“Nice truck,” he remarked to the attendant.
“Yup, Robertson Mines must have got a better lease deal and changed over their fleet. There’s a bunch of these now –used to have white ones. I wouldn’t want a black truck... they look dusty – or muddy – all the time, especially on gravel roads like the one to their yard.”
Anderson charged up his diesel, the motor oil, and a pack of smokes and drove back down to the dock to re-fuel the boat. At about ten-fifteen, he took his truck home, made a pot of coffee, and sat down to wait for Arnold. He didn’t have long.
“Howdy, stranger! I expect you had a busy day – and night – yesterday!”
“Well, yeah, kind of. But I behaved myself, in case that’s what you were thinking.”
“Never even occurred to me that you wouldn’t behave. Just a matter of how well you behaved,” chuckled Arnold. “But hey, pretty cool about that three grand sponsorship. I have all the details from Marion.” He handed a piece of paper across the table, managing spill some coffee on it. “Geesh, sorry. Can you still read it?”
“No worries, it’s still clear enough. What’s this about a tax receipt?”
“Marion says that the Spirit River Board of Trade still has federal charitable tax status, kind of left over from the nineties when it was active. And, they still have a bank account, with a couple hundred dollars in it. So she can issue the sponsor a tax receipt for donations, which is always a nice touch. Say, who is the sponsor, anyway? Barker himself?”
“Well, sort of,” and he explained yesterday afternoon’s visit to the Barker cottage and the conversation. “I think she told me she calls her company ‘Awan Lake Publishing Corporation’ and she uses it to publish Tony’s books. Who knew!”
“Yeah, I’m sure no one around town knows it. Likely just some little guy in a registry office in Toronto! Before I forget, I called Professor Dave as you suggested and he is tickled. He was going to confirm the date with Horowitz last night.”
“Good. I’ll get in touch with Jean Barker and give her the name for the cheque, and the tax thingy information. They come into town often enough, although I recall they have a little outboard and sometimes take a shortcut to the shore across the mouth of the river and have a little property with a garage on it where they lock up their car. Says it saved him a pile of time with that big old antique boat he has when he used to go to Ottawa twice a week. Nice to have money! But, if they’re not coming in I can go out and pick up the cheque.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem anyway. They get their mail at our post office in town.” He went over and helped himself to Anderson’s coffee pot, pouring some in both cups. “Let’s talk a bit about what Sergeant John had to say about that overgrown campsite out at the Robertson plant. John’s a cop; he looks like one and just to prove it he wears a uniform and drives a cop car. Not the best way to get information from a bunch of hillbillies. I’ve been thinking, if a couple of old mechanics in a beat-up half-ton went out there, they might learn something. Ya think?”
“Sure do, makes all kind of sense. Can you spare the time? I can, but I don’t have a line-up in front of my shop every morning wanting something fixed!”
“Not really, but looks like we’re into this for better or worse. And Marion gets it, too. She’s already starting to call you and me ‘The Hardy Boys’!”
Anderson snorted a laugh: “Okay, and I am assuming you mean, like, now, this afternoon?”
“My granddad was a horse-logger, and as he used to say, ‘never say whoa in a bad place’. Might as well get it over with... we can take my truck – it may be muddy out there and it has four-wheel drive. And it’s plain – no sign on the side. Your little truck has a picture of a muskrat or something on it!”
“Okay... a hamburger at the Zoo first, before the lunch crowd, and we’re gone! Anyway, it’s not a muskrat, it’s a beaver with a shovel and a toolbox.”
“Whatever. I gotta go to the garage and gas up first, so I’ll meet you at the Zoo. Order me the hardcore special, not the quiche.”
***
It was about a twenty-five mile drive from Spirit River village to the Robertson Mines location, and as Arnold had pointed out, it was “just a county road” and not one in good shape. The rain had let up, but the road was still pretty gooey. “See those survey stakes along the edge of the road allowance? Somebody has big plans to fix this up, and I don’t suppose the county is springing for all of it,” Anderson observed.
