■ ■ ■
From a distance, someone might assume that Skootch remained oblivious to the very scene he so diligently created the day before. Tidying up his raft from the chaos of its rambunctious descent through the rapids, he remained chagrined by the loss of a few items overboard. As he kept no inventory and possessed only a rudimentary memory of such artefacts he was feeling their absence as a vague and generic loss, rather than as the diminishment of any specific need.
Yesterday, under the noses of two visiting cops, Ryan O’Farrell, and a crowd of onlookers, he reamed Jake out for the material losses. Then the three policemen talked to a shaken, soaked, bleeding, and seemingly disoriented Jake Withers. They wanted to talk about the old bridge, and what he’d seen. He’d left the bar early that night, he told them, after a single beer following his ball game—he’d hit a double, he said—because he didn’t want to drink a lot and drive, and what a beauty of a lie that was. Skootch positively beamed with pride. That’s when Ryan asked him to step off the raft until the interview was over, and then he was going to talk to him about all this, meaning the dilapidated raft. Jake went on to tell the police that he saw the fire and blared his horn and saw nothing and no one else. A cop was the next person to the scene and that was that, the bridge burned. The cops were noncommittal in their responses, and wrote down his personal information, but ashore Skootch guessed that Jake was doing just fine from the titbits he overheard, and why shouldn’t he shine? Right through the interview he was sticking to the simple truth.
Then Ryan approached Skootch on shore. “So what the fuck is this?”
“My yacht,” he explained. “A public riverbank, Ry. Anybody can moor here. To save you the trouble I already checked. There’s no law against it.”
“Not yet,” Ryan said, then he carried on with his new SQ pals.
Now, a day later, assessing the rearrangements to his gear, Skootch put together a plan. He selectively differentiated between the changes which were beneficial to his accommodations and those which ought to come undone. Half the time he couldn’t remember where his stuff used to reside anyway, so a number of objects ended up in fresh locations, such as a swizzle stick stuck in the maw of a clay marmalade cat, and a banjo, stripped of its strings, hanging from a pot rack that was stepped on its side and strapped over a window as an awning. Busy with the housekeeping, he wore only the skimpiest of genital thongs over which hung small flaps, front and rear. Casual viewers compared his attire to fig leaves, and one wag among the many who observed him commented, “I think I can make out his figs.” His long legs and astonishingly lean torso were baked to a reddish clay after the summer’s exceptional heat. Calves, arms, and shoulders were nibbled by bugs but he showed no remorse, whereas a few people observing him were wont to scratch the itch, and scratched themselves in sympathy. Children—boys in particular, but a few girls also—formed the core of his rapt audience, yet he paid no one heed as eventually he retired to his penthouse balcony under the sun. He took his ease on a warped and ragged patio divan while reading, many noted—as if such a thing was incomprehensible for a man of his appearance and reputation—the morning newspaper duly delivered by a paperboy.
Someone pointed out that he was studying the business section.
When an attractive young woman emerged from the lower grotto, the whole of his visible world, so it seemed, gasped. A sufficient reaction that Skootch looked up, to see what on earth just transpired. Children stood with their mouths agape. One exclaimed, “There’s two of ’em on that thing!” The boy’s dismay was countered by a stern look from Skootch which dictated that he be left alone, but as he did not insist on it, or actually say so, folks lingered awhile.
■ ■ ■
“Why me?” he begged.
Jake Withers and the other tree huggers nestled in the woods, concealed by foliage, tormented by bugs. Before them lay a clearing, dusty and remote, where truckers a short distance from their rigs gobbled lunch.
In attire not so dissimilar to that of his mentor, Jake Withers bristled at the suggestion that he was a gutless maggot. He wanted to know why he could not be assigned to the group who were going to spray-paint trucks, that seemed the lighter chore. Instead, he was assigned to the firebombing brigade. Now he wanted to know why he was selected to commit the first defiant act by throwing the first torch. Not being rewarded with an answer, egged on by the unsolicited rebuke of those who swarmed beside him—“Why are you such a gutless maggot?”—he took a breath, struck the rag of his Molotov cocktail in the small fire at his feet—“Are you man or vermin? Prove to us you’re one or the other!”—and fuelled by his rampant fear he ran. Raced the burning wick to the parked logging truck where he hurled the gasoline-filled bottle, accurately enough using his third baseman’s good arm, a mere toss across the infield. Just like that, liquid flame swam over the truck and its cargo of timbers and Jake fled back to the safety of the woods and to the wonder of his new and unsolicited life.
After him, more cocktails arced through the air, like cannon fire of old, though silent. The miscreants hurried back to the refuge of the forest, where they paused to watch the flames lay siege to the three fully loaded rigs. They waited. And waited still. They were disappointed, for the fires did not impress them. Raw logs, the timber not yet hewn and still green, do not readily ignite, they found out, their dismay palpable. After their planning and the thrill of execution they earned only the shouts of truckers who’d been enjoying the quiet of the hour at a picnic table to amuse themselves. But no great flame. No incendiary romance.
Until something happened.
