Full Curl

by Dave Butler

“Speaking of love lives,” said Canon, “how’s yours coming along, Jenny?”

  Willson didn’t hesitate. Her wineglass was again full, her inhibitions long gone. She no longer cared if Davidson knew her romantic challenges. “It’s like a friggin’ string of car-crash videos,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve signed up on three online dating sites. You’ll laugh when you hear that my first date ended up being our dispatcher’s son. He’s a tobacco-chewing, bow-legged, failed rodeo cowboy who answered ‘yup’ or ‘nope’ to every question I asked him. We were barely past the pre-dinner drinks and I was already bored out of my mind. As my thoughts wandered, I couldn’t decide if I was going to end my misery by shooting him or shooting myself. I finally walked out when he pulled a big, brown, disgusting wad of chew out of his cheek when our meals arrived.”

  “You walked out and left him sitting there?” Browning was incredulous.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Willson in a slow, Southern drawl. “His momma ain’t gonna be happy with me.”

  When the hosts cleared the plates and brought in dessert and coffee, the wine-fuelled conversation shifted from trophy women and less-than-trophy men to wildlife. It was like chaos theory in action, with the discussion bouncing and changing, shifting and evolving, difficult to track and far from linear. Canon and Jenkins first talked about a recent trip in search of mountain caribou images. They had stomped around in deep snow for an afternoon but come back with nothing but wet feet and empty memory cards.

  When Davidson asked what they thought about chasing cougars with hounds, the noise level in the room increased dramatically. Some around the table thought it was acceptable if the cats weren’t shot while treed, while others found the concept despicable, no matter who did it or why.

  “Speaking of hunting, what do you guys think about trophy hunting?” asked Willson. “I’ll explain why in a second.”

  As expected, she heard Canon jump in first. “It’s goddamn criminal is what it is!” he said, slamming his palm on the table. “It’s one thing to hunt for food. I get that. Seems like most people around here do that, and it’s well managed. But how can someone be so arrogant and selfish that they feel it’s okay to shoot an animal in its prime so they can stick it on their wall? I can take pictures of the same animals over and over again, and others can enjoy the same experience. That’s the definition of a renewable resource. But killing an animal for a trophy, and the only person who enjoys it is the sad guy who lives in his parents’ basement and stares at it on the rec room wall …”

  “Geez, Jim,” said Browning, “that’s a massive generalization, isn’t it? Is that the wine talking?

  “Fuck, no,” said Canon. “They probably do it because they can’t get a girlfriend. It’s their pathetic way of proving their manhood. They’re the kind of guys who buy big trucks to make up for their small …” He stopped talking when Browning punched him in the arm.

  “What about shooting a trophy animal in a national park?” asked Willson. Anxious to share her recent experience with the poached elk in Banff, she took them through the incident step-by-step. The room was quiet and tense, the suspense building to her final discovery of the missing rack. A single lamp hung low over the table, illuminating the faces of the five friends as they sat in a tight circle, the rest of the cabin dark around them.

  Willson’s earlier tears of laughter over the Austrian guide’s exploits changed to tears of anger as she spoke about finding the elk dead, mutilated, the day after Halloween. It had been almost three months and she still shook when she described the experience. Browning, sitting next to her at the table, put a consoling arm across her shoulders.

  “But what’s even worse,” Willson continued, “is the call we got from the Jasper wardens three weeks after that. It appears we also lost a bighorn sheep ram at the Columbia Icefield.”

  “What the hell happened?” Davidson asked from across the table, her face a mask of concern. Willson heard an explosion of voices, all directed at her. When did it happen? What did she know? Did anyone see a vehicle? Did she have any other evidence? Were there any witnesses? Did she think it was the same guy did both animals?

  “I don’t know much yet,” said Willson. “All I know is that a hiker found the ram’s body in Wilcox Pass about three weeks after we lost the elk, about a hundred metres from the main trail.”

