Roy looks at me, then Erwin, then back at me, terrified.
“Roy, that night you had me tossed out —”
Roy winces at the memory, looks like he might cry.
“Do you remember who was in the bar?”
“Lots of people, man.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“Firefighters, locals — I can’t remember all of them.”
“It would be good if you could,” I say. “We’d appreciate that.”
As if on cue, Erwin starts to spin the drum of his revolver again. It’s the auditory equivalent of his knuckle-cracking. I decide it would be a good idea to wrap up the interview. “You just give it some thought, Roy. Make up a list. Ask around. Go back to the receipts, for the people that used plastic. We’ll be by later to pick it up. Say, tonight, at the bar.”
Roy is staring at Erwin, who’s giving him an evil grin as he spins the revolver drum.
“Just nod your head,” I prompt Roy.
He nods.
“Okay — Waldo, let’s hit the road.”
For a moment, Erwin remains seated, staring at Roy cowered on his messy bed, and I think I’ve lost what little control I may have over the situation. Then Erwin stands, snaps his fingers, and points at Roy, grinning. “See you later, Roy.”
The backyard couches are empty — no one wants to be a witness. We climb into the Cornbinder, Erwin casually tucking the revolver into his pants, covering the butt of the weapon with his coat. I slam my door, sit gripping the oversized steering wheel for a moment.
“What’s the matter?” says Erwin. I’m breathing a little harder than him.
“Nothing,” I say tightly.
“Good. Let’s get some lunch.”
I ease the old wreck into traffic, glancing at Erwin as I shoulder check to change lanes. The rear windows are dirty and I cut off a small car, which swerves, honking. The car roars past, a teenager in the passenger side giving me the finger, and I swear.
“You okay?” says Erwin. “You seem a little tense.”
“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth.
“What’d you tell the cops,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of a sleeve.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
There’s a lengthy silence as I weave through back alleys. Erwin watches me, quickly losing what little patience he has. “They’re treating your sister’s death as suspicious.”
“Damn right it’s suspicious,” says Erwin. “What do they know?”
“Not a lot. The autopsy says booze and pills, but it was the booze that killed her.”
“She died of alcohol poisoning?” The disbelief in his voice is clear.
“Did she drink much?”
Erwin shakes his head. “Just a beer, now and then. Nothing hard.”
“Well, she drank a lot that night. You sure she didn’t have a boyfriend?”
Erwin gives me a speculative look. “Why?”
“Well, it’s hard to imagine a girl who doesn’t drink much taking in that much booze on her own. Someone might have gotten her started on the hard stuff, or slipped the pills in to get her defences down. It could be anyone, but it makes more sense if she knew the person.”
Erwin gives this some thought. “What kind of pills?”
“Sleeping pills. Non-prescription.”
“She didn’t use sleeping pills,” he says, then falls silent.
“How well did you know your sister?” I say. “Could she have had a friend that knew about your growing and wanted in on the action?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. What about this call my sister got?”
“The cops are going to check the phone records.”
Erwin nods. I’m hoping he doesn’t realize I would have had to tell the cops how I knew Karalee received the call. Which would naturally lead them to wonder why I was interested in Karalee.
We’re on Main Street, headed out of town. A flock of bored teenagers roost in a patch of shade next to an ice cream stand, slouched and sipping sugar water, waiting for something to happen. They’re not the only ones waiting; I’m stalled for clues, unsure what to do next. We pass the last few buildings and Erwin sits up.
“Where are we going?” Erwin’s expression is not encouraging and I explain that, although we had a little fun, we’re no further ahead. What the hell am I doing, he says, wasting time, driving around town? I have two days left — don’t I realize the clock is ticking.
“Oh, I hear it,” I tell him. “Every time you open your mouth.”
“Fuck you,” he says, pointing a stubby finger at me. “You better start thinking.”
“Look —” I say, trying to find words to convey the impossibility of solving this puzzle in two more days. “I’m doing my best here, Erwin, but I’m just one guy, out of the loop. There isn’t a hell of a lot I can do without access to the official investigation. I don’t hear you coming up with any brilliant ideas, either. Give me something I can use, or get off my back.”
