“Kar, please believe me — I’m just trying to help.” The phone rings, shrill and demanding, and we both jump. “Shit,” she says, “it’s Roy. I’m late.” She reaches over and grabs the phone. “I’ll be down in a minute —” It’s not Roy — I can tell by the look on her face, the way she suddenly glances at me. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “No — no, he’s not ... I would never ...”
I take a quick step, grab the phone, pulling it from Kar’s grasp. She shrinks away from me, backs onto the bed. “Who is this?” I say into the receiver. A few seconds of breathing on the other end, then a click. I stab in the numbers for call trace, get nothing but a loud buzz — they must route through a switchboard. Whoever was calling knows where I am and must be close. I dart outside, peer over the second-floor rail. Nothing. They might have called from the lobby, and I thunder down the metal steps and yank open the door. The lobby is empty, the handset on the phone cold. Discouraged, I return to the bar, glance around. Nothing has changed. Telson is at the table, staring at me. I want to search the parking lot, but there isn’t much use — the caller was probably on a cell and miles from here by now.
I wander back to the table, trying to come up with a good story. “Where were you?” says Telson. “Had to use the can by the lobby. Plumbing problems.” She nods, but I’m not sure she believes me. I sip my beer, try to slow my heart rate; I’m definitely in the target zone. A few minutes later Kar comes in, gives me a sharp look. I pretend not to notice and she turns away.
The one-man band steps onto the stage, taps the microphone, introduces himself as Rusty something-or-another, and asks for requests. I holler for some Clapton and he grins, starts playing “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” Rusty can play. I pull Telson to her feet, create a dance floor. Kar watches. Telson holds me tight and I stop worrying about tomorrow.
The world seems a better place the next morning when I turn over in bed and find Telson next to me, all warm skin and curly hair. Yawning, I search for the clock. It’s late — nine — but I take my time getting up. After a shower, Telson is still sleeping. I lean over, kiss her on the cheek. Her eyes flutter open and she smiles.
“Porter ... you’re dressed.”
“I’ve got something I need to do. You want to get breakfast first?”
She shakes her head, tells me to do my thing. She’s asleep again before I reach the door.
I warm up the Cornbinder and head to Lakeside Estates. My plan is simple: tell Castellino everything I know, then see Del and tell her I’ve done all I can. Then back to the motel for brunch with Telson; maybe plan a holiday — I need some distance from recent events.
When I knock on the door of the cabin that Castellino and Noble use as an office, there’s no response. Come to think of it, there’re no vehicles here either. I divert to the ranger station, thinking they might be there, but Grey is the only familiar face.
“They’re out on a call,” he says. “Someone found a body.”
“A body? Where?”
“I’m not sure. Some motel in town.”
I get a bad feeling, which worsens as I approach the Paradise Gateway Motel. The parking lot is filled with sheriff and emergency services vehicles. A crowd has gathered and a cordon has been established. Deputy Sheriff Compton stands in the parking lot, wearing reflective sunglasses, his arms crossed. Half the Carson Lake Volunteer Fire Department are doing crowd control. There’s even a media van here already — how they hear about these things so quickly, I’ll never know. The door to Kar’s room stands open. I park half in the ditch at the edge of the highway and watch. There’s a lot of activity on the second-floor balcony; uniforms coming and going. I want to talk to Compton, find out what happened, but I’m a little reluctant. After the phone call Kar received last night, it occurs to me that I may have been the catalyst for what happened. Remembering I still have Kar’s room key in my pocket, I feel sick, clench my jaw hard for a few minutes, and fight a rising panic.
Another death that may have been my fault.
I ease the Cornbinder back into traffic, return to the Super 8. I need to think.
Telson is in the shower. She comes out wearing a towel, smiling.
“Howdy, stranger. Want to borrow a towel?”
I shake my head, sit on a corner of the bed.
“What’s wrong, Porter?”
I hesitate. “You know that waitress at the bar last night?”
Telson pulls the towel tighter around herself. “The one who was making eyes at you?”
“Yeah. I think she’s dead. They found a body in her room this morning.”
Telson sits on the bed next to me. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I just heard about it.”
“Did you know her?”
“I talked to her a few times, about the fire.”
“What’s she got to do with the fire?”
“Long story. But somehow, I think she’s connected to the arson.”
We’re both silent for a minute, thinking. No doubt, she’s wondering why I didn’t tell her earlier.
“I need your help,” I say, finally. “I need you to be a reporter.”
“Okay. But I thought you didn’t want me involved.”
“I don’t. I just need this one little favour.”
She smiles wistfully, watching my face.
“I need you to go to the motel and find out what you can. If it’s really her. Who found the body. Signs of a struggle. The usual reporter questions. Then come back and let me know.”
She stands, ready for action.“I’ll head right over.What’re you going to do?”
“Wait for you,” I tell her. “And worry.”
Telson doesn’t take long to dress and hurry out the door. When she’s gone, I dig Kar’s room key out of my pocket and toss it into a dumpster behind the Super 8. I should have known better than to think this was all over for me. Then I sit and wait by the phone. Telson returns a half-hour later, beads of sweat on her forehead.
