9
THE STARTER FITS — thank Jehovah — and by dark Old Faithful is capable of once more living up to her name. Sometimes, remaining faithful takes a little work and a fair measure of mechanical skill. We retire to Carl’s place and he forages in the fridge, looking for something for supper. He’s pretty much a hunter-gatherer, but finding nothing to gather, he loots the freezer, takes out something from his last hunt. “You want steak?” he says, waving a lump wrapped in brown paper. “It’s elk, from last season.”
The steaks are frozen as stiff as the soles of my new work boots; I could perish before either soften up. But I want to be a good guest, give him a thumbs up. He unwraps the hunk of purple ice, sets it in warm water in the kitchen sink. I wander into the living room, look around, admire the decor. Wood and animal skins. Antlers and crockery. An antique muzzleloader sits on pegs over the window, displayed in contravention of a new law requiring all guns be under lock and key; I can’t see Carl complying.
Next to the window are a series of photos; ancient black-andwhites, slightly out of focus. There’s a wooden-trestle forestry lookout tower — they stopped building those 50 or 60 years ago; grey cabins; groups of men with pack horses. The men wear suspenders and wide-brimmed hats, pose with their arms crossed. Captions are inscribed below in neat block printing: Assistant Ranger Wilfred Marsheldon with Pack Horses, 1944; The Elbow Trail Crew, 1916. They don’t look like the sort of men you want to mess with.
“Aagh, the good old days,” Carl says, handing me an open bottle of home brew.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not. It was pretty rough back then.”
“It built character,” he says. “Which we’re in short supply of nowadays.”
I sip the home brew, which also has plenty of character — and yeast — and look around Carl’s living room. His house is like a time machine, slowly regressing. By the time he’s retired, he’ll be living in a cave.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you some of my projects.”
We descend narrow, complaining stairs into Carl’s basement. It’s the sort of place both big and little boys love; musty and smelling of sawdust and damp concrete, filled with tools and half-built carpentry projects. A bare bulb throws craggy shadows from a cluttered workbench. There’s a vice and reloading press, empty brass cartridges scattered like artillery shells after a minor skirmish. Carl directs my attention to a child’s plastic swimming pool in a corner, by a floor drain next to the furnace. Something large, dark and hairy lurks in the pool, like a boneless monster. “Bear hide,” he says,poking at it with an axe handle. “I had it salted in the garage since last spring, figured I ought to tan it before the mice chewed it up.”
“You go for bear this spring?”
“No.” He sips his beer, sets the bottle aside. “This one’ll keep me busy.”
“It’ll make a nice rug.”
Carl grins, says it’s for the living room. Now, I say, he’ll be able to make love on a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. All he needs is someone to make love to — and a fireplace. He laughs, slaps me on the back, shows me an antique-style dresser he’s building. He’s quite a craftsman, something I hadn’t realized, and for an hour we’re lost in the world of carpentry, discussing the merits of various bandsaws and edgers, the mechanics of dovetailing, the subtleties of varnish.
Hungry, we head upstairs. The steak floats in the sink, turning the water pink like the aftermath of a shark attack. Carl prods the meat; it’ll be a while yet. I decline another beer, ask if it’s okay to go into the office, surf the Internet. I get a strange look — Carl doesn’t approve of computers — but he gives me the key.
The service bell on the office door startles me. I climb the few steps to the main floor, look around. It’s strange, being alone in a place that is normally filled with people and a hum of activity. But tonight, the flickering fluorescents are the only things humming. Bertie the Beaver — the Forest Service mascot with a toothy smile and plaid jacket — grins at me from faded posters. Good Little Boys and Girls give Matches to Moms and Dads. The U.S. Forest Service has a bear; we have a rodent. The radios in the dispatch room buzz and crackle as towerpeople murmur back and forth in a sort of faceless wilderness soap opera. There’s not much to miss here, it’s just a dumpy old building, but I’m reminded of late nights at the duty desk, of long phone conversations with Nina. It’s like walking into a memory to find nothing but emptiness.
In the duty room the sensation is stronger. A large map of the district occupies an entire wall. The map is scattered with magnetic symbols in the form of tiny aircraft and men, colour-coded by crew configuration. It looks like a war room and I sit at the desk, turn down the radios. I’m not in command anymore; I’m here on a different sort of mission. I stare at the district map, pick out the location of the bombing — someone has stuck a little magnetic lightning bolt there. My gaze moves to another wall, to a provincial base map, and I rummage in the desk for a box of push-pins, stand in front of the map and search for the locations where the Lorax has struck, stick a pin at each spot, ending as the Lorax had at Fort Termination. Then one more pin at Curtain River. There are eight pins on the map. The coverage is loose and erratic but relatively thorough. No area has been hit more than once. If there’s a pattern, I can’t see it.
