Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  “What’s new, Fire Guy?”

  “Not much,” I say, noncommittal. “What about you?”

  “Boat motor is shot,” he says, gesturing with a nod to the kitchen.

  There’s an awkward silence. Cork slurps his beer. I hold the cold can in my hand and wonder how to approach this. Much like the guy on the big screen, I’m fishing. He’s after sail fish in the Caribbean and having plenty of luck. I’m hoping for a nibble about Collette.

  “How’s Collette holding up?”

  “Fine, I guess,” says Cork, grinning, his affable smile filled with crooked teeth. I wonder if he knows anything about the rape of his niece. Collette claims she never told him and I doubt the RCMP would mention it. Collette, however, wasn’t entirely truthful with the RCMP in regard to what she told me.

  “She was close to Bernice Mercredi, wasn’t she?” Cork’s expression clouds.

  “Yeah. They were buds.”

  “Must have hit her pretty hard.”

  He gives me a resigned sort of shrug. “She doesn’t let on much, but I know it bugs her. Happens too often up here with the young people. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. They get depressed.” He sighs, rubs the heel of his foot on the carpet. “I think that’s why she went camping,” he says quietly. “Had to get away.”

  “You think it was a suicide?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Well, we don’t know the actual cause of death yet.”

  Cork’s jaw clenches. “If someone did this, I’ll kill the bastard.”

  I believe him. The beer can crumples slowly in his large hand.

  “You picked up the girls the night of the fire, right?”

  “What?”

  “The night Hallendry’s cabin burned. You picked up Bernice and Collette.”

  “Yeah. I heard they were going to some bush party and it was getting late. I was kinda worried, you know, so I took a drive. Found them walking on the highway.”

  “Why were they on the highway?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know. Parties. Things happen.”

  Tell me about it. “You never asked them?”

  “Nope.” He drains his beer, crumples the can noisily flat between his palms and tosses the aluminum disc in the direction of the door. “They’re big girls and I don’t pry into their business. I figured they have something to tell me, they will. They know I got their back.”

  “Were they upset when you picked them up?”

  “A bit, I guess. Tired mostly.”

  “Were their clothes ripped or stained? Anything like that?”

  Cork turns in his recliner, thick shoulder facing me.

  “It was a bush party. Why you want to know — Fire Guy?”

  Cork seems to sense there is more to what happened than I’ve told him. I recall Middel’s caution that the town is a powder keg.

  “No reason. I just wanted to see how Collette is doing.”

  “You’re pretty sweet on her, aren’t you?”

  “She’s certainly had an effect on me.”

  He gazes at the big screen, where a fish is being gaffed. “You treat her right,” he says quietly.

  There’s an awkward silence, then he asks if I want another beer. I’ve barely touched the one I have, but suddenly want to get out of here. I quickly guzzle the beer, set the can on an end table, tell Cork I’ve got to get going. He doesn’t insist, doesn’t bother rising from the recliner, just watches me leave. Outside, an RCMP Suburban is pulled up behind my forestry truck. Waldren, uniformed, is walking up the drive. He stops when I emerge from the house, waits as I approach.

  “Cassel — what a surprise. What brings you here?”

  He sniffs once subtly in my direction, raises an eyebrow. Damn — the beer.

  “Just a social visit,” I say, slip quickly past him.

  I feel his eyes behind me as I drive away.

  I’M BARELY BACK in my truck when the radio blares at me, jangling my frazzled nerves. It’s Middel. He’s been trying to get hold of me all day. I’m to come to the office at once. Reluctantly, I wheel the truck around. Louise, the receptionist, gives me a friendly but nervous smile, her eyelids flickering quickly. Through his office door I see Middel rise from behind his desk, wave me in. I close his office door, an anxious clench in my gut. I’m not sure what I can tell him — anything I might say isn’t good. Neither of us sit.

  “Where’s your radio, Porter?” he snaps. “I’ve been calling you all day.”

  “Lost,” I tell him.

  “Lost?” he repeats, scowling. “How’d that happen?”

  “Long story.”

