Full Curl

by Dave Butler

  “Yeah,” said Clark. “You guys told me to tell you what Bernie’s up to. You won’t believe this, but Ca — I mean, that fuckin’ American is comin’ back up here to hunt again.”

  “Do you mean Bernie’s American hunting client? The one we asked you about? Are you sure?” Willson had heard Clark almost say the hunter’s name. Almost.

  “Yeah, I just got off the phone with Bernie,” Clark said. “He told me the guy was comin’ up in the first week of … of September to get a grizzly in Bernie’s territory. Bernie don’t have quota, and it’ll probably be in the park, so he shouldn’t be doin’ it. But he’s gettin’ things ready, so it looks like it’s goin’ ahead. I think it might be the guy’s last hunt up here. He’s supposed to arrive on September third.”

  “September third, eh? Does Bernie know you’ve talked to us?” asked Willson.

  “Yeah, he knows … and he’s really pissed off at me,” said Clark. “I figure if he sees me in person, I’m gonna need a hospital bad.”

  “Come on, Charlie, this doesn’t add up,” she said. “Why would Bernie tell you about the hunt if he was angry with you, particularly since he knows you’ve told us what’s going on? Why tell you the exact day the hunter’s arriving? Are you bullshitting me?”

  “No, no. I’m just tellin’ ya what Bernie told me,” said Clark. “It makes no fuckin’ sense to me, either. But I guess Bernie thinks this is a chance for one last score before he loses his territory. He knows you guys are on to him, but I think he really needs the money … and he told me he needs my help. He’s gonna phone me when things are set up. I assume you’re gonna let me do this … that you haven’t taken away my assistant guide licence.”

  “Leave this with me, Charlie,” said Willson, “I need to think about it. We can talk again tomorrow. But no matter what, I want you to phone me when you hear any details about this hunt.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’ll —”

  “Wait a minute, Charlie, I thought of something else. You told us about you being there when the American shot the elk in Banff and when he shot that goat in Kootenay. And you said you knew that the same guy also shot the ram in Jasper, even though you weren’t there. Right?”

  “Yeah, you guys made me write all that stuff down at the cop shop,” said Clark.

  “When we talked to you, we assumed the hunter took the trophies into the United States himself. But you told us you didn’t think he did. Without his name, we can’t really check anything. So … how did he do it, Charlie? How did he get them out of the country?”

  Clark went quiet. Willson assumed that his stress-addled brain was working overtime. Must be painful, she thought. “Charlie, you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here,” he said. “I was tryin’ to remember what I heard him and Bernie say.”

  “Think carefully, Charlie,” said Willson. “This is important to our investigation.”

  “I was never there,” said Clark, “but … I remember ’em talkin’ about Bernie goin’ to Elko, where he was gonna meet trucks.”

  “Trucks?”

  “Yeah. It sounded like the client knew about trucks that were headin’ from Calgary to the States, or somethin’ like that. Bernie always had to meet them at Elko. I don’t know if it was the American’s trucks … or someone else’s.”

  “Son of a bitch,” said Willson. “That must be how he got the trophies across the border without the risk of doing it himself.”

  “Didn’t you guys know that?” asked Clark. “I thought I told you that when you were interviewin’ me at the cop shop that day.”

  “No, you didn’t tell us that, Charlie,” she said. “But maybe we didn’t ask the right questions. What about the documents? Did they say anything about that?”

  “If you’re talkin’ about papers to get them animals across the border into the U.S.,” answered Clark, “I dunno nothin’ about that.”

  “Fair enough. But if you remember anything, write it down and tell me tomorrow.” Willson decided to give Clark something to sleep on. “A few moments ago, you almost told me the hunter’s name, Charlie. I really need that name. There’s not much I can offer you without going back to the federal prosecutor, but I want you to think long and hard about doing the right thing. I’m going to do all I can to help find your wife, and to help you get back on your meds. But I need you to do this for me. I can’t tell you how important it is. If you do, I’ll tell the prosecutor that you helped crack the case. That should help when your charges get to trial. And if you give us all the detail you can, maybe we can find enough evidence that your testimony becomes less important.”

