Day Into Night (35 page)

Either they’re not that sensitive or Brotsky has turned them off.

The rock hits something metal and suddenly I see movement — Brotsky leaned up against the back corner of the garage, his rifle searching toward the road. He’s little more than a suggestion, but the barrel of the gun is visible against the lighter siding of the garage. He steps quickly toward the front and I move around back, sprint across dead zone between the buildings to the back of the house, then circle to the far side and peer around a front corner.

He’s a dim shape between the garage and house. I toss a handful of gravel to make him think I’m headed back into the trees and when I see his dark form head in that direction I run to the front of the house, yank open the door without entering and run for the cover of the garage.

It works. Brotsky has gone full circle around the house and is poised in front of the door, looking around, trying to decide if I really went in. If I didn’t, he knows I’m not far. If I did, I could be going for his guns. He goes in. I wait a few seconds, then sprint for his truck.

The yard lights come on — the keys aren’t in his Bronco. I spend what might be the last ten seconds of my life yanking open the hood, grabbing spark plug wires, flipping the clasp on his distributor cap. Brotsky must be downstairs, in his windowless gunroom. The distributor cap comes loose and I toss it as far as I can, then bolt for the garage.

I make it inside just as the door on the house slaps open.

The blue whale cranks but doesn’t start. Too much noise — too little time. It catches and I gun the engine, grab the shifter. Brotsky knows what I’m up to because he’s waiting outside when the big Plymouth splinters his cedar garage door. I’m ducking anyways, expecting wood to come through the windshield. I get bullets instead, throwing glass. The Bronco is a short distance in front of the garage and I use it as cover, put it between me and Brotsky, get a glimpse of a man with a rifle, pivoting like a lawn sprinkler, spraying bullets. The engine roars, the car fishtailing — I can’t tell if it’s gravel hitting the wheel wells or more bullets. As I leave the circle of light, I peer just over the dash and something bites my ear. The driveway curves — the road just ahead. I’m going too fast but if I hit the brakes, he’ll see the lights and I don’t want to give him a target. I slide nearly into the far ditch — if he’s still shooting I can’t hear it over the engine but the trees are in my favour now. I click on headlights to find the road, see the glint of my bike’s handlebar ahead in the ditch, make a sudden decision. Maybe it’s a mistake but I figure I got at least 30 or 40 seconds before Brotsky can make it to the road, maybe more with his bad knee.

I kill the lights, drag the bike out of the ditch. The back door of the Plymouth has a jagged swath of perfect round little holes, trailing across a tail fin. When the interior light goes on, the back seat looks like two cats went at it. The bike fits — couldn’t do that with today’s Plymouth. Something bright buzzes past like fireworks as I surge forward, spraying gravel. He’s using tracer ammo. I push the accelerator flat and the big girl responds — can’t do it like that with a new Plymouth either. More fireworks streak past — a celebration in my honour. In the dark, I nearly miss a curve in the road, grab for the lights. Bullet holes and cracked glass give me a high speed kaleidoscopic view of ditch and road.

I crank the wheel hard, regain the road grade.

I’m out of his line of fire.

Lights ahead — a truck passing on the highway. I pull hard into the turn, halfway into the ditch. Something in the old girl gives; the engine races too fast — victim of a bullet or a belt; she isn’t going much further. I take the first secondary gravel road to the right, then another to the left. The car lurches and falters. I crank the wheel toward a meadow on one side, exit while the car is still rolling. It thumps down a ditch where I’m sure it’ll stop but it lumbers on, whispering through dry grass. A hundred yards into the meadow it hits something that doesn’t want to move, grinds for a moment then dies.

I remember my bike, follow the swath of bent grass.

The car is nosed into a low embankment which did surprisingly little damage to its front end. But that may be the only part undamaged — this car isn’t going anywhere; it’s a landscape feature now. I pull out my bike, carry it for a distance to avoid leaving a track, then saddle up and head cross-country.

