Day Into Night (15 page)

11

THE NEXT DAY, I’m playing teacher. The Forest Service requires all firefighters to receive a basic level of training and Gary Hanlon, the chief ranger at Curtain River, took advantage of my temporarily being in his employ to have me give a little spiel on basic fire investigation. The course is being held at the Christmas Creek staging camp out in the bush and I’m standing in a plywood shack, in front of a group of natives, all wearing orange coveralls. They look a little like a chain gang on lunch break, seated at picnic tables in the cook shack, their demeanour subdued, their faces intent and worried. I try to break the ice with a few jokes but the faces looking at me are impassive. I tell them a story about a forest ranger who accidentally started a fire after a long and arduous tree planting project by ceremoniously burning his map. The map scorched his fingers and he dropped it — into the dry grass. Attempts to stomp out the fire failed — I demonstrate with energetic stomping — and the bombers had to be called. My audience likes the story and the room thunders with raucous laughter.

“Man, that must’ve been embarrassing,” says a stocky fellow in the front row.

“I can’t believe they didn’t fire you after that,” says another.

“Me?” I say. “That wasn’t me.”

More laughter. In truth, it was Carl, sitting at the back of the class. He’d been smiling before, watching me play professor. Now his smile is a bit forced. The fire he’d accidentally started wiped out the cutblock he’d just planted.

I move on to the subject at hand, give the class a Reader’s Digest version of fire investigation. Their role is limited but critical, and I tell them about using burn and scorch patterns to identify the area of origin — stress the importance of marking the origin, cordoning it off with flagging and protecting it. Post a guard if necessary and don’t drag hose through this area or spray it down. If it’s still smouldering, resist the temptation to put it out and instead extinguish the surrounding area. I don’t have a blackboard at my disposal and so scribble diagrams on sheets of paper taped to the plywood walls. As is typical, there aren’t many questions about the lecture.

Most of the questions are about the recent arsons.

“You guys figure out who’s startin’ all them fires?”

“I hear they’re using some sort of bomb —”

Like everyone else, they read the papers and they’re curious, want the inside track. Even a firefighter isn’t impervious to gossip. I decline all questions, except to say the case is ongoing. I’m starting to sound more and more like Rachet.

A question from the back row. “What if we’re on a fire and we see the guy?”

Twenty-five brown faces look at me expectantly. Native firefighters are a tough, capable group and if I was the culprit, I wouldn’t want to face this crew. Not that our Red Flag suspect would be hanging around anywhere near enough for that to happen. “Just give him a little squirt with the hose,” I say. “That’ll knock him over.”

There’s a pause, then more laughter.

Carl’s voice cuts through the tail end of the laughter; he’s annoyed at my light-hearted suggestion. “You think you’ve found the guy, you just leave him alone. First of all, how are you going to know it’s the right guy? And if it is, he could be armed. You just report it to your crew boss. We’ll leave the rest to the cops.”

“Right,” I say. I should have sidestepped the humour.

My lecture is over and Carl takes his turn, then we troop outside and stand on the bank of Christmas Creek while Carl gives a demonstration on setting up and using a fire pump. He expounds on the virtues of fire foam — water efficiency and the smothering effect — and coats a spruce tree so it looks like the middle of winter. Then it’s time for lunch. Carl and I sit on the back steps of the cook shack, in the shade, sandwiches in hand.

“You had to mention the map,” he says, shaking his head.

“Too good a story to resist. Besides, they don’t know it was you.”

“You shouldn’t do that Porter.”

“Do what?”

“Tell them how their supervisors can screw-up.”

Carl sounds unusually serious. I eat my sandwich, don’t say anything.

“You know just as well as anyone,” he says a moment later, “that a fire is like a military campaign. Safety is achieved through organization and obedience. We can’t suggest in any way that the people giving orders don’t know what they’re doing. Lives are at stake.”

I’ve never heard Carl talk like this, so stern. He’s getting a case of green underwear — a sort of overzealousness at being a forest ranger. Or maybe he’s right and I was being too flip.

