One Careless Moment Page 31

  “He confirmed she was his sister.”

  “That’s it?” says Batiste. “He didn’t tell you anything else?”

  “No.” I glance at my watch. I’m missing my plane. “What happened to the other guy?”

  Castellino gives me a crafty, appreciative look. I think he was testing me, trying to trick me into revealing that I knew there was more than one man involved in the house fire, but he let it slip, and I pretend I just caught it. “At the house fire?” I prompt. “You mentioned an associate of Hutton’s.”

  “Yes. Henry Dancey — your friend from the grocery store.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Mr. Dancey was rather badly burned,” says Batiste.

  I nod thoughtfully, wondering if Erwin intended to let him live.

  “So, you haven’t seen these squatters in the past few days?” says Castellino, trying again.

  I shake my head. “Did you talk to Dancey?”

  The three men exchange glances and I wonder if Dancey really did survive, or if they’re stringing me along, waiting for me to slip up, but Castellino nods, his eyebrows tented together, as if he can’t believe he’s telling me this — doing me some sort of favour. “Dancey claims they got an anonymous tip that some kids were going to burn the place down, so they went for a look. No kids visible when they arrived, but they could smell smoke, so they went in. He claims they fell through a weak spot in the floor, into an old cellar. Before they could get out, the house went up like tinder.”

  I think of Dancey, pouring diesel.

  “Who set the fire?”

  “We’re not sure,” says Haines.

  I glance at the pictures. “How did Dancey survive?”

  “He must have pulled himself out. We found him on the ground, about forty yards away.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Castellino sighs. “What I believe is irrelevant — it’s what I can prove. Both Hutton and Dancey weren’t wearing fire gear when they were found at the fire. Nor did they bring any with them. They didn’t record their trip in the dispatch log at the fire station and they didn’t call 911, like they’re supposed to. Seems a little odd, don’t you think?”

  I wait, keeping my expression carefully neutral.

  “If they weren’t there on a fire call, it was something else,” says Batiste.

  Castellino crosses his arms. “What do you think, Mr. Cassel?”

  “I think Hutton and Dancey crossed the wrong kind of people, and it caught up with them.”

  Castellino watches me a moment longer, waiting for something more. I hold his X-ray gaze as long as I can, hoping he can’t read my thoughts, then drop my gaze to the mosaic of photos on the table. Greed and revenge, reduced to ash. When I glance up, Batiste, Castellino, and Haines seem lost in thought. The confrontational tension is gone from the room. They know I was at the wellhead fire before the other fire was reported, and I have no revelations to offer.

  “Do you have any leads?” I ask. “Do you know who these squatters are?”

  “The squatters,” Castellino says wistfully. “They’re a mystery, these invisible people. No social security number. No driver’s licence. Constantly mobile. Even Karalee Smith wasn’t using her real name,” he says, looking at me. “We checked back through her correspondence school, thinking she’d want a diploma in her own name, but she was operating under a false identity. The real Karalee Smith died in Minnesota, at two months of age, back in 1983.”

  “So they’ve just vanished? You have no idea who they are, or where they’ve gone?”

  “We’re doing roadside checks,” says Batiste. “But so far, we’re drawing a blank.”

  Perfectly orchestrated, I’m thinking. Erwin. Del. Even Harnack had a role to play. And me — the biggest fool of all, blindly charging ahead, believing I might make a difference. I almost chuckle, but Castellino and Batiste are giving me strange looks.

  “What is it, Cassel?”

  “A licence plate number,” I say. “From Erwin’s truck.”

  I concentrate, trying to remember, and they perk up. No harm in giving them the only real scrap of information I have on Erwin’s identity — although even that is probably just a front. I dredge up the number from my trip to Missoula tailing the old truck, and Batiste hurries out of the room to use Compton’s computer. He’s back in minutes and hands a print out to Castellino.

  “Typical,” Castellino mutters, frowning. “Plate was stolen from a repair shop in Florida.”

  “Shit,” mumbles Haines.

  I wait a minute, but no further comment is forthcoming. “Can I go now?”

