The next morning Henry and the others were sent back to barracks, where they faced further disciplinary action for missing curfew. The bobby that accompanied them warned the base commander that such behaviour wouldn’t be tolerated. Henry protested, but it fell on deaf ears.
Henry was assigned to mess duty for thirty days. By the end of it, he had discovered the base’s gym and started boxing as a way to relieve his frustration, his anger, and his restlessness. For nearly three years, while the Canadian expeditionary force sat in England as part of the home guard, Henry Blackwater boxed. He gained fifteen pounds of muscle. Cruiserweight class. Along with the fifteen pounds of muscle, he gained a reputation as the meanest man to step into the ring. He boxed the nose, face, and chin of nearly every man that stepped into the ring with him.
Nearly every man. There was one man Henry couldn’t beat. They fought to a draw twice. He was a hulking black man from Central Africa who was in the British forces as an artillery man. Bombshell Bismarck, the men called him. He weighed twenty pounds more than Henry, topping the heavyweight scale, and towered over him by four inches. His reach was at least three inches longer than Henry’s. But what Bombshell had in brawn, Henry Blackwater made up for in pure rage.
Cole wondered now: rage at what?
Bombshell and Henry Blackwater clashed for the last time in early May of 1944. They fought for fifteen rounds ’til both men were beaten to a pulp. By the end of it neither man could stand, but neither man would fall. They simply clung to each other, their glistening, muscled bodies entwined, trading jabs, head butts, and low blows when the referee could not untangle them.
And then the order came that there was to be no more boxing. Henry Blackwater knew it meant that soon they would invade Europe and that their commanders wanted all the men to be fit and ready to fight Jerry, not one another.
And so the morning that Henry Blackwater loaded into his landing craft, he didn’t have the distinction of being an uncontested boxing champion, but merely a boxing legend. He planned to become a legend in combat too.
Somewhere while crossing the English Channel, his plan went awry. Master Sergeant Henry Blackwater was not a good sailor. He took the tablets they provided that morning as he ate a solemn breakfast, but they did no good, or if they helped, it was impossible to tell. By the time the shores of France were in sight, Henry Blackwater was curled up on the bottom of the landing craft in a pool of his own vomit. The medic tried to revive him with smelling salts, but Blackwater was as seasick as a man could be. He was heard to curse himself as shells exploded in the water and the boat revved its engine for the final push up onto the sand. When the craft finally beached and the gangplank was dropped, a hail of machine gun fire ripped into the boat and killed half a dozen of the men in the front. The others pushed through them and were cut down as they did. Their blood sprayed the deck of the boat and coated Blackwater, who lay in the bilge.
Henry Blackwater held onto his Enfield rifle for dear life, determined not to die under a heap of bodies, in a swamp of vomit, blood, and salt water. With all of his considerable strength he pulled, but to no avail. And then a shell exploded a few feet away, tossed the boat onto its side, and with it Henry Blackwater’s hope of becoming a hero.
His injuries weren’t life-threatening, but they warranted a return trip across the channel, this time on a medical frigate. He suffered multiple shrapnel wounds, all of which were superficial. He broke his ankle and his left arm when he landed on the side of the boat in the explosion. He suffered a minor concussion. He fared better than most in that craft. Of the sixty men on board, only thirty-five made the beach, and fewer than ten were alive at the end of the day.
None of those who survived ever spoke of Henry Blackwater’s seasickness. None blamed him. It could happen to anyone, they all reasoned. It’s not like he had run away. It’s not like he had turned tail. Nobody accused him of that. Nobody blamed him. But Blackwater blamed himself, blamed his body for letting him down. His anger boiled during this stay in an English hospital. He was reassigned four months later to a unit doing mop-up work in the Netherlands. He saw a little action there, exchanging small arms fire with a band of Germans who refused to surrender a strategic point on a farm road. Try as he might, he didn’t kill any of them. Didn’t even wound a man. As the allies advanced across Europe, Henry Blackwater found himself in the rear, and it ate at him for the rest of his life. He never forgave himself for the involuntary cowardice that saved his life on that frightful crossing.
And Cole could not forgive him for what he did with that rage.
Cole looked at the horizon. The storm had passed. He looked at his hands. At the damage done by years in the ring. His fingers were bent, and he could feel the stiffness there that would soon turn to arthritis. My God, his father had been an angry man.
He closed his eyes. The world was murky since the killing of Mike Barnes. He needed to see through the pain and sorrow of this man’s untimely demise back to the clarity of white and black and the time when he knew what he had to do.
The long sweep of Cardinal Divide came into focus. He saw himself, as if from the vantage of a hawk wheeling high overhead, climbing the slope up the divide’s south side. He watched himself crest the ridge and discover the expansive valley below. He watched himself pick his way over the barren slope and step from rock to rock, from one grassy hillock to the next toward the apogee of the curving ridge. And then, across the valley, he spied the family of grizzly bears, the mother with her cubs of the year eating glacier lilies as they went.
Cole saw the mother stop now and again to sniff, to test the air for threats. They disappeared into the woods, but Cole Blackwater knew they were not gone, not yet.
