“This one is broken,” I tell him.
He thrusts the hand at me again and I give him ten dollars, show him my wallet is now empty. Satisfied, he climbs into the truck and waits for me. I pull some bright fluorescent ribbon from my pack and hang it on a nearby sapling to mark the spot, then return Frank to his bike. Seemingly pleased with the morning’s labours, he heaves his bike upright and continues to trudge sedately along the shoulder of the road, peering into the ditch for more treasure. Luke loads Scorch into the back of the truck, then hops in beside me and asks me what I found. I hold up a hand for silence, use the radio in the truck to call the ranger station and request the RCMP. The young radio operator tells me to stand by and a moment later Middel comes on.
“What’s going on, Cassel?”
“Please have Sergeant Waldren meet me on the Dore Lake Road.”
There’s a pause. “Okay. Come see me as soon as you get in.”
We drive down the road, park beside the dangle of bright ribbon. Luke peers at the marker, looks ready to burst at the seams. While we wait for the RCMP, I tell Luke what little there is to know, caution him that he must keep this to himself. He nods, eyes wide and serious.
“So I helped, huh?”
“Yes, Luke, you did help. Thanks.”
A few minutes later, an RCMP Suburban pulls up beside us, enveloping us in a cloud of road dust. Waldren waits for the dust to clear, then joins Luke and me at the side of the road. He looks tired and irritable, gives Luke a brief nod.
“What have you got, Cassel?”
I show Waldren the fragments of tumbler, and the intact one, propose that the tumblers found in the ditch are the same type as the one found at the cabin. He frowns thoughtfully as I present my theory that two or more people were drinking with Hallendry the night he died and took their glasses with them, to make it look as though Hallendry were drinking alone.
“Why would they do that?” says Waldren, squatting and looking at the shards of glass.
“Someone wanted Hallendry out of the picture and they wanted it to look like an accident. Hallendry was receiving payoffs from the uranium company and that trapline was worth a lot of money. With Hallendry gone, the trapline would become available.”
“Maybe,” says Waldren. “But Hallendry didn’t have a will. We looked.”
“What about the family that lost the trapline to Hallendry?”
“The family that didn’t want it?” says Waldren.
“That was before they started exploring for uranium.”
“True, but the trapline was transferred. They have no way of reclaiming it.”
“Maybe that’s not their motive. Maybe it’s payback for losing the line.”
Waldren stands up, shrugging as through he’s stiff and sore. “That’s a lot of ‘maybe,’ Cassel. Keep in mind that anyone could have tossed those glasses in the ditch. They sell the things at the Northern, in packages of a half dozen. I’ll bet every house in town has a set of them. And if you’ve been drinking with Hallendry, why not just leave the glasses at his place? Put them back in the cupboard, where they belong? Fire is going to wipe out any fingerprints.”
All true, but killers don’t necessarily know that.
“It is still possible they came from the cabin,” I insist.
Waldren looks down the road. “Anything is possible. Too bad you didn’t find these an hour ago. Ident just left this morning, headed for another scene.”
“I have my kit in the truck.”
“Okay. We’ll bag these, send them in for printing.”
After bagging the fragments and handing them over to Waldren for processing, I return Luke to his bike, tie up the dog and head into town to meet Mark Middel at the ranger station. Middel ushers me into his office and closes the door. I take a seat in front of his desk, acutely aware of our exchange the last time we were here, only hours ago. Now, Middel’s focus has changed.
“Why did you need the cops?”
I relate my discovery of the drinking glasses, make sure to mention Luke’s involvement, which pleases Middel. I mention my theory about a possible link to payments for uranium exploration, conclude with Waldren’s remarks and his plan to send the tumblers in for fingerprinting. Middel leans back in his chair, looks thoughtful.
“You really think those whiskey glasses are from the Hallendry fire?”
“That’s my theory so far.”
“What about the graffiti on the Northern store?”
“It looks like the same lettering from the bottle fires.”
Middel sighs heavily. “This is not good.”
“Have you spoken to the Mounties about it?”
“Yeah. They’re fairly tight-lipped. What have they told you?”
“Nothing I haven’t passed on.”
Middel is silent for a minute, thinking again. I shift, uncomfortable. The nausea of earlier this morning has returned, bringing with it an achy weakness. My mouth is dry and I’m having difficulty concentrating. I’m no stranger to hangovers but this feels different. It occurs to me suddenly that Middel has been talking to me.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
Middel frowns. “Are you okay? You’re pale and your hands are shaking.”
I look down at my hands, clasp them together. I had an aunt with Parkinson’s. Her hands used to shake. A jolt of fear passes through me. “I’m fine, just a little tired.”
“Tired?” He snorts. “Hungover is more like it. Anyway, Sammy Cardinal was in this morning and he’s furious. That graffiti was the last straw for him, particularly after his truck was torched. He’s positive the Cree Band is being targeted and he wants answers. Do you have anything to report? Any progress at all?”
“Well,” I say slowly, squeezing my hands to keep them still, “I think he may be right. Whoever is lighting those fires has been leaving their calling card for a reason. The graffiti might be someone else, piggybacking on what’s happened, but I think it’s the same guy. I think he waited until he had everyone’s attention, then dropped his bombshell.”
