Day Into Night (29 page)

After that little circus, I don’t feel much like pizza, or eating alone. I drive to the rv park along the river. Telson is sitting in the shade, feeding granola to the squirrels. They scatter as I pull up, head for the safety of the trees. “You’re scaring the poor things,” she says.

“They’ll be back. You’re living in their yard.”

“Maybe you should shut off your truck.”

Old Faithful is still coughing and sputtering — her carbon is building up and sometimes she doesn’t know when to stop. I have the same problem. I hold up my hand — give it a minute. The old girl’s coughs deteriorate to intermittent gasps, then a long death rattle.

Telson looks concerned. “Is it supposed to do that?”

“Another one of her tricks,” I say. “It took years of training.”

She offers me an open handful of granola. I pick out a few nuggets.

“So where’ve you been?” she asks. “A girl could get lonely out here by herself.”

“Working. Fires.”

“Another one of those arsons?”

“No — just a naughty camper who didn’t douse and mix properly.”

“Smokey the Bear,” she says, grinning. She’s wearing a red-checkered flannel shirt, cut-off jeans and sandals. She looks very outdoorsy, very beer commercial. It’s working — I want both her and a beer.

“Beaver,” I say. “You’re thinking American.”

“One thing at a time,” she says. “You naughty boy.”

“No — Smokey the Bear is American. We have a rodent here. Bertie the Beaver.”

She looks a bit disappointed. “Oh. You want a beer or something?”

She’s gone a minute, comes out of the trailer with a six-pack of Big Rock in hand. “Have you heard all the commotion?” she asks, handing me a beer. I shake my head — I came here to get away from it. “There’s been a murder. That guy you had a fight with at the bar. It’s all over the radio. They found him in his trailer, although they didn’t say how it happened. They’re being very close-mouthed about it.”

“That’s the police,” I say. “Very close-mouthed.”

“And the killer’s still at large. Kind of gives you the creeps.”

I must have a strange look on my face. “Are you okay, Porter?”

“Fine,” I say quietly. “Just missed breakfast. Most important meal of the day.”

There’s a silence — I can’t look at her. If I do, I’ll blubber the whole miserable story to her and I don’t want her mixed up with this. She could get caught in the crossfire. But she’s a good listener and knowing that makes it more difficult. I shouldn’t be here right now but can’t bear the thought of leaving. I stare at brown spruce needles scattered on the ground. Telson comes over, squats in front of me.

“Hey, what’s the matter? You don’t look so good.”

“Just tired.” I try to avoid her gaze but she uses a finger to move my chin so I’m looking at her. “It’s nothing you should have to worry about,” I say, trying to sound annoyed, hoping she’ll just drop it, but she gives me an encouraging smile. “Come on, what’s the matter, Porter?”

“I have to go. I just stopped by for a minute or two. Thanks for the beer.”

But when I try to stand she holds my arm. It doesn’t take much to keep me here. Her expression is concerned but determined, and I won’t get away without creating some bad feelings. I glance at Old Faithful, torn between my need and my dread of putting another girl in harm’s way. “It’s a long story you really don’t want to hear.”

“Believe me,” she says. “I want to hear it.”

She won’t let me look away. Shamefully, my need wins. “Sit down,” she says, pulling another chair close. She sits so she faces me, leans her elbows on her knees, gives me an earnest look. The doctor is in, but I don’t know where to start. She must be able to see this.

“The beginning, Porter. Just start at the beginning.”

I look around. We’re in plastic lawn chairs amid the spruce trees: a suitable location for a shrink’s office when in therapy with an ex-twig pig. And I guess that’s what she’s doing — offering therapy — although I doubt she’ll be able to give me much practical advice. But maybe that’s not the value of a therapist; maybe just listening is the secret to the trade.

“You said you were married to a ghost,”she says. “Tell me about the ghost.”

I take a deep breath, and it all pours out — the visit to the logging operation, Nina in uniform, the bombing. The story bears an eerie resemblance to the Crime Stoppers video. But I’m not quite as smooth as Mike Matchok; my voice is a little shaky. I stop short of telling her about more recent events — that’ll be a different video. When I’m done, Telson sits back in her chair, lets out a long breath. “I remember that,” she says. “I didn’t realize she was your girlfriend.”

