Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  “Cassel, hold up.”

  It’s Middel, calling from across the road. Damn — I don’t really want to talk to him.

  “I’ve been waiting for your report on the cabin fire all afternoon.”

  “I’ll do it tonight,” I say quickly, and duck into the Fish and Wildlife office, nearly colliding with Larry Holmes, the lone local Fish and Wildlife officer, as he heads for the door. He backs up, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, just about ran you over.”

  Larry Holmes is never likely to run anyone over. He’s nearly a foot shorter than me and slight in build. His easy smile and polite manner seem at odds with the sidearm, pepper spray and baton on his belt. He smoothes back his hair, as though it might have become ruffled in our near collision.

  “What can I help you with, Porter?”

  “I’ve got a few questions about traplines.”

  Holmes nods agreeably, ushers me into his tiny office where he settles into his chair behind an old wooden desk. The walls around us are crowded with stuffed animals. Grouse, ducks and weasels all seemed poised to explode into action.

  “What can you tell me about the trapline held by Rufus Hallendry?” “I’d have to check the file — I’ve only been here a year.”

  Holmes excuses himself, returns a few minutes later. He settles back in his chair, lays a thick manila file folder on the desk, rifles through the contents. “Hallendry bought the line about twelve years ago.” He hesitates, raises an eyebrow. “This is interesting — he acquired the trapline for the transfer fee of forty-seven dollars and fifty cents.”

  “How’d he manage that? I thought traplines were hot properties.”

  “Not twelve years ago. And not up here. Ever since the greenies started protesting fur back in the eighties, the trapping industry has been in the toilet. In fact, for a while, you could hardly give away a trapline. Says here the line was previously owned by a Native fellow who passed on — Oliver Mercredi. Relatives weren’t interested in taking it over so we advertised it.”

  Holmes shows me a faded newspaper ad for the vacant trapline.

  “Policy was that if a Native owned the line, then first choice is transfer to another Native, but it looks like to no one applied.” He flips pages. “They even offered a trapping course to try to interest some of the younger folks. Still no takers, so they transferred the line to the first guy that came along and asked.”

  “Rufus Hallendry.”

  Holmes nods. “For less than fifty bucks.”

  I shake my head, think of the hefty payout by Phultam Uranium. I wonder where all the money went; whiskey, no doubt. “What else can you tell me about the line?”

  Holmes flips more pages. “No junior partner.”

  “Who gets the trapline?”

  Holmes shrugs. “I have no idea. Whoever Hallendry left it to in his will.”

  The will, if he had one, wouldn’t be in the file — probably in some safe-deposit box somewhere, or in a lawyer’s office. I try to think of what else of interest might be in the file, ask if there is any way of determining how actively Hallendry was trapping the line. Holmes flips back and forth in the file for a few minutes. “According to his fur catch records he didn’t trap much, which isn’t unusual. We used to take traplines away from people when they didn’t trap them, to transfer to bona-fide trappers, but we gave that up when the industry tanked.”

  I thank Holmes and he follows me out, locking up. I wander across the road, thinking about how traplines have become money machines, and wonder what the Mercredi family thinks of missing out on such a golden opportunity. I’ll mention this to Waldren the next time I see him. This turns out to be a lot sooner than I think.

  I’M WORKING LATE at the ranger station, pecking away at a keyboard, using my distinctive one-finger style, when Middel barks at me from the duty room. My first thought is that he’s hollering at me to learn how to type — my woodpecker technique has sent more than one co-worker off the deep end — but it’s something else.

  “Cassel — you got your bag handy?”

  “In the truck.”

  “We got another fire.”

  I abandon the report I’m painstakingly compiling, join Middel in the duty room.

  “Plane reported it, coming into the airport. Hop in your truck and go for a look.”

