And wait.
On television nature shows, you see how master predators stalk their prey, waiting patiently, immobile yet ready to spring into action. That’s not me. I’ve never been very good at stakeouts. In fact, I stink. My mind wanders. I get distracted. I fall asleep. Or I lose my patience and do something risky. Tonight I try to play mind games to keep alert, do a little mental arithmetic, but I’ve never really enjoyed math so it just irritates me. So do my hands, which have started to shake again. I felt so good when I emerged from the sweat lodge, so cleansed and renewed, I hoped that whatever had been ailing me was done with, but the itching has returned, along with a swell of anxiety in my chest and a dull throb at the back of my head. None of this is conducive to sitting patiently for hours in the dark.
Fortunately, I don’t have to wait that long.
The exterior light across the road blazes on and the side door opens. I peer intently through the dusty windshield, hoping to see Collette, but it’s Cork, probably dumping more empty bottles on his refuse pile. He holds the door open a few seconds, looking around, then walks quickly to his truck. He’s carrying something, a small box of some sort, but I don’t get a good look because he seems to be shielding it from view. Perhaps I’m imagining things but he seems nervous, his manner hurried and secretive. I wait while he backs out of the drive and heads down the street. When I see him turn right I start my truck and follow.
I’ve had some experience tailing vehicles. Usually, just to keep things interesting, I’m driving a fairly conspicuous vehicle in some remote location with little traffic and even less for cover. I’m working on the basis of continuous improvement, slowly honing my skills so that eventually I can sit right next to a suspect and they won’t even notice I’m there. I won’t get much practice tonight though — it will be easy to follow under cover of darkness. There aren’t many roads and I just need to stay far enough back.
Ahead of me, the truck swings past the Northern Store and around an uphill curve. He’s on a dead-end road, heading to the old Catholic Mission. Not wanting to arouse his suspicion, I pull over shy of the crest of the hill, park the truck as close to the side of the road as possible, and run uphill to where I can observe his progress. It’s fairly easy, given that his bright red tail lights are the only set on the road. Suddenly, his lights go off and I wait, listening. He’s about a mile away and I hear the crunch of tires and the creak of the truck’s suspension. There’s a bright flash of red brake lights, closer to the lake where I didn’t think there was a road, then silence. He’s stopped and I wait for the gleam of an interior light as he opens a door. Nothing. Either he’s not getting out, or his door light isn’t working. This leaves me in a bit of a jam because he’s a mile away, clearly up to something, and I can’t drive closer without his seeing my lights or hearing my truck. I jog downhill, open the hood of my truck so it looks like it just broke down, then jog quickly along the road toward Cork and his truck.
In the starlight the road ahead of me is a ribbon of darkness barely discernable from the surrounding rock and grass. By the time I’ve covered most of the mile I’m breathing heavily and have to force myself to slow my respiration so I can hear what Cork might be doing. Nothing. Then a shielded flashlight beam several hundred yards away in the direction of the lake. I leave the road, pick my way over nearly invisible ground, feeling in the dark for anything that might trip me. I’ve seen this area from the lake, on my way to the cabin along the river, and remember old metal conveyor belts and rusty piping — loading works from some abandoned port. Ahead and downhill, a sloping skeletal structure is a faint black silhouette against the dull sheen of water and it is near the base of this that the shielded light flickers and bobs. I’m within a hundred yards when I whack my shin painfully on something hidden in the grass and release a muffled grunt. The flashlight sweeps suddenly in my direction and I drop, press myself into the long dry grass. Light plays over nearby grass tips then vanishes. I raise my head, watch from my concealed position.
There’s a metallic clank and scrape, loud in the night, then I hear footsteps rustling through the grass, making their way toward the road. I hear Cork breathing heavily as he passes near where I lie. If he turns on his flashlight, he’ll see me. He continues past, labouring uphill. The arthritic creak and thud of a truck door, then an engine starts and headlights switch on. A rusted conveyor appears against yellow grass and shimmering water, then the swath of light swings over the road and I’m alone, listening to the sound of Cork’s receding truck.
