One Careless Moment

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  “No problem there.”

  Harnack shifts on his feet, frowning, looking at the ground. “I heard you were a private investigator or something. That you were just working on the fire by coincidence. After what happened, with BB getting killed and all, I figured you’d want to investigate the fire.”

  “The Forest Service is doing that.”

  “Yeah,” he says, kicking dirt. “I know.”

  “So what’s any of this got to do with you?”

  He gives me a cautious glance. “If it were me, I’d want to help.”

  “Well, it wasn’t you on that ridge, Lyle. And for your sake, I hope it never is.”

  There’s a pause filled with the sound of distant traffic. Harnack leans against his van, scuffing dirt with his boot, not looking at me. “That’s what you’re doing though,” he says quietly. “Helping out. Investigating the fire.”

  It’s my turn to be uncomfortable. “What gives you that idea?”

  He looks amused. “Everyone is talking about it. They know you missed your plane. Twice. There’s only one reason for that. You’re running your own investigation.”

  “Really?” I try to sound surprised.

  He makes eye contact — he’s regained most of his confidence. “Sure,” he says, watching me, sensing my anxiety. “They know you’re doing your own thing and it’s making them nervous.” He tosses hair out of his eyes. “This fire is an embarrassment. They want you sent back to Canada.”

  He pauses, seems to enjoy the effect he’s having. I grit my teeth.

  “So I figured, if they’re sending you back, you’d like to keep your investigation going.”

  It takes me a minute to catch on. “What?”

  “I figured you’d need some help.”

  “Help? For what? To pick up where I left off? You going to become a private investigator?”

  He nods. I look at Spider-Man staring at me from the window, and try not to laugh.

  “Yeah — that’s what I was going to do,” he says, finally.

  “And that’s why you were following me?”

  Another nod, not so confident anymore.

  “Why Lyle? What’s so special about this fire?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why start your investigative career here?”

  “BB was like a father to us.”

  “I’m sure he was. What else?”

  His eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Lyle. This isn’t a comic strip. What’s your real interest?”

  He tries to look puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re going to have to act a lot brighter to be a detective.”

  For a minute, Harnack doesn’t know what to do. I can see it in the way he stands, the blank look on his face. He might be torn up enough about the fire and what happened to his crew leader to ask a few questions of his own, but he wouldn’t need to follow me around. There’s another agenda here, something deeper. He gets an ugly look on his face, takes a step forward, his hands clenched.

  “Fuck you, man.”

  He’s getting himself worked up to do something. I don’t wait for him to take the first swing, and shove him hard against the side of the van. I lean against him, one elbow in his solar plexus — a move designed to be particularly uncomfortable — my other hand on his throat. My side and back are throbbing. I hope he’ll co-operate soon, because I can’t do this much longer. He squirms, but stops when I cut off his air. “Listen, Lyle. I was nearly incinerated in that fire. The local welcoming committee gave me a cracked rib and bruised vertebrae. And, yeah, I’m going back to Canada, so I don’t much care if I hurt your feelings a little before I leave. So no more bullshit. Why were you following me?”

  The kid looks terrified. He tries to swallow and I loosen my grip; I was pressing a little too hard. I hear a car on the road and reluctantly let him go. We’re enveloped by a cloud of dust as the car roars past. Harnack slumps against the side of the van, coughing, his face pale.

  “Jesus Christ, man ...”

  “Why are you so interested in my investigation, Lyle?”

  He slides down the side of the van, squatting, and rests his head against the metal, his aggression spent. “It’s kind of personal,” he says quietly. “Between me and Del.” He watches, breathing hard, waiting to see if this will be enough. When I don’t budge, he sighs, swallows noisily. “We went out for a while, after her husband left. She was pretty messed up and I kinda felt sorry for her. She’s a great lady, but I had to cut it off. She had a lot of issues to work out.”

  “You and Del?” I’m trying to picture this.

  “You don’t believe me?” he says, with a faint sneer. “Ask her.”

  “Count on it. So what does this have to do with you following me?”

  “I know she asked you to look into the arson.”

  “She told you this?”

