The microphone automatically swings away. I grab Carl, who seems stunned, and we make a run for it, mix with spectators down the street. With any luck the reporter didn’t recognize me. A look back confirms Lip Ring is enjoying his 30 seconds of fame.
In the street, Reggie and sidekick are rapidly losing ground.
Carl looks worried. “Maybe we should do something.”
“Sure. Let’s watch.”
Sirens approach; news of the commotion has reached the front. Spectators part like the Red Sea as fire trucks lumber to the rescue. I’m caught in a retreating tide of rubberneckers, swept into a gas station parking lot where I watch from an eddy as firefighters blast the mob with water — they break like sand washed from a driveway. Reggie and sidekick are pulled to the safety of the fire truck. Police suburbans emerge from a side street, lights strobing, sirens warbling. Soggy cowboys and mill workers retreat. They’re still angry but the mob energy has dissipated. Reggie is assisted into a cruiser and whisked away. Elvis has left the building. The show is over.
“Unbelievable,” mutters Carl.
“Was that the Reggie who worked for you?”
“That was him,” he says, shaking his head.
The reporter is looking around like an anxious mother at a shopping mall — Reggie is gone and she wants a follow-up. Nose Ring isn’t credible enough for the six o’clock news. I grab Carl by the elbow, lead him in the opposite direction. I’ve had enough of reporters and Loraxes for the day. Ahead in the parking lot of a video store I see a familiar figure standing in the back of a pickup truck. She’s got a camera with a zoom lens pointed at what’s left of Reggie’s float.
“Doing a little work for National Geographic?”
Telson is looking through the public eye and is startled, nearly falls out of the truck.
“Christ, Porter, didn’t your mother tell you not to sneak up on people like that?”
“Let’s leave my mother out of this.”
She’s wearing army pants cut very short and a baggy red T-shirt with an interesting graphic involving a chicken, a rabbit and an Easter egg. Very becoming in an adolescent grunge sort of way. With the camera it makes her look like she’s on assignment for Mad Magazine. Carl is looking at her like she’s a piece of homemade deer jerky.
“This is Carl,” I say. “My partner in crime.”
Telson smiles sweetly. “We’ve met.”
“Aagh yes,” Carl says. “The girl from the bar.”
Telson’s smile turns sarcastic. Carl has a way with women.
“Nice parade,” she says. “They always this festive?”
Carl shakes his head. “Not usually.”
“What started it?”
I help Telson down from the truck, hold her camera. “You didn’t notice?”
“No.” She takes back the camera, fits it into a Pelican case. Now she looks like a drug courier. “I saw the chair, then this guy came running onto the street and started fighting.”
“It’s parades,”I say. “Too many horses.Makes the cowboys antsy.”
She gives me a dry smile. “Right. What really happened?”
“Who knows.” I don’t want to talk about the Lorax.
“Okay,” she says. “So what now, boys?”
The Mountain Guardian float has been pulled to the side and the parade is starting again, fitfully like an old windup toy. It’s mid-afternoon but I don’t feel like working any more. Neither, apparently, does Carl.
“Let’s grab something to eat,” he says.
We end up going for pizza which, next to buffalo burgers, is the food of the West. Sentimental fool that I am, I pick the same booth Telson and I shared a few days ago, wishing we had it to ourselves. I glance over at Carl, notice his hair is light grey with ash, his hands and face dirty, and realize I probably look the same. I excuse myself and go to the washroom, clean up as best I can. When I get back, Carl and Telson are deep in conversation and I feel an embarrassing twinge of jealousy. Maybe it’s because I know Carl is lonely and Telson is the best-looking girl in town. Maybe it’s because three years is a long time. Carl looks up at me as I sit down, notices I’m cleaner than he is and excuses himself.
“Funny guy,” says Telson.
“Carl?”
“He’s been telling me all about you. All those embarrassing college stories.”
“The traitor.”
