Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  The doctor looks down at the dog, sitting at my feet. The small room is filled with doggy odours and the sound of panting. The doctor taps on the padded examination bench. “You put dog on table.” His accent is harsh. I pick up the dog, who whimpers as I touch his scorched skin, lay him on his side. His tail thumps half-heartedly against the bench’s paper covering. Animals seem to know when you’re trying to help them and the dog watches us, trust written in his brown eyes.

  “What happened?” says the doctor.

  I sniff, my nose itching. “He’s been through a forest fire.”

  The doctor looks the dog over. “Your dog?”

  “No, we found him at the fire this morning. His owner is deceased.”

  The doctor probes with his stethoscope, checks the dog’s eyes, peers with another scope into his ears. “We clean him up. Give him some cream for burns. He’ll be okay.”

  “What about his breathing? How are his lungs?”

  “He’ll be okay,” repeats the doctor. “Lots of smoke. But healthy dog.”

  He spends a few minutes cleaning the worst of the burns, applies antibiotic cream. When he’s done, he rummages in a drawer, hands me a fist full of small sample tubes. “Twice every day,” he says.

  I lift the dog off the examination table, set him in the corner on the floor, where he promptly lays down and closes his eyes. The doctor waits. I start to pull up my sleeve.

  “Take off clothes.”

  I hesitate — it’s just a gash on my arm — then shrug off my coveralls. I’ve been soaked in muskeg, seasoned in smoke and marinated in sweat. My scent makes the dog smell like a deodorant, but the doctor doesn’t let on that he notices. He unwraps Hendrigan’s handiwork.

  “How you injure yourself?” he asks, studying the wound.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” I admit, not wanting to elaborate.

  “You are firefighter?”

  “Yes. A fire investigator.”

  “There is abrasion and burn. You are light sleeper?”

  I’m confused at the change in direction. “Yes, but what —”

  “Hands and feet usually cold?”

  I nod. Again correct, but how this relates to my burn remains a mystery.

  “You are tense? Tire easily?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that —”

  “Have you been urinating less than usual?”

  By now I’m totally confused. “I thought you were treating my arm.”

  “Arm is easy to treat,” he says. “Rest of you is the problem.”

  I’m getting defensive. “What’s wrong with me?”

  The doctor gives me a stern look. With his narrow eyes, square jaw and flat face, he looks imposing. He must sense my unease, because suddenly he gives me a patient smile, as though I’m a child that requires mentoring. “Have a seat Mr. …”

  He opens my newly prepared medical folder and scans.

  “Cassel,” I tell him. “Porter Cassel.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cassel.” The doctor pauses, no doubt searching for some way to best phrase what he needs to tell me. The pause makes me nervous. I’m not a hypochondriac, but after the doctor’s sudden inquisition, it seems any number of possible diseases or conditions might plague me. I haven’t been feeling that well these past few months. The doctor purses his lips, touches his fingertips together. “You have an imbalance in your life. Your Yin and Yang.”

  “Okay,” I say, relieved. Mumbo-jumbo. “Could you just —”

  The doctor gives me a stony look. “You are sick, Mr. Cassel.”

  This rattles me enough that I sit on the edge of the examination bench.

  “Body is like fish in bowl,” says the doctor. “Survival depends on temperature of water, sunlight, food. You are fish. Something between you and water is not right.”

  Suddenly, I want to get out of here. Perhaps it’s just a reaction to an approach that seems nothing short of sorcery. Perhaps it’s some secret knowledge that the doctor is looking right into me and seeing what I dread most — that it’s not just age creeping up on me. His dark eyes stare back at me. I try to make light of what he’s told me — that I’m a sick fish. Seen in the abstract, it’s ludicrous, but I’m not reassured.

  “Thanks, Doc. I’ll keep that in mind. Can you fix my arm? I gotta get back to work.”

  The doctor watches me a few seconds longer, then shrugs, as though he should have expected as much. He takes my arm, cleans the wound, none too gently. I wince, focus on the dog, asleep on the floor. It occurs to me that I’ll have to figure out what to do with him. There must be a relative in town. Until then, he can stay in the yard at the ranger station.

