Fort Termination is a hole in the forest occupied by about 700 people. Its name tells its story — at one time, it was the end of the road. For most inhabitants, it still is. Very little here is new. Trailers sport rambling additions. A few cars driven by restless teenagers go very fast; most go slower, sinking into backyard weeds. Despite the poverty, there are riches underground in ancient reefs. Oil and natural gas. Coal bed methane. Millions of dollars flow daily from this region through pipes under the ground, yet there is no real economy on the surface. Oil workers stop on their way through, supporting the grocery stores and bars, but no one stays longer than they have to. The curse of the North.
I stop on a low hill overlooking town, take a moment. A small green sign, streaked with bird shit and riddled with bullet holes, says five kilometres. When I used to jog to keep in shape, it was here I turned back. Then, this sign was a symbol of salvation. Now it seems the opposite.
The five kilometres pass too quickly.
The ranger station is a triple-wide trailer at the edge of town, next to a faded fire hazard sign stuck on Extreme. I pull into the shade of a clump of spruce trees, in a small parking lot in front of the office reserved for the public. I used to park in the back.
In two easy strides I mount the wooden steps, note the handrail is still loose from rot and needs to be replaced. The rug in the entrance hall is the same ugly brown mat. Familiar posters and pamphlets are tacked to the walls. It’s like the last three years never happened and I’m coming to work. Except today, I have to stop at the front counter.
I ring the service bell. Never had to do that either.
Darlene McMaster sits at a brown metal office desk and at the sound of the bell looks up from her computer screen. There’s a brief pause; a look of disbelief.
“Porter Cassel.” She says this as if I were a mischievous kid. But she’s pleased.
In the Fort Termination Ranger District, Darlene McMaster is an institution. For the past 27 years she’s watched a succession of rangers come and go, seen the Forest Service evolve from horses to helicopters, typewriters to computers. She learned forestry through osmosis, watching and learning, manning the radios, typing letters and reports. She knows more about the business than the rangers.
“Darlene. How’re you doing?”
“Oh, you know.” She stands slowly, walks to the counter. “Fires, fires, fires.”
“Your arthritis acting up?”
No worse than usual, she tells me. She’s Metis, hefty and stubborn. And tough — she’s worn out three husbands. We make small talk about district business; still the same problems, the same politics. Another bad fire season developing; staff are actually beginning to complain about the overtime. She asks about my sister; I tell her about Cindy’s divorce. Finally, I have to ask. “Is Arthur in?”
A shadow crosses her face. “He’s in the bush with a new ranger.”
“He actually made it out to the bush?”
“Yeah. Imagine that.”
A moment of silence. Arthur went ballistic after Nina was killed and I never returned to the office, just loaded Old Faithful and headed out. From Edmonton I mailed a letter of resignation to the regional director. As for my trailer, the landlord kept my damage deposit, paid for my overdue rent by selling what little furniture I had. I didn’t care. Darlene adopted my office plants, shipped my personal effects south to Cindy. I vanished, like a soldier missing in action.
“Will he be back before closing?”
“I doubt it.”
Another pause; there’s too much going on under the surface for comfortable small talk. I promise to pop in again before I leave; Darlene looks like she doesn’t believe me. After the way I left last time, I don’t blame her. But she wishes me luck.
Outside, I have the strangest feeling — I’d expected Arthur would be in. It’s like a close call on the highway, a brush with death you’re slow to appreciate. Then it hits you that somehow you cheated fate. But I don’t read much into it; I’ll see Arthur at home, when he gets off work.
Until then, I have a few hours to kill.
I cruise familiar streets and the sensation that I never left settles in. A few people along mainstreet watch me pass, look surprised and wave. I wave back, try to look happy to see them. But I’m apprehensive; I half expect to see Nina coming out of a store. Or strolling along the sidewalk. She’ll turn, wave at me, throw me a kiss —
She’s an ache in my memory, like a body missing a severed limb.
