Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  Both Luke and I join a group of locals in a boat.

  We search downriver until dark, to the weir and back, find nothing.

  Mark Middel invites me for supper, during which he grills me for details I can’t discuss. I turn the conversation to how the Forest Service could assist in the search for Collette Whiteknife. Middel promises me the use of a helicopter the next morning. I drive back to the ia base, nervous and fidgety, don’t sleep well. The next morning we fly the lakeshore and river, search extensively with no success. If she’s in the water, given the currents, there’s really not that many places she could be. It feels as though we’re waiting for a body to bloat and rise to surface.

  It’s not a good feeling.

  Late in the afternoon, I take a break, head to the IA base for a sandwich. I’ve been so busy with the search, and so worried about Collette Whiteknife, I’d completely forgotten about Simon Cardinal and our impending meet but, when I return to my room for a few minutes of rest, I find him sitting in a chair, opposite my bed, thumbing through an old magazine.

  “Fire Guy,” he says, grinning as I walk in.

  I stop, puzzled. His truck isn’t outside. I have no idea where he came from.

  “What do you want, Simon?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t have an answer for you yet.”

  “There are other things we need to talk about. Let’s take a drive.”

  I want to tell him to get the hell out of my room, let me rest — he’s the least of my problems right now — but it’s clear I’ll have to keep up my part. Perhaps Simon knows something about Collette, or what happened to Bernice Mercredi. Maybe even something about the Hallendry fire. MacFarlane assured me they would have Simon under continual surveillance, so now is as good a time as any, although I would have preferred a staged location, where they could have set up their microphones and cameras and whatever other high-tech spy gear they use. I don’t have my James Bond sunglasses, or my emergency ball cap. We haven’t rehearsed any scenarios, or exit plans. Our strategy is based on controlling the situation. I’ll have to string him along for another meet, where the situation will be better controlled. For now, I’ll need to get him to someplace where they can have him under direct observation.

  “All right,” I say reluctantly, follow him out.

  He’s wearing a ball cap, pulled low, his braids tucked underneath, and an oversized old green coat. He looks around the yard. There’s no one here at the moment — the HAC boys have been sent back to Fort McMurray, and the local ia crew are based at a different location for the moment. Still, he seems nervous, his movements furtive.

  “We’ll take your truck,” he says.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Caught a ride,” he says, opening the door to my truck.

  I hesitate, something bothering me but not sure what it is, then settle in behind the steering wheel. We roll out through the gates of the base. I’m expecting to take him to town, where it’ll be easier for Special “O” to monitor, but Simon has other plans.

  “Take a left,” he says.

  A right turn takes us to the highway, then town. A left turn takes us to a series of trails, little more than worn ruts between the trees, meandering through the rolling pine forest for miles. I’m not sure how Special “O” will monitor us out there.

  “No, I think we’ll go right,” I say, and begin turning the wheel.

  “I said left.”

  I hardly believe it when Simon pulls a gun from beneath his coat, points it at me.

  “You must be joking,” I say. Then I notice the pistol has a long barrel.

  It’s not a long barrel — it’s a barrel with a silencer.

  A subtle shiver runs up the back of my neck, like a premonition that my life suddenly is about to change forever. Or end. It doesn’t seem real but I force myself to focus. The silencer is professional equipment, illegal and hard to obtain. Given that Simon is a local, recruited more for his position than his criminal sophistication, I assume the gun is borrowed, meaning the situation has changed. Simon has contacted his employer. My cover is blown. I am in serious danger. The only thing in my favour is that I’m in control of the vehicle, and Special “O” is watching, although I doubt they can see the gun, held low inside the truck.

  “Screw that,” I tell him. “We’re going where I say.”

  I turn the wheel farther right, press on the gas, feel a distinct waft of air across my face, synchronized with a loud popping sound. The window in the door of my truck explodes, flinging shards of glass against my cheek, and I slam on the brakes, lurch to a stop.

  “Are you crazy?” I holler at Simon.