“Guess that explains the surveyors’ trucks that have been hanging around the last few weeks. Staying at the Inn, I think. Mind you, the county contracts out all its survey work too. I stopped by the village office first thing this morning to see if they had a county map – one with land ownership and sub-divisions marked on it. All Freda had was one that’s about ten years old, but it did show a provincial campsite adjacent to a good-sized block of land – maybe 60 acres – running between the campsite and the mine property, east of the road and along the shore. Owner at that time was a Gerald Giordano.”
“Well, that’s not a name that I’ve heard of,” said Anderson. “I expect he owned that land before I moved here fifteen years ago... is it an old name in the community?”
“Not that I’ve heard of. Have to ask Marion, our walking encyclopedia, for the history and I expect someone who’s good on the internet could get the name of the current landowner through the province.”
There was little traffic this afternoon, just a couple of older cars and one black pickup going the opposite way. No one passed them headed south. A few miles later they saw a few rough trails leaving the country road in the general direction of the lake, which they had only seen glimpses of since they had turned south off the secondary highway. Another mile on, they slowed down as a larger and more travelled road took off to the right. There was a battered sign on the corner: Provincial Campsite. “Y’know,” Arnold said as he turned onto the road, “now I remember this. Our dad used to bring us up here when I was a kid. We’d camp out for the night and fish. And, I think he used to hunt up here in the fall, but I never went with him for that. Occasionally he’d bring back a side of moose, but mostly it was a drinking party for the good ol’ boys.”
“I’ve been on a few of those when I lived out west for a few years. Didn’t enjoy it much, but friends are friends and ya do what ya gotta do so you don’t piss ‘em off. Most times I volunteered to cook and clean up for them... then they were really happy!
“I didn’t know that you cooked,” Arnold snickered.
“Hey, how hard is pancakes in the morning and burnt grey T-Bone steaks with boiled spuds in the evening? Remember, whiskey fixes anything! They treated me well – shared their whisky and always gave me a good share of meat when we got back. Actually, the only deer I ever shot was while I was doing dishes at the camp after they left to go hunting in the morning. Had him all dressed out and hanging up in a tree by the time they got back in the afternoon... I was the only guy who got lucky that day!”
By now they had passed a number of shacks, ancient old truck campers and trailers scattered throughout the campground. “Boy, some of those old trailers have been here a long time,” Arnold observed. “Check out the license plates – there are several here from fifteen or twenty years ago, and most of them still look like folks use them pretty regularly.” The road curved through the trees for a mile or more, then swung back toward the main road. They turned south again, and less than a quarter mile along there was a much newer sign that said Robertson Mines Staff Accommodation and a second sign that said Please Stop at the Office.
The office was very small – really just a log-sided cabin with one door, a window, and a nice new black pickup parked outside. Behind the office, maybe a hundred feet away, was a large double-wide mobile home, that looked like it had been there a long time and seen better days. Once, there had been some landscaping done, but now the yard was populated by some older cars, motorcycles, four-wheelers and – of course – a large and unpleasant-looking do
g, running loose. “Guess we’re gonna follow directions and stop here,” said Arnold as he pulled in and stopped. “Don’t want to start by making enemies... I hope that dog recognizes our good intentions!”
By the time they got out of Arnold’s truck, the door to the office had opened to reveal a giant of a man in his sixties, wearing dirty grey bib overalls, green barn boots and a T-shirt. He was shaved bald and his face was scarred with a badly-set broken nose: “Something I can do for you?” The dog had slunk off behind the building and laid down.
“Hello. Not really, just passing by. My name’s Arnold, and my dad used to bring me up here fishing when I was a kid – long time ago as you can tell! I just wanted to show my neighbour Frank around a little. We live in Spirit River.”
“I know. You run the garage on Main Street. Can’t say as I know the other guy... Frank you say?”
