Day Into Night, page 3
“When did it happen?” Out here, it seems okay to talk about it.
“Shift change,” he says. “Between 10:30 and 11 last night.”
“He’s switched to night operations.”
Carl nods, chewing his lower lip.
“What’s the damage?”
He shrugs. “Three pieces. Probably worth about a million and a half.”
The sun creeps above the jagged, snow-covered horizon of the Front Range, brushing the clouds orange and pink. All heads turn to watch the show and for a moment talk ceases. It’s a little like morning prayers but no one’s lips are moving. The colour begins to fade as the sun climbs above cloud level. Prayer time is over, for most anyway. I’m saying a little invocation before asking the question that’s been on my mind half the night.
“Anybody hurt?”
Carl looks away, toward the trees. “They’re not sure.”
“Not sure? How can they not be sure?”
My voice is a helium octave higher and a few men glance in my direction. Carl swallows, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing like a gopher peeking out of a hole. He’s nervous, doesn’t want to freak me out. It’s a little late for that. “I was talking with Casey,” he says. “A lot of explosives were used. Apparently, there isn’t much left of some of the machines.” He pauses, the unsaid message hanging heavy. What if there was someone in one of the machines? “That’s why the cops want help,” he says.
“To find the pieces.”
Carl nods.
“But they have no reason to believe anyone was hurt,” I say hopefully.
“They found someone’s truck,” Carl says, rubbing a bony finger under his nose. “Near one of the machines. Of course, it could just be a coincidence. You know what these logging operations are like — trucks all over the place. Someone drops his truck off for later, gets a ride back. Or it breaks down. It could be anybody’s truck.”
He’s trying hard to reassure me, but I don’t much believe in coincidence anymore — not the type that brings good news anyway. Carl falls silent, gives me a sympathetic look. I’ve seen him once in the past three years, at a fire, and our previous nights talkativeness has thinned. It’s easier to just lean on our familiarity. He makes a big production of sitting down, shifting a loose log on the deck as he gets comfortable, begins to desecrate his lunch box. Fredricks ambles over, the clipboard tucked under his arm, looking important.
Carl pauses, lowers his sandwich. “So what are we waiting for Case?”
The big guy rolls his neck like a wrestler getting ready for a match, gestures toward the trailer. “More cops, some guys from Major Crimes up north. Same guys who’re investigating the other bombings. The local boys want to wait until they get here.”
The other bombings. A memory fades in like a scene change in a bad horror movie. I’m sitting on the metal steps of a trailer, shivering as much from shock as cold. A stranger leans too close, asking questions. Why did I park there? Did I notice anything unusual? Did the girl work for the Forest Service? Why was she dressed like that? It’s taking all of what little control I have left to pretend I’m listening as I stare at the stranger’s big nose, grey eyes and the coarse, aging flesh of his cheeks, touched pink from the cold. My attention is riveted on details, unwilling to face the bigger picture. Finally I can no longer stand the look of the stranger’s face, the tone of his questions —
“Porter, you okay? You want a sandwich?”
Carl is offering me tuna salad on rye, his generic solution for life’s little problems. This one’s going to take more than tuna salad. I shake my head and look at Fredricks. “You know any of their names?”
“Who?”
“The investigators from up north.”
Fredricks looks down at me and frowns. He gains a few chins.
“Andre Rachet?” I prompt.
“Yeah, maybe. I think I heard that name.”
I shake my head and sigh. Fredricks looks at me a little harder, glances at his clipboard as if to assure himself that I should be here. Apparently satisfied, he wanders off. Carl gives me an understanding glance as he lights a smoke. There’s a quiet moment, then the door to the trailer opens and three cops get out. The Mounties look us over, go to their car to make a call on the radio, then stand apart from the rest of us and talk. One of them is an older guy with greying hair and his life’s savings hanging over his belt. The other two are younger: one dark-haired, the other blonde and thinning. I stand and edge closer, until I can hear what they’re saying. They’re talking local shop, biding time until the boys from Major Crimes get here. The older guy looks over at me. Not wanting to be conspicuous, I retreat. Good doggie. I sigh and sit beside Carl on the log deck, stare at the trees.
