One Careless Moment (20 page)

Wolverine keeps going, gets behind me, which makes me nervous. I turn, try to keep them both in view, but Wolverine knows the dance, keeps a step ahead. Sasquatch scowls.

“How do you know about the gardens?”

I back away, try to sound calm. “It wasn't that hard to figure out.”

Sasquatch points the coach gun at my belly. “You made a mistake, showing your face.”

“Listen, I'm just investigating —”

Sasquatch nods and Wolverine grabs my arms, pinning them behind my back in a way that quickly becomes uncomfortable. Sasquatch gets very close, the muzzle of the gun presses against my belly.

“You should have stayed away,” he growls. “Don't you know this place is cursed?”

“It's cursed, all right,” I say, grimacing, wondering if I can shake Wolverine, make a run for it.

“Then why'd you come back?”

“Whoever started the fire killed a man I'm responsible for. And probably Karalee.”

Wolverine tightens his grip, giving my back a jolt of pain. “How do you know my sister?”

“I don't,” I grunt, trying to keep my breathing even. “But I owe her. She helped me. A couple of guys jumped me. Would have finished me off if she hadn't stopped them.”

The Sasquatch inspects the stitches on my face, the bruising on my neck, as though I'm an injured horse. It's a toss-up between shooting me and seeing if I'll still be of some use. He nods thoughtfully but doesn't remove the muzzle of the gun from my belly.

“Why would she help you?”

“I think she knew who started the fire, and was scared.”

The Sasquatch stares at me for a painfully long second, during which my heart thumps in my ears and I'm convinced he's going to pull the trigger. Then he steps back and lowers the gun, nodding toward his son. “Let him go.”

My arms are released. “What did she tell you?” says the Sasquatch.

“Not enough.” I test my arms, line them up with my shoulders.

“Why do you think she knew who started the fire?”

“For the same reason you do.”

They look confused, and it occurs to me that they don't know who started the fire, which might explain why they were so suspicious when I mentioned the gardens — they probably thought I was trying to extort them. They might, however, have some idea why the fire was set. I take a step back, so I can keep an eye on both of them. “I know you're growing marijuana in the canyon, and I have no issue with that. I'm also pretty sure you picked this area because of the curse, so people would stay away. My only interest is finding who started the fire. If we know that, we may also find who killed Karalee.”

“Yeah?” says Wolverine. “How you gonna do that?”

“With your help. No reason we can't co-operate. We want the same thing.”

Wolverine sniffs, wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I doubt that.”

“I give you my word I'll say nothing about the gardens.”

“What if we just send you off with a load of buckshot in your ass?”

“You may never find out what happened to Karalee.”

Sasquatch and son walk a dozen yards away, confer in whispers, glancing at me. From the trailers, grubby faces watch from behind grubbier windows. There might be a dozen or more people here, judging from the line of laundry sagging at the edge of the wellsite. Father and son give me a hard look. I'm sure it's occurred to them that getting rid of me is the safest way to protect their gardens and I glance toward the Cornbinder, wondering how quickly I could cover the distance, fire her up and back down the trail. What I'm counting on is that they're not really killers — that their earlier threats were based on their suspicion that I might be involved in whatever transpired in the past. Wolverine seems to be doing most of the talking now, glancing toward me and gesturing with his hands. His father listens, scratching under his beard. Finally, he nods.

As they walk closer, I catch a few whispered words.

“— damn well better ...”

They stand in front of me, give me foreboding looks.

“Okay,” says the Sasquatch. “But we call the shots.”

“Not a chance. That'll never work.”

Their eyes narrow. Their stances become more aggressive. I try not to look at the gun.

“You're not the reason I started this investigation,” I tell them. “And you won't be the reason I finish it. I'm here to find out who started the fire. I can promise you I won't mention that you're growing dope, but you gotta understand that as soon as the sheriff 's people connect you to Karalee, and they will, they'll be up here asking questions. You've been here long enough that people will have seen Karalee leaving town, getting dropped off at the motel. How do you think I figured it out? All I'm offering is a chance to help find her killer while you collect what's left of your crop and get the hell out of here.”