  He thinks about this, shakes his head. “I don’t want to know.” He fixes me with a stern look. “What I do want to know, though, is how things are going with the RCMP and the Mercredi girl’s death. Have they got anything new?”

  “Not that I’m aware. Ident processed the body and there’ll be an autopsy.”

  “Anything else? What about the Hallendry fire?”

  “Like I said before, I’m not sure what I can tell you right now.”

  “You’d have to check with the RCMP” he says, finishing my thought.

  “That’s right.”

  Middel leans forward, hands on the back of his chair, lips pursed. Something is up.

  “What’s going on, Mark?”

  “Here’s the thing, Porter,” he says, forehead creased. “MacFarlane called, told me you were no longer active in the investigation.”

  “Which investigation?”

  “Any investigation.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “But I’m still working for you, right?”

  Middel sighs. “I wish I could say yes, but given the degree of involvement by the Mounties, this has essentially become their investigation.” He pushes the chair away, raises his hands helplessly. “If you can’t work with the Mounties, you’re of no use to us.”

  “You’re firing me, Mark?”

  “Call it a layoff,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. The body language is clear. “The bottle fires will be taken over completely by the RCMP. If they require technical assistance with the arson, they’ll source their own specialist.”

  “So that’s it? I’m just supposed to leave with my tail between my legs?”

  Middel doesn’t say anything, just stands with his arms crossed above his pot belly and rocks back on his heels. He avoids my gaze as I wait for a response, which apparently I already have. I rub a hand over my forehead, rake fingers through my hair. “Crap.”

  “I’ve had Louise book you a seat on the next regular flight tomorrow afternoon.”

  I nod, thinking about Bernice and Collette, and Hallendry’s burned body. Then I walk out of Middel’s office, past Louise, who pretends to be busy, avoiding me. I sit in my truck in front of the ranger station for a few minutes, stare at the ugly brown building. It occurs to me that there’s nothing left for me to do here. The anxious pressure in my chest has returned and I grip the steering wheel to stop my hands from shaking. I could use a beer, or a whiskey, or at least a long drive with music cranked up high. Neither is a possibility right now, but I could brew a strong cup of bitter tea, take the dog for a walk. Resigned, I start the truck, drive to the ia base. In my room I pull out the brown paper package that contains the tea and find there’s only a trace left. Did someone steal the rest? No — I must have used it up. Damn. I could really use a cup of tea. After a moments hesitation I crease the paper, pour the remnants directly into my mouth, where it bites bitterly into my tongue. I wince and spit into the garbage can, sit on the edge of my bed, tongue burning. What now?

  I don’t sit for long before I’m forced back into my truck. I need more tea.

  THE WAITING ROOM at the nursing station is crammed, the nurse explaining as I fidget at the counter that the doctor just arrived at noon. When I try to explain that I only need to see him for a minute her demeanour becomes frosty. I’ll have to wait my turn, like everyone else. Ashamed that I’ve broken the unspoken e
tiquette of the queue, I sit on one of the hard plastic chairs and work on my patience. I’m itchy, my hands are shaking, and there’s a dull hollow pressure in my chest. Noises around me seem painfully loud as children squabble. I try unsuccessfully to distract myself with the outdated housekeeping magazines. Finally, mercifully, my name is called. I pace the two available steps in the tiny examination room until the doctor knocks and slips in.

  “What is problem today?” he says.

  “Nothing major,” I say quickly. “I just need more of that tea you gave me.”

  “Tea is helping?”

  “I feel better when I drink it. Calms me down.”

  Doctor Cho nods, asks me to sit on the exam bench and open my shirt. He proceeds with a quick exam, placing his cold stethoscope on various parts of my torso. I breathe accommodatingly. He checks my eyes, takes my blood pressure. This is all very routine — I had expected more.

  “How is job going?” he asks as he pulls off the blood pressure cuff.

  “Done for now,” I say, not wanting to get into it. “Going home.”

  The doctor nods again. Something occurs to me.

  “What do I do when I run out of tea the next time?”

  “No problem,” he says, waving the thought away.

  “I don’t seem to be able to function without it. Does that mean I’m getting worse?”

  “No problem,” he repeats. “Tea helps body regain natural balance with environment.”

