The River Burns (42 page)

“Okay,” he said. Whatever it was, he understood that part. For him, the grandkids were paramount, and he knew that Ryan loved the town. He figured his son was doing this at least partly for himself, as well, but there was no point in trying to split that hair.

“Now we have to help. To make this come out right.”

“What's that? Burn that barge, I hope.”

He knew right away that the joke didn't work. Rather than apologize he waited.

“Alex, we have to change the culture. How people think. How do I explain this? People are against Denny and whoever burned the bridge, which is perfectly understandable but we can't let that animosity stand. We have to change their minds so that they are for us, in a way, but for different reasons, and we have to do it soon. Right away, in fact. We have to do that by changing how people act. At least, what they do. And specifically, what they do next. That's where you come in.”

He didn't have a clue what she was going on about, but already it seemed impossible. On the other hand, she always seemed to be about impossibilities. Fixing his bad legs, that was impossible. Reviving his eldest son, less impossible. Taking over Willis Howard's store, now
that
was impossible. He tapped his cane against the surface of a stone submerged under the earth between his feet with only a portion of its broad granite back showing. He tapped the stone as though gently awakening the earth. “Let's see. You're consulting with me because I represent that culture you want to change. The retrogrades, shall we say. The old men of the woods and the river and the young men of big industry, big machines. The polluting barbaric dim-witted unclean hordes.”

Tara smiled. She really liked this guy. “Yeah, I'd go that far in my description. Further still, but really, I couldn't say it any better. The polluting barbaric dim-witted dirty hordes. I understand that you're their great poobah, a legend in your own time, the loggers' great mythic leader. How come you don't have a statue of yourself down here?”

She got him to laugh, at least.

“Yeah. Legend. From when I cut forests down with my bare hands, then commanded the river to take the harvest to market under my feet. Barbaric, to use the world's resources for what they were meant to be used for.”

“You nearly killed the river doing that, Alex. You nearly wrecked the forests, too, but for now look at the river.”

“You're a tree hugger? One of those?”

“Not a hundred percent. But I believe in protecting the environment, and I believe we have to support it or die. But just consider the river. Except for that monstrosity, why are there no boats on the river? And it's a given that that thing is not a boat.”

Alex watched the river flow awhile. Even as he stared, his expression changed. When he spoke, he gazed at her.

“The deadheads,” he said.

“The deadheads,” she repeated.

“I love this river, Tara. That's what people don't understand. I hate that we did it any harm.”

“Be careful. People might think you're a tree hugger, too.”

“We can't navigate the river—”

“Because?”

“—because the goddamned deadheads will rip holes in the bottoms of our boats, tear the props right off our outboards. We killed the river for boating, for swimming, for fishing. It's still choked with all our debris.”

“Exactly.”

He stood, and heaved himself up from the boulder. That one leg looked unnaturally stiff to her. Oddly bent. He was beginning to understand what she was getting at. “There was never a reason to do anything about them. An impossible job. Now? Do you think—? There's enough?”

She shrugged. “You're the woodsman. I haven't done a calculation. But a lot of waterlogged timber is floating just under the surface. I've done my research. It's still good wood.”

“I could have told you that. Saved you the research.”

“Alex, Denny has to bring this forward himself. I won't even say it out loud myself. Not until he does. It has to be him. You understand why?”

He mulled through the obstacles. He nodded, to indicate that he understood. “You want Denny to say it. Right time, right place. But also, if you're working some sort of, what do you want to call it?—conspiracy?—with Ryan, then nobody can be seen to be putting words into Denny's mouth.”

“Or else it won't work. I see where Ryan gets his smarts.”

Alex foresaw problems. “There's more to this than what Denny can do.”

“For sure. Tasks for everyone. The whole town, in fact. That's the point.” She caught his glance. “Including me. Including you. I'll provide the legal expertise, among other things, because you're going to need that. You have to get the old guys on our side, because the young guys will respect their opinion. If they think it's just tree hugger nonsense, then everything's lost. Your son—both your sons, really, but Denny's the one who has to address the loggers. How tough is that?”