At four in the morning the town looks like a scene from an old Western movie; grey and uninhabited. Soon the sun will be up, colour will return to the world and they’ll be looking for me again. Time to crawl back into my coffin. But I hesitate — something is wrong. Nothing I can see but I’m developing another sense — paranoia.

I’m tired, hungry and my ear hurts like hell.

All my gear is under that house.

Those kids that stopped by yesterday — they left too quickly.

Maybe it’s something. Maybe it’s nothing. But I can’t afford the risk.

I retreat, fade into the sunrise.

There’s a plane circling over town. It could be an amateur practising his left banks but I don’t think so — a Twin Otter is a bit extravagant for a student pilot. And then there’s the white and blue paint job. I spend the day hunkered in the willows along a creek. I’ve got shade and water so it’s not so bad but I’m hungry and could use a few painkillers. One of Brotsky’s bullets took the bottom off my right earlobe. When it finally gets dark I pull my mountain bike out of the brush and head for a small store about 20 miles north of town. I’m not up to shopping but I remember a phone booth.

It’s a long slog on an empty stomach. The hills come like waves in a storm, leaving me breathless and dizzy at each crest. But I forge on, in the second lowest gear. The store is a small wooden-sided building with an old Coke emblem over the door. A solitary light on a pole flickers like an insane asylum fluorescent during electroshock therapy. I wait a few minutes for it to die but it hangs on. There are plenty of rocks nearby but knocking out the only light might wake the owner in the house behind the store. I lean the bike against the phone booth, dig out my quarters.

I call Telson’s cell phone but get no answer, then recycle the quarter. This time, after six rings, I get an answer. I change my voice. Western hillbilly. “Hello, is this the duty officer?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Carl sounds like I pulled him out of a good dream.

“Sorry to call ya so late but a pile I was burnin’ got away.”

A deep sigh. “What’s it doing now?”

“It’s sparkin’ up pretty good. I can see it from the house.”

“Is it off your property? Or can this wait until morning?”

“We better get on this one now,” I say. “Before it gets worse.”

There’s a pause — Carl doing a mental inventory of recent fire permits.

“What’s you location?”

“You know the Mink Creek Store?”

“Uh-huh —”

“We’re three miles west, two miles north, then eleven miles west again.”

There’s a longer pause. Carl doesn’t have any fire permits in that area. The timbre of his voice changes slightly. “What sort of equipment do you have on hand?”

“Nothing,” I tell him. “So you better bring lots of stuff.”

“Okay. It’ll take about 40 minutes. How will I know your place?”

“You’ll see the fire as you get closer. Just remember to turn at the store.”

My next call is long distance. Cindy answers on the second ring. She’s hysterical. “Jesus Christ Porter, what’s going on? The police are looking for you. You’re all over the news — on TV, the radio —”

“Calm down Cindy. They can scan cell phones.”

“What?” She sounds disoriented.

“They could be listening. Are you still at home?”

“No — I did like you told me.”

“Good. Don’t give any clues out about where you are.”

“Okay.” She’s calmer now.

“How are the kids?”

“The kids are good.”

“I need you to make a call for me. Are you near a phone?”

“I’m on the phone —”

“A land line. A regular phone.”

There’s a scuffling sound; Cindy moving around. “The motel has one in the room.”

“Don’t use that one. Is there a pay phone close by?”

Cindy’s breathing is louder. “Yeah, I can see one in the parking lot.”

“Good. This is how it’ll work. You go to the pay phone and dial a number I’ll give you. It’s the cops. When they answer, you hold the cell phone to the receiver so I can talk directly with the cops. Don’t say anything yourself. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Did you check in under your name? Use your credit card? List your licence plate?”

“Give me a little credit here, Porter —”

“Good. After the call, wake the kids and drive somewhere else.”

A sigh. “Okay. Let’s try to do this earlier next time.”

