by Dave Butler
“The applicant for the resort, Stafford Austin, has complained to federal and provincial ministers that he’s not getting a fair review process. As you can imagine, the shit is flowing downhill from there. My bosses are being pushed to ‘get me under control,’ and I even got a direct call yesterday from some asshole in the PMO who told me I could lose my job if I didn’t ‘get with the government program on economic development.’” Whatever the hell that means. Because of all that, I’m at risk of being shuffled into some kind of ‘manager of special projects’ position. In government, that’s the kiss of death, one step away from being shown the door.”
She angrily tossed the broken needles away. “I’ll figure out my own situation, but I feel sick about my old boss in particular. While we both understood the risk, he trusted me with his career and his reputation. He told me not to trust Mike, I ignored him, and I was wrong. I don’t know if he’ll get axed because of this. And beyond that, the investigation has become a distraction from the real questions. Instead of focusing on the dubious resort project, the even more dubious proponent, and the project’s finances, the free-enterprisers in government are in a frenzy over what they’re describing as an out-of-control bureaucracy bent on wrecking Canada’s economy. And for the moment, I’m their goddamn poster child. They’re completely ignoring the fact that it’s a stupid friggin’ project to begin with, or that it might be some kind of scam. What a shit show.”
“Jesus, Jenny, I’m sorry. Have you tried to contact this Mike to see why he did it?”
“I’ve left a bunch of phone messages and sent him a few nasty texts. No fucking smiley faces, that’s for sure. He’s ignored them all. I guess once he got what he needed from me, we were done.” She leaned forward, hugging her knees, rocking, her chin on her forearms. “Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, without the wham or the bam.”
Browning put a consoling hand on Willson’s back, rubbing it gently. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“At this point, I have no idea. What I’d like to do is go down to Boise, find Mike, and then string him up by his short-and-curlies. But I won’t. While it might feel good, it wouldn’t help the situation.”
Browning laughed, and Willson knew she was trying to lighten the mood, even if just for a moment.
“I’m guessing you’re not going to stop the investigation. I know you too well.”
“Hell no,” said Willson. “I’m in too deep now. As my father always said, ‘Where there’s a Willson, there’s a way.’ I have to find the way.”
Browning smiled. “I think there’s a T-shirt out there somewhere with that saying on it, isn’t there?” She knew there was because she, Jim Woods, and some of Willson’s other friends had presented it to Willson after her successful poaching investigation.
But Willson wasn’t smiling. “I’ve got some half-baked ideas that I’m going to sit on for a day or two. But first, I’ve got to get my head on straight. That’s why I came down here for the weekend. I’m still furious at Mike for taking advantage of me like he did. I needed to see you, and I needed this ride.”
“I’m glad you thought of me, Jenny. That’s what friends are for.”
Willson finally smiled and was about to say something more, but was interrupted by a muffled buzzing. She freed her cellphone from the small pocket on the back of her cycling jersey and slid her finger across the screen. “Willson here.”
“Hi, Jenny, it’s Heather from the Golden library.”
“Uh … hi, Heather.” This was the first time she’d ever received a call from her mother’s boss. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling to see how your mother is doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t come in to work today, and I assumed she was … under the weather. I know she was upset about the newspaper article you were named in. She showed it to me yesterday and seemed very worried about you.”
“I … I saw her late yesterday afternoon before I drove down here. I’m in Cranbrook. She seemed fine when I left. As far as I know, she was planning to come in today for her Saturday shift.” Willson felt a jolt of uncertainty, like the sudden onset of atrial fibrillation. At the lowest points of her mother’s depression, Willson had become accustomed to her unpredictable behaviours, but missing work was out of character, even for her. The library was her safety line. She wouldn’t miss work unless something was wrong.
“Oh. Anne was supposed to start at ten o’clock this morning. She didn’t come in, and she hasn’t phoned.”
Another jolt, this time of fear. “And no word from her?”
“None,” said Heather. “I had to come in to cover for her.”
“Sorry about that. Did you phone the house?”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault, Jenny. I did phone, but there was no answer. I thought maybe she was with you.”
“No, she’s not. I don’t know where she is.” Willson remembered Hank Myers’s library visit not long after the veiled threats made by him and Austin. The discussion she had with her mother on the way home that day had been awkward and frustrating; her mother hadn’t understood that she might be in danger.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Jenny,” Heather said. “I’m … I’m sure she’s fine.” But her pause betrayed that she was just as concerned as Willson was. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Please phone me right away if she shows up,” said Willson, “or if you hear from her. I’m gonna head back to Golden right away.” She looked at her watch. “You’ll be well past closed by the time I get back there, though. Is there a number I can reach you at later?”
The librarian gave Willson her cell number. “Call me when things are sorted out, will you, Jenny? It doesn’t matter what time. I won’t be able to relax until I know that Anne’s okay.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks again for phoning, Heather.” Willson ended the call and then turned to Browning. “Shit, shit, shit. My mother’s gone missing, Sue. She didn’t show up for work, and I think that one of the people associated with the ski resort might be responsible. I hope to hell I’m wrong, but —”
“Jesus, Jenny. What kind of people are you dealing with?”
