One Careless Moment

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  “Phil, can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah — sure,” says Phil, around a mouthful of steak. “What’s up?”

  “On the canyon fire, just before the blow-up, do you know where Harnack was?”

  Phil thinks, chewing vigorously. “Can’t say. Wasn’t with me.”

  “Do you think anyone knows where he was?”

  Phil turns in his seat, giving me a troubled look. “Why?”

  I don’t answer and Phil’s expression turns ugly.

  “Can you ask around?” I say. “Discretely?”

  Phil pushes away his plate, sheaths his knife. “You got it.”

  Phil is gone for half an hour. My steak is cold and my beer is warm, but I barely notice, thinking about Harnack and BB and Karalee. Trying to convince myself I’m way off base. But I can’t. I keep picturing Henry Dancey, burned and bandaged. Henry Dancey when I asked him about the brakes on the Cornbinder. He didn’t know what I was talking about. Phil returns and heaves himself onto the seat next to me, breathing beer and garlic in my face.

  “No one seems to remember,” he says.

  “No one saw him right before the blow-up was reported?”

  Phil shakes his head. It could mean Harnack was going for some hose, or scouting ahead — or even just in the bushes relieving himself. Or it could mean Harnack is Brashaw’s killer.

  I thank Phil, start to leave. He grabs my arm.

  “What are you gonna do?” he whispers hoarsely.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just talk to him.”

  “You need help?”

  I shake my head — this is something I need to do alone — and I find Del. She’s helping Melissa load her plate with cake and cookies. I wait until she’s done, pull her aside.

  “I need a favour, Del.”

  “Sure,” she says, brushing back her hair. “What’s up?”

  “I need you to invite Lyle for a little dip in the hot tub.”

  “What?” Her expression darkens.

  “Just invite him. Tell him to wait a few minutes, then to meet you there.”

  Del frowns, looking at me suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

  “I just need to talk to him. Alone. I’ll tell you later.”

  Del hesitates, glancing toward Harnack, then nods. I watch her talk to him — the way he brushes his hand against her thigh. Then she wanders away, in the direction of the little building over the hot spring. I follow, taking a circuitous route through the greenhouses, meet Del going the other direction. She gives me a look — I’d better explain later — as she brushes past. I crouch inside the dark building, moist and heady with the vapour of sulphur and minerals. A few minutes later the door opens, casting a shaft of light across the steaming water, and Harnack enters.

  “Del?” he says, standing by the door, peering over the wooden tub.

  I wait. He closes the door, reaches for the light. A single bulb casts weak illumination in the steamy room. Harnack frowns as I stand; he’s confused. “What are you doing here?”

  “We need to talk, Lyle.”

  He glances around, as if Del might be hiding among the tools. “No we don’t.”

  “She’s not coming, Lyle.”

  He frowns a little harder, trying to decide what to do. I charge ahead, while he’s still off-balance.

  “Was it really worth it? Starting that fire? Killing her father?”

  Harnack looks at me, shocked — not the sort of shock you see when someone is startled by the unexpected, but a deeper, guilt-ridden sort of shock. His expression changes quickly, covered with a hastily manufactured anger, but I’ve seen what I came to see.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You knew Brashaw was on the ridge,” I say, advancing on him, forcing him back, away from the door. He’s not going anywhere until I get the answers I need. Until he confesses. “You knew I was there too, but that didn’t matter. You wanted Del so badly you were willing to kill to get her, so what was an extra body?”

  Harnack is shaking his head, a panicky look in his eye. “You’re crazy.”

  “Am I, Lyle? A perfect little crime — the secondary fire is put down to unpredictable winds at the canyon mouth. The real arsonist takes the blame. But there was a bit of a complication.”

  Harnack is at the far side of the big octagonal tub, bracing himself against the cedar boards like a kid in a game of tag, ready to make a run for it, but he’s trapped and knows it, so he tries to talk his way out of the corner. “If you think I started the fire that killed BB, you’re nuts,” he says, his voice wavering, nearly choked with fear.“I was fight

  ing that fire. I was trying to put it out.”

  “Where were you, Lyle, right before the blow-up?”

  “I was ... going to get some hose. We needed another length.”

  “Bullshit!”