  “I give you antibiotics,” says the doctor, bandaging the wound.

  “Thanks.” Good old western medicine. “Could I get a few antihistamines?”

  The doctor nods, doesn’t say anything. He seems to have decided that further conversation would be wasted on me. He finishes up, indicates I can pull up my coveralls, rummages in a drawer and hands me two vials of pills — antibiotics and antihistamines.

  “Three times a day,” he says, indicating the antibiotics.

  I collect the dog and am about to leave, when he stops me.

  “You here next week?”

  I think about the bottle fires. “Probably.”

  “You come see me again. We talk more.”

  IT’S WELL PAST supper and getting dark when I emerge from the clinic, dog in tow. I lower the tailgate on my truck, thinking I’ll have to lift in the dog, but he jumps up on his own, curls up in the box behind the cab. I ease the truck onto the street, head through town toward the junction with the airport road. Children in a yard play on a derelict snowmobile. An old Native woman watches me pass, her expression unreadable. At the intersection, I hesitate, looking at the ranger station. It’s been a long day and I want to shower, eat and collapse, but Mark Middel is in the duty room, expecting to be briefed on the day’s events. I try to convince myself he would appreciate me in a change of clothes, but that means a trip out of town to the ia base, and I might not return. Reluctantly, I turn into the small gravel parking lot, trudge up the steps. The secretary, Louise Holmes, is behind a desk, doing paperwork. She’s the wife of the local Fish and Wildlife officer, which works out well, as she lives across the street. She gives me an understanding smile as I enter.

  “How are you doing, Porter?”

  “Not one of my better fires.”

  She tilts her head toward the duty room. “Mark’s been expecting you.”

  Mark Middel sits in a small room filled with buzzing radios, boots propped on a desk. Despite his posture, he does not look relaxed. There’s a sheaf of papers in his hand and he’s frowning. When he sees me, he tosses the paperwork onto the desk, drops his feet and rubs his face with his hands.

  “How does it look out there, Cassel?”

  “Bad. Between the body, the cops, and forensics, everyone is edgy.”

  “That figures.” He sighs wearily. “What are the Mounties saying?”

  All impressions are preliminary, so I choose my words carefully. “There’s evidence of alcohol consumption. The body appears to have been on the floor at the time of the fire. Both the door on the cabin and the woodstove appear to have been open.”

  “Hallendry got drunk and burned down his cabin.”

  “That’s one explanation.”

  “You can think of others?” says Middel. He’s about fifty, with sandy, receding hair and a small face. His nose looks like he’s been in fight in his youth and his skin is coarse with eczema. He’s a bit bandy-legged and has a pot belly. Physically, he’s not impressive, but he carries an aura of impatience and exactitude about him that is intimidating. He waits, scowling, for a response. I’ve managed to cope with him these last two weeks by not engaging.

  “It’s early. We need to finish processing.”

  “Since you’re here, I take it your part is done.”

  “Essentially. I’ve confirmed the cabin is the origin
.”

  “Good,” he says. “That’s good. If it’s not wildfire arson, the investigation isn’t our problem. We’ll mop up and extinguish — the rest will be up to the cops.” He leans forward, watching me. “Unless you think this has anything to do with the other fires.”

  “I don’t think so. There doesn’t seem to be any similarity.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “It’s a little early to be certain,” I say, glancing out the window which overlooks the parking lot. The dog is standing in the truck box, watching the door of the ranger station. Perhaps I should have tied him. I consider turning him over to Middel for safe-keeping until a relative can be found, then recall Middel’s reluctance to send the helicopter for the injured dog. Middel clears his throat impatiently. I force myself to focus.

  “This fire doesn’t fit the pattern. The other fires were on vacant land.”

  “Not entirely vacant,” says Middel. “It’s Cree land claim.”

  “Sure, but the fires didn’t involve buildings.”

  “Thank God for that. They’re pissed enough at losing trees.”

