One Careless Moment (23 page)

I'm worried about what Erwin has in mind. His gun is tucked in his pants again, but he hasn't told me just how he plans to gain access to the official investigation. Subtlety is not his specialty. I have visions of him storming into the ranger station, gun drawn, dragging me along, followed by a nationally televised standoff, before we go out in a blaze of stupidity. I ask once more what his plan might be.

“Just drive,” he grumbles.

“Okay.” We reach the highway intersection. “Anywhere in particular?”

“You know the place.”

I act dumb.

“The cabin by the lake,” he says irritably.

“Why there, Erwin? What good will that do?”

Erwin turns in his seat, gives me a look that would make the Terminator proud. I shrug, as if this is no big deal, pop the Cornbinder into first and lurch onto the highway. Erwin is sullen as we drive through town. The teenagers are still at the ice cream stand. Tourists line the boardwalk. Erwin pulls out his revolver, holds it below the window, idly spins the drum.

“Do you have to do that?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Helps me relax.”

“It's not exactly doing wonders for my concentration.”

He spins for another minute before putting it away. We turn off the highway, pass the sawmill. Carson Lake flashes through the trees. “What are you going to do?” I ask Erwin. “Just walk in and demand the cops tell you everything? Wave your gun in their face? That ought to go over well.”

Erwin doesn't respond. A moment later he points to a driveway. “Turn in here.”

The driveway winds among dense timber. The house isn't clearly visible from the road. It's a nice house, log, two-storey with lots of dormers. There's no one home and I wonder if Erwin knew this, or was just taking a chance. Then I remember that he made his own way back to town earlier today, probably on foot, cutting through the acreages around here. He directs me to park behind the garage, then ushers me out and leads the way through the trees. We cross the road and follow a gully dense with alder and young fir until we're close to the lake. Erwin seems to know this area remarkably well. Suddenly, he stops, holding up his hand. He's watching the cabin at Lakeshore Estates. Four vehicles are parked in front: two sheriff 's black-andwhites and two unmarked.

“Now what?” I whisper.

“Shut up,” says Erwin. “I'm thinking.”

I hope he only wants to get into the building, not actually talk to anyone.

“It's close to supper time. If you have to go in, let's just wait until they leave.”

He grunts and we wait. I try to talk Erwin out of this and he pulls out his gun, jams it into my ribs, then puts it away without saying anything. I'm a little worried the investigators will just order in, and Erwin will lose his patience, but they come out, all at once — Castellino, Noble, Aslund, and Batiste — and pile into a minivan. They're barely out the drive when Erwin makes his move, grabbing me by my shirt collar like a truant kid. Hang on, I tell him, as we cross the yard. There might still be people in the cabin.

“We'll find out soon enough,” he says.

He drags me to the door facing the lake, hidden from the road. Erwin tries the door. It's locked.

“Too bad,” I say, starting to move away.

Erwin grabs my arm, yanks me back. He pulls out his revolver, taps a glass pane with the butt. The pane pops out with a loud tinkle, shatters on the floor inside. Erwin reaches in, opens the door. I hesitate but he prods me inside, where I stand like a thief caught in the act.

“Come on,” he hisses. “Get to work.”

I look at the door, at the broken pane. What if there's a silent alarm? Erwin still has the revolver in his hand, which he uses to urge me forward, toward the large kitchen table, cluttered with documents. The only way to get out of here quickly is to make it look like I'm doing something, so I lean over the table, scrutinize the paperwork. Now that I'm here anyway, I'm more than a little curious.

There are a lot of files here, in neat piles on the table. All the documents pertain to the arson and the entrapment — Karalee's death is being investigated elsewhere, or the documents have been secured. I glance around, note a small file cabinet in a corner, which I find locked.

“You want me to open that?” says Erwin.

“No — I don't think it'll be necessary.”

“Bullshit,” he says, and goes to work on the metal cabinet, leaving his fingerprints everywhere — something I'm going to great lengths to avoid. The cabinet yields in about ten seconds. Inside are three slim files, which I open using the tip of a pen. Erwin, impatient, pulls them out, lays them open. The pages are stamped: Confidential Information Pending Anticipated Litigation; Exempt from Freedom of Information Act. This must be the good stuff. I use a bulldog clip as tweezers, flipping through carefully. Brashaw's autopsy report is here, indicating he died of asphyxiation due to the searing of his lung membranes — hopefully, it was quick. Negative on drugs or alcohol.

“Now that's brutal,” says Erwin, looking at the pictures.

I quickly close the file, move on. Another file contains witness statements from various staff on the fire — far too much information to read now. I consider photocopying the works, but they're stapled and it would take a lot of time. It would also be a little awkward to explain why I have them, if they were ever found. So I set them aside. Erwin stands beside me, shaking his head, holding Brashaw's autopsy report. I snatch it out of his hands and vigorously try to wipe off any prints.