“Yeah, that was Nina.”

She shakes her head. “That must have been so hard. Then coming here ...”

“Yes, it was hard.” I pause and something shifts inside, like a record that’s been skipping and finally finds the right track, and I continue the story — a chapter that was edited out long ago but remains in long-term storage. “I never told anyone this, but Nina had a headache. She didn’t want to go with me out to the bush that day. I talked her into it, told her she’d feel better with a bit of fresh air. Imagine that, I thought she’d feel better —”

Suddenly, I can’t talk. It feels like I’ve been kicked in the gut.

Telson kneels in front of me again. “Porter, you can’t blame yourself.”

“Like hell I can’t.”

She takes my hand. “You can’t drag this around —”

But she’s wrong. I can drag this around forever. I stand up. “I’ve got to get going.”

“Porter, it’s not your fault.”

“Don’t tell me it’s not my fault. It was my fault.”

I make it to Old Faithful but Telson gets in front of me and blocks the door.

“Don’t run away.”

“I’m not running, damn it! Get out of my way.”

But I am running and I know it. I just want to get into Old Faithful and drive. Crank the music up until my nose bleeds, until it fills my whole world. Becomes my whole world. But she won’t move and my bravado crumbles. I turn away — I hate to let a woman see me crying — and she finds my hand. She’s insistent. She leads me away from the truck and up the steps. Inside her trailer, she takes off my boots, lays me on her bed. I feel like a little kid. She climbs under the blankets with me.

“It’s my fault,” I whisper. “God —”

“Sssh ...”

We lie together for what seems a long time.

“Give me your hand.”

Her breast is warm and soft, fits perfectly in my cupped palm. I hesitate and she pulls me closer and suddenly, urgently, I’m in the most secret of places, then we’re lying together, damp and breathing hard. We don’t say anything for a while, just lie naked together.

“How are you doing?” she asks finally.

“Okay.” I may never leave, just hide with her in this little aluminum cocoon.

She lifts her head, props her chin on her arm. “You hungry?”

“Hungry enough to eat tofu.”

She gives me a lopsided smile. “Satisfy one basic need only to reveal another.”

She gets out of bed, slips on her clothes. I feel a pang of regret, watching her cover herself. “I don’t have much here,” she says. “If you’re willing to wait a few minutes, I’ll run to the store, get some of that nasty man-food.”

She tells me to stay in bed, she’ll be right back. I’m in no hurry to leave. A minute later, the Bug rattles to life, roars away with a sound like a kid who’s found a sheet of bubblewrap. I lie on my side and gaze around her trailer. It’s small but cozy, filled with her things. Black lace underwear. Glow-in-the-dark stars. Pictures of planets. I’ve discovered a whole new universe.

I wonder if she has another beer in her little fridge — the sixpack is outside and I’m not particularly inclined to leave the trailer until she gets back. The fridge is small enough that I have to stoop to peer inside. Agh, yes, there we are. I rummage to pull out the can. Strange — is that bacon? I pull a greasy package out from the back of the fridge. Telson must have had a carnivorous visitor. I consider frying the bacon but decide not to do that naked — I’m not quite that brave. I’ll wait, see what she brings back. But I get hungry, smelling the bacon, and go looking for my underwear. They’re hanging from the corner of a small cabinet near the bed. I chuckle, shake my head. The fabric catches on the corner of the cupboard door, accidentally pulling it open and dumping the contents in a scatter onto the floor. A laptop rides a landslide of loose paper.

As I squat to pick up the laptop, I notice what’s on the paper.

Newspaper clippings — familiar; I have a shoebox full of them. Lorax attacks — the headlines just as disturbing as the day they were printed. Inset in the articles are pictures of mangled machinery;

pictures of Nina; pictures of me.

I’m confused until I dig a little deeper. Then it gets real clear.

The sheets below are covered with typing, lines neatly double-spaced, scribbles here and there indicating corrections or new ideas. ... look into P. Cassel’s past ... how did P. Cassel and N. Pirelli meet ... start new chapter here ... She’s writing a book about the Lorax, about everything I don’t want her mixed up with. I’m her research project.

