Erwin grabs her wrist. “What?”
“Your sister — Karalee. She sounded like a good person.”
Erwin stares at her and there’s a dangerous silence. I shoot a questioning look at Telson.
“She asked,” says Telson. “I couldn’t exactly lie.”
I’m thinking bullshit — she’s lied plenty since I’ve known her — but keep quiet, giving Telson my best frown; I don’t want Del thinking I’ve been holding out, even if it is for her own safety. Erwin watches this little exchange. He’s got Del’s wrist in a tight grip, as if this gives him some control over the situation. I feel for him — I’d like a little control myself.
“Her father was killed by the arsonist,” Telson says defensively. “She has a right to know.”
“Shit,” says Erwin, looking at me. “You told her?”
Now it’s my turn to get defensive. “She tortured it out of me.”
“Torture.” Erwin glares at me. “Now there’s an idea.”
“You’re hurting my arm,” Del says a little tersely.
Erwin looks at her, releases his grip. “Sorry.”
There’s a moment of silence as Erwin regards the three of us from where he’s sprawled on the bed. He looks disgusted, but he’s outnumbered, injured, and doesn’t have his gun, which he realizes as he runs his fingers down his side. The bloody fingers hesitate where the gun should have been and he cranes his neck to look at the floor. There’s nothing there. He sighs, lays his head back, and stares at the ceiling, his jaw clenched.
“I had to tell her,” I say to Erwin. “I needed her help.”
“I don’t like it,” he says. “Wasn’t part of the deal. Too many people involved.”
“They’re fine,” I say. “Besides, they don’t know everything.”
“What exactly don’t I know?” says Telson.
I shoot her a look — just back off. She frowns, her jaw set.
“Don’t worry,” says Del. “No one’s judging you. What you’re doing is just agriculture.”
Erwin pushes himself up on his elbows, glaring at me, a vein bulging in his forehead. I have a sudden urge to be somewhere else. “You told them about the gardens!” he shouts, remarkably vigorous for a downed man. “Are you fucking nuts?”
“It’s no big deal. Just relax.”
“Relax?” His face is red. “You better pray nothing happens to the rest of those gardens.”
Del places a hand on his chest, gently urges him down. Erwin resists, scowling at her. She smiles — a nurse’s gentle smile — and he yields, lying back and making anxious, irritated sounds. I’m impressed. If the greenhouse doesn’t work out for Del, she can always take up lion taming. Or work on a psych ward. “It’s just agriculture,” she repeats softly. “Just growing plants. I’m in the same business. Third oldest profession. I’ve always wondered what it’s like growing them, though — the marijuana. I hear they need a lot of moisture.”
Del’s tone is soothing, almost cooing, and I’m worried this will backfire, but Erwin seems to relax. “Yeah,” he says distantly. “They’re thirsty little buggers. Like a rich site too ...”
Telson and I watch, amazed, as they talk about fertilizer, transplants, hours of sunlight. Just two horticulturists, discussing their hobby. I crook a finger at Telson, motioning her outside. We walk around back. I sit on a picnic table, scattered with dead pine needles and, for a minute, stare at the trees. Like most men, I handle anger by bottling it up.
“What the hell happened to your buddy Erwin?”
I say nothing, just grind my teeth.
“Come on, Porter — this is serious. What happened?”
“It’s always been serious,” I snap at her. “Something you seem to have forgotten.”
There’s a tense silence. “You’re angry with me,” she says. “Why?”
“Why?” I glance at her, then look away. “Why do you think?”
“You can’t be angry about my talking to Del.”
“You had no right to tell her anything.”
“Really?” Telson walks around the table so I’m looking at her instead of the trees, props one foot on the bench seat. She’s wearing steel-toed work boots. “It was her father, for Christ’s sakes. Her father. She has a right to know about the fire, and who might have started it.”
“Of course she does. She’s the reason I’m still here.”
Telson throws up her hands. “So, what’s the problem?”
“The problem,” I say, a little icily so she’ll know just how pissed I am, “is that I’m the one who should be telling her. It’s difficult enough trying to run an investigation without resources. I don’t need you complicating things. You told her who Erwin is, and Erwin is supposed to think you don’t know what I’m doing. I made a deal with him, in order to get some information. Turns out the information was a little thin, but it’s still a deal, my part of which was not to tell anyone for a few days.”
“You think I’m complicating things?”
“You broke my deal with Erwin.”
“You’re the one who came crashing in with a gunshot victim.”
“I didn’t have much choice. Unlike you. You could have stayed away from Del.”
Telson’s body language becomes defensive. “Look, she came to me.”
“And you told her —”
“Of course I told her,” Telson says hotly. “We’ve both been talking to her about what’s been going on. We went to the greenhouse together and talked to her about the gardens. Or don’t you remember that I was there? Am I the third point in this triangle?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So, now I’m being ridiculous?”
