Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  Suddenly, Collette wavers above me and there’s a tugging at my jeans.

  “No,” I slur. “I gotta get going. I can clean myself up.”

  She grins. “Who said anything about cleaning you up?”

  Her face is right in front of me, framed by black hair. I can see down her shirt, where her cleavage sways suggestively. I realize with mild shock what is happening, alarmed that I let it get this far. I need to tell her that I’m engaged. That I have to get out of here.

  “Listen.” I push myself up on my elbows.

  She shoves me down, breathes in my ear. “You just lay back and enjoy, sweetie.”

  I feel my jeans being tugged down. “No — I gotta …”

  There’s a buzzing in my ears. She’s smiling.

  I focus on her face as it fades away.

  7

  •

  CONSCIOUSNESS COMES SLOWLY, accompanied by bright light, nausea, and a throbbing headache. The first thing I see is the side of a cardboard box. My hip is aching and I quickly realize why; I’m lying on my side in a scatter of flattened cardboard boxes behind some building. Slowly, I push myself to a sitting position. There’s a battered dumpster in front of me. Farther back are the crooked wooden crosses of an old graveyard. Further still is the broad expanse of Lake Athabasca, shimmering painfully in the sun. I squint, puzzled.

  How did I get here?

  Rum. Shooters. Alcoholic swamp juice.

  Defeated, I lay down again on the cardboard boxes. They smell like rotten lettuce. Above me, small scuds of white cloud move slowly across a blue canvas. Why did I start drinking again? Shear unadulterated stupidity. I have a pattern of drinking when things go badly and I try to remember what triggered this episode. We found a body at the cabin fire. Rufus Hallendry. I was at the bar to ask questions about Hallendry’s activities the night he died. Technically, I was working last night, but somewhere I crossed a line. My nausea deepens to disgust and self-loathing as I recall Collette leading me to her bedroom. I remember tripping backwards and falling on her bed, then her above me, tugging at my pants.

  And then — nothing.

  What happened after, and for the rest of the night, is a mystery.

  I push myself up and sit staring at the sparkling expanse of the lake, trying desperately to remember, to fill in the void between then and now. I’ve never blacked out like this before. I’ve always remembered the events of a night of drinking, even though I might have preferred to have forgotten. In the past, my recall seemed a curse but this chasm in my memory is more disturbing and I strain to mine the dark shaft of last night’s amnesia, searching for any clue that I did the honourable thing — that I pushed myself off Collette’s bed and staggered away from the house in Dog Patch. I want to believe this so badly I can almost see myself doing it, as though by sheer will I could manufacture the memory. I want to believe because now, after years of healing, my life is on track and I have a new fiancée.

  Christina Telson — unique, contrary, and everything I want.

  I shudder to think that I might have destroyed the trust between us and cringe at the thought of facing her. Sickened in heart and body, I force myself to push these thoughts to the back of my mind and get moving. I’m a mess, my pants blotched and stiff from spilled drinks, my shirt smeared with unfamiliar stains. I’m behind the Northern store — the local grocery — and I head through town, walking along an alley paralleling Main Street. I need to make it to the parking lot of the Lodge to retrieve my truck, preferably without being seen. The tricky part will be bypassing the ranger station. The Lodge sits on a rocky promontory overlooking the lake and the shortest route is past the ranger station, through the fenced compound and Mark Middel’s house, then past the RCMP office and a few hundred yards uphill along a rocky path. The alternative is a lengthy detour and the way I feel I’m willing to chance the shortest route.

  I stop as the ranger station comes into view.

  “Damn.”

  My truck is parked in front of the ranger station, directly in front of the window of the duty room, where Mark Middel spends much of his time. I have no doubt that someone reported a Forest Service truck in front of the Lodge late at night and that Middel moved it to the office, with the intention of ambushing me when I came to collect it. I have a brief flash of hope that it’s still early enough in the morning that no one is at the office and I can sneak over and take the truck to the base. Clean and composed I would have at least a chance of facing him with dignity.

