Luke ponders this. “Maybe. I’m not sure about my dad.”
“Well, you think about it Luke, but I need to know by noon.”
“Okay. You’ve got until noon, right? You wanna go fishing?”
I consider, not really wanting to do anything, but Luke looks so hopeful. I need some time to work on him about the dog, or find another alternative, so I agree, ask Luke to give me a few minutes to get ready. When he’s out of the room I massage my eyes until I see spots. I’m not sure I’m up to polite conversation this morning, even if it involves fishing. I lift a hand and watch my fingers twitch. There has to be something seriously wrong with me to feel this terrible all the time. There’s a way to make it stop and I reach under the bed and pull out the bottle of vodka I bought at the Trapline the previous night, appreciate the heaviness, feel the smoothness of the glass. For a time, vodka was my drink of choice because it was hard to detect on my breath. I just had to act sober. A few hard pulls from the bottle this morning and I’ll be okay for a while — long enough to go fishing with Luke. I unscrew the cap, put the mouth of the bottle to my lips, feel the familiar bite on the tip of my tongue, the odour like rubbing alcohol, and hesitate, knowing if I continue it may be a long time before I stop. I think of Bernice Mercredi and Collette Whiteknife, and of Luke Middel, waiting for me to go fishing with him, and lower the bottle, take it to the washroom, dump the clear contents down the sink, disgusted with myself and sick with the knowledge of how close I came. I made the mistake once, years ago, of not dealing with what needed to be dealt with, and I’ll never do that again.
The empty bottle thuds as I drop it into the trash can.
I find Luke behind the trailer, playing with Scorch, and we load the dog in the back of my truck, head to the public dock, where Luke assures me it is possible to catch a ten pound walleye. A friend of his did it just last year, he says, grinning, as we walk past rows of boats tied to the long dock, gently bobbing and clunking in the undulating water. It’s a beautiful morning, water sparkling in the sun, gulls calling to one another. A light breeze cools the skin, carrying a scent of rock and aquatic things. The dog walks beside us and the sound of our boots on the dock makes a familiar clunking sound. I’m overcome with an almost giddy sense of relief and well-being, as though I’d dodged a bullet and earned back my life. We set up at the end of the dock, which Luke claims is the best spot, and I promptly lose three of his hooks.
“I’ll head up to the Northern and buy a few more,” I tell him.
He nods, keeps fishing. The Northern store is only a few hundred yards away, up a dirt track, and I whistle a tune as I walk under a sky that seems too blue to be real. Inside I grab a half-dozen lures and several chocolate bars. My good mood evaporates when I see Cork pushing a cart between the aisles. My first impression of him as an affable, easy-going partier has been replaced by anger and a deep sense of unease. This is the man who clubbed me unconscious and draped my body over a rotting moose kill, hoping to have a bear finish me off. I follow him surreptitiously until he spots me, in the meat and dairy aisle.
“Hey, Fire Guy,” he says, grinning. “How’s it going?”
I ignore the question. “Have you seen Collette?”
“Why? You missing your little girlfriend?”
He grins wickedly, amused with himself. I want to punch him in the face.
“I need to talk to her,” I say. “It’s important.”
He steps closer, getting into my space. “Yeah — I’ll bet you do.”
“Where is she?”
“Having fun without you,” he says, noxious breath wafting over me. I stand my ground, exercising admirable self control. He inspects my basket, sees my fishing lures and chocolate bars. “You should have some eggs,” he says, reaching a carton from the display, setting them in my basket. “They’re good for you.” Then he winks at me, turns his back and returns to his shopping, humming under his breath. I return the eggs to the display, watch him examine a package of pork chops, have to remind myself of MacFarlane’s caution last night. It takes some effort, but I force myself to pay for my purchases and leave the store. Back at the dock, I stalk past the boats and several new fisherman that have taken up positions, hand Luke a chocolate bar.
“Had a good one,” he says. “Let it go. Didn’t know how long you’d be.”
