He’s watching me, eyebrow raised. I nod, feeling distinctly browbeaten.
We spend the next forty-five minutes in professionally neutral silence until headlights approach. Dugan steps out of another RCMP Suburban, accompanied by Constable John Markham. Dugan looks rumpled and tired, explains that he just got off a murder scene. His manner is brisk and curt as he fires questions at me; has me show him exactly what I’ve done; what I’ve moved. He doesn’t chide me for contaminating the scene. He just does his job, filming, photographing and collecting. The bottle fragments go into an evidence bag. He has me run over the ia base and bring back my reconstructed bottles from the previous fires, which also go into evidence bags. He’s not interested in discussing the under-burned floorboards. Ditto with the tin. He doesn’t want to revisit the cabin scene. Basically, he just wants my information on the truck fire, and he wants me to stay out of the way.
AFTER I’M DISMISSED from the truck fire, I head to the IA base where I feed and salve the dog, eat leftovers, then make a big cup of bitter tea and collapse on my bunk. I’m expecting to quickly fall asleep and am looking forward to another restful night, but soon I’m wide awake, my mind tumbling thoughts. The change in pattern of the bottle arsonist worries me. It could be a copycat, but the lettering seems etched by the same hand. He’s moved from relatively harmless remote fires to auto theft and destruction of property. Now that I’m sure the cabin fire was set deliberately, the possibility that the bottle fires are related can’t be ignored. If they are related, the absence of a calling card at the cabin is understandable. It would be logical not to want an obvious connection to a fire that could be considered a homicide. Or it could just be two different arsonists, as the bottle fires seem planned and the cabin fire suggests a crime of opportunity. To complicate matters, my relationship with the RCMP seems to be deteriorating. Frustrated, I get up and head into town, radio blaring. Driving with music usually settles my mind, but there isn’t enough road. Ten miles later I’m at the edge of town. Instead of continuing into the settlement, I take a fork in the road, head to the Lodge.
The Fort Chipewyan Lodge sits on a rocky promontory overlooking Lake Athabasca. From what I’ve learned in the past two weeks, the Lodge was a venture between the Native bands, several companies from the massive tar sands development upstream, and local government to promote tourism. I’m not sure how the tourism industry is doing but tonight the parking lot is full. I bypass the lobby, climb narrow stairs and emerge into the crowded confines of the Trapline.
The Trapline is the only legal bar in a town that, until a few years ago, was a dry community. The sale of alcohol had been strictly prohibited for two hundred years until, according to Reggie, the Lodge was facing bankruptcy. It seems to be doing fine tonight — tables crowded, jukebox thumping, air thick with smoke. I pause at the threshold, look for a seat. It’s going to be a challenge. The bar was inserted into an attic that was clearly never intended as a place of business. The room is a long narrow wedge, tables and benches crammed tightly together. There are no empty seats. Fortunately I’m here to mingle, not drink. In my experience, bars are an excellent place to pick up information. Lips loosen. Defences drop.
This bar is also the last place that Rufus Hallendry was seen alive.
“Heya bud.” A tall slender Native with a heavily pockmarked face crowds in close as I edge my way to the bar. His nickname is Tuber; why, I have no idea. He’s a constant presence around town, usually with a bottle of Five-Star whiskey crammed into his pants.
“You wanna drink?” he says.
I doubt he’s offering and I nod politely, move past him to the bar, where a harried Native lady is busily mixing drinks. When she asks me what I want, I hesitate — drink has done me few favours in the past — but decide I’d better have a real drink. Pop is served in a different sort of glass, which would advertise that I’m not drinking. Anywhere else this might not be a big deal, but here it would be conspicuous, so I order a rum and Coke.
“That looks good,” says Tuber, flecks of spit landing on my face.
I order him one of the same. He drapes an arm over my shoulder.
“Yooz a good shit, you know that, bud?”
“Hey, Tuber, you knew that trapper — Hallendry?”
“Oh yeah,” he says expansively. “He was a prick.”
