One Careless Moment (12 page)

It's dusk as I drive the winding road back to town, a rising moon casting craggy shadows. Cool air scented with woodsmoke blows in the open window, tugging at my hair — smoke from Holder's Canyon. Cursed smoke. I want to catch the bastard who started this fire, for my own peace of mind as much as Del's, but being excluded from the official investigation is a definite handicap. And sitting around waiting for a report from the investigators would be pointless — it could be weeks before they make an announcement.

Once again, I'm on my own. But where to start?

I brake as a shadow flickers across the road, catch a glimpse of the ruby eyes of a deer. Where there's one, there's usually more, so I wait.

Sure enough, three more trot across the road, their backs lit by moonlight, and vanish into dark underbrush. Lots of game around here; I'll bet the squatters do a little poaching to supplement their grocery bill. I ease the truck into gear and it comes to me suddenly where I've seen the face in the trailer window. I was drunk and more than a little distracted, but I'm sure it was the waitress from the bar at the Paradise Gateway Motel. She must work in town to help with the bills and, if she was there once, chances are she'll be there again.

The motel parking lot is full and I park in the alley, step around broken glass to get to a metal fire door announcing in faded red letters that Minors are Not Permitted. The thump and twang of country music seeps through the wall. I enter next to a bank of video gambling machines, temporarily blinded by the gloom. Men in cowboy hats materialize, hunched on chairs, staring at digital displays, waiting for the big payoff. I glance around the bar, looking for the waitress. She's not here — maybe it's her night off. Maybe I'm just early.

“Well, if it isn't the Canadian fuck-up —”

It's Cooper, standing by the bar, swaying unsteadily. He's rumpled and unshaven, a bottle of beer in his hand. A crescent of stitches track across his glistening cheek, a souvenir from his fall off the table two days ago. His eyes are glazed, his jaw hanging slack; he's on an extended holiday — a look I've seen in the mirror a few too many times. He gives me a wicked grin, drapes a sweaty arm over my shoulders, breathes sour beer and pretzels in my face.

“How you been, buddy?”

“Just dandy, Mr. Cooper. They released you from the fire?”

“Oh yeah,” he says leaning heavily on me. “All of us, thanks to you.”

The room is full of firefighters, all watching me. Even the boys from the volunteer fire department are here — Hutton and his sidekicks. Hutton is still wearing his dark, wrap-around sunglasses.

“Wassa matter?” says Cooper, still hanging on me.

“Oh, nothing. I was just going to buy a round.”

Cooper straightens himself, more or less. “Hey guys, the Canadian is buying.”

There's a cheer — I've been elevated to hero status again, for a few minutes anyway. I take the opportunity to distance myself from Cooper and bump into the waitress I'm looking for. Her long brown hair is pulled into a ponytail and she's wearing a black skirt, white shirt, and green apron with the motel logo on it.

“How will you be paying for this round?”

“Plastic, I guess. I didn't catch your name.”

“I didn't give it to you,” she says, smiling professionally.

“Well, that would explain it.”

I rummage in my pockets for a wallet. “That's quite a bumpy drive you have, getting to work.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

I hand over my abused credit card. “I could have sworn I saw you yesterday.”

“Really?” She slips the card into her apron.

“Out of town, up a long winding road.”

“I doubt it,” she says. “I live here, at the motel.”

“That's interesting, because I would have sworn it was you, looking out a trailer window.”

“Maybe it was my evil twin,” she says, grinning, but it's not a very good grin. I'm about to call her on it, explain what I'm after, but she interrupts me, asking me what I want to drink. Rye and Seven, I tell her automatically. She's moving away already.

“Just the one round,” I call after her.

She nods — at least I think it was a nod.

Cooper is searching for me when Hutton flags me over.

“Hey, I just wanted to thank you for the drink.”

“You're welcome,” I say, wishing I had my own drink.

He gives me a crooked smile. “You find what you're looking for?”

“What?”

“The other day, at the fire, you were looking in peoples' pockets.”

“Right. No — I didn't find anything.”

“That's not what I heard,” he says, glancing toward Bickenham.

