by Dave Butler
“Perhaps,” said Austin. “But they’ve linked the highway, which will be controversial enough on its own, with a route for a pipeline. That I don’t get. I mean, I understand how desperate governments and big companies are to get Alberta oil and gas to markets, but everyone knows that pipelines are a political nightmare. And a pipeline through Canada’s best-known national park? They’d be walking into a hornet’s nest, one where the hornets are already seriously pissed off because too many people have been poking them with sticks.”
“But you said this Cummings guy was a senior adviser to the prime minister, and that the PM knew he was talking to you. That must mean something.”
“These days, political involvement at the highest levels doesn’t necessarily mean anything for the success of a project. There are too many explosive issues that could get in the way. Politicians shift back and forth like weathervanes. Look how many pipeline proposals have failed so far. They’ve tried to run them from Alberta to B.C. and failed. They tried one going south through the U.S., but our last president shot it down. They’re trying to get one from Alberta all the way to Halifax on the Atlantic coast, and that’s been an uphill battle.”
“Okay, but this route is one of the shortest through the Rocky Mountains to the West Coast. Maybe it has a better chance of succeeding.”
“That’s the next question,” said Austin. “A new piece of highway through Howse Pass makes economic sense for central Alberta. Instead of the long drive to the coast south on Highway 2, then west through Banff via the Trans-Canada, it’s a straight shot to Golden that would reduce the distance by ninety-five kilometres. That’s an hour less driving time for commercial and industrial traffic. But the idea of a pipeline makes no sense. It would be a pipeline to nowhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“At the Alberta end, it could certainly connect to oil or gas fields and then flow through the mountains. That’s fine. But the pipeline would end up north of Golden, near where we are now, in a valley that runs north-south, not east-west. That means someone would still have to build three hundred kilometers of new pipeline to ship oil or gas south to the U.S. border. Or they’d have to build more than five hundred kilometres of new pipeline to the B.C. coast at Vancouver, across four or five more mountain ranges. How is that going to help anything?”
“I see your point,” said Myers. He took a slow last sip of the smoky bourbon, emptying the glass. “But maybe we don’t care if it makes 100 percent sense or not,” he said, standing to stretch. “If the federal government is behind it, we have an opportunity to make money. And even if it takes years for the idea to run its course through the maze of fucking review processes, what do we care? If the proposal dies a decade or two from now, so what? We’ll make money at every step along the way, no matter what the outcome is. For us, it’s no different than the resort project. Like you said earlier, all we have to do is convince people with money to believe in what we’re doing, believe they can make more money by getting involved. To buy into the dream.”
“And there lies our continuing challenge,” said Austin. “But we’re getting good at that, aren’t we?”
“We sure as hell —”
The picture window exploded, interrupting Myers midsentence. He grunted and dropped to the floor as the crack of a rifle reached the inside of the house. Seconds later, there was a second crack. A corner of the fireplace blew apart, sending fragments of brick and mortar across the room, one piece tearing into Austin’s right hand. He yelped and dropped the glass he’d been raising toward his mouth. Crystal, ice, bourbon, and blood joined the shattered glass on the carpet at his feet.
“Get down,” croaked Myers, holding his left shoulder with his right hand. Blood was leaking through his fingers. “Get down!”
“What the …” Austin was frozen in place. He looked toward the missing window, saw a muzzle flash, and at the same time heard a third crack. A chunk of the wooden fireplace mantle to his left spun up and embedded itself in the ceiling.
“Get on the fucking floor!” Myers yelled. “Someone’s shooting at us!”
Austin dropped to the carpet and began crawling toward the kitchen, desperately trying to get as far from the shooter as he could.
“Turn off the lamp,” yelled Myers. “Turn off the lamp! We’re sitting fucking ducks in here.”