“What'd you do that for?” he says.

“Give the man some rest.”

“Touchy, touchy.”

“Just give me some space,” I snap. “Let me work.”

He backs away, stands in front of a map pinned to the wall, pretends he isn't interested. How long have we been here? I notice one of the witness statements is from a member of the volunteer fire department and I take a closer look, curious how they were dispatched. Sometimes the arsonist calls the fire department, so he can watch the show. Or, in this case, the arsonist might not have wanted the fire to go far — it was probably just a warning; if he was interested in the marijuana, he wouldn't have wanted the gardens to burn up. The statement is from Hutton, the vfd Chief who was on the fire. The smoke was reported by a motorist on the highway, which probably means it was called in on a cellphone. The last of the three files contains only pictures — the disturbed origin and Brashaw's removal from the fatality scene. I move to the table, for a quick look at the documents there.

Crunch of gravel under tires.

“Shit,” says Erwin, glancing cautiously out a window. “We got company.”

It's Compton and another uniform I haven't seen before. The way they exit the vehicle, and the fact that the lights aren't going, indicates there is indeed a silent alarm here. Compton nods to his partner and they vanish from sight, going in opposite directions around the cabin. There's nothing outside but manicured lawn and scattered trees. We're in big trouble.

“No shooting!” I hiss at Erwin, who quickly checks the other windows.

“Shut up and find some place to hide,” he snaps at me.

I'm ready to walk out with my hands up, put an end to this ridiculous affair, but Erwin pushes me backwards, into the next room — a bedroom — and shoves me into a closet. The last thing I see before he closes the door is his face, and the muzzle of his gun. Seconds later, I hear boots on the landing, the rattle of a door slapping open, followed by a lot of stomping and a few thuds. There's a single gunshot, then a creak of floorboards, drawing closer. They've shot Erwin and now I have a lot of explaining to do, but when the closet door opens, it's Erwin, sweating and breathing hard.

“Come on!”

When I don't move fast enough, he reaches in, yanks me out by the arm. Dazed, I follow him into the kitchen, where paperwork is scattered like leaves. Compton and company are face down on the floor, not moving. I stop, looking for blood, but Erwin grabs me again and tows me out of the cabin, past the black-and-white and through the trees. We dash across the road, head for the acreage where we left the Cornbinder. Sirens and lights pass, a blur through the trees. We heave ourselves into the panel, wheezing and panting, then creep cautiously onto the road. Soon, we're back on the highway.

“Jesus Christ!” I shout at Erwin, finally able to breathe. “What happened?”

“I had to give them a little tap,” he says.

“A tap? Did you kill anyone?”

“Naw, they're just sleeping.”

“And the gunshot?”

“Don't worry about it. It was theirs. Just a wild shot.”

14
•

WE'RE HEADED NORTH, into town. Parking lots along Main Street are full. Heat shimmers off the pavement, off vehicles and buildings. Girls in shorts saunter along the boardwalk. It'll take me a few minutes to decelerate to the groggy afternoon pace.

“Where are we going?”

Erwin is slumped against the door, catching his breath.

“Anywhere,” he says. “Just keep driving.”

We pass through town and continue north, past the sewage lagoon and church. Soon, we're in open country. I have no idea where we're going, or what to do next. I'm expecting Erwin to be full of questions, demanding to know what I found at the cabin, but he's strangely quiet. A few miles out of town, I glance over and realize why. He's holding his side. Beneath his hand, a large red stain has soaked through his jacket. He's been shot. How he made it from the cabin to the truck at a dead run, I'll never know. I pull over abruptly, gears grinding, come to a rocking halt on the shoulder of the highway.

“Jesus Christ, Erwin. Why didn't you say something?”

“It's not so bad,” he says coarsely.

“Bullshit, you're bleeding like a stuck pig. I'm taking you to the hospital.”

He starts to protest but I ignore him — I don't want another death on my hands. It takes a minute to turn the old beater around — trucks swooshing past — then I grip the big steering wheel and floor the old girl, glancing frequently at Erwin. Under the dirt, he looks pale but gives me a weak grin. He's got his revolver pointed at my side.

“I said no hospital.”

“Put that thing away.”

He cocks the revolver. “No hospital.”

“Erwin, listen — you're going to bleed to death. You think Karalee would have wanted that?”

“Fuck you,” he says, grimacing. “You pull into Emergency, you'll be the one needing it.”

For a moment, I just drive. Maybe he'll pass out before we get there, but he hangs on, stubborn, the revolver resting on his thigh, his other hand pressed against his side. The hospital turnoff comes and goes. Erwin relaxes slightly. Either that, or he's going into shock.

“I'll take you to the motel,” I tell him. “See what we can do.”

