Day Into Night (32 page)

“That’ll take care of her,” he says.

“Thanks.” Now I’ll have to find another way to look busy.

They wander farther down the fireline. I keep whacking at the downed snag. One of the cops looks over, watches for a minute, then goes back to listening to Rachet. I try to estimate how long it’s been since the Forest Service helicopter arrived, how long until it refuels. Finally, ten minutes later, a helicopter thumps into view, raising a dust storm as it lands. Carl is in the front seat and I roll over a barrel of turbo fuel — just another helpful firefighter. Carl and the pilot climb out. To my horror, Rachet comes over, meets Carl a dozen yards from the helicopter. I turn my back, help the pilot flip up the heavy drum. I need a believable reason to talk to Carl so I pick a box of fire hose from a pile of equipment, set it beside the helicopter. Carl finishes with Rachet and walks back.

He taps me on the shoulder, shouts over the scream of the turbo engine.

“Where’s this hose going?”

I turn so he can see my face. “Somewhere safe.”

Carl’s eyes widen for a second. He glances toward the cluster of Mounties at the edge of the clearing, their backs toward the helicopter to avoid the rotorwash, motions that I should put the box of hose in the tail cargo hold, then shields me from view as I climb into the back seat of the helicopter. We lift off, veer out over the fire.

“Okay Johnson,” Carl says into his headset. Neither he nor the pilot can see me from the front seat. “This is how it’s going to work. We’re going to the northwest helipad where I want you to jump out and drop that box of hose. Then I’m going to whip you

into town to help at the warehouse, if that’s okay with you.”

I key my mike. “Fine with me boss.”

We descend into a small helipad and I drop the box of hose, climb back into the rear of the helicopter. The machine rises high over the smoking chaos. A few minutes later we land behind the Ranger Station. I crouch as the machine takes off, Carl peering down like an astronaut through the nose bubble. I give him the thumbs up; I’m not sure how I’ll ever repay him for taking such a risk.

No one gives me a second glance when I exit the back gate of the compound.

In Carl’s house I change out of the fire gear, collect a bag of food, fresh clothes and bedding. I consider taking Carl’s shotgun but leave it — it’s too bulky. I wish I had my satellite phone but it too is bulky and they could probably use it to locate me. Instead, I ransack Carl’s poker jar, fill my pockets with change; I’ll use the pay phone.

In the basement, I find a place to hide and wait for dark.

25

SUPPER IS A LATE NIGHT gourmet affair involving a can of tuna and several grapefruits. I have a table in the non-smoking section of a condemned old house, walls decorated with neolithic graffiti and skylight compliments of an indoor campfire. The neighbourhood is equally appealing: a defunct gas station with boarded windows and a storage yard filled with dented culverts. Reminds me of Cannery Row by Steinbeck; I picture the culverts occupied by sleeping vagrants filling the night with amplified snores.

I’m the vagrant tonight and won’t be sleeping.

The nearest pay phone is next to a gas station at the edge of town. It takes several discreet, well timed throws from the shadows before I manage to knock-out the streetlight above the booth, the light popping like an old vacuum tube, glass tinkling onto the pavement. No one seems to notice but I wait a half-hour anyway, then pump in a fistful of quarters.

Four rings before I get an answer. “Yeah?”

I change my voice. “Is this Christina Telson?”

“Depends. Who’s this?”

Her cell phone isn’t local and my budget is somewhat restricted, so like a Japanese poem, economy of words is to be strived for. But content is equally important; the Mounties are monitoring the airwaves. I glance toward the gas station. A sign in the window advertises smokes, beer and video rentals. “It’s Andre at the Express Gas. Your movie rental is overdue and I was hoping you could bring it down. There’s a customer in who’s pretty anxious to rent it.”

“What movie?”

“The Fugitive. You rented it a few days ago.”

There’s a pause. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right there.”

I retreat into shadow, watch teenagers stop to buy $5 of gas and $20 of beer. They lounge in the parking lot, joking and laughing. Telson’s Bug passes on the road, then again going the other direction. She doesn’t turn in — something must be wrong. I could work my way across town to the rv park but the Mounties might be watching her trailer.

So I wait, crouched beside a fragrant dumpster.

Twenty minutes pass. I’m getting nauseous from rotting fast-food scraps and consider a move to a more olfactory-friendly location when a cop car cruises slowly past. The teenagers in the parking lot hide their beers, looking suspiciously casual. A few minutes later they’re gone, leaving behind a half dozen empties on the concrete curbstops. I’m ready to fade back when Telson’s VW pulls past the gas pumps. I give her a quick, shielded burst from my flashlight. She walks into the dark alley.

“Over here. Behind the dumpster.”