I nod, force myself to make small talk, fuming about how unfair it is that Cork is right here and I can’t do anything about what he did to me, or what he might have done to Collette. I have to step away from this and let the RCMP, who don’t believe most of what I have told them, take over, while I fly back to Edmonton to ponder my damaged reputation and future as a fire investigator with the Forest Service. I catch several fish, which I release with a minimum of comment, look up to a large sleek boat entering the harbour.
“Who’s boat is that?” I ask Luke.
He squints against glare coming off the water. “That’s Simon Cardinal.”
The boat must be thirty feet long, dwarfing in both size and power the other boats moored along the dock. My first impression on seeing the boat was that some big shot from Fort McMurray — an oil company executive or hotel owner — was pulling in. That it’s Simon Cardinal I find interesting and set down my rod, tell Luke I’ll be right back. I wander along the dock, watch the boat cruise in. Simon Cardinal grins down from a high cabin as he steers the boat to a berth. On final approach, he cuts the engine and drifts the last few yards. Several locals crowd the side of the boat, watching the dock. I offer to help them tie up and they toss me a rope. Once the boat is secure, Simon steps down, smiling, waves a hand over the rail in my direction.
“Hey, thanks buddy.”
Two middle-aged Native men and three smiling women disembark, carrying a cooler full of fish. We chat amicably about how their fishing went and I complement them on their catch. They lug the cooler away and I turn my attention to Simon, still on the boat, fiddling with something on deck.
“That’s quite a boat you got there,” I say.
“Isn’t she a beauty?” he says. “Come aboard and I’ll show her to you.”
Luke, who’s joined me to check out the catch, waves me off, telling me he’s already seen the boat and wants to keep fishing while the action is good. He returns to the end of the dock, where Scorch is tied, pacing restlessly, and I climb aboard Cardinal’s boat.
It’s obviously a sport pleasure boat, not a commercial fishing vessel, and still has that new-boat smell. The stern bristles with downriggers and spare rods. Spacious live well to keep the fish fresh. Seats are upholstered in leather. It’s got gps and sonar. There’s even a mini-bar. I wonder where he got the money.
“What’s a unit like this worth?”
Simon gives me a self-depreciating shrug. “About a quarter mil.”
“Wow. Wish I had one of these. How’d you manage it?”
“Won the lottery.”
“Really?”
“Scratch-and-win ticket in McMurray.”
“You lucky bastard,” I say, shaking my head.
“It happens,” he says, smiling.
“Hey, I was wondering about something else,” I say, casually running a hand along the smooth stainless steel rail. “Back at that band council meeting you mentioned the inscription on those bottles found at the fires on Cree land.”
He stares at me.
“The ‘FTC,’ if you remember.”
Simon’s expression hardens suspiciously. “Yeah?”
“I was just wondering where you heard about that.”
He shrugs, eyes darting to the side. “Just around, you know.”
“No, I don’t, actually. That was supposed to be confidential.”
“Oh.” He laughs. It sounds a bit forced. “Someone should have told the IA crew.”
“You heard it from the IA crew? I just want to be clear on this.”
“I didn’t know it was a big deal. I don’t want to get them in trouble.” “Don’t worry about it. Honest mistake. Whe
re’d you catch all those fish?”
“About a mile from Old Fort Bay,” he says. “You should come out some time.”
We bullshit a few minutes longer about fishing before I thank him for the tour, leave him standing on the deck. He watches us fish for a few minutes longer, after which I tell Luke I have to get going and pack my bags. Reluctantly, he reels in and we head back to the IA base. On the drive I ask Luke again about the dog.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he says.
“What about your dad?”
“We’ve got room. If dad has a fit, I’ll find the dog a good home.”
At the IA base I tell Luke he can drop by later and retrieve Scorch from behind the kitchen trailer, thank him again for his help and tell him he’ll make a fine fire investigator one day. Then I pack my bags. On my way out, I stop at the helipad, where the local ia crew lounge in the shade of the fuel shack, close to the helicopter. Rolly, the leader, raises his hand in greeting but no one moves. They’re deep under the influence of stand-by, willing only to move out of sheer boredom or for a fire call. I squat in the shade with them, tell them I’m on my way out. This doesn’t make much of an impact, but they nod and smile.
