One Careless Moment (13 page)

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WHEN I COME to I'm on my back, bright specks of light shimmering above me. Stars. Everything hurts, which is a good sign — my spine is still intact — but I'm in no hurry to move. There's a fan of light low on the ground to my right: the flashlight. It moves suddenly, blinding me, and I lift a hand to shield my eyes.

“Sorry.”

It's a woman, brown ponytail hanging over her shoulder as she kneels over me. She's still wearing her work uniform, complete with apron. Did she follow me here, or was she on her way home? Then I remember — she lives at the motel. Or so she says.

“Are they gone?” I ask, groaning as I lift my head.

She glances down the alley. “Yeah. They ran when I started screaming.” Her face is pale and worried. “Can you move?”

“If I have to.”

“Here, take my hand —”

She helps me to my feet. It's a lengthy, multi-stage process involving a lot of groaning. When I'm standing, I have to lean on her. It hurts to breathe.

“Thanks for coming,” She's silent as we hobble down the alley.

“Are you finally going to tell me your name?”

She glances up from under my arm — a wistful smile. “Karalee. But call me Kar.”

“So, where are we going, Kar?”

“Back to the motel.”

“Great. I've got a score to settle with Roy and his bouncers.”

She laughs a little. “I don't think so. I've got a room upstairs.”

“Our relationship is deepening. First you tell me your name, now you want to go upstairs.”

We step off a curb a little harder than necessary and pain shoots up my back. “Steady there, big boy,” she says, in a way that leads me to believe the jolt was intentional. “I'm just going to patch you up a bit, then you're on your own. I've got to get back to work, or Roy is going to kill me.”

“Let me deal with Roy,” I say, as we reach the motel.

Kar directs me up a metal staircase to a room on the second floor, not far from where I spent my first night in town. Her room is homier than mine. Stuffed animals are everywhere, lounging on cabinets and shelves. It's like being in a toy store, but at least everything here is soft. I sink down on a corner of the bed; the only area not covered with critters. Kar vanishes into the bathroom and I hear water running. She returns with a damp towel.

“Take off your shirt.” Obediently, I unbutton my shirt. She helps me pull my arms out of the sleeves. “Oh my God —”

“How bad is it?”

“Not too bad,” she says quickly, but her face says otherwise.

She starts sponging and wiping, cool water trickling down my back. I hold still, just glad she's here — the angel of the Paradise Gateway Motel. I have a few questions but now doesn't seem the best time. I wait until she's sewing up a cut above my left eyebrow.

“Where did you learn to do this?”

She's biting her lower lip, concentrating like a jewel cutter. “You pick things up.”

She's very close and I have a good view of a fairly attractive face, powdered on the cheeks with freckles. No make-up, unusual in her profession. “That's quite a handy skill, suturing and sewing. Who taught you?”

She tugs through a little more line, more firmly than the last stitch, and I wince. She gets physical when she doesn't want to answer questions. “My brothers got into a lot of fights when we were growing up. We didn't go to the doctor unless we were nearly dead.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

She doesn't answer, just concentrates on her work. A few more tugs, a snip, and she's done. She leans back, her expression critical but satisfied. “That should hold you. Go to the doctor to get them out in about a week. And get some antibiotics.”

She stands, collects her things. “I've got to get back to work.”

“Look —” I reach for her hand, to catch her attention, but any physical closeness we had is gone and she pulls her hand away. Around here, you can drink the alcohol, but don't rub the nurse.“I just wanted to thank you for helping me out. If you hadn't come along, I'd still be lying in the alley. Or worse.”

She nods, frowning a little, staring at the floor.

“Can I ask you something?”

The frown deepens but she doesn't say anything. I forge ahead.

“How was it that you happened to come along, when you're supposed to be working?”

“What difference does it make? You needed help, and I was there. That should be enough.”

“You're right. It's just that when I get beat to a pulp, I want to know who's responsible.”

“How should I know?” Her voice is sharp. Defensive.