I turn toward the highway, head into a small industrial area. It’s mostly oilfield contractors here at the edge of town. Small offices and big metal-clad shops. Yards filled with oily wellheads, derricks and bundles of pipe. Mixed in are a few logging contractors. kcl Logging is a large cinderblock building in a fenced compound. The gate is open and I pull in, drive past rows of idle skidders, delimbers and feller-bunchers — timber harvesting this far north occurs mostly in winter, when the soggy forest floor turns hard as concrete. I park beside a d-7 Caterpillar, look around. There’s no one in the yard. The tinkle of tools on metal drifts from an open shop door in a duet with some music channel I’ve never heard here before — maybe they’ve got short-wave. The music ends, giving way to news I can’t make out. The radio must have a cracked speaker; the announcer’s voice is like something you’d hear at a subway booth.
Better try the office first.
It takes a while to find the right metal door — none of them have windows or signs — and when I do, it’s not much of an office: two file cabinets and a metal desk with an old computer, the keyboard covered by a grease-smudged plastic overlay. An old rotary phone is decorated by concentric rings of grime. A parts manual lies open on the seat of a chair.
“Hello?”
No answer. I hesitate, then sweating and nervous, reach over and try the computer, looking for personnel records. The screen is monochrome, probably as old as me; I’m not sure what operating system they’re using. Maybe it’s a micro-fiche reader with a keyboard. I give up, defeated by obsolescence. The filing cabinet is locked; the metal fire door that leads to the shop isn’t.
The shop is cavernous, like an airport hanger, with three bays each large enough to hold a semi. The shop doors are all open, white light from outside mixed with long angular shadows from metal lathes and hydraulic presses. It smells like grease, Varsol and oily concrete. The music is much louder in here, distorted by volume; a cacophony of fiddles. In the farthest bay, a stroke delimber is getting its prostate checked. The checkup doesn’t seem to be going well; there are parts scattered all over the concrete floor. A mechanic in grey coveralls and brimless welder’s cap stands on the machine’s track. His back is to me and he’s up to his elbows in engine.
I walk over, watch him work. “Hello.”
He jerks, surprised, looks over his shoulder at me. A wrench tinkles through the bowels of the machine, lands on the shop floor. The name tag on his coveralls says Jean and he wears the universal expression of mechanics everywhere when interrupted by someone clean.
jafos, they call us: Just Another Fuckin’ Observer.
“Sorry,” I holler over the music. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Jean climbs down from the track, crawls under the machine and retrieves the wrench then walks to a workbench and silences the fiddles from hell.
“Can I help you?”
He’s middle-aged with a grey moustache and large hooked nose. I doubt he’s worried who I am so I choose the simplest explanation. “I’m investigating the death of Ronald Hess. I understand he used to work here.”
“You with the cops?”
“No. I work for an insurance company.”
“Insurance, eh.” Jean looks wistful. “Yeah, he worked ‘ere.”
“Do you mind answering a few questions?”
Jean shrugs, unconcerned. “I guess.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Not too well. I work mostly in the shop.”
“But you saw him around? Talked to him now and then?”
“Sure.” Jean uses a rag to wipe grease from his hands, the motion a sort of process that seems to help him think, like he’s pondering a puzzling mechanical failure. “I see him around, you know, when he comes into the shop. Sometimes I see him in the bush, when his machine goes down.”
“That happen a lot?”
“Sometimes.” Jean leans against the workbench, stuffs the rag in a back pocket where it hangs like a grunge fashion statement. His welder’s beanie is purple with little yellow flowers. “Some guys are pretty hard on the machines,” he says. “All they care about is production. But a machine has its limits you know. Especially in the cold.”
“Was Ronny like that?”
“Not really.” Jean frowns thoughtfully. “He was a pretty good operator.”
I try out Brotsky’s phrase: “A real asset to the operation?”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“What was your impression of Ronny? Did he get along with everyone?”
“So far as I know.” Jean hesitates, as if deciding whether he should tell me more. “Ronny was a careful guy, real safety minded. The boys here, they get paid by the piece, want to make lots of money, pay for their fancy trucks. They push it too hard sometimes, get careless, but Ronny wasn’t like that. Maybe because his wife was a nurse. He’d plod along, sure and steady, didn’t like the guys in the skidders pushin’ him to work faster.”