“Nothing but tough,” Alex acknowledged.

“If he doesn't win them over, it won't happen. If it doesn't happen, then his life in this town, even if Ryan gets him off, will be, you know, difficult. To say the least. As well, without this, if Ryan does get him off, then Ryan is also toast as a cop in this town. He can beat the system but he can't beat public perception.”

Alex tapped his cane a couple more times against the earth. “I get it.”

“You said conspiracy. Okay. But miracle is more like it. So you'll talk to Denny?”

“Talk to him? I'll convince the bugger.”

“We need him to be wholehearted.”

“He will be.”

“This'll take years.”

“He'll make the time. It's either that or spend it in jail.”

He was already moving off, ready to proceed.

She called him back. Gave him a little peck on his whiskered cheek.

Alex issued a small appreciative nod, a token of thanks, and studied her. “You know, if not for Ryan seeing you first, I would've come after you myself.”

“Oh
gawd
!
What a bloody family. Go. Scram! Get out of here!”

They both liked that, this familiarity. This cordial rub between them.

Alex shouted down the riverbank before he left. “Hey, Skootch! Skootch!”

Rising from his divan, Skootch gave a noncommittal wave.

“You're next! You're next, buddy!”

Unaware of what to make of this reproach, Skootch persisted with his friendly wave.

“There'll be no more fires,” Tara forewarned.

“Lightning strikes happen.”

“I'm not telling you this, so you're not hearing me.”

“What?” He ceased his quick retreat. “You're not telling me what?”

“He's helping.”

Questions about that dawned on him, but he didn't know where to begin. “With the deadheads? We don't need him.”

She shook her head in the negative.

“Tara, what are you not telling me that I'm not hearing?”

“He's helping Ryan.”

“Skootch is?”

She didn't answer. He got it then. Or got enough to alter course. Or understood the bare minimum—matters were afoot, and he was to stay clear.

“See you,” Alex said, and trod off.

He was gone about fifty feet before she shouted after him, “We have to work on that left leg of yours!”

Without turning, he saluted with his cane to acknowledge her healing enterprise. And walked on.

■   ■   ■

Relatively quickly, his quarry quit
the chase, although not as soon as Ryan hoped. At the very least, he could nail him on refusing to be pulled over.

Jake Withers did turn his Dodge to the side of the road, sparing himself greater trouble, and Ryan O'Farrell unclipped his holster as he tucked in behind him. Before he got out, he called to his subordinate down the road to tell him that the chase was finished and to carry on in their direction with caution. He didn't need the help, but he wanted a witness, and so he waited for the other cop to arrive.

His name was Henri. Older than him, he was experienced, a steady hand if not necessarily the brightest bulb on the dash. Henri enjoyed highway work, so that's what Ryan assigned him. Nothing out of the ordinary, then, for Henri to be part of this caper. Such details might prove important, depending on how the matter evolved.

The other officer parked in front of the Dodge and Ryan lumbered out of his car, taking his time, really. He removed his pistol from its holster and held it down at his side. Jake Withers was nervously looking back at him with his window lowered, anxious to explain himself. “I just panicked back there for a second. You surprised me, man. I got spooked. I wasn't speeding, was I? Was I speeding? Maybe I lost track of the limit. Thought I was doing fifty.”

“Eighty,” Ryan said.

“Eighty! No! Oh! You mean kilometres.”

“You're not old enough to remember miles per hour. Put both your hands on top of the steering wheel, sir. Right where I can see them.”

“This old car. The speedometer. It's still in miles per hour.”

“Put your fucking hands on the steering wheel now!”

Ryan stood by the rear bumper and aimed his pistol through the glass.

Jake Withers complied, instantly this time, and shut up.

He was scared.

Henri opened the door to his own car and aimed his pistol at the driver. Ryan moved up alongside and checked the rear seat, shot a glance into the front, then opened the door and told Jake Withers to get out.