The men stare at me, livid, jaws clenched.

“You can deal with me, or you can deal with the cops.”

Wolverine looks at me in wonder, waits for his father's reaction. The Sasquatch frowns, thinking, tapping the muzzle of the shotgun against his leg. He chews his lower lip, glances around at his ramshackle kingdom. The trailers. The wellhead, sprouting hoses like a plant putting down roots. No doubt he's reluctant to leave such a well-serviced site, but he has to know the end is near.

“Okay,” he says finally. Wolverine looks disappointed.

“Pa, I don't think we should —”

The Sasquatch turns on his son. “Shut up, boy! I have to think of us all.”

Wolverine obviously has more to say, but bites his tongue, glaring at me.

“You got three days,” says the Sasquatch, pointing the gun at me like a teacher might point a yardstick. I nod and he lowers the gun, gestures toward his son. “Erwin will fill you in. But there's a condition.

Non-negotiable. I don't know you from a hole in the ground, so I'm sending Erwin to be your right hand. Consider him your partner for the next three days.”

Erwin's eyes widen. “Aw, come on, Pa!”

One look from the Sasquatch silences him. Erwin sizes me up, scowling; he doesn't look impressed. Neither am I — he'll be like taking the proverbial bull into a china shop. Hopefully, he can tell me enough of what's going on to make this worthwhile. I don't have much choice, if I want answers.

“All right, I'll take him with me. But he's gotta behave.”

The Sasquatch looks amused. “You two will get along just fine.”

Erwin gives me a wicked grin. “Let's get to work ... partner.”

On the drive down from the wellsite, Erwin lays it out simply enough. Someone wants them to sell their crop at a ridiculously low price — the plight of farmers everywhere. Unlike other farmers though, they don't have to — they have their own sales department.

“Really?” I'm impressed. “Isn't that a little unusual?”

Erwin shrugs. “We don't like middlemen.”

“So you run the whole show yourselves?”

“Pretty much,” he says, glancing out the window at the fire camp.

“I think I ran into one of your salesmen the other day.”

“I doubt it. We don't sell around here.”

“No? Why not?”

He looks at me with disdain.“Never sell where you're growing, man.”

The kid at the gas station must not have read the rule book. “So where do you sell?”

Erwin gives me a look that clearly indicates this is not up for discussion. I gear down to let a lowboy pass, crawling up the hill. The fire is in mop-up stage now, the flame gone. Nothing to do but wander the black, looking for any coals that might still burn in the ground or under some root. Boring, tedious work. On any other fire, most of the manpower and equipment would have been released by now, but there are still plenty of men in yellow Nomex fire shirts wandering the burn; dozers and water trucks neatly lined up in camp. This isn't just a fire, this is a media event, and although it's too late, the Forest Service wants to look like they're throwing everything they have at the beast. As if that might somehow compensate for what happened.

“How does your sister fit in?” I ask Erwin.

He shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “She wanted to work in town — didn't like staying at camp very much, which is okay, because we can always use more bread until the crop is ready.” He's silent for a few minutes, staring out the window as we grind down the long, winding trail to the Blood Creek Road. I don't press, let him tell the story in his own time. He shifts again, sighing heavily, his shoulders slumped. “They used Kar,” he says finally. “They must have figured out she was with us, and used her to deliver their message. Bastards. They didn't have the balls to come face us.”

“You never met them?”

“No.”

“You have no idea who they are?”

Erwin gives me an evil look. “If we did, they wouldn't be walkin' around.”

He falls silent again, morose. He's a big kid, wide in the shoulders, with a dangerous air about him, but he's subdued right now, grieving for his sister. This might make him more talkative. Or he could just withdraw.

“How did they contact her, Erwin?”

He looks at me suddenly, frowning, trying to cover the emotion I see written in his features.

“Notes,” he says. “Or on the phone. They never contacted her directly.”

“You believe that?”