“Did anything serious ever develop?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did Ronny ever receive threats, get into fights over this?”
Jean looks puzzled. “What’s this got to do with the insurance?”
“Maybe nothing.”
He’s staring at me. “You look kind of familiar.”
“It’s probably just a coincidence.”
“No — I don’t think so. Didn’t you work around here before?”
“Maybe in another lifetime. Anything else you can tell me about Ronny?”
“No.” He shakes his head and I get the feeling he’s done talking. He’s squinting at me in a way that makes me nervous. More than likely he’s seen me in uniform years ago, at a logging operation while he worked on a machine. I thank him for his help. He nods, watches me walk across the yard, get into my truck. When I glance in the rearview mirror, he’s still standing in the open bay door of the shop, wiping his hands with a rag.
I dawdle over supper, in one of the two restaurants in town. It’s not that the chicken balls are especially good, just that I’m not eager to face Arthur. The way I see it, one of two things could happen — Arthur could shoot me or I could get him first in self-defence. Either way, it won’t be pretty. The waitress comes around a third time to offer more tea. The owner, a short middle-aged Chinese fellow, asks how the meal was, if there is anything else I need. I can take a hint and reluctantly pay the cheque.
Using the satellite phone I call Arthur’s place. When he answers I hang up without saying anything, sit in Old Faithful a few minutes longer, summoning my courage. I should have faced Arthur years ago — waiting has not made this easier.
I put Old Faithful in gear, drive slowly.
The Pirelli house is a split level, cedar-sided, located in the better part of town. The streets here are paved, the lawns manicured. The heat of day is lessening and slanted evening sunlight makes the lawns and spruce trees a brighter green. I park a few houses away, like I used to when Nina would sneak out to meet me. The memories are as vivid as the sunshine, her absence a painful void in the seat next to me. I sigh, take a deep breath, step out of the truck. Every motion is slow and deliberate. A group of kids play on a front lawn, running through a sprinkler as it arcs away from the sidewalk.
Arthur’s green Forest Service truck is in the driveway.
I walk up the path to the house, ring the bell on the front door.
For a moment nothing happens. Maybe I can still get away unscathed. But I hear the scrape of a chair from within. The inside door rattles and I brace myself. It’s Arthur’s wife, Madeleine, drying her hands with a small dishtowel. She’s short, heavy set, has hair like a poodle and a plump, smooth face — the type of woman you’d see on a commercial for old-fashioned home baking. When she sees me, her eyes widen for a second. Then she opens the storm door. “Porter Cassel,” she says quietly. “How are you?”
“I’ve been worse.”
A wry smile. “Haven’t we all. What are you doing here?”
“I want to talk to you and Arthur for a few minutes.”
She doesn’t ask about what but her gaze drifts sideways, toward the stairs leading to the kitchen, where I imagine Arthur is sitting, still in his Forest Service uniform, having a beer.
“Well ... I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Just a few minutes.” As if this helps.
The corner of her mouth twitches. She kneads the dishtowel, works it into a ball and looks at me with a desperate, helpless sort of look. She’s pulling double duty — dealing with the loss of her daughter and the rage of her husband. She sighs and her round shoulders slump a bit farther south. “You’d better give me a minute to prepare Arthur.”
She mounts the steps, displaying meaty calves, and I wonder how she’s going to prepare Arthur: stuffed with a side dish of plum sauce? More likely, she needs time to hide the keys to the gun cabinet, secure any sharp objects. I hear her low murmur. Then Arthur, not so quiet.
“— the fuck does he want?”
More murmuring; more unpleasant adjectives spoken through clenched teeth. I wait, stare at a wooden key rack on the wall, gaze longingly outside. It’s a good five minutes before Maddie comes back and I wonder if they were hoping I’d given up and gone away. Another minute or two and they might have gotten their wish. Maddie stands at the top of the stairs, motions me up.