“Were you here two nights ago when he was in?”
Tuber gives this some thought. “Yeah, he was here. Prick.”
“Who was he drinking with?”
“He never buys nobody no drinks.”
“So, he was drinking alone?”
Tuber frowns thoughtfully, looking around. He grins, spotting someone familiar. “Hey, Cork,” he says, waving his free arm, motioning over a big Native. “This here is my bud. He’s all right.”
Cork is a few inches taller than my six feet but where I’m gangly he’s solid, shoulders wide as a doorway. He looks like he could run through the forest and knock over trees. He lumbers toward me, frowning in a way that I hope is good-natured.
“You’re that fire guy,” he hollers over the country music.
I nod. It’s hard to keep a low profile in a small town, particularly when ninety-five percent of the population is Native and you’re a white stranger working for the Forest Service. Cork offers an enormous dirty hand to shake. I manage to hold my own, barely.
“Why do they call you Cork?” I holler back. Here, everyone has a nickname.
“I pull out the cork,” he says, grinning, “and it’s all done.”
I suspect it has something to do with his drinking prowess. I nod, slip out from under Tuber’s arm, try to make a casual getaway. I’d like to talk to the bartender, see what she can tell me about Hallendry’s activities that night, but Cork has other plans. He drapes a heavier arm over my shoulder.
“You should meet my niece,” he says.
It doesn’t seem like a request so I let him guide me over to a corner table where several large women and two Native men in ball caps sit hunched, nursing drinks. He introduces me as the Fire Guy, which elicits friendly nods all around. Working for the Forest Service in such a remote location — two hundred miles from the next town and with no road access — I have status. The Forest Service is one of the primary employers and a Forest Service employee usually means a paycheque. I’m quickly offered drinks, which I decline but are ordered anyway.
Cork looks around. “Where the hell is Collette?”
The men shrug. The women giggle. Collette has apparently come up behind us.
“Damn,” he says, turning to her. “I’m going to put a bell on you.” She grins, punches him in the shoulder.
“Meet my bud,” says Cork, gesturing in my direction. “He’s the Fire Guy.”
Collette smiles briefly and looks away. She’s young, nineteen or twenty, slender and seems shy, perhaps because I’m a stranger. She’s easily the most attractive lady in the bar. The most attractive, in fact, since I arrived in Fort Chipewyan. Her black glossy hair hangs nearly to her slender waist. Dark eyes, warm brown skin and high cheekbones give her an alluring exotic look. I find myself glancing away, to avoid staring. “She’s a hell of a looker,” says Cork, grinning. With one thick finger he lifts her chin,as though showing her off. Collette slaps his hand away, gives Cork an impatient look which he laughs off. The women chuckle, clearly enjoying an opportunity to embarrass both the forestry guy and Cork’s niece. Space is created at a bench against the wall and, despite my protests, I’m absorbed into the group and handed another drink. If hospitality is the measure of successful tourism, this place is a gold mine. Cork sits beside me, effectively barricading me in the corner. From the far side of the table Collette gives me an understanding smile. I smile back sheepishly, take a slug of my drink.
The rum goes down smooth, fiery and familiar.
“You’re checking out those bottle fires?” says one of the middle-aged Native ladies.
“That’s right.”
“You figure out who done it?”
/> “No. Do you have any idea?”
She looks thoughtful. “Me — I think it’s that damn Chip band.”
“Really? Why is that?”
She digs a can of chewing tobacco from a pocket, works a wad of it under her lip.
“They always been jealous of the Cree Band. Goes way back.”
“Interesting. Anyone in particular come to mind?”
She shrugs. “Could be any one of them.”
“So you’re obviously from the Cree Band.”
“Yeah.” She high-fives the lady next to her. “Cree Band forever.”
“Cool,” I say. “Did you guys know Rufus Hallendry?”
Cork laughs. “Everyone knew Smokestack.”