“You managed to scare off three men.”

Her hands are on her hips. She's downright hostile now. “You think I'm involved?”

I raise my hands, try to smooth things out. “That's not what I'm suggesting. I'm grateful for everything you've done for me — don't get me wrong. I'm just curious how you happened along at the right time. Did you see someone leave the bar right after I was tossed out?”

“You think I knew those guys were going to jump you?”

“You were three blocks from the motel.”

She stares at me, stooped a little, her hands still on her hips. She's trying hard to look outraged, but her determination is flagging and I get the impression she knows more than she's letting on. For an instant she looks as though she might say something, then shakes her head and begins to pace. Irritated, she starts to pick things up, tossing towels at a sink in the kitchenette, rearranging her stuffed animals. “This is what I get,” she says to a purple, two-headed dragon. “Try to help someone and they start accusing you of things.”

“Kar, I wasn't accusing you of anything.”

“Put your shirt on.”

I tug on my shirt, filthy with dirt and blood.

“I'm just trying to make a living here,” she says, turning suddenly, pointing an accusing finger at me. “It's not much of a living, I'll admit, but it's honest and it's what I do.”

“You don't have to justify —”

“You're damn right I don't,” she says, her eyes flashing. She crosses her arms to hide her trembling hands. She's too emotional not to be hiding something more. “I was just worried about you. After you got thrown out, I went to check on you. Those guys can be kind of rough. You were staggering down the street like you were going to fall over.”

“So you came after me,” I say quietly.

“To make sure you were okay.”

“Good thing you did.” I smile and she seems to relax a little.

“Well,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron. “You seem fine now.”

She comes around the bed, out of her safety zone, picks up her first-aid kit. It's quite a kit, filled with pressure bandages, hemostats, pill bottles. A pro's kit. She snaps it shut, slides it into a cupboard over the sink. She's tidying up, getting ready to leave. The meter has just about run out and I still know nothing about her or the squatters. I may not get another chance to speak privately with her, so I make one last effort. “I know it was you out at the camp, Kar. If that fire is in any way related to the camp, you or your friends could be in danger.”

She pauses, one hand on the edge of the cupboard, quietly closes the door and turns to look at me. She wants to talk — I can see it in the uncertain way she stands. In her frown and the way she fiddles with the edge of her apron. She's scared and, if I don't press, I'm going to lose her. “Kar, that camp is about the only thing up there,” I say quietly, “and that fire was started for a reason. If you know something about it, you should tell me.”

Her frown deepens and she stares at the floor.

“Who are those people out in the bush, Kar? Friends? Family?” She cringes at the word family. “Is that guy with the beard your father?”

Her expression hardens. “I think it's time for you to go.”

“Why did he chase me off at gunpoint? What is he afraid of?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Is someone using fire to threaten your family?”

“You're nuts.” She points at the door. “Get out.”

“If you know something, you need to come forward.”

“Out!” she yells, and starts throwing things at me. Fortunately, she's surrounded by stuffed animals. I take a troll to the side of the head and, sensing that further conversation is unlikely, retreat to the door. An old couple on the walkway with matching poodle hair and bifocals are frozen, watching me retreat. Something heavy thuds against the door just as I close it. Kar must have run out of stuffed animals. The couple stare at me like I might be a serial killer.

Given my appearance, I can't blame them.

Turns out, there's a pay phone in the lobby of the motel, which would have been handy to know a little earlier. Just my luck. I call a cab, spend most of the night tossing and turning from one bruise to the next. I wake in a cold sweat late the next morning, rummage through the cupboards of my Lakeside Estates cabin. Breakfast is complimentary instant coffee and oatmeal, which I find arranged in an ashtray. What I really need is a complimentary morphine drip.

There's a knock on the back door. Grey and Noble stand like watery ghosts on the other side of a frosted glass window. They look grouchy and out of sorts. Their disposition doesn't improve when they see my face.

