Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  “Interesting,” says MacFarlane. “Have you spoken with the Mercredi girl?”

  “No, she’s missing. I went to McMurray to find her.”

  “Ah,” he says. “I see.”

  There’s an awkward silence. No one says my theory is half-baked and circumstantial, but no one is saying anything, which is not a good sign. MacFarlane isn’t taking notes. “When was she reported missing?”

  “Her mother reported her missing last night,” says Waldren.

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “About two days.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Nineteen, I think.”

  MacFarlane ponders, tapping the felt maker against his chin. “Normally, someone of age has to be missing for seventy-two hours before we even consider them missing, or there has to be a strong suspicion of foul play. In my experience, in remote communities like this, people vanish and reappear constantly. They go on a drunk. They go fishing. They just go into the bush to get away. Do you really think this girl may have information of value?”

  “She’s my only lead so far.”

  “Okay.” MacFarlane nods, making a decision. “We’ll keep an eye out for her as a person of interest. The next thing I want to pursue is any possible connection between the fires started with the Molotov cocktails and the Hallendry fire. Any theories?”

  “Nothing obvious so far,” says Waldren.

  “What do you think, Cassel? You’ve worked both fires.”

  “Both fires involved alcohol bottles, but beyond that I’ve found nothing to suggest a link. The bottle fires seem to be targeted at the Cree Band, but there doesn’t seem to be any obvious connection between the Cree Band and the Hallendry fire. The Hallendry trapline was generating a revenue stream from payments from a uranium exploration company. Previous to Hallendry acquiring the trapline it was held by a Native, who likely belonged to one of the bands. There could be an expectation of gain by removing Hallendry, or it could be some sort of a punishment.”

  MacFarlane takes notes. “Any more theories?”

  No one seems to have anything to add.

  “Okay,” says MacFarlane, “let’s talk structure. I’ll be the lead as the primary investigator. Cassel will be the fire behaviour specialist and liaison with the Forest Service. Markham will be Native liaison. Waldren will be logistics and team commander.” He flips back a few pages on his chart. “Tasks to be accomplish in the near term are a review of all information relating to the bottle fires with ident and myself — that obviously will be you, Cassel — and establishing the Native liaison function. Markham, you need to set up lines of communication with the bands and let it be known that we are interested in any information regarding intertribal friction. Oh, and we’ll put the word out on that girl of yours, Cassel.”

  The meeting is over. I stand up, move to the door when MacFarlane intercepts me, pulls me aside. He waits until the room clears then closes the door, fixes me with a hard eye.

  “I hear you have a reputation of being a wildcard.”

  “Mere flattery,” I assure him. He’s not amused.

  “We’re not going to have problems are we?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  I SPEND ANOTHER hour with the Mounties, bringing Dugan and MacFarlane up to speed on the minutia of the bottle fires — frequency, time of day, discovery — and other details that catalogue what happened. None of this has yet to lead me in any direction. Dugan wants to see the arson scenes so we go for a field trip, stand amongst the blackened patches of forest along the gravel road. I point out fire travel indicators, show him the point of origin at each fire. He takes pictures, makes notes. I have all of this documented but he wants his own data to add to the collection. Then we part ways and I ponder my next move. I know Middel is itching for an update on project Kitten, but I’m not keen on facing him after the incident in McMurray. Besides, I haven’t learned anything new, other than the belt buckle — and that’s hold back evidence that can’t be mentioned. I decide instead to check with >Helen Mercredi, see if she’s heard from her daughter.

  She looks anxious as she opens her screen door. “Holy. What happened to your face?”

  “Nothing. Bit of an accident.”

  “You find out anything about Bernie?”

  I shake my head and she invites me in, insists I leave my boots on and sit in the kitchen. I remove my boots anyway, take a seat at a gleaming oak dinner table. The bleep and ping of video games comes from the next room, mixed with the giggling voices of children. She makes coffee. When we both have our steaming mugs she sits across from me, looking worried.