  I check my watch only to find that I have no watch — sometime last night I lost it.

  The base is ten miles out of town and I have no choice but to retrieve my truck. I slink across the road. No signs of life from the office as I cross the small gravel parking lot. Sensing possible victory, I reach the truck, which fortunately is not locked. I slide onto the seat, feeling like a kid stealing the family car, gently close the door and reach for the keys.

  No keys. I’m going to have to go into the office for the spare key.

  I peer through the window into the duty room. No sign of life. Quietly, I step out of the truck, tiptoe up the wooden steps, which creak obligingly. The office door is unlocked, which makes me nervous, but there is no one at the front counter, beneath which is a box containing spare keys. I barely have to enter the office, really. Maybe, if I’m lucky …

  “Cassel,” Middel says from somewhere behind me.

  I jump, caught red-handed in the act of reaching for the key box under the counter. I turn, prepared to be apologetic. Middel stands by the door of the duty room, his uniform looking very crisp and official this morning in contrast to my dishevelled appearance.

  “I can explain.” The most abused line in history.

  Middel looks disgusted. “My God, Cassel, look at you.”

  His remark draws the rest of the staff into view. The receptionist, Louise, comes out of the stationary room. The seasonal radio operator, a young local gal, peers past Middel’s shoulder. Even Carter Spence, who must be in from the fire for a quick update, peers at me from his office. My humiliation is complete.

  “What the hell happened to you?” says Middel.

  “Well —”

  Middel points. “In my office.”

  Reluctantly, I step into his small office, acutely aware of my incriminating odour. Middel comes in, scowling, closes the door and stands behind his desk, glaring at me. In theory, what I do after hours is entirely my business. In reality, in a town this small and with the profile of the Forest Service, what I do after hours is a bit more sensitive — something I should have taken into account when I stepped into the Trapline last night.

  “You left a Forest Service truck in front of the bar last night.”

  “It’s also a hotel,” I remind him.

  “Are you staying there?”

  “No, obviously not —”

  “Obvious?” he says. “You want me to explain ‘obvious’ to you?”

  I decide it’s a rhetorical question, remain silent.

  “You’re working for the Forest Service. People here look up to the Forest Service. Maybe it’s not such a big deal leaving your truck up there normally. Maybe it’s not such a big deal having a beer or two after work. But this town is a powder keg right now — and look at you. You stink like a brewery, you look like shit, and you’re late for work.”

  I want to remind him that I’m a contract fire investigator and that I set my own hours, but reminding him that I’m an expendable contractor doesn’t seem a wise approach at the moment, so I just stand there and grit my teeth. Besides, I’m not exactly on solid moral ground this morning. He fumes and goes on a few minutes longer, a vein throbbing in his forehead. When he seems about out of steam, I politely inquire if I can go take a shower.

  “Do that,” he says, tossing me the truck keys. “And then get to work.”

  I step quickly out of the office, gun my truck out of the parking lot and head for the base. My head feels like a gang of amateur autobody mechanics
are pummelling it with rubber mallets. I grip the steering wheel, try to focus on the road while a mixture of panic and fury blossoms in my chest. How could I have been so stupid? Now what am I going to do?

  Work the case, damn it, that’s what I’m going to do.

  At the base, I feed the dog, who looks to be in better shape than me this morning, then take a long hot shower that leaves me limp and tired. I manage to eat a few pieces of toast while I make a large cup of bitter medicinal tea, gagging as I force myself to gulp it down. After I’m done I feel almost human. What I need now is a long drive with plenty of loud music — blues and hard rock — but I’m trapped in a community without road access, so I sit on the edge of my bed in my tiny room that smells like moulding pressboard and stare at the nightstand that until recently held my collection of reconstructed bottles. Like my dignity, they too are gone. I lay back, close my eyes, hoping for a few minutes of oblivion. No such luck — I hear the staccato rattle of a dirt bike. Luke Middel is the last person I need to see this morning.