She grins, savouring her newfound leverage. “Like the time you poured pepper into the heat ducts of that security guard’s car —”
“There were mitigating circumstances —”
“Or the time you hired a girl to do a strip-o-gram during the statistics class —”
“Enough.” I hold up my hands. “That’s sensitive information.”
Telson flutters her eyelashes. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
“Okay,” I sigh. “What’s this going to cost me?”
She places an outspread hand on her chest, looks shocked. “Cost? Oh no, you’ve got me all wrong. I would never use such embarrassing information for personal gain. Never. As a matter of fact, I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. Let’s talk about something else. Did you know there’s a midway in town, with rides and games and cotton candy?”
Oh, she’s smooth. “Okay, okay, I’ll take you.”
Carl returns from the bathroom, looking like he took a bath: hair wet and combed back, face and hands scrubbed nearly pink. A strand of paper towel hangs like a fashion statement from behind one ear.
“Nice earring,” I say.
He gives me a puzzled look. Telson casually signals there might be something by his ear and Carl pulls off the strip of paper towel. I’ve never seen him blush before.
“What?” He scowls, trying to regain his composure.
“Nothing.”
We read menus, order an extra-large — hold the salami, hold the ham. Basically, we’re ordering cheese and bread. We talk about the weather of all things — a bad subject to get into with forest rangers; self-proclaimed experts who feel they must explain the nuances of weather and fire hazard. Telson listens politely as Carl gets into drought codes, relative humidities. I’m sitting next to her and under the table her hand slides onto my leg. My relative humidity rises.
“It seems very dry out lately,” says Telson.
“Oh, it is,” says Carl. “The bui is over 100 and we’re talking about drought codes well over 400. Which is amazing for this early in the season.” He’s practically babbling. “When it gets this dry, the forest just wants to burn and it’s hard to stop it. Did Porter tell you he’s on the provincial fire investigation team?”
She shakes her head.
“He’s working on those arson fires. You’ve probably heard about them.”
“Yes, I’ve read about them. They’ve caused a lot of damage, haven’t they?”
“A half million acres burned so far,” Carl says, divvying out pizza like this was a pit stop at a race track. “Not that they won’t grow back. But that’s a lot of trees up in smoke.”
“And you’re investigating those fires?” she says, looking at me.
“Well, there’s a team of us ...”
Her hand begins to slide slowly back and forth across the top of my leg. The hazard rises to extreme and it’s hard to concentrate. Carl gives me an odd look and I reach under the table, stop the hand from moving but keep it where it is. The ground can react violently to rain after a long drought. Carl talks about Curtain River; its past as a logging and ranching town. He’s a virtual cornucopia of historical information. By the time the pizza is gone he’s taken us from the last Indian battle to the present. I had no idea he had such a gift for casual conversation.
“You should write a book about it,” says Telson.
“I just might.”Carl,the buckskin scholar.“Now what should we do?”
Telson looks at me, gives me a pleading look.
“Okay, okay.”
I haven’t been to a midway since I was eight, don’t remember so many horse trailers, so many little surprises scattered like mines over the grass. The wobbly Ferris wheel looks like a death trap; the midway looks expensive; the cotton candy inedible. I must be getting old.
“Just like I remember,” says Telson, grabbing my hand.
“That Ferris wheel looks like it’s going to fall over,” says Carl.
“Where do you want to start?” I ask Telson.
She grins. “Everywhere.”
We start with the Ferris wheel, which lists to one side as we sit down. The view from the top is splendid but I’m distracted by memories of unrenewed life insurance. I’ve been skydiving and it seemed safer — this is too close to the ground and I don’t have a parachute. Telson shrieks with delight. In the Gravitron I find out how a blood sample feels in a centrifuge; my T-cells have pretty much separated by the time we’re done. I pass on the Zipper, feign back pain to avoid being unzipped. Carl sees his big chance, goes for a flip with Telson, spends a few minutes after the ride bumping into things. Telson is just getting warmed up. They’ve got a bulk discount on tickets. She buys a whole roll.
