Up in Smoke (29 page)

CHAPTER
48

“We should be okay right here,” Natasha told him.

The clock on the dashboard said
7
:
27
. They were right on time. She put the car in park and set the emergency brake. There were no other cars in the lot.

“Hell's bells, woman,” said Hamish from the passenger seat. “We can't stay here. It's far too close. They'll see us.”

She pointed to the smoke shop and convenience store beside them, Evergreen Variety. “Sign says they open at ten on Sundays. No one will bother us.”

“You said we would be parking at a discreet distance. These guys have got
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s. I've seen them. We have to get out of here.”

“This isn't a Rollies Factory, Hamish. Dennis Badger makes a show of running this as a legitimate operation. It's even government licensed. His guys don't go around waving automatic rifles.”

Hamish looked like a scared rabbit scanning the forest for foxes. He pointed to the bush encroaching on two sides. “But it's dark and we're in the middle of nowhere. If somebody doesn't like the look of us —”

“It's not actually dark, just dim. Look at the sky. The sun will be up in twenty minutes. We can see perfectly well. And we're right beside a convenience store, for heaven's sake. People come and go from here all the time.”

She had to admit, it was a bit creepy out here, no one else around, three kilometres north of Grand Basin's village centre. If Colleen hadn't told her exactly where to come, she'd have never twigged that what she was looking at across the road was a cigarette factory. It looked like a secret government installation stashed in the middle of a forest, not Dennis Badger's Hat-Trick operation. His security was impressive. Ten metres of open gravel ringed the space around the five low-rise, windowless buildings. Then came the perimeter fence, three metres of barbed wire topped by razor wire. The gate looked particularly secure, and wide enough to admit transport trucks. Six tractor trailers were parked inside waiting to be loaded with Kings, Menthols, Filter-tips, and Plains. The entire length of what was obviously the main building was ablaze with security floodlights. Nobody could ever get near the place without permission.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. There they were. Two of them. Inside the compound. Dressed in black, throwing something — tools? — into the back of a van. She watched as they jumped into the front seats and drove toward the gate. She held her breath while the driver turned and waved at the man standing guard by the building's front door. One — two — three — four — the gate opened. They drove through. She couldn't let herself breathe until she'd seen the writing on the side panel.

The van headed north, and she caught it:
UPPER CANADA SECURITY
. She let her air out and sucked it back in again, then turned to Hamish and allowed herself to smile. Matt and the priest had done it. They'd completed set-up number three of three.

“Now what?” Hamish said.

“We wait. Until seven-forty-five. Ten minutes before sunrise. Matt's in contact with the trucks. If they're in place by then, the priest will do the honours with his remote control.”

“I haven't the faintest idea how Zol roped three sets of firefighters into cooperating with arson, of all things.”

“It's not arson. It's fireworks. The burning schoolhouse. Nothing is going to get burnt. It's just going to look that way.”

“It's still flames and smoke.”

“That's the idea.”

“I don't like it.”

Then why had he insisted she pick him up at his condo and bring him with her? It took her twenty minutes out of her way, which at five o'clock in the morning was no small inconvenience.

“Dr. Zol brainstormed the ethics with me on Friday,” she told him, “and I think they're sound.”

It wouldn't be anyone's fault if a demonstration of fireworks was misinterpreted as a real fire. And it was perfectly natural for a member of the Grand Basin volunteer brigade — Matt Holt, for instance — to find the brigade overwhelmed by three major fires and solicit the assistance of firefighting colleagues in Brant, Oxford, and Norfolk Counties. In fact, the fires would look so serious that every measure would have to be taken to put them out before the flames spread to the adjacent woodlands. It was obvious that any uncontrolled forest fires on Grand Basin Reserve would put many homes and lives at risk. As they liked to say in health units around the world: it was better to be safe than sorry.

“But the inciting incident is a hoax,” Hamish insisted.

“That part we keep to ourselves. Dennis Badger has been given plenty of time to cooperate. And now it's time to fight fire with —”

A high-pitched alarm pierced the quiet of the morning. It was coming from across the road.

“Here we go,” Hamish said. “Look, the rear corner of the building. It's on fire.”