“Better work on your ping-pong,” says Sachmo, the reigning champion. “For next time.”
“I will. Hey, did any of you guys ever talk to anyone about those bottles we found?”
“Like what?” says Rolly.
“About that inscription — the letters.”
The four Natives look at each other, shake their heads.
“You’re positive? No repercussions, I just need to know.”
“No, man,” says Rolly. “We thought you must have told someone.”
I thank them, drive into town pondering Simon Cardinal and his flashy new boat. At the ranger station, I exchange nods with Louise Holmes and Mark Middel, pretend to be working on fire reports while I use the computer in Carter Spence’s temporarily vacant office to search the internet for information on lottery wins. I find the page for the Western Canada Lottery Corporation. Winners are listed with names and photographs, their expressions stunned. The locations of the wins and a brief story are listed for each winner, some for amounts far less than what Simon claims to have won, but Simon is not listed, even though I go back two years. I check the clock. I have about an hour before I need to head to the airport.
There is one more thing I need to do.
SIMON CARDINAL IS still on his boat, lounging in one of the leather upholstered captain’s chairs, drinking beer. I don’t wait for an invitation, just climb aboard. Simon is alone, which is good. He blinks up at me, lazily indicates an open cooler filled with ice and silver cans of beer.
“Porter Cassel,” he says, as if we hadn’t seen each other for a long time.
I stand silently over him, blocking his sun.
“You want a beer, buddy?” he says. “Or you come to go fishing?”
“Neither,” I say, and fall silent. This seems to unnerve him.
“Well, then, what the fuck do you want?”
“I want you to stop fucking everything up.”
An eyebrow goes up. “What?”
“You heard me, Cardinal.”
“Look,” he says, starting to peel himself out of the chair. I place my steel-toed workboot on his chest and shove him roughly back into his cushy seat where he flops, thumping his head.
He gazes up at me in wonder. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“It was a simple arrangement. Why couldn’t you leave it simple?”
He stares up at me, confused, trying to work it out. I hope he hasn’t had too much to drink. I hope I’m barking up the right tree. The way I figure, it doesn’t matter if I ruffle a few feathers here, because I’m on my way out. A little theatre is all I have left.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You were doing fine with the bush fires.”
He squints up at me. “Man, you’re fucking crazy.”
“Then you got carried away. Burned the Chief ’s truck.”
“I don’t know nothing about that.”
“You can drop the act, Simon.”
He doesn’t much like this, studies me with cold, calculating eyes. He also doesn’t like that he’s sitting while I’m standing and he tries to rise again but he’s had a few beers. I shove him back into his chair again, harder this time — another use for my favourite footwear. The chair turns, does a full rotation, Simon’s arm flying wildly out. He grabs at a handhold, stops himself, sprawled in the chair, staring at me as though I might have dropped from an alien spacecraft.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” he says, drawing it out.
“You took a perfectly simple plan and messed it up. Now the Mounties are involved.”
Simon’s eyes are the only things that move as he looks me over, trying to see where this is going. Ever since the election debate it’s been in the back of my mind that Simon is getting mileage out of the bottle fires and the tension it’s causing among the bands.
He laughs at me suddenly.
“Nice try, asshole. You’re the investigator.”
“Of course. I’m your backup.”
“Yeah — right.”
“Did you really think they would just hand over a wad of cash to an amateur?”
“Bullshit, man. You’re just some dumbass forestry guy. You got nothing.”
Despite his bravado, doubt creeps into Simon’s smug expression. I’m flying by the seat of my pants, trying to sound believable while keeping it vague as I have no idea if Simon is guilty of anything, who might have hired him, or why. But too many things don’t add up and his increasingly concerned expression only convinces me to push harder.