Austin reversed direction and squirmed his way across the room on his elbows and knees like a swollen inchworm. Turning on his right side and keeping his head down, he slowly reached for the lamp with his left hand. But before he could touch the switch, the lamp flew off the table in a blaze of sparks, broken bulb, and shredded shade.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled and began crawling back toward the kitchen. In the darkened room, he rolled like a barrel through the doorway, banging his head against a cabinet. Now prone, he peered around the door frame and saw Myers’s dark shape crawling toward the open window, the outline of his 9mm pistol visible in his bloodied right hand. Austin’s own hand was throbbing with acute pain.
When Myers reached the window, he sat with his back to the wall, turned onto his hands and knees, rose up quickly, and fired into the darkness, emptying the twelve-shot magazine two shots at a time. Then he slumped back to the floor, dropped the pistol, grabbed his shoulder, and groaned. Austin could hear his breathing, fast and shallow.
“Call 911,” Myers croaked. “I don’t know if I hit them. But I need an ambulance …” He slumped onto his right side, leaving a streak of red across the wall.
CHAPTER 16
FEBRUARY 20
It was a cold afternoon for an outdoor rally, with a brisk north wind blowing directly at the backs of the locals huddled outside the provincial MLA office on 9th Street. Jenny Willson stood at the rear of the group, dressed in a toque, leather ski gloves, and a thigh-length down parka with the hood up, partly hiding her face. Even though she’d grown up in Golden, she was still unknown to many, and she wanted to keep it that way for as long as she could. She turned to count the crowd, twisting her body to the left and then to the right so the face opening in her parka hood followed her. Nearly two hundred people. That was a decent turnout on a day like today. No doubt the president of the United States would claim it was half a million, she thought.
Someone was tapping on the microphone of a public-address system. It took a few moments for the crowd to quiet down.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said a disembodied voice, “we’re here to let our provincial government know that we want the Top of the World resort to go ahead — we want our local economy to grow. Please gather around nice and close so we can get started.”
At five foot seven, Willson was by no means short. But she still couldn’t see whose voice it was, though she noted the set of speakers mounted on the back of a red pickup truck. She shifted her position a few metres to the left and saw a man about her height standing on the far sidewalk holding a microphone. His tanned face, almost skeletal with its angles and hollows, was framed by a hand-knit toque with earflaps. Next to him was a small, mousy-looking woman with a fringe of curly brown hair showing under a Cowichan-knit hat, and behind them were others holding hand-drawn placards. Some were adults, some children. To Willson, they all looked cold and uncertain about being there. She scanned the signs: Ski Top of the World; Ski Collie Creek; Wilderness or Full Bellies?; Grow Our Economy; My Dad Needs a Job; I Want to Raise a Family in Golden.
She turned to a young woman standing to her right who was wearing a small beanie-style hat, with her long, brown hair pulled back in a ponytail underneath it. “Who’s the guy talking?” she asked.
“That’s John Theroux,” said the woman. “He’s head of the Collie Creek Ski Society. And the woman on his left is Sandy Trueman, his wife-slash-partner. She’s on the executive of the society. They’re the loudest supporters of the ski area. Everyone says it was Theroux’s idea originally and that he was the one who encouraged the developer to come here and build it.”
“Really?” said Wills
on, thinking about what she’d seen on the corporate records for Collie Creek Resorts Ltd. “I didn’t know it was Theroux’s idea. Do you know what he and his wife do here in town?”
“As far as I know, Theroux is a backcountry skier and works as a logger in the off-season. Trueman runs an online newspaper — mostly local news and gossip, a place for locals to rant and rave anonymously. It’s biased toward things she believes in and very hostile about things she doesn’t.”
“Interesting,” said Willson. “What do you think about the new ski area proposal?”
The woman looked around as though concerned about who was listening. “I … I don’t really know yet. I’m here to find out more about it. There are strong opinions in this town, both for and against. I don’t want to be on the wrong side of any of them. My husband just started a home-based woodworking business, and we don’t want to get involved in any of the controversy.” Her voice softened. “He didn’t want me to come here today.” The last part of her sentence was drowned out by the screech of feedback from the sound system.
