Roy looks insulted. “I did my best.”
There are a lot of things I could say to that, but there isn’t much use. I take the napkin, head back to the Super 8. Telson is there, reading a book. Erwin and Del are gone. There’s a plastic garbage bag by the door. Telson snaps her book shut.
“About time,” she says. “Where’d you drive? California?”
“It crossed my mind. What’s in the bag?”
“Bloody bed sheets,” she says, giving me a sweet smile. “The usual gangster laundry.”
“Wonderful. What are we going to do with them?”
“What do you think?” she says. “Oh, I forgot — you’re a man. We’re going to wash them.”
“I love it when you get domestic.”
“Don’t get used to it. I’m not that kind of girl.”
We take her car, forage for a laundromat. Bored housewives give us strange looks as we stuff bloody sheets into an industrial-sized machine, but no one asks questions. Telson borrows some bleach, turns the machine onto the heaviest setting. Then we go for supper at Pop’s Family Restaurant. The food comes quickly and the burgers are good — high-quality cholesterol delivery systems. Telson must be famished because she eats most of her burger before asking the question I know must be killing her.
“Now will you tell me how your buddy Erwin got shot?”
I chew my burger, ponder the wisdom of answering.
“Come on, Porter. You can’t still be angry.”
“He was cleaning his gun.”
Telson watches me, trying to decide if I’m teasing her or really won’t answer. When I continue to eat instead of saying anything more, she lets out a heavy sigh, shakes her head. “I thought we settled this,” she says. “I thought we were working together.”
“We are. But you don’t need to know everything.”
I’ve insulted her journalistic instincts. “It’s all or nothing, Porter.”
“What if it’s illegal? Forces you to withhold evidence? Aiding and abetting?”
She laughs. “Give me a break. Our relationship is based on aiding and abetting. I didn’t turn away from you when the cops were after you. I aided and abetted. I withheld evidence. Christ — I nearly got killed helping you out.”
“I know,” I say quietly. Telson stares at me, realizing she just made my point.
She leans forward, gives me her best serious look. “Treat me like a grown-up.”
It’s not a request — it’s an ultimatum. I sense I’ve pushed this as far as I can, so I take a deep breath, wait until the waitress is out of earshot, and tell her the whole, bungled story of the break-in at the cabin. When I’m done, she leans back, thinking. “Are the two cops okay?”
“I think so. I haven’t heard anything on the news.”
“You want me to look into it?”
“Yes — if you can without raising suspicion.”
“I can do that,” she says, giving me an encouraging smile. I have to admit, it’s a weight off my shoulders, knowing I don’t have to fight with her over this anymore. Not tonight anyway. On the way to the laundromat, she asks the inevitable question.
“Did you find anything at the cabin?”
“Not much. The fire was reported by a passing motorist, but that’s about it.”
“And the Smith death?”
“Nothing. They must be running that somewhere else.”
“Seems like a lot of risk for no payback,” she says.
I nod, thinking she’s pretty much summed up my entire trip to Carson Lake. I consider telling her about my visit to the volunteer fire station, but there’s really nothing to mention. We arrive to find our bed sheets have completed their cycle, and we go back to the motel to mess them up again.
The next morning after breakfast we head out for a little road trip in the Cornbinder. Telson would prefer to take her car, but then she would miss out on a truly unique travel experience. The sides of the panel shake as I gear up. Everything begins to rattle.
Fortunately, we’re not going far — just north to the Jack Creek Store. Hutton didn’t specify in which direction the man who reported the fire was travelling, so I keep glancing to the side, try to pick out the fire. It’s not easy — trees crowd both sides of the road most of the way, and the smoke is long gone. Finally, I find a spot where the road rises over the lake and the black scar of the fire is visible, on the lower slope of the mountain. I pull over, take a good look.
“Where exactly are we going?” says Telson.
“Right here, I think.”
“Lovely. Why?”
