Day Into Night (31 page)

“We can only hold them for 72 hours,” she says, finally sitting down.

Her grey office jacket is damp with sweat, her brown hair plastered to her forehead. This sort of work hits her hard; Bethlehem, her oldest daughter, is seven. She lies on the floor, playing with a Barbi that, much like Cindy’s clients, has seen better days.

“So what happens to the kids now?” I ask.

“We try to send them home.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“Their pimp beats them for three days of lost production —”

While the stew is warming I follow Cindy to the basement, where she gathers a week’s worth of laundry from the bottom of the stairs. I wait until she’s stuffed the machine full and it’s swishing merrily away before asking her for the favour I need.

“Can you get hold of a cell phone?”

“I’ve got a cell phone, Porter. You know that.”

She checks the dryer. It’s crammed full. More work.

“A cell phone that can’t be traced back to you.”

She leans against the dryer. She’s too tired to worry much more.

“Something bad happened,” I tell her. “And someone set it up to look like I did it.”

“You’re being framed?” She looks puzzled. “For what?”

“Someone’s been killed. Someone I’m investigating.”

She frowns. “They’re blaming you?”

“They’re trying to.”

She gives this some thought. “There’s a girl at work who’s on holidays — I could borrow her cell phone. But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow before I can get it to you.”

“The cell phone is for you. I just need the number.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. She knows there’s more, but I hesitate, not wanting to tell her how ugly this might get. When I do, her expression scarcely changes — I keep forgetting how really tough she is. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Keep an eye on the news. If the cops are looking for me, I’ll need your help.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Bad enough. I’m not going to prison while Nina’s killer goes free.”

“Don’t do anything crazy,” she says. “Anything you can’t take back.”

“Make sure your passport is up-to-date because if the cops come after me, I’ll need you to take a vacation. Leave as quickly as you can, before they start to watch you. Pack a bikini and drive south. Bring the cell phone —”

“Porter, I can’t just —”

“Tell the office it’s a family emergency. Don’t tell anybody where you’re going.”

“But the kids —”

“Take the kids. Keep the cell phone on. I’ll need you to make a few calls.”

Cindy has a helpless look on her face. “Are you sure there isn’t something better?”

“You remember what it was like after Nina was killed?”

She nods, looks unhappy.

“If you stay, there’ll be cops and reporters all over you and the kids.”

I don’t tell her my fear that Brotsky may come after them to keep me quiet.

“It’ll be better this way,” I assure her. “I’ll have this sorted out by the time you return. You can tell me all about your vacation and I’ll tell you about mine. We’ll swap photos.”

Cindy nods reluctantly and we go upstairs, don’t talk about it anymore. The kids are hungry, foraging in the cupboards. We eat Irish stew out of plastic bowls, sitting on the couch, watching a Disney movie. Cindy sits close to Beth. I sit with the younger two. It doesn’t get any better than this.

Sunday afternoon traffic heading west — I’m stuck behind slow-moving ranchers towing horse trailers, pickups loaded with hay. By contrast, the other lane is like the wrong end of a shooting gallery — motorhomes roar east toward the city. My destination is just as urgent; I want to get back to Curtain River and retrieve my knife. Despite Star’s insistence that I take care of the knife, I can only see it linking me to Petrovich’s murder. No choice but to toss it into some deep pool in the river. But a dented Ford with a lopsided box won’t let me squeeze past and it’s hard to see what’s coming. Anxious, I start to play chicken with oncoming Luxury Liners. Old Faithful whines and complains from the depths of her transfer case. Despite my rush, the trip drags on: hours in the blistering heat. Fields along the highway are mostly barren rangeland, the grass still too short to pasture cattle. Not much to look at. Not much to do but think. Despite everything that’s going on — Brotsky and the knife; the Lorax and the arsons — my thoughts keep finding their way back to the little trailer in the woods; the campfire we shared by the river. I know I should just forget her but I’m not good at forgetting.

Half an hour out of Curtain River, I top a rise on the highway, see smoke. A thin column, rising steadily. A fledgling forest fire. Has Red Flag made his way this far south, or is it just another negligent camper? Either way, I’m more concerned with the location — the fire looks to be in the vicinity of where I buried the knife and I have visions of a firefighter finding it during line construction. Chances are low, but I drive faster, sweating, breathing hard. Finally, the sign for Curtain River is in sight and I gear down. In three minutes I’m past The Corral, the bridge and the four-way stop and at the other side of town. No sign of Telson, Brotsky or the Mounties.