For a few awkward minutes we eat our sandwiches, pretend nothing was said. Carl eats twice as many as me, then lights a cigarette, speaks out of the corner of his mouth. “Sorry for coming across like such a prick. I guess I’m just a little sensitive about that fire. It’s still sort of embarrassing. Not that I caused irreversible damage or anything. I mean, fire is a natural process. If we didn’t put the fires out, everything would burn eventually anyway. So it wasn’t really a big deal. Except for the trees we just planted, I guess.”

“Sorry for bringing it up.”

“Forget about it,” he says, waving his cigarette.

I watch him smoke. He looks older today, skin beginning to wrinkle around his eyes, long hair becoming coarse, streaked with the odd grey hair and receding slightly at the temples.

“So how’s your investigation going?” he asks.

I assume he means the Lorax investigation. “When the cops questioned me, they asked about a possible connection between Hess and Nina. That got me wondering, so I went to the mill and got a copy of Hess’s resumé. Turns out, he worked for kcl Logging out of Fort Termination, in the south part of the district.”

“So you know who he worked for. So what?”

“I’m not sure. I went to see Hess’s widow yesterday.”

“Really?” He looks surprised. “Why?”

“To see if there was something she could tell me.”

“What could she possibly tell you?”

“I don’t know. Something that might link Hess with Nina.”

“You think they’re connected?”

“I can’t help wondering if there’s some significance, both of them having been in Fort Termination at the same time. Both becoming victims.”

“It could just be a coincidence, Porter. She tell you anything?”

“No, she was pretty fried. But I have a feeling there’s more to this.”

We watch the crew organize a quick game of volleyball over a sagging net strung between two posts. They’re competitive and the game is noisy with lots of shouting.

“You find out anything more about that guy in camo?” asks Carl.

He’s never been far from my thoughts. “No, not yet.”

“What about the cops? They have any leads?”

“If they did, I’d be the last to know.”

Carl leans to let a firefighter pass between us on the steps, taps ash off his cigarette. “You know Porter, they could both have been accidents. Both of them could easily have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. From what I’ve heard, Hess came to work early.”

An accident — there’s that explanation again, makes it sound so benign.

“Accident or not, it doesn’t much matter,” I say. “They’re both dead.”

Carl nods, takes a long drag on his smoke.

“I’m going to need a few days off,” I tell him.

“What? You just started.”

“I know, but I’m going back to the Fort.”

He looks at me, concerned. “What’s at the Fort?”

“I’m not sure. But for me, that’s where it all started — it’s the origin.”

Carl shakes his head. “I need you here. The whole province is at an extreme hazard and at the first hint of risk we’re going to be manned to the teeth around here. If I let you go, we’ll be shorthanded again.”

“Carl, I’m a fire investigator. I could be gone anytime.”

“But you’re not,” he says. “You’re here and there’s no fire investigation at the moment.”

I’m not sure why he’s being so adamant. “I have to do this.”

“Porter, for Christ-sake, just wait until it rains. You can play detective then.”

Play detective? Carl isn’t the only one short-tempered now. “Look Carl, this isn’t some sort of game I’m playing here. I’m going tomorrow. You can manage a few days without me.”

Carl’s frown deepens. He butts out his smoke, interrupts the volleyball game.

We go back to class.

The next day, I’m on the highway, wheels humming against the pavement, valve tappets chattering and front end clacking — all systems normal. It’s nine in the morning and already the highway ahead is rippling in the heat. I’ve got all the windows open but it’s no cooler inside, just noisier.

On the drive into town from the camp last night, Carl was silent and sulking. This moodiness was a side of him I’d forgotten; in college he’d sometimes go days without talking to anybody. Not wanting to argue, and having no appetite for the silent treatment, I went out, cruised Old Faithful around town, looking for the orange Volkswagen. No luck. I called her cell phone and a tonelessly polite voice told me the customer I was calling was either away from the phone or out of the service area. I bought take out, ate on a carved-up picnic table down by the river.