  Willson could hear Clark’s breathing. It was slow and irregular. He did not sound good.

  “And one more thing,” she said. “When we interviewed you at the RCMP detachment, you said Bernie kept the .308 in his gun cabinet in the garage. We still haven’t found it. Are you sure he always kept it in the cabinet in the garage?”

  “Yeah, the one in the basement. Down there with his other … Uh, never mind.”

  Willson quickly flipped through the file, looking for Forsyth’s notes from their search of Eastman’s property. Nothing. No mention of a basement. “There’s a basement in the garage, Charlie?”

  “Yep. That big metal building. I’m not surprised you didn’t find it. Bernie doesn’t like people goin’ down there. It’s hidden pretty good.”

  Shit. Willson now knew that Forsyth and Jenkins had missed a key part of the search. And Eastman could have moved the gun afterward. “Okay, Charlie, we’ll talk about this tomorrow. But remember what I said. I need you to tell me who the hunter is. I need that name.”

  “I’m kinda upset and confused right now,” he said in a voice that was strangely monotone. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Thanks, Charlie, that’s all I ask. I’ll see you tomorrow. I should be at your place by mid-morning. We’ll talk then.”

  When Willson disconnected, she made two calls. The first was to the head of the General Investigations Section at the RCMP detachment in Cranbrook. The sergeant there agreed to have one of his plainclothes officers talk to Clark about his missing wife.

  The second call was to Tracy Brown of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service in Spokane. Brown didn’t answer the phone, so Willson left a message. “Tracy, this is Jenny Willson from Banff,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice from showing her excitement. “You’ll remember our meeting about the American hunter who we believe has been poaching in our parks, and you’ll remember our joint concern about not having any proof of him actually taking the poached animals into the U.S. I just talked to one of the guide-outfitter’s employees and it seems the guide and maybe the American met trucks at Elko after his hunts. Elko is north of the Roosville border crossing into Montana. Can you possibly access the border databases to build a list of trucks that crossed the border southbound there — a day or two after each of the hunt dates I gave you? I know we don’t have a name, and I know there could be hundreds of trucks, but at least it’s a start. It’s probably going to be commercial trucks, because private ones would be too small to hide the trophies. Maybe we can find a pattern. I’m going to head back to Cranbrook tomorrow to see if I can talk the guide’s employee into giving me the name of the American hunter. I think I’m close. I’ll give you a call when I get back to the office later in the week. Wish me luck.”

  Willson hung up and then sat back in her chair, sipped the last of the now-cold coffee, and thought of the American they were chasing. She had a half-formed picture of the man in her mind, a picture that she knew was probably an amalgam of bad guys from the many detective movies she’d watched over the years. In the absence of the real thing, the hazy image would have to do for now. “Whoever you are, we’re circling in on you, you slimy bastard,” she said with a smile.

  Chapter 25

  July 24

  Crossing the Kootenay River north of W
asa on Highway 95, Jenny Willson drove directly toward the Rocky Mountains. They stretched as far as she could see to her left and to her right. The pyramid-shaped peak of Teepee Mountain was to the left, and Lakit Mountain, with its abandoned fire lookout glowing white, was to the right. Just visible beyond Lakit was the Matterhorn-like summit of Mount Fisher. She marvelled at how the mountain range soared dramatically and abruptly from grasslands and ponderosa-pine forests in the Rocky Mountain Trench to snowy peaks and rocky ridges over 2,700 metres high. She knew the vista before her was worthy of a postcard. But postcards always brought people, and — after working in Banff and experiencing its belching tour buses, crawling cars, and hordes of picture-taking, souvenir-buying tourists — she preferred places that were known to few. This place was heaven.

  Tearing her eyes from the view, she pulled the nondescript Parks Canada car to the side of the highway, grabbed her cellphone from the seat beside her, and called Brad Jenkins.