In the dark, with lights on all the rides, I get infected with carnival fever. Carl produces a mickey of rum from a pocket inside his buckskin coat. I lose 50 bucks trying to win a two-dollar toy for Telson. Carl wastes another 50 and finally wins. Telson gives hugs all around. We ride the Gravitron until we’re all a few inches taller and can’t walk straight. Around midnight, the lights start to go out. Grouchy carnies begin to shut things down.
“I think they’re trying to tell us something,” says Carl.
“Now what?” Telson’s got cotton candy stuck to her nose.
I take a few bowlegged steps. “When in the West, do like a cowboy.”
“Let’s go steer wrasslin’,” says Telson. “Yee-ha. Let me at ‘em.”
“Steer?” says Carl. “I don’t think I’m in any shape to drive.”
Nobody wants the night to end, so we follow the rodeo crowd to The Corral. It’s standing room only — you could roll a ball bearing from one side of the room to the other on the brims of the cowboy hats. We lounge by the wall, beers in hand. Telson wants to dance but there’s no vacant floor space and I’m not sure my ankle is up to the job. Undaunted, she dances in-situ, elbowing cowboys out of her way. Carl points to the bar, challenges me to a shoot-out. After a year of altered states following Nina’s death, I’ve been relatively careful with the drinking but tonight I’m tired of being careful, accept Carl’s challenge. The shooters go down so quickly I barely notice. Someone in the crowd shoulders me. I think it’s a drunk cowboy in a rush to find the privy but the shove comes again. It’s the Neanderthal, pug-nosed, unshaven, glassy-eyed and chewing a cud of tobacco.
“Watch it asshole.” Like the shooters, my response is too fast.
He shoves me again and grins. Another challenge.
“Listen buddy, I’m trying to have a good time here.”
Another shove; he’s not big on talk tonight; I’m thinking it’s overrated anyway. Time to teach this throwback some manners. Telson tugs at my arm, tries to lead me away. The Neanderthal spits a glob of black phlegm onto my shirt. But tonight, I’m invincible.
I swing first.
15
I'M ON PAINKILLERS and wearing sunglasses as I drive Old Faithful north to Edmonton. Even so, it’s too bright out and certainly too early to be moving — the Monday morning from hell. Sunday was pretty much a blur, on account of Saturday night at The Corral. I doubt the Neanderthal learned any manners; the last I thing remember is a bright flash of light. I came to on Carl’s couch, feeling like I’d been run over by a cultivator and pressed in a waffle iron, my shirt a curious mixture of fluids. There was a lot of dried blood, most of it mine by the look of my nose. And Telson? Well, she was long gone.
“She wasn’t impressed with your little show,” Carl told me.
“I should have known better. She’s not that kind of girl.”
Carl’s laugh was a little too smug. “Your Jackie Chan impersonation didn’t help.”
Sometimes when I drink I think I’m an Asian crime fighter. “Did I win?”
“You were entertaining. Until you hit the floor.”
“I take it that’s a no.”
“Your face looks like bad plastic surgery.”
The mirror confirmed it. I’m going to need more than sunglasses to cover these bruises — the full Groucho mask with the plastic nose and fake moustache might work. As for the rest of me — I’m like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz before Dorothy showed up with the oil can. No oil for me though; Dorothy has gone back to Kansas. Carl offered something stronger: codeine washed down with warm beer. It helped a bit and we sat on his back deck in the shade, like patients at a convalescent home. Watching the ravens fight over the dumpster in the alley. Sleeping away the afternoon.
The ravens woke me in the dark, pecking my chest, fighting over my shirt.
The second formal meeting of the Red Flag Wildfire Arson Task Force takes place at the palatial new RCMP “K” Division headquarters in Edmonton. The old building, a familiar landmark blue cube, has been replaced with a red brick and glass structure developed by an architect with visions of grandeur. The effect is wasted on me this morning as I pull Old Faithful into a visitors’ parking spot, check in at the front desk — an enclosure of bullet proof glass.
“I’m here for the Red Flag meeting.”
The commissionaire frowns at my bruised face. “Are you a member?”