I head downhill in the direction of the rusted ironworks, the memory of the image revealed by the truck lights my only guide. I must have a spot of light burned on my retina as there seems to be a faint glow floating a few feet above ground. But the glow doesn’t move when I do, doesn’t waver as I move my eyes. As I draw closer the glow seems to increase. It’s a strange greenish sort of luminescence, like a comic book glow of radioactivity, and my imagination constructs a bizarre scenario. This is uranium mining country and Cork has planted a package of the deadly stuff out here, perhaps for pick-up by some terrorist organization. Using the glow as a beacon I arrive at the conveyor belt, use my tiny flashlight to navigate a path around the rusty hazard, nearly breaking my leg in the process.
I’m not well prepared; I need a better flashlight — I’d make a crappy Boy Scout.
The greenish light is coming from a bin in the conveyor. The radioactive nugget is a simple plastic glow stick. A green one. It sits on a small cardboard box. There might be a lot of reasons for a man to wander around in the dark, in a hazardous area, to leave a box in an abandoned conveyor belt, but I can’t think of any. He’s not just hiding something — he’s left it here for someone else to find. I wonder what in the box is so clandestine it requires such an odd sort of courier service and am reaching into the conveyor when a set of headlights emerge over the hill where I left my vehicle. It may be someone from one of the scattered houses farther along the road, returning home, but it may also be the recipient of this box, in which case I have to get to some cover from which I can safely and invisibly identify the person.
But first I need to peak inside the box.
I lift the box from the conveyor bin, fleetingly hope it’s not a bomb of some sort, and set it on the ground. Working quickly, I unfold the top interlocked flaps of cardboard and pop them up, shine my tiny flashlight inside. A glass jar with a metal lid. The vehicle slows and comes to a stop almost directly uphill from my position. The headlights remain on, illuminating a swath of grassy hillside above me. I lift the glass jar to see what’s inside, frown as I peer at the blob floating in clear liquid. The lights go out, plunging the area into darkness, and a car door slams. Another beam of light appears, swinging widely — a flashlight, much more powerful than mine. I return the jar to the box, close the flaps and set it carefully back on the conveyor, place the glow stick on top, and walk as quickly and quietly as possible in the dark, hoping not to encounter anything rusty and sharp. I make it about twenty yards before the flashlight homes in on the conveyor belt and begins to brush the area with strokes of light. I crouch behind a large concrete block that serves as the foundation of the upper end of the conveyor structure.
The flashlight appears to float over the ground, the powerful beam concealing the identity of the holder, who is clearly more uncertain than Cork. It takes several more sweeps of light over the area to reassure the holder the coast is clear, then the light descends to the conveyor and the box is lifted. I had hoped the change in angle of the beam of light might afford an opportunity to identify who was picking up the box, but the light remains too powerful, too intense and blinding. The beam is darted around randomly a few more times, as though spooked, then moves uphill as the holder returns to their vehicle.
I want to run after the light, grab the person, demand to know who they are and what they’re doing. What’s in the jar seems worse than uranium. But I don’t want to destroy any future line of investigation for the RCMP. Better that
I gather what information I can and I follow cautiously up the hill, ready to drop into the tall grass, hoping for a view of the holder as they enter their vehicle, perhaps a glimpse of a licence plate number. I want to know who is holding the box. I want the RCMP to find them in possession of the glass jar and its terrible contents, floating in clear liquid.
A severed pair of human testicles. In my rush I must have made some sound that rose above the thrash of footsteps from my target because suddenly the light swings around and I drop for cover behind a spindly young pine tree, shorter than me, flatten myself against the cool ground. I’m perhaps forty yards downhill and wait, tense, my heart racing, as light plays wildly around me. Then the sound of a car door opening and closing and an engine coming to life. Damn — I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of a face in the flash of the interior door light, but missed my chance. When the headlights point away from me, I rise and jog swiftly uphill, knowing I’ll be invisible to the driver, catch a glimmer of tail lights as the driver brakes at the edge of the road. It’s a car; I can tell by the spacing and height of the headlights and the high-pitched whine of the engine, then the unknown car is gone.
