I park Old Faithful in front of Curtain River Men’s Wear. The rental place is relieved to get the suit back in one piece. I’m relieved to give it back, more relieved to have escaped Curtain River Forest Products without having to explain what I was really doing there. Good news all around. And there’s more news in the envelope from Carmen, which I’m not sure is either good or bad. I open the manila envelope and prop Hess’s resumé against the steering wheel. By the looks of it, Hess had his resumé done by a professional; his work experience is emphasized in neat little bullets, like you’d find in a magazine or some glossy stockholders report. Overkill, considering the job for which he was applying. I skim over his minimal education, concentrate on his work experience.
The most recent bullet captures my attention.
Hess did work in the area of Fort Termination, as a fellerbuncher operator for kcl Logging, and I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware of holding. It could just be a coincidence but then why was Rachet so interested? Were they friends? Rachet insisted he was just examining the angles, trying to establish a connection. But he’d planted a seed.
The type of seed that sprouts late at night, when you can’t sleep.
I shake my head, stuff the offending document into the manila envelope, pop Old Faithful into reverse and back into the street. I’m not ready to consider the possibilities, to incriminate Nina’s memory on the basis of such flimsy circumstantial evidence. I drive around town for a few minutes, just to be moving, then turn toward the residential north side where, according to the address on the resumé, Hess lived. His widow might know.
Would she tell me?
Do I have the guts to ask? Do I really want to know?
After a few blocks my resolve begins to fade, afraid of what I might find.
I take evasive manoeuvres, divert to a restaurant, find a cushy booth, order pizza and sit by the window, staring blankly at the road. Logging trucks rattle past, dribbling bark. Motorhomes lumber slowly by, foraging for gas stations and soft ice cream. An orange Volkswagen Beetle pulls into the parking lot and vanishes behind a row of four-wheel-drive trucks with Monster Mudder tires. A moment later Telson comes in, stands by the door, looking around. I’m not sure she’s looking for me so I just wait.
She sees me, comes over.
“Hi Porter. I saw your old beater, thought I’d come in and say hello.”
She’s standing at the end of the table, wearing a tank top and cut-offs, sandals and a green metal bracelet which contrasts nicely with her light brown skin — she’s taken in some sun and it gives her a healthy radiance. Her long wavy hair is pulled back, highlighting her strong jaw line, her slender neck. I offer her a seat.
“Thanks.” She smiles, props her elbows on the table. “Where’ve you been?”
“Working. Why, you miss me already?”
She drums her fingers on the table. “Just nice to know someone in town.”
We chat about nothing in particular. The hot weather. The mountains. The moose that wandered into town. There’s something about her that makes it seem I’ve known her a long time. But when she asks what work I’ve been doing, I’m purposefully vague. I’ve become protective of my past, hiding it like an animal with a wounded limb. The manila envelope with Hess’s resumé is on the table and when the pizza arrives I use the diversion to slip the envelope onto the bench beside me, out of Telson’s sight. She’s staring at the pizza like a stray dog begging for scraps.
“Go ahead. My pizza is your pizza.”
“Thanks.” She picks the salami off her slice, offers it to me.
“Sure.” I load up. “What about you? What have you been up to?”
“As little as possible.” She yawns with a satisfied cat-like stretch that presses her unrestrained nipples against her tank top. I glance away — eventually. “Just lazing around,” she says between mouthfuls of pizza. “There’s a nice little lake about a half-hour from here. Not much of a beach but an awesome view of the mountains. We should head out there sometime.”
I think bikini, allow that it might be a good idea.
“What about tonight?” she says. “Watch the sunset. Build a campfire?”
How diabolical — she’s offering me the perfect escape. But if I don’t summon the courage now, I may never talk with Hess’s widow and the seed planted by Rachet will grow. Telson senses my hesitation and glances out the window, trying to look casual.
“Unless you’ve got something else planned.” The old Porter would shoot me for this. “Well, unfortunately —”
“That’s okay,” she says quickly. “You hardly even know me —”
“That’s not it —”
“It’s okay, Porter. Really. I’m not usually this forward. It must be the mountain air.”
She’s a little insulted at being turned down — the fragile female ego — and I feel a twist of regret. “I definitely would like to go,” I tell her. “Don’t get me wrong. I just can’t do it tonight. I have some business I have to clear up. Any other night would be fine.”
From her look it’s clear she thinks it’s woman business. She’s right, in a way.
“Okay.” She smiles — our little secret. We chat between drools of cheese, keep the conversation light. We talk about growing up, the funny little incidents that stay with you, more humorous in retrospect. Like me, Telson grew up on a farm.