He has a tattoo of an anchor on his forearms, looks like an aged version of Captain High Liner. Behind him is a bank of television screens showing surveillance views of the parking lot and doors; I didn’t notice any cameras. He’s conducting his own surveillance, waiting for my answer.
“No. I was hoping for a complimentary first visit.”
“They usually are,” he says. “Who do you need to see?”
“Try Don Kirby.”
The commissionaire hands me a clip-on visitor tag and log book to sign in. He calls Kirby, tells me to take a seat. I watch uniformed members pass back and forth, their handguns at eye level. Kirby appears, passes me through a security door, leads me down silent, tiled hallways. At the boardroom, I’m the last to arrive. Malostic and Berton are here, but Star is absent. So is the florid Director of Forest Protection. Dipple is seated beside Frank, who’s dressed in a beaded buckskin jacket. The two constables from up north — Purseman and Trimble — sit together like starched bookends. It looks like a meeting of The Village People. Except for me; I’m Night of The Living Dead. I take a seat next to Berton, who does a double take when I remove my sunglasses, display my shiner.
“You look terrible,” he whispers.
“You should see the other guy’s knuckles.”
There’s a counter with a coffee urn and an unopened box of doughnuts I’m guessing won’t last long in this place. Other than the chairs and table, there’s not much for furniture — this is a war room. On a wall is tacked the game board — a large provincial map with the Red Flag fires indicated by bright stick-on dots. Kirby clears his throat, wastes no time on preliminaries. “I’m sure all of you have met the corporal from Ident. As his services are very much in demand, I’ll have him go first.”
At the head of the table, Dipple sets up a small easel with two enlarged black-and-white photos. He looks very trim and capable this morning, his movements and speech efficient and practised — the manner of someone familiar with courtroom presentation.
“Good morning.” He rubs his hands together as if warming them over a fire. “I’ve met all of you except the gentleman in the buckskin coat. First, a few comments on the general scene. Contamination was a problem due to the level of activity in and near the point of origin. I understand some of this was necessary, but this should be better controlled in the future.”
Kirby glances at me, one eyebrow raised like a judicious father.
“The point of origin,” continues Dipple, “was located 147 metres directly west of the road. Physical evidence seized at the origin included a metal pan ten-inches square and two-inches deep. Within the pan were found several specific identifiable compounds. There was a quantity of wood ash as well as an ash plug approximately an inch and a half in length. Microscopic analysis of this plug revealed a leafy, dendritic structure, pointing to a substance of plant origin. This was further substantiated by the presence of calcium oxalate.”
“So what are we talking about here?” asks Kirby. “Some kind of cigar?”
“Possibly,” says Dipple. “Although my observations are consistent with many materials of plant origin and do not apply exclusively to tobacco. The size and shape of the plug does suggest a cigar but vehicle vibration as a result of transport deteriorated the plug’s morphology.”
Kirby is making an impatient cranking motion with his hand.
“If I had to guess,” says Dipple, “I’d say it was a cigar.”
“Thank you.”
“Wouldn’t a cigar be too damp?” asks Berton.
“Apparently not,” says Kirby.
“I did a little experiment,” I volunteer. “I built a device using a cigar which had been perforated and dried out. The cigar was inserted into a cut-off pop bottle filled with black powder and then set in a pan full of diesel.”
“Really?” Kirby looks impressed. “And you set this thing off?”
“In a brush pile. It worked like a damn.”
Malostic is staring at me, probably wishing he’d thought of this first.
“That what happened to your face?” asks Purseman.
“No, that was a different kind of explosion.”
“This cigar,” Kirby says. “Did you record the time it took to burn down?”
“Seven and a half-hours, give or take a few minutes.”
“Seven hours?” Kirby can’t believe it. “What kind of cigar did you use?”
“That’s the interesting part.” I take the Emperador box from an inside jacket pocket where it’s been concealed like a sawed-off shotgun, set it on the table. “I figured if the arsonist is using a fuse, he’d use the longest one he could find. So I looked around a little. According to what it says on the box, this is the longest marketed cigar in the world.”