  “Where did you look in McMurray?” she says.

  “I checked the hospital, but she hasn’t been admitted. She might have been treated, although they wouldn’t tell me. That’s something you could follow-up, as her mother.”

  “Yes — thanks. I will. Anywhere else?”

  “I checked a couple of places where she might go with a friend.”

  “Nothing?” she asks again, as if there might miraculously be a different answer.

  “Mrs. Mercredi, are you sure your daughter even went to McMurray?”

  “Of course. I bought her ticket, dropped her at the airport.”

  “Did you actually see her board the plane?”

  “I have no time.” She points her chin at the next room, from where children can be heard fighting over a turn on some game. “I have the kids to take care of.”

  “So you can’t confirm she ever left Fort Chip?”

  She shakes her head. “I should have stayed longer.”

  “Can you think of any reason your daughter might not want to call home?”

  She looks offended. “Like what?”

  “A party she wasn’t supposed to go to. Some argument you might have had.”

  Doubt casts a shadow over her expression but quickly passes. “She’s a good girl.”

  “Could she have been faking being sick?”

  “I guess, but why?”

  “I’m not sure. Has she made any new friends lately?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not a little kid anymore. She doesn’t tell me everything.”

  Helen Mercredi sips her coffee, thinking. There’s an awkward silence. I recall Bernice Mercredi at the fire, serving up lunch, and how the firefighters kept eyeing her. She certainly isn’t a kid anymore, which makes me wonder again if she left the fire simply to meet up with a man somewhere. If so, it’s unlikely she would have told her mother.

  “Mrs. Mercredi, does she have any close friends in town I could speak with?”

  “Yeah, lots of friends. There’s Annie and Nancy and Darlene —”

  “Which would be her closest? A friend she might share secrets with?”

  “Oh, that would be Collette Whiteknife. They’re pretty tight.”

  “I’ll look into it,” I say, standing. She follows me to the door, watches me lace up my boots. As I’m opening the screen door, she grabs my arm.

  “Thanks for doing this,” she says. “For looking for my Bernie.”

  I leave her there, a pleading look in her eye.

  THE FORT CHIPEWYAN airport is a small facility located at the end of the only paved road. The runway is sandwiched between a lake and a rock quarry, which doesn’t leave a pilot much room for error. The terminal building is an aged single-storey, with a faded sign welcoming arrivals to the oldest community in Alberta. This is where the fur traders first set up shop in the province. My concern is far more immediate — I want to confirm if Bernice Mercredi boarded a plane. A bored-looking older Native lady sits reading behind a small counter emblazoned with the logo of the local airline, which I recall is owned by the Cree Band. Her plastic name tag reads “Marge.” She peers over her paperback as I approach.

  “I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

  “Sold out,” she says. “Funeral tomorrow.”

  “I’m not looking to buy a ticket.”

  “Well, I’m not
selling anything else.”

  I drum my fingers on the countertop. “Did Bernice Mercredi board a flight lately?”

  Marge sets her book aside. “What you want with Bernie?”

  “I just need to determine if she was on the flight.”

  She frowns, gives me the once over.

  “Can’t tell you that. Against policy.”

  “Can you make an exception? I’m just trying to get hold of Bernie. Her mother asked me to look around in case Bernie is in some trouble.”

  Marge’s eyes narrow. “You with the cops?”

  “I’m just helping out her mom.”

  “Can I see some identification?”

  I pull out my wallet, show her my driver’s licence. She examines it closely before handing it back. “What day would this have been?” she says.

  “Her mother dropped her here on Tuesday.”

  Marge taps an index finger on her chin, thinking. “I remember Helen buying the ticket, then she left. Then I think Bernie went to the bathroom. Later, I saw her outside, having a smoke. But that’s it.”

  “Was she smoking with anyone in particular?”

  “I don’t know. The other passengers, probably.”

