Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  “Behind you,” I yell at Simon.

  Simon turns as the man aims the pistol. Both guns are equipped with silencers and against the crackle of the fire I hear no shots, see only the jerk of the man on the ground, the twist of his body as he topples back to earth. Simon stumbles, falls to his knees. In a few steps I’m beside him, kneeling. He looks in wonder at the gun in his hand, drops it and falls onto his side. The front of his jacket is soaked with blood.

  “Hang in there, Simon. I need you to set this right.”

  “I just wanted a big boat,” he says quietly.

  His head droops, eyelids flutter, and he dies among the pine needles.

  A helicopter roars past overhead — the local IA crew, finally getting some action.

  THE HELICOPTER CIRCLES and I see the dark faces of the Native firefighters peering down, eyes wide. Normally they would find an opening in the forest and land as quickly as possible to start fighting the fire, but with the crashed truck and bodies strewn about, this is anything but a normal fire call. So they continue to circle, assessing, no doubt discussing with Mark Middel on dispatch. I’ve already confirmed Simon and the two strangers are dead and, other than wave at the helicopter to let them know I’m okay, there isn’t much I can do. The gas tank on the truck finally explodes with a percussive retort, sending up a ball of flame. Once the heat has dissipated, I scuff out with my boots the growing perimeter of surface fire creeping through the carpet of dead pine needles. It’s not long before the responders begin to arrive. I hear sirens, see trucks winding their way along the narrow trail. Three RCMP Suburbans thump along single file, followed by an ambulance and two lumbering fire trucks. The entire emergency response capacity of Fort Chipewyan has arrived.

  Waldren and MacFarlane park about fifty yards back.

  “You all right, Cassel?” MacFarlane calls as they walk up.

  I nod, feeling anything but alright.

  “What the hell happened?” says Waldren, looking around.

  Dugan and Verdon, the ident specialists, take charge of the scene. The EMTs confirm the dead are in fact dead and I explain how they got that way as Waldren and MacFarlane listen intently and take notes. Dugan flags a path for a fire truck and local firemen begin to hose down what’s left of my pickup. After I’ve explained what happened, I do it again on camera, with Dugan recording. An EMT checks me over, digs a lead pellet out of my cheek, assures me I’ll have a cool scar to impress the chicks. I smile, appreciate his attempt at humour among so much death. Then I’m removed from the scene, taken to town by MacFarlane where we continue our conversation in the interview room at the RCMP detachment. He brings me a cold can of Coke.

  “Where were you guys?” I ask.

  “He fooled us,” MacFarlane says with a defeated shrug.

  “What about the wiretap? He obviously contacted his handler.”

  “Cardinal must have had a contact arrangement we couldn’t intercept,” says MacFarlane, rubbing his hand over his receding apex of hair. “We’re still looking, but all indications are that whoever was handling him was very good. These aren’t guys you just hire off the street. These are professionals, probably ex-military or secret service types. They usually work for syndicates and can be very difficult to pin down.”

  “What does that mean for the investigation?”

  MacFarlane thinks about this while I sip my Coke.

  “As you can appreciate, this is a big deal politically,” he says tapping a finger on the edge of the table. “Particularly with what just happened, so we’ll have to proceed carefully, make sure the investigation is bullet proof. Right now, we don’t have much to go on. All we have is a few broken pieces of audio from your meet on the boat. Our suspect is dead.”

  “And I’m your only witness.”

  MacFarlane nods. “We can offer you protective custody.”

  “Do you think that’s necessary?”

  MacFarlane considers. “Hard to say,” he admits. “I think they were after Simon to reduce their exposure, and it was convenient to use you for the scenario they had constructed, without raising suspicion. At the same time, they could interrogate you but, from your description of the events, it seems this was a peripheral component of their plan. If they really wanted to question you, they’d have taken you somewhere private, and would have taken their time. These types of guys are very good at that.”

  “What about Collette Whiteknife? Did you find anything useful in the house?”

  “Nothing that suggests a possible location or motive.”

  I think of Collette.