“Let’s get started,” said Theroux, his amplified voice bouncing off nearby buildings. “Like all of you, I’m excited about the Top of the World Resort being right in our backyard. It’s what this town needs to diversify its economy and bring in more jobs and more investment. I hope you’ll be loud and proud in letting our MLA know that we need her to take the message to Victoria: this town wants that ski area!”
Trueman, as if on cue, clapped her hands loudly. Her face was pinched as her eyes followed his every word, his every movement, as though she were a choreographer watching a performance of her creation. Others in the crowd began to applaud, nervously at first, and then the sound built to a first crescendo. Those with placards and signs raised them in the air, shaking and bouncing them in time to the clapping. These guys are just getting started, Willson thought. And this was all well-choreographed. She wondered how much media was here today.
“First,” said a smiling Theroux, “I’m pleased to invite Stafford Austin up to say a few words. Many of you have met Stafford in Golden over the last few months. I’m honoured to call him my friend. As you know, he’s the visionary who’s bringing us the dream of a new four-season glacier resort.”
From where she was standing, Willson hadn’t seen Austin. She hadn’t been sure he’d attend, after what had happened ten days earlier. That night, Benoit Fortier had phoned her from Austin’s house to tell her there’d been a shooting. She’d gone out there to help look for evidence at the edge of the property — shell casings or footprints. But they’d found nothing. Austin and Myers were already on their way to the hospital by the time she arrived, so it was just her and Fortier after all the other officers had left the scene. She’d seen the carnage inside the house: broken window glass covering the living room floor, a smashed table lamp, pools of blood on the carpet, more blood on a wall, splinters of brick and wood scattered around the room. Without much effort, they’d found one bullet embedded in the wood mantle, another in the ceiling, and a third deep in the ash of the fireplace. By the time they’d left the house early the next morning, Austin had been released from the Golden hospital and Myers had been transferred to Calgary’s Foothills hospital by ambulance, his condition unknown but with a bullet buried in his shoulder.
Willson was surprised to see Austin here, only ten days after being shot at. He took a few steps forward from the front row, shook Theroux’s hand warmly, then turned and waved to the crowd with his heavily bandaged right hand. It was bold to make such a public appearance with the shooter still at large. Willson considered Webb’s death alongside the shooting and found herself looking at Austin in a new light. Here was a man increasingly shadowed by controversy and trouble. And now violence. Despite Willson’s initial digging into him, who he was, and what he was doing, she was still far from getting a clear picture. It was like trying to read a book from kilometres away with a telescope. Was Austin simply an innocent proponent who was the target of overzealous opponents, of someone who wanted him gone … or dead? Or was this a consequence of something else, some other business he was involved in?
She watched him take the microphone and begin what was clearly a practised speech, likely one he’d given many times before to audiences large and small, not unlike what she’d heard from him at the open house. But here, in this bigger group that was clearly in favour of his project, he showed more enthusiasm, more flair for the dramatic, a sense of showmanship that came from a career built on trying to sell people things they didn’t need.
“My friends,” he said, his American accent strong, “I’m pleased to be in Golden, and pleased to be working in a community that is excited about its future. I want to be part of that exciting future.” Again, the applause was led by Theroux and Trueman. A few shouted, “Yeah!” and “Right on!” She waited for a “Hallelujah!” but perhaps that was saved for later in the script.
“However, John has been too kind. It was John himself who first came up with the idea of a ski area in Collie Creek, and it was John who invited me to be part of it. I really don’t deserve any of the credit.” He lifted his right arm and gripped Theroux around the shoulder, grimacing as he did so. “I’d like you to give a warm round of applause to a man who cares deeply about his community, who wants all of you to have a better life.” The applause was much more spontaneous this time, and Theroux’s face showed that he was basking in the glory of the moment. His smile was wide, his eyes bright. Trueman stood on his other side, staring up at him as if he were a god.