  “Left,” he says, gesturing with the barrel of the gun. He’s got an excited wild look in his eyes and his hand is trembling. He’s pumped on adrenalin and could easily lose control, start shooting. I need him to calm down.

  “Okay,” I say as evenly as possible. “Take a breath and calm down.”

  He points the gun at my head and I turn left, ease the truck onto the trail.

  “Faster,” he urges.

  “Okay, okay. Calm down, Simon. I thought you wanted to talk.”

  “Drive,” he says, gesturing again with the gun.

  He directs me along the trail, telling me where to turn when it splits. After we’ve driven a few miles, he seems to relax a bit, the gun swaying in his hand as we bump along. I’m hoping Special “O” saw the window shatter and will find the glass on the road. I’m hoping they know exactly where we are. My hopes lift when I see a dark truck parked along the side of the trail ahead. Simon frowns.

  “Stop here.”

  I brake to a halt about twenty yards behind the parked truck, tensed and ready. The doors on the truck open and two tall, dark-skinned men with short hair step out. They don’t look Native. They’re wearing leather jackets and one is carrying a black pump shotgun that I take to be a police model. The one with the shotgun takes up a position a few paces away from my door, gun hanging loosely at his side. The other approaches Simon’s side of the truck. Simon rolls down his window.

  “Any problems?” the man asks.

  It takes a second for me to realize he’s talking to Simon.

  “No problem,” says Simon.

  “Why’d you shoot the window?” he says.

  Simon gives me a half smile. “He needed a little convincing.”

  A jolt of fear passes into my chest like a knife. This isn’t Special “O.” Whoever these men are, they’re working with Simon. The situation is quickly escalating. There are now three opponents and two visible guns. More firepower may be concealed. I tense my arms and grip the steering wheel, ready to make a run for it.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” says the man with the shotgun, lifting it to point at me.

  On the other side of the truck, the other man steps quickly aside. Simon flattens himself against the seat, presses the muzzle of the silencer against my ribs.

  “Out of the truck,” says the man with the shotgun.

  It seems like a critical thing not to get out of the truck, but there’s nothing stopping them from shooting me right here. I need to stall until Special “O” sends in the troops, so I carefully lift my hands from the steering wheel, open the door, and step out. Simon slides out after me and the stranger without a gun gets into my truck. I’m herded at gunpoint into the backseat of the other truck. Simon slides in beside me, jabs the muzzle of the gun into my ribs.

  “Okay,” I say, trying with little success to sound calm. “Now what?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” says the man in front. So much for talking.

  My truck pulls ahead and we follow, continuing up the trail. We don’t go far before encountering a long straight stretch of trail with a curve at the far end. The truck ahead accelerates suddenly, engine racing, thumping and rattling over the ruts, leaving us behind. I watch, perplexed, as the truck hurtles far too rapidly to make the curve in the trail. The driver side door opens and there’s a
black blur as the driver jumps out, tucking into a roll. My truck ploughs into a large pine, the impact shaking the tree. There’s a tremendous thump, like a crack of thunder, followed by the tinkle of glass, then silence.

  “Holy shit,” says Simon, beside me.

  I use the distraction to grab the barrel of the gun and try to yank it from Simon’s hand. A shot goes off, punching a neat hole in the roof of the truck, but Simon refuses to let go. I have an intimate view of the side of his face, eyes bulged with effort. A split second view of an elbow, coming at me from the front seat, and a bright flash.

  Darkness.

  I REGAIN CONSCIOUSNESS with a throbbing headache. Someone is prodding me in the ribs with the tip of their boot. As my eyes flicker open, a dark face hovers above me, beyond which are treetops.

  “Get the fuck up,” says the man.

  I stare at his face a few seconds longer, puzzled, until it comes back to me. This is the man who crashed my truck. Other than a long scratch on the side of his face, he seems no worse for wear. I prop myself on my elbows and look around. Simon Cardinal and the other man stand a few yards away. Past them, I see my truck, hood crumpled and front caved in against the trunk of a massive pine. The other truck has been turned on the trail, ready for a quick get away. I’m kicked in the ribs hard enough to cause a blossom of pain that leaves me nauseous.

