Old Faithful’s gas gauge doesn’t work well below one-third but the station at the edge of town is busy, crowded with motorhomes lined up like sheep at a dipping station. I’m in a hurry and Petrovich’s place isn’t that far so I bypass. I’ve got travel insurance — a can in the back with some chainsaw gas. I spend the few minutes it takes to get there wondering why Petrovich called me, what exactly he could want to talk about. How he might ambush me. Shortly before eight I pull off the road a quarter mile from Petrovich’s driveway, four-wheel across the ditch. There’s an old seismic line, a narrow overgrown trail into the bush that swallows my truck like a child vanishing into a cornfield. I continue on foot.
A low draw choked with alder slows me, but at ten minutes past eight I’m crouched under a border of ragged spruce trees, watching Petrovich’s place. The view from behind isn’t impressive. At one time there was a homestead here, people working hard to tame the land. Now the land is taking it all back. A grey log house without windows or doors leans like a tired fighter. The roofline of a barn sags. A fleet of scrap cars and trucks lie in weeds, most of them on their sides or upside down, like buffalo after a slaughter. I use the rusted carcases to work my way closer to Petrovich’s small trailer.
Gotta watch where I’m walking — I stumble on something in the grass, an anvil that could have fallen from the sky like a gag in a Saturday morning cartoon. Junk is strewn behind the trailer like a coral breakwater. A flock of abandoned shop tools — rusting drill presses and band saws — stand like awkward birds. There’s enough lead in a pile of old batteries to ballast a sailboat. I tread lightly, work my way along the back of the trailer, peer around the corner, the horse my only witness — more entertainment than she’s seen in years.
The monster truck is parked in front of the trailer; it doesn’t look much better than the vehicles in the grass behind me. I try to peek into the trailer from a side window but the drapes are drawn. Like a kid with a seashell I place my ear against the side of the trailer — maybe I’ll hear the roar of the assembly line. If Petrovich is home he’s not moving around. The only sound comes from another quarter — the horse, snorting, swatting flies with its tail.
Despite my best efforts, the trailer stairs creak under my weight.
I open the door.
The trailer is dim; heavy brown drapes conceal the windows. I’m an easy target framed in the light of the doorway and step inside, close the door. My brief sunlit glimpse of the interior revealed a complete lack of housekeeping skills but no housekeeper. But then again I only saw part of the trailer and I stand silently, gun ready, waiting for my eyes adjust. Waiting for a noise.
“You there, Petrovich —”
My voice vanishes like a call in the night and the ensuing silence becomes more profound. A dripping sound, slow — a leaking faucet. Enough light seeps in below the heavy curtains that it doesn’t take long before I see dirty newspapers scattered on the floor, a kitchen table cluttered with dismantled carburetors and cylinder heads. This guy needs his own shop in a bad way. A fridge next to the door screens my view. Where other fridges have clipped cartoons and kids’ drawings, Petrovich’s has Playboy centrefolds — a different kind of art. Past the fridge I find the source of the dripping.
“Oh Christ —”
Petrovich is in a chair that’s pushed back from the table, his dirty hands folded neatly in his lap, his head tilted back against the panelboard wall. He could be taking a nap except for the raw gash in his neck — a drip not even the best plumber could fix. Blood is soaked into the newspapers littering the floor, wicking like a blossoming rose.
Blood that is still pooling.
I spin, raise the shotgun, pump a shell into the chamber. There’s no one — no sound except the buzzing of a few flies, the squishy thump of my heart. The splat of thickening blood dropping onto newspaper. I’m breathing like a weightlifter doing aerobics. My eyes track across the table, the countertop, to a partially closed door at the end of a short hall — a perfect ambush. Gun at the ready, I approach, newspapers rustling under my boots. The door comes off its hinges when I kick, rattling wood, rattling me. The bed is unmade, clothes and a fortune in empty pop bottles strewn everywhere. The latest Snap-On Tools calendar hangs crookedly on the wall; big-breasted girls hold torque wrenches, pose next to a toolbox the size of a small car. On a dresser next to Petrovich’s bed are kitchen knives with blackened ends, the cardboard tube from a roll of toilet paper, a small propane torch. Burnt crumbles of hash are littered like fly shit.
I use the muzzle of the shotgun to pull aside the corner of a drape.
Nobody outside either.