Unknown except for one detail: It has a broken tail light.
I’ll find it sooner or later. There are no roads out of Fort Chipewyan in summer.
11
•
ONCE AGAIN I’M at the RCMP detachment in the middle of the night, pressing the button by the door. This time there’s someone inside — the windows are all lighted. A bolt scrapes and the door opens. MacFarlane gives me a questioning look.
“What now, Cassel?”
“Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”
He moves back, makes way, and I step in. He waves for me to follow and leads me through the building. Voices drift from an office in the corner. Waldren opens the door, peers out at us. MacFarlane waves him over, leads us into a small interrogation room at the rear. It’s the same room where they questioned Collette, what seems an eternity ago. I wonder if they’re taking video. MacFarlane pulls a chair away from the small table, motions that I should sit. Waldren ducks out, returns with another chair, and the two Mounties sit against the wall. Waldren looks formidable — dark uniform, black handgun and baton on his belt. MacFarlane is wearing a khaki shirt and jeans. Both look weary and serious.
“Okay, Cassel,” says MacFarlane. “You’ve got our attention.” Suddenly, I’m not sure where to begin. The night seems to have warped into an era of its own, filled with heat, sweat, hallucinations, breaking-and-entering, surveillance, jogging under the stars, uranium, terrorists, and testicles in a jar. I know some of this is only impression and thought, but it seems jumbled in my mind. I’m sweating profusely, my hands are shaking, and it feels like an iron rod is being pressed upwards through the base of my skull. I swallow nervously. It makes a dry clicking sound.
“You okay?” says Waldren. “You look terrible.” MacFarlane frowns at me. “Are you on something?” “What? No — listen, I have to tell you something.” “That’s why we’re here,” says MacFarlane.
I take a moment, squeeze shut my eyes, try to clear my mind. It would take about a week of sleep. I decide to start my narrative after the entry into the garage. “I was watching Cork’s house tonight.”
“Cork?” says MacFarlane.
“Rodney Whiteknife,” Waldren explains. “Collette’s uncle.”
“Have you found her yet?” I ask.
MacFarlane shakes his head. “No. I hear she went camping.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that she can’t be located?”
MacFarlane massages his forehead. “Everything about this JFO strikes me as odd, not the least of which is you, Mr. Cassel. Obviously we are concerned and are looking for her.”
“Have you tried Williams Point, across the lake?”
“We’ve flown over it,” says Waldren.
“And?”
“Didn’t see her camping party, but they may be somewhere else.”
“Camping party? Who is with her?”
“Coupla local boys are missing as well, supposedly camping.”
MacFarlane shakes his head. “Never mind that, Cassel. Did you say you were running surveillance on Rodney Whiteknife?”
“I have reason to believe he was the one who attacked me at the cabin.”
“Really?” says Waldren. “And what reason would that be?”
“I recently learned that it was his boat that was out there.”
Both Mounties ponder this for a moment.
Waldren says, “That’s what you came to tell us in the middle of the night?”
“There’s more, isn’t there?” says MacFarlane.
“Yes. At about 10:45 tonight, Cork, Mr. Whiteknife, left his residence, carrying a small box. I followed him to the south end of town, past the Catholic Mission. He blacked out his truck and dropped the box by an old conveyor. A few minutes later, someone picked up the box, although I couldn’t get a look at who it was. Their car had a broken tail light, though.
MacFarlane is frowning thoughtfully. “Any idea what was in the box?”
“I had an opportunity to look. It was a set of human testicles.”
“What did you say?” says Waldren.
“Testicles,” I repeat. “Nuts. Kahones.”
The Mounties exchange incredulous looks.
