The River Burns (35 page)

He shrugged. “Tough enough. We drive farther now, with the bridge out. Make less. It's the same heat, though.” Then he looked directly at the man questioning him. “Other things made this a piss-poor day. Maybe you heard.”

“Yeah, we heard,” Vega said.

“Speaking of the bridge,” Maltais remarked. “What do you know about it?”

“Me? What am I supposed to know?”

“How did it catch fire?”

“How am I supposed to know that? Some tourist tossed a smoke, I guess.”

“Why a tourist?” Vega asked. He remained standing, and very slowly paced in front of André.

“People from around here know better, I guess.”

“Do they? Where were you when it burned, may I ask?”

André looked up at Vega. He'd never physically feared a cop, and in a way admired policemen who were likely, from time to time, to accept a challenge from men who could probably kick their arse in a brawl. ­Maltais was too old and too fat to fight, but this other guy looked as though he could make it a contest. Not that he had any intention of fighting anybody, but as a matter of speculation he wondered who'd win that tangle, if guns and badges as well as loggers' hobnailed boots were set aside.

“I guess you got a right to ask,” André said. “It's your job.”

“That's true,” Vega confirmed, as though the idea just now occurred to him. “It is.”

André chose to be cagey. “How come you're asking me questions? You're SQ. I mean, how come our local cops don't talk to me?”

Vega seemed set to answer but Maltais cut him short. “We're on it. You don't need to know more than that. Where were you when the bridge burned?”

“At home, I guess. In bed.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. I guess that's right.”

“You're only guessing?” Vega queried. “I'd think you'd remember.”

“How come?”

“Big night. Big event around here.”

André wished that Ryan O'Farrell gave him a more lengthy interrogation. He might be better prepared for this one. Then he remembered that he was not supposed to be home, but out with the guys, on account of Samad's wife saw them leave together, but it was too late to change his story now. Under pressure, he reverted to his original tale, screwing it up. He wished he could restart this interview.

“I was at home. In bed.”

“You're sure? You didn't come out to see the beautiful sight? Lots of people did.”

“I would've, I guess. But I was asleep.”

“You guess?” Vega inquired.

“What?” He supposed that he could change his story later and just say that he didn't remember at first. Why not?

“You guess you were asleep?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

“Lots of guesses.”

“Anybody see you there, at home?” prodded Maltais.

André just stared back at him and chose not to answer. Then he said, “What is this?”

“People saw you in a bar downtown,” Vega informed him.

André looked up at him, squinting into the sun. “That was before the bridge burned maybe. Like way before. Before I went home.”

“My point. You weren't always home. You left the bar when?” Maltais pressed on.

André brought his legs together, thought a moment, took a sip of water, then crossed them. “I dunno. I finished my beer. Then I walked home.”

“Walked!” Vega announced, as though he couldn't believe it. “Then you hopped into bed and fell asleep.”

“My wife was with me. You want details? Positions? What is this?”

“What's with the attitude?” Maltais asked.

“What attitude? It's your attitude. Christ, my truck got spray-painted today. Look at it! Other guys got theirs firebombed. You should be out arresting tree huggers, not talking to me about some fucking bridge.”

“You didn't like the bridge? I thought local people loved that bridge.”

André resorted to more water.

“When did you leave the bar?” Maltais insisted on finding out. “What route did you take home?”

“I didn't write down the time. I took the long way home.”

“No hurry to get into those positions, huh?” Maltais noted.

André glared at him. Timbers were coming off his truck and the three men watched that raucous procedure. Then the two policemen stared back at him as if they were still expecting a reply. “Look,” André fumbled. “The long way home is flatter, see? I still got to go uphill but the long way is more gentle. Not so steep, see? It goes along side streets. I take a path through the woods, so no, nobody saw me, there's no point asking.”

“That's okay,” Vega assured him, and put his hands in his front trouser pockets. “We weren't going to ask.”