“She’s dead, all right,” she says, slinging her bag onto the bed.
“And?”
“Not so fast, sailor. You go first.”
“What?”
“You asked me to be a reporter, but you won’t tell me what’s going on.”
Telson is wearing her work face. I should have known. “This has to be off the record.”
“You know it’s never off the record with a reporter.”
“Today, it had better be.”
She reads my expression. “Okay, okay, I was just kidding. They were pulling her out when I got there. We’re talking body bag, so I didn’t get a look, but I did manage to squeeze in a few questions. They didn’t tell me much, though. But from the talk in the crowd, it sounds like suicide — pills and booze.”
“She killed herself?”
“It was just talk, Porter.”
“Just talk? Who was talking?”
“Everyone. Apparently, someone at the motel found her.”
“And had to tell their friends.”
“You know how it goes. Big news, in a town like this.”
I sigh, thinking about Kar and her correspondence course. Telson sits beside me, slides her hand onto my leg. “I’m sorry this happened, Porter. I want to help you, but I need to know what’s going on. What did you talk to her about?”
I stand and Telson gives me a questioning look.
“Come with me. You’re not the only one that needs to know.”
We drive in separate vehicles to the greenhouse. The idea is to leave the Cornbinder with Del, stick with Telson’s rental. This works well with my other plan — tell Del what happened, then go to the sheriff. Leave the investigation to the authorities. I gear down for a pothole, pondering how to explain to Castellino my involvement with Kar in a way that won’t get me arrested for any number of things. Breaking and entering. Interfering in a police investigation. Stupidity. If I’m lucky, they’ll just send me home. Telson’s little blue Honda splashes through puddles ahead of me. The sun is out
again and everything is steaming. When we arrive, Del is in the back, up to her armpits in an aquatic tub. She looks up at us as we walk in.
The women size each other up. Del stands, wipes water and wisps of root onto a rag, and offers her hand. “We didn’t start off very well, did we? I’m Delise Brashaw.”
Telson shakes her hand, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.
“Christina Telson. I’m Porter’s friend.”
“I gathered that much.”
There’s an awkward silence.
“Del, something’s happened. We need to talk.”
Del glances up the aisle of the greenhouse, to where Melissa is sitting on a pallet, filling trays with soil, then herds us into a room at the end of the building. It’s small, stuffy, and filled with bags of fertilizer. “What’s the matter?” Del says, looking worried. “What happened?”
“You know how I told you the squatters were growing marijuana in the canyon?”
Del nods.
“Well, I didn’t tell you the whole story about how I got the idea to start with. When I went to see the squatters the first time, I noticed a familiar face in a trailer window, watching me. Turns out, it was a girl working in town as a waitress. I didn’t have any luck with the squatters, so I figured I’d give her a try. She didn’t want to talk. I’m pretty sure someone else didn’t want me talking to her either — that was the night I was jumped.”
“Those bruises,” says Del. “They gave you those?”
I nod. Telson shoots Del a vaguely annoyed look.
“Anyway, I returned to where she’s staying in town, to talk to her again, but she wasn’t there. So I waited around for a while. When she showed up, it was with one of the squatters.” I pause. “At any rate, she’s connected with them, so I tried once more to talk to her, but she was even less co-operative. Then, this morning, she turns up dead.”
“What do you mean — dead?” says Del. As if there’s more than one kind.
“The cops aren’t saying much, but we’ve heard rumours of suicide.”
“Suicide?” Del lets out a heavy sigh, sits on a stack of vermiculite. “Why would she do that?”
“She might not have,” says Telson. “We can’t rule out that this was a murder, and is somehow connected to the fire.” From the look on her face, I know Telson won’t let this go — this is her story now. So much for one small favour. Del looks at her.
“Do you think she knew who set the fire?”
“We’re not sure of anything right now,” I say, shooting Telson a cautionary glance.
“What about the police?” says Del. “What do they know?”
“That’s a little difficult to determine. We’re not talking.”
Del gives me a piercing look. “You haven’t told them about the pot gardens?”
“Not yet.”
“Good.” She looks determined. “That’s good.”
“No, Del, that’s not good. The police are the ones in authority here — they’re the ones who will solve this thing in the end. I’m just running around, trying to find out what little I can. All I’m really doing is trying to soothe my conscience.“
Del places a hand on my shoulder. “Porter, you know this wasn’t your fault.”
I brush the hand away. “If I hadn’t come, none of this would have happened.”
“If you hadn’t come, who knows what might have happened. Maybe no one would have called for the bombers, and the fire would have gone over the ridge and killed those squatters. Whoever set the fire would have set it anyway. Without you here, there’s a better chance they might get away with it. But you are here Porter, and you have to stick with it.”
Telson nods. “I agree, Porter. Let’s stick with it.”
I look at both women, wanting me to keep things from the police — each for different reasons. Telson wants an exclusive. Del has unrealistic expectations about what a man can accomplish on his own, with little-to-no resources. Both of them seem unaware of the very real danger.
“It would be better to turn this over to the sheriff.”
Telson nods, like she knew I would say this. Del looks disgusted. “That’s it, then?”