Anderson thought to himself that he definitely did not want to meet the man who broke that nose. He could see this was a man who knew lots, shared nothing, and liked it that way. “Yup, I’m Frank and I do building and renovations around town and out at the cottages.”
“Lot’s of stuff going on out here? I’d heard there was a bunch of construction planned, and we sure see lots of trucks going through town.” Arnold paused a split second: “Surveyors and consultants, looks like, and the road is pretty well all staked.”
“They don’t tell me their plans, and all questions are to go to head office. They don’t like folks snooping around out here, and they pay me to shut up and keep strangers out. We have workers staying here but they gotta do their socializing somewhere else, not here. Makes it easier to keep things quiet in the camp.”
It was Anderson’s turn: “Ah... sorry, I forget your name...”
“I didn’t tell you. They call me Gerald.”
“Thanks Gerald, nice to meet you. I was gonna ask what they do for women – are there families staying out here too?”
“We have some couples, maybe a couple little kids too. There are some girls work in the office at the plant, but they mostly come in from Maple Falls. The guys mostly keep to themselves, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Sorry, I don’t want to pry into your business, we’re just out for a drive. I’d heard awhile ago there was a couple of girls in town who used to party out here, but maybe they moved away or settled down somewhere else. No big deal.”
“It’s a free country, but this is a dry camp – no booze. Guys work their shifts, that’s it. If they want to drink or screw they go to town. I run a tight ship, that’s what I’m paid for.”
“Makes sense to me. Can we drive through and take a look on our way out?”
“Like I said, it’s a free country. But it’s my country, so don’t stop anywhere. The drive through will take you less than five minutes, and I wouldn’t want to have to come looking for you.” Gerald whistled to his dog, turned and went back inside the office shack. There was no goodbye.
Anderson and Arnold got back in the pickup and took the road past the mobile home and past a series of small cottages, arranged like a parody of a suburban housing development. Most of the cottages had vehicles parked outside, many had small aluminum boats and motors on trailers or ATVs on the driveways beside the buildings. Anderson counted about thirty cottages, and there was an obviously new loop with more under construction. There were a couple of work-crews framing one cottage and roofing another.
They slowly rounded the loop and headed back to the entrance. Neither man saw any point in engaging Gerald in further conversation, and the dog was a whole other thing. “Gerald and that dog deserve each other,” Arnold observed as he gave a quick honk beside the office and they drove out on the main road which would take them by the Robertson Mines refinery. “Now that he sees we are going to the company yard, do you suppose he phones ahead to let them know?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. Did you see those two cameras on the light pole by his driveway? One pointed each way along the main road... someone else is watching us, not him. Gerald is rough and tough, I’m sure, but the folks watching those cameras probably have guns instead of a big dog!”
Less than half a mile farther, the county road detoured to the left and the company access road went straight to a gate that would take them through a high chain-link fence. Or, it would take them through the gate if it was open, which it wasn’t. As they drove up a woman in uniform stepped out of the gate house and waited for them to stop.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Do you have an appointment with one of our staff?”
“Nope,” said Arnold. “We’re just tourists, passing through.” Noticing that she looked hard at both of them, and at the old truck, he chuckled loud enough that she could hear: “Yeah, as tourists go, we’re pretty local! Just drove up from home in Spirit River ‘cause it’s a lousy day and we were bored!”
The gate lady relaxed, and smiled a little. “Okay, now I know you – you fixed a tire for me a month or two ago. I live in town in one of the rental units.”
“Tire’s still holding up, I hope?” She nodded. “I don’t suppose you are going to let us through that gate unless we have a note from the Pope, or the Prime Minister maybe...”
She laughed: “Not even the Pope, let alone the Prime Minister! Sorry, I’m given a list at the beginning of each shift and that’s who gets in.”
“Hey, no worries. We really are playing tourist today – just driving around. We’ll get out of your hair and leave you to your Sudoku!”
Anderson leaned across toward the driver’s window and asked, “Say, you’re from town... do you know a gal named Anita?”