“Ahead of schedule. Everything must be in place.”

“No, Natasha, it's real. And so is the fire alarm. The place really is on fire.”

The guard ran out through the front door, looked at the smoke billowing from his right, ran back inside, then moments later returned with a small fire extinguisher. By then, the entire side of the building parallel to the road appeared to be on fire, and the flames were clearly too much for one man to handle. He dropped the extinguisher, pulled a phone from his pocket, and punched at it.
911
?

Thirty seconds later, she could feel the rumble. It was coming from the north and accompanied by the wail of sirens and that weird, annoying buzzer-honker sound that fire trucks make.

“Ah,” she said. “And here come the right men for the job.”

Four fire trucks —
BRANTFORD FIRE
in huge letters along the sides — careened up the road and came to a roaring stop at the gate. They must have
GPS
.

By now, the entire front of the building was engulfed in smoke, and flames were starting to lick at the far side. The guard, clearly panicked, ran to the gate and shook it. He was shouting and miming to the driver of the first truck in the line. What was he saying? He kept looking back at all that smoke in front of the building and shaking his head.

“Oh my God,” Natasha said. “The trucks won't be able to get in. The guard can't open the gate.”

“Why not?”

“Because the switch is inside. The electric switch. The stupid switch. Nobody thought about it. If they don't get in there soon, the fireworks will be used up.” And the so-called fire would go out.

It was going to look so pathetic. And Dennis Badger would be laughing all the way to the Supreme Court, his operation intact. She could see it now, she and Dr. Zol banished to North Overshoe.

“What do you mean fireworks?” Hamish said. “This is a real fire. Look at the roof.”

Flames were shooting through the roof. Was the place actually on fire? And if so, was that a good thing or a disaster?

One of the firefighters jumped from the second truck in line and fiddled with a metal box attached to the side. One of his mates ran to join him and they pulled a heavy-duty tool and some sort of pump or power supply from the box, then ran with the gear to the gate.

“Hey, cool,” Hamish said. “That must be the Jaws of Life. They'll cut that sucker open pretty quick.”

And they did. Within a minute, they had the gate open. The trucks roared through it.

In no time, four men were up their ladders, hacking at the roof with mean-looking axes.

And then they started the water treatment. First, they blew the front door off its hinges. Then they blasted the corners off the eaves and exposed the attic. Then they aimed Niagara Falls through the holes they'd hacked in the roof. Once the smoke had cleared from the front door, they aimed the water cannon straight inside and gave the place a thorough soaking. When one pumper-tanker had delivered its load, the next one took its place. Four tankers held an awful lot of water.

After half an hour, maybe it was less, they halted their assault. Two men jostled the guard to keep him from foolishly entering the dangerous building while six of the them rushed inside carrying axes and other fierce-looking tools. Goodness knows what damage they were going to inflict on the machinery, the bales of tobacco, the rolls of cigarette paper, and the crates of filter tips in the interest of quenching every last ember. They would have to assure themselves there was nothing left that could spread to the adjacent bushland. Preventing a forest fire was their prime concern; no family should lose their home.

Her phone rang in her purse. Hamish made a face and handed her the bag.

“Matt here. How's it going?”

“Hamish thinks it was a real fire, but I'm not sure.”

“Dylan the Priest will be pleased his simulation was that convincing. There a lot of damage?”

“Oh yeah. What a shame, eh?”

“Any trouble?”

“Just with the gate.” She told him about the Jaws of Life.

“Same here. But these guys from Woodstock know what they're doing. A bit rough with the water, though. The roof's gone, and so are two of the walls.”

“Our place is pretty sturdy. Still standing.”

“But give it to me straight,” said Matt, his voice up an octave. “Is it out of commission?”

“For a very long time.” She glanced at Hamish. His eyes were glued to the mess across the street. She thought of his carwash addiction. He hated mud, but loved the sight of water streaming out in jets. “Any trouble with guns?” she asked Matt.

“Nah,” he said. “The guard looked so scared he forgot he was packing.”

“And the other Rollies factory?”

“About to call them now. But I don't think anything could stop those Simcoe lads from doing a thoroughly professional job when called upon.”