He opened his eyes and breathed deeply.
He turned the ignition over and the Toyota roared back to life, and with it the Eagles at full blast. Cole hit pause, extracted the CD, and inserted Ian Tyson. Cowboyography. Singing along, Cole checked his mirror, looked over his shoulder, swung into the eastbound lane, and drove back toward Oracle.
13
If Dale van Stempvort didn’t kill Mike Barnes, who did? Two names struck him as obvious. George or Deborah Cody.
As he drove back to Oracle he considered, as Sergeant Reimer had, means, motive, and opportunity. George Cody had a clear motive. Mike Barnes had been boning his wife. That flagrant act must have stuck in George’s considerable craw.
Cole thought of his own infidelity and wondered, had murder ever been on Jennifer’s mind? Likely. And he guessed that it still was.
George also had the means to kill Mike Barnes; he could certainly swing a bat.
Finally, George Cody had the opportunity. Had he not been absent from his usual duties behind the bar on the night that Mike Barnes was killed?
Deborah Cody? She had motive: she was a woman scorned, though from Cole’s perspective she didn’t seem all that broken up about it. Maybe she was just the kind of woman who, even in the throes of murderous rage, took time out to hit on her customers.
Opportunity? Who knew Deborah’s whereabouts that night? Not Cole. And means? Hard to tell. What about that bruise on her hand? Maybe she injured herself in a struggle with Barnes. Her arms looked strong. She could likely swing a crowbar or pipe wrench well enough.
Which of the two had more reason to want Barnes dead? Or did they do it together as a weird way of making amends to one another? Cole shook his head and frowned. That was too strange to contemplate.
The highway sign read “Oracle, next exit.” Now what? Go back to the Rim Rock? Not with his amateur assessment of Deborah and George Cody weighing on his mind.
No, he needed someplace quiet where he could think and stay out of trouble while he tied up these loose ends. He stopped at a gas station to fill up and called Peggy McSorlie to tell her he was coming back.
“You can stay with us, Cole.”
“After all the trouble I’ve caused, you want me at your place?” Cole was genuinely touched.
“
You haven’t caused us any trouble, Cole.”
“OK , but aggravation. Now I’m leaving, now I’m staying.”
“I’m just glad you’re back, Cole. Come and stay with us. It’s quiet. You and I can talk things over more easily out here.”
A few nights of peace and quiet would help him think through this whole mess. “OK,” he agreed, “I’ll come out later this afternoon. I want to follow up a few leads around town first.”
“OK , stay safe.”
“I will,” he said, despite not having the foggiest idea how to accomplish that.
He hung up the phone, filled the truck, and drove downtown to have some lunch and think. He sat down in a café on Main Street to mull things over.
He realized that he didn’t have the slightest notion where to start with his so-called private investigation. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. Sure, he had done his share of research, using the Freedom of Information Act, into environmental crimes committed by big corporate players. He requested correspondence and documentation of environmental misdeeds, sorted through the blacked-out sections of thousands of pages of information, and pieced together what was often, at best, a sketchy story.
No, he needed to find someone who knew what they were doing. Someone really good at digging, at getting at the story behind the story.
Anybody but her.
But he couldn’t think of anybody else. She really was the best. At that.
“Sweet mother of pearl,” he muttered aloud, picked up his cell, and called directory assistance.
“Edmonton Journal,” he said. Two calls later he had Nancy’s cell number. He stared at his phone for a full minute, weighing the pros and cons.
“You are such a pussy,” he said, loudly enough that other customers in the bagel shop turned to look at him. He ignored them.
He dialled.
“Nancy Webber,” came the familiar voice.
“It’s Cole.”
The line went dead.
“You are such a b – ” But he bit his tongue, grimacing, evoking further glances of sympathy and condemnation from fellow customers.
He dialled again.
“What?”
“Don’t hang up.”
“Why the fuck shouldn’t I?”
The woman could make a sailor blush. “We need to talk. Dale is innocent.”
The line went dead.
He took a deep breath in and exhaled loudly through pursed lips.
He dialled again.
“Flunked out as an activist and a consultant, and trying on the PI hat now, Cole?”
“Try just for a second to act like an adult, Nancy, and listen.”
Now it was Webber’s turn to breathe. “Speak,” she finally said.
“I talked with Sergeant Reimer this morning.”
“So did I.”
“Could you try just shutting up for a minute, Nancy, and listen?”
“I’m listening.”
“I spoke with Reimer. She told me that they still don’t have confirmation of a murder weapon. So why do they have Dale locked up? I think they’re jumping the gun.” He stopped and waited for her reaction.
“Go on,” was all he got.
“Don’t you think it’s strange that they would lock someone up for murder without having a murder weapon?”
“Cole, this isn’t a game of Clue. It’s not like you have to say ‘the butler did it in the dining room with the candlestick.’ The Mounties know what they are doing.”
Cole shook his head. “Since when did you become such a fan of authority? Didn’t you once tell me that a good reporter never trusts anyone?”
“I was talking about you, dick-head.”
