at the McSorlie Ranch by 10 PM. He and Peggy sat in the kitchen and sipped herbal tea. “You going to sleep in the barn again tonight?” Peggy asked him, and smiled into her tea cup.

  Cole grimaced. “Sorry about that. And sorry about your garden. I’ll rebuild it for you just as soon as this mess with Dale is cleared up.”

  She laughed, “Don’t worry about the garden. I hope your truck is ok .”

  “The truck is fine. It’s a little out of alignment, but it’s been through worse.”

  “Do you think the mess with Dale, as you call it, will be cleared up soon?”

  “I don’t know,” said Cole, and rubbed his face wearily. “We’ve got more suspects at the end of the week than we had at the beginning. Dale gets shipped to Red Deer day after tomorrow. Nancy Webber, who has been very helpful, is likely to get recalled to Edmonton on the weekend. The good thing is that we should finally get some results on the forensics from the RCMP tomorrow. I don’t know, Peggy. I think I might have bit off way more than I can chew here.”

  “You think?” Peggy rested her hand on Cole’s shoulder. “I’ve told you how much I appreciate your work, haven’t I?”

  “You have. Thanks for that.”

  “I really mean it, Cole. You didn’t have to stay.”

  “I came back, remember? First I left, and then I came back.”

  “Well, you didn’t need to do that. But you did. You stuck to us.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” he said, and smiled.

  “I appreciate it. Now go get some sleep.”

  Friday morning started bright and sunny, but by breakfast dark clouds formed along the eastern slope west of Oracle, and rain threatened. It was cold, the temperature hovering just above freezing. Cole planned to meet with Perry Gilbert and Nancy Webber before he drove out to the mine in the afternoon to have a look in the washroom which was now considered the crime scene.

  He drove the now-familiar gravel road and felt the Toyota grip the loose rock. Here and there he thought it drifted a little more than usual, but instead of assigning blame to his drunken drive, he attributed it to his auto-condriac tendency. To Cole, every little squeak and squeal that emanated from his trusty pickup foreboded a terminal illness, or at least a massive charge to his MasterCard. By the time he reached Oracle rain fell. To the west, over the Rockies, the clouds were dark and menacing. It was pouring, maybe even snowing, over the Front Ranges, and the weather was headed this way.

  He met Perry Gilbert at 10 AM at Tim Hortons. They ordered coffee and sat in Gilbert’s car as the rain pattered on the roof. “What’s new?” Cole asked.

  “I’m meeting with Sergeant Reimer at 2 PM this afternoon. I expect to get the forensics report and the autopsy at that time.”

  Cole filled Gilbert in on what he had learned about George Cody in the last twenty-four hours.

  “It doesn’t get any easier, does it?” said Gilbert. “I thought we were supposed to eliminate suspects, not add them,” said Cole as he sipped his coffee.

  “Oh,” said Gilbert. “You asked about the lights in the mill. To save money they turn them off at night. You know, turn off a light bulb, don’t turn off a friend,” he jingled.

  Cole smiled. “So that means whoever lugged Mike Barnes into the mill would have been walking blind in that big room. They couldn’t have seen where they were going. They would have walked right into those drill bits.”

  “Yeah, but it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “Why none of our three suspects are limping?”

  “And why didn’t Hank Henderson know the bits were there?”

  “Good point. Maybe he knew, and forgot.”

  Perry shrugged.

  “OK,” said Cole, looking out the windshield as the rain fell harder. “I’ve got to see Nancy Webber and then I’m headed out to the mine.”

  “Now what?”

  “I need to do some plumbing.”

  Perry Gilbert gave him a dumbfounded look.

  “I’ve got to find that stupid Day-Timer. It could hold a vital piece of information. I’m going to check the toilet in the men’s room where Barnes was clubbed.”

  “That’s really sick,” said Gilbert, and wrinkled his nose.

  “I’ll wear gloves,” said Cole.

  “Better wash your hands afterwards or you and me are through.”