  Clump of boots in the hallway. The unlatched door opens as he knocks.

  “Hiya Porter,” he says, standing in the doorway.

  “What is it, Luke?”

  “There’s something in town you need to see.”

  I drop my head back onto the pillow. “Can’t it wait?”

  “I think you’ll want to look at this right away.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I think it explains what the letters on the bottles mean.”

  I TAKE LUKE and the dog with me into town. Scorch paces in the box of the truck, wind ruffling his fur. Luke is animated, talking fast, leaning forward like he can’t wait to get there. He was cruising around town on his bike, after having stopped by the post office, when he saw it, although he won’t tell me exactly what he’s found. Suspense I can do without today. There were a couple of guys hanging around, too, he says. We pull past the Northern store.

  He points. “There they are.”

  A half-dozen young Native men crowd in the alley next to the Northern store. They stand with their arms crossed, ball caps turned back. One of them is hefting a baseball bat. They frown at us as I wheel the truck around in the street for a better view. On the brown corrugated metal side of the store someone has spray-painted large orange words.

  Fuck

  The

  Cree

  The words are stacked on top of each other, so the first letter of each word lines up. For extra emphasis, the vandal sprayed a long straggling loop around the first letters of each word.

  FTC.

  “What do you think?” says Luke.

  My first thought is that I woke up on the back side of that building this morning and only missed seeing the graffiti because I walked past the other side of the store. My next thought is that I was lucky I stumbled away from there before the crowd with the baseball bat showed up and there was a misunderstanding. These boys look upset. Their expressions turn from suspicion to anger when they see the Forest Service emblem on the side of the truck.

  I roll down the window. Scorch growls softly as they approach.

  “Look at this shit,” says the man with the bat, pointing it at the offending words.

  “Yeah,” says another. “On our goddamn store, too.”

  “You guys have any idea who did this?”

  “Hell no,” says the guy with the bat. “But someone’s gonna pay.”

  I nod, commiserate for a minute. No point trying to calm them down; it might only inflame the situation. I get what little information seems to be available. Someone discovered the graffiti about an hour and a half ago — shortly after I regained consciousness — and told the store manager, who called the RCMP who have come and gone. The men here are waiting around, hoping the artist will return to admire his work. They know all about the Chief ’s truck and the fires on their reserve land out of town. They figure someone is out to get the Cree Band and have plenty of theories. It might be the Chipewyan Band or the Metis. Maybe even some white skinhead. Anyone not in the Cree Band seems to be a suspect and these lads want blood. From their expressions, any blood might do and I retreat from the alley, watch the crowd recede in the rear-view mirror.

  “Now what?” says Luke.

  “Now I take you back to your bike and you go home.”

  “Aw, come on, Porter. Let me help out.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  Luke thinks, his young face intent. “There must be something we can do.”

  I’m about to tell him that investigations are nothing like what you see on TV, where they condense everything to an hour, less commercials. We hardly ever find those conveniently unique clues. Investigations are long, tedious and often unrewarding work. Arson is the most difficult crime to solve; wildfire arson doubly so. On top of that, I feel like a giant used me for chewing gum and I just want to curl up somewhere and die for a few hours. But he keeps looking at me, all fresh-faced and enthusiastic. It’s annoying, but maybe if I throw him a bone he’ll leave me alone. “What were you thinking, kid?”

  “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “we could return to the scene of the other crimes, look for more clues, stuff like that. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Okay,” I say, resigned. “We’ll swing over to the Dore Lake road on the way back.”

  The Dore Lake road, where the bottle fires originated, is along our way. I figure we drive a few miles down the gravel road, get out, wander around the black patches in the forest for a few minutes. I’ll look appropriately thoughtful, then drop Luke at his bike and crash on my bunk for a few hours. Later in the day, when my brain starts functioning again, I’ll give this business of the graffiti some thought.

  “Over there,” says Luke, pointing to a highly visible burned area.