“I shouldn’t have called you,” he says. “Dredging up all those memories.”
He’s watching me like the night nurse on a psychiatric ward.
“I’d have heard about it anyway.”
“Sure. But it wouldn’t have been as bad as actually seeing it.”
Interesting theory. I offer him a conciliatory smile to let him know I’m holding up. But I’m not sure I am and wonder again what I’m doing here. Facing my demons? Or maybe I’m just a sucker for punishment. Maybe I need punishment.
Carl looks toward the road and a few seconds later I too hear the approaching vehicle. It’s a white car, an RCMP cruiser, and everyone watches it roll slowly to the barricade like a parade float. The engine’s so quiet you barely notice when it’s shut off. The door opens and three men get out. They’re older men, steely grey bristle visible below their dark blue hats — the weary, serious faces of old soldiers. I’ve seen them before, shared hours in a small room, sweating as they ask me questions I didn’t really want to answer. The most pointed questions came from the senior of the three, a tall man with a prominent hooked nose and dark suspicious eyes. Sergeant Andre Rachet. He’s grown a moustache since the last time I saw him, giving him the distinguished look of a general. Or maybe it’s just the way he carries himself. He scowls, takes a minute to look around. When he sees me, his scowl deepens and I look away. Then his back is turned and he’s talking to the other cops. They move toward the trailer and motion us over. I stand at the periphery of the crowd, try not to stare at Rachet as he opens the proceedings.
“Thank you for coming. I’m not sure what you’ve heard but we’ve had a bit of nastiness last night.” Rachet’s manner of speaking is succinct and, with its light French accent, almost formal. “What we know so far is that someone was in here and blew up three pieces of logging equipment — a grader, a feller-buncher and a Cat. A lot of explosives were used and there are pieces everywhere. Our job this morning is to find all the pieces. The scatter pattern will help determine the amount of explosive used and where it was placed —”
Rachet looks us over as he talks. He’s all business, laying it out quickly, and I feel a surge of hope. Maybe this time they’ll find who did it. But my hope ebbs. In the three years since Nina’s death, the cops have had no suspects.
Rachet holds up a jar, filled with loose bits of metal and wire. “Some of the pieces may be from the device itself. It’s important to know if you think you’ve found a piece of the device.” He shakes the jar, rattles the contents. “These are examples of what you might find — bits of blasting cap, wire, fragments of casing — so have a good look. If you find anything like this, you will plant a red flag.” He holds up a long wire pin with a square of red plastic on the end — the same sort of marker oil and gas companies use to mark their seismic shot holes. “If you find a piece of the machine or anything foreign to the forest environment, you will plant a yellow flag.”
The jar is handed to me and I turn it over, look at the bits of metal, the snippets of coloured wire. They could be the remnants of someone’s stereo. But I can’t help wondering if they’re from an actual crime scene, if they killed anyone. If they killed Nina. I pass the jar to Carl.
Rachet continues. “Remember not to move or touch any object you find. Mark everything with a flag, including cigarette butts and pop cans. Do not drop anything at the crime scene. No smoking. No blowing your nose and dropping the tissue. Be careful, watch where you step.”
Carl drops his cigarette, grinds it out under his boot.
Rachet turns to the other cops. “Anything more to mention?”
They look at each other, shrug. One of the local Mounties points to a man in the crowd. “Maybe I’ll just introduce Al Brotsky.
He’s the harvest supervisor for Curtain River Forest Products, and he’s the guy who discovered this mess. He’s familiar with the layout of the area and he’ll be helping to coordinate the search.”
Brotsky glances around, nods briefly. He’s tall and wiry, looks to be about 45 and in good shape. My immediate impression is he’s a serious guy, the type you don’t want to piss off at the bar. But then again, he’s got every reason to be serious this morning.
“We ready to head up?” asks Brotsky.