I head through ranching country, into the woods. So lovely, dark and deep. Evidence I cannot keep —

A helicopter is circling the fire a few miles away, droning like a bored insect. Smoke drifts across the road in places like patches of early morning fog. The odour is earthy and rancid — ground fire that has been burning for a while, waiting for a drop in humidity, a bit of wind. Judging by the amount of smoke, the fire has grown to a size beyond the capabilities of the aerial attack crew. Soon this area will be crawling with firefighters and equipment. I’ve got to dispose of the knife before someone spots me. Heart pounding, I slow Old Faithful, watching the side of the road for the strip of orange flagging I left as a marker. The forest is loaded with ribbon from timber cruising and seismic programs — no one will pay attention to another ribbon — but as I spot the marker it seems as conspicuous as a highway off-ramp. A chill dread works its way up my sides as I approach the dead snag next to the cache.

Someone knows.

When I pull back the carefully placed flap of moss and dig, the package is there. I fill the hole carefully, conceal any sign of disturbance, tear the ribbon from the tree by the road and stow the shovel in the back of the truck. The knife I tuck under the seat — not the most secure place historically speaking but it won’t be there long. I’ll take back trails down to the river, then go for a hike, toss the knife into the current along the cut face of a cliff at some bend where the water is nice and deep. In a few days it will be covered with sand — part of just another layer in the riverbed; a primitive artifact. Ten thousand years from now, some archeologist will be thrilled.

But it’s not that simple.

As I turn a sharp corner, RCMP suburbans and cruisers block the road like something out of a prohibition era movie. The road is narrow, timbered on both sides — no chance for a quick turn. Not that I could outrun their police interceptors. Or their radio waves. Men with flak jackets and automatic weapons are poised strategically by the vehicles. I have little doubt this picnic is for me and am impressed I’m drawing this much firepower — they must expect I’ll come out blazing like a gangster. The rum-runners might have had a chance in a situation like this but I’m pretty much screwed. Rachet stands in the centre of the road, fashionably attired in body armor. I have a fleeting image of revving up Old Faithful, crashing through the barricade.

Rachet strolls up to the truck, stands in front of the open side window.

“Porter Cassel. How are you doing, my friend?”

“You guys look a little undermanned. You need some assistance?”

The assault team surround the vehicle, ready to pounce. Rachet holds up a hand.

“You could step out of your vehicle. That would be of assistance.”

Nervous, I shift just slightly — not a good idea with that many pea-shooters aimed at your head. I keep my hands squarely on the steering wheel, in the ten and two o’clock position they teach you in driving school. “What’s this about?”

“Exit the vehicle now,” Rachet says, getting formal. “Hands where I can see them.”

An officer in full riot gear graciously opens the door, his automatic aimed squarely at my chest. Rachet waves him back — this is his bust — leads me to the front of the truck, has me lay my hands on the hood, spread my legs, pats me down. Other Mounties surround us. Bergren leads a group which begin to search my truck, toss tools around, go through the burnt-out fuses and broken sunglasses in my glove compartment.

“Look at this,” says one Mountie, examining the shovel. “Fresh dirt.”

Rachet is behind me, his hand pressed in the middle of my back, ready to shove me forward and slap on the cuffs, which I’m surprised he hasn’t done already. Maybe they need the knife. Maybe he’s just savouring the moment. “You been doing a little earth work, Mr. Cassel?”

“Gotta bury the bodies somewhere.”

“That’s great,” Rachet says. “In my line of work, I love comedy.”

“Maybe if you told me what you’re looking for, I could help you out.”

“We’re looking for whatever you dug up.”

“I was digging soil pits,” I say. “Checking structure. Measuring coarse fragments.”

“That so?” The hand leans against my back. “You ever heard of Special ‘O’?”

“There’s a new breakfast cereal?”

“Surveillance,” says Rachet. “We’ve got planes, infrared cameras, shit you’ve never dreamed of, Cassel. We’ve been all over you. You went to the store, we knew about it. Your girlfriend’s trailer was rocking pretty good the other night. Your trip to the coast had us a little worried but in police work, you gotta have patience and faith. I’m not that patient but I had faith that you’d screw up. Later, I’ll show you an interesting little video of you in the forest, digging a hole.”

“I couldn’t find the outhouse.”