  She paused, purposefully taking three deep breaths to calm herself. She saw her friends watching as she made a conscious effort to place her hands palms down on the table. They were shaking, her knuckles white.

  “The head was gone,” she said quietly, “along with some of the hide. There was one bullet wound to the body with powder burns around it. The Jasper wardens are assuming that whoever did it shot the animal at close range. They sent the slug to the crime lab, so it’ll be a while before they know what kind of weapon was used. They think the ram’s head was taken off with a saw.”

  Willson sat in silence for a moment and saw the stunned looks on her friends’ faces. “Based on what we’ve got so far,” she said at last, “it appears we have a trophy hunter at work in our parks. Maybe it’s only one guy … maybe it’s more.” She then told them about discovering the writings of the outspoken American author and environmental activist Edward Abbey while she was at UBC. “I love what Abbey said about trophy hunters,” she said. “He thought that humans who smiled over their kills were morally and esthetically inferior to the animals they killed.”

  Abbey’s quote kick-started a new round of discussion, with increasingly strident and aggressive opinions about shooting animals so body parts could become wall ornaments. Amidst the tumult, Willson saw Canon push his chair back and disappear into the dark room beyond the table. The others, busy with their debate, appeared not to see him go.

  When Canon took his seat again a few moments later, Willson’s eyes opened wide as he dropped a pile of eight-by-ten images on the table.

  “I may have the last photos of that ram,” he said solemnly.

  The room exploded with questions. “What the hell, Jim?” Willson asked.

  While Canon answered, the pictures were passed around the circle, from one hand to the next. Willson stared at images of a massive bighorn sheep ram sitting in a heather meadow, its eyes partially closed. Its horns, more than full curl, were thick and ridged with growth rings. Nicely lit with a touch of fill flash, the ram’s head and thick shoulders were a dramatic silhouette against the rock and snow of distant peaks.

  “I was up in Wilcox Pass around the twentieth of November,” he said, “and I spent most of a day with a band of rams up there. I do that almost every year about this time.”

  He pointed to the ram in the photograph. “This one in particular had such peaceful, dark eyes,” he said. “I still remember the sounds of its breathing and the way it dominated its colleagues in the basin. It constantly tested the wind for danger … but at the same time, it also radiated a sense of calm.”

  “Did you see anyone else?” asked Willson.

  “Yeah, that was the strangest part of the day,” Canon said. “I was on my way back to the truck and I ran into these two guys who seemed totally out of place. They weren’t dressed for the weather or the mountains. One was a scrawny little guy, the other guy much bigger. At first, the big guy tried to tell me they were out for a hike, but he was full of shit. And he could tell that’s what I thought. So he tried to bully me into telling him where the big rams were.”

  Willson knew that Canon rarely backed down from anything, and she knew, from experience, about his hair-trigger temper. “How’d that go for him?” she asked with a smile.

  “Well,” said Canon, “we didn’t go toe-to-toe or anything, although at one point I thought we might. But let’s say he didn’t get what he wanted from me.”

  “So when were you there again?” she asked. Her heart began to race.

  “It might’ve been the twenty-second,” he replied.
“It’ll be in my computer, on the digital data for the images I took that day.”

  Willson paused to consider the new information. “Well, I have no way of knowing if it’s the same ram or not, but the time works,” she said. “The Jasper wardens think it must’ve happened around the second or third week of November. With the cool weather, there was little in the way of decomposition. The ravens had discovered the carcass, but despite that, it was in good shape.” She paused again, then asked, “When can I get copies of these prints?”

  “Take them when you go home on Sunday,” said Canon.

  Willson felt the adrenaline in her system beginning to override the effects of the alcohol. She asked Canon questions about the two men, prodding him at key points. In response, Canon described details of their clothes, their mannerisms, and their speech patterns.