And tonight? Just a little more investigative journalism?

I have to get dressed. I have to get out of here.

I’m pulling on my shirt when I hear the Volkswagen, meet Telson just as I open the trailer door. She stands on the step, a bag of groceries in one hand, a fresh six-pack in the other, smiling. “I got all the manly necessities —”

“Get out of my way.”

Her expression falters. “What is it, Porter?”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

She looks pained. “Porter, it wasn’t supposed —”

I push past her. “Save it.”

“Just let me explain. You have to understand —”

“I understand just fine.” I’m opening the truck door. “I’m just your source.”

“That might have been how it started, but things have changed —”

I’m not sticking around for the detailed confession. I slam the door, fire up Old Faithful, jam her into gear. Telson is trying to block me from leaving, yelling to be heard over the sound of the racing engine. I pull past her and in the rearview mirror see her standing on the road, gripping her hair. I wonder if she was this good in her high school drama class. I tell myself I don’t care.

Then I’m on the road, cranking up the music. I need to drive.

23

I GO WEST, as far west as a fool in a truck can go. Hard rock this time — Scorpions, AC⁄DC, Ice House. The primal power of the music resonates with my mood. By the time I reach the coast twelve hours later I’m drained of anger and sick of heavy metal. I spend the night in a motel at Horseshoe Bay, walk the streets, get rained on. Then I head back to Curtain River to finish what has been started.

I make it back Saturday afternoon. No rain here, just sun and the smell of drying lumber. The locals are inside or on benches in the shade. Only the tourists are moving, buying gas and booze, crowding mainstreet with campers and motorhomes. I buy an ice cream at a drive-through burger place. The kid in the pickup window wishes me a nice day. The ice cream tastes like powdered milk.

I eat it as I drive out of town.

Brotsky has a little acreage set amid scattered spruce trees in the old Curtain River flood plain. The house is a cheap Spanish-style knock-off with arched doorways, crumbling stucco. The yard is gravel and chickweed. But it’s neat; the chickweed is mowed. Brotsky is next to the garage, splitting wood. He stops when he sees the truck, rests the head of the axe on the chopping block. The way he just stands and stares makes me think he isn’t real happy to see me. I don’t know why; if he is the Lorax I’ve been looking forward to meeting him for years.

I park in front of the house, walk closer.

“Porter Cassel,” he says without moving. “How’ve you been?”

I’m tempted to tell him. “Getting by. How about you?”

“Still breathing. That’s enough.”

He’s been working hard: his grey hair is damp with sweat, his work shirt soaked and clinging to his lean frame. There’s a pile of split firewood taller than either of us. Strange thing to do in this kind of heat. The sleeves of his work shirt are rolled up and there’s a tattoo on his forearm, buried deep in hair and faded like old newsprint, but the motto is unmistakable — Airborne.

“You were in the service?”

He grins — someone out there has a nasty scar on their knuckles. “Born to serve.”

“I spent a few months in the reserve.”

“A few months, huh?” He’s not exactly dazzled by my lengthy military career.

“It was one of those youth employment programs.”

“I’ve heard of them,” he says. “Bunch of college kids burning off a summer.”

“That was pretty much it.”

“What branch were you in?”

“Navy. Not that we ever saw a ship. Did a lot of marching though. What about you?”

“Special forces.” That grin again, like something off a heavy metal album.

“Really. Why’d you give it up?”

Brotsky’s smile vanishes, lips closing over broken teeth like a man sinking in quicksand. “I got injured,” he says, rubbing his leg. “Fucked my joints up on a jump. Hit the ground too hard.”

Not hard enough, I’m thinking. “That’s rough.”

“Yeah, life’s a bitch. What can I do for you, Cassel?”

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

He leans on the axe, squints at me. “What sort of questions?”

“I need to know about Zeke Petrovich.”

“Petrovich, huh?” He sniffs, takes a step back, kicks pieces of firewood to the side. There’s a disjointedness to the way he moves, like his undercarriage is loose. Maybe he needs new tie roads, fresh ball joints. The axe remains in his hand, a counterbalance, tilting like a metronome. “What do you care about Petrovich?”