André sipped more water, squinted up at him. “Why not?” he wondered.

“For the reason you said,” Vega responded. “There's no point.”

The two cops simply gazed at him, implacable, as his eyes went back and forth between the two. Maltais made a show of departure, grunting as he shoved himself upright. Enrique Vega seemed to be churning an idea around in his head, though. He said, “Tell me about these tree huggers, Mr. Gervais. Mean bastards, are they? Nutcases? Fanatics? What can you tell me about them?”

André would rather let loose with a spiel but he checked himself. “What do I know? I guess they're some kind of fanatics,” he indicated.

“More guessing,” Maltais said, and stifled a yawn with his fist.

“It's just an expression,” André declared with more than a trace of frustration at last apparent in his voice.

“Why do they want to do that, do you think?” Vega asked. “Attack logging trucks? What's their purpose in life overall?”

“Beats me.” André shrugged. “Ask them when you find them. Like you said. Nutcases.”

“Do you think your truck was targeted for that paint job? I mean, yours in particular? Any special reason for that?”

“That I can't say,” André told him, sounding miffed. “Ask the tree huggers. Anyway, who said mine was targeted? Probably random, no?”

“So you're saying that they don't know who it is they're going after?” Vega continued to press him. “You're saying they didn't have a clue it was you?”

“I guess that's what I'm saying. I don't know them, why should they know me?”

“That's what I'm asking. Do they know you for any particular reason?”

Vega froze him with the question. André thought it through logically. He was not targeted because the other trucks that were firebombed or spray-painted weren't driven by men who had anything to do with burning the bridge. But he only knew that because he knew who burned the bridge. He could not explain that, he had to play dumb. He was not supposed to know who, if anyone, burned the bridge. Nor who didn't.

Maltais and Vega exchanged a glance. They just caught him out. The suspicion meant nothing in terms of reliable evidence, but catching him out once meant that they could do it again, and probably at will.

André finally remembered what he was supposed to say. “I'm sorry, but if you guys keep asking me questions about a goddamned burned-out bridge for some fucking shit reason then I want my lawyer present.”

“You got a lawyer?” Maltais pointedly asked him.

André nodded. Then he shrugged as though to contradict the nod.

“Are you in trouble often?” Vega inquired with a confidential inflection.

“You want him present?” Maltais tacked on.

André remained mute.

“What do you want to call a lawyer for?” Vega continued in that quiet voice, as if they were old confidants. “You know they charge by the half minute, hey? At least they do in the city. I don't know about this backwater. Maybe by the minute, but still. Have you got something to hide?” Vega prodded.

“I'm not hiding nothing. But . . . rumours get going around in a small town, stupid gossip. I got to protect myself.”

“From gossip.”

“I don't want to be railroaded here.”

“By us? We wouldn't do that. Why would we railroad a truck driver? These rumours, what do they say you did?”

This time he possessed the gumption to sustain his silence.

“Well,” Maltais postulated, and spoke to Vega, “I doubt they're saying he firebombed the logging trucks.”

“I agree with you on that one,” Vega said.

“I doubt they're saying he spray-painted foul language on his own cab.”

“What did they write on it, I wonder? That's your truck over there?”

André nodded.

“Look. It says, ‘Fucker trucker.' God, are these people poets? ‘Bridge burner bastard.' Why would they write something like that? Do they know something we want to know? Maybe they're trying to tell us something.”

“It says that on every truck they painted. Four different trucks.”

“Well then,” Vega concluded, “maybe those four drivers are bridge-burner bastards. What do you think?”

André felt the temptation rising to just hit him. Which he worked to quell.

“Thanks for your time, sir,” Vega said, and offered a friendly departing wave. “We'll meet up again, I'm sure.”

“Only with my lawyer present,” André let him know.

“Amazing,” Vega commented to his partner. “Truckers in the world today, they have lawyers.”

“On fucking call, I bet.” Maltais gave his head a forlorn shake, as though he could barely contemplate such a bizarre development in modern life.