She takes a quick sidestep, her arms held together in front of her. There’s something dark in her hands and I realize why she’s so brave. She’s either a cop or has come to bring me in — the climax to her book. “I’ve got a gun and I can see you. Don’t move.”

I could shine the flashlight in her eyes and run like hell —

“Sorry Porter —” The gun descends. “I wasn’t sure it was you.”

I stand up, keep an eye on the gun. “Careful with that thing.”

“Don’t worry.” She tucks the big semi-auto under her jacket. “I’ve been shooting since I was 12. Took the provincial championship at sixteen. I can draw faster than most of the pros.”

“A skill every girl needs,” I say. “For those Saturday night shootouts.” She looks toward the parking lot. “We’ve got to find a better place to talk.”

She leads me around the back of the Express Gas, along much the same route I took, then veers into the bush. There’s no trail here, no moon and very little light coming from the stars. She’s a dim shape ahead of me, bending aside branches, feeling her way through the dark. I follow too close, get a branch slapped in my face, stumble and nearly fall.

“Slow down —”

“Some forest ranger.”

The slope increases then levels off and I hear water. We’re in the river valley near one of the rapids in the Curtain River: Rapids of the Drowned — a wonderful tourist attraction. But we’re here for another reason. The noise will cover the sound of our voices; you’d have to be mighty close to hear what’s being said.

“So what exactly is your line of work, Mizz Telson? If that’s really your name.”

Her face is a pale oblong framed by dark hair. “Journalism.”

“Most journalists don’t carry a Colt .45.”

“This isn’t your usual journalism.”

“I gathered that,” I say, my reply a touch caustic.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened Porter —”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well I do.” It’s too dark to read much of her body language but her tone is clear enough. “I started out not wanting to care about you, Porter. I didn’t expect to find you here — I’d already done plenty of research on you. I was here because of the bombing.

Then I went to the bar and there you were.”

“Ready for the fleecing.”

“I was just going to talk to you a little.”

“Yeah? Well, we did more than talk.”

There’s a strained silence and we stand awkwardly, like kids who’ve sneaked out together to smoke our first cigarette. This could be as much of a mistake. “Can we be friends here?” she says finally. The perpetual female myth.

“Sure,” I say. “Why not.”

“I’m trying, Porter. Maybe you could do the same.”

She’s trying to sound matter-of-fact but I detect an undercurrent of emotion. She’s not the only one; I remember the hour spent in her bed, the night by the river. I want to rewind everything, but if I could I might run out of tape. Better to let it play, see what song comes up next. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell her. “Let’s stick to business. Let’s talk about why we’re here.”

Her reply is a little terse. “Fine by me.”

“What’s your interest in the Lorax?”

“I’ve been following the Lorax since his second bombing.”

“Really. So what have you learned in all that time?”

“First things first,” she says. “Did you kill Petrovich?”

“Christ.” She doesn’t waste any time. “You sure you’re a journalist?”

“Why?”

“Because you sound like a cop.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yeah. A cop has to follow certain rules.”

A car turns somewhere on a road above us, its headlights sweeping the tops of the trees, then roars away, tires squealing. Kids with nothing better to do — the good old days. “We might use different techniques,” she says. “But we both want the truth.”

“Maybe you should have started by telling me the truth —”

“Then answer the question.”

“I didn’t kill anybody.”

“It was your knife they found his blood on.”

It’s frightening how much she knows, but I guess that’s her business. I’m in need of an ally, even a manipulating waif with a handgun. Especially a manipulating waif with a handgun.

“My knife was stolen,” I tell her. “Shortly after I got here.”

“How convenient.”

“Not for me. That’s why I’m hiding behind dumpsters.”

“Who would want to steal your knife?”

“Look, whether or not you believe me, it’s obviously a set-up.”

“Fine. Either way Porter, you’re a fugitive. So what’s the deal?”

We’re making deals now. The new Telson.

“You need help,” she says. “Isn’t that why you called me?”

“I thought we could share some information.”

“Sure. What’ve you got?”

“A suspect,” I tell her. “What about you?”

“You’ve got a suspect?”

“Don’t sound so excited —”

“Who is it this time?” she asks wearily.

“What do you mean — this time?”

“From what the cops are saying, you were sure it was Petrovich.”

“You taking the cops to bed too? Pumping them for information?”

“I’ve got a scanner Porter. Hours of fun. You should get one.”

“I’ll put it on my Christmas list. Look — Petrovich was the set-up. I was supposed to believe he was the Lorax. I was supposed to be so sure that I’d tell the cops. That way, when he was killed with my knife, they would come after me.”

“Who’s your suspect?”

“A local who works for the mill.”

“Again?” She groans. “I hope you dug a little deeper this time.”

