I spend a few more minutes examining the ashy remnants of the floor as the work day starts at the Whiskey Creek fire. Firefighters pick up shovels and Pulaskis, don Wajax bags, head to the fire perimeter to seek out hot spots. Carter stops by to see what I’m up to, then joins his men on the fire line. I kneel in the ash among the few remaining bits of floor joist, prospect for something, anything, that might remain to indicate what occurred, but there’s really nothing left to examine as fire is a wonderful cleanser. It is, in fact, one of the leading methods of destroying evidence at a crime scene. Any serious crime is exponentially more difficult to solve when the scene has been incinerated, then hit with water and the boots of firemen. Criminals know if they drop a match the chance of getting caught is reduced. From a practical perspective, this means you can never initially assume that a fire is just a fire. Clues of any primary crime are much harder to find, if any remain at all. Indications that a fire might be arson may be the only clue that something deeper is amiss — which is why I’m so frustrated that all evidence of the under-burned floorboards are gone. I return to my truck, go through my pack again. Last night I checked the pictures I had taken — a nifty feature you can’t do with the old film cameras — and confirmed I had good images of the underburned floorboards. There’s a slim chance I accidentally deleted the pictures, or they were erased when I shoved the camera back into my pack, but I doubt it as the camera is designed to require a series of manual steps to delete pictures. Either my digital camera paranoia is justified or someone tinkered with my camera, and I search in my pack for anything amiss. Other than the missing pictures, nothing seems to have been disturbed.
Except for me, that is — I’m definitely feeling a bit disturbed.
I left the pack in my truck. Whoever tampered with the camera had to have done so last night at the ia base, which means there were two separate incidents to eliminate the evidence presented by thefloorboards. If someone at the fire was responsible for burning the floorboards, they would have had to travel unnoticed from the fire to tamper with the camera, then returned unnoticed. Not impossible, as Mr. Spock would say, but highly improbable. It could be that someone at the fire had a partner who sabotaged my camera, but this would have required communication that is not available. This leaves only the possibility that an outsider is responsible for both acts, although I have no idea how anyone outside of the fire camp could have known about the significance of the floorboards.
Cursing, I stuff gear back into my pack and let the dog out of the truck.
I need to walk. And to search.
An outsider would have had to travel to the fire in the middle of the night. Given the distance from town, this would mean some mode of transportation, likely a vehicle, possibly a horse, that was parked adistance back from the fire so as not to arouse attention. Most likely access was along the trail and I head in that direction, calling to the dog.
“Come on, Scorch. Over here, boy.”
The dog runs toward camp, then hesitates, looking back at me. I probably should have snapped a leash on him to keep him away from the camp and firefighters, but it just didn’t seem right, considering this was his home. I’m having second thoughts about the dog when he trots back in my direction, stopping to sniff at the ashy remains of the cabin. I give him a minute, then start walking down the trail. The dog runs past me, bunting my hand with its head.
“That a boy.”
I walk quickly, both to cover ground and to burn off pent up energy from my anger and disappointment. The dog stays about forty yards ahead, meandering, sniffing the ground occasionally. I’m not sure what I might find but keep going. Perhaps the arsonist was careless and I’ll get lucky. After about a mile, Scorch doubles back, circling, and stops to pee on a tree. I stride past, expecting the dog to move ahead of me after it’s done its territorial business. Instead, he wanders into the bush.
I stop. “Come on, Scorch. Over here.”
Thirty yards into the forest, the dog looks back at me.
“Come on you mutt. Don’t run off and get lost.”
Scorch seems to consider, then sniffs the ground again and continues to trot further into the forest. I watch, wondering if I should just let him do his own thing. Eventually he’ll return to the fire camp, where there’s food. As I’m watching it occurs to me that he isn’t wandering randomly but is sniffing the ground, following a scent. He’s onto a deer or something.
Or could he be following a human scent?
I hang a ribbon on a tree branch for later reference and start to follow the dog.