“I’ll try,” I tell her. “Now go to the pay phone.”

More background noise; Cindy checking on the kids, then the click of a door and faint footsteps like an old radio play. “Okay Porter —” She sounds a little breathless. “I’m ready.”

I give her the number, listen to her punching keys.

“RCMP, Curtain River. How may I direct your call?”

“Sergeant Andre Rachet please.”

There’s a long pause, then: “Rachet here.”

“Did you analyze the knife?”

A brief silence. “Porter Cassel. Back from the dead. How thoughtful of you to call.”

“What did you find on the knife?”

“Where are you?” Rachet says. “We should get together, talk face-to-face.”

“This is fine.”

“It doesn’t look good that you ran. It would look better if you came in —”

He’s not just trying to talk me in, he’s stalling, dragging out the conversation for a phone trace. I’m not sure how long that takes but I play along, let him talk. I want the call traced to throw them off my track. I steer the conversation back to the knife.

“We found blood,” Rachet says. “Petrovich’s blood. But you knew that.”

“Anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Don’t play games with me Rachet —”

“Okay, okay — look, don’t hang up. We found something on the knife.”

“What did you find?”

“Skin cells,” he says after just the slightest hesitation.

“You match them with anyone?”

“You don’t think they’re yours?” Rachet says. “Because if you don’t think they’re yours you should come in, give us a sample. Pretty hard to rule you out without a sample.”

“They’re not mine.”

“Wonderful. Then come in —”

“They’re Alvin Brotsky’s. Get a sample from him.”

“What?” The disbelief in his voice is clear, even though Cindy isn’t holding the cell close enough. Not that I blame her — I did this once for a towerman who wanted to talk to his girlfriend and had to keep moving the radio from ear to mouthpiece. Things didn’t work out for him despite my best efforts — she dumped him anyway. Things aren’t working out here much better — the handle on my knife is polished smooth.

“Alvin Brotsky and Zeke Petrovich killed Ronald Hess for talking union and used the Lorax as a cover to get rid of the body. Brotsky is ex-military and had access to C4. Then Brotsky set it up so I’d think Petrovich was the Lorax and killed Petrovich with my knife.”

“Interesting,” Rachet says. “If this is true, you’re off the hook. So why not come in?”

“Pay a little visit to Brotsky. Look downstairs in his armoury. Have a look at his car.”

“You can be assured we’ll do that —”

“Good. When you put the pieces together, I’ll call again.”

“Wait a minute here, Cassel —”

“Goodbye.”

There’s a click; the payphone returning to its cradle, then Cindy. “How was that?”

“That was perfect, Cin. Now get the hell out of there. As soon as they complete a trace, they’ll call the locals, wherever you are. They’ll be looking for me but it won’t take them long to figure out who you are.”

“Okay.” Her voice is strained. “Be careful, Porter.”

I sense she wants to talk more but have to cut it short, fade into the dark. A few minutes later, an approaching vehicle flashes its lights. Not a bad response time. From the ditch I use my flashlight to return the signal and Carl pulls his Forest Service truck to the side of the road, waits in the dark. I heave my bike into the back of the truck, crawl into the cab through the rear sliding window to avoid triggering the interior door light.

Carl looks spooked. “You okay, Porter? What’s going on?”

“Anyone follow you?”

He looks over his shoulder. “I doubt it.”

“Just drive for now. Go east.”

Carl turns on the headlights, pulls onto the road.

“What did you bring?”

He points back with his thumb. “Food, first aid kit, blankets.”

I reach back through the rear slider, fumble open a box and find bread, canned meat, juice. I pull most of it in, make myself a hasty sandwich, talk between mouthfuls, tell him about my fun-filled excursion to Brotsky’s house of guns. By the time I’m done, Carl is shaking his head. “He actually shot at you?”

“He turned the car into Swiss cheese.”