  “Well, my water seems to be getting dirtier.”

  Dr. Cho looks puzzled until I explain the reference to his earlier diagnosis. He looks vaguely amused. “Balance takes time,” he says. “I give you plenty enough tea. You much better when all tea is gone.” He leaves for a moment, returns with another small package wrapped neatly in brown paper. I thank him and return quickly to the ia base, where I heat a kettle of water in the kitchen. The cook, Mary, a squat Native lady, watches as I measure the tea into a small mesh tea egg. The texture and colour of the dry tea is different, which I pass off to it being a different batch, but when I lower the tea egg into the water, the colour of the tea is also different. Lighter. I let it steep longer, waiting for the expected blackness to develop. The tea darkens but not to the same colour as the previous batch. I shrug, give it a try. It tastes different — not acidly bitter like before. In fact, it tastes a lot like a very strong regular tea. I gulp it down, wait impatiently for the warm numbing relief to spread throughout my body.

  Nothing. I set the cup on the counter, frown at the soggy tea egg.

  “What?” says Mary. “You no like your tea?”

  “It’s just tea,” I say, and scoop up the brown package, drive back to town. It’s late in the day, sun low on the horizon, when I park in front of the nursing station. The waiting room is empty. A tired nurse behind the counter tells me the doctor is done for the day. Unless it’s an emergency, I’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I briefly consider if my concern could be considered an emergency, but discard the thought. I tell the nurse I just need to speak with the doctor. Could I get his phone number? Or where he’s staying? The nurse shakes her head — this is against policy. If they allowed the doctor to be disturbed after hours for non-emergencies, he would never get any rest. Frustrated, I leave the clinic, stand in the parking lot and gaze irritably down the empty width of Main Street. My head feels filled with sand, my chest aches with anxiety and my hands restlessly beat a rhythm against my thighs.

  If I could just talk to the doctor, we could straighten this out.

  Beside the clinic are four flat-roofed boxy white portables that look as though they might be for temporary accommodation. It seems reasonable they would house the doctor close to the clinic in case of an after-hours emergency. The doctor answers when I knock on the door of the second portable, frowning in the doorway.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you after work, but there seems to have been some mistake with the tea you gave me. It isn’t doing anything for me.” I offer him the brown-wrapped bundle. “Is it possible you give me the wrong tea?”

  The doctor doesn’t bother with the bundle. “Tea is fine. Patience is lacking.”

  “But I had expected the tea would make me feel better, like before.”

  “Are you doctor?”

  “No, but —”

  The doctor’s tone becomes harsh. “You must drink tea and be patient. Do not disturb me after work. Not appropriate. Good night to you.”

  The door slams and I’m left bewildered by our truncated conversation. I consider knocking again, insisting on his examining the tea he gave me, but there doesn’t seem any point. I return to my truck, wonder what to do next. I stare at the clinic building, grip the steering wheel, fight a blossoming panic. I feel as though I’m losing my mind. Guilt over betraying my fiancée, mixes with the shame of having been dismissed from the investigation. This is underlain by a sharp but indefinable impression that I’ve missed some critical clue and that when I leave Fort Chipewyan I’ll have lost my only chance to sort this all out. These emotions mix with physical sensations that indicate I may be seriously ill. It’s all too much at the moment and I start the truck, drive directly to one location where I know relief, although temporary, can be found. I park in front of the Lodge and climb the stairs to the Trapline. In quick succession, I down three whiskies, ignoring the other early evening patrons. Warmth radiates from my midsection and my thoughts lose their rough edge.

  “You want another one?” says the waitress, a slender young Native gal.

  “No thanks.” I blink, surprised at myself for being here. “I’m fine.”

  She scoops up my empty glasses as I stand. The floor seems a bit spongy as I make my way across the room. I pause at the door, then return to the bar and buy a bottle of vodka, for later — just in case. Brown bag in hand, I make my way down the stairs. I haven’t drunk seriously for years and hold the railing on the stairs as I make my way to the parking lot. I’m in my truck, driving down the narrow trail to the highway, before it occurs to me that I shouldn’t be driving. I’m not really drunk, but I’m not really sober either. I don’t want to drive all the way to the IA base on the highway, and I remember Middel’s admonishment not to park a forestry truck in front of the bar. I can’t just stop here, so I decide to drive the short distance into town and park the truck by the ranger station, convince myself that this is a good compromise — it’s so close, there’s minimal risk, and I can avoid embarrassment — the classic mistake of impaired drivers everywhere.