  Castellino gives me a long look before answering. The look on his face — he doesn’t quite believe I’ve told him everything, but he can’t think of a way to keep me here. He nods and I wish them luck, take my leave, head up the stairs, and walk through a forest of cubicles, uniformed men and women working at their desks. A few stop what they’re doing and watch me pass. In their eyes, I’ll always be the stranger who screwed up, got one of their own killed. I hurry through but Grey intercepts me as I pass his office.

  “Cassel! Hold up a second.” He’s loud enough I can’t pretend I didn’t hear him. “You all done here?” he says, scrutinizing me.

  “Yeah. Back to Canada, with my tail between my legs.”

  His moustache twitches and he gives me his best chief ranger look. “Don’t leave here thinking that,” he says, standing in the hall. “This is a tough occupation and you did your best. You went through something we all dread, and came out the other side.”

  “Thanks,” I say, not very convincingly.

  “And,” he says, lowering his voice, “I just want you to know, no matter how things turned out, that I appreciate your sticking around and trying to help on this thing. Most guys would have just packed their bedrolls and ran for the hills.”

  I nod, looking at the floor. He asks me how I’m getting home. I tell him I’ve booked a flight for tomorrow — I’ve missed my chance today. I’ll be heading to Missoula tonight, to make sure I’ll be on time, for a change. He tells me he’s headed there himself — he’ll give me a ride. Seems like a good way to save an expensive cab fare and we agree to meet at the motel later and retrieve my luggage. I finally manage to get out of the ranger station, and I stand in the baking heat of the parking lot, as it occurs to me I’m miles from town without a ride. I consider asking Grey, or Compton, but don’t particularly want to go inside again, so instead hitch a ride with a local rancher. An old guy with a big hat, he doesn’t say more than two words, which suits me fine — I’ve got more than enough to think about. By the time we reach town, I know what I have to do, and head for the hospital.

  Dancey is the only customer in icu, a small, three-bed ward just off Emergency. He’s in an isolation tent — a plastic shroud hung around the bed to ward off bacteria — and is heavily bandaged. I have to check his chart to make sure it’s really him. Half his face is all that is visible and, despite what he’s done, I can’t help feeling sorry for him; the possibility of burns like these haunt every firefighter. He’s sleeping, or unconscious, and I watch him through the plastic for a few minutes, listening to the beep and sigh of life support. I want to ask him about the Holder fire. About Karalee Smith. I want to hear him explain why, but he’s beyond reach — another victim of the curse.

  “Dancey,” I say quietly. Nothing. Then a little more loudly.

  Movement behind the eyelid. I lean closer — as close as the shroud will allow.

  “Can you hear me, Dancey?”

  The eye struggles, slowly opens. It’s disconcerting, like watching a corpse return to life.

  “Can you talk? Concentrate, this is important.”

  The eye wanders, fixes on me. He moans and the rhythm on the heart rate monitor intensifies. There’s a long silent pause. Beneath the edge of the bandages covering half his face, there’s a tube going into his mouth. He talked to the police, but that was before they pumped him full of narcotics. A
nd the tube won’t help. He might not be able to speak — but I’m willing to bet he can hear me.

  “I’m going to ask you a few questions. Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

  He blinks twice before I ask the first question.

  “Did you start the fire in the canyon?”

  Nothing. Then a hoarse whisper. “Fuck you ...”

  I stand up, shocked. Half-dead and helpless, and still he gives me attitude. Then it occurs to me that he can talk, although with considerable effort. I hear voices in the hall as two nurses walk past. I’ll have to make this quick, so I pull open the plastic shroud. “Listen Dancey,” I say, leaning close, looking him in the eye, “I know what you told the sheriff, but it’s just the three of us here now — you, me, and life support. I want a few answers, for my own peace of mind. Then, if you’re lucky, you’ll never see me again. Did you start the fire in the canyon?”

  A long pause. Dancey turns his head slightly, toward the battery of equipment next to his bed, then looks at me. “Hutton,” he whispers.

  “It was for the pot, wasn’t it?”

  A single blink.

  “And the waitress?”