Arthur is seated at the far end of a small kitchen table, still in his brown polyester Forest Service uniform, grey hair matted, ball cap and can of Bud in front of him. He’s leaning forward, forearms rested on the tabletop, jaw clenched and eyes squinted like he’s in the midst of having a boil lanced.
“Thanks for seeing me Arthur. I know this isn’t easy —”
“You’ve got more balls than brains, Cassel.”
His eyes are levelled at me like lasers, diamond hard with hatred. With the slightest glance, he could wilt houseplants, cut furniture in two. Maddie pulls out a chair opposite Arthur, motions that I should sit. I ignore the chair for the time being.
“What the fuck do you want?” asks Arthur.
There’s no way to make this easier. “I need to talk to you and Maddie about Nina.”
He nods, his lips pursed.
“And about what just happened, down in Curtain River.”
He’s waiting — he doesn’t look very patient. Maddie watches, like a referee at a tennis match, her eyes darting back and forth between the opposing teams.
“I went down there and helped the cops look for evidence.”
“Well aren’t you a Boy Scout.”
There’s a conspicuous pause; I’m not sure where to start. Arthur is silent, like a Mafia Don contemplating a traitor, deciding on an appropriately gruesome punishment. Maddie stands with her arms clasped close to her body, like she’s cold.
“It got me to thinking,” I say. “Wondering if there’s a connection.”
“A connection?” Arthur sneers. “Of course there’s a fucking connection.”
His fists are clenched and it looks like he’s got a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek — I think he’s chewing his tongue. I better give him the executive summary. “I’m talking about a connection between Nina and the fellow who was killed down south.”
“You think you’re some sort of cop now,” Arthur says.
“Turns out, the fellow who was killed down south worked here —”
“Some kinda private investigator —”
“Give him a chance,” Maddie says sharply. “Take a seat, Porter.”
“A chance?” says Arthur. “That’s more than our little girl had —”
Maddie shoots him a determined look. “Arthur —”
Arthur takes a sip of beer, chews on it, his chin jutting. He’s old and angry; wrinkles and frown lines intersect on his narrow face. I don’t much feel like sitting at the table with him but do anyway. This must be how The Chair in San Quentin feels; there’s plenty of juice in this room. Maddie sits like a negotiator between me and her husband.
“What kind of connection?” asks Maddie. She’s trying not to look hopeful.
“The guy’s name was Ronald Hess,” I say, looking at Maddie; it’s easier to talk to her. “He worked here for 18 months before Nina was killed. The way I see it, there are a couple of possibilities. They both could have known the person who was doing this, maybe had some suspicion —”
“You don’t think they were accidents?” Maddie looks frightened.
Arthur sits back, presses his palms against the edge of the table.
“Well, it is possible —”
“Christ!” Arthur pushes back his chair; an abrasive squeak that causes Maddie to wince. He glares at me as he walks past, stands by the kitchen sink, stares out an open window. I turn in my chair, don’t want my back exposed. For a minute the only sounds are mosquitoes at the window screen, the tinkle of a wind chime, the muted voices of playing children.
“You think someone purposefully killed Nina,” Maddie says.
“At this point, I’m not sure of anything.”
“Someone killed her all right,” Arthur says quietly. “He’s sittin’ right here —”
Maddie’s voice is a husky groan. “Arthur —”
Arthur turns, points at me. “— pretending to be some sort of cop.”
I stand. It was a mistake to have come.
“Sit down,” says Maddie. She looks at Arthur. “She was my daughter too and if there’s something to know, then I want to know about it!”
I remain standing, where I can see Arthur. We’re like fighters at a weigh-in. Arthur gives me his best pre-fight glare, then turns it on his wife. Like a good referee, she doesn’t flinch. He makes a grumbling noise you’d need a field zoologist to interpret, stares out the window.
“As for you, Porter, finish what you’ve started.”
I swallow, nervous, glance toward Arthur. He’s still turned away, staring out the window. “Like I said, both Hess and your daughter might have known the person who was doing this. I doubt they would have realized it at the time but if the killer had any doubts —”
“You make a crappy detective,” Arthur says, not looking at me. “The guy who planted the bomb wouldn’t have known she’d be there. It was your screw-up that she was.”