  “I said, get the fuck up.”

  I quickly scramble to my feet.

  “Now we’re going to have a little talk,” says the man.

  I look around. The man who kicked me has the pistol with the silencer held casually at his side. The other stranger has the shotgun. Simon, grinning with wicked anticipation, is unarmed. He has a full bottle of whiskey in hand. My truck is totalled. The other truck has two red plastic gas cans and a spare tire in the back. I raise my eyes, hoping to see a plane circling. Empty sky. Where the hell is Special “O”?

  “No one is coming,” says Simon.

  “They’re coming,” I tell him. “They’re watching you right now.”

  “They’re watching my cousin.”

  I frown, puzzled, and Simon laughs.

  “I paid my cousin fifty bucks to put on my jacket and drive my truck. People say we look a lot alike. He’s at a friend’s place right now, playing cards.”

  The dangerous tingle I had earlier returns, stronger.

  “Start talking,” says the man with the pistol, aiming it at my belly.

  “What do you want to know?” I say, looking around again for something I can use. The realization that I really am on my own comes as a physical shock. My pulse quickens, pounding in my head, and my mouth dries. My vision is narrowing. These men mean to kill me and I am quickly nearing the threshold where logical thought is replaced by instinct. I can’t let that happen and force myself to slow my breathing, focus on my surroundings. Both men are in their early thirties, tall and in good shape. They both have guns. I have no weapons. There’s nothing around me of use, except sticks and stones. If I can’t out-fight them, I’ll have to out-think them, and try to piece together what their plan might be.

  “I think he needs a drink to loosen up,” says the man with the shotgun.

  He grabs the bottle from Simon, thrusts it at me. When I don’t take it from him, he swings a roundhouse kick at my ribs, which I barely manage to evade, ducking my midsection out of the path of his boot. He grins.

  “That one was free,” he says. “The next one won’t miss.”

  I take the bottle, sip a bit of the whiskey. Warmth trickles down my throat.

  “What do the cops know?” says the man with the pistol.

  “How about you tell me what you know,” I say. “I’ll fill in the gaps.”

  I’m ordered to take another drink. I sip again.

  “More,” says the man with the pistol.

  They keep forcing until I’ve taken a few ounces. Why do they want me to drink?

  “I know you’re full of shit,” says Simon. “I had you checked out.”

  “The cops know you started the fires, Simon. They know who paid you.”

  “Really?” says Simon, sneering. “And who is that?”

  There’s a tense silence. It occurs to me that they want me to drink so it looks like I crashed the truck, which fits with my image in Fort Chipewyan lately. They’ve done their homework and it makes me realize I’m dealing with real professionals here. They look South American and I can imagine them working for some drug cartel. Their employers here have just as much money, and I have no doubt they’ve spared no expense, sending a clean-up crew. They’ll need me dead in the crashed truck, and they’ll need my injuries to be consistent with the crash. On the bright side, this means they won’t shoot me.

  On the other hand, they’ll beat me to death.

  “He’s not going to talk,” says the man with the shotgun. “We’re wasting time.”

  He goes to the truck and returns with an aluminum baseball bat, which he hands to Simon. After a moment’s consideration, he hands the shotgun to his companion and retrieves the two plastic gas cans, carries them over to my wrecked truck. I was wrong — they likely won’t beat me to death. They just bludgeon me unconscious, to approximate the blunt trauma of the crash, then place me in the truck and light it up. I’ll still be breathing for a brief moment in the fire — long enough to fill my lungs with smoke and char for when they do an autopsy. It’ll look like a simple case of drunk driving.

  “Take another drink,” says the man with the guns.

  I hesitate, looking at Simon. Something else has occurred to me.

  “You know you’re next,” I tell Simon.

  He grins, no doubt amused by what he sees as my last ditch effort.

