Day Into Night (22 page)

That look again, of concern over my impatience. “Well ... Why don’t you guys grab another coffee while I run to my office, look up the CBDC on my computer.”

There’s a movement toward the counter; the doughnuts are getting scarce. I intercept Kirby, ask if he minds company. He shrugs, leads me through more tiled hallways. Despite the quiet, my pulse is racing. In his office, I take a chair opposite his desk.

He pecks at his keyboard. “You seem pretty eager.”

“I don’t want any more big fires.”

A few minutes of silence as Kirby navigates cyberspace. His office is small, cramped by desk, chairs and filing cabinets. Pictures of his kids hang on the wall next to wanted posters. I’m sitting across from him and can’t see the face of the monitor.

“What have we got here?” he says, frowning. “Nope, the Lorax used dynamite, not a pipe bomb. Of course, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a connection.” He taps a few more keys. “Let’s see what we’ve got on pirs, the old Police Information Retrieval System. They’ve got everything there.”

Kirby hums an ambiguous tune deep in his throat. I stare at the back of the monitor as though the information might somehow seep out. The humming stops and he shifts in his chair. “Hmm, that’s interesting.” He leans forward, a concerned look on his face.

“What? What is it?”

“You,” he says. “They’ve got you on observation.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that any member who comes in contact with you is supposed to file the particulars here. What you were doing. Who you were with. Where you were going. It’s the sort of thing they usually tag a suspect with.” He peers past his computer. “Anything you want to tell me?”

I think of Rachet’s interrogation, get a sick feeling in my gut. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ll clear my schedule.”

I explain; he’s not satisfied with the Reader’s Digest version. He sits back, hands knitted together over his belly, his face neutral. My face feels a little warm. After I’m done, he chews his lip for a minute or two. “I thought you looked familiar.”

“So now what?”

“For you, nothing. I’ve got to talk to the other task force before we discuss this Lorax theory any further. Until then, it’s business as usual. You keep doing your job, protect that point of origin.”

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I swear under my breath. Foiled again, thanks to Rachet.

16

I STEW FOR A WHILE on the way south. The initial rush brought on by my revelation the Lorax might be lighting the fires has worn off and now I’m not so sure. Maybe I want to catch the Lorax so bad I’m seeing him everywhere and I poke at the theory, worry it like a dog with a toy, see if it holds together. I have a thinking problem — I’m overly analytical and will analyze an interesting thought to death, suck out all the juice until it’s lost its flavour. This latest theory is no different and after an hour of rolling possibilities in my mind like clothes in a dryer, I decide to give it a rest. I use the satellite phone to call Telson’s cell phone. She picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hello,” I say, changing my voice. “It’s your secret admirer.”

A pause. “Who is this?”

“General Chong. Calling from Taiwan.”

“General Chong, huh? You sound more like a skinny guy with a black eye.”

“Close enough.” I drop the cheesy accent. “You want to go out

tonight?” “To Taiwan?” “Sure,” I say. “Weather’s here, wish you were beautiful.” A really long pause. I’ve pushed it too far, trying to be funny.

“You were a real jackass Saturday night, Porter.”

The Neanderthal had more coming than I could offer, but I try to sound remorseful.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t the real me. Give me another chance.”

“Well ...”

“We’ll go to this spot I know by the river, roast spareribs over the open fire, watch the stars come out, have a deep meaningful conversation.”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“So we’ll roast tofu.”

Another pause, like a taped delay at a ball game. “I don’t know —”

“Garlic toast? Asparagus? Brussels sprouts?”

“Well ... I am a sucker for good garlic toast.”

She’s in. I agree to pick her up around seven at an rv park at the edge of town. I’m curious to see this mobile abode of hers, learn more about her. She’s a bit of an enigma: this girl travelling around by herself, taking an interest in me. I pull into Curtain River in a better mood than when I left. It’s 6:30 — just enough time to run to the grocery store for garlic toast, take a quick shower. Carl is flopped on his couch, reading an old hunting magazine.

“How’d your meeting go?”

“No time,” I say. “Tofu now. Talk later.”

I hum a tune in the shower, drag a razor over my stubble, slap on a bit of whatever cologne I can find, try with limited success to wash it off because it smells so terrible, then dress and run for the door.

Carl sits on the couch, puzzled. “Did you say tofu?”

I’m fumbling with the cuff buttons on my shirt. “Telson’s a veggie girl.”

“Oh, I see.” He grins. “Give her my best.”

“No — I’ll give her my best. See you later.”

Old Faithful lives up to her name and I wheel into the iga parking lot with five minutes to spare. An old man with a walker takes his time crossing in front of me and I impatiently strum my fingers on the steering wheel. I’m not normally this anal about being on time but after Saturday night at The Corral I don’t want to push my luck with Telson. I plan to be in and out of the iga quickly, pick her up, drive into the sunset ...

