In the Shadow of the Glacier

by Vicki Delany

  “This abomination will kill the animals that count on this ravine for passage around the filth of human settlement.” The speaker wore a wolf’s head, as threatening as a Care Bear. The voice was muffled under the mask, but the big breasts could only belong to a human female.

  Rich stepped closer, signaling to Greg to zoom in. “This looks like a nice family place to me. Wide open spaces, not too crowded, plenty of room for children to experience nature.”

  “They might as well go to a theme park in Florida for all the nature they’ll experience here. It has to be stopped.” The pack mumbled their agreement. The cop was looking edgy. He spoke into the radio on his shoulder. Time to move this on.

  “What do you mean, stopped? The company has the proper authorization, doesn’t it?” Rich asked, his eyes wide open and innocent. Innocent was his best look. They fell for it every time.

  “Authorization,” the wolf yelled. “We don’t care about authorization.” The group behind her shifted from foot to foot without much enthusiasm. Rich signaled to Greg to focus on the wolf-woman.

  “You want the real story?” she asked.

  “I’m here to listen.”

  Whereupon the wolf-woman told him that they would do whatever was necessary to stop the development. The grizzly bear, the moose and the tiger shuffled away. Rich could almost feel Greg’s camera closing in.

  “Whatever’s necessary?” Rich said. “What do you mean by that?”

  “An animal in the wild kills only because it has to.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. Are you comparing yourself, your group, to an animal cornered by its enemy? As if you’re being put into the situation of kill or be killed?”

  “Exactly,” she said, as if she’d thought up the idea all by herself. She punched her fist into her hand. “We will stop the Grizzly Resort. Kill,” she said, as Greg zoomed in on her masked face, “or be killed.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ron Gavin’s generous butt stuck out from the lower branches of a dense cluster of shrubbery.

  The ground, sodden from last night’s hoses, squelched beneath Smith’s boots. The park entrance was blocked off with yellow tape, and the curious and bored peered through the decorative iron railing around the property, watching the investigators work.

  “I’ve got reserve constables going door to door,” Winters said as they crossed the lawn. “Asking if anyone in the neighborhood saw anything suspicious last night. Morning, Ron.”

  Gavin got to his feet with a low moan and a hand to the small of his back. He wore blue latex gloves. “John, Constable Smith. Hold on a mo. Over here!” His two assistants came running. Gavin pointed to the bush. A scrap of blue cloth was caught on a thorn. “Bag it,” he said, “and you, Rebecca, are the lucky one who gets to go into that thicket and see if there’s any other goodies to be found.” The woman groaned good-naturedly, and the man carefully eased the cloth off the branch and into an evidence bag.

  “Can you tell how long that’s been there?” Smith asked.

  “I can make an educated guess,” Gavin said. “My thermos is in the van. Let me go and get it. That bush faces south, and there are no big trees close, so the sun is on it most of the day. There’s hardly been a cloud in the sky for weeks, except for some rain Thursday morning. That cloth doesn’t show any signs of fading. At a guess, and this is strictly off the record because we have tests to run back at the shop, I’d say it might have been put there yesterday.”

  “That’s great!” Smith said.

  “Not much to go on,” Winters said, stomping all over her enthusiasm. “Anything else?”

  “Lots of footprints. Too many footprints. Firefighters all over the place, laying down hose, spraying everything in sight. Plus this is a public park, anyone’s prints being here don’t mean a thing.”

  Gavin’s small pile of belongings lay on the ground beside the RCMP’s scene-of-the-crime van. He picked up his thermos and twisted the cap. “Sorry. No spare mugs.”

  “Not a problem,” Winters said. “Have you seen the arson investigator’s preliminary report?”

  “Nothing surprising. Gasoline poured around the outside of the building and lit.”

  “I’m thinking this is an outsider,” Winters said. “Good chance he,” he glanced at Smith, “or she, arrived in town in the last few days. It’s possible they didn’t bring gas in a can ready to do the job. They would’ve needed to scout out the area first before coming up with a plan. I’ll get someone checking gas stations asking if anyone came in for a can in the last little while.”