I pace — all of four steps — contemplate the map.
What about timing?
I review the dates. The attacks occurred apparently at random, spaced out roughly over a three-year period, then nothing for another three years. I had always believed Nina’s death was accidental — that the bomber was horrified at what he’d done and there would be no more attacks. Then, at least, Nina’s death seemed to have had some purpose.
I can’t believe that anymore.
I abandon the map. The computer monitor comes to life with a faint, static hiss and when I’ve brought up the Internet I hesitate. Search for? I type in “Lorax” and in a fraction of a second have a response. Forty thousand matches. Many are about the bombings but some are of a more benign nature — the book by Dr. Seuss is a classic of children’s literature. The little orange character with the oversized walrus moustache is everywhere. Other sites are commentary, some merchandising, some just for fun. Then I click on a site that makes my scalp tingle — a website run by an environmental group, greener than most. A primitive animation shows a feller-buncher clipping a tree, laying it down. As it reaches for another tree, a comic book explosion blows the machine apart, the grapple falls to the ground. Below this the word lorax blazes fluorescent-green and there’s a panel of thumbnail photos: bombed machines frozen in mechanical rigor mortis. It’s the Lorax fan club. For a few minutes I stare at the screen, watch the fellerbuncher explode over and over again. What bothers me most about this absurd little animation is that it shows the machine in use when it explodes. The message is clear — it’s okay to blow these things up while people are in them. I wonder if Rachet has seen this, make a mental note to mention it the next time I’m arrested.
I click on the thumbnail photos. Enlarged, they’re grainy, not very good quality, scanned from various newspaper articles. Most I’ve seen, but a few are new and I print them, hoping they hold some clue. I hesitate then print the rest for a full set. I pin them by location to the map, creating a mosaic of destruction.
I return to the computer, try a few more sites. Several are law enforcement, banking on the power of the Internet, hoping for information. There’s a reward posted, $100,000, put up by some industry assocation. I doubt it will help — they’re dealing with a fanatic. I surf on, each site connected to ten more, following themes of ecoterrorism, environmentalism, ecology. It’s like following a fractal image, infinite and ever changing. From the fbi in Maryland to the Greens in Germany, everybody with something to say is on the Net. A billion screaming voices all yearning to be heard. I read a bit here and there — decoupling, shallow ecology, deep ecology. There are sites on how to make your own explosives. Thermite. Amphol. Pipe bombs. If I ever have kids, they’ll never get a computer for Christmas. Lego and Play Dough all the way. My vision is starting to blur, my brain going mushy. Tree spikers and nature loving bikers. I’m lost in cyberspace when Carl comes in.
“How you doing, Porter?”
“Surfing,” I mumble.
“Steaks are thawed,” he says. “If you can pull yourself away.”
I close out Netscape like a drunk leaving after last call, knowing he should have stopped long ago. My head hurts and I have surfer’s hangover, information overload. Carl is standing in front of the provincial map, frowning. “What’s this?”
“I was trying to see if there’s some sort of pattern.”
“A pattern.” He sighs. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
“I have to Carl. For my sanity.”
“It’s your sanity I’m worried about,” he says, his forehead creased. “You nearly killed yourself after what happened to Nina. Or maybe you don’t remember.”
“I remember,” I say quietly. “That was the problem.”
Carl nods toward the map. “Well, this isn’t going to help.”
“What do you expect? You’re the one who called me.”
“I know.” He’s staring at the pictures; instants arrested in eternity. Finally, he looks away, rubs his eyes. He looks tired, eroded. “That was probably a mistake.”
“I would have heard about it anyway.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
We look at each other for a minute. I used to know what he was thinking.
“Well, if I can’t talk you out of it,” he says. “I might as well give you a hand.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I want this guy caught too.”
“I’m not really sure where to start.”
“You’ll think of something,” he says. “Just let me know what you need.”
“Count on it.”
He stares at the pictures a moment longer, then pulls them down one at a time, shuffles them into a neat stack and hands them to me. “You know, Porter, you could work here for a while. I’m sure there’ll be things you’ll want to look into.”
“I don’t know Carl. I’ve got a fire investigation to run.” “There’s a task force now,” he says. “They’ll call you when they need you.” He has a point and I give it a moment’s thought before nodding. “Great.” He grins. “You can sectorboss. We’re a little short handed.”
I’m thinking of the advantages of staying local, looking into the man in camo. Maybe I’ll make another trip out to the bombing site, once the Mounties are done with it.
Carl is smiling, trying to cheer me up. “It’ll be like old times.” Not quite — someone is missing. “Can you start tomorrow?” he asks.
“In the afternoon. There’s something I have to do in the morning.”