One of the vehicles in the parking lot catches my attention — an old multi-colored Chevy Apache parked in front of the laundromat. It’s the Frankenstein truck, the one which followed me on my bike ride, the truck driven by the guy who used to blow beaver dams for Pete Ryerson. I look for the driver but the vehicle is uninhabited.

I’ll wait, just a few minutes.

Five minutes pass, then ten. I sit in Old Faithful and fidget, glance at my watch like a kid in math class. I’m going to be late. Finally, I get out of my truck and stroll past the laundromat. Inside, two old ladies are playing crib. I veer toward the Chevy, make a wide circle, jot the licence plate number in my little notebook. Glance at my watch again and look around, trying to decide what to do. The driver might not be back for hours.

I casually saunter over to the Chevy.

It looks like a garage workbench in there, greasy parts scattered over the seat, bearings stacked like stale doughnuts on the rod of the gearshift. An oil pressure gauge is propped on an open ashtray, dripping onto the floorboards. The dash is cluttered with chain-saw files and wrenches, empty cigarette packs. A cluster of faded air freshners dangle from the rearview mirror; big-breasted ladies in coy positions. The passenger door isn’t locked but is hard to open, gives an alarming metallic squeal — a backcountry burglar alarm.

The interior smells of dirty oil and rat shit, like an abandoned blacksmith shop.

Still no one in the parking lot. I move quickly now. The glove compartment holds more old bearings and burned-out fuses but no registration or insurance. At the bottom is what could be a used condom and I back out quickly, close the door and return to my truck, ponder what to do. I’m already late but if I go into the store, I might miss the driver. I agonize for another few minutes and am ready to throw in the towel on my impromptu surveillance when the driver of the Chevy appears.

It’s the Neanderthal — the same curly, steel wool hair, heavy stubble and dark, brooding face from the bar. Like me, he moves like he’s a bit stiff today. Unlike me, he doesn’t appear to be wearing Crayola mascara. He sets bags of groceries in the back of the truck, shoves his shopping cart roughly out of the way, climbs into the cab and fires up his beast. The truck coughs, gives a staccato roar, pistons misfiring, tappets out of alignment — nothing a good stomp on the accelerator won’t fix. He backs out of his parking spot, chugs across the lot and roars into traffic.

I ease Old Faithful onto the highway and follow.

We head west and I hang back a good distance. Traffic is light and, like the Neanderthal, I’m driving a fairly conspicuous vehicle. Ten minutes into the drive he turns onto a gravel road and I’m hidden in his dust cloud. I emerge suddenly to find the road ahead empty; he’s turned and I take a hard left, sliding part way in the ditch, crawl out in four-wheel-drive.

This road is narrower, less frequently maintained, forested on both sides. Ahead, I see his dust trail drift into the trees. The road dips, passes through an area of dense lowland spruce, rises and turns sharply to the left. I slow to make the steep turn and see a rusted mailbox at a road approach, a driveway partially hidden by trees. Beyond this the road turns again but with dust lingering it’s difficult to determine if the Chevy turned into the driveway or kept going. I gear down, creep slowly toward the driveway to take a look as I roll past. Too late I realize the old Chevy is parked in shadow on the driveway, the driver looking back. I swear, gun the engine and spray gravel as I pass. But as I race away, I’m pretty sure he knows I followed him.

By the time I return to town daylight is failing. I rush to the iga; they’re just closing but let me in when I dance in front of the door like I have to go to the washroom. The girl at the till is coldly polite; she too has things to do tonight. I should have asked her where the rv park is because it takes some time to find it, longer to locate Telson’s motorhome amid crescents winding through spruce trees. Her box on wheels is an older model, more suited to parking than driving. The orange Bug is there but Telson isn’t impressed with my punctuality.

“You really give a girl a sense of worth, Porter.”

She stands in the narrow doorway of her motorhome, doesn’t look like she’s going to come out. I don’t want to explain why I’m late, tell her I had vehicle trouble. I’ve got grease smudged on my forearm; I must have touched something in the Neanderthal’s truck. Telson seems to accept the explanation. But she remains in the doorway, looking down at me.

I give her my best sad puppy look. “Can I make it up to you?”

She leans on the doorframe. Her look isn’t encouraging.

“I brought garlic toast. Pre-baked potatoes. Chinese food.”

A long reluctant sigh. She steps down, inspects the damage to my face as though admiring a powerful but disturbing piece of art, tilts my head like a doctor taking a good look. I flinch when she

touches the edge of the bruised area.

“Hold still. Don’t be such a baby.”

“If you look carefully, that cheek has a print of his boot size.”