“Christ, Cassel,” says Grey. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I was just out picking up a little local colour.”

“Yeah,” says Noble. “Black and blue.”

They come in, uninvited. Of course, they are paying the rent.

“What can I help you guys with this morning?”

Noble gives me a hard look. He's in a dark navy suit and sunglasses. Grey, in a brown work uniform, is quite a bit shorter and stouter than Noble, who takes off his shades, folds them, and tucks them neatly into his vest pocket, probably next to his gun. “We have a few questions, minor stuff really, but I'm more interested in what happened to you last night.”

“I'm not really sure,” I admit, leading them into the kitchen. I offer them a packet of instant coffee, which they decline.

“You were at the bar last night,” says Grey. “The Pine Room at the Gateway.”

“Yes.”

“Not a good idea to park a Forest Service vehicle in front of a bar. Gets people's noses out of joint when they see a government decal in front of an establishment like that.”

“It's also a motel,” I say, wondering how they found out so quickly. Maybe Roy called.

“Is that where you had your altercation?” says Noble.

“It happened in an alley a few blocks away.”

“Any idea who's responsible?”

I shake my head — a bad idea considering how stiff my neck is — tell them some of what happened last night, leaving out any reference to Kar. Makes it sound like I was just out for a beer. When I get to the part about the truck not starting, Grey frowns, tugging at his moustache. “That's strange,” he says. “We had someone move it this morning. It started fine.”

Which can mean only one thing: someone wanted me on foot. Someone planned this.

“Why, exactly, were you in the bar?” says Noble, giving me his best special agent look.

“I just wanted a beer. It was a long day.”

Grey gives me an understanding smile. “It was, at that.” But Noble isn't fooled.

“Come on, Cassel, don't bullshit me. I know how you operate.”

“What?” I say, a little offended.

“I know all about that mess you were involved in last summer up in Canada. That bomber — the Lorax, I think he called himself — and those serial arsons. You were a fugitive for a while, if I recall. And they never caught the bomber, which they partly blame on your interference.”

“We caught the arsonist,” I say, feeling the blood rise into my cheeks.

“Your friend? He was hardly caught. He died, didn't he?”

There's an uncomfortable silence as Noble and I glare at each other.

“What, exactly, are you trying to say?”

Noble shrugs. “Just that your methods are not compatible.”

“Not compatible —”

Grey steps in, like a good referee. “This is going nowhere. Just simmer down, both of you.”

Noble glares at me a moment longer, then we both look away, simmering.

“Important thing here,” says Grey, “is your safety. Obviously, there are people that have issues with you being here. And right now, that's our primary concern — we're not questioning your professionalism.” He gives Noble a cautionary glance. “We're pretty much through the initial leg of our investigation, the part that involves you at any rate, and you're free to go back to Canada. In fact, there's a flight this afternoon, leaving from Missoula at four thirty, and I expect you to be on it. So does your boss back home. So relax. Try to get a little rest. Someone'll pick you up here at three.”

I'm thinking about Del, about how I'd like to stay a little longer, but I'm not sure there'd be much point. I can't expect much co-operation from Noble or the other investigators, and Kar, even if she does know something, isn't talking. It's not going to be easy telling Del.

“Have you been to a doctor?” says Grey, looking concerned.

I shake my head.

“Well, you're going then. I'll drop you off on my way through town.”

Grey drops me off at the hospital, a fairly recent addition to Carson Lake by the looks of it, modern but small. After an hour in a little white room, a doctor turns up to inspect my bruises, check my reflexes. He orders X-rays of my chest and spine. When I see him a half-hour later, he tells me I've got a cracked rib and bruised vertebrae. No heavy lifting and get plenty of rest.

What about something for the pain? I ask, by now not caring how wimpy I sound.

He smiles, prescribes a muscle relaxant, painkillers, and an anti-inflammatory. Taken as recommended, he assures me, resting will not be a problem.

I visit the pharmacy, call a cab.