  “I do think I owe you an apology though, Porter,” MacFarlane says wistfully. “We found a Forest Service belt radio in his house, hidden in a bedroom closet. We checked the serial number with the Forest Service and found it was signed out to you. I have to admit we didn’t put much credence in your story about the attack along the river.”

  “You believe me now?”

  “Let’s say, we find your story more compelling.”

  “Is Rodney Whiteknife’s involvement more compelling as well?”

  MacFarlane excuses himself from the room. I think he left to go to the washroom, but then it occurs to me that he might have gone to turn off the recording equipment — a suspicion that gains credence when he returns and fixes me with a hard look. “Normally Porter, I wouldn’t discuss this with you, but after everything that’s happened, I think you deserve a bit of latitude. I think you were onto something with the Hallendry fire, and that Whiteknife was concerned enough to go after you. The rape and revenge scenario fit the evidence, both yours and ours, followed by a destabilizing situation and an attempt at damage control.”

  “Do you still think he died of a heart attack?”

  “It looks that way. We’ve got a rush autopsy scheduled to confirm.”

  MacFarlane excuses himself for a moment, no doubt to start recording again. We’re joined by reinforcements from the Major Crimes unit, who’ve just flown in and want to hear my story firsthand, and we spend the next few hours going over it, again and again. It’s past midnight when they kick me loose. MacFarlane hands me a small two-way radio, tells me they’ll call me when they need to talk to me again. If I feel uncomfortable about my safety, I can use it to call them. And it’s got a panic button, he tells me at the door, in case I need help and can’t call. It’s the budget witness protection program. They’ve reserved a room for me at the Lodge, just up the hill, and hand me a key. I stumble up the rocky path, barely conscious, fumble at the door with my key and crawl into bed, too tired to take off my boots.

  I SLEEP LATE the next morning, wake up feeling as though my body is filled with sand. Everything is stiff and sore. The gouge on my cheek from the shotgun pellet blazes with pain when I grimace at my reflection in the mirror. The bruise around my eye from the fight in Fort McMurray has developed into an interesting shade of purple and yellow. There are new bruises on my torso, fresh and tender. I take a shower, head to the restaurant, wishing I still had the special tea from Dr. Cho. Although my table has a spectacular view of Lake Athabasca, rippling and gleaming in the sun, the effect is lost on me. I consider calling my fiancée, desperately wanting to hear her voice, but doubt I could keep my composure.

  The conversation we need to have must be face-to-face.

  After eating I wander outside, wonder what to do. The RCMP have yet to call me today and I don’t want to go to the ranger station, face Middel and his endless questions. I don’t really want to talk to anyone. I don’t have a truck and decide to go for a walk, limber up my stiff muscles, take a route down the rocky hill, avoiding the RCMP detachment and ranger station. At first I fool myself into believing I’m headed nowhere in particular, but soon give up fighting the pull and walk faster until I arrive in the back alley behind Cork’s house. I know the RCMP have already searched the house and it’s virtually pointless for me to do the same, but I can’t accept this feeling of powerlessness while Collette is missing. I knock to confirm no one is in the hous
e.

  The door is still unlocked.

  I start in the kitchen. The dishes on the table have been cleared away. The spilled coffee has been cleaned up. There’s no visible remnant of the death that occurred here so recently, or of the flurry of activity that followed. Still, I sense some residue. Perhaps an odour lingers and I picture Cork lying on the floor, bits of mashed potato sticking to his face. Pushing the image from mind, I work quickly and systematically, opening drawers, peering into cupboards. Nothing unusual and I move to the living room and bathroom. By the time I reach the bedrooms, I’ve become sloppy, fighting a sense of futility that saps what little energy I have. Who am I kidding? Trained professionals have already gone through the house with greater scrutiny than I could hope to replicate. I return to the kitchen, stare at the table where Rodney Whiteknife, aka Cork, died; remember when I first met him at the bar and asked him how he got his nickname.

  I pull out the cork, and it’s all done.