  “It’s not hard to figure out. You’re driving BB’s panel.”

  We both look at the Cornbinder.

  “If you didn’t talk to her, then why are you doing this?”

  “I just want to help her, man. I thought she’d appreciate it.”

  He hangs his head, looks dejected. It really is puppy love. He’s infatuated with Delise Brashaw, wants to score a few points. It’s pitiful enough I think I believe him — about everything except who dumped who. “Obviously, we both want to help her,” I say, and he looks up at me, a dawning hope in his eyes.

  “Maybe we can work together.”

  “I don’t know about that, Lyle.”

  “I’m local. I know the area. I could help.”

  “Tell you what, Lyle. If I can use your help, I’ll let you know.”

  I go to the Filling Station for lunch. I’m halfway through my burger when through the window I see a Forest Service truck pull in next to the Cornbinder. It’s Grey. I can’t help but think it’s a bit of a coincidence, his coming here for lunch. Maybe he recognized BB’s panel. Sure enough, he comes in, sees me, and slides into the booth. He sets his elbows on the table and gives me a hard look.

  “I got your message a little late, Cassel.”

  “Sorry. You hungry? I’ll never be able to eat all these fries.”

  He frowns, his moustache twitching.“You think this is a joke? You’re pissing off a lot of people, ignoring them like this. We keep telling your boss back in Canada that you’re coming home. Only, you never arrive. We’re seriously thinking of charging you for the two wasted tickets. Letting you find your own way north.”

  “I can handle that.”

  His scowl deepens. I’m expecting a harsher reprimand, but he smiles suddenly. “That was my official message, Porter. Unofficially, I think you’ve got a lot of guts, pushing on with this. Bert was my guy, so I can understand your determination, but most fellas would have packed up as soon as they could, put some distance between here and home.”

  I try to hide my surprise. “Well, thanks.”

  The waitress pauses on her circuit. “You want anything, Herb?”

  Grey glances up.“No thanks, Dolores.Wife’s got me on another diet.”

  Dolores gives Grey her condolences and moves on. Grey sighs heavily, starts picking french fries out of the basket.

  “Anyway,” he says, waving a fry at me, “God knows not everyone feels like I do, but I appreciate your bull-headed stubbornness. Kirk Noble is a good enough guy, but he’s about as by-the-book as they come. Which is fine to a point, but this situation isn’t in any book. An arson and a death — that’s never happened that I know of, not in the Forest Service anyway. And that spot fire, at the tail, that’s pretty strange too.”

  “You think so?”

  He gives me a speculative look. “It’s not impossible, just strange.”

  “I’m relieved to hear you say that.”

  He munches thoughtfully, calls over Dolores and orders a Coke. He waits until it’s arrived, then takes a long drink, setting the glass down with exaggerated ca
re, asks me how my investigation is going. Not terribly good, I admit, but I’m working on a few things. He nods but doesn’t press. This seems like a good time to ask about the entrapment investigation.

  “Well, honestly Porter, it doesn’t look so good. They’re not assigning blame to you specifically, but it’s pretty clear who they’re talking about. You were unfamiliar with the terrain and local weather conditions. You didn’t post a lookout. You were unaware of what the fire was doing behind you and you didn’t have an adequate escape route.”

  “I shouldn’t have needed an escape route. It looked safe.”

  I’m a little loud and Grey glances around, gives me a hand signal

  — keep it down. “This isn’t my first fire,” I say, a little defensively. “Yeah, I know that, Porter. Hindsight is 20/20. But that’s what they’re saying.”

  “What do you think?”

  Grey sits back, takes some time. “Some of your actions were a little careless.”

  There’s a thoughtful silence. I’d like to discuss this in more depth, but I’m not sure he’s prepared to do that, which is fine — I’m just thankful he’s being straight with me. “So, what happens now?”

  “Not much, for a while. They have thirty days to submit their report.”

  Thirty days. “Will they consider new evidence before then?”

  “Sure. Right up until release. Do you have any?”

