by Dave Butler
Willson pushed open the windowed door to Speer’s office and greeted Pat Scott, a plump, no-nonsense woman in her sixties who’d worked with the chief in one capacity or another since he first became a warden. Her job title was now executive assistant, but she still referred to herself as his secretary. Old habits. Pat was short enough to be the same height standing up or sitting down — or so it seemed to Willson, who towered over her by nearly a foot.
“Hi, Jenny, it’s been a while. The chief’s waiting for you.” She winked. “Keep up the good work.”
“Thanks, Pat. I appreciate that more than you know.”
Willson entered the inner office and sat down in a creaky old chair facing an older man with a grey crewcut. “You wanted to see me, Chief?” she asked, stretching her legs out.
Behind the desk, Frank Speer pulled the wire-framed reading glasses off his face and looked up from a stack of documents. Willson noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the creases at the corners of his mouth — exhaustion from the bureaucracy, perhaps?
“Thanks for coming up, Jenny,” he said with a weary smile. “I know how much you love this place.”
“To be honest, Chief, I’d rather be at a kid’s birthday party with balloons and a friggin’ clown than in this place. But I came because you asked me. What’s up?”
“I’m on the horns of a dilemma … and I’m interested in getting your perspective.”
“Okay …” said Willson, intrigued. She took a sip from her travel mug filled with Kicking Horse’s Kick Ass coffee, strong and black. Until the poaching investigation, she’d consumed anything that looked or smelled like coffee, be it from a fast-food place, a plastic pod, or even a jar of powdered instant; she hadn’t cared. But hanging out with a coffee snob had forced her to see the error of her ways. Kick Ass was the only coffee for her. It reflected her approach to life and to her job. Now, she would kick ass whenever possible.
“Before I start,” Speer said, “you should know that what I’m about to tell you is not only highly unusual, but also extremely confidential.”
“I love a mystery, Chief. Lay it on me.”
“Well, do you remember when we talked earlier in the fall about the rumour of a ski area being proposed near the boundary of Yoho Park?”
“I do. But that was just a rumour, wasn’t it?”
“Not anymore.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so. We now have an application. I’m surprised you haven’t heard, actually.”
“I’m not much for water-cooler gossip. But why the hell would a proposal even be accepted? Wasn’t the Parks Act changed back in 2000 so no new ski areas would be allowed?”
Speer leaned back in his chair, his hands linked behind his neck. “Ah, yes. It so happens that our federal government made another change to that same act about three months ago. The change was buried in a mammoth omnibus bill with everything in it from soup to nuts, and it now allows for no more than two ski areas per mountain park. So, any park with one or none is now open to proposals.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Willson. “Why the hell didn’t anybody notice?”
“People noticed. By the time they did, though, it had been jammed through Parliament with no discussion or debate. That’s what happens with a majority government. A few senators raised a stink when it reached them, but they were outvoted by their colleagues. It’s a done deal.”
Willson shook her head. “Un-friggin’-believable. Do you think they knew there was a proponent out there in the weeds, waiting to drop this idea on them?”
“I don’t know,” said Speer. “But you do have to wonder. Regardless, an American developer from Idaho — a guy named Stafford Austin — made a joint proposal to Parks Canada and the government of B.C. shortly after the legislation was amended. He wants to develop a new ski area in Collie Creek, on the northwest boundary of Yoho. He’s calling it Top of the World Resort. Part of it’s inside the park, part outside. That’s why he had to approach both governments.”
“I know Collie Creek,” said Willson. “There are backcountry huts in the two adjacent valleys, and Collie Creek sits between the two. We used to ski and hike there when I lived in Golden. And didn’t we recently approve a new CMC hut in that area?”
“Yes, we did. When Austin dropped the idea on the two governments, they tried to keep it quiet. That didn’t last long. The Mountain Club members were seriously pissed when they got wind of it. But Austin’s already telling the media there’ll be millions of dollars invested, more people will visit the park, Golden will get a whack of new jobs, and its reputation as a world-class winter playground will grow. He’s selling it as the best thing since the internet.”
“But it’s in the middle of nowhere. What the hell is he thinking?”
“You know the drill. It’ll be gondolas and lift towers and ski runs and a resort base — potentially even a townsite. People will come from all over the world to ski there, he says. On paper, the project looks damn impressive.”
“Sounds to me like a dumbass idea for all sorts of reasons,” Willson said. “No one’s taking it seriously, are they?”
“You know how these things can take on a life of their own. Once the review processes start and politicians get involved, it’s like an avalanche, gathering speed and power, burying everything in its path. This one is already moving, and I’m getting strong indications from my sources in Ottawa that federal ministers are interested. And with the parks legislation out of the way, it’s suddenly become a possibility.”
“Forgive a stupid question, Chief,” said Willson, “but why are we talking about this? It’s a problem for Yoho Park, not us, right?”