  He seemed like a simple, likeable character. Then again, nothing in Fort Chipewyan has turned out anything like it first appeared. The fire at Hallendry’s cabin. Cork. Collette Whiteknife. Simon Cardinal. Even the RCMP, running surveillance on me. My eyes track over the table and counters, come to rest on a plastic garbage can in a corner. It’s one of those cheap rectangular things with a flip lid, which I take off, peer inside. Here’s where the sausages and mashed potatoes went. I’m about to replace the lid but change my mind, dump the contents into the kitchen sink. It’s a mess of food and wrappers and coffee grounds. The smell isn’t great.

  Using a spatula from a drawer, I move the contents around.

  A brown piece of paper catches my attention. I pull it out, matted with potato.

  It’s immediately familiar.

  I leave the garbage in the sink.

  I WALK QUICKLY to the nursing station, pondering the implications. The brown wrapper is identical to the wrapper from the special tea given me by Dr. Cho. The day Rodney Whiteknife died he went to the doctor, complaining of feeling poorly. The doctor gave him something, like he gave me something, only now Whiteknife is dead. It’s not a prescription, so it can’t be traced, and the brown wrapper would be meaningless to the RCMP. It was the same doctor that served as the local medical examiner and pronounced the cause of death a suspected heart attack. It all seems oddly convenient and although I have no idea what role the doctor might be playing, or what his motive might be, I need to find out what he gave Whiteknife.

  The young Native receptionist tells me to take a seat.

  I sit on a hard plastic chair, fidget for a few minutes in the waiting room, surrounded by others waiting to see the doctor. This could take hours that Collette might not have. I return to the reception counter, the receptionist frowning as I approach.

  “It’s urgent that I see the doctor now.”

  “First come, first served,” she says.

  I lower my voice. “Police business.”

  She purses her lips, gives me a look that indicates she doesn’t feel even this is sufficient cause to break the mandatory queue, but tells me she’ll ask the doctor. She returns quickly, ushers me into a small exam room, from which she has to evict an old Native man, speaking quickly to him in Cree. He gives me a sharp look, nods, and shuffles out. Feeling like a heel, I thank them both, take a seat in the exam room. The doctor arrives a few minutes later.

  “What is problem today?” he asks, looking harried.

  “You remember the tea you gave me?”

  “No more tea,” he says stiffly. “We already discussed.”

  “Who else did you give tea to?”

  His dark Asiatic face becomes subtly wary. It’s not much, but it’s there.

  “Did you give something to Rodney Whiteknife?”

  “Cannot discuss other patients,” he says, waving a hand dismissively.

  “I can come back with a court order,” I say, bluffing just a bit.

  “You come back when ready,” he says brusquely. “Now, I have work to do.”

  He’s gone as abruptly as he appeared and I’m left with the distinct impression he’s hiding something. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be much I can actually do without a court order and I leave the exam room, stop at the front counter to thank the receptionist again and tell her I’m done. She barely notices me. Feeling put-off, I head toward the door.

  “Mr. Cassel?”

  I turn back. An older Native nurse stands with the receptionist at the counter.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad I caught you. I have message here from the hospital in Fort McMurray. They’ve been trying to contact you now for several days.”

  I thank her, puzzled, ask if I can use a phone. She shows me to a tiny office, closes the door, and I punch up the number on the slip of paper she gave me. A woman answers.

  “Good afternoon. Addictions outreach.”

  “I think I have the wrong number.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Porter Cassel. I have a message that someone called from this number.”

  “One minute,” she says. “Yes — that was us.”

  “I don’t understand —”

  “Mr. Cassel, I understand your reluctance,” she says, her voice assuming a practised patience, “but I assure you we are here to help and are completely confidential.”

  “Look, I really think there has been a mistake.”

  “No mistake, Mr. Cassel,” she says, her tone becoming brisker. “We are a referral service provided by the hospital in Fort McMurray, where you had blood work done last week. Your tests indicate a high level of several very addictive compounds, Mr. Cassel, so we were notified. That is the purpose of our call, sir. We are here to offer you addictions counselling, if you are willing to make that commitment.”

  The phone in my hand feels suddenly sticky and there’s a distant buzzing in my head.