  Harnack cringes, but quickly rallies, pointing a finger at me. “You better be careful what you say, accusing people. I’ve got rights, you know. I’ll sue your ass.”

  “You’ll sue me?” I can’t help chuckling.

  “Damn right.” Harnack stands, sensing victory.

  “Well, before you sue me, Lyle, let me tell you what your little fire did. It not only killed Bert Brashaw, and nearly me — it caused the real arsonists more than a little anguish. So much anguish, in fact, that they killed Karalee Smith, thinking they might go to jail for Brashaw’s death. For a crime you committed, Lyle. Of course, you know all of this. You’re getting mileage out of it.”

  “Fuck you,” he says. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit.”

  But he doesn’t move toward the door.

  “And now the real arsonist is dead, which doesn’t break me up much, but here’s the kicker Lyle — you’re responsible for three deaths. How do you think the cops are going to feel about that?”

  Harnack gives me a nervous smile — false bravado. “You don’t have any evidence.”

  “What do you think Del will say when she learns you killed her father?”

  For a few seconds, Lyle just stares at me. It never occurred to him that Del could find out — that even without evidence, all he’s worked for could be lost. The nervous, fight-or-flight look is replaced with cold, intense hatred. “You’re not going to do that,” he says, coming around the tub. Coming at me. It’s a small building and I have about three seconds to decide what to do.

  “You should already be dead,” he says.

  When he grabs a shovel propped against the wall, I take a step back, reach for the door, but his swing hits me in the shoulder and I stumble backward, pinning the door shut with the weight of my body. I manage to raise an arm to counter the second blow. The force nearly breaks bone and I cringe away, instinctively holding the injured limb close to my body, which is a mistake. The third blow is wild but glances off the door, hitting me in the temple, and I go down amid a shower of bright lights.

  A hollow voice. “Slipped and hit his head ...”

  Then movement, reeling, like I’m drunk, and hot water in my face, my ears, my mouth. I try to scream, swallow more water and panic takes hold. He’s bigger than me, has me pinned against the side of the tub — I can feel the hard line of the wooden rim against my midsection — my head and shoulders underwater. I scramble, chest heaving, frantically searching for something to push against, touch the bench in the water, too far down to do any good, try to trace the wall of the tub up to the edge, but there’s nothing. It feels like a car is parked on my back. The heat makes it worse.

  Spots, grey against black.

  I’m going to pass out ...

  Have to breathe ...

  Water, hot in my mouth, filling my nose, my sinuses. A buzzing in my ears. Blackness. I’m falling, turning, spinning. Cindy. Mom and Dad. Pressure on my chest.

  Gone. All for nothing ...

  Then I cough, violently, water bursting from nose and mouth. It hurts. I’m on my side, retching. A blur of colours. A face, close by. Lips over mine, pushing air int
o my lungs. Another spasm of water and pain and I can breath. Long hair tickling my face. It’s Telson.

  Oh my God — it’s Telson.

  For a minute, I just lie there, my chest heaving, staring into Telson’s beautiful face. Maybe I died and this is a mirage, just a last flickering memory.

  “How do you feel, Porter? Can you talk?”

  I spit a little more water. “How — how did you get here?”

  “Pontiac,” she says.

  For a moment she looks intensely serious and suddenly we both laugh, freed from the panic of near death. The laughter dies quickly as I remember Harnack. Despite Telson’s protest, I struggle to my feet, looking wildly around, expecting Harnack will be waiting, hiding in the shadows. Then I see him, sprawled face down on the floor next to the tub, a bloody spot on the back of his head, the shovel lying close by. For a moment we both stare at the prone form.

  “I think you killed him.”

  “Maybe,” says Telson, kneeling at his side. I pick up the shovel, hold it ready, just in case.

  “No,” she says, glancing up at me. “He’s still alive.”

  Telson uses her cellphone to call 911 while I stand over Harnack, waiting for him to move, to stand and come at me again. But he’s out for the count.

  “Why are you here?” I ask again.

  Telson gives me a brief, ironic smile. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  I nod, feeling like a heel.

  “I’m here,” she says pointedly, “because I heard about the fires.”

  “You’re here for work? As a reporter?”

  “Should there be another reason?”