“I thought I detected a strain of country girl there.”
“Farmer’s daughter.”
“You milked cows? Killed chickens?”
“No —” She looks shocked. “We had machines for that.”
“Aagh, a modern country girl.”
“I had my own horse though. What about you?”
“I’m allergic to horses.”
“That’s terrible.” She’s grieving. “You can’t get near them?”
“Only in the salami form.”
She gives me a wry smile. “So much for romantic rides on the beach.” I nod, silently curse my inadequate antihistamines. She’s ordered an iced tea and watches me over the rim as she sips. Nina used to do the same thing and I’m stung by a sudden moroseness, deeper and more complex than before. Telson notices.
“What’s the matter, Porter? You look kind of pale.”
“Nothing. I think I better get going.”
We argue over the bill, Telson determined to pay her half. The old-fashioned country boy versus the liberated woman. The liberated woman wins — what a surprise. We split the bill and I walk her to her Beetle where I have a sudden urge to go to the beach with her, watch the sunset, maybe fade into the sunset. Instead, I give her a hug, which she wasn’t expecting.
“Take care,” I say, and quickly walk to my truck.
It’s early evening, the heat of the day just beginning to dissipate as I pull Old Faithful to the curb in front of the Hess residence. The house is larger than I expected, faced in red-brown brick on a lot at the edge of the Curtain River in a newer area of town I missed on my earlier mountain bike ride. The older part of town has small houses on large lots, with room for trees and space for children to play. Here, it’s large houses on small lots. Somewhere, our priorities changed — we moved the children from the swing set to the television set. An emerald green minivan sits in the driveway. The walkway is pink cobblestone surrounded by brown lawn. A chlorotic spruce and several leafless birch occupy the front yard, dormant, waiting for rain. I mount concrete steps, press the button under the mailbox. A faint melody clangs from some muffled location deep within the house. A minute passes. I’m about to try again when the inside door opens, sucking air against the seal of the storm door. A woman looks at me through dusty glass.
“Yes?”
It takes me a few seconds to recognize Linda Hess. In the photo shown to me by Rachet, she’s blonde, slim, good-looking. Now she looks like a junkie, her face pale and puffy, eyes glazed as if in fever — the face of mourning. Red lipstick only accentuates the effect. Her hair, brown and shorter — reverted I assume to her natural color — contrasts with her white-on-white nurse’s uniform; neither does much to enhance her complexion. I’m amazed she’s working at a time like this but maybe that’s her way of dealing with the denial phase of loss.
“Mrs. Hess, I’m Porter Cassel. Could I speak with you for a moment?”
She frowns. “Well, I’m really just headed to work.”
“Just a few minutes. It’s fairly important.”
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “What’s this about?”
There’s no easy way to do this. “It’s about your husband.”
“Are you with the police?”
Her hand is on the interior door, ready to slam it shut at the slightest provocation.
“No, not exactly.”
She takes a step back. “I really don’t have the time.” The door begins to close.
“Please Mrs. Hess. I know what you’re going through.”
The door continues to close — the look on her face: no one knows what she’s going through.
“The Lorax killed my fiancée.”
At the mention of the Lorax, Linda Hess freezes. She peers from the darkness of her cave, past the half-closed door, like a frightened child, her brow furrowed and her chin tightened into a dimpled knot. I want to reach out, reassure her, but it might send her off the deep end. “I apologize for coming here at a time like this,” I say in my most soothing tone. “But like you, I want who ever did this stopped and to do that I need to talk to you. I’ll try to be brief.”
She’s clearly caught between fight or flight. I put on a patient smile.
“Your fiancée,” she says, whispering. “What was her name?”
“Nina — Nina Pirelli.”
I’m not sure what meaning the name has for her but she opens the door and I step inside.
The house is immaculate. I’m standing on a plastic mat overlaying thick, green shag in her living room. Clearly, the front door is cosmetic, to be used only as a fire escape, or by strangers like me. A stone fireplace set into a cedar feature wall dominates the room. There’s a floral print sofa with wooden trim on the arms, matching recliner, magazine rack and coffee table with real fruit.
“Can I get you something to drink?” She’s kneading her hands.
I try another reassuring smile. “Water is fine.”
She goes for the water and I’m alone in the living room. I slip off my boots, walk across cool, deep carpet, examine framed pictures on the mantle; a graphic history of two converging lives. Ronnie and Linda when they were younger with their parents and siblings, then the obligatory wedding pose which I’ve already seen. Linda graduating from nursing school. Ronnie fishing. But no kids. I turn, suddenly aware that I’m being watched. A nurse stands by the entry to the kitchen, a glass of water in her hand, and for a second I have the impression she’s come to give me my medicine.