She’s angry, but she’s also hurt — I can tell by the way her chin dimples a little. It makes me feel cheap. “Look, Christina, the only thing between Del and me is this fire. This tragedy. You know what I thought of, when I was trapped in that little aluminum tent, surrounded by flames? I thought about you. What a fool I am for not being with you more often. I was thrilled when you showed up here, but this isn’t the best place for you. Erwin is dangerous. He beats up people, sets booby traps, holds guns to people’s heads. And he’s on our side. It’s the arsonist I’m really worried about. He’s still out there and one woman is already dead — maybe because I tried to talk with her. You go advertising who Erwin is and now I have the safety of two women to worry about.”
“We’re not exactly helpless, Porter.”
“This isn’t about equality. This is about staying alive.”
We glare at each other. I was making progress when I was talking about the fire shelter, but now Telson is angry again. Her independence has been challenged — the ultimate insult. I should have known better than to let her become involved. The day she arrived I should have thanked her for her concern and sent her packing, but I wanted her here for my own selfish reasons.
“So that’s it?” says Telson.
“I’m just worried about your safety.”
“Well, I’m worried about yours, so we’re even.” This isn’t a battle I’m going to win, so I retreat and we return to the >motel room. Before we go in, I grab Telson from behind, turn her around, and give her a hug. She resists for a few seconds — still angry with me — then yields, forming herself to the contours of my body.
“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” I say. She looks up at me. “I’m sorry you’re such a bonehead.” “Now you’re just getting mushy.” She gives me a squeeze, which hurts my cracked ribs. I try to make the grimace look like a smile and we go inside. Del is sitting on the bed, talking with Erwin. They both stop when we come in.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine,” says Del. “We were just discussing hydroponics.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“Where’s my gun?” says Erwin.
“I don’t know. You must have dropped it. I’ll keep an eye out.”
He doesn’t look like he believes me.
“I’m taking him
to my place,” says Del. “He shouldn’t stay here.”
I wonder how much Erwin told her. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “I have some antibiotics. And he wants to see the greenhouse.”
I motion her outside for a minute. “I’m not crazy about this,” I tell her.
“He’s okay,” she says, which makes me more worried.
“You don’t know him Del, or who might be after him.”
“Don’t worry.” She places a hand on my arm, which I carefully remove. Telson has followed us out and is watching. “He’s just a big farm kid,” says Del. “An overgrown puppy.”
“He’s a Rottweiler. You run into trouble, you call the cops.”
“I don’t think he’ll be any trouble. And it’s just for a day or two.”
“Then send Melissa away with your aunt. Just for a day or two.”
Del nods, gives me a reassuring pat on the arm, and returns to the room. Telson stands on the sidewalk, her arms crossed, a worried look on her face.
“What happens in a few days?” she says. “After you’ve kept your part of the deal with Erwin. What then?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I’m not sure anymore.”
I go for a drive, on my own, the old AM radio in the Cornbinder turned up high. Sometimes a man just needs to drive. Clears the mind. Trees and mountains. Small lakes in the valley bottoms. After a half-hour, I pull into a campground, rattle around a loop filled with motorhomes, then head north again on the highway. I’d like to go farther but the gas gauge has stopped working again and my thumps on the dash are ineffectual; I don’t have quite the same presence as Erwin. I don’t want to be gone too long, either. I’m a little worried about Del, alone with the Rottweiler.
And Telson.
And what might happen when the Sasquatch finds out his son has been shot.
The Cornbinder starts to cough and splutter on the final hill. I pat its dash, whisper encouragement, and we make it back to town, stopping at the first gas station, where I treat the old girl to a quick oil change — you gotta maintain a good working relationship with a vehicle of this vintage. She purrs a little more smoothly as we roll through town. I pass a side road close to the lake, where I see fire engines gleaming in the evening sun, and double back. A sign at the intersection invites me to support my local community and become a volunteer firefighter. The doors on the small station are wide open, men sitting out front, cleaning equipment and stringing hose. I turn in, park by an engine I recognize from the fire.
No one pays much attention to me as I walk up.
“Had a little action?” I say to a young lad tinkering on one of the engines.
He looks down, blinks at me. “Yeah. Trailer fire. Shop went too.”
“Anyone know why?”
The kid is about nineteen, tall and lanky, with haystack hair and lots of freckles.“Electrical, I think,” he says, then looks thoughtful. “You a reporter?”
“Just visiting. I work fires too.”
“Yeah?” he says. “Where you out of?”
“Up north. You mind if I look around?”
He shrugs. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” I pause. “Who does your dispatching?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Mostly 911, I think. Ask the chief. He’s in the office.”
There’s a small, shaded porch in front. Music from a local station drifts from an open door. Inside, Hutton is sitting on the corner of a desk, talking to a woman who’s peering intently at a computer screen. Hutton, naturally, is wearing his dark sunglasses. He gives me a crooked smile.
“Porter Cassel,” he says. “You still here?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“You buying a place? Moving in?”
“Maybe,” I say. “The country is nice and the people are so friendly.”