  “CO Service, Brad Jenkins.”

  Willson waited for the cardiac flutter in her chest, but — nothing. The thrill was gone. “Hey, Brad, it’s Jenny.”

  “Jenny, long time, no hear. What’re you up to? Any progress on the poaching case?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I’m about twenty minutes out from Cranbrook as we speak, heading to talk to Charlie Clark.”

  “Why Clark?” asked Jenkins. “Have you got a new lead?”

  “I don’t, but I’m going to push Clark to give me one. I still don’t have the name of Eastman’s American client, and I’m hoping to persuade Clark to give it up.”

  “Interesting,” said Jenkins. “Has something changed? Why do you think he’ll talk now?”

  “I spoke to him yesterday,” she replied, “and it seems his wife’s missing. It’s hard to tell if he misses her, but he sure as hell misses having access to their bank account. I guess she controlled it. He told me he has Parkinson’s and doesn’t have enough money to get his meds and food and pay rent. So he’s now a witness and potential informant who’s more motivated than he was the last time I talked to him.”

  “Parkinson’s. That sucks. But it explains why he often seems shaky and a bit goofy.”

  “Exactly,” Willson said. “I’ll come by to see you after I’ve talked to him … but I’ve got a question for you. Have you guys taken any action yet to revoke Clark’s assistant guide licence?”

  “We’re heading in that direction,” said Jenkins. “But you know how the chain of command likes to be sure they’re not breaking any rules or infringing on someone’s Charter rights. So no, it hasn’t happened yet.”

  “And what about Eastman’s guide licence?”

  “His is still in good standing because he hasn’t been formally charged with anything … yet. But it will likely follow the same route to cancellation. Why are you asking?”

  “Clark told me yesterday that the American hunter is coming up again for what he describes as one last hunt. Eastman wants Clark to help him. And I want Clark to be part of it so he can keep us posted when the guy is actually here. I don’t want him to lose his eligibility and be of no use to us.”

  “I can put the brakes on the cancellation process,” said Jenkins, “at least until the hunt. But you said the American’s coming into Canada again? He must know we’re on to him, so that’s pretty ballsy. When’s it supposed to happen?”

  “Clark told me the guy was coming up September third for a grizzly bear hunt in the Purcell Conservancy. He said it was out of season and that Eastman didn’t have quota for a bear.”

  “He’s right on both counts. So what’s your plan?”

  “I don’t have a plan yet,” she said, then told Jenkins about the Lacey Act and her need to follow the American back to the border with an illegally taken animal. “But I need the guy’s name so we know who we’re dealing with … so we can track him when he comes across the U.S.-Canada border. We’ll have to covertly follow him from the border to the hunt and back to the border again, with the animal, if we want to bring the hammer down on both sides of the border.”

  “Jesus, Jenny, that’s a long list of things that have to go right. That means there’s a lot riding on your interview with Clark. Do you want me to come with you, either for moral support or to play good-cop, bad-cop?”

  “Thanks, Brad, but no. I think it’s best if I talk to him one-on-one. I’m not wearing my uniform today and I’m going to be as non-threatening and sympathetic as possible. I think he’s close, and if I play my cards right, I can get him to name the guy. I might even have to pay for his prescription. Pharmaceuticals on a government expense claim. That’ll raise some eyebrows at headquarters.”

  “If anyone can do it,” said Jenkins with a chuckle, “you can. Good luck, Jenny. Give me a yell when you’re done and I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  “Sounds good. You hardly ever buy, so I’ll be thirsty and hungry by then. Bring your wallet. Talk to you soon, Brad.” Willson disconnected the call, again gazed at the mountains to her left, then pulled back on the highway toward Cranbrook.

  Thirty minutes later, Willson turned into the short driveway beside the Clark trailer. The yard looked as bad as it had when she’d undertaken the search in April. If anything, it looked sadder in the light of day and in a different season. A small patch of lawn was more brown than green, and a truck and a car, both beaten and rusted and old, looked like they belonged in a wrecker’s yard, a source of parts for vehicles that were, perhaps like their owners, in much better health.