10
TRUCKS LOADED WITH LOGS rumble past, raising clouds of dust as I pull Old Faithful between two four-wheel-drive pickups in the parking lot of Curtain River Forest Products. I’ve been thinking about what Rachet said — that Hess worked near Fort Termination when Nina was killed — and I’m here to get a look at Hess’s resumé. It could be Hess had some personal connection to this whole business. Maybe it’s a place to start. Maybe it’s nothing.
I’m wearing a dark blue double-breasted polyester suit and it’s 30 degrees in the shade. Ever since I put the damn thing on at the rental place, I’ve had to resist the temptation to loosen the tie and tear off the jacket. But I have to keep it on because I have a part to play.
I limp across the gravel lot toward the office, a blocky, timber-frame building. Behind is an array of immense structures emitting ominous clanking sounds. Lifts of lumber are neatly stacked in high rows. Huge loaders, their grapples filled with logs, trudge like hungry beetles between the mill and a log deck the size of a small mountain. I go up bare wooden steps to the office door.
Inside, it’s not much cooler. Walls, ceiling and front counter are covered with pine boards, oiled to a light sheen like an old-time general store. Carl would approve. A trucker with a thick brown beard is having a polite argument with the receptionist. He keeps lifting his hardhat and wiping sweat from his forehead with the palm of his hand. Somewhere, a radio is playing Dylan, urging us all to get stoned. With heat like this, we’ll be hallucinating soon enough. The trucker loses the argument and goes away.
“What can I do for ya?”
The receptionist is an unnatural blonde. Her bare arms are deeply tanned, as is her generously displayed cleavage; the skin just beginning to wrinkle and slide into the abyss. At one time, she was probably quite a catch. A small hand-carved sign on her desk says “Carmen.” I smile as professionally as possible for an ex-forest ranger in a suit. “Hello Carmen,” I murmur. “I’m with the Insurance Underwriters of America.”
Blank stare. She’s waiting for more — the sales pitch probably.
“I’m here because of the unfortunate incident.”
“Okay.” She’s nodding, still waiting for more.
“Our company insures the insurance companies that hold the policies for the employees you have insured. I just stopped by as part of a routine audit. I’d like to see Mr. Hess’s employment record, so I can cross-index it with the report the member company will submit to us upon claim of insurance.”
Carmen continues to nod. Hopefully, she has no idea what I have just said. Which makes two of us.
“Just a copy will be fine,” I add.
“Just a moment.” She smiles confidently. “I’ll go check.”
She vanishes through a doorway into what I hope is the file room. A distressingly long period of time goes by, during which I visualize her making a call to the real Insurance Underwriters of America, if they exist. Mill workers in hardhats and reflective vests pass through the lobby. A guy in a white sweat-stained shirt, asks if I’ve been taken care of. I nod and he vanishes through a doorway above which the word “Sales” is printed in block letters. Finally, as I’m ready to make a run for it, the receptionist reappears, looking relieved.
“Right this way Mr. ...”
“Hassenfloss,” I say quickly. “Asper Hassenfloss.”
She leads me to the inner sanctum — four offices and a boardroom. Nowhere can I see filing cabinets and I get an uneasy feeling. I’m about to begin making excuses for a hasty retreat when two men come out of an office behind me, blocking my escape.
“This is Mr. Hasselfruss,” says Carmen. “From the insurance company.”
The men stick out their hands, which I shake, sweating and smiling and wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into — I’m centre stage now and not particularly enjoying the limelight. Hopefully, the critics aren’t paying attention. The shorter of the two men, stocky, balding and a few years older than me, is Craig Whitlaw, president and owner of Curtain River Forest Products. The other guy, Benjamin Faust, is younger, tall, sandy-haired and frowning. He’s the company Public Relations Coordinator; even lumber companies have a spin doctor on staff nowadays. I’m ushered into the boardroom and offered a seat at a long table. As I sit down, I notice the table has no legs but is supported by two hefty tree stumps — roots truncated, the bark still on. Flakes of bark are scattered on the carpet under the table, scuffed off by restless boots.
“Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Mr. Husselfrass,” says Whitlaw.
“A terrible thing,” says Faust. “For everyone.”
“Ronald Hess in particular,” I say. “How is the family holding up?”
“As well as can be expected,” says Whitlaw, taking a seat across the table from me, his hands clasped together. He seems confident, sincere. “She’s a strong woman. And she has a lot of friends here in the community. Thankfully, there were no children.”
I nod in condolence, hope I don’t look like as much of an impostor as I feel.
“You’re working with the police Mr. Husselfrass?”
“No, we run our own sort of investigation.”
“You wanted to see Mr. Hess’s work record?”
“Yes.” I try to look authoritative. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Sure. Is there anything else you need?”