The Mounties have exhausted the obvious hiding places and are starting to get creative, probing Old Faithful’s more intimate crevices. It won’t be long now before they find the knife. When they do, they’ll match Petrovich’s blood, and the chances of someone believing me will be about as good as finding free parking in downtown Calgary. Forget making bail — I’m looking forward to spending the rest of my life worrying about more than if my room mate snores. I have an unpleasant decision to make. I make it fast.

“Don’t worry, Cassel, where you’re going, it’ll be easy to —”

I slump toward the hood, twist and roll my shoulder. Rachet wasn’t expecting this and he stumbles, his leaning post gone, grabs after me like a weekend fisherman trying to land a laker. My two days of self-defence training are starting to pay. I sprint for the patrol cars — the least defended spot — roll like a good injury faker over a hood, crouch and dash into the trees. I’m expecting bullets but none come — they must be pretty sure they can catch me. I have maybe a half-minute lead before the woods are full of Canada’s finest. Then there’ll be dogs and helicopters and who knows what else — the fucking military.

But for now, all I can do is run.

The road cuts sideslope and I go downhill, where I can make better time. There’s also the possibility of dense cover at the bottom. These pine forests are like running through a city park — no undergrowth — and at first the chase is nothing more than a game of tag where everyone but me is it. My only advantage is I’m not wearing body armour and 30 pounds of gear. I hear shouts from behind as trees flash past like pickets at a raceway.

“— he’s going right —”

“— cut him off —”

I zigzag, jump over deadfall, cringe as my ankle sends up warning flares. Any second it’ll twist again, fold under me like a poor poker player. Then I’ll be out of the game; the ante has become a little rich for my blood. The ground becomes steeper and I slip, grasp trees, pivot around them like a gymnast. Ahead and below I see dense young spruce in a drainage at the bottom of the slope and I run like a hunted deer for cover. A shout grunted from behind. “Get him before he reaches that draw —”

A shot rings out, wild, way above my head — a warning shot to stop me from running but I keep going anyway, crash into a wall of dense, young spruce and fir. I go low, charging between slender trunks. Branches slap my face, scratch my hands. I’m suddenly through — in a narrow natural meadow, a cleft in the slopes filled with dry grass and shrub. I cross the meadow, worm my way into the dense spruce on the far side, vanish into the foliage. If I can stay out of sight, I have a chance. Voices behind curse, mix with the sound of thrashing from the other side of the clearing. The ground drops away in front of me, slope tangled in alder and black spruce. I’m headed downslope, following the edge of a ravine that deepens into a gorge. I stop and listen. A moment later so do my pursuers, unable to track me without a noise trail. I creep forward, as quickly and quietly as I can. I seem to be gaining ground, for the time being anyway. Soon, there’ll be dogs out here; infrared scanners — but for now I keep running, unsure of where I’m going. I just need a little distance. Time to think this through. The gorge, tangled with deadfall, widens, the trickle of water turning into a small stream. There’s more water ahead, thrashing over boulders — the Curtain River.

I stand on the bank, watch the water roll past, serene and icy.

The river is too fast and deep to cross. But I have to do something — my pursuers will fan out, trap me against the impassable river. It’s smoky down here in the valley, reducing visibility, a point in my favour. I’ll follow the river as quickly as I can, stay out of sight. Somewhere closer to town there are cottages. Maybe I can steal a boat, float out under cover of dark.

After that? One catastrophe at a time.

I’m barely back under tree cover before a helicopter descends into the valley, dips its dangling bucket in the river. I’m closer to the fire than I thought. When it’s gone, another appears, this one without a bucket but with blue uniforms inside. I crouch behind deadfall. They make a slow pass over the river, searching, faces in the bubble window intent and solemn. The helicopter rises, banks away.

I keep moving, scrambling over rock between the trees.

Bombers arrive, a group of B-26s. The bird dog plane screams overhead, its warble warning of an impending drop. Much higher, I catch sight of another plane, doing a wide circuit. Special “O” — looking for me. The wind shifts, filling the river valley with thick grey smoke. A lucky break: visibility is down to about 30 feet; the smoke is too dense to fly. But it means the fire is turning, heading in my direction.

I pick up the pace, head downstream.

Another lucky break — a blue canoe stashed in the trees above the high waterline. I can make a break for it on the river as long as the smoke holds, have the canoe manhandled nearly to the water before I have second thoughts. The rapids on this river have killed people and the wind may shift again, leaving me exposed. I use a sharp rock to punch a small hole in the bow of the canoe — it’ll be a good half hour before it goes under if it doesn’t get ground to pieces in the rapids. If I’m lucky they’ll find the debris, assume I’ve drowned. I toss my denim jacket into the canoe and shove off, watch the canoe sweep sideways down the river until it vanishes into the smoke.