She pictured Norfolk County Fire and Rescue on the scene. Even an
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would be no match for a crew of revengeful Norfolk firefighters with a water cannon.

CHAPTER
49

Zol had sat long enough biting his nails in the Tim's on Argyle Street. He couldn't wait here in Caledonia any longer nursing double-double decafs. By now, the fires would have been out for almost an hour. He was aching to see the damage for himself, but he had to have a legitimate reason for showing up at the Badger's ruined Hat-Trick factory. Without a good excuse for his presence there, it would be obvious he'd been in on the plan. As it was, Dennis may have already guessed that Zollie Szabo, that nerdy kid from Simcoe Composite, had masterminded it. The Badger and the other tobacco pirates would be beside themselves with anger, knowing they'd been victimized twice — first by arson and second by overzealous firefighting. They'd need to be handled with extreme caution.

He called Norfolk's fire chief, Grant Dyment, on his cell.

“How are things, Chief?”

“My team put out the fire, but in the process demolished that Rollies factory with three tanks of water. We have one tank to spare, which we're driving over to Mr. Badger's main operation in case there are some smouldering embers that might need further attention. I hear there won't be any Hat-Tricks coming out of that place for a long time. Maybe never.”

“Is there a lot of run-off?”

“You mean, have our professional efforts created a big watery mess that is escaping the confines of the properties involved?”

“And do you suppose that watery mess might be full of contaminants?”

“I don't know, Doc. It's just tobacco. Some of us have been filling our lungs with those same contaminants for years.”

“But theoretically speaking, could there be a fair bit of — let's say nasty waste water making its way into local streams and rivers? I'm thinking of our beautiful Grand barely a few kilometres north.”

The chief paused for a moment, then admitted, “Now that you mention it, Dr. Szabo, it could be bad for the fish. And for the people who eat them. And disastrous for the local drinking water.” He'd adopted the puffed-up tone of a politician making a stump speech. “Think of the wells on the reserve and the treatment plants all the way downstream to Lake Erie.”

“Sounds like a host of public-health issues to me, Chief Dyment.”

“Consider yourself officially involved,” said the chief, stifling a chuckle. “I smell a drinking-water emergency that needs your immediate attention before it gets out of control.”

“Thanks for the heads up. As it happens, I've been doing business this morning in Caledonia, which puts me in the vicinity. I can be there in a few minutes, make my assessment, and notify the appropriate government partner agencies immediately.”

The Spills Action Centre at the Ontario Ministry of the Environment would be delighted to get a Sunday-morning call from a concerned
MOH
from Norfolk County. They had a twenty-four-hour Spills R Us hotline.

Next, he called Natasha.

“Dr. Zol! You missed all the excitement.”

“I gather. Where are you? Tell me you haven't entered Dennis Badger's compound.”

“Of course not. We're following your orders and staying out of trouble. Hamish and I are still in my car, across the street from the action. It's like being at a drive-in movie.”

He was almost scared to ask: “And Al Mesic?”

“At home in bed.”

“Hamish didn't tell him where —”

“He told Al he had to go to the hospital. A patient was crashing in the
ICU
.”

“Good thinking. We can't let Al . . . well, you know. Look, you two sit tight. I'm coming in.”

About twenty minutes later, he slid into the back seat of Natasha's little Honda. Sweat matted the curls at Natasha's neck; Hamish's cheeks were ashen.

“Have you seen Matt and Father Stoyan?” he asked them.

“Not since seven-thirty,” Natasha said. “We saw them leaving after setting up.”

“If Matt doesn't stay away from this mess, he won't be able to show his face on the rez for a long time, maybe never.” It was essential that no one tied Matt to today's events. Not even with the cleanup.

Hamish rubbed his eyes. “Another priest? Who's Father Stoyan? We only know about Dylan.”

“Same guy,” Zol said. “Stoyan guides the flock, Dylan sets the fireworks.”

Hamish thought about that for a moment, then said, “Well, I suppose one way or another he has his eyes on the heavens.”

“How many fire trucks responded to the alarm here?” Zol asked.