  “Deal.” Cole opened the door and made a dash for his Toyota through puddles dented with the falling rain. He drove to the Rim Rock and walked up to Nancy’s room. She opened the door and admonished him to leave his dripping coat outside, under the awning.

  “You’re still going to the mine?”

  “Yup,” he said, and flopped down in one of the chairs at the little table. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to do some digging on David Smith. See what I can turn up. I might wander over there and ask for an interview.”

  “Be careful,” said Cole dourly.

  “That’s sweet. I’m a big girl. Plus, he hasn’t the foggiest that we’re in cahoots.”

  “Call me if you find anything.”

  “Thought you said there would be no cell service?”

  “There isn’t. But leave a message.”

  “Promise.”

  “OK,” he said, leaving. He stopped at the door. “Nancy,” he said.

  She looked up at him. “What is it?”

  For a moment he wanted to tell her that he too had been crushed. That in the four years since they had been torn apart by his stupidity, he hadn’t found the gall to see anybody, anybody seriously at least. He felt something catch in his throat and realized that all the pain of the last three years – his exile from Ottawa, his estrangement from Sarah, and the thing with his father – was caught there in his throat, and he pushed it back down.

  “What is it, Cole?” she asked, her held tilted to one side, her long dark hair falling loose over her shoulders.

  “Nothing. We’ll catch up when I get back from the mine. Talk to you later.” And he dashed for his truck through the downpour.

  The gravel road that lead out of town was slick with the rain. He had to face the fact that the misalignment in the truck’s suspension, caused by driving over Peggy McSorlie’s rock garden, didn’t help his confidence on the winding road. He clutched the steering wheel and leaned ahead like an old man to peer through the rain-swept windshield. He even left the stereo off, to be less distracted. From time to time a gleaming white, red, or blue pickup truck appeared behind him and recklessly passed him on blind corners, throwing up mud and gravel and spray, forcing him to drive blindly for a few seconds while his worn windshield wipers cleared his view. He growled at them over the sound of the storm outside.

  It took more than an hour and a quarter for Cole to make the drive normally done in forty-five minutes. He was exhausted when the mine finally came into view. The dark clouds pressed down on the sprawling complex, their weight giving the mine site an eastern-European feeling, as if it had been suddenly transplanted to a communist-era location. The rising wall of stone that was the eastern front of the Rockies, usually visible from the mine site, was eclipsed by the storm.

  He stopped the truck and looked at his watch. It was one-thirty. He had been so focused on keeping his misaligned truck on the road that he hadn’t considered how to get onto the mine property. He figured he could just wait until JP came on duty and drive through the gate. But he had to avoid being seen and reported.

  What had JP told him about the property? He closed his eyes to try and remember. There were many ways on and off, he had said, though most access points were locked. Nevertheless, he set out to find his way around the property and into the mine site. He put the Toyota in gear and drove past the gate toward Cardinal Divide. When he came to the end of the mine site fence, he slowed and scanned the side of the gravel road for a track he could follow. There it was: a w
ide lane that wove away from the main road between the pines and ran parallel to the mine site fence. He checked to make sure he was in four-wheel-drive and turned onto the path. He zigged and zagged between trees and rocky out-crops for a few minutes and peered between the trees for glimpses of the mine site. He found a place where the trail split. One path continued parallel to the fence and the other veered toward it. He followed the right-hand track toward the fence.

  The rain hadn’t let up. When he reached the fence he sat for a moment, the truck’s wipers slapping back and forth. He peered through the gloom at the mine. Parked within a stone’s throw of the administration building, there was a gate in front of him. A heavy padlock hung from a length of chain. This was his way in, and he wondered if this, or some other gate, was where Mike Barnes’ assailant had parked. If they had, it would suggest that the murder had been premeditated.

  Cole took a deep breath. He gathered some things he thought he might need from the seat of the truck. He took his cellphone, even though it didn’t work here. The digital camera function might come in handy. He stepped out of the truck into the deluge and made his way to the back of the truck, opened the tailgate, and flipped up the door to the canopy. He crawled inside, the rain drumming frantically on the roof. He found his Gore-tex raincoat in the canvas bag he had thrown into the back a lifetime ago. Was it really less than two weeks ago? He pulled it on awkwardly, sitting hunched over in the back of the truck. He pulled a baseball cap out too and fitted it over his dark, curly hair. Taking another deep breath, like a diver preparing to descend, he hopped out of the cab and into the rain.