  “Thanks kid, I almost missed it.”

  We park on the side of the road and Luke and Scorch are out of the truck before I manage to unbuckle my seatbelt. I follow somewhat less enthusiastically. Luke walks around for a few minutes, checking behind trees. Scorch follows him, peeing on the trees. They make a great team. “Where’d the fire start?” says Luke.

  I go through basic origin location, pointing out the fire travel patterns on the trunks of the trees, point out where I found the bottle. Luke squats, examines the origin area in great detail. I yawn, look down the road as a vehicle slows and passes. Farther down the road is the familiar solitary figure of the local bottle picker, taking his bike for a walk. Luke stands up finally, follows my gaze. “I wonder if that guy knows anything,” he says.

  I’m about to dismiss his remark when it dawns on me that he might have a point. The old bottle picker is out along this road all the time. We wait as he approaches, shoulders hunched, resolutely pushing his ancient bike. It’s been a good day for him — his plywood boxes are crammed full. A white plastic shopping bag bulges from one side. As the old man approaches, Scorch trots out to greet him, nuzzling his hand and jumping up on him. Luke and I follow.

  “Good morning,” I manage to lie.

  The old guy nods at me and returns his attention to the dog.

  “He seems to like you,” I add, trying to elicit a response. Nothing. His face is weather-beaten, cheeks covered in white stubble. A grey ball cap is pulled low, shielding his watery eyes. I wonder if he speaks English — many of the elders in these remote communities still speak only their native tongue. Scorch licks his hand and the old man looks up at me, his face creasing into a smile.

  “Good dog,” he says stiffly.

  “You know this dog?”

  “I see him sometimes. He comes on road with me.”

  We introduce ourselves. The old bottle picker is Frank Cardinal.

  “You’ve got quite a haul today,” I say, gesturing to his cargo. He looks back at his bulging bag of bottles as though noticing them for the first time. A shape pressed from inside the bag against the plastic catches my attention. It’s short with angular ridges and it takes my sluggish mind a moment to realiz
e it’s a drinking glass. A tumbler. The pattern and shape are the same as the drinking glass at the cabin fire.

  “Can I have a look at what you found there?”

  The old fellow looks at me as though he doesn’t understand. I step over to the rear of his bike, peer into the plastic bag of bottles. He watches me but doesn’t say anything. I reach into the bag, feel down through the bottles and cans until I grasp the open shape of the tumbler and pull it out. It looks like the brother of the tumbler at the cabin.

  “Do you mind showing me where you found this?”

  He hesitates, then points farther down the road.

  “Could you show me exactly where?”

  He’s worried about leaving his bike. It takes some doing, but I convince him to join me in the truck, while I have Luke remain with Scorch, guarding the old man’s bike and treasury of bottles, and we head down the road. I’m wondering how good the old man’s memory might be for something as transient as the location of a piece of refuse in the ditch but he points without hesitation to a spot along the road and we stop, get out for a closer look. There’s not much to see, just a spot at the base of a small bush. The bush likely caught the tumbler as it was thrown out a window, preventing it from shattering on the ground.

  “Can I keep the tumbler?”

  Frank Cardinal frowns, shakes his head.

  “Can I buy it from you? I’ll give you five bucks.”

  He considers, shakes his head again. A few more offers and finally he agrees — for twenty dollars I’ve purchased the most expensive glass I own. I carefully zip it into a plastic evidence bag from my pack, which the old man seems to find amusing.

  “More,” he says.

  “Are you kidding? You already got twenty bucks out of me.”

  He smiles, points farther down the road. There’s another tumbler. We drive a half mile further, where he leads me into the ditch and points to a scatter of broken glass. The fragments clearly have the same ridges and my foul disposition this morning brightens. This tumbler hasn’t been handled since it left the hand that tossed it into the ditch — an evidentiary bonus. I thank Frank and turn toward the truck when he grabs my sleeve, sticks out a hand.