Day Into Night (23 page)

17

THE NEXT DAY is Cindy’s birthday and I beg off work, tell Carl I have official business in Edmonton. As usual, he grumbles about being left short-handed. I think he just wants me to stick around because I’m more likely to cook supper than he is. Tonight, he’ll have to order pizza. Or thaw another slab of elk meat from his freezer. Cindy has a babysitter scheduled. I’m taking her for a well deserved night out — and introducing her to someone.

“How can you eat this stuff?”

“I’m sorry but they didn’t have any tofu bars.”

Telson has her boots propped on Old Faithful’s dash as we cruise between rolling fields along the big double highway heading north. She’s rummaging in the bag of goodies I picked up at the last gas station, pulling out plasticized strips of beef jerky, Rice Krispies squares that look like fire-starting cubes, reading the ingredients. “Monosodium glutamate, sodium nitrate, disodium inosinate —”

“The three basic food groups.”

She shakes her head. “I’d hate to see what your colon looks like.”

“Me too.”

Last night, after the event, we’d lounged by the campfire until well past midnight, not saying much, just being together. Finally, reluctantly, I’d taken her home then found that despite being dead tired I couldn’t sleep. I had too much to think about. Lorax. Red Flag. Nina. Telson. But finally, after hours of tossing and turning, I lapsed into a sort of trance-like coma.

“You okay Porter? You look a little dazed.”

“Fine,” I say after a yawn. “Just a little tired. Alien abduction will do that to you.”

“You’re calling me an alien?”

“Well, you did conduct a few experiments.”

She laughs. There’s a new intimacy between us this morning.

“You sure your sister won’t mind my tagging along on her birthday?”

“Are you kidding? She’d love some adult conversation.”

Telson unwraps a Rice Krispies square, sniffs it and begins to nibble. She’s wearing reflective sunglasses, a man’s canvas work shirt with epaulets, green pleated shorts and black workboots. Like she’s on her way to a militia training camp. She leans against the door, slides the sunglasses down her nose and gives me her best Freud look. With the accent, it’s a bit of a contrast. “So, young man, dell me about you childhood.”

We play this game for a while. I actually end up telling her a lot about my childhood. She really should be a shrink; they could use a few that aren’t as crazy as their patients. The drive passes pleasantly enough and by the time we reach Edmonton, my throat is sore. I’m not used to talking so much. I slow Old Faithful to a speed that doesn’t rattle the windows. Even mid-morning on a Tuesday, Gateway Boulevard is bumper-to-bumper.

“Look at that big lightbulb,” says Telson.

“What? Where?”

“On the roof of that building.”

It’s not a lightbulb — it’s a promotional hot air balloon. Soar With the Eagles, says the caption. A station wagon swerves in front of me, cutting me off and I hit the brakes, scattering junk food like a kid emptying a Halloween bag. Soaring with the eagles beats driving with the turkeys and I pull in. The guy at the counter asks if I’m interested in booking a flight for me and my wife. Telson gives me a crazy grin. Comes with a certificate that proves I’ve flown in a balloon, and an embossed champagne glass. I’m thinking this would be an interesting birthday gift for Cindy and ask how much. Three hundred bucks. What about economy fare, without the wine glass? Three hundred bucks. No point arguing with a guy whose business is hot air so I make a reservation for later that afternoon. The guy takes my Visa, tells me if it gets too windy, I’ll have to reschedule. I get a coupon that looks like Monopoly money, which the guy assures me is good for a year. If not, Cindy can use it to buy Pacific Avenue.

“Does your sister like to fly?” Telson says, back in the truck.

“Sure. Don’t you?”

Telson glances heavenward. “You don’t expect me to go up there?”

“There’s room for three, in their Hindenburg model.”

She looks horrified.

“You’re not afraid of heights are you?”

“You know they can’t steer those things,” she says.

I can’t help laughing.

“It’s not funny, Porter. I can’t climb a chair to get a can of soup.”

“You need a parachute. Build your confidence.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I saw one in the paper the other day. Used once. Never opened. Small stain.”