The kid sees us looking and turns away. Hutton takes off his sunglasses, tucks them into a shirt pocket. Must be a special occasion. He has shadows under his eyes.

“I hear you're a fire investigator.”

“Occasionally.”

“Is that why you were on the fire?”

“No,” I say, looking for the waitress. “I was just another grunt.”

“Another grunt?” Hutton looks amused. “I thought you were the commander.”

“Yeah, well, it's just another job.”

There's an awkward pause. Hutton's two companions sip their drinks. One guy is stocky, with a balding brush cut, looks to be in his early forties. He's got a fleshy, pocked face the texture of pumice, skin burned brick red. The other fellow is younger, late twenties, with limp black shoulder-length hair and a lot of stubble. They're both very quiet, no doubt waiting for a cue from their leader.

“I do a little of that myself,” says Hutton. “Took some training a few years ago.”

“Incident command?”

“Fire investigation. I do most of the investigations for the department here.”

“You ever have a fire started with a fusee?”

“No. We do building fires. Kids with matches goofing around in abandoned houses. People smoking in bed.” He shakes his head. “You'd think they'd learn. You see those charred corpses in the bedsprings man, you'd never light up again. They should do commercials, show them on TV.”

“Sure. That'd go nicely on prime time.”

Hutton gives me a humourless smile. “You investigating the Holder fire?”

“They've got plenty of people on it already.”

“Yeah, but are they getting anywhere?”

“Who knows,” I say, watching the waitress balance a loaded tray as she manoeuvres through a labyrinth of tables and groping hands. I'm positive it was her I saw at the squatters' camp and wonder why she's being so evasive. Maybe she's just ashamed of living like that — I hope she doesn't think I was hitting on her. I nod toward Hutton and his buddies, start to move in her direction.

“You need anything,” Hutton calls after me, “you let me know.”

I wave an acknowledgement, circle around as the waitress stops to pick up empties.

“Oh right,” she says when she sees me. “I forgot your drink.”

“No problem. Look, I wasn't trying to hit on you. I just need to talk.”

“Sure,” she says over her shoulder as she walks away. “That's how it starts.”

She's playing hard to get. I circle around a group of tables so I don't have to talk to her back, but she diverts left. I alter course to intercept but she's weaving and dodging, stopping to deliver another round at a busy table. But she's out of booze now, so I meet her in front of the bar.

“I'm investigating the fire in the canyon, and I need to talk to you.”

“Rye and Seven,” she says. “Right? Roy, give me a Rye and Seven.”

The bartender, a young guy with a pencil-thin moustache that looks drawn on with mascara, hands her a drink, which she hands to me. Customers are piling up at the bar like waves hitting the beach and I'm pressed closer to the waitress, nearly upsetting her tray, which she's loading with the efficiency of an assembly-line robot. “And three more draft, Roy —”

It's noisy enough I nearly have to shout.

“Look, maybe we can talk later. When do you get off?”

She gives me the briefest look. “For you buddy, never.”

“Look, like I said, I'm not hitting on you.”

“Hey, Roy.” She jerks her head toward me. “This guy is bothering me.”

Roy gives me his best tough guy look. “Leave the lady alone.”

“Mind your own goddamn business, Roy.”

Roy looks shocked, tries to puff up, but I turn my attention to the waitress. “I'm sorry, but I'm getting a little cranky. We need to talk. I need to know why your friend chased me off at gunpoint. If that fire had anything to do with your friends being out there, it could just be the beginning. Things could get worse. Look, I'm not a cop or anything, I'm just helping the dead guy's family.”

For a second, she looks scared, then shakes her head. This is where a real investigator would relent, offer her a card so she could call if she thought of anything, but I don't have a card. I don't even have a pen. I pluck one from her shirt pocket — her hands are full — and look for that pad of paper she had earlier. I don't get a chance to find it. Roy's little army has arrived: two guys in cowboy hats and sleeveless denim shirts. “This the guy?” says the biggest of them.

“Yeah, that's him,” says Roy, from behind the safety of the bar.

“Okay buddy, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

Bouncers everywhere have the same expression when they deliver that line, but most of them really don't want to deliver what their faces are promising. It's hard work doing this all night, and there's nothing wrong with a walk-out. “Just a minute fellas —”

“Dump him!” shrieks Roy. “Toss his ass.”

