Day Into Night (38 page)

It’s a risk, but I decide to bike across town to Telson’s trailer. It bothers me she hasn’t been answering my calls. I’ve got my end of our deal to hold up. Tonight, she’s going to get the scoop of her career.

I’ll get my life back.

The chain on my mountain bike whirs against the gear-changer and I adjust slightly until the sound is gone. I’m in stealth mode now and peddle hard, my hand throbbing. It’s cool enough there’s dew on the windows of parked cars. The hotel — the only neon sign in town, is an electric red monolith. Streetlights buzz and hum like bored insects over deserted pavement — unlike a city, no one hangs around here at this hour. Even the bars are quiet, scattered pickup trucks abandoned in parking lots. I take back alleys anyway, just to be sure.

There’s no traffic when I dash across the highway but a moment later a police suburban races past on mainstreet, its tires humming. It’s headed out of town — a good direction; I’m headed the other way, pedalling narrow streets past trailers and older homes, no lights on. Big spruce trees cast long shadows. Closer to the river, I smell damp earth. Gravel crunches under my bike tires as I turn off pavement into the rv park. Darker here, like entering a cave. Familiar now with the winding crescents, it doesn’t take long to find Telson’s trailer. Her Bug is on the gravel pad and I feel a surge of anticipation like the old days — a week ago.

But she’s not home.

The trailer door is unlocked. There’s a half eaten pork chop and bottle of beer on the kitchen table. The beer is knocked over, a puddle on the table and floor. I’ve never taken her to be a slob and have a bad feeling she left in a hurry, or was taken, and I recall our last conversation, about Hess and the union. How he must have told someone.

Telson’s excitement: That’s my next project.

I look for some clue. There’s nothing.

I head back to the ranger station, taking too many chances in the open, when a light swings behind me in an alley. Looking back I’m blinded, can’t see who it is but when the red and blues on the bumper begin to flash it’s pretty clear. I turn as casually as possible down another alley and, out of the sweep of the headlights, pedal hard toward a strip of lawn between two houses.

A garden shed, the door slightly ajar.

I wheel the bike inside, crouch beside bags of fertilizer and lawn seed.

The cruiser rolls past, silent, lights flashing.

I don’t wait for him to come back. By the time I reach the ranger station he’s returned to the alley where he first spotted me, muted flashes of red and blue light bouncing off houses. The ranger station is dark but the door is unlocked. Carl emerges from the duty room, back lit by monitor light like a painting of Moses descending The Mount.

“She’s gone,” I tell him, breathless from the ride. “Telson. They took her —”

“I know,” he says quietly.

“What?”

He leads me into the duty room, hits ‘play’ on the answering machine. Brotsky’s angry voice fills the room. “Attention shithead. You forgot dial recall. Well, guess what. Your little girlfriend here ain’t so tough. You want to keep all her parts together, you better still have those tapes. I want them and the one you’re making now too. You got a half-hour to be at the old mill by the river. Don’t think about copying those tapes because no matter what the fuck goes down, I’ll send someone after you. And don’t try to jerk me off. I don’t use playdough.”

There’s a click, then line static.

Carl looks like he might cry. “Christ, Porter, I’m sorry —”

Whitlaw must have called Brotsky — a risk I doubted he would take. Brotsky has killed once already to cover his tracks and it must have occurred to Whitlaw that he could be next. Or he’s stupid enough to think the situation can be salvaged. A bad call either way.

“I should have thought about that,” Carl says. “Used an unlisted phone —”

“It’s not your fault, Carl. She was always involved. She knew there were risks.”

Carl smoothes back his hair, gives me an anguished look. “What now?”

I walk to the window, peer through the blinds. The street is empty but for how long? How many cops are in town? How many more will arrive when they realize I’m still here? None of them can save Telson — Brotsky has no intention of letting her live, or me for that matter. He’ll have the place wired like a minefield, take out all the evidence.

“Now we go get her.”

After Carl leaves to make preparations I sit in the duty room and stare at the phone. I don’t want to think about what we have to do. I want to think about Carl as the Lorax even less. But I gotta know if I can trust him — not that I have much choice.