For a minute, Erwin just stares at me.“Fuck it. Turn around.” he says, pulling out his revolver, examining it. “You want access?” says Erwin. “I’ll get you access.”
I’m worried about what Erwin has in mind. His gun is tucked in his pants again, but he hasn’t told me just how he plans to gain access to the official investigation. Subtlety is not his specialty. I have visions of him storming into the ranger station, gun drawn, dragging me along, followed by a nationally televised standoff, before we go out in a blaze of stupidity. I ask once more what his plan might be.
“Just drive,” he grumbles.
“Okay.” We reach the highway intersection. “Anywhere in particular?”
“You know the place.”
I act dumb.
“The cabin by the lake,” he says irritably.
“Why there, Erwin? What good will that do?”
Erwin turns in his seat, gives me a look that would make the Terminator proud. I shrug, as if this is no big deal, pop the Cornbinder into first and lurch onto the highway. Erwin is sullen as we drive through town. The teenagers are still at the ice cream stand. Tourists line the boardwalk. Erwin pulls out his revolver, holds it below the window, idly spins the drum.
“Do you have to do that?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Helps me relax.”
“It’s not exactly doing wonders for my concentration.”
He spins for another minute before putting it away. We turn off the highway, pass the sawmill. Carson Lake flashes through the trees. “What are you going to do?” I ask Erwin. “Just walk in and demand the cops tell you everything? Wave your gun in their face? That ought to go over well.”
Erwin doesn’t respond. A moment later he points to a driveway. “Turn in here.”
The driveway winds among dense timber. The house isn’t clearly visible from the road. It’s a nice house, log, two-storey with lots of dormers. There’s no one home and I wonder if Erwin knew this, or was just taking a chance. Then I remember that he made his own way back to town earlier today, probably on foot, cutting through the acreages around here. He directs me to park behind the garage, then ushers me out and leads the way through the trees. We cross the road and follow a gully dense with alder and young fir until we’re close to the lake. Erwin seems to know this area remarkably well. Suddenly, he stops, holding up his hand. He’s watching the cabin at Lakeshore Estates. Four vehicles are parked in front: two sheriff ’s black-andwhites and two unmarked.
“Now what?” I whisper.
“Shut up,” says Erwin. “I’m thinking.”
I hope he only wants to get into the building, not actually talk to anyone.
“It’s close to supper time. If you have to go in, let’s just wait until they leave.”
He grunts and we wait. I try to talk Erwin out of this and he pulls out his gun, jams it into my ribs, then puts it away without saying anything. I’m a little worried the investigators will just order in, and Erwin wi
ll lose his patience, but they come out, all at once — Castellino, Noble, Aslund, and Batiste — and pile into a minivan. They’re barely out the drive when Erwin makes his move, grabbing me by my shirt collar like a truant kid. Hang on, I tell him, as we cross the yard. There might still be people in the cabin.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” he says.
He drags me to the door facing the lake, hidden from the road. Erwin tries the door. It’s locked.
“Too bad,” I say, starting to move away.
Erwin grabs my arm, yanks me back. He pulls out his revolver, taps a glass pane with the butt. The pane pops out with a loud tinkle, shatters on the floor inside. Erwin reaches in, opens the door. I hesitate but he prods me inside, where I stand like a thief caught in the act.
“Come on,” he hisses. “Get to work.”
I look at the door, at the broken pane. What if there’s a silent alarm? Erwin still has the revolver in his hand, which he uses to urge me forward, toward the large kitchen table, cluttered with documents. The only way to get out of here quickly is to make it look like I’m doing something, so I lean over the table, scrutinize the paperwork. Now that I’m here anyway, I’m more than a little curious.
There are a lot of files here, in neat piles on the table. All the documents pertain to the arson and the entrapment — Karalee’s death is being investigated elsewhere, or the documents have been secured. I glance around, note a small file cabinet in a corner, which I find locked.