Carl was gone when I checked into the Mackey Museum of Nostalgia and I considered driving directly north to Fort Termination, but the thought of remaining alert through eight hours of dark made me feel heavy and sleepy. I wanted to flake out and watch tv for a while, but there was no tv. I was tempted to cruise the Internet but Carl had no computer and the office was locked. So I went to bed. The next morning Carl was in the kitchen, making bannock.

“Morning, Porter. Care for some pan-fry?”

We had breakfast together; Carl cheerful and talkative.

“Sorry for being such a hard-ass there yesterday,” he said. “I go to extremes sometimes.”

“No problem. If you can’t hassle your friends, who can you hassle?”

He wished me luck and we parted with a handshake.

The fields around me this morning are brown; trees leafless and waiting. All we need is a wind and we’ll have a big money day — a Red Flag day — and everyone will be working. But I’m optimistic this morning; I’m finally doing something about what happened to Nina and it’s good to be travelling. I may not feel so confident when I get to the Fort but it’s still eight hours away.

I crank up the music so it can compete with the wind. Creedence Clearwater Revival has me thumping the steering wheel, singing along. A few minutes later I turn it down, pull over; the truck is making a new sound. Once the wind tunnel effect is gone, the chiming becomes recognizable — it’s my satellite phone, guaranteed to disturb me anywhere on the face of the earth. I excavate it from beneath a pile of camping gear and dirty coveralls.

“Hello?”

“Porter, is that you?” The voice sounds like it’s coming from a box somewhere in China. “Glad I caught you. It’s Dirk Ensley at the Drayton Ranger Station. We’ve got what looks like another one of those arsons.”

I know Dirk, worked fires with him, tell him I’ll be there in an hour.

“Where are you?”

I tell him and he says they’ve got a machine closer. They’ll pick me up.

A few minutes later hear the throb of an approaching aircraft, like something out of a Vietnam war movie. A yellow helicopter lands in a field next to the highway. It’s a Bell 212, a big chunk of metal used by the hac crews — elite rappel teams who drop by rope into a fire; fondly referred to as the dope-on-a-rope crews. Several cars and a motorhome pull over on the shoulder of the highway as a firefighter in dirty coveralls climbs out of the helicopter, crouches as he comes my way. They’re waiting for me at the fire; he’ll drive my truck to the ranger station. People get out of their vehicles and gawk. Baseball caps and Stetsons go sailing off to never-never land, caught by rotorwash. Tourists chase hats down the highway. It’s amusing to watch as we lift off.

I fumble on a headset, adjust the mike. “How big’s the fire?”

We’re gaining altitude as we turn and the pilot points to a column of grey smoke about 20 miles away. The colour of smoke from a fire tells me a lot. Thick white smoke is the best, as it indicates the fire is consuming damp fuel, pumping up a lot of moisture. Straw-coloured smoke indicates intense heat and extreme fire behaviour. Black smoke means the fire is burning so aggressively it can’t get enough air; grey smoke is sometimes the prelude.

“What’ve you got on it?” I shout into the headset.

“Just the hac crew,” says the pilot. “And a dozer that was nearby.”

The Bell 212 is a helicopter capable of lifting a truck. You need a big, stable base like this to safely drop men down by rope. The cockpit is filled with panels of switches and gauges, like something you’d see in a commercial jet liner. Unlike a jet liner, everything vibrates; my vital organs quiver in synchrony with the rotor blades. Good thing I’m strapped into my seat with a four-point harness, the webbing heavy enough to hold a draft horse. The pilot wears a flight suit and full helmet with sun visor; the effect is distinctly military.

“You do any bucketing?”

“Yeah, about a half-hour,” he says. “There’s a beaver dam close by.”

I study the approaching smoke. No visible flame. Maybe I’ll get lucky and the origin will be properly protected. Nearly over the fire, we begin to circle, the pilot banking hard so I have a good view. The fire is small, ten acres, and enclosed by a wide dozer-guard of bare earth.