  “Can you confirm if she boarded the plane?”

  “I don’t watch them all board. I got other stuff to do.”

  “Is there some record on the other end?”

  “Not officially, but we do a head count. Let me check.”

  Marge picks up the phone, talks for a moment in rapid-fire Cree.

  “We were one short that flight,” she says. “Maybe that was her.”

  I thank Marge for her time, head back to my truck. I wonder if Bernice Mercredi is playing games, sneaking around. Perhaps she’s seeing an older married man. If this were the case, why would she leave the fire after only one day of work? I drive back to town, distracted by hunger and fatigue. It’s suppertime and I debate calling it a night, but decide to stop by and chat with Collette Whiteknife, see if she can shed some light on Bernie’s private life. I follow the directions given by Helen Mercredi, have a strange feeling as I turn down the street to Collette’s house. The feeling deepens to consternation as I pull to the curb. It couldn’t be.

  I knock on the door. It’s opened by an attractive young Native lady.

  “Collette Whiteknife?” I ask.

  “Hello Porter Cassel,” she says. “I knew you’d be back for more.”

  It takes a few seconds to recover from the shock. Ever since my fall from grace at the party I’ve been dreading running into Collette again. I suppose I knew there was a possibility that the Collette Whiteknife mentioned by Helen Mercredi might the same Collette I had sex with but I had put the possibility out of mind, reasoning that there had to be plenty of women with that first name, even in a small community like Chip. Now she’s right in front of me, grinning like a fox that’s cleaned out the chicken coop. Worst of all, she thinks I’m back for more of the same.

  This is going to make it difficult to talk to her.

  “Yeah … um … hello. I’m not here to see you. I mean — for that.”

  “Really?” She bats eyelashes at me. Damn, she is good looking. A perfect disaster.

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “What?” she says innocently. “So why are you here?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Hmm. I thought you weren’t here to see me. Maybe you’re here to see my uncle.”

  She hollers something over her shoulder in what could be Cree, or Chipewyan, or ancient Greek for all I know. A moment later a shadow falls over her as Cork comes to the door. He sees me and breaks into a big toothy grin.

  “Fire Guy,” he says. “Your head feeling better?”

  “Yeah, fine. Actually, I was just here to see Collette.”

  “I’ll bet you were,” he says, his smile widening.

  “No, it’s … never mind. Collette, have you heard from Bernice Mercredi lately?”

  Collette frowns. “No. I heard she went to McMurray, to see the doctor.”

  “I heard that too. Can I speak with you? Privately.”

  Collette hesitates, seeing that Cork is still grinning, apparently enjoying the awkward situation. “I gotta go uptown,” she says. “Drop some movies. You can give me a ride.”

  I nod and she vanishes inside to get the movies. I sit in my truck, practise my Zen breathing. It’s supposed to calm you down when you’re stressed; something Telson taught me. Thinking about Telson creates more tension and I have to breathe harder. By the time Collette appears I’m practically hyperventilating. I need to regain my cool before I get dizzy, crash the truck on the way to the video store. She climbs in, sweeps hair from her face.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she says. “You look all red.”

  “Nothing,” I squeak.

  We drive, not directly to the video store, just randomly around town. I need time to talk to her. She waits, sitting loosely beside me, no seat belt.

  “Put on your seat belt.”

  “Why? If I did, I couldn’t do this.”

  She slides right next to me on the bench seat, lays a warm hand on my inner thigh. I slam on the brakes, nearly putting her into the window. She flops back onto the seat, elbowing me in the solar plexus.

  “Holy shit, Porter. You got a full load of powder, or what?”

  I glare straight ahead for a moment, grip the steering wheel with both hands, not trusting myself to speak. We’re on main street, not far from the store. Customers watch us as they load groceries into their trucks. I take a deep breath, start driving again, staring ahead.

  “Move back to the passenger side and put on your seat belt.”