“You want me to open that?” says Erwin.
“No — I don’t think it’ll be necessary.”
“Bullshit,” he says, and goes to work on the metal cabinet, leaving his fingerprints everywhere — something I’m going to great lengths to avoid. The cabinet yields in about ten seconds. Inside are three slim files, which I open using the tip of a pen. Erwin, impatient, pulls them out, lays them open. The pages are stamped: Confidential Information Pending Anticipated Litigation; Exempt from Freedom of Information Act. This must be the good stuff. I use a bulldog clip as tweezers, flipping through carefully. Brashaw’s autopsy report is here, indicating he died of asphyxiation due to the searing of his lung membranes — hopefully, it was quick. Negative on drugs or alcohol.
“Now that’s brutal,” says Erwin, looking at the pictures.
I quickly close the file, move on. Another file contains witness statements from various staff on the fire — far too much information to read now. I consider photocopying the works, but they’re stapled and it would take a lot of time. It would also be a little awkward to explain why I have them, if they were ever found. So I set them aside. Erwin stands beside me, shaking his head, holding Brashaw’s autopsy report. I snatch it out of his hands and vigorously try to wipe off any prints.
“What’d you do that for?” he says.
“Give the man some rest.”
“Touchy, touchy.”
“Just give me some space,” I snap. “Let me work.”
He backs away, stands in front of a map pinned to the wall, pretends he isn’t interested. How long have we been here? I notice one of the witness statements is from a member of the volunteer fire department and I take a closer look, curious how they were dispatched. Sometimes the arsonist calls the fire department, so he can watch the show. Or, in this case, the arsonist might not have wanted the fire to go far — it was probably just a warning; if he was interested in the marijuana, he wouldn’t have wanted the gardens to burn up. The statement is from Hutton, the vfd Chief who was on the fire. The smoke was reported by a motorist on the highway, which probably means it was called in on a cellphone. The last of the three files contains only pictures — the disturbed origin and Brashaw’s removal from the fatality scene. I move to the table, for a quick look at the documents there.
Crunch of gravel under tires.
“Shit,” says Erwin, glancing cautiously out a window. “We got company.”
It’s Compton and another uniform I haven’t seen before. The way they exit the vehicle, and the fact that the lights aren’t going, indicates there is indeed a silent alarm here. Compton nods to his partner and they vanish from sight, going in opposite directions around the cabin. There’s nothing outside but manicured lawn and scattered trees. We’re in big trouble.
“No shooting!” I hiss at Erwin, who quickly checks the other windows.
“Shut up and find some place to hide,” he snaps at me.
I’m ready to walk out with my hands up, put an end to this ridiculous affair, but Erwin pushes me backwards, into the next room — a bedroom — and shoves me into a closet. The last thing I see before he closes the door is his face, and the muzzle of his gun. Seconds later, I hear boots on the landing, the rattle of a door slapping open, followed by a lot of stomping and a few thuds. There’s a single gunshot, then a creak of floorboards, drawing closer. They’ve shot Erwin and now I have a lot of explaining to do, but when the closet door opens, it’s Erwin, sweating and breathing hard.
“Come on!”
When I don’t move fast enough, he reaches in, yanks me out by the arm. Dazed, I follow him into the kitchen, where paperwork is scattered like leaves. Compton and company are face down on the floor, not moving. I stop, looking for blood, but Erwin grabs me again and tows me out of the cabin, past the black-and-white and through the trees. We dash across the road, head for the acreage where we left the Cornbinder. Sirens and lights pass, a blur through the trees. We heave ourselves into the panel, wheezing and panting, then creep cautiously onto the road. Soon, we’re back on the highway.
“Jesus Christ!” I shout at Erwin, finally able to breathe. “What happened?”
“I had to give them a little tap,” he says.
“A tap? Did you kill anyone?”
“Naw, they’re just sleeping.”
“And the gunshot?”
“Don’t worry about it. It was theirs. Just a wild shot.”