I look around, lower my voice.
“Why do you think there hasn’t been any progress in the investigation? It’s not because you’re some master criminal, I can tell you that. It’s because I’m controlling the investigation.”
“You — you’re controlling it?”
“The cops only know what I let them know.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“Really, Simon? I’d love nothing more than to cut you loose but I’m a professional, unlike you. First thing you do is go out and buy the biggest boat in Fort Chipewyan. Why not just nail a sign to your ass? Then you make up some crap story about winning the lottery that anyone can disprove with five minutes on the internet. Frankly, the people with the money are getting nervous. And I’m sick of trying to cover your ass.”
Simon Cardinal goggles at me. I wait, certain he’ll clam up.
“This is total bullshit,” he says, standing up quickly, bracing himself in case I try to push him down again. It occurs to me just how risky this is and I wonder if he might come at me with a knife or gun, and if I can dive overboard in time.
“I did my job,” he says. “They’ll never re-elect Sammy.”
“Yeah, but you’re sloppy. The RCMP are involved.”
He rubs his forehead furiously for a minute. “I need more money.”
“What?” I’m stunned that my ruse was effective.
“You heard me. Another hundred grand. No — two hundred.”
“You must be kidding.”
“The risk has gone up. So has the price.”
This is fantastic. Still, I step back, look at the water.
“You’re the reason the risk has gone up, Simon.”
“Just fucking listen to me,” he says, face contorted, forehead beaded with perspiration. A foot begins to tap. He’s on the edge. Seems like good time to break this off.
“Look, the money isn’t my end of it. I’ll let them know.”
I turn, descend on wobbly legs to the dock, feel Simon’s eyes on me as I walk to my truck. I have an unbearable premonition he’ll shoot me in the back but make it to my truck unscathed. I lock the door, insert the key, hands jittery on the steering wheel as I roll onto Main Street where I stop, realize I have no idea where I’m going
or what I’m going to do.
The only thing I know for sure is that leaving Fort Chip isn’t it.
I MAKE A few loops through town, wonder what to do next. Simon Cardinal is clearly behind the bottle fires with the intention of sabotaging the Cree Band election, but I have no idea who hired him. I doubt it’s one of the other bands as I fail to see how they would benefit by having Simon become chief, rather than Sammy, who has a position that is more sympathetic to the other bands. It could be an outside interest, concerned about the bands forming a coalition. I need to determine who is sponsoring these fires — a responsibility that clearly would fall to me if I were still working for the Forest Service. As it stands, I’m supposed to be on a plane in ten minutes. Should I go directly to the RCMP? Or talk Middel into hiring me on again? Or both? Given my recent history with the RCMP, will they believe what happened? Or simply give me another lecture about interfering in what is now entirely their investigation? My head is reeling, not just from the confrontation with Simon, but because I’m hungry. I head to the Lodge, take a seat with a panoramic view of the lake, order and quickly consume a large burger and fries. I still haven’t sorted out what to do and continue to ponder this as I head to the washroom. I’m standing at the urinal when a stranger enters and takes a position at the urinal next to me.
“Good day Mr. Cassel,” he says, staring at the wall.
It’s generally considered rude to engage in conversation while urinating, particularly with a stranger. At least I’m pretty sure he’s a stranger. I’m trying not to look.
“Do I know you?”
“We have some business to discuss.”
“Really,” I say as casually as possible, feeling particularly vulnerable. I quickly finish, move to the sink to wash my hands, standing sideways to keep the stranger in view. He’s middle-aged, slender and wiry, with grey-streaked black hair, pulled back into a short ponytail. At first glance he looks Native, but closer observation suggests a more exotic heritage. He’s soft-spoken, with a slight English accent, wears a plaid shirt and jeans. There’s a cellphone on his belt, indicating he’s from out of town, as cellphones don’t work here. I can’t help wondering if he’s been sent by whomever hired Simon Cardinal and I look discretely for the bulge of a gun under his clothes.
Whiskey Creek Page 24