“You seen enough?”

“Let’s go for a few more circuits, a little higher up.”

The helicopter quickly climbs another thousand feet. With two turbine engines, power is not an issue. Below, as the fire becomes smaller, I have a feeling there’s something different about this one. The other Red Flag fires were much larger, started in areas of continuous, highly flammable conifer forest. This fire was started in a dense black spruce stand. The trees are short, with branches right to the ground — perfect fodder for an instant crown fire — but the black spruce stand is only a pocket in a low boggy area, surrounded by mixed aspen and white spruce. Without significant wind, this fire has only limited potential. The crown fire that developed dropped to the ground where the forest cover changed, creating what looks from this altitude like a ragged hole in the canopy.

Compared to the other arsons, this fire looks less planned, more opportunistic. There’s a public road close to the edge of the fire where the arsonist likely parked before walking into the forest. The time of day seems odd; the other fires were started in the midto-late afternoon, when the forest was at its driest. This fire was probably started early in the day, when moisture levels are higher, forest fuel less flammable. Or the ignition device was set yesterday and burned very slowly. Either way, it wasn’t much of a fire and this could be a bonus; more evidence may have survived.

I use the radio in the helicopter to call the Drayton ranger station, talk to Dirk Ensley, ask if the rest of the Wildfire Investigation Team is on its way. The response is affirmative.

I signal the pilot — time to take a walk in the ash.

The 212 drops like a stone, shuddering, the dash vibrating, then hovers momentarily above the road before settling solidly on gravel. I unbuckle myself, step out and close the door, crouch until I clear the main rotor. A firefighter in charcoal-smeared yellow coveralls is waiting in the trees, his eyes averted from the rotor blast.

The 212 lifts off, thumps away. Brief introductions follow.

“How you doing?” says the firefighter. “Maurice Kochansky.”

“Porter Cassel.”

Kochansky is the leader of the hac crew. He’s short, slim and young — a university student probably — and like a medic at the scene of an accident he gives me a brief chronology of events thus far. Staged at the Drayton camp; called to the fire at 0846 hours; size at assessment one hectare; fire behaviour moderate; rappelled in and started to bucket; dispatch advised Cat was available six miles away. They had a suspicion the fire might be man-caused and searched for the origin. They found and flagged it. I’m impressed, confirm the origin was not disturbed.

“Well, not much,” says Kochansky. “A few footprints.”

He leads me into the fire, past black, swizzle stick trees. Already there’s a trail here, mashed in by the firefighters. Kochansky walks quickly and I wince as tendrils of pain creep up from my ankle. Three hundred feet from the road we swing off the trail, follow a double set of ashy bootprints. Ahead, I see bright orange ribbon, stark against the black.

“Here it is,” says Kochansky.

The origin is surrounded by a denser concentration of slender blackened poles. The hac boys made sure the site was well marked — ribbon is hung like parade streamers in a large loop in the remains of the trees. Bootprints lead to a dark square that must be the cake pan.

“These your prints?”

Kochansky confirms. I tell him to wait, follow his prints to the origin, look around a little. The arsonist picked the thickest area to assure a rapid crown fire. And it looks like the same sort of device — it’s the same type of pan all right, this time filled with less ash. I’m in no rush to upset anything so I retreat.

“What now?” asks Kochansky.

“Now you stay here, outside the ribbon. Guard this area with your life.”

Kochansky nods; he’s with the program.

“Have you got a pen and paper?”

He pats a chest pocket in his coveralls.

“Good. I want you to write down everything that happened from the moment you got the call to when you met me. What the smoke looked like en route. Any vehicles you noticed. The names of all your men. The name of the Cat skinner. When you discovered the origin. Who discovered the origin. No detail is too small. In a little while, this place is going to be crawling with cops and they’ll want this information, so you’d better get it down while it’s fresh and people aren’t in your face. Any questions?”