The empty box is passed around. Frank sniffs the wood like a good smoke.
“I doubt this is what was used,” says Malostic. “Too traceable.”
“We’re going to have to widen the search area,” says Purseman.
“Yeah,” mumbles Frank. “To half the province.”
Kirby studies the imprint. “Who sells these?”
“I got this one here in town, at a little shop in Old Strathcona. It’s special order, from some wholesaler in Ontario, but you can get them over the Internet.”
Kirby sights down the box like he’s checking a pool cue. “You can get anything over the Internet, but it’s a place to start. I’ll have someone trace the distribution of these things. You say you used gunpowder?”
“Black powder. Single F in a cut-off pop bottle —”
Dipple clears his throat.“I’ve got a burglary to do this morning.”
“Right,” says Kirby. “What else did you find?”
“In addition to the organic ash there was a small mass of polyethylene impregnated with traces of potassium carbonate and potassium sulphate —”
“There’s the gunpowder,” Malostic says happily. “Just like I predicted.”
Dipple glowers at Malostic. “May I finish?”
“My apologies Mr. Nipple. Please proceed.”
“It’s Dipple,” he says frostily. “Not Nipple.”
Malostic colours, gives me an injured look.
“As I was saying,” Dipple continues, “potassium carbonate and sulphate compounds. There were also traces of a hydrocarbon, most likely diesel.” He pauses, refers to notes then gestures toward the photo enlargements on the easel. “As for transfer evidence, we found a single bootprint in the area between the road and origin. Relatively good as far as bootprints go.” Using a pencil as a pointer, Dipple indicates a lug on the heel of the boot. “As you can see, there are numerous accidental characteristics, such as this prominent gouge, that will aid identification.”
“Like a fingerprint,” says Berton.
“Yes. Boot types are fairly diluted but wear patterns and damage tend to be unique.”
“What if we just find the boots?” asks Malostic.
“If the boots have been worn for more than a few weeks — and I’d hazard to guess these have — it’s possible to compare interior wear patterns to a person’s foot.”
“And if they wore someone else’s boots?”
“Then we’d be out of luck.”
“What about the tire marks?” asks Kirby. “You come up with anything?”
Dipple’s pencil swings toward the other photo. “The surface of the road was too dry and coarse to leave a tread impression, but the track and surface width indicate a light half-ton, two-wheeldrive pickup, likely a Chevrolet.”
“A Chevy,” mumbles Frank. “That narrows it down.”
Kirby is eyeing the virgin doughnuts. “Anything else?”
“I took soil and flora samples in case you need a comparison.”
“Good point,” says Kirby, looking around at us. “Anyone think they may have a suspect, let us know right away. If there are bits of organic matter on their clothes, pine needles or moss or stuff like that, we may be able to do a dna match and tie the sucker to the site.”
Malostic is taking notes. “How reliable is that?”
“Just another piece of the puzzle,” says Dipple. “Any more questions?”
There are no further questions for Dipple and he gathers his photos, heads to his burglary. Berton and Frank use the lull to go for a quick coffee. Kirby moves in on the doughnuts, spears two with his index finger. He licks frosting off his fingertips, continues the meeting from beside the coffee urn. “We’re going to have to widen the search radius, look for traffic tickets, credit card gas receipts,” he says, waving a doughnut at us. “Anything that might place a person within the vicinity of these fires. We’ll develop a suspect list, reference this against registered vehicle types. It’s a wide net, but it’s a place to start. Frank, you find anything in the native communities?”
Frank sits on the edge of the conference table, stirs his coffee. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Kirby frowns. “People must be talking.”
“Yeah, but it’s just talk. There’s been plenty of work to go around.”
“What about a pattern? Can we predict where the next hit will be?”
I look at the provincial map. Somehow, the distribution looks familiar.
“Anywhere it’s hot and dry,” says Berton. “Which is everywhere.”
“Can we narrow that down a bit?”
“Maybe,” says Berton. “We could use drought codes ...”