I take the water, suggest we sit in the kitchen. Clean living rooms make me nervous.
The kitchen table is polished oak, worth more than my truck. Carefully, I take a seat, set the glass of water on the table. The kitchen isn’t quite as clean as the living room; there’s an open Styrofoam package of chicken soup. Linda Hess pulls out a chair across from me, providing a wide safety zone, and for a minute or two, we just sit. I sip the water. Oppressively little happens.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.
“You too.” Her condoling smile is a grimace. “How old was she?”
“What?” I’ve already forgotten that I told her about Nina. I’m a little nervous.
“Your fiancée?”
“Nineteen,” I say quietly. “She was nineteen.” I pause, hoping I don’t have to talk about Nina’s death, but the silence between sentences is ominous. Maybe sharing what happened to Nina will show Linda that she’s not alone, help her open up. “She was killed at a logging operation north of Fort Termination.”
Linda tucks her legs beneath her. “Yes, I remember that. It was on the news.”
More silence. I plunge on. “It happened near a feller-buncher. She was in my truck.”
I pause after each statement, hoping she’ll say something that I can use to lead into the questions I want to ask. But she’s not very responsive, just sits there, her eyes averted, her slender hand wiping imaginary dust off the edge of the table. Like a newspaper article, I continue to give her slightly more elaborate versions of what happened. When I get to the part about how it was my fault that Nina was there, it’s my turn to fall silent. Linda looks at me and I see profound loss in the emptiness of her eyes. She shouldn’t be alone right now.
“It’s so sad, Mr. Cassel. So sad.”
I nod, try to swallow a knot in my throat.
“Ronny was a good soul. He wanted kids ...”
She trails off, knotting her fingers together and staring at me with faraway eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Maybe I should come back later.”
“You’re here now. But I’m not sure what you want.”
That makes two of us. The way I see it, there are only a few possibilities, none of which make much sense. It could just be a coincidence that Hess worked in the same area where Nina was killed. Maybe both Hess and Nina somehow came into contact with the Lorax, although how I can’t imagine. Or Hess knew Nina in a way I don’t want to think about — the possibility I find most disturbing, for more than the obvious reason. I’m not sure where it leaves me, except the only person with an identifiable motive. Maybe this is what Rachet was hinting, but since I know I didn’t kill either Nina or Hess, I’m at a loss. As I look across the burnished sheen of Hess’s kitchen table, a final possibility occurs to me, which I like even less. Hess was the Lorax and involved with Nina. After her death, he stopped the bombings, but couldn’t forget what he’d done and took his own life. This might explain the large amount of explosives used. If so, had he told his wife?
“Could you tell me what happened that night?”
The widow sighs, glances out the kitchen window. “I’ve told the police everything.”
“I know Linda, but the police don’t tell me much.”
She looks at me as if I’m crazy, wanting to hear more.
“It’s frustrating,” I say. “Trying to put it together, so it makes sense.”
“It doesn’t make sense Mr. Cassel. It’ll never make sense. Why go over it again?”
“Just briefly. Please.”
She hesitates then takes a deep, steadying breath, tells me what she told the police in a way that makes it clear she’s had to repeat this more than once. “Ronny went to work just after midnight, but I’m not sure of the exact time because I was working at the hospital. Our shifts overlap. He wanted to watch some movie on Fox before he went, so I think he did that. The last time I saw him was five o’clock that evening. I got the call at three minutes to three in the morning,” she says wistfully. “I remember looking at the clock.”
“Was he acting strangely that night? Anything unusual?”
She shakes her head.
“Did he have any enemies? Anyone who might be capable of something like this?”
A deep sigh as she looks at me, insulted that someone would ask that about her husband. But it’s been asked before. Asked and answered. “No, Ronny didn’t have enemies. He got into the occasional fight at the bar, you know, like all men do. Adolescent stuff mostly and it didn’t happen often. He knew I didn’t like him doing that.” She’s on the verge of tears. “He was a gentle soul at heart. He got along with everyone.”
I wait, hope the tears don’t come.
“Linda, when you were living in Fort Termination, was there anyone that you and Ronny knew who struck you as a little strange? Someone with strong environmental beliefs or someone who might have seemed very quiet when the topic came up. Someone Ronny might have run into because of his work?”
For a minute or two, Linda looks thoughtful. A new expression passes across her face, an uncomfortable mixture of hope and suspicion, a desire for revenge I’ve seen in the mirror. Then her features go slack, settle once again into the drained, neutral expression.