  Willson put the car in park, turned off the engine, and sat for a moment, breathing deeply to calm herself. With notebook and pen in hand, she climbed out of the car and walked up the pathway to the front porch, remembering when she’d banged on the same door in the darkness a few months ago, forever changing the lives of Charlie and Wendy Clark. This time, she’d returned not for physical evidence, but a name. A single name that would crack the case wide open. No pressure, she thought, but this has to work. Otherwise, she’d continue to chase her tail … or be forced to accept the consolation prize, which was convictions against only Eastman and Clark.

  Willson banged on the screen door, this time with less authority that she’d used in her last visit. Remember, she cautioned herself, kinder, gentler. Hearing nothing, she knocked on the door a second time, this time with more force. A yellowish grasshopper the size of her pinky finger leaped away from the screen, startling her. But still nothing from inside. No answer and no noise from within the trailer. She pulled the screen door open and knocked on the main door. When she did, the door moved a few inches away from its frame. It was unlocked and unlatched. With her senses on alert, Willson pushed the door open a few more inches.

  “Charlie, are you here? It’s Jenny. Jenny Willson.” She again heard nothing, so she gently urged the door fully open, peering into the dark interior.

  “Is anyone at home? Hello?” Her senses were tingling. Both vehicles were here. Why was no one answering? Where the hell were they? Her hand moved to her hip for her firearm — which was absent. Shit.

  Willson entered the stale-smelling living room but saw and heard nothing. The adjacent kitchen was empty. Her eyes darting, she touched a kettle on the counter. It was warm. She again called out. “Hello. Anyone here?”

  Growing more concerned with each silent second, Willson crept down the hallway, looking in the guest bedroom and in the bathroom. The floor creaked under her feet. Again no one. Pushing open the door to the master bedroom, she gasped when she saw Clark lying face down on the floor, a pool of blood under his head and neck. She moved quickly to check on him, kneeling down to feel for his carotid pulse. It was then she saw the massive hole in his skull, a crater-like opening from which all the blood in his wizened body had seeped onto the throw rug beneath him. In shock, she pulled back the fingers of her left hand, now smeared red with Clark’s blood. She stared at them, not yet understanding the implicatio
ns of what she’d just found. Without thinking, she reached for her cellphone.

  She heard a noise behind her. Before she could turn, she felt a blow to the back of her head. Her vision clouded, darkened, and then she dropped to join Clark on the bloody floor.

  A hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her. And then the voice. “Jenny, wake up. Jenny.”

  Willson looked into Brad Jenkins’s eyes. Through a swirling haze, she saw eyes that were concerned and frightened, yet relieved. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said quietly, smiling. “How do you feel?”

  Willson put her hand to the back of her head. Pain. Movement made her dizzy. “Like shit. What the hell happened?”

  “You tell me. When you didn’t call me, I called your cell and got no response. Because I knew you wouldn’t leave town without accepting my offer of coffee, I came up to see if you were here. And you were, unconscious and slumped over Clark’s dead body. I slid you off him so I could check your injuries.”

  Willson worked hard to focus on her surroundings. She was still in Clark’s master bedroom. But now she sat in a corner of the room, slumped against a closet door. She looked down and gulped, as much from the pain of movement as from the shock of seeing the front of her shirt covered in blood. Lots of blood.

  Willson turned her head, slowly, and to one side of Jenkins, immediately to her left, she saw Clark’s body, still dead and still bloody, her foot touching his leg. In an instant, her body and mind rebelled. She violently vomited to her right.

  “Jesus,” she said, feeling as bad as she’d ever felt. “Sorry, Brad.” She wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  “It’s okay, Jenny. I’m just glad you’re okay. You probably have a concussion, so sit tight until the paramedics get here.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I have no idea. I called 9-1-1 as soon as I found you. The ambulance and RCMP are on their way. Did you see who did this to you?”