  I nod, head across the road to where my truck still sits under a single yard light in front of the Fish and Wildlife office. I race out of town, toward the airport. It’s a dark moonless night and any fire should be easy to spot. I don’t go far before I see a faint distant flickering glow and my pulse quickens. All of the bottle fires have started at night, as did the Whiskey Creek fire. Night is the time for foul play. There’s only one road to the airport and I watch for approaching headlights that might be an arsonist fleeing the scene.

  No one passes me. The radio in the truck blares. It’s Middel.

  “We’ve got a better location. It’s by the old gravel pit.”

  I’d been there a week ago, target shooting with Reggie from the local IA crew, and I let Middel know that I’m familiar with the location. As I turn onto the narrow road leading to the pit, I see an eerie orange glow above treetops a mile away and immediately sense there is something different about this fire. I had assumed the fire was in the pine trees around the old gravel pit, as there is nothing in the pit itself — just a big hole in the ground — but from the way the flickering glow seems to bounce off the treetops it looks like the fire is right in the pit. More than likely it’s just kids with a big party bonfire, having a good time, but when I clear the edge of the trees by the pit I see something else.

  A pickup truck at the bottom of the pit is engulfed in flames.

  “Damn.” I ease my truck to a stop on the earthen ramp leading into the pit, assess the scene. Flames gush upward from vacant windows. The gravel pit indicates a need for privacy and I wonder if it could be a suicide. These thoughts race through my mind as I step out of my truck and scan the tree line at the top of the pit, looking for any hidden observers. Flames from the truck illuminate the walls of the pit but the forest beyond is a black void. I focus my attention on the truck, note that it’s an extended cab four-wheel-drive with a lift kit and oversize tires. It looks new and fairly expensive. Curls of black smoke rise and vanish into the night. I hope there is no one inside because it would already be too late.

  Middel’s voice blasts from the radio in my truck. “Cassel, what’s your position?”

  I reach in through the open door, grab the radio mike.

  “Vehicle on fire in the gravel pit. No sign of persons responsible.”

  “The IA are right behind you. Do you need anything else?”

  “A water truck, and some light.”

  I barely hang up the radio when the ia crew arrive. Reggie walks up beside me, shaking his head as his men pull out equipment. There’s not much they can do until the water truck arrives. Even then, a burning vehicle is a hazard best approached cautiously. Fumes from burning rubber and plastic are highly toxic. Then there’s the gas tank.

  A loud whump lifts the back of the truck a few feet off the ground.

  “There she goes,” Reggie says, standing beside me.

  “Yup. You pass anyone on your drive out here?”

  Reggie shakes his head. “What do you want us to do?”

  “Wait for the pumper. Do you know that truck down there?”

  “That’s Sammy’s truck,” Reggie says quietly. “He just bought it.”

  “Sammy who?”

  “Sammy Cardinal. The Chief.”

  WHILE WE WAIT for the arrival of the water truck, I go for a walk in the trees along the edge of the pit, thinking about Sammy Cardinal and his smoking hot ride in the pit below. Unless Sammy started his own truck on fire this is not going to make the situation easier with the Cree Band. My first hope, once we douse the flames, is there won’t be a body in the truck. My second hope is there won’t be a bottle with a familiar inscription. I walk among pine trees close to th
e edge of the pit, aim a flashlight into the dark pine forest, looking for a hint of someone watching. Arsonists are often spectators — part of the allure of starting a fire; releasing a force more powerful than one’s self and watching it grow. It’s a compensation of sorts. Today, if anyone is compensating, they’re not visible, and I’m not sure the motive is psychological. Like the Cree Band council, I’m beginning to wonder if they are being targeted.

  I return in time to greet the volunteer fire department with their vintage 1958 red pumper truck. I get Reggie’s crew and the vfd working together, setting up a foam injection kit. They’ll fill the inside of the burning truck with soapy foam and suffocate the fire. Until they’re done, there isn’t much for me to do but watch and wait. I call Middel, give him a brief update, inquire as to what else he knows about how the fire was reported. Arsonists sometimes report their own fires, to make sure firefighters arrive in time for a good show. No such luck today; the regular flight from Fort McMurray spotted the fire and called air control, who called us. Nobody was seen leaving the area. Above the drone of the water truck, the whine of an approaching engine becomes audible. It sounds like a chainsaw being revved. Soon a single light plays wildly across the top of the pit. Gravel crunches.