■   ■   ■

Ryan walked back and forth
in a half circle before a small outdoor table in plain sight, mystified. Then stood still. Watching him, Tara waited. Amusement lurked within her glance, her expression something of a mask to him.

“I'm flummoxed,” Ryan declared.

“
Sheesh.
That's a word,” Tara noted.

He might have pronounced on a number of matters. Or mentioned that he wanted to kiss her so badly he was just about willing to do so in public, and in full uniform, damn the fallout. He was thinking that she looked so beautiful to him at that moment he could sit down and write a letter saying so—writing, rather than saying anything out loud, to give himself a better shot at lining the words up properly. Her hair, her eyes, her cheeks, her skin . . . He'd expand his use of the language beyond anything previously accomplished. Her look so mesmerized him at that moment, despite the amused expression, accentuated by how sunlight through the overhead umbrella glowed on her forehead and on her nose. A band fell directly across her wrist as if she wore light as a bracelet. He wished that he felt free enough to say so, but she also confounded him, especially now, and so he added only, “I'm perplexed.”

“How come you're so flummoxed and perplexed, Mr. Policeman?” she teased. She knew how come.

“You know I'm busy.”

She was sitting on the railway platform at Mrs. McCracken's old table under the deceased woman's aged sun umbrella. Before her on the table she exhibited the photos of the fire Mrs. McCracken collected and below these presented the woman's controversial petition. Ryan was driving by when he noticed the crowd she attracted, and wanted to know why.

“Indigents,” Tara said, “take up valuable waterfront property with floating junkyards—”

“Only one. There's no need to speak in the plural.”

“He has a young woman on board now. Maybe more than one.”

“Shit. He would.”

“You don't have a city ordinance to affect his removal.”

“Not yet.”

“Meanwhile, wild woodland children are assaulting logging trucks with Molotov cocktails. Foreign police officers have arrived to investigate who burns down bridges around here. Oh, I'm sorry. I misspoke. I used the plural. So far only one bridge has been incinerated. But even with one bridge burned I assumed you were busy. I didn't expect to see you for even a minute. So. You know. You get points. I'm glad you made the time.”

He studied her. She called herself complicated, but he was thinking that she was just too smart for her britches—or at least for the light yellowy floral-print sundress she wore. He wished they'd advance to where he could expect permission to remove it in private. While the soft turn of her small breasts under the cotton granted visual enchantment to him, standing above her an achingly sharp glimpse of a trio of freckles along the visible inner edge of her left breast ruptured his brainwaves. An aneurism. He needed to plant his gaze on her eyes, but she was taunting him, he could tell, as his own eyes wilfully bounced around like a pair of impudent scoundrels.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and tried to sound gruff.

“You can see.” So. She knew he was looking.

“I know, but you know what this means. You're putting my brother in jeopardy.”

“Am I?”

“You are,” Ryan insisted. “People are lining up against him. More than ever since this so-called war—”

“Everybody's calling it that, aren't they? War. It's Denny O'Farrell's fault, they say.”

“Exactly my point. Tara, this doesn't help.”

“Doesn't it? Are you sure?”

“Tara, stop! You know it doesn't!”

“Do I?”

He fell silent.

Backed up.

He advised himself to remember that she was sharp. She liked to believe she was complicated. Even though she decamped from the profession, she could still be as slippery as any clever lawyer. He took a moment to think it through.

“This helps?” he asked. “My brother?”

“Yes! Maybe it does.”

“How?”

“I can't tell you that,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because you don't want to know.” Their parry and riposte eroded his patience quickly, so he was pleased when she finally broke from cryptic, single-phrase responses. “Ryan, if you knew, you'd be compromised. So you can't know. Or, to put it another way, you can't be informed, or told outright. But if you were to solve the puzzle on your own, then keep it to yourself, that might be okay. Yeah. I think that might work out all right.”