“Yes, in a moment.” Rachet looks us over. “One more thing. There is a vehicle parked at the crime scene. We’ve been unable to locate the registered owner.” He pauses, lets this sink in. His next words are slow, deliberate, and cause an unpleasant clench in my gut. “If you find anything of a potentially human nature, you will mark the location and immediately notify one of the members.”
There’s a respectful silence.
“Okay.” Rachet nods, purses his lips. “Let’s head up to the site.”
The cops will only allow two vehicles at the crime scene. We climb into the back of two four-wheel-drive pickups, hunker down on wheel wells and spare tires. The logging road from the valley is narrow and, at this time of spring, rutted and potholed. Squatting in the box of the truck, gripping the rail and hoping the next bump on the road doesn’t buck me overboard, I’m filled with a nervous excitement, like I get on the way to a fire. But there’s fear too, of stepping into a memory best forgotten. The truck hits a bad uphill stretch and we all brace ourselves. Carl grimaces, his posture tense, his jaw clenched. Behind him, vertigo presses as grey tree trunks and green branches ripple past. Someone yells and points. On the side of the road is the first victim. The frame of the grader is black and still smoking.
The truck ahead of us pulls over but we rattle past.
The Cat is the next casualty, parked downhill on a half-constructed road, its engine shroud blackened and askew. But the dozer is a big chunk of iron and is in better shape than the grader. We thump past, up a long grade, around a corner and into a clearcut on the side of a steep hill. The valley drops away to our left and we have a panoramic view of forest canopy, pocked with clusters of cutblocks like pieces missing from a jigsaw puzzle. In the distance, as though cut out of white paper, is the jagged profile of the Front Range. The truck abruptly slows, throwing us off-balance, comes to a halt in the middle of the clearcut.
Show time. We jump out of the truck box, look around. Centre stage is what remains of the third machine and for a moment there’s a graveyard hush. A feller-buncher is a big piece of equipment. It sits on a metal track, like a tank, has a large engine, an enclosed cab for the operator and a long arm on which is mounted a heavy saw and grapple. This machine is capable of consecutively severing up to a dozen trees before its grapple is full and it must lay the bunch of trees on the ground. In the years I’ve worked with the Forest Service I’ve seen hundreds of these machines, but it takes me some time to make a positive identification. The cab and a good portion of the engine are missing. What remains of the engine shroud has fist-sized holes through it, the quarter-inch steel plate is curled back like burnt paper. The heavy arm lies twisted on the ground. I look past the smoking metal rubble for what I know I’ll find, and when I see it an apprehensive tingle goes up my spine. Spray-painted in fluorescent-orange letters on the branchless lower trunk of a large pine, clearly visible, is the single dreaded word.
LORAX
I’m overcome by a rush of bizarrely conflicting images — a little orange cartoon character popping out of a stump clashes with the frozen, questioning look on Nina’s face. My throat cramps painfully and it becomes hard to breathe. Dark splotches invade my vision and I squat on the dusty clay of the road, rock forward and use a hand to steady myself. Rachet is saying something but his voice is hollow, metallic, as though he’s shouting from the top of a deep shaft, and I close my eyes for a minute. When I look again, Carl squats in front of me, a worried look etched in his face.
“You okay, Porter?”
I nod, take a few deep breaths, stand slowly, rubbing my palms on my jeans. I’m nervous and it shows. Several members of Search and Rescue are watching, waiting to test their first aid skills. The way I’m feeling, I hope they know cpr.
Rachet is frowning. “Perhaps you should head back.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine, just missed breakfast.”
He watches a minute longer, as if I might collapse, then turns his attention elsewhere, begins to organize the searchers. I stand with the men as he gives instructions I barely hear. My gaze drifts back to the tree at the edge of the cutblock, to the bright slashes of orange paint. The killer has chosen as his mascot a character from a children’s book. The Lorax is a furry little guy who laments the cutting of his Truffula Trees by a faceless character named the Once-ler. Naturally, the Once-ler gets carried away and cuts all the trees, pollutes the environment and has a change of heart only when his empire collapses. The moral of the story is clear, but I don’t think Dr. Seuss had this in mind.