Jesus Christ, it’s the Collie Creek friggin’ mutual appreciation society. What the fuck will they do if this thing doesn’t go ahead? Who will they blame? She turned to look at the young woman beside her, afraid that she’d spoken aloud. But the woman was staring straight ahead, her hands buried deep in her pockets.
“We’ve got lots of work to do yet,” Austin continued, “and there are many steps in the process to come. But you can do your part by making sure that your federal and provincial representatives know you want this project to go ahead. I look forward to making Top of the World a reality, with and for you. We can do this together.” He again waved to the crowd and then returned to the front row, bumping fists with Theroux as he did so.
When Theroux reclaimed the microphone, the mood of the gathering immediately changed. “I think you all understand how Top of the World will benefit this community,” he said. “That’s why you’re here today. But I’m going to be honest with you. Brutally honest. There are people among us who are opposed to it, who are working to see the idea fail. Some of them are outsiders who don’t care about us or about this community. They’d rather save a few wolverines than see us have good jobs in this town. I suggest that they shouldn’t be able to stand in the way of our progress. Don’t let them stop Golden from moving ahead!”
He waited until a chorus of “No! No! No!” died down.
“Unfortunately, some of the people who’re opposed to the project are also our neighbours. Your neighbours. They’re supposed to care about this place, but apparently, they would rather see us stay where we are. They would prefer to see Golden stuck in the past. They don’t seem to understand that if we’re not growing, we’re dying. They don’t care about jobs for our young people. They don’t care that we have trouble keeping doctors in this town. They don’t care that we have to drive to Calgary or Cranbrook to shop because we our economy isn’t large enough for us to have everything we need here. They don’t care!”
Cries of “Shame!” came from the front row.
“Many of you know that just over a week ago, someone shot at Mr. Austin and his business partner. Was it an attempt to shut him up? To force him to drop the project and leave town? Was he really almost killed for believing in the future of this community? I applaud him, and so should you, for wanting to be with us today despite his injuries and despite the fact that his business partner is still in a Calgary hospital.”
This time, the applause was lo
ud and spontaneous.
“We can only do so much to make Top of the World a reality,” said Theroux when the crowd was again quiet. “We’re working hard. But, as Mr. Austin said, we need your help. We need you to tell the politicians that this town wants to move ahead. We need you to tell the people who oppose the project that they’re wrong, that they should keep their mouths shut or move away if they don’t like progress.”
Someone yelled, “Shut up or move!”
“For too long, we’ve stood aside while these people oppose everything. We were quiet when they locked up more of our land in parks. We let them close kilometre after kilometre of roads and cut off access to the backcountry. We let them give more rights to wildlife than to people. It’s time to tell them, in the loudest possible way, that we’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore.”
A chant of “No more!” worked its way through the crowd like a wave breaking over the shore. “No more! No more!”
This was more like an old-time religious revival than a business rally, although Willson assumed that for people like Austin and Theroux, there was no clear line between religion and business. Today, Theroux was the preacher, the evangelist trying to lead his flock to economic salvation. Watching him with his fist in the air and a maniacal smile on his face, Willson wondered what was behind his devotion to the project. Was it a sincere and selfless belief in the community, or something more? Was Theroux addicted to the power and admiration — real or perceived — that his leadership of the “yes” side gave him? He was clearly savouring it. But beyond that, Willson wondered how Theroux would benefit if the project went ahead. Were he and others on Austin’s payroll, as Albin Stoffel had suggested? If he was listed as a director, then he must be, in some way or another. What would he get if the project succeeded? What would he lose if it didn’t? Willson pondered the firebombing of Stoffel’s office. She had assumed the perpetrator was either Austin or Myers, or both. But perhaps she was wrong. How far would someone like Theroux go to make the ski resort happen?