“I’ll call the cops,” he says. “Anonymously of course, report the location of the car. They’ll check the registration and when they visit Brotsky, they’ll find the guns.”

I finish my sandwich, make another. Spam never tasted so good. “It’s worth a try but I’m willing to bet Brotsky will find the car first and get rid of it. The guns’ll be gone too.”

“Maybe.” Carl crouches pensively over the steering wheel. “You’re sure it’s him?”

“I’m pretty sure he killed Petrovich. And Hess.”

“And you think he’s the Lorax?”

“I doubt it. This was just a copycat.”

Carl gives me a concerned look. “What makes you think that?”

I tell him my theory about Hess being killed for talking union.

“So the Lorax was just a cover?”

The truck drifts toward the ditch. “Yeah — watch the road.”

“What about Petrovich?”

A tire slips over the shoulder, spilling cans of food onto the floorboards and threatening to pull the rest of the truck into the ditch. Carl yanks it back onto hardtop, the truck swerving, leaning into its springs. I’m too tired to flinch. Dashed yellow lines scroll hypnotically past in the headlights. My stomach is full and I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. “His partner in crime,” I mumble. “A loose end.”

“They set you up.”

I remember Star’s warning. And Carl’s. “I walked right into it.”

Carl is gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “So what now, Porter?”

I shake my head. Despite my assurances to Cindy, I don’t know.

“Where are you staying? There’s cops everywhere in town.”

“I’m sort of between addresses.”

“I know a place. Old rail bridge over the river. I found it when I was hunting. Lots of cover and plenty of clean water. And I bet I could get the truck down the rail bed.”

“That’s not necessary. I can ride in.”

“Not with all this stuff —”

He lights up a smoke, cracks open the window. I’m too tired to argue and not looking forward to a bumpy bike ride in the dark with a load of supplies on my back. The lighted patch of highway flows beneath like a river. The buzz of the tires is soothing —

Like the sound of rapids. I’m in a canoe —

I jolt awake. We’re not moving anymore and I’m alone in the truck. Filaments of some dream linger, an impression of having been somewhere else. Through the windshield the dark structure of an old timber bridge is stark against star-speckled night sky. The door handle is cool under my hands. I stand at the end of the bridge, the river in the valley below a ribbon of sheet metal. Behind me the truck sits on the rail bed, looking dangerously out of place.

Dawn isn’t far off. How long did I sleep?

“Carl?” My voice seems too loud. “Where are you?”

“Down here.” A faint voice from the valley. “Just a minute —”

There’s a stirring in the bushes below — heavy willow and alder in spring leaf. A jungle. A few rocks trickle down a slope. A dark shape emerges from darker foliage, silhouetted against the river.

“How long have we been here, Carl?” As he walks closer, Carl’s expression is calm. In this light, he looks much younger. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, smiling. “You needed the rest.”

I glance back at the truck. “You sure this line is abandoned?”

“Don’t worry, it goes right past town and I haven’t heard a train in years.” He walks onto the bridge, lifts his arms. “What a beautiful morning, Porter. Can you smell that? Willow, water and earth.”

“Creosote,” I add. “Oil and tar.”

He drops his arms, turns around — he’s still smiling. “I kind of envy you right now. I have to go back to the office, sit in a little room with buzzing radios all day. You get to stay out here, in the real world.”

“I’m not terribly impressed with the real world right now, Carl.”

Carl lingers on the bridge, a light morning breeze stirring his long hair. I think he’s serious — envying me — and worry he’s forgetting what’s at stake here. I grab the supplies he’s brought, set them beside the tracks, thank him for his help. As the truck thumps down the rail bed I stash my bike, lug gear into the valley, fighting dense willow. Mosquitoes hiding under the leaves ambush me as I go past. The sun is just coming up and already it’s ten degrees warmer. It’s going to be a long day, here in the real world.

I pick a spot under the bridge abutment, collapse and close my eyes.

The real world goes away.