Rachet gestures toward the blackened machine, points to a perimeter marked with yellow plastic flagging, like a makeshift volleyball court. The clay within is scorched, covered with a dusting of fine ash. “That yellow line around the machine is the blast zone — we won’t be searching there. Forensics will do that. So don’t cross it. Constable Lutz will give you your flags and then we’ll establish a pattern and begin to search. Remember, take your time, watch where you walk and mark everything foreign to the forest environment.”
This morning, we all look pretty foreign to the forest environment.
“Where do you want my men?” says Fredricks.
“We’ll start here.” Rachet points to the yellow line. “Work our way out.”
Fredricks nods, takes charge of his men, his pudgy face intent and serious. “We’ll split into two groups — one uphill and one down. Standard search pattern. Complete coverage. Try to stay about six feet apart from your neighbour. Get your flags and let’s get started. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Rachet gives me a quick glance as he walks past. I want to follow him, ask him a few questions about this bombing, but I might be pushing my luck. No doubt he’ll want to talk to me later anyway, ask why I’m here. I go to Constable Lutz and get my flags: a dozen yellow and three red.
The feller-buncher sits at the side of the road, midslope in the clearcut. I pick the more difficult downslope area, where the incline is steepest and there’s a thick mat of logging slash. It’s more likely something will be missed here. And I don’t want anything missed.
I line up between Carl and Brotsky. We begin to search.
Close to the blast zone, there are a lot of big pieces. A section of exhaust pipe. Part of an engine shroud, curled like a cinnamon stick. It seems silly to mark such obvious pieces but I mark them anyway and slowly move down the slope.
One step. Scan. One step. Scan.
Farther from the blast zone, the pieces of metal are smaller and less frequent. Pretty soon I go several yards without seeing anything; I backtrack, just to make sure. The logging slash — broken deadwood, branches and treetops — is a foot deep and it would be easy to miss something small. I want to lift the slash out of the way, pile it to the side, but if we started that it would take a month to clear the area. I lift a branch and peer beneath. There’s a small piece of glass down there. I stick a yellow flag in the ground, keep looking. Forty yards farther downhill, the clearcut hits dense timber and I stop. Should I go in? I decide to finish working my sector of the cutblock and start up the hill, six feet to the side of my last pass.
The grade is steep and I stop for a breather, watch the others.
Searchers cautiously pick their way across the green slash-strewn slope, their heads down, a bouquet of flags held at their side. Everyone has developed his own pattern and our tight formation is disintegrating. It’s going to be a long day; we’ll have to go over this slope a few times to make sure none of it is missed. I begin to work my way up the slope.
My hope is that if I focus on what I’m doing I might be able to stop thinking about the last time I was part of a scene like this. But my thoughts drift back and despite myself I begin to compare. The similarity of both incidents has drawn me here so I look for the differences, hoping they’ll somehow make this easier. With Nina, it was winter and the machine was parked close to a logging camp, not on the side of a sunny cutblock in spring. Compared to the blast that killed her, this one was a nuclear explosion. But here at least, no one was killed and this difference is the most reassuring. Then I remember the truck — the missing registered owner — and glance toward the road. The truck is hidden by the swell of the slope. Carl sees me pause, ambles over. “You’re walking kinda funny.”
“New boots.”
He nods, balancing on a log as he opens his jacket. The early morning cool is gone and we’re all overdressed. Clothing has been abandoned all over the cutblock, propped on sticks like deflated scarecrows. A scent of warming pine sap mixes with the smell of burning hydraulic hose. The valley below is a trough of fluorescent green so bright it hurts my eyes and I glance uphill, toward the wreck where Rachet stands and watches. I feel like I’m dreaming.
“You finding much?” says Carl.
“Not for a while. You?”
He shakes his head, gazes toward the edge of the cutblock where the forest has been sheared away, leaving a wall of grey, branchless trunks. I catch flashes of colour as searchers move through the timber. We need another dozen men or we’ll be here for days.