“What do you mean?” This time, his frown is sincere.

“Well, it might be a little difficult to deal with these people if you never meet them. How were you supposed to sell them your product? I mean, we're talking some volume here, I'd assume, or it wouldn't be worth their trouble. What are you guys growing? A couple of tons?”

Erwin gets a suspicious look. “Yeah, maybe. Something like that.”

“You weren't going to just leave the stuff in a drop box for them to pick up, were you?”

Erwin's expression grows cold — he doesn't like being challenged. He's about to say something when we come around a corner at the bottom of a hill. A vehicle is parked at the junction with the Blood Creek Road. It's the rent-a-cop and, although he couldn't care less who we are, the uniform clearly makes Erwin nervous. The guard nods as we drive past. Erwin doesn't nod back.

“Relax, Erwin. Act natural.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not that natural.”

The sun is out again and it's dry enough that we kick up dust on the Blood Creek Road. Erwin is kneading his knuckles, rolling them back and forth, like he's impatient to hit someone. Since I'm the only one within range, this is not a good sign. “You think Kar knew who these guys were?” he says.

“Maybe. What do you think, Erwin? You think she killed herself?”

He scowls; the scowl goes good with the heavy sideburns. “No. She was pretty together.”

“So she was murdered. Why would someone do that unless she were a threat?”

Erwin massages his knuckles a little more furiously for a moment, then swears and thumps both fists on the dash, hard enough to make something crack. The gas gauge on the Cornbinder flickers, then begins to rise. Erwin's fixed it, and I have a full tank. I suppress an urge to share this good news.

“Sons-a-bitches,” Erwin says through clenched teeth.

I wait some time before saying anything, let Erwin cool down. He's slumped in his seat, his jaw clenched. “Okay,” I say cautiously. “If we assume she knew who was moving in on you guys, she might have given you a clue. She might have let something slip.”

Erwin looks at me, his expression blank.

“Did they talk specifics? Prices? Harvest date? Where the drop was going to be?”

He shakes his head. “No, man, we never got that far.”

“Why not?”

“Because we told them to screw off.”

Apparently, Kar passed on the message verbatim. “How soon after this did the fire start?”

He thinks, massaging his knuckles again. “About a week.”

“Did you have any contact with them in the interim?”

“Yeah. They sent a message, through Kar.” He hesitates, frowning, perhaps wondering how things might have been different. “They said that if we didn't deal with them, we wouldn't be dealing with anyone.”

“How did they contact your sister?”

“By phone. At work.”

We think about this for a few minutes as the gravel road unwinds ahead of us.

“Erwin, they didn't wipe out your entire crop, did they?”

He hesitates. “We got some left.”

“So you still might be able to deal with them.”

He looks at me like I'm crazy, then nods slowly, comprehension dawning. “Yeah, we could deal with them, all right. Then we might be able to figure out just who the hell they are.”

“Now you're catching on.”

“Except for one thing,” he says quietly. “Kar is gone.”

He's thinking what I am: if they killed Kar, they've covered their tracks and no longer want to deal. With Brashaw's death, this isn't just arson, this is homicide — they hadn't planned on anyone dying. So they cut their losses and have probably vanished.

“Erwin, who could know you're growing?”

He shrugs. “Hard to say.”

“What about your customers?”

He gives this some thought. “That's a long ways away.”

“Could your competition have followed you? Figured out where you're growing?”

“Maybe,” he says. “But anyone could have stumbled across one of our patches. It can happen anytime. Hikers. Hunters. Timber cruisers. It's an occupational hazard.”

“That's why you chose this canyon? Because of the curse?”

“Yeah.” He rolls down the window, spits. “Not that it helped much.”

“They'd have to connect the pot to you guys,” I say. “And know it was worthwhile.”

Erwin thinks about this, but no further information is forthcoming. We're on the highway now, the grip tires of the Cornbinder humming. Erwin stares blankly at the road. I think furiously about what to do next, but when we reach town, I'm no further ahead.