A logger would later explain that his vehicle carried three jerry cans of gasoline to service a generator in the field, that they were strapped to the rear of his cab. In the acute heat, they ignited and in succession exploded. First the cab caught fire, flames licking through the open windows, seats suddenly engulfed. The intensity of that heat combined with the Molotov fires created a localized inferno. Somewhere in its systems a gasket on a diesel line or a section of rubber hose melted, and so the fire welcomed a steady leakage of fuel to cook the rig. That one truck would be destroyed, and Jake Withers and his crew of ragamuffin, self-proclaimed ecoterrorists celebrated their trophy.
He anointed this as the grandest day of his life.
Jake had no clue how it all transpired, how he was transformed into this new being, nor did he care.
His heart stammered in his chest. He’d never known such exuberance. He could not believe what he did. Neither could Belinda, who took his face in both her hands and kissed him, hard on the mouth, her tongue digging up into his palate. Then they both ran. They scooted. They leapt roots and swung from a convenient branch to propel themselves farther on their way. Like playful jungle chimps. They ran and tumbled and laughed and scampered through the native woods. After a while, along with others, they stopped and bent at the waist to catch a breath, then hoots and a few happy hollers lifted them on their way again, gambolling through the mottled sunlight to a benevolent freedom.
■ ■ ■
Atop his raft, champion to the vista he surveyed, Skootch heard sirens unfold from the fire hall, first, soon from the police station also, as the first responders charged off. An audience turned away from him to trace the sounds. He noted the direction the emergency vehicles headed, on into the woods, their sirens eventually fading, and returned his attention to the sports section of his paper, studying box scores from last night’s Major League games.
■ ■ ■
Hours later, at a hardwood planing mill, Detectives Maltais and Vega relaxed by the forest’s edge. As the next truck drove in they observed it park. The big engine rumbled and shook and issued a gush of air, a whale surfacing from the sea, before it lapsed into silence. Maltais worked a kink from his shoulder blades. The driver climbed down from the cab and moved off while a forklift swung around to claim the prized load. Both detectives gazed across the dusty compound t
o a small administrative hut where the sun reflected brightly off the door’s small windows. An inspector there stepped out to give them a nod, their signal that the driver they wanted to speak to had just pulled in.
The driver, André Gervais, uncapped a bottle of water and spread himself out upon a picnic table’s bench, his arms running along the tabletop, his knees apart so that his inner thighs could catch a scant measure of coolness. He saw the two men amble towards him, they seemed in no hurry, and knew who they were before they showed their badges to prove it.
“Son of a bitch,” André said.
“How’s it going?” Detective Vega asked him. “A hot one, eh?”
“Hot enough,” the trucker agreed. “Been hotter.”
“Some summer. This heat. The humidity, eh?”
Maltais chose to take a load off, sitting down on one end of André’s bench. “I’m Maltais,” he said. “The Mex is Detective Vega. You’re André Gervais?”
The trucker sputtered his lips in an attitude of nonchalance.
Vega gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Tough day?”
He shrugged. “Tough enough. We drive farther now, with the bridge out. Make less. It’s the same heat, though.” Then he looked directly at the man questioning him. “Other things made this a piss-poor day. Maybe you heard.”
“Yeah, we heard,” Vega said.
“Speaking of the bridge,” Maltais remarked. “What do you know about it?”
“Me? What am I supposed to know?”
“How did it catch fire?”
“How am I supposed to know that? Some tourist tossed a smoke, I guess.”
“Why a tourist?” Vega asked. He remained standing, and very slowly paced in front of André.
“People from around here know better, I guess.”
“Do they? Where were you when it burned, may I ask?”
André looked up at Vega. He’d never physically feared a cop, and in a way admired policemen who were likely, from time to time, to accept a challenge from men who could probably kick their arse in a brawl. Maltais was too old and too fat to fight, but this other guy looked as though he could make it a contest. Not that he had any intention of fighting anybody, but as a matter of speculation he wondered who’d win that tangle, if guns and badges as well as loggers’ hobnailed boots were set aside.
“I guess you got a right to ask,” André said. “It’s your job.”
“That’s true,” Vega confirmed, as though the idea just now occurred to him. “It is.”
André chose to be cagey. “How come you’re asking me questions? You’re SQ. I mean, how come our local cops don’t talk to me?”
Vega seemed set to answer but Maltais cut him short. “We’re on it. You don’t need to know more than that. Where were you when the bridge burned?”
“At home, I guess. In bed.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. I guess that’s right.”
“You’re only guessing?” Vega queried. “I’d think you’d remember.”
“How come?”
“Big night. Big event around here.”
André wished that Ryan O’Farrell gave him a more lengthy interrogation. He might be better prepared for this one. Then he remembered that he was not supposed to be home, but out with the guys, on account of Samad’s wife saw them leave together, but it was too late to change his story now. Under pressure, he reverted to his original tale, screwing it up. He wished he could restart this interview.
“I was at home. In bed.”
“You’re sure? You didn’t come out to see the beautiful sight? Lots of people did.”
“I would’ve, I guess. But I was asleep.”