  A shout came from the RCMP investigators beside the bush. Gavin threw his cup down, and coffee ran into the ground. “Looks like they’ve got something.”

  Rebecca’s face was scratched, and there was a tear across the shoulder of her shirt that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. But she was smiling broadly. She flexed her fingers in the blue gloves. “A lighter,” she said. “One of the long ones that you use to light barbeques or firelogs with.”

  Gavin pulled a fresh set of gloves out of his pocket. “You don’t say. Show me the way.” And without another word they plunged into the bush. Smith could hear them thrashing about. Gavin swore lustily.

  “I want pictures of that lighter as soon as they bring it out,” Winters said. “I’m going up to the street to see if our people are getting anywhere with the neighbors.”

  She watched him walk away. He was dressed in beige chinos and a loose navy blue shirt. His walk was light, easy, his arms swinging loosely at his sides, and she guessed that he was a runner.

  “So that’s John Winters, eh?” Gavin’s male assistant said.

  “You know him?”

  “Know of him. Bad business.”

  “What’s bad business?”

  “Whoa! You don’t know—I’m not gonna be the one to tell you.”

  “I have to work with that guy. If there’s something wrong with him, I need to know.”

  “Nothing wrong, Constable. Rumor, that’s all.”

  “Tell me the rumor.”

  “I heard it like this.” He lowered his voice. Smith stepped closer.

  “You better not be telling tales out of school, McNally.” Gavin had come out of the bush, soundlessly. Did he put the creaky old man bit on as suited him?

  McNally jumped. “Not me.”

  “Keep it that way.” A line of fresh red blood ran across Gavin’s cheek—doubtless from an encounter with a thorn. He held up an evidence bag. Inside was a long grey and green metal tube with a trigger at the base, looking like an exceptionally thin gun.

  “The camera’s in the car,” Smith said. “I’d like a picture of that, can I run and get it?”

  “Sure. It’s the sort campers use.” Gavin held the bag up and turned it around so he could see all angles. “Judging by the camouflage coloring. Looks newish. Should be able to tell if it was bought strictly for this purpose by the fuel level. Something’s stamped on the handle. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.” He held the bag out. “Can either of you see what it says?”

  “Looks like an eagle and the letters MKAV,” McNally said. “Probably the manufacturer.”

  “No,” Smith said. “It means Mid-Kootenay Adventure Vacations.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A pickup truck that had not been young when the first Bush was president was parked at the side of the road a hundred yards from the entrance to the Grizzly Resort development. A head was silhouetted in the driver’s seat, but Rich gave no more than an idle thought as to who it might be. Cop backup, maybe someone from the local paper hoping things would get interesting.

  The truck turned around as Rich, Greg, and Meredith got into her car. Rich watched it in the side mirror, as Meredith pulled away. The truck came closer. The headlights flashed; the horn tooted. Greg turned around. “Guy wants to pass, Meredith. Idiot, there’s plenty of room.”

  “Pull over,” Rich said.

  “Huh?”

  “I said pul
l over. He doesn’t want to pass. He wants to talk to me.”

  Meredith guided the car to the side of the road.

  “Have the camera ready,” Rich said.

  “Never would of thought of that all by myself,” Greg mumbled. Rich ignored him.

  The truck pulled up behind them, so close that it almost touched the bumper. A man got out. He was Rich’s height, around five foot seven, and scrawny. A blue ball cap advertising a brand of beer perched on his head; strands of greasy hair touched the back of his neck. His jeans were too large, his T-shirt could use a wash, and his running shoes trailed muddy laces across the ground. His left eye jerked under the force of an out-of-control twitch.

  Rich stood beside the car and waited for the man to approach him.

  “Recognized you back there. Ashcroft, right? From TV?”

  He was in his late twenties, maybe younger.