“He’s certainly got everyone’s attention,” Middel says bitterly. “But why?”
“I have no idea, but we have the RCMP involved now, working on the truck.”
Middel waits, expecting more. When I don’t elaborate, he leans forward, staring at me. “That’s it, Porter? The town is going to hell and all you can offer is that the RCMP are involved now? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
I have a sudden surge of anger, want to tell Middel that he can go to hell along with the town, but manage to suppress any outburst. He dismisses me, telling me to keep working on it and to let him know as soon as I have anything. I nod, rush from his office, just wanting to get out of there. This sudden emotional volatility is unusual and has me a little freaked-out. I nearly collide with a Native lady at the counter who blocks my retreat. She’s having an argument with Louise, the receptionist, who turns to me for help.
“You tell her, Porter.”
“What?”
Louise introduces the woman. “This is Helen Mercredi — Bernice Mercredi’s mother. She wants her daughter’s cheque, but I’ve told her she’ll have to wait until the rest of the crew is released. That’s our policy when someone leaves early.”
Helen Mercredi, although short, is a large woman and when she crosses her arms indignantly over her ample bosom I see no way past her. I force myself to focus.
“What is the problem, Mrs. Mercredi?”
“I just come to pick up Bernie’s cheque and she says I gotta wait.”
“Where was your daughter working?”
“At the fire,” she says, scowling at Louise. “She got sick, had to come home.”
People want to leave fires for lots of reasons. Sometimes they’re sick. Sometimes they just say they are. To discourage people from leaving whenever they feel like it, which causes chaos at a fire operation, the Forest Service has long had a policy that anyone who leaves prematurely doesn’t receive their payche
que until their crew has completed their rotation. If you arrive together, you get paid together. I raise my hands in helplessness and inform the irate Mrs. Mercredi that her daughter will have to wait like everyone else. She gives me the evil eye and storms out. I use the opportunity to follow her and point my truck toward the ia base, where I rush to the first toilet I can find and vomit. Weak and dizzy, I make myself a cup of bitter tea, lie on my bunk. The tea seeps into my blood and the nausea and edginess melt away. I fall asleep, thinking that I’ll need to see the doctor again, thank him for the tea, and get some more.
WHEN I OPEN my eyes again, the light in my room has changed. I feel dehydrated but much better. Nothing like a quick nap. Then I see my clock and curse. It’s nearly suppertime — I’ve slept away the afternoon. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The past few days seem to have taken a lifetime. The Whiskey Creek fire and Hallendry’s burned body. The burned truck. A long night of drinking and disgrace. The graffiti. Middel, hollering at me. Luke. The bottle picker. Then that angry woman, blocking my escape from the ranger station.
What was it she wanted?
Something suddenly clicks and I push myself up, sit on the edge of my bunk, rubbing my forehead, trying to sort out exactly what it means. The woman wanted her daughter’s cheque because she’d left a fire early, sick. There’s only one active fire and the only women are the cook and her helper.
The cook’s helper left the fire early.
Damn — how had I missed that? I shove on my boots and head into town. The public door on the ranger station is locked, but the rear entrance is open. With an active fire, there’s someone in the duty room until dark. Today, it’s Tabra, the young local radio operator. I nod to her as I pass the duty room, head for Louise’s desk. The timesheets and reports for the Whiskey Creek fire are neatly tucked in a file holder on a credenza next to her desk.
I lay out the file, quickly find what I’m looking for.
Bernice Mercredi left the fire late in the evening on the second day, about an hour after I left on the night I ripped up the floorboards. I try to remember any impression of Bernice Mercredi that night — if she looked ill — but I was too involved in what I was doing to notice. On the other hand, she would have noticed everything I was doing and, like everyone else at the fire, would have known the significance of the under-burned floorboards. She might have been sick and had to leave, or she might have left for another reason. Either way, she is the most likely conduit of information from the fire that night and I need to talk to her. I replace the file, ask Tabra if she knows where Helen and Bernice Mercredi live.
“Oh sure,” she says, flashing me a smile. “They’re up on Sesame Street.”
It’s not just people here that have nicknames. I clarify exactly where that might be and, following Tabra’s description of the house, pull to the curb at six o’clock. Helen Mercredi frowns at me though a dusty screen door.
“You come to bring the cheque?”
When I shake my head her frown deepens.
“Is Bernice home?”
“No, of course not,” she snaps. “Why do you think I come to get her cheque?”
“Do you know where she is?”
“McMurray.”
“I thought she was sick.”
“She is sick. She stays at friends. No doctor here today.”
I’d forgotten the doctor services several remote communities and is not always in town.
“What was wrong with her?”
“She’s got an irritable bowel. Bad stomach ache.”
“Did she have an appointment with a specific doctor in McMurray?”
Helen Mercredi snorts. “Yeah, right. Like it’s that easy on short notice. She goes to emergency at the hospital.”
“Did you ask her to call as soon as she got there?”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t always call, you know. Teenagers.”
“Even if she’s sick?”