She dipped her eyes for an instant, then replied, “Yes, I do, sort of. I mean, I don’t know her well. We met at the Inn after work a couple of times. She used to hang out with one of the steam engineers that works out here. One day she said she... ah... was busy falling in love with a rock and roll musician, so I guess Hassan (the guy who works here) was out of the picture. Haven’t seen her since.”
“Hassan still working here?”
“Oh yeah, every day. Checked him in this morning. Never got to know him, though. They have rules here about ‘fraternising in the workplace’. Seems friendly, but he’s not my kind of guy anyway.”
“Thanks, nice gate lady. We’ll leave you alone... if someone’s watching that camera up there, they’ll think you’re goofing off!”
“Never thought of that,” she said, glancing up. “Maybe they will,” she laughed as Arnold started to back up. “Bye now!” Arnold backed the truck around and headed back down the county road toward the village. They road in silence for a few minutes, then Anderson was the first to speak:
“Well, that was definitely interesting. The mystery of who was driving the big black SUV that the stoned drummer saw outside the bar in Maple Falls is likely solved, anyway.”
“Yup... and I can imagine Sergeant John will be pleased to hear about it. I have a feeling that Hassan guy was not about to let his cute little chicky run away with a rock ‘n’ roll bass player.”
“And I want to know more about handsome Gerald at the campsite. I could be imagining things, but I have a hunch we’ll find that it’s the same Gerald whose name was on that old map – Geronimo, or whatever?
“Giordano,” said Arnold. “Yeah, good point. Not sure how that ties in along with all the other bits and pieces we’re trying to put together, but it might take us somewhere.”
“Well, if the lovely Gerald used to own that piece of ground, Robertson would almost certainly want to buy it. Back in the day, they may have cut him a deal that included money along with a lifetime promise that he could live there. That could have turned him from being Lord of the Empty Swamp into the Emperor of the East Shore, with a personal budget and now, a job that really does give him power over his little kingdom. Too crazy?”
“When you put it that way, not at all crazy. Well, you’re crazy, but that theory actually makes sense!”
“I always like it when you admit
I’m a genius.”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far!”
17:00 JULY 19
On the ride back from Robertson Mines, Anderson had phoned the sergeant at the OPS office but the call went to voicemail. After a couple of tries he called the sergeant’s cellphone, and he had picked up immediately. He was tied up in an interview, but he agreed they should meet as soon as they got back to the village, since he was already there. Again, it would be at Anderson’s place because, as the sergeant put it, “nobody ever goes there except sailors, mechanics, and cops, and there ain’t many of those around!”
Arnold pulled up at the Zoo so Anderson could pick up his own truck while he went to check in with Marion. By the time Anderson had driven down to his own place, the sergeant was already there, police radio squawking while he made notes and talked on his cellphone. Anderson waved at him and went into the house to make coffee, which he dearly needed since they had forgotten to take anything to drink on their trip up the east shore road.
When the sergeant came in, Anderson said, “you could have just walked on in, John, instead of sitting scrunched up in that little mini-cruiser they buy you these days.”
“Thanks, Frank, next time. But I needed the radio, too. There’s some guy flipped over in the ditch the other side of The Falls, and it seems like Marie and Andy have it under control but Marie just wanted to make sure she was doing all the right things.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Banged up, maybe a broken arm, but the ambulance has come and gone and the tow truck is there now. My crew has been handling it fine... Marie has had a few “firsts” as a corporal this last week or two, but it’s good for her. Now, what’s this you were telling me about black trucks and drummers?”
Anderson filled him in briefly and closed with, “I have to remind myself that while our conversation with the drummer – or more accurately the band leader Xavier – took place in Ottawa, what the drummer saw had actually taken place in The Falls a few days earlier. Anyway, finding out that some guy who was courting Anita works at Robertson Mines and drives a big black truck lines up perfectly with what the drummer says that he saw.”
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