I call Bill Star one more time. He answers on the first ring.

“Christ Porter, what’s going on down there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I just got the strangest call. Your buddy Rachet. Asked if I knew where you were.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Nothing, for now.”

“Good. What’d you find out about the seismic gel?”

“You owe me big time,” he says. “Seven reported thefts.”

“Where?”

“Three in Quebec, two in BC. And two in Alberta.”

I get a bad feeling. “Where were the ones in Alberta?”

“One in the prairies — Fort MacLeod. One up north, close to where you used to work.”

“What’s the name of the program it was stolen from?”

There’s a pause — Bill switching to hands free. Papers rustle. “Catherine Creek 3D,” he says, his voice tinny. “That mean something to you?”

More than I’d like — Catherine Creek was a big program, easy to remember. Lots of new lines. Lots of shot holes. A lot of dynamite. And as I recall, Carl looked after it. Which might explain his reluctance to let me go when I told him I was headed to Fort Termination to look into a few things. He was afraid I would find out. That last arson, the one that didn’t fit the pattern, may just have been his last ditch attempt to divert me from heading further north.

“You there, Porter?”

“Bill — I’ll have to call you later.”

I set the receiver back in the cradle. The bad feeling settles in.

Outside, a cop car rolls past, its lights strobing red and blue lines through the blinds, projected on the duty room wall. They’re looking for me; I’m surprised they haven’t already checked the ranger station. Maybe they’re just setting up, getting ready for an assault. When the back door opens I crouch, as if that’ll help. It’s Carl, a rifle slung over his shoulder, a backpack in his hands, black toque rolled up on his head like a Navy Seal. I wonder what’s in the backpack — more Catherine Creek dynamite?

“We’re ready,” he says, coming into the duty room.

“You see any cops outside?”

He glances toward the window. “One, but he’s gone. What’s the plan?”

The plan. I look at him, wondering.

“What?” he says. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I tell him. “Let’s get going.”

28

I'VE BIKED PAST the old mill site a few times. It sits next to the river, right at the edge of town, across the street from the Legion and the bottle depot. This is where Curtain River Forest Products got its start, when it was a dinky little operation with 30 or 40 employees, probably all related. That was before Craig Whitlaw came up from Texas. Before Al Brotsky ruined his knee. Back in the days of the Old Testament. Now a new kind of religion is running the town and tonight it wants another sacrifice.

We park in an alley behind the bottle depot, walk quietly along the edge of the road. There are no streetlights and beside me Carl is a tall, dark sliver, the muzzle of his rifle jutting over his shoulder makes us look like we’re grunts on night patrol. There’s just enough light to make out trees on either side of the road and the high bald dome of the rusty old beehive-burner at the mill. I smell damp rock, river brush, garbage. The old mill site is fenced with chain-link topped by three strands of barbed wire. The gate — I see double posts as we approach — is padlocked. Carl and I exchange glances, then Carl gives the lock a tug.

It’s not locked, just hung to look like it is.

Carl hangs the open lock on the wire, unslings his rifle. We go in.

My plan is simple. Most likely, it’ll happen inside, probably in the main building. I’ll face Brotsky while Carl sneaks in through the old log infeed. When the time comes, I’ll key my two-way radio, press a strip of duct tape down so it’ll keep transmitting, hopefully set the radio inconspicuously aside. Just before we left, Carl made a call to the Mounties, told them to listen to a certain Forest Service frequency, promised a good show. I’m not sure if the Boys in Blue can triangulate my position but that’s not my point — I plan to push Brotsky as far as he’ll go, piss him off enough he’ll talk. It’s a big risk but I’ll keep my flashlight on him — he tries anything, Carl puts him down. It’s not perfect, but it could work. Providing Carl is there for me. It may be in his best interest not to be.