He’s definitely onto something, sniffing, circling back here and there. We move together deeper into the forest, farther from the trail. In the distance a fire pump starts up, providing a vague directional reference. Other than this, I have no idea where I am. Too late, I realize that I’m basically lost and will have to rely on the dog to get me out of here. Scorch seems oblivious to my concern, leading me amongst trees and around brambles. An hour drags by, then another. I’m hot, sweaty, thirsty and convinced that I’ve foolishly followed a dog after a deer or coyote when Scorch stops and circles back, sniffing the ground.
“What’s up, you mutt? Lost your furry prey?”
The dog continues to circle, looking for a lost scent. As I follow his progress I see a small clearing among the pines. There’s an old campfire ring, a few bottles and cans. Tent poles are propped against a tree. The camp appears not to have been used recently but there are tire tracks in the bent grass and a broken shrub where a vehicle recently turned around, tight among the trees.
Most interestingly, there’s a burgundy paint scrape on the trunk of a large pine.
6
•
I DOUBT WALDREN will be impressed with a paint scrape on a tree, miles from the crime scene and discovered by a mongrel dog, so I decide to look into a few things, see what turns up. I start by tracking down Charles Hallendry. Fort Chipewyan is not a big place and if Hallendry is still in town he shouldn’t be hard to find. Ten minutes of cruising around in my Forest Service truck yields Hallendry coming out of the local store with a bag of groceries. I wheel into the parking lot, pull close to Hallendry, who looks at me warily as I lean an elbow out the open truck window.
“Have you got a minute?”
“Maybe later. I gotta head to the cops to sign some papers.”
He’ll need to go over to his brother’s place in town, try to figure out what to do with all the damn stuff. I can meet him there in an hour. I jot down the address, spend the hour returning the dog to the ia base, where I give him a treat for a job well done. I give myself a treat as well — more of Doctor Cho’s Bitter Happy Tea. I cruise into town feeling tired from the long walk but remarkably relaxed. Perhaps I can work out a deal with Doctor Cho to distribute this stuff — I know plenty of people who need to lighten up. I might be a little too relaxed because I miss my turn and have to double back. When I get there Charles Hallendry is struggling out of a cab.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I say, extending a hand.
“Yeah, okay,” he says. His hand is like grabbing a warm pot roast.
Hallendry invites me inside. I follow him through a gate in a sagging page-wire fence, past a collection of derelict snowmobiles nestled amongst the weeds, and into an old wood-sided bungalow. Inside it is immediately apparent that Rufus Hallendry lived alone. The debris of a poorly kept life is scattered everywhere. Kitchen counter is crowded with dirty dishes crawling with flies. It smells like a landfill. A toaster has a pair of small vice-grips attached to the prong where there used to be a lever. The living room contains a couch with bald spots, a coffee table covered with empty whiskey bottles and sticky glasses, and an overflowing ashtray. A small wood stove occupies one wall. Stray bark chips and ash are scattered across a rug of indeterminate colour. Propped against another wall are several long narrow stretchers with animal hides pulled taught. This was definitely the home of a single, hard-drinking trapper.
“Look at all this crap
,” says Hallendry. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“You could have a garage sale.”
Hallendry doesn’t find this amusing.
“Are there other relatives who would be interested?”
“Interested in what?” says Hallendry, standing in the living room and staring at the coffee table covered in whiskey bottles. “We’ve got a sister who lives in Holland. Dad’s gone. Mom’s in a home. His ex-wife hates his guts.”
“Where does she live?”
“Calgary.”
An old wood-cased television squats in a corner, supporting a collection of framed pictures. One is a faded family group shot. Another is obviously the two brothers, younger, with Charles much slimmer. I pick up a photo of two children, a boy and girl, smiling in a photographer’s studio. The girl is missing her front teeth.
“These his kids?”
Hallendry sighs, shaking his head, wandering around the living room, opening a drawer to peer inside, squinting at a Native ceremonial drum hanging on the wall. I’m not sure he’ll answer but it seems he’s just collecting his thoughts. “Yeah, those are his kids,” he says heavily. “Damn shame for them, having a father like that. They came up here a few times to visit — twice, I think it was. Didn’t work out.”