  He checked for signs of another vehicle but the torrent had erased all tracks that might have existed. Then he stepped to the gate. The padlock hung on the inside of the fence. He tried to fish it out from his side and found he could, with some difficulty. What did that tell him? The lock was very old but not rusty and it looked to be in decent condition. He hoped the keyhole might reveal something, but it didn’t. Three lazy strands of barbed wire sagged above the fence. Cole mused that he should be able to press them together and climb over them.

  “This ought to be fun,” he thought as he started climbing. When he reached the wire above the fence he placed his fingers between the barbs and pulled the strands together, held them close to the top of the fence, and swung a leg over the top. His pants caught on the wire and he struggled to free himself. Finally he got his second foot atop the fence, stepped on the wire, and let himself drop to the ground on the other side. He landed heavily, grimacing. He tore a small hole on the inside of his jeans, but didn’t leave any flesh behind. Squatting uncomfort-ably, he surveyed the scene. He was adjacent to the administration building. The parking lot was to his right, and he saw, for the first time, a smaller building perched low behind the admin building. Maintenance equipment leaned beside the door of that building: a couple of shovels, a rake, and a wheelbarrow. They’d been left out in the rain and someone would be taken to task if Hank Henderson discovered the oversight.

  Now, how to proceed? He couldn’t very well waltz in the front door and wander the halls of the admin building. But what was the alternative? He walked briskly to the nearest wall of the office and inspected the back of the building, looking for another entrance. He found a fire exit, but it was locked. Muttering under his breath, rain dripping from the brim of his hat, he walked back to the front of the building and confidently strode up the steps. With luck he would be mistaken for someone who worked on site. He opened the door and walked inside.

  He wiped his feet on a mat, tried to clean them of mud, and made his way to the stairs. He took a deep breath and started up, head down. Someone passed him on the stairs and he exhaled, preparing for whatever might happen, but the person muttered “afternoon” and kept walking. Cole passed the second floor, and the third, where Hank Henderson’s office was, without incident. He wasn’t even breathing hard. Progress. Onto the fourth floor.

  He reached the top floor of the office building and met no one else in the stairs. He had come up the stairs closest the bathroom so he could avoid passing Tracey at Mike Barnes’ office. He could hear her on the phone. He stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, eyes to the floor, his shaggy head of curls covered by his ball cap. He walked the few remaining feet and reached the wash-room. The sign taped to the door read: “Closed. Crime Scene. Do not Cross.” He tried the door and it was locked.

  He muttered to himself. He hadn’t considered this, then remembered that Perry Gilbert had asked that the washroom be put off limits. He leaned his head against the door and felt weary. He took a sharp breath, turned on his heels, and walked to Mike Barnes’ office. He stopped before reaching the open reception area and checked for any sign of Hank Henderson. He saw and heard nothing, so he stepped in.

  Tracey was on the phone, and when she looked up her eyes were as big as saucers. “I’ve got to go,” she said and hung up the phone.

  “Cole, what in God’s name are you doing here? If Hank Henderson finds you he’s going to have you arrested for trespassing.”

  Or worse, Cole thought. “Tracey, I need your help.”

  “Cole, he told me to call him if you showed up. He’s my boss now.”

  “He’s not inside Mike’s office?”

  “No, he still uses that rabbit warren downstairs, but he comes up here every hour or so to ask me for something. Cole, he said I should call him.” He could see her hand poised to reach for the phone.

  “Please don’t Tracey. Please. I’m trying to find out who killed Mike, and I can’t do that if you don’t help me. Please.”

  “Cole, the police say they have Mike’s killer.”

  “Well, they don’t. You’ve got to trust me. Please.”

  She lowered her hand. “What do you need?”