The bathroom.
I edge out of the bedroom, use my boot to nudge open the narrow bathroom door, yank aside a shower curtain. Mildew and a dank odour of rotting pressboard are the only hazards here. The sink is filled with mould or stubble, I can’t tell which. The open toilet has been shellacked yellow. I return to the kitchen, take another look at Petrovich. One cut from ear to ear. No sign of a struggle, although it would be hard to tell in this dump. Still, he’s a tough character — the killer must have taken him by surprise.
What could he have known that made him worth killing?
I stare at oily engine parts on the kitchen table, a half-eaten cinnamon bun, a moulding cup of coffee. I should check the cupboards, the drawers — this is the only chance I’ll get to look over the crime scene. I set the shotgun on the table, search the kitchen. The usual bachelor staples — cans of soup and beans, instant coffee — but nothing to suggest a motive. In the corner, Petrovich watches me with blank eyes, and I turn away, shuddering involuntarily.
Nothing suspicious in the bedroom. The bathroom is on its own.
I return to the body, careful not to step in blood. That his hands are neatly tucked in his lap is somehow more ominous than if they’d been frozen in some awkward death spasm. The killer waited until the struggle was over, probably held Petrovich down, then took the time to tidy up. Made him presentable. I can’t help thinking it’s a statement of some kind, although what it’s supposed to say I don’t know. I step on something hard, hidden under newsprint. Probably more engine parts, some bracket or shaft, but I squat, peel back layers of yesterday’s news.
It’s a knife with a bloody blade.
It’s my knife.
A tension spider crawls up my back, nests on my scalp. I’ve stepped into this trap with both feet. The perfect suspect — I can hear Rachet telling everyone how I thought Petrovich was the Lorax and killed him out of revenge. Doesn’t help that I didn’t report my knife stolen.
But I found it again — that was fortunate.
My watch says I’ve already been here ten minutes. I need more time to look the place over but I can almost hear the sirens, sub-audible. Whoever set this up certainly would have called the police. I should have brought my camera but it’s in the truck, crammed somewhere in a backpack. I’ll have to read about it in the papers like everyone else.
Time to exit stage left.
There are plastic freezer bags in the cupboard. I pick the knife up between two fingers, bag it like leftover Thanksgiving turkey. It looks a little less appealing and I wonder if this is the proper way to store biological evidence. Will it degrade in there — rot or something? I’ll worry about it after I get the hell away from here.
Fingerprints — what else did I touch?
I quickly wipe cupboard handles, the door — anything else I’m pretty sure I touched. I’m not really sure how much to wipe — there may be prints here from the killer. It’s not the sort of situation they prepare you for in ranger school. In my rush, I nearly forget Carl’s shotgun, have to dash back into the trailer. Then I’m running through the trees. Running for my life.
I place the knife in a clean Tupperware container from my humble crime scene kit then dig a small hole in the forest floor like a grieving boy about to intern his pet. I’m not sure I didn’t leave any fingerprints in Petrovich’s trailer and if Rachet finds the knife I’ll be the one in a hole in some federal penitentiary. Better it stays here, hidden until I can figure out what to do. I mark the spot like a pirate burying treasure.
A dark, terrible treasure.
21
ON THE TRIP BACK to town, Old Faithful begins to lurch and spasm then stops altogether. I’m out of gas and my travel insurance has expired — sometime in the last year I’ve been cutting firewood. I sit on the fender for a few minutes but no one comes along. Finally, I use the satellite phone to call Carl.
“Carl, it’s Porter. I’m out of gas.”
“What am I?” he says. “The damn CAA?”
There’s a silence. Carl is still mad at me. The road ripples in the heat. Grasshoppers buzz and crackle in the ditches. A heavy sigh over the ether. “Okay,” he says finally. “Where are you?”
“A few miles north of that turn off with the big sign about acreages for sale.”
“Just stay put,” he says, as if I have a choice. “I’ll send someone.”
There’s a click and the phone goes dead. I sit on the shoulder of the road, my back rested against a tire where I’m invisible to traffic. Now that help is on the way, I’m not eager to talk with any Good Samaritans. The scene in Petrovich’s trailer is stamped on my memory like the afterimage of a camera flash. It’s all I can do to quell a rising panic and I focus on my surroundings in an effort to remain grounded. Cows graze in a brown pasture shimmering with heat. Nine o’clock in the morning and it’s already 30 degrees. I pass the time by tossing bits of gravel at a fence post, a sport I was markedly better at as a boy. Several vehicles roar past, immersing me in clouds of dust. A few minutes later, brakes squeal and gravel crunches — too soon for it to be the help sent by Carl.