A breeze comes up, sighing in the trees like a ghost, making me edgy — I’m edgy enough already, wondering if Telson is okay. Wondering about too many things. I gotta stay focused. Ahead and to the right the old burner is a mountain of rusting steel. I can smell the corrosion and the faint odour of old ash damp with dew. Something else — paint? A slender conveyer runs from the top of the burner back to the mill, stark as a gallows against the promised dawn sky. The main building is a dark wall to the left. There’s enough light to see to the edge of the gravelled parking lot. It’s empty but Brotsky could have parked anywhere. Carl holds me back with a hand and we listen intently. I hear nothing. He points toward a corner of the big building, motions that he’s going the other way. I nod and we part.

Hopefully not for the last time.

A metal door materializes against a darker backdrop and I pause, listening hard. Nothing. I want to go in but hesitate — Brotsky might have wired the door. There’s no guarantee Telson is inside. Until I notice what’s hanging on the door handle — a piece of cloth, coarse and lacy in my hand. Telson’s panties. He wants to make sure I open that door. He gets his wish.

Hinges squeal. I cringe, expecting the worst. A frightened voice in the dark.

“Porter? Is that you, Porter?”

I can’t see anything in here. The voice sounds very small and far away.

“I’m in here Porter ... Be careful.”

She’s trying to be brave but the timbre of fear in her voice chills me. I wait for my eyes to adjust enough that I can move around but it doesn’t much help. I’ll have to use my flashlight, which I don’t like because it’ll be a beacon for Brotsky to shoot at. I click it on, hold it as far as I can from the vulnerable parts of my body.

In the weak flashlight beam the building is cavernous. Most of the equipment is gone but long metal beds, catwalks and conveyors remain. I see only parts of this, point like a nervous lighthouse keeper. Tonight there are hazards everywhere. Telson is nowhere in sight but her voice is like the call of a distant bird.

“Farther back Porter. Be careful — he’s watching.”

I dart the beam of light up, search catwalks toward the rear of the building but see no one. My flashlight isn’t bright enough and there are too many places to hide. I begin to work my way deeper into the building, moving between conveyors. It’s like being caught in the wrong part of the subway with all the tracks at waist height — knowing the train is coming but not being able to see or hear it. I hope Carl is in position by now.

Telson calls again. She’s close but on the other side of a line of equipment and I climb onto a series of conveyor belts, pan the light. She’s seated on an old crate next to a large hunk of iron; an old head rig with a rusty saw blade as wide as a dinner table. Dark lines cross her chest — old rubber belts; she’s been strapped to the machine.

“Porter?” She’s squinting and I lower the light.

“Are you okay?”

She nods but looks pale and frightened. Behind her the hooked teeth of the rusted saw blade are frozen like a monster caught with its mouth open. I doubt the saw will ever turn again but there must be some reason Brotsky put her here. I glance around, pointing the light like a gun.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know —”

Stepping down from the conveyor I lose my footing, and my flashlight — it clatters through the iron works, but fortunately doesn’t go out. When I jump down my ankle twinges painfully. I lunge for the flashlight, ready to defend myself.

Against what? Brotsky remains anonymous.

“You okay, Porter?” Telson’s voice is a strained whisper.

I hobble over, examine her restraints. He’s thorough; I’ll have to cut them off —

“Porter, there’s a bomb under this box.”

I kneel, peer through a ragged hole in the side of the crate.

“He told me it’s wired to a mercury switch. He told me not to move.”

There’s a grey, five-gallon pail under there. It could just be hydraulic fluid like it says on the lid, except it’s been opened at one time, the lid pushed back on. But I don’t see a timer or any wires. It doesn’t much look like a bomb. “Did you see him put a bomb under there?”

She shakes her head, her eyes wide. “It was already there.”

It could be a real bomb, rigged for movement, Brotsky counting on me trying to diffuse it myself. He wouldn’t have to hang around, but somehow I feel he isn’t one to take chances. Which means the clock is ticking.

“Hang in there,” I tell Telson. “I’m getting you out of this —”

A soft slapping sound, blending into a white flash of pain. I’m hit in the thigh — the bullet pulling my legs out from under me — and drop, clutching the wound, the flashlight rolling away, bathing me in light. The fucker — Blood oozes through my fingers. Telson is screaming.