14
•
WE’RE HEADED NORTH, into town. Parking lots along Main Street are full. Heat shimmers off the pavement, off vehicles and buildings. Girls in shorts saunter along the boardwalk. It’ll take me a few minutes to decelerate to the groggy afternoon pace.
“Where are we going?”
Erwin is slumped against the door, catching his breath.
“Anywhere,” he says. “Just keep driving.”
We pass through town and continue north, past the sewage lagoon and church. Soon, we’re in open country. I have no idea where we’re going, or what to do next. I’m expecting Erwin to be full of questions, demanding to know what I found at the cabin, but he’s strangely quiet. A few miles out of town, I glance over and realize why. He’s holding his side. Beneath his hand, a large red stain has soaked through his jacket. He’s been shot. How he made it from the cabin to the truck at a dead run, I’ll never know. I pull over abruptly, gears grinding, come to a rocking halt on the shoulder of the highway.
“Jesus Christ, Erwin. Why didn’t you say something?”
“It’s not so bad,” he says coarsely.
“Bullshit, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
He starts to protest but I ignore him — I don’t want another death on my hands. It takes a minute to turn the old beater around — trucks swooshing past — then I grip the big steering wheel and floor the old girl, glancing frequently at Erwin. Under the dirt, he looks pale but gives me a weak grin. He’s got his revolver pointed at my side.
“I said no hospital.”
“Put that thing away.”
He cocks the revolver. “No hospital.”
“Erwin, listen — you’re going to bleed to death. You think Karalee would have wanted that?”
“Fuck you,” he says, grimacing. “You pull into Emergency, you’ll be the one needing it.”
For a moment, I just drive. Maybe he’ll pass out before we get there, but he hangs on, stubborn, the revolver resting on his thigh, his other hand pressed against his side. The hospital turnoff c
omes and goes. Erwin relaxes slightly. Either that, or he’s going into shock.
“I’ll take you to the motel,” I tell him. “See what we can do.”
He doesn’t argue. The Super 8 looms ahead. As I pull in, I see Telson’s rental car, beside which is a van with a big plastic carrot mounted on the roof. I had planned on keeping Del and Erwin apart, for safety and to avoid complicating matters. So much for planning.
Erwin insists on walking on his own. He staggers a little, leans on the door, which is locked. I knock and when the door opens Erwin falls into the room — on top of Telson. They both go down. Del gives a startled little gasp, from where she’s standing at the far side of the room. Telson swears, hitting Erwin, thinking he’s attacking her. She stops quickly when he doesn’t fight back.
“Crap,” she says, looking up at me. “He’s bleeding. What happened?”
“Long story,” I say. “Let’s just get him onto the bed.”
I pull Erwin off Telson and the three of us heave him onto the bed. Erwin opens his eyes and mumbles something. Telson and Del work off his jacket, unbutton his shirt. As the shirt is peeled back I’m worried what I’ll see, but it’s not too bad. Most of it’s graze, with a shallow entry and exit. A lot of blood, but survivable.
“Jesus,” whispers Del. “We should get him to the hospital.”
“No —” Erwin opens his eyes, grabs Del’s shirt. “No doctor.”
He’s pale, looks crazed. I’m thinking Del might lose it here, but she regards him calmly.
“You’re shot,” she says. “Do you want to die?”
“I’m not dying,” he mumbles. “I just need a Band-Aid and some whisky.”
Del snorts. “Yeah, right.”
While he’s distracted, I slip the revolver from his waistband, set it in a drawer in the nightstand.
“It’s okay,” I tell Del, giving her a cautionary glance. “We’ll take care of him ourselves.”
She pauses, then nods. “Let’s get to work, then.”
Turns out, Del is pretty handy. She has a kit in her van, from which she takes alcohol, thread, needle, bandages. She cleans the wound, sews it up. Erwin, laying on the bed, looks weak but seems to be coming around, watching Del as she ministers to him. “I’m sorry about your sister,” Del says quietly, as she tapes on strips of gauze. “Horrible thing to happen.”
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