“What's wrong, Officer?”

“What did I just say?”

“I'm getting out.”

He climbed out and Ryan turned him and told him to put his hands on the rooftop and he frisked him. He patted down his ass and his crotch and his thighs and calves. The man's pockets were empty except for his wallet. Henri came over aiming his pistol at the man's face and Jake Withers began to sweat and shake a little. Ryan pressed the young man's forehead against the roofline then pulled his arms down one at a time and cuffed his wrists behind his back. With his right boot he kicked the guy's feet farther apart so that he was spread out awkwardly and balanced leaning forward against the car's frame.

“Get the keys,” Ryan said calmly to Henri, who put his gun away and reached inside and snatched the car keys from the ignition.

Jake Withers kept up his complaint. “I wasn't speeding.”

“Don't pin your hopes on that. You refused to pull over when apprehended, when requested to do so by an officer of the law who was flashing lights and sounding a siren.”

“I just panicked,” he whinged. “I didn't know what was going on. I got taken by surprise. Really, that's all.”

“Shut up. I'm taking out your wallet, sir. Checking your ID and licence.”

“Take the money. I don't care.”

“Excuse me? Did you hear that, Henri?”

“The bribe part? Yeah, I heard it. Stupid fucker.”

“Let's not be foul-tongued,” gently, Ryan chided him.

“Bastard insulted me,” Henri reminded his boss.

“Oh geez,” Jake Withers said.

“Do you want to keep talking?” Ryan asked him. “Maybe up the ante on attempting to bribe a police officer? Really impress the judge?”

Jake thought about it. “I got nothing to say,” he decided.

“Cat's got his tongue. Finally. What's this envelope?” The envelope was small and stuck out from his wallet.

“Pictures,” Jake said.

“Family photos, huh?” He took a quick peek. “Oh my God. Jesus Christ. Is this—are you kidding me?—is this
you
?”

Jake took a glance back. “Oh shit,” he said.

Ryan flashed them at Henri, who returned an inexplicable snort. He tucked the snaps away in his shirt pocket. “Henri, check the trunk, will you? After that the glove box.”

“No!” Jake Withers cried out.

The two policemen looked at each other.

“No?” Ryan tormented the driver. “No? Are you saying that you specifically do not want us to look in your trunk? What do you got in there? A body?”

“No,” Jake said. And quietly, as though he actually knew how pathetic he sounded, he added, “Nothing's in there.”

“Henri,” Ryan said, “we've got a hardened, experienced criminal here.”

Henri smiled and played along. “How do you know that?” He crossed his arms and pushed the weight of his ass against the car.

“Because he knows that if you don't want a cop to check your trunk just insist that nothing's in it. That way the cop will believe you and forget about it. Only experienced criminals know that trick.”

“He knows the ropes, this guy. A real pro.”

“Check for a body in the trunk, will you, Henri?”

“Yes, sir.”

Henri opened the trunk. For some reason, in perusing what he surveyed, he took off his cap and tucked it between his left elbow and his rib cage. Then he whistled, a long descending note to indicate that his findings impressed him.

“Whatcha got?” Ryan asked. He held Jake Withers against the car with his left fist pressed into the young man's back.

Henri put his cap back on, an odd gesture, then bent over and ruffled through the items there. He straightened up to report a treasure trove.

“Sir, I got what looks like a shitload of marijuana.”

“No!” Jake Withers protested.

“Quite a few kilos, it looks like. I got other drugs. Could be coke.”

“What? That's a lie!”

“Bags of other stuff. Could be anything.”

“Best guess?” Ryan asked.

“H, maybe. I got other drugs back here. I'm thinking crack, also.”

“A pharmaceutical wonderland,” Ryan said, and he double-checked the man's ID. “Mr. Jake Withers. Are you a druggist?”

“That's bullshit! Bullshit!”

“Sir?” Henri asked. His face did seem oddly grave.