“Four,” Natasha said. “All from Brantford. Three of them did what they had to do and returned to base.” She gestured across the road. “The fourth is still here. The other one you see is from Norfolk. It came later and hasn't had to do anything. Maybe it's for backup. I recognized Chief Dyment from our meeting on Thursday.”

“He still here?” Zol asked.

“There he his,” Natasha said, “by the side of the building, holding a garbage bag.”

Hamish made a face. “What are they doing? They can't hope to clean up all that mud by shovelling it into garbage bags.”

“I think they're collecting evidence for the fire marshall,” Natasha told Hamish, then turned and winked at Zol. “You know, to determine whether arson was involved.”

Zol winked back at her. “I'm sure they'd like us to hold it for safekeeping.” He opened his door. “I guess I'd better go and perform my assessment. And face Dennis Badger when he gets here.”

Natasha looked disappointed. Hamish looked relieved. There was too much mud over there for his liking.

Zol walked across the road, then picked his way around the worst of the puddles. The stench of mud mixed with smoke got stronger with every step, and before he knew it Mumford & Sons were treating him to an energetic chorus of “Little Lion Man.” It was a terrific tune from one of his favourite folk-rock bands, but their lyrics predicted pure doom. God, he hoped they were wrong about how his inevitable face-off with the Badger was going to turn out.

He had almost made it to the front door of what used to be the main part of the factory when an authoritative voice boomed from behind him. “That's far enough, sir. The building's unstable. Could collapse at any time.”

Zol turned and introduced himself to the stocky, ruddy-faced man behind him. He was an impressive figure, dressed in full firefighting gear — hip waders, heavy pants secured with suspenders, bulky yellow coat stained with mud and soot, and the classic firefighter's helmet.

“Glad to have you aboard, Doc,” said the firefighter, removing his glove. “I'm Grant Dyment. We spoke on the phone.”

They shook hands and took the measure of each other. It seemed they both admired what they saw. Zol pointed to the half-dozen garbage bags lying next to one of the fire trucks. “I see your men have done most of the environmental sampling already, Chief. Terrific. Makes our job a lot easier.”

“Be my guest. I'm turning them over to you. The fire marshall's staff will want to gather their own samples. They're fussy about that.” He touched his nose and threw Zol a knowing look. “But I'm sure they won't find anything out of the ordinary here.” He shrugged. “An industrial fire like this? Probably an electrical short in a neglected piece of machinery.”

There was a splash as an
SUV
hit the puddles by the gate. It was a Porsche Cayenne, the colour of cinnamon. An interesting mix of culinary metaphors. Zol could see the Badger riding shotgun. He was wearing his deerskin jacket.

Dennis couldn't have spent last night on the rez. If he had, he'd have stormed onto this scene long before this. His fortified mansion was only two side roads over. No, he'd come from somewhere a good deal farther away. Perhaps the brand new Four Seasons in Toronto.

As the Porsche inched through the open gate and into the flooded compound, Zol could see four men inside: Dennis, the driver, a henchman behind him, and Chief Bob Falcon.

The Badger had his door open before the driver pulled to a stop. For a big man, he moved quickly, though the mud was doing its best to destroy his Gucci loafers. He threw up his arms. “Holy shit,” he shouted to no one in particular. He turned to Chief Falcon, who was struggling to keep up with him as they marched toward Zol and the fire chief.

“Look what they've done,” Dennis shouted to the Native chief. “They've fucking killed my operation. Some bastard is going to pay for this.”

Any semblance of traditional Native diffidence, learned or hardwired, had vanished from the Badger's face. He was charging like a bull bison stung by a thousand wasps and out for blood — crimson cheeks, bulging blue eyes, and foam on the mouth.

“Who's in charge here?” he demanded. “And it better not be you, Szabo.”

Zol felt the weight of the Badger's fist pressed against his chest, but he stood his ground.

The fire chief took a step forward. “That would be me, chief of Norfolk Fire and Emergency. Grant Dyment.”

“I don't give a shit what your name is, but I do want my factory fixed. At your expense.”

Zol exchanged looks with the fire chief.