The sun through the smoke is an eerie shade of red and it’s becoming difficult to see where I’m going. Despite the very real danger of being overrun by the flame front, this fire may be my ticket out of here. I head upwind, toward the fire, my eyes teary and raw. I’m not setting any speed records — my ankle is throbbing and I don’t want to risk twisting it again. The wind shifts subtly, clearing the valley, forcing me farther into the trees. Helicopters come in every few minutes to dip their buckets, rising like busy insects against a twisting convection column of smoke. Bombers circle like seagulls waiting for scraps. I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I reach the fire, but it’s the last thing they would expect.

Ahead are low flames — the fire eating a path along the side-slope of the river valley. There’s no one here, no fireguard except patchy swathes of red retardant from the bombers, indicating the fire has become fairly large for the resources deployed. This is in my favour, as the first day on any fire is chaotic; right now I need as much chaos as possible. I’ll find the staging area, steal coveralls and a hardhat, get dirty and blend in. Hopefully I can sneak into town in the back of some truck.

What I’ll do there I don’t know — I just can’t stay here.

Near the crest of the valley I hear the tread clank of heavy equipment, the crash of falling trees. They’re cutting fireline and they’re close. I hide behind deadfall — they won’t run heavy equipment down the steep valley slope. But I’m wrong — a dozer operator with too much ambition or no brains teeters a big d-8 on the valley break like a child’s toy, then slides down the incline. Trees topple before him like rotten fence boards. Even from here, I can see the grin on his face. He’s having fun playing with gravity and 40 tons of iron.

Thankfully, he’s too busy to notice me.

He grinds down toward the river; I go up. Dozers usually work in pairs, the second dozer cleaning up after the first, but this guy seems to be on his own. No aircraft within earshot so I sprint down the fireline — a ragged scar through the bush. Ahead, in a small clearing edged by splayed trees, is a cache of equipment dropped by helicopter. Two drums of diesel for the dozer, a few thousand feet of hose in cardboard boxes, a portable water tank and a black garbage bag. Someone sent a crew kit instead of a fire pump for the porta-tank; a screw-up but a bonus for me. I open the bag, take out a bright clean pair of orange coveralls and red hardhat. A pulaski completes the ensemble — I’m fashionably rigged for a day of fun in the bush. A smearing of ash and charcoal completes the effect.

I don’t walk far before someone yells at me.

“Hey you — come here.”

It’s a big guy in clean orange coveralls and a blue hardhat, standing on the dozerline. The blue skidlid means he’s a crew leader. I pull my hardhat lower and trudge over. He has a two-way radio strapped to his equipment belt. And a knife as big as a machete.

“Where’s the rest of your crew?” he asks. “Back there.” I avoid eye contact, point vaguely down the fireline.

“What’re you doin’ here?”

“Squad boss told me to look for the rest of our equipment.”

“Figures.” He shakes his head. “Our pump is missing.”

I wait, look at the ground respectfully like a good grunt. His radio crackles and pops with non-stop chatter: crews calling one another, aircraft calling dispatch. He must have it on scan.

“You find an extra pump, you have your squad boss give me a call. Harvey Kleg.”

I nod.

“And keep your eye out for some guy wearing a blue jacket.”

“Okay.”

Kleg continues down the fireline. I watch until he’s out of sight — he doesn’t call on his radio. Sooner or later someone is going to realize I don’t fit in. Before that happens I have to contact Carl — I heard him on Kleg’s radio, answering as fire boss. He’s in a helicopter, directing operations from above. All of the resources on the fire are at his command and I have an idea, if I can just catch his attention.

I walk slowly uphill along the fireline, stopping occasionally to knock a few burning clods of moss apart so it looks like I’m patrolling. Near the road a clearing has been pushed into the trees where vehicles are parked, equipment is piled. Workers unload fuel drums from the old Forest Service stake truck. Carl’s helicopter will land here to refuel — my chance to talk to him. But there’s a problem — the Mounties have set up their command post at the far edge of the clearing. Rachet stands in front of a police suburban, in deep discussion with fellow officers. I hang back along the fireline, whack away at a burning snag. Two firefighters wander over, give me a hand. One of them has a chainsaw and cuts down the snag.