The Cardinal Divide (29 page)

“Build the road and even the rail line to make it look like the mine is proceeding and then cut bait and head out of town, leaving five hundred men out of work, and the town reeling from the loss of its biggest employer,” added Cole.

“And blame us for it,” said Dale.

“That's right,” said Cole quickly. “Pin the blame on the local environmentalists so the company could say they tried to build the mine but the tree-huggers and fish kissers got in the way.”

“That would make you part of their plan, wouldn't it?” said Dale, with the first smile of the day.

Cole pursed his lips into a smile and nodded, resigned. “I guess it does.”

The room was silent as Cole and Dale regarded each other across the table.

“Nice theory, gentlemen. But I want to remind you that Mr. van Stempvort is under arrest for murder,” said Reimer. “We're not here to investigate some kind of income trust fraud.”

Cole inhaled and was about to retort, but Perry Gilbert silenced him with a hand on his arm and a quick glance. “Dale, you've been in Oracle for a long time,” he said.

“Fifteen years now.”

“Given this new piece of information, who do you think would want Mr. Barnes dead?”

“What's the current population of Oracle?” he asked, deadpan.

The Sergeant escorted Perry and Cole into her office after the interview with van Stempvort.

“Because you're new to murder investigations, Mr. Gilbert, I am going to remind you that your job is to defend your client against the charges laid, not open your own investigation into murder.”

Cole interrupted, “Don't you think someone should actually investigate who killed Mike Barnes?”

“That, Mr. Blackwater, is exactly what the
RCMP
is doing. We have our suspect behind bars.”

“You have a scapegoat behind bars.”

“Mr. Blackwater, you are treading on very thin ice right now. I'm warning you for the last time not to interfere with a murder investigation.”

Perry Gilbert interrupted. “Can I ask a couple of questions without everybody getting all upset?”

Reimer sat back in her chair. “Ask.”

“I'm told that Mr. Barnes kept a handwritten appointment book. Mr. Blackwater says that he saw Mr. Barnes referring to it the afternoon they met. He says he saw his own name in it, and that Mr. Barnes noted that he had another meeting that night, and that it too was written in the journal. Have the
RCMP
determined the whereabouts of this journal?”

“Mr. Blackwater didn't mention this journal in his first visit to us, but Mr. Barnes' secretary told us about it. She says Mr. Barnes kept it on his desk, and that when she made appointments for him she had to go into his office to check availability and to write the appointments in. She says he often took it with him in the evenings when he left for town.”

“Have you found it?”

“No.”

“So it's missing?”

“Yes.”

Perry sat back in his chair. “Don't you think that's an important piece of evidence?”

“We do, Mr. Gilbert. We're looking for it.”

“The murderer's name is likely written in it for all the world to see,” said Cole.

“Maybe.”

Cole exhaled loudly and sat back too.

“Another question, if I may” said Gilbert, leaning forward. “Have you got the results back from the tests on the possible murder weapons?”

“Not yet,” said Reimer.

“What's the hold up? Doesn't this usually only take a day?”

“We have a drill bit with hair, blood, and a trace of bone. That we know for certain. What we don't know is if it's the murder weapon,” said Reimer.

“How big a bit?”

“It's a twenty-pound bit used in open-face drilling.”

“Fingerprints?”

“None. But it seems likely that the suspect would have used gloves.”

“Have you recovered these gloves?”

“We have found a number of pairs of gloves in Mr. van Stempvort's possession that are being tested.”

“When will you get the results?”

“Later this week.”

“I want to be notified when the results are back, please.”

“Yes. Anything else?”

“Where was the drill bit found?” asked Cole.

“It was on the shop floor, just inside the main loading bay for the mill.”

“Was there a lot of blood?”

“There was enough.”

“I'd like to have a look at the scene, Sergeant. Can you arrange that?” asked Perry Gilbert.

“Sure. There's an officer on the scene. I'll radio him and let him know that you'll be coming. When?”

“This afternoon. I understand that Dale is to be remanded to the provincial facility at Red Deer on Wednesday, and I'd like to clear up any further questions by then.”