  She chuckles playfully. “Don’t be like that.”

  “Now.”

  My tone is glacial. She sniffs, slides over, slowly buckles up.

  “So it’s like that,” she says. “Good for a night, but not good enough for later.”

  I look sidelong at her as I drive. She’s upset, lips pursed, a tear in her eye.

  “No,” I say, “it’s not like that at all. You’re a very attractive girl, but I never intended anything to happen. Now I just want us to remain professional.”

  “Professional?” she says, mouthing the word distastefully.

  “I’m here to do a job. Nothing more.”

  “Well, you sure did a job on me.”

  I’m thinking it was the other way around. Even so, I know I’m being harsh, but I can’t see there being any other way. I need to draw the lines clearly here.

  “Bernice Mercredi is missing,” I tell her.

  “What? What do you mean — missing?”

  “Gone. Missing. Her mother brought her to the airport but she never got on the plane. No one knows where she is. That’s why I need to talk to you. I know the two of you are close. I’m hoping you know something you’re not telling anyone. I’m also hoping you’re smart enough not to keep it hidden from me, because I’m investigating a suspicious death and there’s a chance your friend Bernice might know something about it. And if she does, her missing is a big deal.”

  “Suspicious death?” she says. “What are you talking about?”

  “That trapper, Hallendry. His death is suspicious.”

  “Everyone is saying he just got drunk and burned down his cabin.”

  “Do you know where Bernice Mercredi is, or not?”

  There’s a long silence. Collette is frowning, thinking hard.

  “Okay,” she says slowly. “I might know something, but you never heard it from me.”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  “You have to promise.”

  “I can’t make that kind of promise. But I’ll do my best.”

  “Well, she’s been talking about this guy. Older. Married. I told her she’s nuts.”

  “I need a name.”

  “I can’t do that,” she says. “Besides, I don’t know. She was so paranoid she never even told me. She was so excited
. He was going to set her up with an apartment in McMurray, pay for her to go to school at Keyano College. For now she was just sneaking around with him. I told her it was kinda gross, an older married guy like that.”

  “I’m an older guy. You went for me.”

  “Yeah,” she smiles. “But you’re different. Trust me.”

  I let that slide, sorry I brought it up. “Where do they meet?”

  Collette groans. “She’ll kill me if you go there.”

  “Where, Collette?”

  A long sigh. “A cabin up the river. A few miles before the weir on the Roche, to the east on a little tributary. It’s an old trapper cabin that no one uses anymore. We used to go there to party, just me and her and a few other girls. Not many people know about it anymore. I’m pretty sure that’s where they go.”

  I have her give me detailed directions, then drive to the video store. Collette looks back at me through the open truck window.

  “Go easy on her,” she says. “I think she really loves him.”

  MY NEXT STOP is the government boat wharf, just down from the ranger station. I’m supposed to check in at the office if I’m going to borrow the boat but I want to keep this under the radar. I’m not out to expose Collette Whiteknife’s affair or cause trouble for anyone — I just want to talk to the girl. The Forest Service boat is a small white aluminum craft with a windshield and console and a seventyfive horsepower Mercury. I check the gas and decide there should be enough — the cabin isn’t far from town and I only have a few hours of daylight left. Just enough time to roar out there and ask a few questions, then back for a big cup of tea and a badly needed night of sleep.

  I putter out of the tiny bay by the dock, round Monument Point and gun the engine, bringing the boat up on step. Waves slap at the bow as I motor away from town along the lakeshore, pass the red buildings and church of the Catholic mission. There used to be a residential school here which housed Native children, taken from their parents in a forced education and assimilation program. Beyond this is an old conveyor belt and rusted ironworks from some old boat loading facility, long unused. I cruise onto the Roche River where it leaves Lake Athabasca. If you follow this river far enough, it merges with the Peace River to become the Slave, which flows north to the Northwest Territories and eventually the Arctic Ocean.