He doesn't argue. The Super 8 looms ahead. As I pull in, I see Telson's rental car, beside which is a van with a big plastic carrot mounted on the roof. I had planned on keeping Del and Erwin apart, for safety and to avoid complicating matters. So much for planning.

Erwin insists on walking on his own. He staggers a little, leans on the door, which is locked. I knock and when the door opens Erwin falls into the room — on top of Telson. They both go down. Del gives a startled little gasp, from where she's standing at the far side of the room. Telson swears, hitting Erwin, thinking he's attacking her. She stops quickly when he doesn't fight back.

“Crap,” she says, looking up at me. “He's bleeding. What happened?”

“Long story,” I say. “Let's just get him onto the bed.”

I pull Erwin off Telson and the three of us heave him onto the bed. Erwin opens his eyes and mumbles something. Telson and Del work off his jacket, unbutton his shirt. As the shirt is peeled back I'm worried what I'll see, but it's not too bad. Most of it's graze, with a shallow entry and exit. A lot of blood, but survivable.

“Jesus,” whispers Del. “We should get him to the hospital.”

“No —” Erwin opens his eyes, grabs Del's shirt. “No doctor.”

He's pale, looks crazed. I'm thinking Del might lose it here, but she regards him calmly.

“You're shot,” she says. “Do you want to die?”

“I'm not dying,” he mumbles. “I just need a Band-Aid and some whisky.”

Del snorts. “Yeah, right.”

While he's distracted, I slip the revolver from his waistband, set it in a drawer in the nightstand.

“It's okay,” I tell Del, giving her a cautionary glance. “We'll take care of him ourselves.”

She pauses, then nods. “Let's get to work, then.”

Turns out, Del is pretty handy. She has a kit in her van, from which she takes alcohol, thread, needle, bandages. She cleans the wound, sews it up. Erwin, laying on the bed, looks weak but seems to be coming around, watching Del as she ministers to him. “I'm sorry about your sister,” Del says quietly, as she tapes on strips of gauze. “Horrible thing to happen.”

Erwin grabs her wrist. “What?”

“Your sister — Karalee. She sounded like a good person.”

Erwin stares at her and there's a dangerous silence. I shoot a questioning look at Telson.

“She asked,” says Telson. “I couldn't exactly lie.”

I'm thinking bullshit — she's lied plenty since I've known her — but keep quiet, giving Telson my best frown; I don't want Del thinking I've been holding out, even if it is for her own safety. Erwin watches this little exchange. He's got Del's wrist in a tight grip, as if this gives him some control over the situation. I feel for him — I'd like a little control myself.

“Her father was killed by the arsonist,” Telson says defensively. “She has a right to know.”

“Shit,” says Erwin, looking at me. “You told her?”

Now it's my turn to get defensive. “She tortured it out of me.”

“Torture.” Erwin glares at me. “Now there's an idea.”

“You're hurting my arm,” Del says a little tersely.

Erwin looks at her, releases his grip. “Sorry.”

There's a moment of silence as Erwin regards the three of us from where he's sprawled on the bed. He looks disgusted, but he's outnumbered, injured, and doesn't have his gun, which he realizes as he runs his fingers down his side. The bloody fingers hesitate where the gun should have been and he cranes his neck to look at the floor. There's nothing there. He sighs, lays his head back, and stares at the ceiling, his jaw clenched.

“I had to tell her,” I say to Erwin. “I needed her help.”

“I don't like it,” he says. “Wasn't part of the deal. Too many people involved.”

“They're fine,” I say. “Besides, they don't know everything.”

“What exactly don't I know?” says Telson.

I shoot her a look — just back off. She frowns, her jaw set.

“Don't worry,” says Del. “No one's judging you. What you're doing is just agriculture.”

Erwin pushes himself up on his elbows, glaring at me, a vein bulging in his forehead. I have a sudden urge to be somewhere else. “You told them about the gardens!” he shouts, remarkably vigorous for a downed man. “Are you fucking nuts?”

“It's no big deal. Just relax.”

“Relax?” His face is red. “You better pray nothing happens to the rest of those gardens.”

Del places a hand on his chest, gently urges him down. Erwin resists, scowling at her. She smiles — a nurse's gentle smile — and he yields, lying back and making anxious, irritated sounds. I'm impressed. If the greenhouse doesn't work out for Del, she can always take up lion taming. Or work on a psych ward. “It's just agriculture,” she repeats softly. “Just growing plants. I'm in the same business. Third oldest profession. I've always wondered what it's like growing them, though — the marijuana. I hear they need a lot of moisture.”

Del's tone is soothing, almost cooing, and I'm worried this will backfire, but Erwin seems to relax. “Yeah,” he says distantly. “They're thirsty little buggers. Like a rich site too ...”