“No sir,” says Kochansky. “But I think I’m going to need more paper.”

No problem, I tell him, and head back to the road where I take a pad of paper and a clipboard from my pack, swallow a few painkillers. Overhead, the helicopter is bucketing again, trailing droplets of water that splatter around me. The flame is mostly out, but he’s running up the meter. I call him, tell him to stay away from the origin, not to dribble on it. His reply is curt, one syllable. I walk into the fire again, imagine Red Flag pushing his way through dense spruce. Why here? Why stop and light this fire? I give the clipboard to Kochansky. When I arrive at the road again, there’s a white minivan pulled over, a Mountie closing the door.

“Hello.” I offer a hand, introduce myself.

“Corporal Dipple,” he says. “Ident, ‘K’ Division.”

Dipple is a few years older than me, shorter and stockier. His black hair is cut very short; he has a small balding area on top like someone set the mower blades too low. He’s a bit pale in contrast to his dark hair and is frowning as he watches the helicopter fly over, its bucket swinging wide on a long line. His gaze travels toward the Cat, a big d-8 sitting on the shoulder of the road, its blade a curved wall of metal.

“So, what’ve we got here?” he asks.

I briefly explain who I am, name the rest of the team and task force, give him some history on the other Red Flag fires and what I know on this one so far. Dipple flips open a small note pad, writes this all down. He says nothing until I’m finished, then gestures with his pen toward the blackened area of the fire. “Is the origin identified and protected?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a guy watching it.”

“Good. How much contamination?”

“A little,” I admit. “But better than the other fires.”

Dipple’s brow furrows. Contamination is a dirty word. He watches the helicopter pass overhead again. “Does he have to do that right now?”

I reach for my belt radio. “Probably not, but let me call the fire boss.”

Kochansky hesitates before answering, nervous about making a call with the police on site, but it’s good to keep people in the loop, let them be part of the operation. The pilot cuts in, offers that he needs to stop for fuel soon anyway. Kochansky agrees it would be a good idea to shut down for a while.

Dipple has moved down the road. “Do you know which vehicle made these tracks?”

He’s standing near the shoulder of the road next to a distinct pair of tire marks I hadn’t noticed. I look around. The minivan is the only vehicle and I shake my head, tell him the firefighters arrived by helicopter; the Cat walked down the road from an operation a few miles away.

He nods, goes to his van.

My crime scene kit is in my backpack. Dipple’s fills his van. He pulls out a metal case, takes out a camera and levelling tripod, makes a note of the time and weather conditions, measures the distance to the marks on the road, sets up a digital camera.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You can search the rest of the road.”

I take a quick walk, find nothing else of note, return to find Dipple measuring the distance between the tire tracks, the width of the disturbed area. The tracks are little more than scruff marks on the dry road surface, no tread visible, and I wonder aloud how they might be of use.

“Vehicle types have unique track widths,” he says, making a note in his flip pad.He points toward the tire marks.“You can tell he was headed south. By the slight slew in the tracks I’d presume it was a two-wheel drive powered through the rear axle. I’ll feed this info into a database, come up with a list of suspect vehicle types.”

I make a mental note to look more carefully for tire marks. “What’s next?”

“Show me the origin.”

We trudge into the fire, Dipple looking around. “There’s a lot of tracks here.”

“The firefighters were dropped at the road and carried in their gear.”

Dipple stops walking, scratches his head. “This isn’t good.”

“It’s hard to protect everything on a fire.”

“This is going to waste a lot of time,” he says. “There’ll be hours of casting.”

“These guys didn’t know it was an arson when they walked in.”

“Given the history, they should have considered it.”

It seems a moot point now. I shrug and we walk the rest of the way to the origin. Kochansky stiffens, stands straight when he sees us, looking like a good soldier. I introduce him as the hac leader. He grins, shakes Dipple’s hand.

“You found the origin?” says Dipple.

“Yes sir. I cordoned it off right away.”

“What about those two sets of bootprints?”says Dipple. “Those both yours?”