“You’re horrible —”

We cross the river, head north through downtown. It’s lunchtime and all the secretaries are out on the street, catching a few rays, smoking, showing off their legs. Telson catches me ogling, tells me to stop drooling. Already, she’s territorial. I’ll have to invest in a darker pair of sunglasses.

“I’m drooling at you, dear.”

Beneath her reflective shades, her smile is unamused. “Nice try.”

The red brick building of “K” Division looms ahead. Except for all the cop cars, you’d think it was some fancy corporate office. Telson sits up as I wheel into the parking lot and I tell her I need a half-hour, offer to drop her at the mall a block away. She says she’ll be fine here, follows me inside, but has to wait in the lobby as Captain High Liner gives me a visitor’s tag, calls Constable Eugene Purseman.

“Nice shiner,” Purseman says as he passes me through security.

Purseman is young, tall, smooth-skinned, beefy and looks to be the most junior member of the Red Flag Task Force, which is why I asked for him. We wander to the coffee room where he pours two cups of coffee, hands me one. “So, what can I do for you?”

“What’s involved in running a licence plate?”

He drops in sugar cubes, stirs his coffee. “Why? You find something?”

“Someone has been following me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. An old beat-up Chevy.”

“And you’re sure he’s following you?”

“He’s got my attention.”

Purseman leads me to a narrow office that smells of cleaner, has shelf brackets on the wall. There’s nothing but a desk, computer and a single chair. It looks like solitary confinement. “A hundred thousand square feet of space,” he grumbles, “and they give me a closet.”

“Nice. Very Zen.”

“You’ll have to stand,” he says. “I haven’t had the decorator in yet.” He takes a seat, types in his user name and password, looks at me over his shoulder. “All we got to do is patch into Motor Vehicles. What’s the plate?”

I read the Neanderthal’s plate number from my little notebook, watch the screen. A form pops up along with a drivers’ licence photo; he’s unshaven but this simplifies identification. The name — Zeke Petrovich — is vaguely familiar but I’m not sure why. The address is a box in Curtain River. “He’s registered a 1963 Chevrolet Apache,” says Purseman. “And a 1974 Lada.”

“He’s not driving the Lada.”

“Twelve demerits,” says Purseman. “Bad boy.”

His abstract reads like the Duke boys. Speeding. Stunting. Left of centre.

“What else can we find out about this guy?”

“You shopping for anything in particular?”

“Can we check if he’s got a criminal record?”

“Sure.” Purseman leans back, sips coffee, cruises cyberspace like it’s the strip on Friday night. I’m keyed up, worried that Kirby will wander in, give me shit for not clearing this through him. But Purseman is a willing conduit. He uses pirs to search Petrovich. A list of entries pops up.

“Ho, ho,” says Purseman. “What’ve we got here?”

What we’ve got is fairly obvious. Two arrests for assault in the last three years; held for questioning, no charge. Victims uncooperative. One victim, a white male, was in a coma for six weeks. Trauma to the head and neck — Petrovich likes to use his boots.

Looks like I got off lucky.

“This the guy who redecorated your face?” asks Purseman.

I nod. “Can you print that?”

“Sure.” He pecks at the keyboard; a one-finger typist like me. “You know,we could charge this asshole,”he says. “With his record of assault, he’d go down. All we need is a victim with the balls to stand up in court.”

“Maybe later. For now, I just want to know who he is.”

Purseman looks disappointed. “What else do you need to know?”

“Does he have a job? What does he do?”

A few more keystrokes reveal another layer of Zeke Petrovich’s life. He’s a mechanic, which explains the loose parts in his truck, but it’s where he works that’s really interesting — Curtain River Forest Products. I wonder if he followed Hess around like he followed me. Not that he had too; he’d have access to Hess’s machine. And if he’s the same guy that used to blow beaver dams, he’d know explosives. “Can we tell if he bought dynamite recently, say in the past five years?”

“Dynamite?” Purseman frowns. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m not sure. I heard he used to blow beaver dams.”

“A lot of guys do.”

“But they’re not following me.”