I picture the smoking remains of Hallendry’s cabin — the charred body beneath — and the irony of his nickname gives me an eerie chill. One of the men talks about a fight involving Hallendry, in which he got his nose broken, and there’s more laughter. Other stories emerge about Hallendry — his drinking, hunting and grouchy hermit lifestyle. It’s entertaining and gives me a better picture of the man but doesn’t really provide any usable information about the night of the fire or a motive for his murder. The conversation meanders from stories about Smokestack to the commercial fishery, which one man argues has been affected by the huge tar sand developments upstream along the Athabasca River.
“I pull up my fish,” he says, “they got red spots all over them.”
I look over at Collette. She’s been covertly watching me since I sat down.
“It’s not just the fish that are getting sick,” says Cork. “That shit in the water must be doing something to us, too. How many people got the cancer last year?”
Heads nod around the table. Cork draws deeply on his cigarette. “Damn cancer,” he says. “It’s in the water.”
There’s a commotion by the stairwell. Sammy and the other Cardinals come into the bar, animated by the burning of Sammy’s truck. The news spreads through the bar like a ripple. Several men join the group by the door. A tense conversation ensues, inaudible against the pulsing music. Cork and the other men at our table turn to watch. The group by the door move to the bar, order drinks. Cork says something in Cree to the other two men, who nod. One of them looks at me. “You checked out Sammy’s truck tonight?”
“I was at the fire.”
“What do those bottles mean?”
News sure gets around fast in this town.
“I wish I knew,” I say. “What do you think?”
He frowns, tugs at the brim of his ball cap. He’s younger than me, perhaps in his late twenties, has a scraggly black goatee. “I don’t know,” he says, “but someone is after the band.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The fires are on our land. Now they hit Sammy’s truck.”
If the arsonist is trying to make a statement against the Cree Band, he’s succeeding, and I wonder what else might be going on in the community. It will be difficult for an outsider to get under the skin of such a tight-knit Aboriginal community, particularly if there is friction between the various groups. I excuse myself, nudge Cork to open a path, and head for the washroom. I go about two steps before I’m hit by a wave of dizziness, have to steady myself on the back of a nearby chair. I’ve downed only two drinks but feel disproportionately inebriated. The dizziness passes and in the bathroom I splash water on my face, look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are glassy. Better slow down. Leaving the tiny washroom I head for the group at the bar, catch Sammy Cardinal’s attention.
“Cassel,” he says, handing me a drink. “You did a good job on my truck.”
“Glad someone thinks so. When did you notice your truck was missing?”
He frowns.“It was gone when I come home. I thought the wife had it.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, maybe six-thirty, seven o’clock.”
“Where was your wife?”
“Down the road, visiting her sister.”
“When you realized she didn’t have the truck, did you report it stolen?”
He looks amused. “It’s not like that. In our culture, we share. Goes way back.”
“But you weren’t sharing tonight, were you?”
His expression darkens. “You let me know when you learn something.”
The other men are watching me, listening to the exchange. They look ready to shoot someone and I have the uncomfortable feeling they’re waiting for me to point the gun. Tensions are high and I’ll have to be careful what I tell anyone in the community. Sammy and his group filter into the crowd and I take the opportunity to quiz the bartender about Hallendry. She’s short, pudgy, has a serpent tattoo on her neck.
“Yeah, he was here that night,” she says, reaching for a bottle.
“Did you see if he was drinking with anyone?”
“You kidding?” She arches an eyebrow. “In here, everyone drinks with everyone.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Look, I’m not a clock,” she says handing a drink across the bar to a customer.
“Did he leave with anyone?”
She sighs, tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “I don’t know. I think he left on his own. He lives by himself, you know.” An impatient group has formed behind me at the bar. “Anyway,” she says, “I gotta work. I told all this to the cops.”
“Shooters!” someone bellows behind me.
It’s Cork, Tuber, Collette, and the two men from the table. They’re all grinning.
“Line ’em up,” Cork says to the bartender. “Come on, Fire Guy.”
The drink in my hand is half gone already. I don’t remember drinking it. “No thanks,” I say to Cork. “I have to work in the morning.”