Suddenly, I make a connection. The map reminds me of a similar map I developed in the duty room of the Curtain River Ranger Station. The fire map has fewer sites but the distribution isn’t that much different. It could be a coincidence — there’s only so much forested area in the province and any two maps with dots on it could be seen to have similarities — but it strikes me that what the Lorax has been trying to do is remarkably similar to what the arsons are actually accomplishing — disruption of the timber harvest. The Lorax temporarily interrupts work but the fires remove the timber supply. It’s a leap I can’t help making.
“Maybe it’s the Lorax,” I say. “Maybe he’s the arsonist.”
Berton stops talking. Kirby lowers his doughnut. “What?”
“The Lorax might be the one lighting these fires.”
Kirby looks sceptical. “The bomber?”
“Think about it. Some guy blows up the odd piece of logging equipment and what happens? He generates a few headlines but the equipment is replaced the next day. So what has he accomplished, other than raising insurance rates?”
Kirby shrugs. “Brings attention to his cause.”
“Sure, but if his aim is to shut down logging, he’s fighting a losing battle. And I think he knows that. There’s a better way, one far less risky and guaranteed to have a significant impact. Light a fire that’ll get big and you’ll really throw a monkey wrench into things.”
Malostic shakes his head. “The Lorax is supposed to protect the trees.”
“That depends on what you mean by protect,” I say. “In the story, the Lorax tries to stop the loggers from cutting down the trees. He’s trying to protect the trees so it seems ridiculous to think of him starting fires. But if you consider fire in its natural context, it makes perfect sense. In this climate, fire is part of the ecosystem. I don’t know about Truffula Trees but our forests are fire-dependant communities — they need fire to reproduce. People don’t see that for the same reason they think clear-cutting is terrible. In reality, they’re both just different versions of the same thing; they’re both replacement events but only one is natural.”
Kirby is still frowning. I don’t blame him. The idea seems ludicrous if you don’t have an appreciation of ecological cycles. Which leads me to believe the Lorax must be educated or well read. A self-made biologist maybe. Kirby is rubbing his forehead, having difficulty with this.
“You’re saying the arsonist has an ecological motive?”
“I think he’s trying to re-establish the natural cycle.”
Malostic looks puzzled. “But they can salvage trees after a fire can’t they?”
I nod. “Some of them yes, but a mill can’t run like that — everything at once and then nothing for the next century. They need a steady, reliable supply of timber. And if the fires are too large the mills won’t have the capacity to handle the enormous amount of salvage. After a few years, the burned wood is useless.”
There’s a thoughtful silence. Kirby goes to the map, contemplates the dots. We drift over like kids drawn to a tv on Saturday morning. The fire locations are represented by red dots; I use my pen, add crosses where the Lorax has struck. It looks like we’re playing a random version of tic-tac-toe. So far, the other team is winning.
“Seems unlikely,” Kirby says. “Changing his mo like that.”
“If fire is more effective,” says Malostic, “why is he still blowing things up?”
Kirby looks at me. “How does that fit in with your theory?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve got a feeling there’s some connection. What about the device?”
“Those bombs are a lot more potent than some cigar,” says Frank.
“They both could have used gunpowder. Is there some way of checking?”
“We can check with the other task force,” says Kirby. “Compare notes.”
I picture Rachet’s face when he hears it was my idea. “Anyway more convenient?”
Kirby gives me an odd look. “I think we have to examine the possibility right away,” I add quickly. “The fire hazard in most of the province is extreme. If we can establish a link, we might be able to predict where he’ll hit next, move resources to that vicinity.”
Berton looks sceptical, then reads my expression. “Yes, that would be a good idea.”
Kirby scratches his chin. “Well, we could check with the CBDC — the Canadian Bomb Data Centre. It’s a national police service out of Ottawa that coordinates information on bombings, theft of explosives, that sort of thing. They could tell us what was used in the bombings. Of course, it would be just as easy to check with the other task force.”
“Why bother them until we have some supporting information?”