“Why don’t you want to believe it could be a local?”

“Statistics, Porter. Locals tend to behave in their backyards. To avoid suspicion.”

“Maybe this guy is getting frustrated. Or he’s become opportunistic and this was just too good to pass up. He’s ex-military and he knows explosives. The last bombing used C4, in case you didn’t know that. He works in the industry and knows his way around the bush.”

“I could find a dozen guys who fit that description.”

“I’m sure you could. But there’s more.”

Even in this light I can see her patiently dubious expression. I don’t want to tell her about the hat with the crimped visor or where I first saw it. But she just stands there, waiting, and doesn’t say anything. She’s using silence effectively, better than most of the pros. “You’ll just have to trust me,” I tell her. “This guy is involved.”

“Could you be a little more vague? I’m having trouble handling this much detail.”

“I saw him at the bombing scene.”

“He was at the crime scene? What, was he just standing there?”

I tell her about my little hike through the woods, coming across the stranger. How he was hidden, dressed in camo and watching the cops through the scope of a rifle. How he turned on me. She stands closer and she smells familiar — too good, despite my frustration with her. When I’m finished, her sarcasm is gone. “The cops didn’t pick him up?”

“They didn’t believe me.”

“But how do you know it’s the guy who works for the mill?”

“Good solid detective work,” I tell her. “He’s been following me around.”

“Following you? Why? Does he think you can identify him?”

“He knows who I am. He probably killed Petrovich to get me off his case.”

She’s nodding, making mental notes, double-spaced with chapter headings.

“What about you?” I say. “What have your years of research revealed?”

She sighs. “Not as much as I would have liked. I’ve made contacts all over North America in the ecotage underground. These monkey-wrenchers are a pretty connected lot, but even so, I don’t think they know who’s doing it. They idolize the Lorax of course — he’s sort of their Edward Abbey — but they don’t know who he is. Or they know and they’re very good at hiding it.”

“So you’re pretty much in the dark.”

“Pretty much,” she admits. She’s close enough I could reach out and grab her. I’m not sure if it would be to hold her or strangle her. Either way, it may be a losing proposition — her gun is bigger than mine. I’ll just have to consider her one of the boys. “I even went to the prison where they got Kazinski,” she says. “They gave me ten whole minutes with him.”

“The Unabomber?”

“I’m glad to see you read the papers. He gave me some insights into the evils of technology but he says he has no idea who the Lorax is. He’d like to meet him though, shake his hand.”

“I’d love to give him the opportunity.” There’s a lull; we both have a lot to think about. Clouds drift in and it suddenly seems very dark. All we need are black toques and we could be on the set of The Blair Witch Project. As if on cue something rustles through the brush, in the direction of the river.

Telson reaches under her coat. “What the hell was that?”

A large dark shape snorts and lifts its head.

“Put your gun away. Poaching is illegal.”

“What?” she says, her voice a little shaky.

“It’s just a moose, making its rounds.”

The gun goes away and after a few minutes so does the moose. We listen for what seems a long time to the receding crackle and slap of willows. “I hired a profiler,” she says finally. “Retired FBI guy who lives down in Florida, raises crocodiles. He figures the Lorax is a loner who’s using the name to identify himself with the environmental movement. He’s what they call an organized criminal — highly intelligent, plans his crimes well in advance and controls the crime scene. He’s not mainstream green; probably has another job. Despite his intelligence, he’s got a simplistic value system. Probably white, in his twenties or early thirties, lives in the country or has a secure place to make his bombs. Like Kazinski, he feels socially alienated and prefers to work at a distance. Unlike Kazinski, he probably didn’t intend to harm anyone.”

I picture Nina. “The result is the same.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to your friend,” she says, reaching a hand toward me, then thinks better of it. “But it could have been an unlucky coincidence. The bomb was set in a machine that wasn’t working, presumably so no one would get hurt. There’s no way he could have known you’d be there. After your friend was killed the bombings stopped for years.”

“Well, they’ve started again. And he doesn’t seem to mind killing now.” “Yeah,” she says. “That’s got me worried.” “You and a lot of people.”

“So what are we going to do, Porter? Can we work together?”

Sure, I tell her, we can work together. Not like I have a lot of choice. I tell her about Brotsky, ask her to look into his past. What did he do in the military? Why did he leave? Was he buddies with Petrovich? What connection might either of them have had with Hess? Where were they during the other bombings? Was there some reason the Lorax picked Curtain River Forest Products? What sort of environmental record do they have?

“Anything else?”

“Just do what you can. Look hard at this Brotsky.”

“Okay,” she says. “But we have an understanding right?”

She wants exclusive rights. I want revenge. It seems like a good deal.