  I frown, not sure how to respond to her loaded question. Are we done?

  “I don’t care why you’re here,” I say, glancing down at Harnack. “I’m just glad you came.”

  As we watch, Harnack moans, lifts his head a little.

  “Me too,” says Telson. “Now we’re even.”

  There’s a knock on the door — it’s Phil, Cooper, and most of the rest of the crew. They’ve been talking about Harnack, explains Cooper, discussing my suspicions, and they want to talk to him. They look to be in a lynching mood, so I explain that Harnack is indisposed at the moment, open the door enough that Cooper can see Harnack lying in the dirt. I need Harnack in one piece, so he can explain to Castellino what really happened that day on the ridge. Cooper and company don’t budge. Thankfully, we’re rescued by the emts, who bundle Harnack into an ambulance. I’m bandaged; I have a nasty cut on my temple, an impressive swelling on my forearm. The emts usher me into the ambulance, where I sit on a vinyl bench, look down at Harnack strapped to a spine board. Then we’re rolling, down the winding drive. A procession of vehicles follow, intercepted on the main road by a sheriff ’s black-and-white suv. Harnack moans again, tries to lift his head but finds he’s strapped down, in a cervical collar. An emt, a young bald guy sitting across from me, leans over to check on Harnack.

  “Just relax. You’re in an ambulance, headed to the hospital.”

  Harnack blinks, looks a little confused. I lean over him, so he can see me.

  “Hi, Lyle.”

  His eyes widen — both equally responsive to panic. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just hitching a ride,” I say, touching the bandage on the side of my head. The emt watches both of us, frowning, no doubt wondering about the wisdom of conveying combatants simultaneously. “Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I don’t think he’ll attack again.”

  The emt sits back but doesn’t look particularly reassured.

  “Soon, it’ll be time to talk,” I say to Harnack. “Time to come clean.”

  Harnack swivels his eyes toward the emt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I crouch, slowly, so the emt knows I’m not doing anything threatening, whisper in Lyle’s ear. His eyes widen. He’s silent for a few minutes, then whispers a single word: “Okay.”

  Soon we’re in town, backing into the ambulance bay at Emergency. Harnack is rolled out, rushed away. I watch the ward doors swing shut. Then someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s Castellino.

  “We need to talk.”

  I nod. Finally, I have something to tell him.

  EPILOGUE

  •

  WE MEET AT the Filling Station — Del, Telson, and I. We’re seated at one of the wooden tables, close to a window. I’m on a side by myself, my arm in a sling. Telson and Del are on the other side. A waitress comes — the same one that requested my autograph — and starts to tell us the specials.

  “No thanks,” Telson says crisply. “We won’t be here long.”

  “Just coffees,” I tell her.

  Coffee is poured in silence. Telson is still pissed that I lied to her. I struggle to find a way to break the ice and smooth things over. When the waitress leaves, I nervously clear my throat. “I thought it would be a good idea to get together, so we could talk about what happened.”

  “This should be interesting,” says Telson, stirring her coffee.

  “I lied to you, Christina, and I’m sorry, but there was a very good reason.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got the hots for Red over there.”

  I glance over at Del, with her rusty red hair.

  “No, Christina, that’s not it.”

  “Really?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “Of course not. That’s silly —”

  “Silly?” She glares at me. “You two were naked together in the hot tub.”

  “We weren’t naked. I had just been to the squatters’ ...”

  I’m stumbling badly. Bewildered, I start over.

  “Look, Christina, the squatters were putting pressure on me to find Karalee’s killer. I was worried what might happen if I didn’t deliver. That’s why we sent Melissa away —”

  “You’re comparing me to a child?” says Telson.

  “I’m saying I wanted you safe. The squatters had someone following you. They showed me a picture of you, taken in front of the motel. They were going to come after you if anything happened to their pot gardens. They were using you as insurance.”

  “I thought you said it was because they wanted you to find Karalee’s killer.”

  “Yes — that too. That was their first demand. They gave me three days.”

  Telson stares at me. “Well, which is it Porter?”

  “It’s both,” I say, wishing this were less complicated.

  Telson looks disgusted. “You can’t even get your stories straight.”

  She pushes back her chair, reaches for her coat.

  “Listen to me, Christina. I did it because I care about you.”