  I tell him no and there’s an awkward silence. Grey drains his Coke and gives me a serious look. “You keep plugging away at it, Porter, but don’t mention I said that to anyone. If there’s anything I can help you with, unofficially of course, give me a call at home. I’m in the book.”

  I thank him and he leaves. I finish my burger and slip a five under the plate.

  The parking lot at the Paradise Gateway Motel isn’t exactly crowded at this time of day. I park next to a lonely tour bus, climb metal stairs to the second floor. I’m determined to talk with Kar again, to get some answers. I was jumped after trying to talk with her at the bar and I’m positive now that I saw her at the squatters’ camp. There’s no answer to my knocks.

  I knock harder. Maybe she’s sleeping off a long shift. Still no answer.

  I retreat to the panel, temporarily stymied. I don’t have a lot of investigative options at this point — I’ve been over both origins at the fire and a return to the squatters’ camp would be less than healthy. So I wait; she’ll come home sooner or later. When she does, I’ll ask her again about the Sasquatch, why he ran me off at gunpoint. If she refuses to talk about it, maybe she can set up a safe meeting with him.

  I’m not very good at waiting and am just weighing the benefits of coming back later when Harnack’s old VW van sputters into the parking lot and pulls up beside me. He cranks down his window, hangs an elbow over the sill.

  “You staking out this place?”

  “No, Lyle, I’m not staking out anything.”

  “‘Cause I could spell you off. Just tell me what we’re looking for.”

  He looks so expectant I’m tempted to accept his offer, just so I know he’s in one place and not following me around, but then he’ll know I’m interested in Kar and I don’t want to do that to her. He grins at me, waiting for instructions, like a faithful hound. I get an idea, a little reckless, but it would give us both something to do. “You really want to help, Lyle?”

  “Yeah, you bet.”

  “This could be risky.”

  “Bring it on, man.”

  “Okay, here’s the plan. I need you to distract the clerk at the office over there.”

  Harnack looks toward the motel. “How do I do that?”

  “Go into the washroom and stuff paper towels into a toilet until it backs up, starts to make a mess. Then go tell her. Make it sound bad. I’ll only need a few minutes, but you gotta keep her busy and away from the counter, so make sure there’s some water on the floor. Think you can handle that?”

  “Piece of cake.”

  I take a circuitous route to the side of the office. Nothing happens for a long time. Either Harnack can’t figure out how to plug a toilet, or he’s doing such a good job we’re going to need an ark around here. Finally, I hear his murmured voice, followed by an expressive female curse. Soon after, the small office is empty and I slip in.

  There’s a long counter, cash register, and debit machine. A shelf under the counter is loaded with stacks of fraying phone books. I pull out a couple of drawers without finding what I’m looking for — a spare key for Room 212. There’s a smaller office behind this reception area, scarcely large enough for a desk, single file cabinet, and antique safe. If the keys are in the safe, I’m out of luck — it would take a stick of dynamite to open. I rifle very quickly through the desk, find nothing, then notice a metal cabinet behind the door, mounted on the wall. It’s wide, shallow, and unlocked. Inside are spare keys hung on hooks — rows and rows of them. At one time, they were organized numerically.

  Now, it’s random access, necessitating I look at each tag for the correct room number. I look as quickly as I can, expecting the clerk, but Harnack must have done a good job. I hear a door open, and the sound of a woman’s irritated voice.

  “— plumber. Fucking teenagers.”

  I’m out of time and just about to give up, when there it is. I grab the key, shut the cabinet, and step quickly out of the office. The clerk is in the hall, nearly at the front counter, and I hesitate. If she sees me passing from the counter she’ll be suspicious, but I don’t have a lot of choice. Harnack steps out of the washroom, saying something, distracting her enough that I slip past the hall and out the front door. I take the metal steps three at a time, so Harnack won’t see where I’m going. I nearly forget to knock first, but there’s still no answer.