“This may be where the guy who reported the fire first saw it. Do you have your cellphone?”
Telson does. I ask her to check for coverage. There isn’t any.
“He could have called from anywhere,” she says.
True, and a column of smoke would be visible from several locations. We drive to the Jack Creek Store, losing and picking up cell coverage intermittently. When we have coverage, it isn’t for long — not long enough for much of a conversation. Which could be why the caller didn’t bother to leave his name. Or the call was made from farther down the road.
I didn’t notice any signs with the phone number of the volunteer fire department, just a generic Forest Service placard sternly reminding me to make sure my fire is out. But I might have missed it — the sign would likely be close to town and facing traffic travelling in the opposite direction. Regardless of whether or not there was a sign, the caller could have been local and knew the phone number to the fire station. Either way, I’m in no position to trace the call, which leaves me nowhere. We drive a few miles north of the store, make sure all the ground has been covered.
“Why is this important?” asks Telson.
“I’m not sure it is.”
She props a boot on the dash. “Oh well, lovely day for a drive.”
I agree. The sky is blue and cloudless, the trees vivid, the motor-homes white and sparkling as they blow past, rattling our windows. We keep checking — and losing — cell coverage. I try to imagine what the smoke would have looked like from this narrow, winding road, hemmed in with tall ponderosa. A puff here or there above the treetops. At first anyway — after it really started to cook you could probably see it from Missoula. But none of this means anything and, once again, we’re at a dead end. I complain about this to Telson, who nods, doesn’t seem concerned this morning. I think she’s just waiting to step out of the Cornbinder again, return to good old terra firma. Nearly back in town, her cellphone rings. No problem with coverage here.
“It’s for you,” she says, raising an eyebrow as she hands me the phone.
It’s Del, and she’s a little upset. A group of strange, hairy cavemen appeared at the greenhouse and claimed Erwin, taking him away. He needs more rest. He needs the antibiotics they forgot to take. From her description, it has to be the Sasquatch and his clan. Did they say anything? No, she says — not really. Except they want to see me, right away. I’ll know where to go.
I thank her, tell her not to worry. She tells me to stop by for the antibiotics.
“What did she say?” asks Telson, taking back her phone.
“Erwin went home.”
“That’s it?”
“She just wanted to let me know.”
“I see,” says Telson. “Sounds like crucial information.”
“Don’t start.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I’m not taking her with me to the squatters.
“I need you to do something,” I tell her, handing her Roy’s napkin. She takes it without saying anything. “Those are some of the people who were at the bar the night I was jumped, which I think happened because I tried to talk to Karalee Smith. Unfortunately, the list isn’t very comprehensive. I’d like you to track down the people on the list, see how many more names you can add.”
“Okay. What are you going to do?”
“See what I can find out about cellphone records.”
It’s not exactly
the truth, but Telson doesn’t question it. I drop her at the motel, then head to the greenhouse, where Del gives me the medicine for Erwin. I inquire how her night passed and she rolls her eyes, tells me Erwin was no trouble. He’s a nice guy, really. She must be using a different yardstick; one with flowers on it. Maybe she’s just attracted to misfits. I take the vial of antibiotics, head north to the Blood Creek Road, then up the winding trail to the fire. Base camp is quiet now. The rain a few days ago did most of the work and the fire is in babysitting mode. I drive past, take the time to heave open the squatters’ heavy gate. There’s no one in sight when I park at the edge of the old wellsite, but Erwin’s truck is there so I get out, wander past the wellhead, which is oozing natural gas vapours. A trailer door slaps open. The Sasquatch stares at me.
“Come in,” he says gruffly.
I hesitate, wondering what it is he plans to do that can’t be done out here. He stands in the open trailer door, waiting. I trudge across the clearing, past the car riddled with bullet holes. The Sasquatch steps back and I heave myself into the trailer. Erwin is seated at a small, flip-down table, the sleeves on his hairy arms rolled back, idly shuffling a deck of cards. He glances at me, goes back to shuffling. He looks pale, but better than last night. The Sasquatch motions me to take a seat. I decide to stand, as close to the door as possible.