She raises a critical eyebrow. “Don’t expect a lot of sympathy.”

I wait outside while she gets a flashlight and bottle of wine; hold open the door of Old Faithful for her. She straps herself in; she’s seen me drive before. By now it’s dark enough that I have to turn on the headlights.

She crinkles her nose. “What’s that odour?”

Carl’s cologne. I think he left a bottle of Hoppes No. 9 in the bathroom.

“Motor oil,” I tell her. “I spilled some on the exhaust manifold.”

The drive takes about 20 minutes. She’s quiet, making me self-conscious, unsure. I turn off the highway, bump and thump down a dark rutted trail. Old Faithful whines and grumbles. In the headlights, trees cast eerie shadows.

“You okay?” I ask. “You mind coming way out here?”

“This is fine.”

Her tone is flat; I can’t read her. “I’m sorry I was late.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The trail ends. I park, shut off the truck and suddenly it’s dark and very quiet. Too quiet and I suggest we get out, look at the stars. The squeal of Faithful’s door hinges is arthritic; bone grinding against bone. In the dark Telson is a vague shape standing by the truck. Invisible below us, the river is a soft roar. Wind sighs gently through treetops. I wish she’d say something.

“Do you want to go back?”

“No,” she says quietly. “Let’s stay a while.”

“Great. I’ll make a fire.”

I blunder about looking for firewood, navigating by starlight, bump into trees. The area has pretty much been picked clean but I break off dry branches, hit the jackpot at an abandoned campsite where someone filled their days of leisure by cutting wood. I return with an armful of split firewood, ready to impress Telson but she’s gone. I hope she’s just visiting the ladies room; there are steep banks along the river. I start a fire, provide her a beacon. When it’s popping merrily, I lay out a tin-foiled feast of garlic toast, potatoes, Styrofoam deli trays of Chinese stir-fry. Telson still isn’t back so I amuse myself by dragging immense chunks of wood close to the fire so we have something to sit on, then sit on them and worry that she fell into the river. I’m just about to look for her when she appears out of the darkness.

“Thank God,” I say. “I thought maybe you fell in.”

“You were worried? How sweet. Would you have rescued me?”

“Absolutely. I’ll need your help to push the truck out. I think it’s stuck.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“Or just hopeless.”

“Now you’re getting closer.”

She seems in a better mood, sits on a log close to the fire, tells me she was watching the whole time. Cheap entertainment, watching me drag those logs around; she thinks I must be nesting. I watch her as she talks, thinking she’s too good to be real. Her hair is touched gold in the firelight, her face glowing with the warmth of the flames. The small circle of light is intimate and I find her intensely attractive.

“You okay, Porter?”

“Couldn’t be better. Why?”

“You’ve got this primitive gaping look on your face.”

My face gets warmer. “So what have you been doing to keep yourself busy?”

She shrugs. “Going for walks. Relaxing. It’s so peaceful out here.”

Peaceful isn’t how I’d describe my time in Curtain River.

“What about you?” she says. “You said you were here to help Carl.”

“Yeah — that’s right. I fight the odd fire.”

“And you’re an investigator too. How’s that going?”

“You win some, you lose some. But let’s not talk shop.”

“Okay.” She stands, warms her butt over the fire, sits next to me. We eat Chinese; she’s amused by my attempts to use chopsticks. “They’re supposed to be in the same hand, Porter,” she says, laughing. She goes to the truck, comes back with the bottle of wine. We don’t have a corkscrew, use my pocket knife and butcher the cork. We don’t have cups either and pass the bottle back and forth like teenagers at a bush party.

“My dad used to take me camping,” Telson says, poking the fire with a stick. “Just the two of us. He worked in an office and by the end of the week he couldn’t wait to get outside. He used to say this was the real world and the rest was just make believe.”

“I thought you grew up on a farm.”

“What?”

“You said you were a farm girl.”

“Oh, I was. But we went bust and the bank took the land — just like one of those country songs. We urbanized and my dad took a job in the city. But he missed being outside.”

“Don’t we all.”

Telsonsmiles.I hope I don’t remind her of her father.“Is he still working?”

“No,” she says quietly. “He’s gone now. Lung cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah — me too.” She gives me a wistful smile, raises the bottle. “To memories.”

She passes the bottle and I take a swig. “To the real world.”

We sit for a while and watch the dance of the fire, don’t say anything. It’s been a long time since I sat with a girl by a fire like this. Telson looks at me, moves a little closer, slides her slender hand onto my thigh and I tense.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just that ghost again.”

Her look doesn’t waver. Neither does her hand. She waits.

“It’s been a while.”

She looks pleased. “Relax, Porter, this won’t hurt.”

The vegetarian reintroduces me to the pleasures of the flesh.