Wednesday, thought Cole. To the big house on Wednesday.

“Site rules will be in effect, Mr. Perry. You're not to touch anything. Am I understood?” Reimer looked specifically at Cole.

“Understood,” said Gilbert. He rose and led Cole to the door.

They agreed to drive to the mine separately and meet at the mill. Cole had to collect a few things from his truck and Gilbert needed to check in with his office. Cole headed down Main Street on foot. It was midafternoon, springtime in Alberta. The sky above was clear and blue, but Cole noticed a faint halo around the sun. Sun dogs were the harbingers of stormy weather. Sometime in the next few days it would rain. Or worse.

Cole saw his truck ten paces ahead when he heard his name spoken. He tensed as he turned, and expected another attack.

“Cole Blackwater,” the man repeated.

Who was he? His voice sounded familiar.

“You don't know who I am, do you?”

Cole shrugged, removed his hands from his pockets. The man was of average height and build – Cole guessed welterweight at best – with a face like a basset hound. It was broad daylight on Main Street, but after the week Cole Blackwater had endured in Oracle, he would rather be safe than sorry.

“I know who
you
are, Cole,” the man said. He wore a plain brown jacket, clean blue jeans, and a red checked shirt. A notebook was tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt.

“You got me, mister,” said Cole, “but if it's all the same to you, I'll be getting along.”

“Still playing reporter, Cole?”

“Drewfeld?”

“That's right. Richard Drewfeld,
Red Deer Advocate
.”

Cole turned to leave. “I don't have time for games, Mr. Drewfeld.”

“You had plenty of time for games four days ago.”

“Well, things are more serious now.” It was the second time he'd issued that refrain.

“You sure seemed to enjoy games three years ago.”

Cole stopped as if he'd hit a wall.

“Not having fun anymore, Mr. Blackwater?”

Cole stood still. His vision narrowed. Things in his peripheral vision dimmed. It was always like this. The adrenaline forced its way through his system, alerting all of his muscles that they would shortly be called into service. His heart beat faster, his lungs expanded, his senses became more acute. It was always like this right before the fight.

Cole took a deep breath and forced his throat open so that when he spoke he wouldn't sound panicked or anxious. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not long enough for you to have learned your lesson, obviously.” Drewfeld seemed to enjoy this. Baiting him. And Cole was falling for it.

“I've learned to leave the past in the past.”

“Apparently not. Lying seems to be the one thing that you're good at Mr. Blackwater, of Blackwater Strategies, West Cordova Street, Vancouver. I checked you out. Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think that because I'm a rural newspaper man that I don't have access to sources? After I tracked you down online – it was very clever of you to take your web site offline last week when you put on your disguise – I tracked down much of your information through provincial registries. After that it took me five minutes to find out that Blackwater Strategies has all of two paying clients. Two. What kind of strategist are you?”

Cole smiled. “I'm focused,” he said. If Drewfeld didn't know that his second client, a small First Nations group on the central coast of
BC,
hadn't actually paid him in a year, he wasn't going to point that out to him.

“You're a flop, Blackwater. Three, four years ago you were a rock star. Big ego. Big name. Always on
TV.
Fighting the good fight. Then you fucked up, didn't you? Lied to
The Globe and Mail
. Got caught. Got fired.”

“I've paid for that,” said Cole.

“Not dearly enough. You swagger into town here, all bluff and bravado, and you think because you're a big time, big city consultant that you know how to run the table, so you pass yourself off as a reporter. Did you not think that people wouldn't see through that?”

Cole took a deep breath. His mind was racing. How much did Drewfeld know about Ottawa? He'd seen this before. He was being lured into saying more than he should to fill in the gaps in the reporter's story, and he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't reveal anything.

“Didn't you think that the people you planned to interview would do some background research? Hell, I even got a call from one of them to ask if I knew you. When you called me to ask about
my source I already had my suspicions. But now I see that your habit of lying has landed you in hot water before. You can't hide in the age of the internet.”