Purseman shrugs. “Okay. Let’s have a look.”

Ten minutes of cruising police databases produces nothing. “I don’t think it’s covered here,” says Purseman. “I thought the Canadian Bomb Data Centre would track that sort of thing but apparently purchase records aren’t recorded. You’d have to go to the retailer.”

“You think they’d give me that information?”

“Probably not.”

I can’t think of anything more I can get Purseman to look up for me. He retrieves my copy of Petrovich’s record from some distant printer, escorts me to the lobby. I thank him for his time. He aims a finger at me. “This guy keeps following you, you let me know.”

“Count on it.”

Telson looks up from her newspaper. “The secret agent returns.”

“That’s me, double-o nothing.”

“You gotta start somewhere. Find anything interesting?”

“No. Let’s get going.”

I drop Telson downtown, tell her I’ll pick her up in an hour. She’s not thrilled at being abandoned again, but I don’t want her asking a lot of questions about my investigation — I’d prefer to keep that part of my life separate. She recovers well though, says she needs to do a little window shopping anyway. We part with a brief kiss and I head west. There are only a few places to buy dynamite and two of them are in Edmonton, so I take a drive into the industrial area of the city. It’s a homey neighbourhood — oily streets, chain link fences topped by barbed wire, yards filled with strange machinery. The company I’m looking for, X-Pert Explosives, is hard to find. I keep ending up at the wrong compound, but finally there it is, sandwiched between a fire extinguisher company and a place that makes shock absorbers. You have to wonder if there’s some sort of logic at work here.

The building is brown, metal-clad, with three unmarked doors. I select door number one, next to a small, sealed window. There’s a counter, computer, file cabinets and long hall. A sign over the counter tells me I’m in the Customer Induction Area. But it’s eerily silent and there’s no one around, no bell to ring for service.

Maybe I’m in the Customer Abduction Area.

“Hello?”

Nothing. I wait, drum my fingers on the counter.

The building is new, the walls clean and very white. The floor is grey tile; the same colour as the filing cabinets and countertop. There are no promotional displays or unfinished filing lying around, in fact no paper visible anywhere, which indicates care in record security — not a good sign as far as my prospects of obtaining information. On the wall near the door is a photo of the X-Pert Explosives softball team — proof that at one time people worked here. I clear my throat as noisily as possible.

A man in blue coveralls appears at the end of the hall, saunters toward the counter. He’s young, has black shaggy hair and a grease smear on his cheek, doesn’t look like a person who might rummage through files for me, dredge up old records. But you never know. As he comes closer, I read a name tag sewn on his coveralls. Colin.

“Can I help you?” He stands a few yards back from the counter.

“I hope so. I was looking for some information.”

“Information?” Colin frowns. They handle explosives here, not information.

I hesitate. On the drive here I toyed with several explanations. I’m a private investigator. I’m a journalist. I’m a customer who needs a copy of a bill of sale. I’m a student doing research. Finally, I’d decided on telling the truth. Now, I’m not so sure.

“My father bought some dynamite for blowing beaver dams on the farm. Of course, he lost the receipt. Now he’s doing his tax and he needs it. You wouldn’t have a copy would you?”

Colin frowns. “What’s his name?”

“Petrovich,” I say. “Zeke Petrovich.”

“When was that?”

I try to look thoughtful. “A coupla years ago.”

“He needs it now?”

“The old man doesn’t do his taxes very often. It’s not like he gets much back so he’s never in a hurry. And when he gets around to it, he’s lost most of his receipts.”

Colin allows a half smile. “Just hang on. You better talk to Rufus.”

He vanishes into an office down the hall and I hear a mumbled undercurrent of talk, then Rufus comes to the counter. He’s older, short hair, dark complexion, shirtsleeves rolled back to display solid forearms. He’s a serious-looking guy; I can picture him slinging crates of dynamite. He stands squarely behind the counter, his arms crossed. His frown isn’t encouraging. “What’s this about a receipt?” he asks. His voice is deep, with a coarse edge.

I repeat my story, which sounds flimsier this time.