  Luke Middel peers down at me over the handlebars of a dirt bike. “I got here as soon as I heard, Porter.”

  “Wonderful. You stay right there.”

  Luke looks crestfallen but a burning vehicle is a dangerous situation. He waits at the top of the pit while I direct operations from below. Soon the fire is out and the burned truck is a dark husk. White foam drools from vacant windows. The firefighters stay back as I approach, flashlight in hand. The surrounding ground has been transformed into a gravelly, soapy muck that slides under my boots. I aim the beam of my flashlight into the front of the cab, revealing a blackened cavern with metal seat springs in a soapy slurry, a skeletal steering wheel, but no corpse. Heart squeezing a little harder than normal, I shift the beam of light to the back interior of the cab — the most likely place for a body, tucked out of view.

  There’s no back seat left — or body — and I let out a relieved sigh but walk around the truck, peer in from the other side, just to make sure. No obvious signs of criminal activity, but anything could be under the thick layer of foam inside the truck.

  “What’s in there?” Luke calls from above.

  I ignore the question, have Reggie and crew turn off the foam, throttle the pump on the water truck down so a weak stream of clean water comes from the nozzle, then open the truck’s doors to allow the foam to dribble out while I use the hose to gently wash bare the debris. More seat springs emerge, along with two screwdrivers, a crescent wrench and the clips and wire of a set of booster cables. Luke has his own flashlight and manages to blind me from above.

  “Would you turn that thing off,” I holler at him. “I was just trying to help.”

  “If you’re going to use that thing, come down and point it where it will do some good.”

  Luke wastes no time in scrambling down the gravelly slope.

  “This is so cool,” he says. “I love this CSI stuff.”

  “Just pay attention and do what I say. Don’t touch anything.”

  Luke peers in from the far side of the truck.

  “What does all that stuff mean?”

  “Well,” I say slowly as I examine the debris, “it looks like a clear case of reverse hot-wiring. See the cables with the clamps? They must have used that with the screwdrivers to reverse hot-wire through the floorboards.”

  Luke frowns. “Are you serious?”

  “Probably what started the fire,” I tell him.

  Luke reads my expression, realizes I’m leading him on.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” he says. “I’m young and impressionable.”

  I can’t help smiling. Despite his fumbling over-eager manner, Luke is a good kid. I straighten my back, which comes into alignment with an audible crack, and get to work, carefully examining the debris on the floor. Luke assists with his flashlight.

  “Is that a broken bottle?” he says.

  He points the beam of light at the gas pedal and I wash the area clean of foam. Jagged shards of bottle glass appear. With gloved hands I pick out the pieces, examine them in the beam of the flashlight. The bottom of the bottle is a single round piece with a jagged fin protruding. Plainly visible are three letters, etched in the glass.

  F.T.C.

  “Isn’t that the same thing from the other fires?” says Luke.

  “Yes,” I say quietly, tell him to stay put while I head up the steep earthen ramp to my truck to retrieve my crime scene kit. An RCMP Suburban rolls to a stop, strobing red and blue lights across the walls of the pit. Waldren gets out, his gaze traveling from the truck in the pit, where Luke waves enthusiastically, to the firefighters clustered in a group near the fire engine, and finally over to me. “What’s going on, Porter?”

  “Someone dumped a truck here and set it on fire.”

  “I can see that. I thought your jurisdiction was limited to forest fires.”

  “Technically, but I got the call. I was the first responder.”

  “I don’t see any trees down there. This is an RCMP crime scene.”