“This has been fun, but I really should be getting along.” If Drewfeld knew about Nancy Webber, he was either not saying, or waiting for the right moment. One way or another, Cole would do nothing to compromise her. Not anymore.

“Funny how things just go around in life,” said Drewfeld, pleased with himself.

Here it came.

“The reporter you lied to, and got fired from a plum job in Ottawa, lands in Edmonton, and finds herself in Oracle, Alberta, writing about a murder that one of your clients committed.”

“Is alleged to have committed,” Cole corrected him. “Dale is innocent. You'll be eating crow in a week's time. This whole town will be.”

Drewfeld grinned. “We'll see. First you were a reporter, now you're a
PI
. That will make good copy. Care to go on the record, Mr. Blackwater?” The reporter mockingly pulled his notepad from his pocket.

If Richard T. Drewfeld knew the depth of his relationship with Nancy, he didn't let on. Maybe he didn't know. It was never published in the press but it was common knowledge on the street.

“Like I said, I've got to be going.” Cole turned away from the man and began to walk. The adrenaline petered out; his limbs were weak. Was he even walking straight?

“I'm not done with you Cole,” called Drewfeld. “I'm just getting started!”

Things were unravelling, and fast. It was only a matter of time. Drewfeld would learn that Cole and Nancy Webber had an affair, and that pillow talk that led to the now infamous story, printed in
The Globe and Mail
. That story had resulted in the loss of their jobs, and contributed to his year-long estrangement from his daughter Sarah. The mistakes of our past are always there, he thought. They lurk in the darkest corners, wait to reappear, and slide up to us like an unwelcome suitor. Of course, it doesn't help if you don't learn from the mistakes, thought Cole. It doesn't help if you just keep making those mistakes over and over again.

And now that the spotlight was on him, thought Cole, were his other secrets safe?

He opened the door to his truck and got in, rolled down the window, and took a deep breath before turning over the ignition.

How much time before Drewfeld learned the truth about him and Nancy? It was only a few days before Dale van Stempvort was transferred to Red Deer, where he would be held in protective custody awaiting his preliminary hearing. Time was running out.

Cole Blackwater needed a drink. He needed a half dozen, but would start with one. He steadied himself with hands on the steering wheel, closed his eyes, and let the adrenaline drain away.

His drink would have to wait. He wanted to see the place where Mike Barnes was killed, and he was late for his rendezvous with Perry Gilbert. But he would reward that wait richly when he had done his work.

He mounted up and drove out of Oracle, turning south along Route 40, the rough, winding gravel road that snaked between foothills, following the valley of a tiny creek over a saddle and down into the next valley. The road was wide, but harrowing in places where blind corners and steep hills hid what was around the bend. Several times Cole gripped the wheel as a much larger pickup truck barrelled around the turn and slipped over the middle of the road into his lane. The encounter with Drewfeld had eviscerated him. How could he get through the rest of the day? Now he met the deluge of traffic as miners were coming off shift, making their way back to Oracle. Giant Ford
F
-150s and
F
-250s. Chevy Tahoes. Dodge Ram 2500s. Explorers and Renegades and the occasional brutish Expedition. None of them cost less than $40,000 and they were all, with a few exceptions, brand new. No dinky Chevy
S
10s among them. And few imports. Cole's pint-sized, aging Japanese truck was seriously inadequate in this company.

Cole considered slaking his thirst with a soda in Cadomin, but Perry Gilbert was likely already waiting for him.

As Cole approached the mine gate, he recalled his first visit to the site. Mike Barnes had still been a healthy, clean cut, neatly dressed young mine manager, whose body must now be on its way back to Toronto to be buried. That thought led him to consider the man's family. Cole Blackwater felt more sympathy for Barnes' family than he did for the man himself. Barnes had likely never missed a trick; probably found a lover wherever he went. He'd cut a swath, Cole guessed, everywhere he ventured. Nancy would dig up rumours of infidelity in the other communities Barnes had lived in. One thing was for certain: Mike Barnes had cut a swath through Oracle wide and deep enough that somebody, for some reason, had killed him.