  Rich said nothing.

  The man held out his hand. Rich looked at it. “Can I help you?” he said.

  The man took his hand back. He didn’t look offended at having it rejected. “No. But I can help you. I’ve been here a while, laying low, checking things out. Wondering what I can do to put an end, once and for all, to this peace garden idea. I saw your show last night. I figure you want the same thing I do.”

  “I want,” Rich said, “to report the truth.”

  The man laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  “What’s your interest in the park?”

  “My dad was U.S. Army. Died in Vietnam. December of ’72.”

  Rich whistled. “Only a couple months before the U.S. pulled out.”

  “I was born six months later. This monument, they might as well spit on my dad’s grave.”

  Rich held out his hand. “What’s your name, pal?”

  They shook. “Harris. Brian Harris. And I’m proud to say that was my father’s name.”

  “Greg,” Rich said, “set up the camera.”

  □□□

  Smith’s parents’ store stocked hundreds of those lighters, maybe thousands. They’d had the store logo stamped on them because they gave the lighters out as promotional items, freebees with the purchase of camping stoves or kerosene lamps.

  And one of those lighters had, apparently, been used to set fire to the gardening shed at the peace garden site.

  Coincidence, or was someone sending a message to the Smiths?

  Smith switched off the camera. “I’d better go find the boss.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” he said. “I haven’t finished my coffee.” From inside the bush, Rebecca squawked in pain. “Must be what an iron maiden was like,” Gavin said.

  Smith didn’t know what an iron maiden was, and didn’t want to look foolish by asking.

  “I’ve known John Winters for a lotta years,” Gavin said, apropos of nothing. “I was with the Vancouver P.D. when I started my career, before switching to the more noble calling that is the Mounties.”

  The group of the curious had grown since their arrival. A Jack Russell made a lunge for a German shepherd about ten times its weight and, believing that discretion is the better part of valor, the shepherd retreated behind his owner’s legs. These days everyone and their dog had an interest in police forensics.

  “Lots of rumors floating around about John Winters,” Gavin said. “Some of which aren’t true.”

  “By which you mean that some of them are.”

  “Good cop, John. Always was, still is. He worked the Downtown Eastside. You know where that is?”

  Where Graham died. “Yes.”

  “Tough beat.”

  She said nothing.

  “But not as tough as Grey Point.”

  “Grey Point? In Vancouver? That’s pretty much the opposite end of the social scale to the Eastside. Can’t imagine much happening there.”

  “Which, I suspect, was the problem. I don’t know the whole story, but John screwed up. Enough that he was about to end his career all by himself because his confidence in his own judgment had been shaken. I only know this because, as I said, we’re old friends, and he called me when he heard there was an opening in the Trafalgar Police and he wanted to know what I thought of them.”

  He picked his cup off the ground. “Drat, that was the last of my brew.”

  “I can go and buy you one.”

  “Nope. No one makes it strong enough around here.” Smith shivered at the idea as he put the cap back on the thermos and tucked it into his backpack.

  “So, what was the problem?”

  “He’s waving at you, Smith. Better get going.”

  “Why did you tell me that story, if you’re not going to finish it? This isn’t the Downtown Eastside, or Grey Point either.”

  Gavin waved at Winters, letting him know Smith was coming. “I wouldn’t have said nothing, if McNally hadn’t shot off his fat mouth. I don’t want you looking for problems where there aren’t any, that’s all. Partners have to trust each other. In my mind that the first rule of policing.”

  Partners, Smith thought, crossing the lawn toward their vehicle. Were she and Winters partners? She’d kinda thought they were boss and lackey. When she got a chance, she’d get on the Internet, see if she could find out more about this incident her “partner” had been involved in.

  “Plenty of nothing,” Winters said, once they were in the car. “No one saw anything. In Vancouver that’d be code for not wanting to get involved, but here, considering it was the early hours when the fire started, and everyone except new mothers was tucked up in bed like good citizens, I’ll buy it. Did you get a picture of that lighter? I’ll tell the people asking about the gas purchase to mention the lighter as well.”