  I’m thinking it’s not the trees they’re upset about — it’s a feeling they’re being picked on, singled out. They’re being territorial. It hadn’t occurred to me until now but the cabin wasn’t on Cree land, which I point out.

  “Close though,” says Middel. “The trail runs through Cree territory.”

  “Was there ever an issue with Hallendry driving through there?”

  Middel shrugs. “Maybe. What about the bottles?”

  “We didn’t find a bottle with an inscription.”

  “But you found bottles. You said he was drinking.”

  “I said there was evidence suggesting alcohol consumption.” “What’s the difference?”

  “We don’t know who consumed the alcohol.”

  “You think he had company?”

  “Impossible to determine at this point.”

  Middel scowls. “Where were the bottles?”

  “One in the truck and several in the cabin.”

  “He was drunk before he got there.”

  “Also impossible to determine.”

  A cold stare, which I ignore. Middel seems to take most of what I say as a challenge. “In fact,” I continue, “it is impossible to determine if the bottle recently held any liquid, as residue would have been vaporized by the fire. The medical examiner will conduct an autopsy and determine a blood alcohol level. Until then, we have no direct evidence that the victim was inebriated.”

  “But it looks that way.”

  “That’s the obvious conclusion.”

  The radio demands attention — VXH returning to the ia base with the HAC. Spence has camp set up and operations are winding down for the night. I wait while Middel takes care of business. I’m so exhausted it hurts. If I close my eyes I’ll fall asleep.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Fine. Nothing serious.”

  “Did you log it into the first aid record at the fire?” “Of course. Mark, did you know Rufus Hallendry?”

  “Not real well. I’ve only been here two years. We went hunting once, after I first arrived, up by Andrew Lake. He bagged one hell of a big moose.”

  “I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”

  Middel looks thoughtful. “Shame he did that to himself.”

  Once again, Middel is jumping to the conclusion that the death of Rufus Hallendry was accidental. There doesn’t seem any point in further discussion so I wait while Middel stares at his boot, lost in memory.

  “I better get going,” I say finally, snapping him out of his reverie.

  “I’m done here too,” he says with a yawn. We head outside together.

  It’s dark, a streetlight casting a pool of light over my truck, where the dog paces.

  “This is the mutt?” says Middel. The dog sniffs at him cautiously.

  I nod and Middel asks what I plan to do with him.

  “I don’t know,” I admit, scruffing the dog under the chin. He’s watching Middel, clearly nervous. Dogs don’t trust anyone that won’t return their interest and Middel just stands there, with his hands in his pocket. “Does Hallendry have relatives in town?”

  “Not that I know of,” says Middel. “I think he has grown kids somewhere.”

  “I’ll track them down. See if they’ll take the dog.”

  “I wouldn’t bother. Look at him — he’s a mess.”

  We watch the dog sniff my hand. He does look pretty rough.

  “Just put him down,” says Middel. “One bullet and his troubles are over.”

  I suppress a flash of anger, don’t look at Middel while it passes. The dog is licking my hand. Silently, I vow to do what I can to help the injured animal find a safe home.

  “Was Luke any use at the fire?” says Middel.

  I decide not to mention the trail contamination. “He helped a bit.”

  “Good. He needs some exposure to the real world.”

  I’m tempted to mention that with a burned corpse at the fire, I’m certain Luke had more than enough exposure to the real world, but bite my tongue. Middel and his son seem to have a few issues, not unlike all fathers and teenagers I suspect. I’m not about to wade into the fray. Middel heads home and I head out of town, windows on the truck cranked down to help me stay awake. At the base, I tether the dog to a tree, get him some food and a bowl of water and collapse on my spongy mattress. I’m certain I’ll quickly be dead to the world but my brain has other plans. Just as I begin to drift off, I jolt awake and lie staring at the grainy ceiling, wondering why I can’t sleep. This has become a nightly ritual. Tonight, I was hoping the exhaustion and antihistamines would allow me a reprieve. No such luck. My thoughts drift to the Korean doctor and his Asian medical mumbo-jumbo. I’m a fish. My Ying and Yang are out of balance. I’m sick. Perhaps that’s why I can’t sleep. A mild panic ebbs and flows. I count sheep. I shear them, wash them, skin them. Barbecue them. Still, I lie awake, worrying and frustrated. Outside, the dog howls morosely, the sound resonating with the tension in my chest. I grit my teeth, wait for sleep. Images parade through my mind.