“A lot of people care about Petrovich lately.”

“Yeah, I hear he got murdered.”

“I heard that too.”

Brotsky draws an imaginary knife across his neck. “Got his throat slit.”

“You knew him, didn’t you.”

“Sure. He worked for me.”

“You don’t seem too shook up.”

“In the service you see things,” he says. “You get used to it.”

“So you saw a lot of action?”

“You could say that.” He props a boot on the chopping block, leans an arm on his thigh like a weary sergeant ready to rally his troops. “Covert assignments. Black ops. Sort of shit you see on tv. But if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Coming from him, it doesn’t sound so corny.

“You ever use explosives, do any demolition work?”

“Sure.” He chews his lower lip. “Why you asking?”

“No reason.”

He stares at me, chews his lip a moment longer. I can imagine him crawling through the mud under barbed wire and loving it. He’d make a hell of a recruitment poster — be all you can be — but he’d scare away the minorities.

“You working with the cops?” he asks.

“Sort of. We have an arrangement.”

“An arrangement.” Brotsky chuckles. “Really.”

“I try to find the killer. They make my life difficult.”

He’s amused. “So you’re going to find the killer?”

“I’m going to try. You said Petrovich worked for you —”

“Tell me something, Cassel.” He pulls a tin of chew from his back pocket. The look he gives me I’ve seen before — Eastwood in Heartbreak Ridge. He takes his time working a glob of chewing tobacco under his lip. “Why do you want to find the killer?”

“I’ve got my reasons.”

“I’ll bet you do,” he says, with a grin that leads me to believe he knows exactly why I’m here. “You were a forest ranger at one time weren’t you?”

“A long time ago.”

He pockets his can of chew. “So why’d you give it up?”

He’s smiling a little as he says this and I don’t much care for his tone. I’d intended to push him a bit, piss him off to see where it went — maybe enough that he’d let something slip. Maybe enough that self-defence could be seen as justifiable homicide. But it’s a thin line with the courts these days. And he’s better at it, quicker on his feet. “I had issues with the uniform.”

He sets a fresh chunk of wood on the chopping block. “We all got issues.”

“Some more than others. What did Petrovich do when he worked for you?”

Brotsky swings the axe. Clunk. Two halves fly off the block. “Mechanic.”

“How long has he been with the company?”

He kicks the halves aside. “About eight years.”

Eight years is consistent with Petrovich’s real work record.

“What about you? How long’ve you worked here?”

Brotsky reaches for another chunk of wood. “None of your goddamn business.”

His response is casual. He knows he’s holding all the cards.

“What about enemies? Petrovich piss anyone off?”

“Petrovich pissed everyone off. That much you oughta know.”

I touch my bruised cheek, a reflex action. Brotsky halves another chunk of firewood, burying the axe deep in the chopping block. He leaves it there, wipes sweat from his brow. A few light clouds hover overhead, trying hard not to evaporate. Brotsky is waiting for me to leave, trying hard to be patient. I can see it in his squint, his frown, the way he keeps flicking his index finger.

“You were his boss. You must have done a performance appraisal or two —”

“Sure. He was a good mechanic. A real asset to the operation.”

The kiss of death — Hess too was an asset to the operation.

“Did Petrovich get along with Hess?”

“So far as I know.”

“How about you? You get along with Hess?”

The clouds don’t make it; I feel sun on the back of my neck like a kid with a magnifying glass. Brotsky’s patience has also evaporated. He yanks the axe out of the chopping block with one violent thrust. “I get along with everybody,” he says, raising the axe and splitting the chopping block with a single swing — massive halves reeling off to either side. He’s got the axe at chest level, like he might be lining up another chunk of firewood. But there’s no firewood in front of him.

“You got any more questions?” he says, breathing hard.

“Maybe later,” I say, taking a step back.

As I leave, I’m thinking I’ll be seeing him sooner than later. When the sun broke through those clouds Brotsky pulled a folded ball cap from the back pocket of his jeans. Thing about carrying your cap like that — you have to fold the visor down the middle, crimp it like the gable end of a house.