“That's not the way it works, sir,” said the chief. “We put the fires out. Any restitution is up to you and your insurance company.”

“This is goddamn arson. Has to be. Three Native cigarette factories on fire at the same time? You don't have to be a friggin' genius to see arson when it's staring you in the face.”

“You own all three factories, do you, sir?”

For a second or two, the Badger lost his momentum. His eyes flashed up and to his right before he answered. “No. Just this one.”

“I've made a preliminary inspection of the other two sites,” Grant Dyment told him. “No owner or manager has shown any interest in the damaged properties. No one has come to have a look. No one's come to claim anything that might be salvageable. That got me thinking — maybe the owner lives out of town. Or is ashamed to show his face on account of some funny business going on inside.”

“Don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

The fire chief took his time eyeing his boots and scraping them against the gravel. “Let me think . . . the processing of cannabis maybe?”

“Don't be absurd. We just process tobacco, and have been for two thousand years.”

The Badger loved pulling that race card. Trouble was, his God-given, unrestricted right to sell tobacco was looking pretty soggy at the moment. He frowned and looked away. Clearly, he was as surprised as anyone that the Asians hadn't shown up to inspect the ruins of their investment.

Dennis straightened his shoulders and set himself back on the offensive. He glared at Zol. “What are you doing here anyways, Szabo? Joined the fire department, or just come to gloat?”

“I called Dr. Szabo in,” said the fire chief. “To assess the situation from a public-health standpoint. All this water, full of factory pollutants, could poison the wells on your reserve.”

“And whose fault is that?” The Badger turned to the Native chief, standing granite-faced beside him. It was impossible to tell what Bob Falcon was thinking. He hadn't moved a muscle during the Badger's entire tirade. “Come on, Bob,” the Badger said, taking a step toward the factory. “Better see what's left of the operation that funded all those good things I brought to your reserve.”

Grant Dyment held the Badger by the arm. “You can't go in there, sir. It's not safe.” The fire chief's tone was fatherly and respectful.

“Take your hand off me,” the Badger said, trying in vain to evade the fire chief's grasp.

Dyment stood firm. His arm didn't budge. He must have been in this situation many times before and prevented countless people from dashing into burning buildings to retrieve their belongings.

The Badger's eyes filled with hate. “I said, take your hand off me. This is sovereign First Nations territory.” He looked at the Native chief, “Tell them, Bob. Tell them to get the hell out of here, to get off our land. They have no business here.”

Five of them — Zol, the fire chief, the Badger's two silent bodyguards, and the Badger himself — fixed their gaze on Chief Falcon, waiting for the man who said little to give the final word.

Falcon's face remained impassive, his thoughts hidden. If he was facing inner conflict and turmoil, he wasn't showing it. But he couldn't be missing the fact that the bodyguards had their hands hovering beside their holsters.

Finally, Chief Falcon looked at the Badger and said, “These men came to help us, Dennis. Of course they got business being here.” He gestured toward the soggy factory. “And if that place is gonna fall down, I'm not gonna be inside it when it does.”

Dyment released the Badger's arm, and Zol felt the tension drop a notch or two. Seconds later, everyone turned toward the thud-thud of two doors slamming. A couple dressed in business attire began walking toward them from a blue-grey Chevy Malibu. The pair looked like a middle-aged woman and her twenty-something son in need of directions to the local Baptist church.

From five paces away, the woman called out, “Dennis Joseph Badger?”

“Who's asking?” Dennis said.

“Sergeant Bergman,” said the woman once the pair had reached the group. She gestured to the young man beside her. “And this is Constable Holloway. We're with the Ontario Provincial Police.”

“Good,” Dennis said. He pointed at Zol. “Arrest this man for arson. Look what he did to my factory. And put three hundred of my people out of work.”

“Mr. Badger,” said the woman, “I don't do windows and I don't do arson.” She paused, flashed her badge, and let everyone feel the weight of her words. “But I do investigate homicides. In fact, I've been looking for you for more than a year.”

She pulled a pair of handcuffs out of nowhere, and while the athletic-looking constable stood with his handgun poised for immediate action, she yanked the Badger's arms behind his back and slapped on the cuffs.