“That will be sufficient for now. I’ll just take a copy —”
“Although it seems odd the other insurance fellow didn’t give it to you.”
Whitlaw is watching me, not suspicious I don’t think, but curious. He’s got a good stare, subtle but full of authority — he’d make a good chess player. Time for my big scene. “That’s not the way we operate. We like to procure our own copies for audit purposes. It’s an internal exercise, nothing for you to worry about.”
Whitlaw gives me a dry smile. “Good to hear you’re keeping everyone honest.”
“Who did you say you worked for?” says Faust.
“The Insurance Underwriters of America.”
“But we’re insured with Gilbert-Fredricks and Associates,” Faust says.
“Of course. We’re the umbrella under which your local insurance provider operates.”
“A sort of industry association then?”
“Sort of. I’ll just grab a few copies from the file —”
Whitlaw stands and I do the same, relieved the interrogation is over. But he doesn’t go to the door. There’s an antique wall clock near a collection of framed pictures — black-and-whites showing teams of horses hitched to wagons piled unbelievably high with logs. He takes a key from a nail on the wall, opens a glass front on the clock and manually rewinds the spring, his back to us. There’s something deliberately casual about this ceremony. Faust reads my expression, gives me a patient look, like we’re in church, waiting for the pastor. Whitlaw finishes, carefully closes the glass door, hangs the key on its peg.
“Sad thing,” he says. “Sad thing that happened to Mr. Hess. We’re a small company Mr. Hasselfruss and we take care of our employees. We take care of the community. You can only imagine what an impact a thing like this has. We’re not used to outsiders making trouble.”
I nod, prepare to say something conciliatory, but Whitlaw isn’t finished.
“These environmentalists,” he says. “They don’t understand that this is a business. People go to work here. We actually make something.” His jaw clenches. “They just criticize and in a way I can understand that. It’s human nature to meddle. But these people that plant explosives —” He shakes his head. “It’s just insane. How can we protect our people?”
I think of Nina and don’t have an answer. I don’t think he’s expecting one.
Whitlaw is halfway to the door before he offers me another handshake. “Thank you for coming Mr. Husselfrass. You need anything, you just let us know. Benji here is your man.”
“A copy of Mr. Hess’s employment record will be fine.”
“Carmen at the front desk can get that for you,” Faust says. He reaches into his shirt pocket, offers me his business card. It’s got little pine trees on it, an elk and a stack of lumber. It occurs to me almost before it’s too late that I should ask them a few questions.
“Do you know of any individuals who might want to do this?”
Whitlaw hesitates by the door, looks toward Faust. “We have a few environmental groups in our neck of the woods. They give us a pretty hard time but I wouldn’t think they would stoop to this. Benji could probably tell you more.”
“Could I have their names?” I pull a small notebook from the vest pocket of my suit. I bought it on my way through town, in case they wouldn’t let me take a photocopy of Hess’s records. It came with a genuine fake Arrow pen and makes me feel very professional.
“There’s really only one significant group,” says Faust. “The Mountain Guardians. They’re connected to the bigger organizations, so we pay attention to what they’re up to. They’ve dragged us into court a few times, showed up in the cutblocks with reporters, hassled our staff.”
I’m scribbling notes. “Where can I contact them?”
“Angela Murtow is their leader. She’s quite a character, used to teach philosophy in some university out east. Apparently, she finds activism more stimulating.”
“You wouldn’t have her number?”
“She’s in the book.”
Whitlaw is still by the door. “Benji can help you with any more details.”
I give him a nod and he vanishes. “What about other groups?”
“There’s a few — all small time. They feed off the Guardians.”
“Good, thanks.” I put away my notebook.
I follow Faust to the front counter. He’s bowlegged, which is probably a condition of employment around here. “Carmen,honey, could you get Mr. Hassenhelf a copy of Ronald Hess’s work record?”
Carmen gives him a peroxide smile, hustles off.
Benji is restless, has things to do. “You all set here Mr. Hessenhelf?”
I nod. Benji vanishes and I’m alone in the lobby. I take a look around but there’s not much to see. A few old saw blades are hung on the wall, painted with winter scenes; old wagons covered with snow. In a corner is a stack of product flyers and some glossy pamphlets expounding the responsible forest practices of Curtain River Forest Products — Benji and the boys in Sales have been busy. I take a flyer advertising treated lumber; maybe I’ll build a deck for Cindy.
“Here’s your copy, Mr. Hasselhoff.”
I take the offered manila envelope. Carmen’s smile is dismissive. Just as I reach the door, it swings open. Al Brotsky nearly runs me over. “Sorry,” he mumbles at the suit, then sees my face.
“How you doing?” I say as I edge past him.
“Fine,” he says, grinning. “You take care now.”