Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  The truck radio barks, startling me. “Cassel, do you read?”

  It’s Middel. He must have seen me drive past the ranger station.

  Reluctantly, I key the mic: “Cassel here, go ahead.”

  “Can you come to the station? We need to talk.”

  I confirm, spend another minute gazing at the lake, composing myself, then drive to the ranger station. Middel ushers me into his office, closes the door, waits for me to take a seat. When he’s behind his desk he tents his fingers together, gives me a penetrating look.

  “What’s going on, Cassel? You haven’t exactly been keeping me up-to-date.”

  “I realize that, Mark, but I’m not sure that I can.”

  Middel frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “The RCMP are involved now. I’m on a joint forces operation with them.”

  “Does that mean you can’t keep me updated?”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Well, yes and no. It’s sort of complicated. The Mounties are involved in both the Whiskey Creek fire and the bottle fires, now that there’s been property damage. There seems to be some evidence that Rufus Hallendry was murdered, and now Bernice Mercredi is dead. That was her in the boat.”

  Middel stiffens. “You’re kidding.”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  He looks around his office as though the faded posters and printed emails on the walls might provide some guidance before his eyes settle on me again. “Jesus Christ, the Cree Band are going to go crazy.”

  “The Cree Band?”

  “They’re going to think this is all about them,” he says, leaning over his desk. I’m not sure why he’s so worried about what the Cree Band might think, considering we have two potential homicides. Perhaps he’s been so focused on responding to the Band’s pressure that he hasn’t quite made the jump yet. “Can you tell me anything?” he says.

  “I’m not sure. I’m not really sure what I can do anymore.”

  Middel reaches for the phone. “I’ll call the RCMP. You work for me, after all.”

  “True, but they’re a little busy just now.”

  Middel’s hand falters. He slumps back in his chair, nodding.

  “I have to get going, Mark.”

  He waves me vaguely out of his office and I leave him sitting at his desk, dazed and confused. I feel a bit sorry for him. Louise, the receptionist, asks me if everything is okay, her expression concerned. I’m not sure what to say, just nod to her and rush out. Back in my truck, I drive uptown, craving the freedom of the open road to salve my troubled thoughts. I drive as far as I can through town, then turn and double back, stop at the Northern Store. The side of the building where the offending graffiti had been tagged is shiny with fresh brown paint. I go inside, needing some quick energy, grab a handful of chocolate bars and a bottle of milk. The girl at the checkout is young and Native, looks bored.

  “Hey,” she says. “What happened to your face?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Bruises are the new chic.”

  “Yeah, right.” She gives me an appraising look. “You’re that cute fire guy.”

  “No, I’m the crotchety fire guy old enough to be your dad.”

  “That’s not what Collette told me,” she giggles.

  Damn — everyone in town must know. I take my bag of goodies, ready to flee from the store, when a poster on a bulletin board by the door catches my eye. The poster advertises a candidate forum for the Cree Band elections. Four names are listed to run against the incumbent Chief. Three of the names I don’t recognize, but one I do — Simon Cardinal — and I hold my bag of groceries while my stomach rumbles, wondering why that particular name bothers me on the poster. Simon Cardinal has been aggressive and annoying, but there’s something more. Then it comes to me — Simon Cardinal was the first person outside the Forest Service or the RCMP to mention the ftc inscriptions on the bottles and I’d like to know where he heard about it.

  “Hey, Blondie,” calls the clerk. “What you doing tonight?”

  “Politics,” I call over my shoulder as I go through the door.

  The forum starts in an hour and a half, and I intend to be there.

  I HEAD TO the IA base for a real supper, take Scorch for a walk and arrive late for the candidates’ forum, slip into the school gym unnoticed. At the far end of the gym, several folding tables have been set up at which sit the candidates for Chief of the Cree Band. Sammy Cardinal, the current Chief, sits in the centre, flanked on either side by two challengers. He looks regal tonight in a beaded and fringed buckskin jacket. One challenger on his left is a much younger man with a leather jacket of a more recent era, his hair brush-cut short. Beside him is a thick middle-aged Native wearing a denim jacket. On Sammy’s right is a man in a bright red plaid shirt. Next to him sits Simon Cardinal, familiar with his long double braids and his own distinctive buckskin coat. The gym is a sea of Natives, crammed together on plastic folding chairs and standing several rows deep along the walls. Up here, the band election is a big deal.

  I squeeze in next to a big Native who seems to have created a bit of an eddy in the crowd. He turns to look at me, seems surprised to see a white face. I smile and nod, hope there wasn’t a membership requirement to attend. I picture the big guy picking me up like luggage and tossing me through the double doors. Fortunately, he turns his attention back to the speakers.

  They’re talking about their lack of a band constitution.

  “I agree we need this constitution to lay out the powers of chief and council,” says the speaker in the denim jacket. “This would be the first thing I would work on.”

  “Another first thing?” says Simon Cardinal. “That’s three so far.” There’s a ripple of laughter from the crowd. Simon is a bit of a showman.

  A woman seated in the crowd calls out: “What about that tribal council?”