We drive around for a while, talking, then go see the clerk at the Paradise Gateway Motel. She's an older lady with thick glasses and a thicker waistline — the same clerk the night I checked in. She peers over her glasses at me. “Ah — the elusive Mr. Johnson.”

Erwin gives me a puzzled glance. “The name is Porter Cassel,” I say, trying to look friendly.

“Yes,” she says. “I know. I saw you on Channel Seven.”

I nod, drum my hands on the counter. “You've had a bit of news here lately too.”

“Oh — yes.” Her wrinkled face looks concerned. “That poor girl.”

“A horrible thing,” I say, glancing at Erwin. He's standing beside the counter, looming like an approaching hail storm. I give him a subtle gesture to back off. He hesitates and I repeat the gesture, not quite as subtly. After a threatening look, he wanders away, pretends to read a bulletin board. I return my attention to the clerk.

“Were you working last night?”

“Uh huh.” She's watching Erwin. Even at a distance, he makes people nervous.

“Do you run the switchboard as well?”

“Yes.” She looks at me. “I do just about everything here. Why?”

“I was wondering — when someone calls, do you manually transfer the call to the room?”

“Yup.” She glances at a call transfer phone board, just under the lip of the counter, almost out of my view. “I just pick up the phone, like any regular call. They ask for the room number and I hit transfer, key in the room. Then I hang up.”

“Do you have call display?”

“No. Are you working with the police?”

I hesitate. Sometimes it's best to let people jump to conclusions.

“I thought you might be,” she says. “When they said your name was Mr. Johnson —”

I look appropriately solemn. “Last night, did you transfer a call to the girl's room?”

“Yes.” She leans forward, lowers her voice. “Are you undercover?”

I return her whisper. “If I was, I couldn't tell you.”

She glances at Erwin. “And that gentleman?”

“Deep, deep undercover.”

She's impressed. I give her a stern look. “What can you tell me about that call?”

“Well, not much,” she says regrettably. “He just asked for the room number.”

“It was a man's voice?”

She nods.

“Do you ever listen in, when you're bored?”

“Heavens no,” she says, looking shocked.

“Pity. Can you see the pay phone in the lobby from here?”

She glances toward the lobby, shakes her head.

“Anyone unusual come through last night?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Karalee Smith — did she get a lot of visitors?”

The clerk adjusts her glasses, thinks about this. “No — not really. She was pretty quiet. I don't think she went out much either, spent a lot of time in her room, studying. She told me she wanted to be a teacher. She was taking courses, you know.” The clerk gives me a meaningful look. “She was quite a determined young lady — I can't believe she would have done that. Just doesn't seem right.”

“Did you hear any ruckus last night?”

“No,” she says, without hesitation. “Police asked the same thing already, this morning, and I've been thinking about it ever since. I seen her, you know, lying there on the bed, all messed up. The chambermaid found her, young kid, was pretty upset. Karalee was helping her with some schoolwork. Summer classes. That's why she was by so early in the morning. Hit her pretty hard.”

“What do you mean when you say she was all messed up?”

“Threw up all over herself,” she says, shuddering. “Awful mess.”

There's a sudden, uncomfortable silence. The clerk glances away, out a window, frowning. I'm frowning too. Vomiting is the body's way of purging poisons — I've had enough hangovers to confirm that — and it seems odd she died after purging her stomach. Then again, I'm no pathologist, and I make a note to look into this. Maybe someone loaded her up again, for a second round. Erwin stands by the bulletin board, arms crossed, staring at us. I give him a cautionary nod. Reluctantly, he turns back to the board.

“What time did the chambermaid find her?”

Quarter past six,” the clerk says mechanically, then gives me a sharp look. “Shouldn't you know this already? I talked to the police this morning.”

“I know you did,” I tell her, thinking fast. “And I read your statement. We just like to confirm what people tell us.” The clerk gives me an offended look. “Just to check if you missed any details,” I add quickly.

“In case you might have thought of something you hadn't previously mentioned.”

“I see,” she says, nodding gravely. “No — that's about it.”