“You guess?” Vega inquired.
“What?” He supposed that he could change his story later and just say that he didn’t remember at first. Why not?
“You guess you were asleep?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”
“Lots of guesses.”
“Anybody see you there, at home?” prodded Maltais.
André just stared back at him and chose not to answer. Then he said, “What is this?”
“People saw you in a bar downtown,” Vega informed him.
André looked up at him, squinting into the sun. “That was before the bridge burned maybe. Like way before. Before I went home.”
“My point. You weren’t always home. You left the bar when?” Maltais pressed on.
André brought his legs together, thought a moment, took a sip of water, then crossed them. “I dunno. I finished my beer. Then I walked home.”
“Walked!” Vega announced, as though he couldn’t believe it. “Then you hopped into bed and fell asleep.”
“My wife was with me. You want details? Positions? What is this?”
“What’s with the attitude?” Maltais asked.
“What attitude? It’s your attitude. Christ, my truck got spray-painted today. Look at it! Other guys got theirs firebombed. You should be out arresting tree huggers, not talking to me about some fucking bridge.”
“You didn’t like the bridge? I thought local people loved that bridge.”
André resorted to more water.
“When did you leave the bar?” Maltais insisted on finding out. “What route did you take home?”
“I didn’t write down the time. I took the long way home.”
“No hurry to get into those positions, huh?” Maltais noted.
André glared at him. Timbers were coming off his truck and the three men watched that raucous procedure. Then the two policemen stared back at him as if they were still expecting a reply. “Look,” André fumbled. “The long way home is flatter, see? I still got to go uphill but the long way is more gentle. Not so steep, see? It goes along side streets. I take a path through the woods, so no, nobody saw me, there’s no point asking.”
“That’s okay,” Vega assured him, and put his hands in his front trouser pockets. “We weren’t going to ask.”
André sipped more water, squinted up at him. “Why not?” he wondered.
“For the reason you said,” Vega responded. “There’s no point.”
The two cops simply gazed at him, implacable, as his eyes went back and forth between the two. Maltais made a show of departure, grunting as he shoved himself upright. Enrique Vega seemed to be churning an idea around in his head, though. He said, “Tell me about these tree huggers, Mr. Gervais. Mean bastards, are they? Nutcases? Fanatics? What can you tell me about them?”
André would rather let loose with a spiel but he checked himself. “What do I know? I guess they’re some kind of fanatics,” he indicated.
“More guessing,” Maltais said, and stifled a yawn with his fist.
“It’s just an expression,” André declared with more than a trace of frustration at last apparent in his voice.
“Why do they want to do that, do you think?” Vega asked. “Attack logging trucks? What’s their purpose in life overall?”
“Beats me.” André shrugged. “Ask them when you find them. Like you said. Nutcases.”
“Do you think your truck was targeted for that paint job? I mean, yours in particular? Any special reason for that?”
“That I can’t say,” André told him, sounding miffed. “Ask the tree huggers. Anyway, who said mine was targeted? Probably random, no?”
“So you’re saying that they don’t know who it is they’re going after?” Vega continued to press him. “You’re saying they didn’t have a clue it was you?”
“I guess that’s what I’m saying. I don’t know them, why should they know me?”
“That’s what I’m asking. Do they know you for any particular reason?”
Vega froze him with the question. André thought it through logically. He was not targeted because the other trucks that were
firebombed or spray-painted weren’t driven by men who had anything to do with burning the bridge. But he only knew that because he knew who burned the bridge. He could not explain that, he had to play dumb. He was not supposed to know who, if anyone, burned the bridge. Nor who didn’t.
Maltais and Vega exchanged a glance. They just caught him out. The suspicion meant nothing in terms of reliable evidence, but catching him out once meant that they could do it again, and probably at will.
André finally remembered what he was supposed to say. “I’m sorry, but if you guys keep asking me questions about a goddamned burned-out bridge for some fucking shit reason then I want my lawyer present.”
“You got a lawyer?” Maltais pointedly asked him.
André nodded. Then he shrugged as though to contradict the nod.
“Are you in trouble often?” Vega inquired with a confidential inflection.
“You want him present?” Maltais tacked on.
André remained mute.
“What do you want to call a lawyer for?” Vega continued in that quiet voice, as if they were old confidants. “You know they charge by the half minute, hey? At least they do in the city. I don’t know about this backwater. Maybe by the minute, but still. Have you got something to hide?” Vega prodded.
“I’m not hiding nothing. But . . . rumours get going around in a small town, stupid gossip. I got to protect myself.”
“From gossip.”
“I don’t want to be railroaded here.”
“By us? We wouldn’t do that. Why would we railroad a truck driver? These rumours, what do they say you did?”
This time he possessed the gumption to sustain his silence.
“Well,” Maltais postulated, and spoke to Vega, “I doubt they’re saying he firebombed the logging trucks.”
“I agree with you on that one,” Vega said.
“I doubt they’re saying he spray-painted foul language on his own cab.”
“What did they write on it, I wonder? That’s your truck over there?”
The River Burns Page 31