“No,” she mutters. “They were all a little strange.”
I take out my wallet, fumble it open, try to extract a photo of Nina but the plastic pouch is taped shut so I slide the wallet over to her, like an open book. She leans forward, looks at Nina’s picture without touching the wallet.
“Do you remember seeing her before?”
Linda frowns slightly. “This is her, isn’t it? Your fiancée?”
“Yes. Have you seen her?”
“She was very pretty,” she says, her eyes still on the tiny picture. “I used to see her on the street and in the stores every once in a while, although I don’t think we talked much. A little, you know, like people do when they see each other in the same places. It was a small town. And she came into the hospital once, with a broken ankle. She was in a lot of pain but she never cried.”
I remember Nina telling me about this. It happened shortly before I knew her. She’d been riding Arthur’s old three-wheel atv and had put her foot down at the wrong time. The back wheel had climbed up her leg. Her ankle broke. Naked, you could see her one leg was a bit thinner, hadn’t quite recovered from the atrophy. It’s my turn to get teary.
“What about Ronny? Did he have any reason to know her?”
“No. Why?” Linda’s expression is intent but confused, as if part of her mind were processing an unreasonably complex program. I slide the wallet home, tuck it into my shirt pocket where it hangs like an anchor. “It’s just that both Ronny and Nina were in Fort Termination and they’ve both —”
I hesitate, find myself using Rachet’s words. “I’m just trying to establish a connection.”
She’s frowning. “You think there’s a connection?”
I massage my forehead. “I don’t know —”
The back door creaks open and from the corner of my eye I catch a flash of someone coming in, carrying white plastic grocery bags. “I’m back Linda,” a woman’s voice calls out. “You okay, honey?”
Linda looks toward the backdoor, then over at me. The look of puzzlement returns and I get the impression I don’t have much time. “Did Ronny ever act strange when you were living in Fort Termination?”
“Strange?” she says distantly. “What do you mean?”
I’m not sure I should press harder, but I need to know. I don’t get the chance.
“Oh — you have company dear.”
Another version of Linda Hess stands at the entrance to the kitchen; 30 years older, more solid, with greying hair and a tired but determined expression. Four bags of groceries hang from each hand; her forearms are as big as my bicep; her calves the size of watermelons. “Hello,” she says. “I’m Linda’s mother. And you are?”
“Porter Cassel.” I stand, unsure of etiquette under the circumstances.
Older Linda looks at her daughter and frowns. “Honey, you really should take that off.”
It dawns on me that Linda isn’t going to work.
“Mother —”Linda speaks mechanically. “This is Porter Cassel.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard.”
“It was his girlfriend that was killed up north.”
For a moment, Mother looks uncertain. Then she sets down her grocery bags and comes across the kitchen, gives me a firm, unexpected hug. “I’m Gertrude,” she says. She’s nearly as tall as me and I get a whiff of shampoo, perfume and cigarettes. “Sad times, Mr. Cassel. Such sad times.” She releases me and steps back, a tear in her eye. “Will you stay for supper?”
“No, I really should be going.” The last thing I want to do is grill Linda Hess in front of her mother about the possibility that her dead husband was having an affair with my dead fiancée. Come to think of it, I can’t believe I’m here. I glance toward the window; it’s dark outside. I’ve been here longer than I realized. “I just stopped by for a minute.”
I retreat to the front door, slip on my boots, nearly have to be rude to get out of there. The screen door slaps shut and I hurry down the dim walkway to my truck, fire up Old Faithful and punch the gas, nearly stalling the old girl. When I turn the first corner, I realize my hands are shaking and pull over, force out a deep breath.
Behind me, a set of headlights swing around the corner. Brake lights flash as the vehicle hesitates, then accelerates furiously past me. I catch a glimpse in the beam of my headlights of a dirty, pale blue, old Plymouth with a mudded-over licence plate. The car rocks as it takes a corner and I see an old sideswipe dent on the driver’s door. Maybe it’s the hesitation when the driver saw I was pulled over, or the way the mud covers only the licence plate and not the bumper, but I get a feeling the car was waiting on the curb, the driver having watched me go into Hess’s house. My tail has turned tail and I punch the accelerator, give chase.
We cat-and-mouse for a few blocks, the old car always a corner ahead of me, until it turns onto the highway and I’m blocked by a big truck with an entourage of impatient cars. I nose in as quickly as I can, eliciting angry honks from the lineup, but by the time I have a clear lane on the highway, my one-time pursuer is gone.