“I’ll need id,” he says.

I make a show of looking for my wallet. “I must have left it at home.”

“No id, no receipt.”

“Well ...” I sigh, look dismayed, which is easy enough. “I’m just in town for the day. I guess he doesn’t really need a receipt unless he gets audited. Maybe you could just tell me the date and the amount.”

Rufus scratches his head, rummages under the counter, produces a pad of graph paper with the company logo — a cartoonish explosion — and asks me to repeat the name for which I want the receipt. Zeke Petrovich, I tell him and he prints the name in neat block letters. Now we’re getting somewhere.

“And your name again?”

“Barry Petrovich.”

“Well Barry, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll look up Zeke and if we sold him anything, then I’ll call him and tell him the amount so he can do his taxes.”

“Oh, great.” I try to look positive. “But he doesn’t have a phone.”

A look of annoyance. “No phone?”

“No, he’s kind of strange that way.”

“I could mail him a copy. Registered.”

“That would be fine,” I say, trying not to look disappointed. Maybe there’s some other information Rufus can give me, so the drive out here isn’t a total waste. “He said he might need another case for blowing stumps. Could I pick one up now?” I’m pretty sure the answer is no, but I want to find out what procedure Petrovich had to follow.

Rufus snorts, shakes his head. “Not a chance. You can’t buy explosives for someone else. Your dad would have to come in himself. There’s forms he’s got to fill out and there’s a waiting period. I’ll need a criminal record search and might have to clear the purchase through the RCMP.”

“But he could get more if he needed it?”

“Like I said, there’s a procedure. From what I hear, they’re talking about prohibiting that sort of sale altogether, which would be for the best. Dynamite isn’t something you want to mess around with. Your dad should hire a licensed blaster. Most counties have one.”

“How could I find out if a guy’s licensed?”

“Ask to see his license. Or hire one through the county.”

With Petrovich’s record it seems unlikely he could purchase dynamite or get a blaster’s licence. But up until a few years ago, he didn’t have a record. “How long does the stuff last?”

“Dynamite has a one- to two-year shelf life, after which it begins to deteriorate.” Rufus leans against the counter, seems to relax. We’re talking his language now. “Nitro doesn’t biodegrade, but the other components would. The product would get unstable after that.”

“So he should only buy as much as he needs.”

“Absolutely. You don’t want unstable dynamite lying around. By law, a farmer only has 90 days to use or dispose of it anyway.”

“What sort of product would you sell to a farmer?”

“Depends what he wants to use it for. From what you’ve told me, probably a nitro-based gel in a 50 mm x 800 mm configuration. That’s a pretty skookum charge. It would displace about one cubic metre of material, take care of his stumps in no time.”

I think of the feller-buncher at Curtain River. That was a pretty skookum charge.

There don’t seem to be any more questions I can ask without a detailed explanation, which I doubt would further my cause with Rufus. I thank him, leave the Customer Induction Area. As I back out of my parking space I see a face in the window by the door. Rufus is frowning, probably writing down my licence plate number.

I head back into the city, silent and agitated. The wind has picked up, rocking Old Faithful and blowing hamburger wrappings across the road like tumbleweeds. It doesn’t look good for a balloon ride today. Just by chance, I glance in the rearview mirror, see a light blue Plymouth a few vehicles back drift toward the shoulder of the road, then pull back into the lane. The car has a familiar ugly wrinkle on the driver’s door, just like the car that was waiting for me after I left Ronald Hess’s widow in Curtain River. But it was dark then and I can’t be sure. I slow down and the intervening cars begin to pass, but the blue car also slows and is passed, making it impossible to get a clear view of the driver or car. I pull over abruptly, enter a service road leading to a string of gas stations and restaurants.

The old blue Plymouth coasts past, the driver looking in my direction. His face is shielded by a ball cap pulled low and he’s hard to see against the glare coming off the side window, but I think his baseball cap has a crimped visor — like the man I found watching the cutblock. I try to follow but by the time I get back into the heavy flow of freeway traffic, he’s gone.