  “You know,” Willson said, “you got a decent look at those guys and there’s a chance they’re the ones who took the ram. You’ve got a good memory, Jim. Why don’t I schedule an interview with an Identification Section member in the Cranbrook RCMP detachment? Maybe he can use the Identi-kit to develop a likeness of one or both of these jerks. I’ll set it up for Monday morning. If it works, we can circulate the sketches to see if any wardens, conservation officers, or even Mounties recognize them. That will give us somewhere to start.” She saw Canon nod in numb agreement.

  “Did you see what kind of car they were driving?” asked Willson. “Or even better, the licence plate number?”

  “I’m kicking myself,” said Canon, “but no. All I remember is a beat-up blue pickup truck with B.C. plates.”

  Willson could tell that Canon was embarrassed and angry, now that he understood the importance of his short interaction with the two men in Wilcox Pass. Before she could let him off the hook, Brad Jenkins spoke up.

  “Jenny,” he asked, “why the hell didn’t we in the Conservation Officer Service hear about the elk or the bighorn ram? We might have seen or talked to these guys if they came through British Columbia.” He looked around the table for support. “Christ,” he shouted, his voice amplified by five glasses of merlot, “we could’ve grabbed the head and the guys on the spot if we’d known! Shit!”

  Willson saw Davidson put a hand on his arm to calm him. When he didn’t relax, she watched the gentle hand became a judo hold. The two were soon on the hardwood floor beside the table, trying to wrestle each other into submission.

  For a moment, Willson was speechless, not because of the spontaneous sparring match occurring in front of her but because of the accusation Jenkins had made.

  “Bullshit, Brad,” she said, when he and Davidson had dusted themselves off and rejoined the group at the table. “I personally sent a detailed email to all regional wildlife offices in B.C. and Alberta the same day I found the elk. I asked that it be forwarded it to all field officers. Another message about the sheep was supposed to go from the Jasper wardens to the same offices.”

  “Son of a bitch, there’s the problem,” said Jenkins. “We didn’t get anything like that, or at least, I didn’t see it. And I thought the federal government was incompetent.” He paused and then lowered and shook his head. “Shit,” he muttered again.

  Apparently Davidson kicked him under the table, because Jenkins then apologized to Willson. “Sorry, Jenny. That was out of line. It’s not your fault. How about I get you the phone and fax number for my office?” he said. “Then you can send the information directly to me. I’ll make sure our guys in Cranbrook see it and I’ll copy it to the guys in Invermere, Fernie, and Golden, as well. With a sketch from Jim, we might get a name.”

  It was two o’clock in the morning when the party broke up. After Willson and Davidson shared a hug on the front porch, Willson watched the woman — as the pair’s designated driver — pour Jenkins into her car and drive off into the cold night. As hard as she’d tried, she realized that she couldn’t hate that woman. Damn. Closing the front door, Willson saw Canon, still fully clothed, asleep on an overstuffed couch. His snores filled the room.

  Willson and Browning bundled up in thick fleece jackets and moved out to wooden chairs on the porch. They each sipped a few final fingers of scotch from heavy crystal glasses, which was tough to do while wearing gloves. They gazed at the night sky filled with a blizzard of stars. As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, they saw the season’s first display of northern lights. Bands of light pulsed and swirled above them in a spectrum of colours. Despite expert claims to the contrary, they both heard the lights crackle and sizzle.

  Willson turned to Browning. Her friend’s head was tilted back. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “Oh,” said Browning, “I’m trying to make a list of the gear I need to pack for our guide-training sessions — they start tomorrow night. But I think I’ve had too much to drink. I keep losing the list.”

  “We’re still doing that ride tomorrow that you promised, right?” asked Willson. “I brought my bike.”

  “Abso-fuckin’-lutely,” said Browning, “although I offer no guarantees of any Olympic-calibre performance. Not after what we consumed tonight. But I’ll still kick your butt on the trail.”

  Willson smiled and looked again at the night sky. Despite talk of the next day’s bike ride, her thoughts remained firmly on the dead animals and on Canon’s story. She pictured the two men in Wilcox Pass, shooting the bighorn sheep at close range. It was, she thought, an incredibly sick thing to do. What kind of people were these? Did they have something to do with her murdered elk, or was it a coincidence? Was she chasing two groups of poachers or just one? Were the same people so bold as to execute two animals within weeks of each other, both within the boundaries of national parks, places where animals were supposed to be safe — at least from humans?