  “You lied,” she says, giving me a murderous look. “Goodbye, Porter.”

  “No,” I whisper, but it’s too late. I’ve lost her. I cover my face, try to regain my composure.

  Suddenly, both women are laughing. Then it dawns on me.

  “Okay ... okay ... you got me.”

  Telson sits down, still laughing. “You should have seen the look on your face.”

  Both women laugh again, attracting the attention of the other patrons. I feel my face fill with blood, hot and glowing. Telson points out that I’m blushing and I blush harder, until I’m beet red. It’s not the most masculine reaction and I shield my face, glare out the window.

  “You deserve it,” says Telson.

  I nod, embarrassed but too weak with relief to be angry. “How did you know?”

  “Del called me,” Telson says. “Told me everything, invited me to the party.”

  “You knew when you got there?”

  Telson nods. “But I had to teach you a lesson.”

  “Lucky for me you did.”

  There’s a lull as we bask in a sense of relief and renewed companionship.

  Telson looks at me. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Lyle admitted that he started the fire that killed Del’s father. Basically, he confessed to premeditated murder. It’s all over the news. He’ll probably get a
life sentence. Why would he confess if there isn’t any evidence?”

  I shrug. “Maybe he couldn’t live with his conscience.”

  Both women clearly do not believe this. The waitress rolls past again, asking if we need anything. Telson requests a menu. We’ll stay for lunch. I use the opportunity to slip away to the washroom, where I pull a piece of paper from my back pocket. It’s the bill from the motel. I glance at it once more — at the service charge for the phone call I didn’t make, the night I went to rescue Lyle. It didn’t take long to figure out the call was made by Del. When I tried the number at a pay phone, Erwin answered. I didn’t say anything, just hung up, but that number came in handy once more. I whispered it into Lyle’s ear, as he lay on the gurney in the ambulance, gave him a simple choice. He could talk, or I could call Erwin and explain that Lyle was really the one to blame for the death of his sister.

  Lyle wisely opted for the first choice.

  I ponder the motel bill a moment longer. I could use it to confront Del about how she played me, or I could turn it over to the cops, so they could track down Erwin. But there doesn’t seem to be much point. The guilty have been punished. Anything more is just paperwork. I crumple the motel bill into a little ball, toss it into the trash, and return to the table. Telson raises an eyebrow as I slide in beside her.

  Del watches, grinning. “You two are such a cute couple.”

  “Yeah,” says Telson. “Barbie and Butt Head.”

  But she smiles at me — a secret, endearing smile. I think about the fire on the ridge. Being trapped in the flimsy shelter. About everything I had to lose. “Christina,” I say, and she meets my gaze. Her eyes are deep and open, and for a long moment we just look into each other. I’m sure she’ll say something intentionally abrasive to break the moment, but she doesn’t.

  “Yes, Porter,” she says finally. Her smile is wistful, a little afraid.

  “Christina, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  •

  I would like to thank the following members of the United States Forest Service for their interest and friendly co-operation while I was researching this book. Without exception, every one of them gave generously of their time. Timothy G. Love, Chief Ranger, allowed me full access to his staff. Becky White, Assistant Fire Management Officer, answered my many questions on USFS fire operations. Jon P. Agner, Fire Management Technician, provided insights into district fire investigation procedures. Bill Oelig provided information on the use of fusees. Paul Steensland, Senior Special Agent, provided information on the criminal investigative branch of the Forest Service. Special thanks to Dick Mangan of Blackbull Wildfire Services, who provided me with a copy of Investigating Wildland Fire Entrapments (usda 0151-2823-mtdc), for sharing his extensive experience in investigating these tragedies, including the investigation of the South Canyon disaster at Storm King Mountain. Thanks to Mike Dietrich for providing pictures of the usda Honor Guard. I would like to extend my appreciation to Paul Broyles, Chief of Fire Operations for the US National Park Service, for providing information on fire investigation and incident management teams and a copy of the video NFES 1568; Using Your Fire Shelter. Many thanks to Mike McMeekin of the Missoula County Sheriff’s Department for his detailed responses to my many questions regarding homicide and arson investigation. Deputy Sheriff Scott Newell provided valuable insight into crime scene procedure.