The big guys are paid to move, not think, and they grab me by the arms and drag me through the crowd, much to everyone's delight. I'm tossed on the ground outside the back door, just like you see in a western. Only in a western, the street is dirt, not asphalt. I roll a little, take it mostly in the shoulder.

“Stay out!” says the bigger bouncer, pointing at me, trying to look mean while he wheezes.

“Where's my card?”

“What?”

Now I've gone and confused him. “My plastic. My credit card. The waitress has it.”

“You just stay here.”

The door slaps shut and I lay on the asphalt a moment longer, wondering if anything is broken. I want to go back in, kick Roy's ass, talk to the waitress, and get my plastic back, but I don't think my lower back will agree. So, when the door opens again and the bouncer flicks my card at me, I just let it go.

At least I only paid for the one round. I hope.

When I finally scrape myself off the pavement, my truck doesn't start. I groan, pop the hood, peer into shadow. Whatever is wrong, I won't see it tonight and debate checking into the motel. I'm somewhat disenchanted with the hospitality here and decide I'll hitch my way back to the cabin. Or walk — it's just a few miles and I'm only half-crippled. If I don't make it, I'll just roll into a grassy ditch somewhere and catch a few winks — it wouldn't be the first time.

“Toss his ass,” I mumble in falsetto. You'll get yours, Roy.

I head through town on a course parallel with the highway, which bends somewhere up ahead, where I'll cross, thumb a ride at the intersection by the sawmill. I don't go far before my shoulder and back begin to ache and I question the wisdom of walking. I could use some anaesthetic right now, but I never had a chance to drink my Rye and Seven. The bouncers knocked it out of my hand when they dragged me from the bar. I'll find a pay phone, call a taxi. I think there's one at a gas station a few blocks from here.

It's dark now, stars visible between streetlights as I walk. Tires squeal as a truck somewhere up ahead takes a corner too quickly. Air brakes rattle on the highway. Then it's silent again and I feel very alone. I wonder what Telson is doing right now. Home, watching the tube? Or out, dancing with the boys? I wonder if she misses me, and I remember the vow I made, when I was trapped in the fire — that I'd spend the rest of my life with her if I survived — and feel a longing ache deep in my chest. Suddenly, I'm very tired.

I'm cutting through an alley behind a grocery store when I hear the soft putter of a badly tuned engine, followed by a faint squeal of brakes and the arthritic creak of a vehicle door opening. It sounds close, at the far end of the alley. I don't hear the door close and the motor is still running: someone planning a quick getaway. Next, I'll hear a brick crashing through a window, or the groan of a crowbar against a locked door, teenagers looking for cash or smokes. The only sound, though, is the steady putter of an idling engine, like a sleeping cat; probably just someone who couldn't find the restroom. Then I feel the crowbar — across my middle back.

A searing flash of pain and I drop. My back feels broken; they must have snuck up from behind in the dark. I fall forward onto hands and knees, look around, raise an arm protectively, expecting the next blow will be to my head. But my attacker must see that he can take his time and the blow doesn't come right away. I'm in so much pain it's hard to breathe and I strain to see through the dark. Cowboy boots and jeans — that narrows it down. There's two of them, maybe three. Suddenly, a black ski mask bobs into view, close to my face.

“We don't like outsiders makin' trouble.”

The voice is harsh, strained, excited. A kick comes from my right side, hitting me in the ribs, knocking the air out of me. Another kick, just to make sure I get the point. The ski mask floats closer.

“Get your fuckin' ass back to Canada —
eh.
”

The ski mask ascends and the blows rain down. I don't feel the crowbar, so they must not intend to kill me. I roll to the side, try to scramble to my feet while I still can. A boot glances off my cheek, nearly breaks my nose. Another hits me in the lower back and I'm down again. They'll take this as far as they want.

A beam of light plays across a stucco wall. The cops — thank God.

“Stop! Stop, you crazy bastards! You'll kill him.”

It's not the cops — it's a woman's voice, nearly hysterical.

There's a bright pop of light and the pain goes away.