Move before he shoots you again. But I can’t.

The radio — call Carl on the radio. I tug at my jacket, try to free the heavy radio from an inside pocket but when I let go of my leg it starts to pump blood again.

Telson sounds far away. “Porter ... oh my God ...”

I feel faint, can’t get at the radio. I shout instead. “Carl!” My voice vanishing in the cavernous building. There’s no response and I have a horrible thought — Carl is the one who shot me, to protect his identity. Or Brotsky has and Carl is gone. Either way, Carl is covered.

I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees ...

The cops — they’re listening to the radio. I have to get to the radio.

I’m digging under my jacket, feel the radio in my hands when there’s a bright flash of light — a rainbow exploding in my temple; Brotsky’s kicked me in the head. On my back I look up and see him standing over me, as tall as a sky-scraper, a rifle slung over his back.

“Give me the fucking tapes,” he says, his hand out.

I try to look around. There’s blood in my eyes and the radio is gone. It hurts to move.

“The tapes —” Brotsky kicks me in the ribs, losing patience.

I drag a hand across my jacket, fumble for the pocket where I shoved the tapes but I’m too slow and Brotsky kicks me again, reaches down and rips the tapes out of my pocket. I miss probably my only chance to grab him — he’s too fast and I’m too groggy. Telson is screaming and he backhands her, her head snapping to the side.

He pockets the tapes — pirated Captain Tractor and Sheryl Crow.

“Just couldn’t keep your fucking nose out of it could you, Cassel?”

He’s got my blood smeared on his hand; a hard look — the fishhook scar at the corner of his mouth pulled taught. The flashlight, my signal to Carl, is beyond reach, illuminating a heap of ripped conveyor belts. The radio — I’ve got to find the radio; it’s there, a dozen feet away. Brotsky kicks my reaching hand. He’s way ahead of me and I’m slowing down.

Telson is slumped against her restraints. She isn’t moving.

“I’ve got to be going now,” Brotsky says. “People to do, things to see.”

There’s something dark in his hand. Somehow, he’s gotten hold of my radio.

“But don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing. I cooked up a little something just for you two lovebirds. C4 of course but also lots of magnesium; some powdered aluminium; a little iron oxide. A thousand fucking degrees — they won’t find anything. It’ll be like sitting on the sun.”

It’s a remote detonator. I try to rise. Brotsky places a boot on my chest, pushes me down.

“You’re done, Cassel. Just lay back and relax.”

Black spots hover — I’m still losing blood; sounds are becoming hollow, like I’m at the bottom of a big tin can. Brotsky leans over Telson, says something I can’t quite catch. I think of her panties hanging on the door, try once more to rise. But I’m far too slow. Brotsky turns, executes a textbook spin kick, catches me in the chin. I go down.

He stands over me, pulls out a knife.

“That’s what I miss,” he says, grinning. “A good fight —”

An explosion — Brotsky jerks, falls forward on top of me. He’s struggling; I’m not sure if it’s to get the knife into me or just to get up. Either way, there’s not much I can do. Then he’s still, the tip of his rifle sticking out over his shoulder, inches from my nose. It dawns on me that someone shot him.

Then, Brotsky rises — Carl pulling him up.

Carl’s face, too close — like a bad video ...

“Hang in there buddy.”

I’m always suspicious of the wrong people, those I should trust —

He’s working on Telson, cutting her loose. I hear her voice — the sound of a newborn; can’t make out what she’s saying. Then she’s at my side, helping Carl lift me. Darkness ... swirling hallucinations ... Abruptly we’re outside and it’s morning, pale light. I’m weak, like a dream where you’re being chased but can’t run. The mill building is pale blue. The old burner has the word “lorax” spray-painted in crude red letters.

Telson’s face is close. She’s beautiful. “Just hang in there, Porter ...”

“Your radio,” says Carl. “Have to call the cops ...”

He stands, holds the radio close to his lips, keys the mike.

“This —”

A bright flash of light, a hard shove. Then darkness.