“Maybe so,” he said. “But I think a healthy dose of cynicism right now might get you a front page story, and might help keep an innocent man out of jail.”
“My activist reporter days are long gone, Cole.”
“Don’t blame me.”
“I do blame you, Cole, and don’t try to pretend I shouldn’t.”
“Listen Nancy, I didn’t ask for this mess. I didn’t go looking for it. And I sure as shooting didn’t expect to find you here in the middle of it. But here I am. And here you are. And however you might feel about me, this is what we’ve both got to work with. Maybe we should start working together.”
“You must be out of your mind. Have you been smoking weed out there in lotus land? There is no way in hell I’m going to be caught dead working with you. If you were the last source for a story left on earth, I wouldn’t print a word that you said.”
Cole smiled thinly. “I get the picture, Webber. That’s fine, have it your way.”
“I will, thank you.”
“I just thought that you might be interested in some insider info on the Eastern Slopes Conservation Group.”
Nancy was silent. He could hear her brain at work. “Now I’m suddenly going to trust you?”
“I’m not saying I want to go on record, Nancy. Just deep background.”
Silence again. “What have you got?”
“Let’s meet and talk.”
“Not in a blue moon. Not if you were the last source for a story on earth.” She hung up.
Anger heated his veins. Hard to believe that at one time he would have given up so much to be with her. Did, in fact. He put his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands.
“Do you want some more coffee, sir?” asked the waitress.
“What time do you serve alcohol here?” he asked.
“Eleven AM.”
“And what time is it now?”
His phone rang. The call display showed the number was blocked.
He ignored the waitress, who retreated to another table. “Black-water.”
It was Nancy. “Four o’clock at the Legion Hall.”
“OK .” And the line went dead.
Of course she had every reason to hate his guts. But she had a particular way of expressing it that left nothing to chance.
He paid his bill and walked out into the spring sunshine. The town looked as it had just a few days earlier. A neatly laid out Main Street: false fronts, red brick buildings. Trees in planters. In the summer there would be flowers hanging from the lampposts in baskets. Except now, the Cardinal Divide that ran between the part of the community that resisted the dominant industrial paradigm and the part that embraced it had split open, as visibly, he imagined, as the fracture in Mike Barnes’ head.
He had a couple of hours to kill before meeting Nancy. He could drive out to the McSorlie ranch and stow his gear, but that meant an hour of driving back and forth, and he had had enough of back and forth for one day. Instead he strolled down Main Street toward the cop shop. Sergeant Reimer might be happy to know he was back in town.
There was no media presence as he approached the RCMP detachment. Inside he asked to see Sergeant Reimer.
A few minutes passed before the doors to the back office opened and Sergeant Reimer appeared, along with a man dressed in Docker pants and a cheap polo shirt. Cole heard the word “defence” used a couple of times before the young man left by the front door.
“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Mr. Blackwater.”
“I just can’t enough of this place.”
Reimer smiled.
“I’m not heading back to Vancouver.”
“Changed your mind, did you?”
“Something like that. I decided to stay and try and help my client stop the mine, despite this unfortunate event.”
“I assume when you say client, you’re not referring to Dale van Stempvort.”
“As I told you, Dale was never my client.”
“Well, you’re free to stay in Oracle as long as you like, and as long as your presence here doesn’t interfere with our continued investigation.”
Cole smiled. “Thanks. Nice to be made welcome.”
The sergeant turned to go. “Sergeant,” said Cole. She stopped and looked at him. “Any word on the resu
lts of the tests on the murder weapon?”
Reimer’s smile faded. She turned and closed the door behind her.
Cole left through the front door. The young man wearing a polo shirt paced the parking lot while he spoke on his telephone. Cole waited for the man to hang up. It took some time. When he finally hung up, he shook his head and exhaled with vigour.
“Tough day?” called Cole.
The young man looked up, suspicious. “It’s just fine, thanks.”
“Doesn’t look like it. Fight with the wife?”
“Boss.”
“Tough. Who do you work for?”
“I’m with Legal Aid. I’ve got one hell of a case on my hands.” Cole smiled and walked toward the man. “I’m Cole Blackwater,” he said, and extended his hand.
The young man shook it. His grip was firm and Cole winced. “Sorry,” he said.
“It’s OK, force of habit. I got in a fight last night and bashed up my hand pretty good.”
Like Cole, the lawyer wore a few extra pounds around the middle. He was five ten with a youthful, almost boyish, face with a conservative haircut, and soft, white skin.
“What’s your name?” asked Cole.
“Perry Gilbert. I’m out of the Legal Aid office in Red Deer.”
“And you’re on Dale van Stempvort’s case?”
“That’s right. Who are you again?”
“I’m Cole Blackwater. I was hired by Peggy McSorlie and the ESCoG to help develop a plan to stop the mine at Cardinal Divide.”
“Lots of luck. Especially now,” he said, and looked genuinely sad.
“It’s not over ’til it’s over.”
“I’d say this one is over.”
“Not very optimistic for a defence attorney. How long have you been at this?”
The Cardinal Divide Page 19