  “No need.” They pulled into traffic, the spectators watching, the Jack Russell barking as if it would attack their car, if not for that inconvenient leash.

  “What do you mean, no need? Are you conducting this investigation, Molly?”

  “No, of course not. I just meant that I can tell you where the lighter was purchased.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “My parents’ store. It had the store logo on it.”

  “I hope you’re going to tell me that they produce one lighter a year and award it to a special individual.”

  “They give them out to pretty much anyone who wants one.”

  “I was afraid of that. Okay, next stop, your parents’ store. Let’s at least ask if they remember anyone getting a lighter in the last couple of days.”

  While Winters went into the store, again, Smith waited in the car. At his request, she called Rosemary Fitzgerald’s number, and got voice mail. She left a message, again asking Rosemary to call the Trafalgar City Police. While the Fitzgerald phone rang, Smith accessed the car’s computer and entered a report of their visit to the arson site, with details of the blue shirt fabric and the lighter. She also filed a report on Charlie Bassing, mentioning that he’d been insulting and potentially threatening to police officers.

  She called Christa next. The phone rang, and once again she was put through to voice mail. Her parents had told her that there was a time when phones simply rang until someone answered or the caller hung up. She only half believed them.

  Shoppers and tourists packed the sidewalks, and the street was heavy with traffic. The patio of Feuilles de Menthe overflowed with patrons and flowers. A steady stream of people walked in and out of Alphonse’s Bakery, those leaving carrying bulging paper bags. It had been a long time, Smith thought, since those Huevos Rancheros at George’s. A truck pulled into the parking space beside her. A kayak was loaded on top, and a family of four tumbled out.

  “We have one possibility.” Winters got back into the car. “A family from Montana bought a camp stove yesterday. Theirs died in Banff. Your father gave them a complimentary lighter.”

  “He usually does.”

  “Dad’s a lawyer for the town of Billings, Mom’s an oncologist. The kids were aged around three and five. Sounds like your radical arsonists to me. I’ll drag t
hem in for a session under the bright lights, starting with the three-year-old. Does your father always know so much about his customers?”

  “He likes people.”

  “He’s going to try to put together a list of everyone whose name he recorded as having been given one of those lighters in the last few months. Fortunately your parents believe in the value of building up an e-mail list. No stone unturned, eh, Molly?”

  “Not a one.”

  “The lawyer slash oncologist family’s staying at Valhalla Provincial Park. I’ll have the Horsemen send someone to talk to them. They just might have given the lighter to a tall, dark stranger who told them his name and address as he stopped by the campfire for a cup of coffee brewed in a tin pot.”

  “Are you always this cynical, John? Isn’t detailed investigative work the keystone of policing?” Out of nowhere, Smith felt a surge of anger, as hot and painful as heartburn, deep in her gut. All this man ever did was mock their profession. He had a good reputation, and, so she’d recently learned, a lot of gossip behind him, but if he was too old to cut it, time he stepped out of the way to let the young ones take over. “Should I forget about questioning people, following up clues, all that boring stuff and pull people off the street because I don’t like the look in their eye or the set of their jaw?”

  He turned to look at her. A very long few seconds passed.

  “I can be cynical, Molly, yes. But I assure you that I believe in the value of good, solid police work. It doesn’t hurt to laugh now and again, you know.” He looked out the window. The kayak-owning family opened the trunk of their car. They threw in several bags marked with the logo of Mid-Kootenay Adventures and went next door to Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen. “You’ve got a nice town here,” he said, “nice people mostly. Stay here, Molly. Stay out of the cities; they’ll rot your cop soul. Let’s head back to the station.”

  Maybe she should learn to lighten up a bit. But she was afraid that she might lighten up at the wrong moment. And, in this job, the wrong moment could allow something very bad to happen. Instead of thinking about that, she changed the subject.