  A corpse, burned and eyeless.

  A bird on a pile of black fur.

  Hendrigan, bandaging my arm.

  Just before dawn, finally, mercifully, I drift into sleep.

  I’M WOKEN BY a pounding on my door. I struggle out of bed, blearyeyed, thumping my knee in the process, and yank open the door. Mark Middel stands in the narrow hall, wearing his uniform and a frown.

  “Jesus, Cassel, you look like shit.”

  “What can I do for you, Mark?”

  “The Cree Band has requested a meeting. I brought you a uniform.”

  He offers me a bundle of folded clothes, which I do not take. “When is the meeting?”

  “In about an hour.” He thrusts the clothes at me. “You need to get changed.”

  “Not into those,” I tell him.

  “You wore the uniform for years. What’s the problem?”

  There’s no way I’m ever wearing the uniform again, but don’t want to argue, so I take the damn thing, reassure him that I will be at the meeting on time, and close door. I set the bundle on my bed, stare at the tan and green cloth as Middel’s footsteps recede down the hall. When the outer door slams shut I wince, furious. Years ago, I dressed my girlfriend in a uniform so we could spend a day together in the woods. She didn’t work for the Forest Service and it seemed harmless fun, but it got her killed. The last thing I need this morning is a reminder from Mark Middel, trying to bolster the uniformed presence at some meeting. My work now as a contractor doesn’t require me to wear a uniform. I toss the bundle of cloth into a corner, head for the showers.

  The water feels good and I return to my room in a slightly better mood.

  I put on blue jeans and a cotton shirt, take the uniform with me.

  THE OFFICE OF the Cree Band is in a low building in the centre of town. The building is lo
ng and angled to form a sort of bay around a dusty gravel parking lot. I park next to Mark Middel’s truck, set the uniform on the seat and hurry into the building. A slim Native woman with long black hair points me to a boardroom where several Natives sit around a polished wooden table opposite Mark Middel, who looks very official. His expression darkens when he sees I’m not similarly attired.

  “You’re late, Cassel.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Traffic.”

  Middel introduces me to the group as the investigator in charge of the arson fires. Sammy Cardinal introduces himself as the Chief. He looks to be in his late fifties, slim build, grey hair neatly trimmed. The band councillors go next. Buddy Cardinal is the External Affairs Coordinator. Albert Cardinal is Economic Development. Simon Cardinal is the Native Justice Liaison. Rodney Cardinal is Community and Social Outreach.

  It’s the Cardinal mafia. Nepotism at its finest.

  “Mr. Cassel and I are here at your request,” says Middel.

  “Where’s the RCMP?” says the Chief.

  “I notified them,” says Middel. “They’re too busy to attend.”

  “Why aren’t they involved?” says Simon. He looks to be in his midthirties, with clear brown skin. His black hair is braided and parted in the middle, pulled tight against his scalp. Two ponytails draped over his shoulder hang halfway down his chest. He wears a fringed buckskin coat with a lot of beading, sits with his arms crossed.

  “This is a Forest Service matter,” says Middel.

  “The fires are on Cree land. That makes it Federal.”

  “We have an agreement with the Feds,” says Middel, his neck colouring.

  “That doesn’t mean you have enough resources to do the job. There have been four fires so far on Cree land, and you guys have how many people working on this?” Simon Cardinal looks at me, dark eyes hostile. “One guy. You’ve got one guy.”

  “Porter is a qualified fire investigator.”

  “One guy. No wonder you can’t make any progress.”

  There’s a tense moment as Simon Cardinal and Mark Middel glower at each other.

  The Chief says, “Let’s hear what the Forest Service has to say.”

  Middel tilts his head in my direction. “Go ahead, Porter.”