“Do you think the kids would like the dog?”
“They live in an apartment. She’s allergic.”
Hallendry wanders into the kitchen and I hear the slap of cupboards opening and closing. “You want some coffee or something?” he calls.
“No. Thanks. Did your brother have any enemies?”
“Sobriety.”
There’s an awkward silence, followed by more rummaging sounds from the kitchen.
“Do you mind if I look around?”
“Help yourself.”
I look at a few things of little interest in the living room and move to the bedroom. Messy bed. Dirty clothes everywhere. Old pressboard and laminate dresser filled with the usual things you find in a dresser, and few partial bottles of Jack Daniels. The bathroom is frightening, but I take the time to examine the medicine cabinet — always good to know what prescriptions a person is using, particularly if they have a mental condition. There’s nothing unusual in Rufus Hallendry’s medicine cabinet — pain killers, anti-fungal cream, a collection of used toothbrushes. There’s a tiny laundry room that needed to be used more frequently. No basement. I venture outside to the backyard, where there’s a dingy single garage.
Stench of grease and mouse turds. Old Honda quad up on blocks. Workbench scattered with tools. A shelf with trapping gear and boxes. I spend a few minutes going through the boxes. Rags. Old truck parts. Nothing of interest. My eyes track back to something hanging over the workbench. A string of what appears to be shrivelled, blackish sacks about the size of golf balls — animal parts of some sort. I step onto an overturned pail for a closer look.
“Pig galls,” Hallendry says, standing in the door.
“Why would he have pig galls?”
Hallendry shrugs. “Bait, I guess. I run a hog farm down by Stettler. In winter I send up pails of frozen guts and crap like that for my brother. He’s uses them to make some sort of concoction for his trapping.”
Hallendry comes in, looks around. He’s so large the garage seems smaller.
“This quad might still be good,” he says, lifting the end as though it were a toy.
I step down from the pail, go the shelf, where there are large jars filled with a strange blackish sludge. No label. I set one on the workbench, where I can get a better grip on the jar.
“I wouldn’t do that,” says Hallendry.
Too late. The lid comes off, instantly filling the garage with a stench so intensely putrid that I reel back, gagging, my eyes watering. Hallendry jolts as though hit by the shockwave from an explosion.
“Close it!” he hollers.
I stumble to the workbench, dizzy, holding my breath, screw the lid back on the jar, stagger for the open door. Charles Hallendry is already outside, leaned against the garage wall, retching and dry heaving.
“What the hell was that?” I gasp.
“I think,” he says between breaths, “you found my brother’s longrange trapping lure.”
A LONG-RANGE trapping lure, it turns out, is a concoction of animal parts and scent glands that are mixed together in a slurry, placed in a jar and left in the sun to putrefy. The more it stinks, the better, as it is used to attract predators from miles away. Every trapper has their own preferred blend. Rufus Hallendry has created a mix that should be classified as a biological weapon. When we finally catch our breath, Charles Hallendry slaps me on the back, laughing.
“You should have seen your face.”
My spine may be broken, but it’s good to see Hallendry smiling.
We return to the house which no longer seems to smell so bad. There’s a truck parked at the curb and someone knocking at the door. Hallendry answers, blocking my view of the visitor.
A man’s voice: “Is Mr. Hallendry in?”
“I am Mr. Hallendry.”
“Uh — the other Mr. Hallendry.”
A moment’s hesitation. “You’d better come in.”
Charles Hallendry backs into the kitchen, allowing the visitor to enter. He’s young, well groomed, dark hair slicked back, and is carrying a briefcase. He introduces himself as Clive Owenson. Mr. Hallendry was expecting him.
“I’m sorry,” Hallendry mumbles, “but Rufus is dead.”
It takes Owenson a few seconds to process this. “What?”
“He died two days ago.”