“Let me get this straight,” says Waldren, a wicked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
MacFarlane holds up a hand. “Are you serious, Cassel?”
“Completely. Perhaps I should have taken them.”
“Perhaps,” MacFarlane repeats distantly, obviously thinking.
“You didn’t need to take them,” says Waldren, refusing to be silenced. “You got plenty of your own, coming in here with a story like that.”
“Anything is possible,” says MacFarlane. “In fact, it fits with our theory.”
Waldren looks aghast. “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”
“Revenge castration fits with the rape story,” says MacFarlane.
Waldren rolls his eyes. “No disrespect intended,” he says to MacFarlane in a tone that suggests otherwise, “but we caught this clown drinking and driving earlier tonight. In fact, look at him, trying to sit still. He’s got the dts so bad he’s practically vibrating. And you’re disclosing elements of our investigation to him.”
Furious, I clamp my shaky hands together, glare at Waldren.
MacFarlane, much to his professional credit, remains cool.
“Porter,” he says mildly. “Is it possible you misinterpreted the evidence?”
“I suppose anything is possible,” I say, echoing his earlier sentiment. “But that’s what it looked like to me. They were suspended in a clear solution — alcohol maybe.”
“Okay.” MacFarlane gives me a weary smile, his voice carrying only a trace of the strain he must be feeling. I was expecting worse, particularly after his outburst following Collette’s mention of having slept with me. His calm demeanour may be a bad sign. “Here’s the thing,” he says carefully. “What you found is very interesting and may in fact be what it appears to be. I am concerned, though, that, once again, you’ve done this on your own. That means we have no direct evidence to support your claim.”
He pauses, raises his hands as though trying to mould something out of clay.
“Essentially,” he says, “you have become an unreliable witness. If we had to drag you into court to testify, the prosecution would chuckle with glee. They would make mincemeat out of you. And not just out of you, but out of our case. If we actually found the evidence, your fingerprints would be all over it. Are you getting what I’m saying here?”
He has an almost pleading look in his eye.
I nod, flushed and irritated. “I’m flying home tomorrow.”
As he shows me out I get the impression he doesn’t believe me.
THE NEXT DAY there’s nothing left to do but finish a bit of paperwork, the
n tuck my tail between my legs and board the plane, so I’m in no great hurry to get out of bed. I lie on my bunk at the ia base and stare at the ceiling. The tiles have squiggly holes in them that look like worms were having a party. I hear Scorch outside, yowling, and realize I need to figure out what to do with him. Reluctantly I push myself to a sitting position and am overcome by a wave of nausea. When the nausea subsides it leaves behind an anxious pressure in my chest. I lay back on the bed, close my eyes. The whine and of an over-wound two-stroke engine seeps through the wall, growing painfully in volume until it suddenly dies. Boot steps in the hallway. I groan, not wanting to see anyone this morning.
A knock on my door. “Porter — you home?”
I wait until there’s another knock, hoping he might go away.
“Yeah, I’m home, Luke.”
“Can I come in?”
“All right.” I sit up, rub my hands over my face as the door opens.
“Wow,” says Luke Middel. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks for the feedback. What can I do for you?”
He’s wearing a weathered backpack and hesitates in the doorway. Tall, awkward, blond hair in a mess, he looks like a lost surfer and seems impossibly young and innocent this morning. I realize how caustic I sound and relent, invite him into the room. He smiles uncertainly, drops his backpack and sits on the lone chair opposite the bed.
“My dad said you were going this afternoon and I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Oh — right. Looks like my time here is at an end. Thanks for your help.”
His smile broadens. “You’re welcome. I wish there was more I could do.”
“Well, there may still be something you could do for me.”
“Sure, Porter. Just name it.”
“Would you like a dog?” Luke’s smile falters.
“He’s been through quite a bit and needs a home.”
“You don’t want him?”
“I’d love to keep him, but I travel constantly. And I’m allergic.”
Whiskey Creek Page 23