  I’m not sure what the big deal is. The Forest Service frequently respond to burning vehicles, as would any fire department. We’re less concerned with what is burning than in making sure the fire is contained and extinguished. I may have overstepped my bounds by processing the truck for evidence, but the lines of authority are not always clearly drawn. Until today, at any rate. I take a moment to keep my emotions in check, determined as always to remain professional. “Apparently that’s Sammy Cardinal’s truck,” I offer.

  “Damn,” says Waldren. “This will not go over well.”

  Luke, tired of waiting down in the pit, is making his way up the ramp. Waldren pulls out his radio, calls in using a series of codes I don’t understand, requests ident. He’s holstering his radio when Luke joins us.

  “Pretty weird it’s the same guy from the other fires,” he says.

  Waldren frowns. “You found another bottle?”

  Luke nods. “Yeah. It had the same inscription.”

  Waldren massages his forehead as though he’s getting a migraine.

  “Now what?” says Luke.

  “Life gets complicated,” says Waldren.

  NOW THAT THE same calling card has been found at both an RCMP crime scene and the bottle wildfires, they’re all officially RCMP business. Hence the complication. The burned truck represents a significant escalation from the wildfires, in which the RCMP have had little involvement. I’ve kept Waldren in the loop on the wildfires as a courtesy. That’s all about to change, he informs me. Ident will process this scene and will be interested in visiting the wildfire arson scenes as well. My role in this production has yet to be ironed out. Regardless of any good intentions I’ve had, my compromising their crime scene won’t make relations any easier. Waldren stands with his arms crossed, watching, as I dismiss the ia crew and local volunteer firefighters. Luke is also sent home. Then it’s just Waldren and me at the edge of the pit, headlights of our trucks casting craggy shadows. Waldren is ominously silent as we wait for ident. We’re both stuck here until they arrive: Waldren is on guard duty and I’m required to brief the forensic specialists. We’ve got an hour or two to kill. I use the time to run a few things past Waldren.

  “Did you know Hallendry was collecting payments from a uranium company?”

  Waldren looks at me, face half in shadow. “What?”

  “Phultam Uranium was paying him for a core hole program on his trapline.”

  “I’ve heard that happens. Cost of doing business up north.”

  “That could be a motive.”

  “Could be,” says Waldren, turning his attention back to the pit. I wait, expecting he’ll say more, but he remains silent. I have the uneasy feeling our relationship has been damaged, which concerns me. To be effecti
ve we have to work together. “It would be interesting to know who gets the trapline now,” I venture.

  “That would be in Hallendry’s will, which we’re searching for.”

  “So you’re still open to the possibility that it’s murder?”

  “Personally, I think he got drunk and burned down his cabin. But yes, Porter, we look at everything. We do have some experience with investigations.”

  I grit my teeth, let my annoyance subside at Waldren’s belittling tone. His subtext is clear — back off and let us do our job. Only the RCMP seem to have missed a big piece of the puzzle when they missed the burn pattern under the floorboards. Unfortunately it’s a part of the puzzle that is now gone forever.

  “What did the ident guys say about the roof tin?”

  “They said that accelerant can cause evidence of uneven heating in roof tin, but they hadn’t noticed anything close to a clear indicator. They were surprised you claimed to have found evidence under the floor.”

  “What was their explanation?”

  “Burn-through from above.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, you can take it up with them when they get here.”

  There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. Waldren checks his watch. I try a different tack.

  “What do you know about Hallendry’s activities before the fire?”

  Waldren considers for a moment. “Look, Porter, this is an ongoing investigation and I can’t tell you anything that isn’t directly related to your fire investigation or is not public knowledge. You know that. But since it is public knowledge, I can tell you that Hallendry was seen drinking in the bar the night before the fire, and that he left about eleven o’clock that night, apparently on his own. Now you don’t have to go around asking people questions or otherwise giving the impression the RCMP aren’t doing their job, and that you have to do it for us.”