“The kind who prefer that people like me or Mike don’t get in their way.”
Willson searched for a number in her contacts and hit call.
“Jenny?” said a male voice.
“Sorry to bother you, Ben, but I’m in Cranbrook at the moment. I need a favour. Can you please go over to my mother’s house and see if she’s there? I’m not sure it’s an emergency, but it could be.”
“Slow down, ” said Fortier. “What’s going on?”
“Mum didn’t show up to work today, and that’s not like her. When I saw her yesterday afternoon, before I came down here, she said she’d be going to work this morning. But her boss just phoned to say she didn’t come in, didn’t call, and there’s no answer at the house. After that threat from Myers and Austin, I’m worried.” Willson gave Fortier her mother’s address.
“I’m close, so I can go over there now. I’m sure everything is fine. Do you want me to phone you back?”
“No. I’ll stay on the line.”
As she waited, Willson could hear Fortier’s police cruiser accelerating in the background. “I hope she’s okay,” she said, pacing amongst the trees as she spoke. “Myers showed up at the library the other day and spoke to my mother. And now she’s missing. I’m not feeling good about this, Ben.”
“Hang tight, Jenny. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
Willson continued pacing while she waited for Fortier to reach her mother’s house. Over the phone, she heard him stop the vehicle and walk quickly to the front door; his steps crunched on the gravel walkway. The noise of his banging on the door startled her, even over the phone.
“Anne Willson,” said Fortier, his voice tinny and distant, “this is Ben Fortier from the RCMP. Can you please open the door?” More banging, louder this time.
“No answer, Jenn
y,” said the Mountie, back on the phone. “I’ll check the back door.”
Almost as if she was there, Willson could hear Fortier walk around the house, then knock again. “Anne?” And then the sound of a creaking door and more footsteps.
“What’s happening, Ben? Is she there?” For Willson, every second was an eternity.
“Jenny,” said Fortier, when he finally came back on the line, “the back door was unlocked and she’s not here. I’ve checked all the rooms. She must have gone out shopping or something like that.”
“No, she didn’t, Ben!” Willson yelled. Browning stared at her with wide eyes. “She wouldn’t miss work, go out shopping instead, and leave the back door open! She always locks the doors. Something’s happened to her. Is her purse there?”
Another pause. “Her purse is here,” Fortier said. “It’s on the kitchen counter. Her cellphone, too.”
“Shit,” said Willson. “Either she’s wandered off depressed, Ben, or that bastard Myers has somehow got to her. She never goes anywhere without her purse and phone. Is her car in the driveway … or on the street?”
“What does she drive?”
Willson heard Fortier walking again. “It’s a champagne-coloured Honda sedan, about ten years old.” She gave him the plate number.
“No. It’s not in the driveway and I don’t see it anywhere on the street.”
“Okay …” said Willson, thinking out loud, trying to sort through the puzzle pieces. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse. If she was taken or persuaded to go somewhere, then it’s unlikely she would take her own car. But if she was depressed and decided to go for a drive, she could be anywhere.”
“Okay, Jenny, this is a small town. I’ll get all our officers looking for her and the vehicle. Just get up here as fast as you can. Does she have any favourite places she might go to get some fresh air?”
Willson looked at Browning with dread in her eyes. “Just the library.” She spun like a top, her free hand working like a claw in her still-damp hair. “The only other place you might look is the walking path along the Kicking Horse River. She and my dad always walked there when he was alive. But that’s close to the house. I don’t know why she’d take the car …”
“Okay. Leave it to me, Jenny. We’ll find her. Get up here safely.”
“Thanks, Ben.” Willson disconnected the call, slammed her helmet back on her head, and jumped on her bike. “Let’s go, Sue. I’ve got to get back.” Before her friend could react, Willson rolled over the edge of the viewpoint and flew down the rocky hill toward the parking lot, her legs pumping, her mind churning.
CHAPTER 31
APRIL 20, 7:30 P.M.
Sara Ilsley turned off Highway 95 onto Horse Creek Road, heading for home. She was exhausted but still shivering with excitement and a feeling of accomplishment, something that had been missing since she’d begun her work as the executive director of the Columbia Valley Environmental Society.
She knew that some of their campaign tactics so far — the protests and letter writing, the small but loud rallies in Victoria and Ottawa, the reports from their experts now appearing in popular and scientific media, and of course, the short-lived competing expression of interest — had gained attention for their cause. But she also knew that they were typical for situations like this, where local residents fought pitched and under-resourced battles against developments that were, in their opinion, jammed down their throats. Unfortunately, these tactics were expected, and while done with the best intentions, they were commonly ignored by decision-makers and politicians because they were so … common.
It was an anonymous call three days earlier that had given her what she still thought was a brilliant idea. In that short call, she’d learned that Stafford Austin was planning to use a local helicopter to tour a group of investors around the site of the proposed ski area. Rightly or wrongly, Ilsley had immediately assumed that the visit was an attempt to counter the recent newspaper article, an effort to keep the money taps open and flowing. She and her colleagues had had very little time to react, but they had quickly chosen two dramatic courses of action.