Speer smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “You know that Jack Church is the park superintendent for Yoho. You may not know that his father was my first boss when I joined the Warden Service thirty-four years ago. I have all the respect in the world for Church Senior, but I don’t quite feel the same about Church Junior.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s one of those ladder-climbing pissants that you and I hate so much, and he’ll do whatever our bosses tell him to do, no matter how asinine.… I trust you won’t repeat that.”
“Of course not,” said Willson. She wondered where this rant was leading.
“Well, my sources have already raised questions about the ski area proponent,” Speer said, “about his background and his ability to make the project happen — the kinds of questions whispered behind cupped hands rather than asked aloud. And there’s also a pile of questions about the impact a resort would have on the park, on its environmental and recreation values. But Church seems willing to ignore them all. From what I hear, he’s rapidly become the project’s biggest cheerleader inside Parks.”
“What does it matter what he thinks?” asked Willson. “Won’t all those questions be answered by the federal and provincial review processes? The ultimate decisions will be made above him, won’t they?”
“Some, but not all of them. From what I can see, Jack’s too much of a keener to understand what he’s getting into … or what he could unwittingly do to the park.”
“I get that a ski area would have huge negative impacts on the park, but why are you concerned about Church?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about him, really. It’s all about the park. But he’s a symptom of a much deeper problem in the system. The more people there are like him, the less likely it is a project like this will get a thorough, unbiased assessment.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. At this point, I’m venting, just thinking out loud. I’d love to find a way to expose the project for what it is: a tremendously dumb idea that would have major impacts on Yoho.” Looking uncharacteristically lost, Speer stared at her. “Any thoughts?”
Willson stared back, her mind racing from one potential plan to the next. Some were crazy and easily discarded. Others were over the line, and would surely end up with her in ja
il. And some were too complicated, with too many factors that could go sideways. But then she thought of her mother living alone in Golden, struggling with depression. “You need someone on the inside,” she finally said. “Someone based in Yoho who could quietly turn over a few rocks and see what’s really going on.”
Speer’s expression slowly changed from confusion to anticipation. “What do you have in mind?”
“If a certain Banff warden were seconded to Yoho, maybe to take an existing vacant position there, perhaps under the pretense of strengthening their law enforcement capacity, that individual could then do what few others could or would be willing to …”
Speer smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Do you happen to know such a person, Jenny? Perhaps someone whose mother lives in Golden and would benefit from some time with her daughter?”
“I do … and I’m guessing you could make it happen with one call to Jack Church.”
Willson watched Speer swivel his chair around to stare out the window. After a moment, he turned back. “How does six months sound, with an option to go to twelve if you need it?”
“Sounds good, Chief.”
“Consider it done.” He sat forward in his chair, hands clasped, his forearms on the desk. “Now … I’ve already told you this is highly confidential. You won’t quite be undercover, but no one except you and me will know why you’re there. If Church gets wind of what you’re up to, he’ll send you packing so fast your head will spin. And because you wouldn’t be reporting to me, I’d have a tougher time protecting you…. If this goes bad, it could be career-ending.”
“I’m not overly concerned,” said Willson, shaking her head. “I’ll keep things low-key. If there’s anything going on, I’ll let you know. And what I’m doing will be none of Jack Church’s business.”
“I’ll phone him now to get you an interview for the position. Once it’s confirmed, we can set you up with a place to live in Field, or in Golden, if you prefer. Unless you want to stay with your mother.”
Willson sat back in her chair, unconsciously mimicking her boss’s earlier body language by linking her hands behind her neck and fixing her gaze on the ceiling. The swirling patterns in the wood mirrored her thoughts. “No, I’d rather have my own space.”
“Speaking of your mother, how is she?”
“She hasn’t been doing too well recently. It’s coming up on the day my dad died twenty years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Speer said. “Will you give her my regards next time you see her?”
“I’ll do that, thanks.” Willson looked out the window, taking a moment to compose herself. It was always hard, damn hard, to talk about her mother’s depression. Willson thought about her, worried about her, every day.
“What will you do with the information I dig up?” she asked, changing the subject to something less painful.
“At this point, I’m not sure yet,” said Speer. “We’ll have to decide. If it matches what comes out in the review processes, we won’t need to do anything. But if you uncover something different or new, then … we may need to take a different approach.”
“I’m ready to get started. But I do have one request.”
She could see that Speer hadn’t expected her to request a quid pro quo. His eyebrows lifted and the corners of his mouth turned down slightly.
“What is it?”
“You remember Tracy Brown from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service in Spokane? I worked her with on the Castillo-Eastman poaching case. Well, she wants me to join her on a secondment to Namibia to teach investigative techniques to wildlife officers. The government there’s working on multiple fronts to conserve wildlife, including doing a better job of convicting poachers. They’re willing to pay for us to go over there, including our salaries. I’m excited about it. My grandmother travelled to Namibia many years ago. Her stories always made me want to go. I still have one of the postcards she sent me.”
“Where the hell is Namibia?”
“It’s on the west coast of Africa. It’s the next country up from South Africa.”
“How long have you known about this?”
“She only told me about it six weeks ago, a few days after we wrapped up the poaching case. I haven’t mentioned it because it was still a big maybe, but it seems more definite now.”