“Oh, umm, I’m terribly sorry. My condolences.”
There’s an awkward silence. I’m waiting for Hallendry to ask the man what business he had with his brother, but a moment drags by, so I intercede.
“Is there something we can help you with?”
“Well, umm, maybe, I guess.”
“Can I get you some coffee?” says Hallendry.
“Well, okay. I’m with Aggregated Land Services and we represent Phultam Uranium. We’ve been negotiating compensation for a corehole program on Mr. Hallendry’s trapline. I was stopping by to finalize the agreement, although now I’m not sure what can be done.” He looks hopefully at Charles. “Perhaps if you’re a relative you could sign on behalf of Mr. Hallendry.”
Hallendry shrugs. “Maybe.” He looks at me. “What do you think?”
“That’s up to you. Sounds like family business.”
Hallendry considers. “Okay, I’ll have a look.”
We move to the kitchen table, clear away a clutter of dirty cups. Owenson opens his briefcase and extracts a neat package of paper, which he lays in front of Hallendry.
“You’ll need to sign the last page.”
Hallendry frowns, reading, refusing to be rushed. I’m sitting across from him and read upside down. It’s a standard project notification, required by legislation. I’ve seen hundreds of these back when I was a forest ranger and don’t recall anything about a compensation clause. Hallendry reaches the last page, which isn’t part of the standard package.
Owenson hands him a pen, waits expectantly.
“Excuse me,” I interject, “but when did it become a requirement to directly compensate a trapper? I thought compensation was taken care of through the Trapper’s Compensation Program, to which all the companies contribute.”
Hallendry pauses, pen in hand, expression suspended. Owenson looks like a guilty kid with his hand in the cookie jar, which is odd because he’s giving, not receiving. “Well,” he says slowly, “technically, you’re correct. Who did you say you are?”
“I’m with the Forest Service,” I say, intentionally vague.
Owenson seems to relax. “This is a company-to-company transaction,” he says as though he’s given this pitch more than once. “We recognize that our operations affect the operations of the trapper, so we’re prepared to offer additional compensation to offset the cost to the trapper of moving his traps, inconvenien
ce, that sort of thing.”
“And this is completely voluntary?”
Owenson glances at Hallendry, who’s listening with obvious interest.
“Let me put it another way. What happens if you don’t pay?”
Owenson leans back, lets out a big puff. “Honestly, what usually happens is the trapper complains to the ERCB that he wasn’t adequately consulted and then we have to file a non-routine application, which takes months instead of weeks. There can be hearings and all sorts of delays. It’s a major pain in the ass.”
“But the trapper doesn’t have a case.”
“Like that matters,” says Owenson.
I can’t help smiling at the simple brilliance of the scheme — using the weight of the system for additional concessions. Hallendry has a trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What sort of compensation are we talking about?”
“Two hundred dollars per core hole.”
“How many core holes?”
“In this program, I think there are thirty-eight.”
I blink. “This program is worth almost eight thousand dollars to the trapper?”
Owenson nods. “That’s about right.”
Hallendry smiles. “I think I can sign this.”
I’m stunned. This is only one program. If a trapper has a trapline with a lot of industrial activity, he could be making an incredible amount of money — far more than trapping would ever yield. “Is this normal?”
Owenson shrugs. “It’s just the cost of doing business.”
IT’S LATE IN the afternoon when I depart the Hallendry estate, the long-range lure lingering in my olfactory passages. Something else lingers as well — my surprise at the lucrative cottage industry that has developed among trappers. Traplines have become money machines in a way that has nothing to do with their original intent. Seems like a good motive for jealousy, greed or murder. Not a compelling motive for the uranium company, as they simply pay off anyone who threatens to slow them down, but certainly motive for anyone who covets his neighbour’s trapline. I head to the local Fish and Wildlife office, conveniently located across the street from the ranger station, hoping to arrive before quitting time. With minutes to spare I pull my forest service truck to a stop in front of the small building.
Whiskey Creek Page 9