“We all have to work in the morning,” he says.
“Just one,” says Collette, giving me a challenging look.
Our eyes connect. Somehow, I don’t want to disappoint her. “Just one.”
I’m passed a test tube filled with an orange liquid. It goes down like a bolt of lightning. I’ve barely set the empty tube into a jug on the bar when another tube, this one filled with blue liquid, is thrust at me. I hold up my hand. Enough is enough.
“Oh, come on,” says Collette. “You gotta try this one.”
There’s a moment of indecision. Elbows and backs bump against me from all sides. I’m pressed so close to Collette that I can smell her and she smells good. A voice inside me whispers that I’m not supposed to be drinking, and that I’m not looking for anything, but the voice seems distant and detached. I listen a few seconds longer for the voice, but all I hear is the blare of country music. I’ll have just this one more and then I’ll get in my truck and back to base to sleep.
No, I’ll call a cab —
Beside me, Cork bellows something incoherent, pumping a fist in the air. The shooter in my hand is empty. I feel numb and confused but, rather than alarming me, it feels pleasant. I smile, nod at Cork and Tuber and Collette. I have the distant realization that I’m getting drunk, that I am drunk, but I no longer care. I’ve been working hard. One night of fun won’t kill me. I’ll slow down, pace myself. Around me, people are moving.
“Come on, Fire Guy,” says Cork. “Party at my place.”
So much for slowing down.
CORK’S HOUSE IS at the far end of town locally referred to as Dog Patch. I’m crammed in the back seat of a car, with Tuber one side of me and Collette on the other. Houses and trees flash past in the headlights. Everyone is laughing. The car smells sweetly of alcohol and the garlic sausage Tuber is eating beside me, which he generously offers to share. I decline, which Collette finds very funny. We lurch to a stop at the curb, spill out of the car into the warm night. Memories of past parties and binges mingle with the present and I feel a primitive and familiar anticipation.
I need to slow down. Focus on why I’m here. Find out about Hallendry.
We move inside. The house is small and quickly feels crowded. There is an immense
TV turned to a music channel. All the hard furniture is old pressboard. The soft furniture consists of a sagging brown couch and love seat. There’s a stuffed fish on the wall. The clock is one of those fake brass star things from the seventies. I’m on the couch beside Collette, holding a drink in an immense mug. It’s one of those German steins with a pointy lid that keeps biting my nose.
“You knew that trapper — Hallendry, right?” I say to her.
“Sure. Everyone did,” she says, tipping the lid on my drink back up for me.
“What am I drinking?” I say, sipping from the mug. She leans close, takes a sip.
“Everything, I think.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
She smiles. “I like you, Porter. You’re a good guy.”
“Yeah — thanks. What’s a nice girl like you doing at a place like this?”
“I live here.”
I give this some thought, wonder who the other people are around me.
“About that trapper,” I say, but she’s talking to someone else. I must have missed something. Time has become elastic. I look up at someone who’s sitting on the arm rest. A brown face and scraggly goatee look down at me. I think his name is Philbert.
“Do you know who Smokehouse was drinking with a coupla nights ago?”
“You wanna smoke?” says Philbert.
“No.” The music is loud. I take a drink, get my nose tweaked by the lid, wave away an offered cigarette. “Smokestack — who was he drinking with at the bar.”
“Yeah, the bar,” says Philbert. “Same as you.”
I frown, consider how to get my question across to Philbert when someone stumbles across my outstretched legs and my mug tips into my lap, soaking my crotch. I stare at it for a second, then look up. Cork sways uncertainly in front of me.
“Crap, bud. Sorry about that.”
“Come on,” says Collette, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She grabs my hand, leads me through the crowd. It’s all I can do to stay vertical and avoid the knees and legs around me. The big screen tv captures my attention for a second — a blonde looking up at the camera, suggestively displaying her cleavage — then I’m tugged away and into a room. A door closes. Something bumps the back of my legs and I fall onto a bed.
Whiskey Creek Page 11