  A longer pause. His heart rate changes on the monitor again, a little faster, and he swallows painfully. His eye wells up. A tear trickles down his cheek. “Hutton,” he repeats in a faint breath.

  “It was all Hutton, was it?” I say angrily. “You had nothing to do with it?”

  “Had to,” he sighs. “The fire. Murder.”

  So there it is — the truth, as I had suspected. They murdered Karalee because of the runaway on the Holder fire, which killed Brashaw. They were covering their tracks. If no one had died on the Holder fire then Karalee would still be alive. I stand up, a little faint, my anger displaced by a sickening feeling of guilt. One last question comes to mind.

  “You tried to kill me too, by cutting the brakes on my truck.”

  Dancey stares at me, then blinks — twice.

  A sharp voice behind me. “What are you doing?”

  I turn. A nurse stands just inside a closing door, tray in hand. I look at Dancey. The shroud hangs open. “He was trying to say something,” I mumble. “I couldn’t hear —”

  “Well, you should have called,” says the nurse, her expression changing from shock to annoyance. She sets aside the tray, quickly checks on Dancey, shooing me out of the way. I step back, glancing toward the door. “You shouldn’t be here,” she says over her shoulder. “He could get infected.”

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see how he was doing.”

  “We have procedures to follow,” she says, closing the shroud. “For the safety of the patient.” She checks the instrumentation, making nervous, clucking sounds, then looks over at me, her expression softening slightly. “I’m sorry — this must be hard for you.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  The nurse glances toward Dancey, leads me out of the room, into the hallway.

  “We’re not sure yet,” she says in muted tones. “He’s pretty badly burned and there are a lot of unknowns. Infection is always a serious threat. But he’s starting to stabilize enough that we can move him to Missoula, where they have a better burn facility.” She hesitates. “Who did you say you were?”

  “Just a fellow firefighter.”

  She smiles, pats me on the shoulder. “You’re all such heroes. Keep up the good work.”

  My heart is pounding as I leave the hospital. Seeing Dancey burned like that. Admitting they killed Karalee. Confirmation that I was the catalyst for these events. And then the nurse, saying we’re all heroes. I stand in the parking lot in front of Emergency, cloaked in sweat and breathing hard. I want to leave this place so badly I nearly call a cab, head straight for Missoula, but I think of Grey; I haven’t yet thanked him for taking care of the paperwork at the hospital, after I totalled the Cornbinder. I walk in the blistering heat to the motel, where my luggage is waiting, stowed at the checkout counter. Grey shows up at half past six, parks his green truck in front of the small motel office. I grab my luggage, toss the bags into the back of the truck, climb in without saying anything.

  We turn left onto the highway — headed north, instead of south toward Missoula. I assume Grey plans to stop for gas, but we pass the Conoco. I watch the church slide past at the north end of town.

  “Isn’t Missoula in the other direction?”

  “Shortcut,” says Grey. But he’s grinning.

  “Okay — I’ll bite. What’s going on?”

  Grey shrugs. “Just a little barbecue at the greenhouse. Del made me promise to stop by with you. Threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t.” He looks a little sheepish. “I never argue with a redhead.”

  I nod, with a fleeting urge to decline, but it seems best to go with the plan. We rattle up the gravel road to the greenhouse and I take the opportunity to thank Grey for his generosity at the hospital. It wasn’t something he had to do — I wasn’t employed by the Forest Service when I had the accident. He tells me not to worry about it. The parking lot at the greenhouse is crammed. We squeeze in next to a row of fruit bushes. Melissa is playing at one of the cribs filled with aquatic plants, up to her armpits in water.

  “Uncle Porter!”

  She runs over, gives my leg a wet hug. “I was on holiday,” she says, beaming.

  “Good for you. Did you have fun?”

  She assures me she did.

  Aunt Gertie comes out of the main building, looking around. “There you are,” she says, picking up Melissa. “Mommy needs your help.”