  “Think about it,” I say quickly. “These guys are the clean-up crew.”

  “Take a goddamn drink,” says the man with the guns.

  I keep my eyes on Simon. “All we’ve got on you is simple arson, maybe auto theft.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” says the man with the guns. He tucks the pistol under his belt and raises the shotgun, pointing it at me, pumping a round into the chamber with a menacing metallic click. “Start chugging that booze.”

  “Think about it, Simon. Billions of dollars of oil sands investment on the line, all put in jeopardy because you can connect what’s been happening in Fort Chip with who paid you. Newspapers. Public inquiries. Investigations. I’m the only person that’s actually heard what you’ve said. When I’m gone, you’re the only link that will be left.”

  Simon’s grin falters. The man facing me tightens his grip on the shotgun.

  “Shut up and drink,” he says.

  “Why do you think you’re here right now Simon? Why do you think they’re letting you see their faces? Because it doesn’t matter — they’re going to kill us both.”

  “Shut him up,” the man by the wrecked truck yells to his companion. There’s a period of a few brief seconds when nothing happens. I see Simon’s expression change as he thinks, caught in the grip of indecision. He’s a few paces behind the man with the shotgun. The second man is twenty yards behind Simon. I tighten my grip on the bottle, aware that I have at least one thing to use as a weapon. Simon looks at the man by the wrecked truck, sees his hand slide toward something at his belt. Simon lunges at the man with the shotgun, stumbling and swinging wildly with the baseball bat.

  The bat catches the man on the side of his knee and I drop as he jerks sideways, the shotgun firing, pellets buzzing past my ear, then we’re both on the ground. He’s on his side, shotgun pinned beneath him, and while he rolls to pull it free I kick my way over, club at him with the bottle, which glances off his shoulder and flies out of my hand. Face-to-face on the ground, I grab the shotgun before he can swing it over and we struggle for control. He kicks at me, hitting a hip, the impact twisting me sideways, but I manage to hang on to the shotgun. He yanks the gun along the ground, pumping a fresh shell into the chamber, heaves against my grip to swing the muzzle toward me. I push back
and the muzzle swings away, pointing at the second man, still close to the wrecked truck, struggling to free something from his belt — a pistol. My opponent has his finger in the trigger guard, tries to wrench the muzzle towards Simon, who is struggling to his feet. Two bright red squares appear within range of the muzzle — the cans of gas — and I jab my elbow into the crook of the man’s arm.

  The gun barks, kicking in our hands.

  There’s a whump as a full can of gas explodes, followed by a rush of heat and a scream. I catch a glimpse of a figure rimmed in flame, flailing wildly. The man locked onto the shotgun with me snarls and heaves himself over, on top, straddling my chest. We’re both still gripping the gun and he leans forward, forcing the length of the gun against my throat. I’m losing the battle — he has the advantage of weight and leverage. Simon Cardinal looms suddenly over him, baseball bat raised like a war club, face singed and fierce, long braids swinging. He catches the man on the side of the head. There’s a sickening thud as the man is knocked off me by force of the blow, shotgun flipping out of reach. Simon staggers back, chest heaving, drops the bat. I scramble backwards on my elbows, twist and push myself up, see Simon reach for something on the ground as I stand.

  When I turn to face him, Simon has the pistol pointed at me.

  I lift my hands, palms forward. “It’s over,” I tell him. “It’s done.”

  He looks crazed, lips pulled back, panting. The truck and pine tree blaze, sending up a column of dark smoke. I’m not sure what Simon will do. He looks around, at the sprawled form near my feet, the burning truck behind him, and the other man, inert on the ground, his jacket smouldering, then back at me, pistol still held rigidly in my direction.

  “This is your chance to set it right, Simon.”

  A long moment of indecision.

  “Shit,” he swears.

  His shoulders slump and he lowers the pistol.

  “How did this get so fucked up?” he says.

  Behind him, the man with the smouldering jacket sits up, skin on his face red and split, like a man rising from the grave. He yanks a pistol from his belt.