“It sounds great, Jenny,” said Speer. “And I can see why you’d want to do it. But this ski area project is happening now, so —”
“Timing shouldn’t be an issue. The application and visa processes will take a while. From what I’ve heard from Tracy, it may not happen for another year. What I need from you, please, is a letter of support so I can submit my name with Tracy’s and get the ball rolling. I also need you to run interference so the bigwigs in Calgary don’t get in the way. There shouldn’t be any reason for them to, anyway; it won’t cost them a cent.”
“Well, if that’s all, I’d say we’ve got a deal. I’ll phone Church and set it up. I can’t thank you enough for this.” Speer stood and held out his hand.
Willson gripped it. “I just hope it all works out. How about holding off on the thanks until we see where this leads us?”
“Fair enough,” he said, walking her to the door. “Go turn over some rocks. See what crawls out.”
Willson said goodbye to Scott and closed the outer door to Speer’s office. She paused in the hallway, her hand still on the doorknob. Had this truly been her own idea, her ingenious response to Speer’s dilemma? Had he really shared it with her only to clarify his own thoughts, without expecting a resolution? Or had the crafty old warden been nudging her toward suggesting this inside-woman plan from the start? With a wry smile, she acknowledged it could be a little of both — it didn’t matter. She was ready to protect some wilderness and kick some proponent ass.
CHAPTER 3
DECEMBER 2
Stafford Austin stood motionless in the centre of the bank’s spacious lobby. He was a big man at six foot five and three hundred pounds. Currents of people flowed around him like water around a massive midstream boulder.
Moments before, his account manager had beamed a professional smile when Austin slid the certified cheque across the desk, his fingers lingering on the edge of the paper. But the banker’s attempt at nonchalance was betrayed by his wide eyes. It was a substantial initial deposit, and made with the hint of more to come.
Through the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling windows, Austin watched a parade of cars on Burrard Street waiting to escape Vancouver’s downtown. Water streamed down the glass, distorting the headlights and tail lights into blurs of colour and motion. The blasts of car horns were sharp, impatient. A sense of urgency expressed itself as a pressure deep in Austin’s chest.
For a moment, he considered hailing a taxi. But he knew his chances of getting one were slim in the midst of Friday afternoon rush hour. Instead, he chose to walk. By the end of the first block, he realized he’d made the wrong decision. Horizontal pulses of rain were coming at him as if thrown from a bucket, apparently unmitigated by the tall buildings all around. He’d grown up in Florida, so he knew rain and wind. But there, it had always been warm. Here? He didn’t understand how people could live like this. It was grey and dismal, cold and wet; the damp crept into his bones. Standing beside him at an intersection, people huddled in raincoats and under flapping umbrellas, their faces resigned. He’d been told that Vancouver’s rain started in November and kept coming in depressing, persistent waves until March. The streetlight changed and he continued walking, shivering at the thought of the months of suffering ahead.
Two blocks more and he’d reached the Terminal City Club on West Hastings Street, at the edge of Vancouver’s financial district. He shook the water off his umbrella and pulled open the heavy glass door, his hand slick on the round handle. The lobby was warm and inviting, living up to its billing as the one of the oldest and most respected private member clubs in the city, a refined place where one could transition seamlessly from business to pleasure.
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sp; He greeted the friendly concierge as he passed and smiled when she responded to him by name. This place knows how to do things right, he thought. But when he looked down, he was embarrassed to see his leather boots were water stained, his lower pant legs sodden. He looked as though he’d walked through a shallow pond.
Leaving dark, wet footprints in the rich carpet, he squished along the hallway, up a set of stairs, then turned left, water still dripping from his raincoat. Hearing the clink of glasses and the hum of relaxed conversation coming from the Cuvée Wine Bar, he paused and stared at himself in a tall mirror. As one of the club’s newest members, he still felt like a visitor on foreign turf. But early on, he’d decided to do all he could to be part of this world, to be respected and admired, slapped on the back and recognized as one of them. These were his people, whether or not they knew it yet. By being accepted as a member, Austin had gained a shortcut to new connections. Money in search of more money. He had to make it work — and he knew he could. He pulled his shoulders back, smiled, and proceeded to the bar.
Passing his raincoat and umbrella to the waiter, Austin spotted the man he was looking for seated at a small table across the room: He was a solid six-footer in a bespoke suit and polished shoes, with blond hair, designer eyeglasses, and a five o’clock shadow. In his left hand he gripped a glass of amber liquid.
Austin had researched the man carefully before requesting this meeting. Matt Merrix was a thirty-five-year-old Vancouver-based agent for a sports management company in Toronto. After an NHL career just long enough to have had a cup of coffee, he’d played ten seasons with professional teams in Finland and Italy. Now Merrix had an MBA from a prestigious business program and an impressive list of contacts. He represented hockey players and other sports figures around the globe, handling their contract negotiations, tax compliance, insurance, endorsements, and marketing plans. For many, he also handled their accounting and banking.