“You’re dealing with people who won’t hesitate to kill to protect themselves.”
“Which is why we have to catch them,” Del says, her eyes flashing.
I return Del’s challenging look. “I’m flattered that you think I’m that good Del, but the reality here is the sheriff is in a much better position to catch whoever started the fire, and whoever might have killed the woman in town. Given what I know, their chances will be even better.”
“Not if the squatters leave,” Del says quietly.
“What do you mean?” says Telson.
Del looks at me. “We’ve talked about this before, Porter. They’re growing pot, probably enough to put them into federal prison if they’re caught. Do you think they’ll co-operate with the police? They’re the only people that might know who started the fire, and they could be packing up right now.”
There’s a heavy silence. Telson looks at me. “You know, she’s right, Porter.”
Both women watch me expectantly. I’m outnumbered.
“Okay,” I say, reluctantly. “I’ll try to talk with them again, then that’s it.”
12
•
ON THE DRIVE up from the Blood Creek Road, I’m half hoping the old wellsite will be abandoned. Another part of me is hoping they’re still there, and I can get them to talk. Del is right about the squatters being the only other people that might know who started the fire, and the only way to put this behind me is to leave Montana knowing I did everything I could. The gate on the rutted trail is still closed and my heart beats a little faster. After what happened when I last approached them, I take the time to heave aside the heavy poles and open the gate.
I want the Cornbinder handy for a quick getaway.
Wolverine is working on his truck when I nose the Cornbinder onto the wellsite. He looks over from the open jaws of the engine compartment and frowns. I’m not encouraged by the way he picks up an oversized wrench, hefts it as he watches me leave the safety of my vehicle. I try to look harmless as I approach. Given the situation, it’s not difficult.
“I need to talk to you for a minute.”
He steps away from the truck, gives me a cold, appraising look.
“It’s about the woman you dropped in town the other day.”
No response. I should have brushed up on my Neanderthal.
“She was found dead this morning.”
His look darkens. He turns toward a trailer and hollers: “Pa!”
When he stares at me again, he looks dangerously upset. A trailer door slaps open and the Sasquatch appears, toting his sawed-off shotgun. He gives me an ugly sneer as he steps down from the trailer and ambles over. I’m struck again by the similarity of their features. The Sasquatch’s beard and moustache glisten with grease. They’re both wearing oversized rubber boots, caked with clay.
“He says Karalee is dead.”
The Sasquatch’s brow twitches. “That true?”
“Yes. They found her this morning, at the motel.”
For a minute, neither squatter says anything. Father and son look at each other. Something passes between them. I’m thinking they’ll want to know more — how she died, who found her — questions anyone would want answered. But when the Sasquatch looks at me, he has only one question.
“Where do we pick up the body?”
“I don’t know. I’m not with the police.”
“Then why’re you here?” says Wolverine.
I hesitate, wondering how to come at this. By the look on their faces, straight-on is best. “I’m not with the sheriff or Forest Service,” I tell them, to make sure this is perfectly clear. “I’m here for my own reasons. I was on the fire in the canyon. You’ve probably heard about what happened there, about the guy that was killed.”
The Sasquatch is silent. Wolverine gives me an impat
ient look.
“I’m responsible for the fellow that was killed. I want to know who started that fire.”
Sasquatch and son exchange glances, then Sasquatch looks at me. “Thanks for lettin’ us know about Karalee,” he says, his voice flat. They turn away, walk toward one of the trailers. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. It comes to me that Kar is the Sasquatch’s daughter.
I call after him. “Your daughter may have been murdered.”
They stop, turn around. “What?” says Wolverine.
“I know about the gardens. I’m willing to bet someone else did, too.”
For a moment, both men stand rooted, then look at each other and exchange a faint nod. They have ugly, determined looks on their faces as they walk closer. Sasquatch stops about three feet in front of me.
Wolverine keeps going, gets behind me, which makes me nervous. I turn, try to keep them both in view, but Wolverine knows the dance, keeps a step ahead. Sasquatch scowls.
“How do you know about the gardens?”
I back away, try to sound calm. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out.”
Sasquatch points the coach gun at my belly. “You made a mistake, showing your face.”
“Listen, I’m just investigating —”
Sasquatch nods and Wolverine grabs my arms, pinning them behind my back in a way that quickly becomes uncomfortable. Sasquatch gets very close, the muzzle of the gun presses against my belly.
“You should have stayed away,” he growls. “Don’t you know this place is cursed?”
“It’s cursed, all right,” I say, grimacing, wondering if I can shake Wolverine, make a run for it.
“Then why’d you come back?”
“Whoever started the fire killed a man I’m responsible for. And probably Karalee.”
Wolverine tightens his grip, giving my back a jolt of pain. “How do you know my sister?”
“I don’t,” I grunt, trying to keep my breathing even. “But I owe her. She helped me. A couple of guys jumped me. Would have finished me off if she hadn’t stopped them.”
The Sasquatch inspects the stitches on my face, the bruising on my neck, as though I’m an injured horse. It’s a toss-up between shooting me and seeing if I’ll still be of some use. He nods thoughtfully but doesn’t remove the muzzle of the gun from my belly.
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