  There’s murmur of discussion. Chief Sammy Cardinal holds up a hand for silence and the murmurs fade away. Sammy has presence. “As you all know,” he says clearly, “this is something I have been working on for some time now — a coalition of bands to tackle the bigger issues. This is why I decided to run again. I want to see this through.”

  “How can we trust the other bands?” hollers a young Native not far from where I’m standing along the wall. I lean forward to get a better look at him. He’s from the group that I encountered by the graffiti on the Northern Store — the fellow with the baseball bat. He doesn’t have the bat with him tonight, but his expression is the same. “Someone out there is after the Band,” he says. “And I’m sure as shit not joining up with them.”

  There’s a thunder of discussion and shouting. Chief Cardinal looks dismayed, but lets it go for a few minutes before he raises his hand. It takes longer this time for the ruckus to die down. “Please,” he says, “let’s not let the actions of one diminish what we are trying to do here.”

  “How do we know it’s only one?” says Simon Cardinal.

  The Chief smiles patiently. “We have no idea who has been doing these things,” he says. “It could be one person, or several, but we must not let it distract us.”

  “Bullshit,” someone yells. “This isn’t just a distraction. It’s an attack.”

  “It is a distraction,” says Chief Cardinal. “I should know — I lost my new truck. But still, it is a distraction. We have issues much larger than a few burned trees, a bit of graffiti, or a burned truck. We have social issues. Alcoholism. Domestic violence. Unemployment. Our young people leave because they can’t find jobs. Or they stay and get into trouble. We have health care issues. We need our own hospital. We need to understand what those big mines upstream are putting in our water. We need to develop our tourism industry. We need to market our crafts so the elders can sell what they make and get a decent price.”

  “We can do all that ourselves,” says Simon Cardinal. “The Cree Band for the Cree Band.”

  There’s a burst of applause from some of the crowd. The Chief lets it pass.

  “No,
we can’t,” he says firmly to the crowd. “These are bigger issues.”

  “We’ve done fine so far,” counters Simon. “We own the fuel company. The airline. The barge. The store. Part of a hotel in Fort Mac. The Cree Band is doing just fine. If we join up with the other bands, they will just pull us down. They don’t have the resources like we do. What will they bring to the table?”

  “Their voice,” says the Chief. “So we can all be heard together.”

  Simon waves this thought off as though it were a pesky fly. A grey-haired lady has been hovering near the table and when the Chief pauses she darts behind him, tapping him on the shoulder and whispering something into his ear. He straightens in his chair, his expression hardening. He thanks the woman, takes her hand for a second, then turns to the crowd and holds up a hand to quiet the buzz of conversation that has sprung up.

  “Friends, neighbours, Band members, I have just received terrible news. Bernice Mercredi has died. We’re not sure of the details, but I am greatly saddened at the death of one of our young people. Out of respect for Bernice and her family, let us halt the night’s proceedings immediately and reschedule. Let’s go to the Mercredi family and give them our support.”

  For a moment there’s a stunned silence, then chairs scrape as everyone stands. I’m swept outside, decide against questioning Simon Cardinal tonight. I work my way through the crowd to my truck. Daylight has faded. The lake is dark and slick.

  I roll quietly out of town, window open, lost in thoughts of mortality.

  I’M PULLING THROUGH the open gate of the IA base when my truck radio bursts to life. It’s MacFarlane, on a Forest Service frequency — he must have acquired one of our radios as part of our interagency co-operation. Come to the detachment immediately. Someone will meet me at the door. I make a U-turn, headlights sweeping over the sleeping helicopters, and head back to town, wondering if they already have a lead on what happened to Bernice Mercredi. Several vehicles are parked in front of the faded blue detachment building. Waldren is waiting, directs me to park next to the line of vehicles.

  “What’s going on?” I ask as I close the door of my truck.

  “Inside,” says Waldren, gesturing to the building.

  He leads me past the counter with the bullet-proof glass. This late, the receptionist isn’t working, but there are plenty of people in the small building. Several older men with severely short hair lean over a table, stop talking as I’m led past. Waldren takes me to a vacant cubicle near a hallway, points at a chair, tells me to sit. I feel a bit like a dog, but I obey. He vanishes down the hall, returns a moment later with MacFarlane, who’s wearing faded jeans, a plaid shirt, and sneakers. Despite his amiable appearance he wastes no time getting down to business.

  “We’ve got Collette Whiteknife under surveillance. We’re going to bring her in.”

  “Are you charging her?”

  “What for?” says MacFarlane. “We’re just going to talk to her.”

  “Good. I have a few questions of my own.”

  “Negative, Cassel. We can’t let you participate.”

  “Why not?”

  “Against procedure.”

  “Then why’d you call me?”

  “I want you to sit right here, look like you’re waiting. I’m going to bring Whiteknife in here, right past you. I’m not sure why she sent you to that cabin, but I want her to see you so I can observe her reaction, see if she’s surprised you’re still around.”

  I nod — I’m looking forward to her reaction as well.

  “Once we’ve got her in,” says MacFarlane, “we’ll allow you to observe. We’ve got video and there’s a monitor in the next room. Waldren will set you up. For now, just sit here and wait. Don’t say anything to Whiteknife when she comes past.”