The woman looks up at me, no doubt catching the sarcastic edge in my voice. There’s a casual arrogance about Hutton that rubs me the wrong way. “I was just looking for the chief.”
“That’s me,” says Hutton, giving me another confident grin.
“You’re that guy from the fire,” says the woman. “The Canadian.”
I nod. She’s in her forties, sunburned, looks tired.
“I was wondering how you were dispatched to the Holder Canyon fire,” I say, looking at them both. The woman probably does administration, might be responsible for dispatch records. She frowns, thinking about this. “I think it was 911,” she says. “I could check.”
“No need, Connie,” says Hutton. “It was direct. Some guy driving past on the highway.”
“You sure?” says Connie. “I thought it was 911.”
“No.” Hutton slides off the corner of the desk. “It was direct.”
He wanders into the adjoining room and I follow, believing this to be some sort of cue, but he’s just going for coffee. He offers me one, which I decline, then stands by the machine, sipping and looking at me through his dark glasses. “Why are you interested in the dispatch?”
“Just curious. Arsonists sometimes report their own fires, so they can watch the action.”
He nods. “I’ve heard that. I doubt that was the case here, though.”
“Really? Why?”
“It was just some guy, driving past and saw the smoke.”
“And he knew the number here?”
Hutton shifts on his feet, glances toward the open door leading to the front office, like he’s anxious to be somewhere else. “We have signs along the highway,” he says. “You’ve probably seen them.”
“Probably,” I say, but I don’t remember any.
“Are you on the investigation team?”
“Not really,” I admit. “I’m just looking around.”
“Ah.” He sips his coffee, looks amused.
“You said it was reported directly here. Who took the call?”
“I did. I was in, doing some paperwork.”
“What did the caller say? Did he leave his name?”
Hutton looks at the floor for a minute, then at me. “I’ve been through all this with the sheriff and the Forest Service,” he says, with exaggerated patience. “But I’ll go through it, a third time, just for you. The guy was driving on the highway and saw the smoke, so he called here. From the sound of it, he was on a cellphone. He gave us an approximate location, from the peaks he could see, and said the smoke was coming from somewhere low.”
“What colour was the smoke?”
“White.”
Which means the fire was just getting started. “What time was the call?”
Hutton smoothes back his already smooth hair. “I’d have to check.”
From his tone, I gather he’s not particularly eager to rummage through his files.
“Did you ask his name?”
“He didn’t say. We’re just glad they call.”
“Of course. Did he say where he was calling from?”
“On the highway, north of town.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Well, I’m busy. I don’t have time for curious.”
“Then could I see the dispatch record?”
“Hell no,” he says. “We’re not a library.”
I glance toward the open door, where I’m thinking it would be easier just to ask Connie.
“It was a couple of miles from the Jack Creek Store,” he says. “Now you know everything.”
He drains the rest of his coffee, tosses the Styrofoam cup into a wastebasket, and walks out of the ready room. I follow past Connie, hard at work, to the front of the building, where Hutton begins to talk with several of his men, his back to me, as if to prove that he’s busy. They discuss equipment, the trailer fire they were on, a training course that’s coming up. It’s becoming a regular staff meeting and I can’t help feeling Hutton is doing this to put me off. Then again, they are all
volunteer, and waiting to go home. So I hang back, decide to be patient. One of the other men from the Holder fire is in the group, a guy with a brush cut and a face like a ripe pomegranate. He keeps glancing at me. Finally, they run out of things to talk about and the men begin to haul equipment back into the building. Hutton heads for his truck. I head him off before he gets there.
“I was wondering — do you check with the Forest Service before heading to a wildfire?”
Hutton regards me as though I were an unexpected roadblock on the way home from the office.
“No,” he says, stepping around me.
“Why wouldn’t you do that?”
He ignores me, gets into his truck. I stand by the window.
“What?” he says, rolling down the window.
“Why wouldn’t you check with the Forest Service before heading to a bush fire?”
“That’s not how it works,” he says, his patience clearly at an end. “We get a call, we roll. If someone else is already there, then that’s wonderful, but we don’t count on it. It’s better too many people respond than not enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a life to get back to.”
I’m about to thank him for his time, but he backs away and roars off, leaving me in a cloud of dust. Fire engines start to move, returning to their stalls. Someone tells me to move my truck. I start up the Cornbinder, head back to the motel. Halfway there, I remember Roy and his list, pull into the parking lot of the Paradise Gateway Motel. I’ve been here so many times, it’s starting to feel like home. Roy is less thrilled than Hutton to see me.
“Where’s the gorilla?” he says, from behind the safety of the bar.
“Back in the zoo, for now. You have that list?”
“Yeah.” He reaches under the bar. The list is on a napkin. It’s not a large napkin and there’s plenty of space left.
“Is this all you have?”
“Hey, man — it’s a bar. People come and go.”
“There were about a hundred people here that night. You have eleven names.”
“That’s all I could remember.”
“I doubt it.”
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