I heave myself up. “Thanks for stopping but —”
It’s an RCMP suburban. Constable Bergren has his elbow out the window, turns his reflective sunglasses in my direction. He’s sweating heavily; the freckles on his cheeks look like specks of damp rust. I take a deep, steadying breath, force a calm I do not feel over my features.
“What are you doing out here, Cassel?”
He’s interested in more than offering assistance — I’m still officially under observation.
“See those cows?”
Bergren turns to look.
“Well, I’m conducting a survey on bovine flatulence. Oh — there goes another one.”
Bergren stares at me and I watch myself in his mirrored shades. I couldn’t really look that haggard — it must be distortion. The distortion extends beyond the sunglasses to Bergren’s face. He’s not amused. By now they must have found Petrovich.
“I haven’t got time for your bullshit, Cassel. Where did you come from?”
I turn, take a look at my truck, point toward the rear bumper. “I’m not sure, but I think maybe I came from that direction. Of course, I’m not a real detective like you guys so you might want to check this out for yourself.”
Bergren’s freckles begin to blend in with his face. “You stick around,” he says. He slams his suburban into gear and races off, leaving behind a complimentary dust storm. I’m getting a pretty good tan; too bad it’ll wash off in the shower.
Carl shows up a few minutes later, hefts a plastic gas can out of the back of his Forest Service truck and goes straight for Old Faithful’s gas cap like a pit crew at a racetrack. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at me until the gas is in the tank and Old Faithful is running, then leans on the door, looks through the open window. “What’s going on, Porter?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“There’s cops everywhere.”
“What’ve you heard?”
“Not much. Talk to me.”
“I’d rather not saddle you with this.”
“Uh-huh.” He looks past me, looking for something. “You use my gun?”
I shake my head, pull the gun from under the seat. “Here, take it back.”
Carl takes the gun, sniffs the muzzle.
“Jesus Christ Carl — I didn’t use it. What’ve you heard?”
“I heard there was a murder,” he says quietly, still looking at the gun. He checks the chamber, makes sure it’s unloaded. I hand him the shells, wondering how he could have heard about Petrovich so quickly. “Who told you?”
“Turn on your radio.”
The killer must have called the reporters as well as the cops; he wanted me caught at the scene and he wanted it public. But he didn’t count on my getting away. Or finding the knife.
“Did you know there’s blood on your hand?”
I look at my hand, turn it over — there’s a dried streak of blood on the ham and I stare at it as though it were an unexpected wound. Petrovich’s blood, it must have come from the knife when I picked it up, or the newspaper. Did Bergren see that?
I put my hand down on the seat, out of sight.
“That his blood?” asks Carl.
“I don’t think we should talk about this.”
Carl places a bony hand on the edge of the window and stares at me. A cow bellows in the pasture, a lonely desperate sort of sound, and we both flinch. “I’m your friend, Porter. You can tell me anything. If you’re in trouble, I’ll help you. Any way I can.”
I hesitate, stare at the dash, listen to the thrum of Old Faithful’s tappets.
“It’s Petrovich’s blood,” I say finally.
Carl nods as if he expected this. “You kill him?”
“No. Someone cut his throat. With my knife.”
“Your knife? You mean the one you lost?”
I nod and Carl swears softly, hangs his head.
“You were right, Carl. It was a set-up. The phone call. The whole thing.”
I’m expecting an I-told-you-so but Carl is silent, standing next to the truck, toeing rocks on the road and frowning. I don’t blame him for being angry. I should have told him more. But it’s too late now. “So what did you do when you found him?” he asks.
“I took the knife.”
“You took the knife?”
“What else could I do?”
“Nothing, I guess. What did you do with it?”
“It’s gone.”
“Probably best,” he says, a grim look on his face. An approaching car slows, then suddenly accelerates. I get a brief glimpse of two old ladies, probably alarmed at seeing Carl standing by the roadside with a shotgun. After the blast of dust settles, Carl says, “Any idea why someone would want to set you up?”