  “Keys to the men’s washroom.”

  She looked at him. “Mike was killed in there, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you figured that out?”

  “Yes, and I told the RCMP. They’ve got the murder all wrong, Tracey.”

  “Why do you need to get in there?”

  He explained quickly. She curled up her nose. Then she disappeared into Mike’s office and returned with a key ring. “This is the master key,” she said. “It opens every door in this building. And this is the master key for all the other buildings on the site.”

  “What’s this one?” he asked taking the keys.

  “Master key for all the padlocks.”

  “Who else has these?”

  “Lots of people. Hank does for sure. People who work in different buildings have different keys. The padlock key is so old half the town of Oracle probably has it.”

  Cole smiled. “I’ll get these back to you,” and he trotted down the hallway, shoulder checking as he went. At the bathroom door he slipped the key in the lock and stepped inside.

  The room was as he remembered. He flipped on the lights and looked under the sink. The speckles of blood were still there. He saw where the crime scene officers had lifted a sample. And there was a place on the floor where they had looked for the mark of boot prints, and Cole imagined they had dusted for fingerprints all around the room. What kind of killer, Cole wondered, didn’t wear gloves? The kind that wasn’t planning on doing any killing, Cole guessed.

  He went to the stalls. The one that had been closed was no longer locked. He pushed it open with his elbow and looked inside. He couldn’t tell if it was still plugged, so he got down on his knees to take a close look. Sure enough, something was wadded up in the drain of the toilet. The water was otherwise clear, for which Cole was deeply grateful. He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeve, and plunged his hand into the cold water.

  21

  The cold water stung his arm, but he ignored the discomfort and reached his hand down into the blockage at the bottom of the toilet. What did Mike Barnes’ agenda look like? Eight inches by ten, with a plastic black cover, the kind any office supply store sold. He grabbed hol
d of whatever blocked the toilet and pulled. He extracted his hand and found it full of dark, wadded paper towels. He grumbled in disappointment. He dumped them on the floor and plunged his hand back in. He came up with more towels, and more. He emptied the drain. When he was done, a soggy mountain of towels oozed on the floor. The mess was darkly stained. Cole stared at the blood. Mike Barnes’ blood.

  Whoever clubbed Mike had cleaned up after himself and stuffed the towels in the toilet, flushing as he went. But he stuffed a few too many into the toilet and it backed up. Running out of time the assailant panicked. He’d tried to engineer a disappearance, rather than a murder. But he was sloppy, failed to dispose of the body at the mill, and left behind the blood that Cole had discovered here in the bathroom.

  Despite these gaffs by the killer, Cole Blackwater was no closer to finding Mike Barnes’ appointment book, and no closer to learning who met with Barnes after Cole on that fateful night.

  Cole leaned against the side of the stall, his hand dripping, his arm numb from the cold water.

  If George Cody had taken the agenda, it was likely long gone. George could have easily slipped it into a bag of garbage and hidden it among the trash from the Rim Rock and The Quarry.

  If David Smith had taken the agenda, he might have hidden it in his office, but more than likely it was long buried in the landfill.

  If Hank Henderson had taken the agenda, he might have thrown it out with the trash, or placed it on the conveyor at the mill, intending, perhaps, to pulverize the agenda in the mill’s machinery along with the corpse. But JP foiled that plan, forcing the killer to stuff the agenda into his pocket for disposal later. If Hank killed Mike, he might have taken the agenda home for disposal, or he might have brought it back to his office. Hank Henderson was a pack rat. Maybe the agenda could be found in a filing cabinet or a drawer, rather than the trash. That was plausible, wasn’t it? Cole stood up and closed the stall door behind him, leaving the sodden towels on the floor.

  He regarded himself in the mirror. He was pale and his face looked like he’d undergone plastic surgery that had failed miserably. The stitches should come out in the next few days. Otherwise they would start biting into his skin and leave small pock marks of their own. He took off his cap, ran his hands through his hair, and replaced the cap. He had peeled the bandage from his chin this morning; the cut there had begun to heal.