“The boy here tells me you got him shot,” says the Sasquatch.
I look at Erwin. That’s one version of the events I hadn’t considered. “Not exactly.”
Erwin glances at me, then back at his cards. One eyebrow twitches. He’s more scared of his old man than he is of me, which is probably why he twisted this around. Given the stakes, it’s not something I’m willing to let him get away with. “Erwin got shot,” I say, looking the Sasquatch in the eye, “because of his own stupid idea. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.”
The Sasquatch looks at Erwin. “That right, boy?”
Erwin looks at his father, but can’t hold his gaze. There’s an ominous silence. I glance around the trailer. I was expecting a slum, but it’s pretty tidy in here. The counters are clean and there’s a picture of a younger Karalee beside a jar filled with wildflowers. There’s also an old scanner and shortwave radio, turned way down. “We went together,” Erwin says finally.
“These cops he knocked,” says the Sasquatch, nodding toward his prodigy. “Are they okay?”
“You mean — are they going to live?”
The Sasquatch catches the sarcasm in my voice and his expression darkens. I make a mental note — no more sarcasm. “What’ve you heard about them?” he says.
“Nothing. But I haven’t seen them around town, either.”
The Sasquatch swears, points a thick, dirty finger at Erwin. “How many times do I have to tell you not to mess with the cops, boy? You hurt them, they take it personal. Every cop in the state gets excited. Last thing we need is more attention.”
Erwin shrugs, looks uncomfortable.
“Kids,” says the Sasquatch, shaking his head.
I nod in commiseration, edging toward the door.
“He’s been talking to the cops,” says Erwin. “That’s why they came.”
The Sasquatch turns on me, his eyes narrowed. “That right?”
“The cops came here?” I ask innocently.
“Damn right they came,” growls the Sasquatch.
“What did they want?”
“What do you think? They asked about Karalee.”
“I told you they would make the connection —”
“Take a seat,” says the Sasquatch, grabbing me above the shoulder with a grip that causes a flash of pain. Shoving me toward the table.
I stumble, manage a half-decent landing on a chair. Fight or flight time — but the Sasquatch is right in front of me, and Erwin is already half standing. So I do neither, which is the classic cause of stress. I ease back onto the chair and, after a moment, Erwin sits down. The Sasquatch remains standing, his bowling pin forearms crossed over his chest.
“What’d you tell the cops?” he demands, scowling down at me.
“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing important, anyway.”
“Then why were they here?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe they developed a lead on their own.”
Erwin sniffs at this — obviously relieved to see the Sasquatch’s anger directed elsewhere. The Sasquatch considers me for a moment, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Why would they come here, if you haven’t told them anything?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
Both men looked puzzled.
“You’re close to the fire, you’re squatting illegally, and you’re uncooperative.”
“It’s public land,” says the Sasquatch. “No one can tell us we can’t be here.”
“See what I mean?”
I get a double-barrelled frown and remind myself again to avoid sarcasm. “Given recent events, you’re conspicuous. You don’t think the cops have been a little curious about why you’re here, other than the free gas? They’re going to have questions. Eventually, they’ll figure it out, just like I did.”
“And just how did you figure it out?” says the Sasquatch. “Karalee tell you?”
“No — Karalee was good at keeping secrets. Too good. I followed Erwin to the feed store, figured there was a reason you needed that much fertilizer. Then I searched the bush around your camp until I found the trail to the burn. It wasn’t that hard.”
The Sasquatch glares at Erwin, who glares at me.
“If he knows where the trail is —”
The Sasquatch nods, gives me a critical look. I get a bad feeling.
“I haven’t told anyone about the gardens,” I say, standing.