  I nod again and MacFarlane pulls a radio off his belt. “Bring her in.”

  Then he’s gone and I’m left to wait in the cubicle. It’s clear from the empty desk and bare walls that the cubicle was cleaned out, no doubt so there wouldn’t be anything confidential laying around for my reading pleasure. I twiddle my thumbs, tense, wondering about Collette and how she fits with what’s been going on here. It occurs to me that she may tell them about our encounter at the party and I get an unpleasant feeling in my gut.

  A door opens in the direction of the reception counter. Voices.

  “Right this way.”

  Suddenly she’s there, walking beside Constable Markham, who’s gently guiding her by an elbow. She’s wearing a loose shirt which hangs to one side to reveal a shoulder. Her long black hair is pulled back except for a few strands, which frame the strong pleasant features of her face. She smiles at me, apparently pleased to see someone she knows.

  “Hi Porter.”

  She gives me a little wave and a wink, then she’s gone and I’m left sweating and conflicted. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see me, which suggests that she had no idea what was going to happen at the cabin, or she’s a good actress. I have difficulty believing she had a conscious hand in my attempted murder, but something still doesn’t seem right. I hear a door close down the hall, and then Waldren comes to get me, leads me into a small room.

  “Take a seat,” he says. “Enjoy the show.”

  The room looks like it used to be a closet. There’s nothing here but a small metal desk and two chairs. On the wall is mounted a flat-screen monitor, with a wire running to the ceiling. On the monitor Collette Whiteknife sits at the end of a table. All I can see of MacFarlane is a worn sneaker, a sock, and the hem of his jeans. I turn up the audio, take a seat.

  MacFarlane’s voice is a bit muffled.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee or a pop?”

  Collette smiles shyly. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “Not really.” She brushes a strand of hair aside, tucks it behind an ear.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Bernice Mercredi has passed away.”

  Collette’s expression hardens subtly. Cheek muscles clench and lips purse.

  “We’re just doing some background research,” MacFarlane says mildly. “Talking to young people in the community. Just routine. Did you know Bernice?”

  “Yeah. Of course. We went to school together.”

  “Grew up together, I’d imagine,” MacFarlane says casually. “You could say so. It’s a small community.”

  “Sure is,” MacFarlane says with a chuckle. “When I flew in I thought ‘what a picturesque little place,’ the houses sitting on the pink and grey granite. Can you tell me a little about the community? What it’s like growing up here?”

  Collette twists in her seat like a child who has been asked a question they don’t know how to answer. Although she’s certainly no child, it drives home just how young Collette really is, and how naive, growing up in such an isolated community. I wince, thinking again about the party. “It might look pretty from the air,” she tells MacFarlane, “but it’s kind of a boring place to grow up. Not much to do here. Mostly, we watch a lot of TV. Hang out. Bug our parents to take us to McMurray for shopping and stuff.”

  “What do you do for excitement?”

  “Not much excitement here. Race skidoos and boats. Water ski sometimes.”

  “And a little partying too, I’ll bet,” says MacFarlane, dropping his tone conspiratorially.

  Collette shrugs. “I guess.”

  I tense, hold my breath, certain she’ll mention the party where she took me. From there, it’ll only get worse.

  “Hey, I used to be a kid too, you know. Not a crime to have a good time.”

  Collette nods slightly. “Yeah, we let loose every once in a while.”

  MacFarlane is doing a great job of putting Collette Whiteknife at ease, getting her to loosen up and talk. The subtle art of interrogation. I’ve been on the other end a few times and I can appreciate a master when I see one.

  “You and Bernice party together much?”

  “Yeah, some
times. Why?”

  “No reason,” MacFarlane says easily. “I just thought she might have talked to you, you know, about how things are going. I have three daughters myself, a few years younger than you, and I know how girls talk. Boy problems. Gossip. Stuff like that. Did Bernice ever talk about that stuff?”

  Collette hesitates, as though pondering what she can tell him.

  “We’re just doing background,” MacFarlane assures her. “Background?”

  “Just trying to determine her state of mind these past few days.”

  Collette frowns. “You think Bernie killed herself?”

  “It’s a possibility,” says MacFarlane. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. She did get depressed sometimes.”

  “What about?”

  Another shrug. “Just stuff.”

  “Did she become depressed often?”

  “Every once in a while,” says Collette, smoothing her hands on her jeans.

  “What about lately? Like the last week or so? Anything set her off?” Collette looks thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, she did seem a bit down.”

  “Just a bit? When would this have been?”

  Collette twists in her chair again. “I don’t know.”

  “What about after she got off the fire? How was she then?”

  Collette’s eyes flick sideways, which I’ve noticed happens when people are getting creative. She shakes her head. “I didn’t see her after the fire.”

  There’s a silence, during which I presume MacFarlane is taking notes, or pretending to. Silence can be an effective tactic — a void which creates discomfort in nervous people. I watch Collette watch MacFarlane. She’s sitting perfectly still, like a hunted mouse waiting for the shadow of a hawk to pass. MacFarlane clears his throat. “So the last time you saw her was the night before the fire, at the party.”