Telson and I watch, amazed, as they talk about fertilizer, transplants, hours of sunlight. Just two horticulturists, discussing their hobby. I crook a finger at Telson, motioning her outside. We walk around back. I sit on a picnic table, scattered with dead pine needles and, for a minute, stare at the trees. Like most men, I handle anger by bottling it up.

“What the hell happened to your buddy Erwin?”

I say nothing, just grind my teeth.

“Come on, Porter — this is serious. What happened?”

“It's always been serious,” I snap at her. “Something you seem to have forgotten.”

There's a tense silence. “You're angry with me,” she says. “Why?”

“Why?” I glance at her, then look away. “Why do you think?”

“You can't be angry about my talking to Del.”

“You had no right to tell her anything.”

“Really?” Telson walks around the table so I'm looking at her instead of the trees, props one foot on the bench seat. She's wearing steel-toed work boots. “It was her father, for Christ's sakes. Her father. She has a right to know about the fire, and who might have started it.”

“Of course she does. She's the reason I'm still here.”

Telson throws up her hands. “So, what's the problem?”

“The problem,” I say, a little icily so she'll know just how pissed I am, “is that I'm the one who should be telling her. It's difficult enough trying to run an investigation without resources. I don't need you complicating things. You told her who Erwin is, and Erwin is supposed to think you don't know what I'm doing. I made a deal with him, in order to get some information. Turns out the information was a little thin, but it's still a deal, my part of which was not to tell anyone for a few days.”

“You think I'm complicating things?”

“You broke my deal with Erwin.”

“You're the one who came crashing in with a gunshot victim.”

“I didn't have much choice. Unlike you. You could have stayed away from Del.”

Telson's body language becomes defensive. “Look, she came to me.”

“And you told her —”

“Of course I told her,” Telson says hotly. “We've both been talking to her about what's been going on. We went to the greenhouse together and talked to her about the gardens. Or don't you remember that I was there? Am I the third point in this triangle?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“So, now I'm being ridiculous?”

She's angry, but she's also hurt — I can tell by the way her chin dimples a little. It makes me feel cheap. “Look, Christina, the only thing between Del and me is this fire. This tragedy. You know what I thought of, when I was trapped in that little aluminum tent, surrounded by flames? I thought about you. What a fool I am for not being with you more often. I was thrilled when you showed up here, but this isn't the best place for you. Erwin is dangerous. He beats up people, sets booby traps, holds guns to people's heads. And he's on our side. It's the arsonist I'm really worried about. He's still out there and one woman is already dead — maybe because I tried to talk with her. You go advertising who Erwin is and now I have the safety of two women to worry about.”

“We're not exactly helpless, Porter.”

“This isn't about equality. This is about staying alive.”

We glare at each other. I was making progress when I was talking about the fire shelter, but now Telson is angry again. Her independence has been challenged — the ultimate insult. I should have known better than to let her become involved. The day she arrived I should have thanked her for her concern and sent her packing, but I wanted her here for my own selfish reasons.

“So that's it?” says Telson.

“I'm just worried about your safety.”

“Well, I'm worried about yours, so we're even.” This isn't a battle I'm going to win, so I retreat and we return to the >motel room. Before we go in, I grab Telson from behind, turn her around, and give her a hug. She resists for a few seconds — still angry with me — then yields, forming herself to the contours of my body.

“I'm sorry for yelling at you,” I say. She looks up at me. “I'm sorry you're such a bonehead.” “Now you're just getting mushy.” She gives me a squeeze, which hurts my cracked ribs. I try to make the grimace look like a smile and we go inside. Del is sitting on the bed, talking with Erwin. They both stop when we come in.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine,” says Del. “We were just discussing hydroponics.”

“I'm sure you were.”

“Where's my gun?” says Erwin.

“I don't know. You must have dropped it. I'll keep an eye out.”

He doesn't look like he believes me.

“I'm taking him to my place,” says Del. “He shouldn't stay here.”

I wonder how much Erwin told her. “You sure that's a good idea?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “I have some antibiotics. And he wants to see the greenhouse.”

I motion her outside for a minute. “I'm not crazy about this,” I tell her.

“He's okay,” she says, which makes me more worried.

“You don't know him Del, or who might be after him.”

“Don't worry.” She places a hand on my arm, which I carefully remove. Telson has followed us out and is watching. “He's just a big farm kid,” says Del. “An overgrown puppy.”

“He's a Rottweiler. You run into trouble, you call the cops.”

“I don't think he'll be any trouble. And it's just for a day or two.”

“Then send Melissa away with your aunt. Just for a day or two.”

Del nods, gives me a reassuring pat on the arm, and returns to the room. Telson stands on the sidewalk, her arms crossed, a worried look on her face.

“What happens in a few days?” she says. “After you've kept your part of the deal with Erwin. What then?”

“I don't know,” I tell her. “I'm not sure anymore.”