  Her bed is neatly made. Stuffed toys stare vacantly from shelves. I’m not sure there’s anything here worth risking break-and-enter for, but you never know. I look in cupboards and drawers for pictures, or a diary — anything that might tell me who she is and how she’s connected to the squatters. On the nightstand is a photo of a younger Kar, surrounded by a half-dozen people. They all look a little ragged and wild, and one of them could be the Sasquatch, in his summer fur. They’re standing on a concrete pathway against a backdrop of ferns, a touristy sort of setting I’d expect the squatters to avoid. I set the photo back on the nightstand. In a cabinet below the TV is a hardcover book: a school textbook. She’s taking physics by correspondence. This girl isn’t planning on spending her life as a waitress, or living in a shack in the woods. I rummage a bit more. Thick brown envelopes contain returned lessons; she’s doing pretty good. The name on the envelopes is Karalee Smith. The address is General Delivery. I return the book and envelopes, check the window. I’ve been doing this every few minutes, pulling aside the heavy drapes to scan the parking lot — I don’t want to get trapped. A truck veers off the highway, coasts into the parking lot. It looks like a truck I saw at the squatters. Just to be safe, I let myself out and peer cautiously over the second floor railing.

  The truck is an old GMC of roughly the same vintage as the Corn-binder. Big rectangular mirrors jut from the sides. Paint peels from the hood like bark from a cedar. Spare tire and junk in the open box. It’s parked just below me, near the office, and I can see the side of a man’s head. Ball cap and heavy, lamb chop sideburns. A door creaks open, then slams. Kar walks around the front of the truck, passes a few words with the driver, which I don’t catch. Then she nods, heads for the stairs. I head the other direction, descend an opposing staircase. I hear the hollow clonk of her boots overhead as I reach pavement — I’ll talk with her later. The old GMC turns left onto the highway.

  A few minutes later, so do I.

  10

  •

  I HAD EXPECTED the GMC to turn right and head north, toward the canyon and the squatters’ camp, but it’s going south, out of town. It’s easy to follow here, plenty of curves and only a few gravel side roads, so I hang back. Once again, I’m drivi
ng a conspicuously distinctive vehicle. Everything rattles, from the floorboards to the roof, popping and warbling. The steering wheel is as big as a ship’s tiller.

  After an hour, we’re on the big highway, headed toward Missoula. When the GMC takes an off-ramp I groan; I’m not real good at following in the city, but he stays on the outskirts like a country boy. When he stops at a Conoco, I ease in behind the station, find an air hose to fill a soggy tire, then watch from around a corner as he fuels up. He’s a big guy in his mid-twenties, broad-shouldered without a lot of fat. Unlike Harnack, he looks like he’d know how to use his size. He’s wearing dirty jeans and a couple of shirts with holes in the sleeves. Most striking are his dense brown lamb-chop sideburns, ending just shy of his nose. Thick curly hair crests from beneath a ball cap. He looks like Hugh Jackman playing Wolverine in the X-Men, complete with the antisocial frown. It occurs to me that he bears a striking resemblance to the Sasquatch. He must be the ape-man’s son. When he goes in to pay, I go into his truck, rummage in the glove box. There’s a pair of tin snips and a crescent wrench, but no registration or insurance. I retreat. The licence plate says Florida. I jot down the number.

  From the Conoco, he goes for lunch at a drive-through, then stops at a grocery store. He’s inside for a while and I consider another pass through his truck, but there isn’t much point. He wheels out a heavily-loaded cart, slings bags in the back of the truck, then we’re on the road again, passing through an industrial area. I’m pretty sure I’ve wasted an afternoon watching him buy groceries, but he has one stop left — a feed store. He tosses in a couple large bags of fertilizer. So much for high intrigue.

  I let him get way ahead of me on the drive back. Rain spits on the windshield. The wipers are old and missing most of their rubber. To see where I’m going, I lean over the steering wheel, peering through a single two-inch clear arc of windshield. It doesn’t improve my mood. I’ve pissed off the Forest Service just to waste the afternoon and fifty bucks on gas. Then it occurs to me that I didn’t notice a garden at the squatters’ camp. In fact, the old wellsite is clay so hard you could play tennis on it. There could be a garden out in the trees though, but it seems strange to drive all the way to Missoula to buy groceries and fertilizer, when both are available in Carson Lake.