  I pull onto the highway. Less than a minute later, I see the grill and lights of an RCMP Suburban in my rear-view mirror. My heart jumps into my throat. The Suburban must have been headed into town, just a few curves away when I pulled onto the highway. Constable Markham looks at me, his face deadpan behind sunglasses. Even though I’m not speeding I slow down a bit. Just another mile and I’ll be in town, then a few hundred yards more to the ranger station.

  Behind me, red and blue lights flash and the siren goes off for a second — just long enough to let me know he means business. Reluctantly I pull over and with my boot slide the brown bag with the bottle of vodka farther under the seat. I force myself to release my death grip on the steering wheel and crank down my window as Markham walks up.

  “Hello, John,” I say, surprisingly calm. “What’s up?”

  “How you doing, Porter?” he says peering into the cab. “You been drinking?”

  “What? What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you just turned out from the Lodge.”

  “It’s a hotel too,” I say, repeating a previous excuse I used with Middel.

  “And your breath stinks like whiskey,” says Markham, wrinkling his nose.

  “Yeah, okay, I had one.”

  He gives me a hard look. “Just one?”

  I’m not a great liar. “Maybe a bit more.”

  Markham looks down the road, chewing his lip thoughtfully for a minute as I wait, tense, for the
hammer to fall. “Tell you what I’m going to do,” he says slowly. “You’re going to drive nice and slow and I’m going to follow you into town. You’re going to park the truck at the ranger station for the night. Then tomorrow you’re going to get on that plane and stay the hell away from Fort Chip.” He gives me a hard look. “We understand each other?”

  “Perfectly,” I say through gritted teeth.

  He nods, returns to his Suburban. I pull away from the shoulder of the road, flushed, furious at myself. In the past week, I’ve managed to make nearly every possible mistake, both personal and professional. Markham follows close behind, pulls beside me as I park. Fortunately there’s no one in the ranger station to witness my humiliation. Markham reaches a hand though his open side window as I walk around the front of his Suburban.

  “Keys,” he demands.

  Feeling like a kid caught playing hooky, I hand him the keys.

  “You need a ride anywhere, Porter?”

  “No thanks.”

  Markham cranks up his window and pulls away. I stand in the parking lot of the ranger station for a minute, feeling low. I could have used a ride from Markham, but I felt bad enough that he pulled me over and didn’t want to extend the embarrassment. I walk to the highway, falter when I reach the junction, stare down the long empty road. It leads out of town, toward my exit from Fort Chipewyan. I realize I’m not quite ready to go.

  HELEN MERCREDI DOESN’T seem surprised to see me, invites me into her home. She’s aged in the past few days, eyes moist and sad, surrounding skin bruised and sagging. She moves slowly as though sedated as she leads me into her kitchen. I hesitate at the threshold; there are several people at the table — an older Native couple and a younger man with unruly black hair. I had come with thoughts of apology for not finding Bernice alive, hoping this gesture might provide some small consolation. I wasn’t prepared for a group.

  “This is my mother and father, and my brother Derrick,” says Helen.

  The three nod politely.

  “This is Porter Cassel,” she says. “He found Bernie.”

  The elder Mercredi rises. He’s a thin man, grey hair neatly parted in the middle to hang in two long braids. “Thank you for bringing our granddaughter back to us,” he says, shaking my hand. I’m not sure why — perhaps it’s the look in Helen Mercredi’s eyes, the warmth in the old man’s gnarled hand, or the deep sense of loss that permeates the room — but I’m suddenly overcome with grief. The room blurs as I struggle to hold back tears. My throat constricts painfully and my legs are weak. I slide onto a chair, nodding an acknowledgement. There’s an awkward silence, broken by Helen Mercredi’s offer of coffee.