  She began to fantasize about suitable penalties for the horrendous crimes once the perpetrators were caught. They would appear in Willson Supreme Court, where she was the judge and jury. They would wait to hear their sentences, sweat pouring from their cowardly brows. Would she choose castration with the same bloody knives they’d used to carve up the animals? Would they be staked, in an alpine meadow, naked and face down over rocks with their butts in the air during bighorn mating season? Or would it be a life sentence in a culvert trap with a drugged grizzly bear — a sentence that would be short and painful? She didn’t realize she was speaking out loud until Browning put a hand on her arm.

  “All good ideas,” her friend said with a lopsided smile, “but you have to catch them first. And I believe you will. Based on what we heard tonight, I’ll bet those two guys Jim saw did shoot the ram. And if that’s the case, there’s a good chance they did the elk, too.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yeah,” Browning replied, “and it looks like you’ve finally got something to go on … or on which to go. Shit. I was never good with grammar. Or is it ‘well with grammar’? Whatever …”

  Chapter 7

  March 24

  Through the front window, the man watched an old woman shuffle along Park Drive, a quiet street on the south hill of Spokane, Washington. She paused, a dark, bent shape with stick legs and winter boots under the illuminated cone of a streetlight. The collar of her coat was turned up high against the cold air that gripped the city. A black dog strained at the end of a retractable leash, digging its weasel-like face under bushes. Beside her, the streetlights reflected on the glass and chrome of the Mercedes, BMWs, and expensive sport utility vehicles parallel to the curb.

  Beyond the woman was Manito Park. During the day it was a calming mix of rose and lilac gardens, a lush conservatory, ponds, playing fields, and picnic areas. At night, it was a dark and mysterious place, very different from its welcoming daytime presence.

  The man was surprised to see the old woman out so late at night, but wisely, she’d chosen the west side of Park Drive, where the curved street was lined with historic homes perh
aps giving her a sense of comfort that the nighttime park could not. The houses, whispering of wealth, presided over the park as if guarding it from the sprawling subdivisions and shopping malls that pushed the city’s boundary eastward, toward Idaho.

  When the woman looked up at the house where the man stood watching her, he knew that she saw him just as he saw her, a vague silhouette. He wondered who she was and what she was thinking as she returned his gaze. Was she part of this world of wealth and status, a former focus of Spokane society pages? Or was she living in someone’s basement or grannie suite as a family burden? As if refusing to answer his unspoken question, he saw she trundled into the darkness, dragging her dog behind her.

  The man turned his back to the window. Inside the house, the party was well under way. Martinis, daiquiris, champagnes, and vintage wines flowed freely. Noise levels soared, inhibitions fell. He watched tuxedoed waiters discreetly roam the main floor, filling glasses, distributing waves of appetizers. Guests moved back and forth between rooms, forming and re-forming conversations. They chatted, laughed, and flirted. Quiet and subtle in the background, a Latin beat moved many to sway unconsciously.

  From the outside, the house was no different than others on the block. But the inside offered subtle clues to its owner’s nationality. It showed the casual simplicity of a southern clime, a stark counterpoint to the freezing temperatures outside. It was a look that didn’t come cheap. Heavy Douglas fir beams framed the ceilings and walls; the spaces between the beams were a creamy white. Throughout the house, floors were covered with a brown terracotta tile that seemed warm and cool at the same time.

  Earlier, the man had wandered amongst guests who filled every room on the main floor, from a solarium with stuffed white furniture covered in colourful wool blankets to a gleaming tan-coloured kitchen. There he’d watched a chef prepare hors d’oeuvres under the attentive eyes of three women perched on leather-topped stools. Those eyes had showed hunger, not only for the fresh food but for the muscular, ponytailed chef.