“And you’re not gonna,” he says, reaching into a back pocket and pulling something out. It’s a picture — a Polaroid, curved and crimped. A Polaroid of Telson, taken in front of the Super 8. They caught her in mid-stride, walking to her car, and it’s blurry, like a bad snap taken by the paparazzi.
He holds up the photo, so I get a real good look. “You make sure you don’t let anything slip.”
I meet his eye. There’s murder there. “Anything else?”
The Sasquatch shakes his head and I back toward the door, feeling for the handle.
“Get out of here,” says Erwin, waving me off. “Find my sister’s killer. Do your job.”
I hurry across the wellsite. In the Cornbinder, I stare at the cluster of old trailers, at the wellhead covered with parasitic hoses, the car riddled with bullet holes, and shake my head. Somehow, I have to get Telson the hell away from here. I turn the Cornbinder around, drive like a madman down the rough trail, jolting from rut to rut. On the Blood Creek Road, I remember the vial of antibiotics in my pocket, decide against returning. My concern for Erwin’s well-being is at an all-time low.
I haven’t calmed down much when I reach town and pull into the Super 8. I’m determined to make Telson listen to reason, talk her into leaving. Her car is gone, the motel room empty. I pace for a minute, manic with worry, then sit on the edge of the bed. She’s in town somewhere, running down that list I gave her, and it occurs to me she’ll never leave on her own.
On impulse, I pull open the drawer in the nightstand. Other than a dusty bible, it’s empty. Erwin’s gun is gone — I should have tossed it into the lake. Not that it would make much difference; the Erwins of this world have an inexhaustible supply of guns. Which only fuels my resolve to get Telson the hell away from Carson Lake. I have a sudden idea, but it’s not one I particularly care for. I lock the motel room, drive around town in the Cornbinder, mulling over the possibilities.
I pass Carson Lake Sporting Goods and it occurs to me again that whoever was leaning on the squatters somehow had to find out they were growing marijuana. They could be former associates of the squatters, or they could be local. If they are local, they probably stumbled across a garden or two and made the same connections I did. Considering the reputation of
the canyon, I doubt there were many hikers or recreationists thrashing through the heavy understory, but a hunter is a definite possibility — they’re always looking for that pristine area. That secret fishing hole or bluff. I make a U-turn in the parking lot of the Chicken Coop Casino and Lounge, head back to the sports store.
The store is in a new log building, stained dark brown. In the window, empty jackets and hunting pants are propped on wires, posed like ghosts gone fishing, holding rods and catching plastic fish. The clerk gives me an idle nod when I amble in. I’m the only customer and spend a few minutes perusing the inventory, which consists of fishing tackle, life jackets and game calls. They must still be in startup mode; shelves are made of unfinished plywood and sections of sub-floor are visible. After a few minutes the clerk sets aside his elk-hunting magazine to ask if I need help.
“Just browsing,” I tell him.
He looks disappointed. I wait until he’s turning away, then cast my lure.
“Beautiful area you got here,” I say. “What’s the hunting like?”
He circles back, takes another look. “Do you hunt?”
I jiggle the line. “You bet. Elk, cougar, bear. It walks, I kill it.”
The clerk smiles, sensing a potential sale. He’s a young guy, curly hair, lots of freckles.
“We got good moose and deer hunting here. Some of the best in the state.”
“What about bear? I’d love to plug a big black around here.”
“Oh, yeah — we got bear,” he says. He’s wearing a checkered plaid shirt and has his ball cap on backwards: the uniform of the young outdoorsman. “Had a record come out of here a couple of years ago. Can’t remember the exact size, but it was a real monster.”
“I’d like to do a company hunting trip. You have anyone around here that guides?”
“There’s a few guys,” he says. “I do a little myself, off the books.”
“That area northwest of town looks interesting. Where they had that fire.”
The clerk frowns a little. “Not many guys go out there.”
“Perfect. Just what I’m looking for.”
“There’s better places,” he says.
One Careless Moment Page 24