Their first step was to fly a quartet of their strongest and most experienced backcountry skiers to one of the glaciers in the midst of the proposed resort area, a place where lift lines and chairlifts would desecrate the valley if this thing got off the ground. For maximum visibility from the air, they chose a wide west-facing glacier that ended in a dramatic corrugated icefall, its seracs tumbling like blocks to the valley below, its crevasses yawning and gaping like dry, weathered skin. With cans of green environmentally friendly paint and backpack sprayers, the four volunteers, three young women and one young man, skied from the heli-landing site to the target area and then created a welcome message for the investors in three-metre-high letters across the glacier: KEEP COLLIE WILD. Ilsley and her colleagues had debated using a remote glacier as a canvas, even though the paint was water-based. In the end, they’d decided that the hypocrisy was acceptable, given what was at stake. When they’d seen the images that the four skiers brought back at the end of their artistic expedition, the green message blaring across the white of the glacier like a garish alpine protest banner, it was a time for celebration. But they weren’t done yet.
When the investor group, led by Austin, appeared at the Golden helipad that afternoon, they were met by a raucous, sign-wielding, belligerent group of protestors for which they were clearly unprepared. From her position on the edge of the fenced parking lot, Ilsley saw in Austin’s group looks of surprise, discomfort, guilt, even anger. And she’d taken great pleasure in noticing that those looks were directed as much at Austin as they were at her and her noisy colleagues.
Just as the heli-safety briefing was complete, and seconds before Austin and his group began boarding the fourteen-passenger Bell 212 helicopter, Ilsley left the protestors to approach the investors through an open gate. “Before you go,” she’d said, “could I please talk to you about the growing opposition to the project, so you understand why it’s a bad idea and why it does not have the support of the community?”
At that point, Hank Myers had stepped in front of her and gripped her elbow to steer her back behind the chain-link fence.
But then a tall man with blond hair and a slight beard, dressed in a well-used two-piece ski suit and Sorel boots, stepped forward from the group circling the passenger side of the machine. “I’d like to hear what she has to say. We need the complete picture.”
Ilsley smiled and turned to look at Myers, waiting for him to release her. She watched his face change as he realized that everyone was looking at him. For a second, he squeezed harder, then he removed his hand and stepped back.
Ilsley began her well-practised speech, an address she’d used in front of politicians, potential donors, and in public meetings where crowds were more often than not antagonistic. “We honestly believe that the Collie Creek valley, home to the endangered wolverine, and to grizzly bears, mountain goats, and many other wildlife species, is not the place to build a ski resort. It should stay wild. And we also believe that the project makes no economic sense —”
But that was as far as she got before she was interrupted by Austin. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he’d said, shouting over her, “we could stand here all day listening to people who don’t understand business. But if we do, we risk losing our weather window for our flight. I ask that you take your seats so we can start the tour.”
Austin subtly moved his guests toward the open door of the helicopter, a hand on an elbow here, an arm across a shoulder there.
In a move that surprised everyone, including Ilsley, the tall man stepped toward her with a business card in his outstretched hand, his other gripping a pair of leather-palmed gloves. “Call me,” he’d said quietly. “I’d like to talk to you.” He smiled a painful smile at her, showing the discomfort and perhaps guilt that she’d seen earlier, and then he turned back to the group.
As she walked away, with Myers a step beh
ind, she turned to see John Theroux and Sandy Trueman glaring at her. Both had venom in their eyes, Trueman most of all. Ilsley had no doubt that their anger was focused on her, and only her.
Once the sound of the rotors vanished, Ilsley and her colleagues had put their signs in their cars and calmly driven away, leaving Myers, Theroux, and Trueman standing alone, watching them go. Ilsley was confident that between the boisterous welcome and the glacial message that the helicopter passengers had yet to see, their point had been made.
Now, fresh from a celebratory dinner at the Golden Taps with her fellow activists, she drove the last few kilometres up Horse Creek Road, the fingers of her right hand touching the business card tucked in her left breast pocket: Matt Merrix, Professional Sports Agent. When she’d read the name for the first time, she’d realized that she now had a contact on the inside of the project, a link to the money. From her time in consulting, many years of reading people and trying to understand what they really needed as opposed to what they said they wanted, she had the strong sense that the man was looking for the truth, and had yet to find it. She thought about her last conversation with Jenny Willson, and how badly Willson had wanted to talk to the project investors. She’d call Matt Merrix and then, working together, she and Willson would help him find the truth he was searching for.
As she turned in to her driveway, she was startled to see a flash of light to her right, reflecting off the low clouds in the early evening sky. She gunned the engine and came around the last corner to see her stained-glass studio ablaze.
She parked her car well away from the burning building. The shock of what she was seeing momentarily stunned her. She stared at the flames, at the smoke boiling up into the sky. She jumped when a window blew out in a shower of glass. She thought about the projects she had been working on, the music she had accumulated over the years to accompany a hobby that, since her retirement, had become a small business. And she wondered why the building was burning. Coming to her senses, she pulled out her phone and dialed 911.