Helen Mercredi sighs. “She’s head strong, that one. Does what she wants.”
“Have you spoken with your daughter since she left?”
“I call twice, but no answer.”
“Does your daughter have a cellphone?”
“They cost money, you know. Can’t use them here anyway.”
“Who did you call, then?”
“My friend,” she says, crossing her arms. “Why?”
“Just routine follow-up.”
“You don’t sound routine. She in some kinda trouble?”
“I doubt it. I just need to speak with her. When did she leave?”
“Day before yesterday. Afternoon flight.”
“Do you have the phone number where she’s staying?”
She considers, then opens the screen door. “You come inside. I get the number.”
I step inside while she vanishes down a hallway. The house, although shabby outside, is clean and modern inside, full of newer furniture and a large screen television. Three small Native children sit on a rug and stare transfixed at the screen, oblivious to my presence. Helen Mercredi returns with a scrap of paper and a cordless phone. I don’t want to question her daughter in detail in front of her, but I’d like to know where she is, to set up a longer conversation, and dial the numbers on the scrap of paper. I let it ring a dozen times.
There’s no answer.
I LEAVE THE Mercredi residence frustrated. Bernice Mercredi is the closest thing to a lead I’ve had yet. She’s the most likely link to whoever snuck into the fire and burned up the floorboards. I shove a borrowed school picture of her into my pocket as I leave the house and scan the street for any burgundy vehicles with scrapes. No luck. More than likely she mentioned the floorboards to someone after leaving the fire and the information got around. I have to find out who she talked to and this is something best done in person, where I can watch her reaction, read her body language. I need to go to Fort McMurray and I return to the ranger station, drive into the compound, park in front of Mark Middel’s house. He comes to the door, wiping his mouth with a napkin. I’ve disturbed his supper. “Come in, Cassel.”
“No thanks, this will just take a minute. I need a flight to McMurray.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You making some progress?”
“I’m not sure. As soon as I have something, I’ll let you know.”
Middel nods, thinking, no doubt wondering if he should press me for details. Fortunately, he lets it slide, as I don’t want to mention anything until I have something substantial. He mentions the HAC helicopter will be going into McMurray tomorrow morning, before the daily fire hazard builds, for a mechanical inspection, and I can bum a ride.
“Could Luke look after the dog while I’m away?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Thanks. He’s tied up at the IA base.”
I head out, hesitate at the end of the driveway by the ranger station. Across the road is a large, white, two-storey log building. It’s the local museum. I have a history question to ask that might have relevance to arson or murder.
The museum is open for another hour, which I find surprising.
“Tourist hours,” says the curator. “Just started this week.”
The curator is a summer student named Kim, working on her master’s in anthropology. She’s short and slim, red-haired with freckles and a ponytail. Just looking at her makes me feel old. Her master’s thesis is on intergroup behaviour and EuroCanadian relations among the tribes of the lower Athabasca region. The museum is a perfect gig for integrating her school work with her employment situation. She tells me all of this in a nonstop tirade as she leads me into the museum. There’s no one else in the place. I ask her if she gets many tourists.
“Not many,” she says, smiling, leading me through displays of furs, wooden washing machines and assorted historical debris. I wait until she’s given me the full tour, which takes about ten minutes, steer the conversation to matters of more recent history.
“Do the bands here get along well?”
; She smiles again. “They seem to be doing okay now, but there used to be a lot of friction. The Cree historically positioned themselves to be the middlemen between the European fur traders and other tribes. They provided labour. They served as guides and translators. Basically, they made themselves indispensible to the fur traders, even going so far as intermarriage. This is where the Metis evolved from originally — French fur traders and the Cree.”
“How do the Cree get along with the Metis?”
“Okay, I guess,” she says, standing in front of an upstairs window overlooking the lake. “The Metis don’t have official status under the Indian Act, so they’re not entitled to a land claim settlement and associated benefits. Some of them have been vocally bitter.”
“But there are three groups here, right?”
“Yes. There’s also the Chipewyan, or Dene, which means ‘the people.’ Historically, they were nomadic hunters that operated farther north and were less directly involved with the fur trade. In fact, the Cree made sure of this, jealously protecting their position as middlemen, so there’s been a historic sense of distrust between the Chips and the Cree.”
“Do you think that still exists today?”
Kim frowns, looks uncertain. “I’m not sure — it’s hard to tell as an outsider. That’s one of the reasons I came here to do research. She brightens, puts a warm hand on my arm. “Fort Chipewyan is a fascinating area. Sort of a microcosm, isolated like it is, without a road.”
“How is your research going?” I ask, moving my arm.
“Oh, sort of slow,” she says wistfully. “What do you do?”
“I work for the Forest Service.”
“Ooh.” She flashes her lashes at me. “A forest ranger.”
I nod, thank Kim and quickly excuse myself. Why is it now that I’m engaged women find me attractive? Some higher power has a wicked sense of humour. Hot with the shame of my previous night’s activities, I head for the ia base where I feed the dog, rub salve on his burns, and make myself an extra-strong cup of Dr. Cho’s Happy Tea. It hits me like anesthetic and in minutes I fade into a merciful sleep.
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