  “Are you still there, Mr. Cassel?”

  “Yes,” I say faintly. “What substances are we talking about?”

  “I’m sure you already know, but we can discuss this in more detail at an initial consultation. We’ll also discuss a plan. Are you currently in urgent need of a detox service?”

  “No, I’m just in need of some answers,” I say, and hang up.

  After I leave the small office I stand for a moment in the waiting room, debating another confrontation with the doctor. Other than a few too many drinks in the past several weeks, I haven’t knowingly taken any medication, legal or otherwise. The only way drugs could have entered my system would be through the special tea given to me by Dr. Cho. This explains the euphoric effect of the tea and why I craved it so intensely, to the point of needing to drink to replace the effect, falling back on a previous addiction. It also explains a lot of other things, such as my sudden outbursts and aggressive behaviour. The bar fight in Fort McMurray. Headaches, nausea and itching. And the trembling. What did Waldren say when I reported finding the jar with the testicles?

  He’s got the DTS so bad he’s practically vibrating.

  Delirium tremens — or DTS — are an effect of withdrawal from an addictive substance. At the time I thought nothing of his comment because I thought I had some underlying medical condition that was causing a suite of worsening symptoms, and the tea was helping me. Now it seems the tea was causing the symptoms. The doctor was systematically addicting me.

  But why?

  I decide I’m not quite ready to confront him. As appealing as the idea might be, it will only bring up his defences, making it more difficult to find answers. I need some time to think this through. I leave the clinic, stand in the small gravel parking lot in front of the building. Distracted and irritated I look for my truck, realize I no longer have one and, cursing, decide to walk to the monument overlooking the lake. Perhaps there, with the openness of water spread before me, I can figure out what to do next.

  Credibility, I think as I walk around the corner of the nursing station. The doctor must have been attacking my
credibility — there’s no other reason to hook me on drugs, other than to impair my ability to function. Same idea behind having Collette Whiteknife sleep with me. But why would he feel the need to do this?

  Standing in the back alley, I look at the nursing station, wondering. I shake my head, walk past the squat complex of trailers for housing transient medical staff. A small car, parked at the rear of the trailers, has a broken cover on its brake light assembly. I stop, rooted, instantly make the connection. This is the car from the night when I followed Cork. This is the car of the person who picked up that awful package.

  It’s parked behind Dr. Cho’s unit.

  Why would the doctor want Rufus Hallendry’s testicles?

  For a moment I stand in the alley, consider the possibility that I’m simply losing my mind. It seems the easiest explanation. There has to be a better explanation. I try the back door on the doctor’s temporary accommodation. It’s locked.

  I kick it open.

  There’s a short hall with a mat for boots. Two doors face each other; one to a bedroom; one to a bathroom. Both rooms are neat and sparse, as though no one lives here. Small kitchen at the end of the hall, beyond which is a miniscule living room facing the street. Drapes are drawn over the window. No pictures on the walls. Spending only a few days here a month is obviously not worth the effort of making it homey. I return to the bedroom, open the closet. Two suits. The dresser holds a few pairs of socks, underwear and several shirts. You could put all the doctor’s possessions into one suitcase — which, I suppose, is the point. The kitchen has the usual kitchen stuff — pots, pans, plates, cutlery — but not much of any of it. I do find a shrink wrapper in a cupboard, which seems odd, but you never know what the previous tenant might have left behind. Another cupboard holds several large boxes of chocolates — the type you might buy as a gift for a friend. The fridge has milk, two cucumbers, lettuce, radishes, and five boxes of baking chocolate. This guy has both ends of the food spectrum covered; perhaps he’s hoping it’ll average out. I do a quick pass through the living room, but there’s really nothing to search here, spend a minute exploring the bathroom vanity cupboard. Shaving gear. Soap. I return to the kitchen, troubled by the inconsistency of the boxes of baking chocolate, examine one of the boxes, open it up. It’s chocolate, all right — a heavy brick of the stuff. Dark and bitter, this isn’t the type of chocolate you would eat recreationally.