“I thought of that,” I say. “He might have been watching —”
He turns and stares at me. “Unless you did it. That’d explain everything.”
“Arthur, I know that fits nicely with your view of the universe, but I didn’t do it.”
“Guilty, one way or the other,” he mutters.
Maddie gives him an icy look. “We know you didn’t do it, Porter.”
“Thank you.”
Arthur mumbles something I don’t quite catch.
“Go on,” says Maddie.
“Do you recall anyone that Nina knew who seemed suspicious?”
“In what way?” asks Maddie.
“The people she knew — were you uncomfortable with any of them?”
“You, for starters,” says Arthur.
Maddie sighs. “I don’t think so. It’s so hard to say, looking back.”
“Waste of time,” says Arthur.
Maddie glares at him.
“Well it is.”
“We’ll think about it,” says Maddie. “How can we get hold of you?”
“I’ve got a satellite phone.” I give her the number.
“What are the other possibilities?” asks Arthur. It’s killing him to ask.
“What happened to Nina might very well have been an accident,” I tell them. “After she died, the bombings stopped until Hess was killed. This could mean the bomber had no intention of killing anybody, that he was horrified when Nina died.”
Maddie clearly prefers this explanation.
Arthur stares at the linoleum. “But he started bombing again.”
“Maybe it took him a few years to get over what he’d done,” I say.
“The bastard,” Arthur mumbles.
“Or maybe he couldn’t get over it.”
I wait, let them make the jump.
“You think Hess was the Lorax,” Maddie says faintly.
“I’ve considered it. Maybe he killed himself.”
Arthur is nodding; first good news he’s had all day.
“Would he do that if he didn’t know her?” asks Maddie.
She leading the conversation to places I’ve been reluctant to go.
I try to keep my voice even. “Is it possible Nina was seeing Hess?”
“What!” says Arthur. “You mean sleeping with him?”
The look on his face — I don’t have to answer.
“You’re asking us?” he says. “We didn’t know she was sleeping with you.”
“It’s not like she would tell me,” I say, my voice unsteady.
Arthur takes a step toward me. “Listen you little shit —”
I back away, toward the door.
“You be damn careful what you say about my little girl —”
Maddie stands. “Arthur, please —” But any authority she had is gone.
Arthur is fumbling with the cuff buttons of his polyester shirt. He wants to roll back his sleeves, duke it out like in some old-time movie, but he’s too angry to make anything that coordinated work. There’s no use trying to reason with him and I have no desire to fight Nina’s father. When she was alive, I would have fought Arthur to prevent being apart from her but now it just seems pitiful. I retreat to the door, grab my boots, don’t bother taking the time to slip them on. The screen door doesn’t get a chance to shut behind me — it catches Arthur in the face, further enraging him. I expect him to come after me but he shouts from his front step as I walk away, carrying my boots. The kids stand on the neighbour’s lawn, dripping and gawking.
The fighters return to their corners — I climb into Old Faithful, Arthur goes inside.
In my truck, I sit for a few minutes, my head leaning against the steering wheel, in no shape to drive. My throat is so constricted I can hardly breathe and everything is blurry. I’m whispering Nina’s name, apologizing over and over. There’s a knock on the side window.
Reluctantly, I look up.
It’s Maddie. The flesh around her eyes is puffy but she’s not crying — she’s stronger than both Arthur and me. She motions for me to roll down the window and I wipe my cheeks, attempt some semblance of composure.
“I always knew about you, Porter,” she says. “A girl talks to her mother. I didn’t mention it to Arthur because it would have made things at work difficult for both of you.”
I nod, try to croak a thank you.
“She loved you, Porter. She wasn’t seeing anyone else.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have come.”
She reaches in, pats my shoulder, walks away. She doesn’t look back. I feel like an idiot for coming here, stirring things up like this. But I’m relieved.
On the way out of town, I pick up a dozen roses and stop at the cemetery, spend some time with Nina. Tell her what’s been going on. Offer an apology for doubting her.