  I follow them inside, past rows of hanging flower baskets and towering tomatoes, loaded with ripening fruit. Men and women wander among the aisles, chatting, carrying trays of cold cuts and crackers. Someone presses a beer into my hand. Outside, Del is talking to an old guy with a spatula in his hand. He’s supervising a large, home-built barbecue and is wearing an apron with a picture of a flaming steak. Del sees me, thanks me for coming, asks if she can get me anything.

  I show her the beer, tell her I’m fine.

  “Are you, really?” she says, meeting my eye.

  “I’m working on it.”

  She nods, tells me we’ll talk later — she still has a hundred things to do. I wander off among the vegetables, thinking about marijuana. So much trouble over a plant. The firefighters arrive in their crew bus, still in yellow fire shirts, green pants, and White’s fire boots. They’re grimy, covered with soot, but joking and talking as they trickle into the greenhouse, comparing notes on the day’s effort. I wait as they wash up, then mingle and ask them how the fire is going. The wellhead has been capped and the fire is contained at seventy acres. Dozerline around everything; should be mopping up in a few days.

  “What about you?” says Cooper, sitting on a picnic table. “What have you been up to?”

  Mopping up a different fire, I tell him.

  Steaks are flopped onto the grill and the air fills with tantalizing odours. Garlic. Roasting meat. Potato salad. Grey lugs a keg of beer out of a van and offers me the privilege of tapping, drawing the first mug. I play bartender for a while. Finally, when everyone has a steak on their plate, Del takes a seat beside me. “I thought it would be nice to have a barbecue,” she says. “Like BB used to.”

  I nod and for a few minutes we eat in silence.

  “You see that chair over there?” she says, pointing with a fork.

  I follow her direction. It’s a massive wooden chair, built of logs; it looks like a medieval throne. That’s BB’s chair, she says. He’d sit there during these barbecues, watching his flock — it’s how he got his nickname: BB the King. Now it’s empty. As we watch, Cooper wanders past, holding a heavily loaded paper plate, looking for a seat. He’s out of luck — the throne is the only vacant spot. He glances around, sees Del watching. She nods, waves for him to sit down. Cooper hesitates, but then acknowledges the honour with an abashed nod, and sits primly on the edge of the big chair. Del sees I’m watching her.

  “Li
fe goes on,” she says, smiling wistfully.

  She finishes her meal — she’s just having salad and a baked potato — and moves off toward the grill, checking on the steaks. Checking to make sure everyone has enough to eat and is having a good time. Harnack is at the grill now, wearing the apron. He says something to Del and she laughs. He pulls her close, whispers in her ear. The firefighter beside me at the picnic table stiffens.

  “I can’t believe he’s moving in on her again.”

  It’s Phil, the guy with the bear claw necklace. He’s cutting his steak with a Bowie knife. “After they broke up,” says Phil, pointing his knife toward Harnack, “he followed her around for weeks. BB finally had to give him a talking to, to get him to lay off. Now he’s in there again, like a dirty shirt. The old man would be turning in his grave.”

  I watch Harnack for a minute. Del pulls away from him and he reaches for her again. When she evades him, he forces a laugh — I can hear it all the way over here — but he looks a bit put off. Del waves at him, pretending it’s a game, and moves into the crowd. As Harnack turns back to the grill, stabbing at the steaks with a pair of tongs, I remember what Del told me.

  “I can handle Lyle Harnack.”

  But I wonder — who benefited most from BB’s death? Harnack is the only clear winner here. With BB out of the picture he has a clear shot at Del once again. He had the means, motive, and opportunity. He knew Brashaw was on the ridge — just as any firefighter could have known. He had the training to set the fatal blaze. If he could get away from his crew long enough, he’d certainly have had the opportunity. It would be the perfect crime — an arson within an arson. Who would suspect? And once the deed had been done, Harnack followed me around claiming he wanted to help me investigate, no doubt to keep tabs on the investigation.

  I’ve lost my appetite and sit frowning over my food, watching Lyle Harnack flip steaks. If he set the fire outside the dozerline — the fire that killed Bert Brashaw and nearly killed me — then he’s responsible for everything that happened after as well. His actions led to the death of Karalee Smith — not mine. I take a sip of beer without tasting it, watching Harnack.