Day Into Night Read Free Page B

basis, but Arthur had plans for his daughter. Hanging around with a member of his staff, ten years her senior, was no way to get ahead. He talked to the university, convinced them to let Nina return, but her reluctance had increased. We had secretly become engaged. Arthur knew little of what was going on and it was exciting, sneaking around, sharing clandestine hours together in my trailer or at a campfire by the river. But it was also frustrating, and one day, dressed in a spare uniform, she came to work with me. We avoided the office, went together on a timber harvest inspection. I was to pass her off as a visiting ranger. A little harmless fun. A way to spend the day together.
    Turned out, it wasn’t so harmless.
    At the logging camp, I parked the truck out of sight next to an idle feller-buncher. The logging foreman knew Arthur, so Nina remained in the truck while I went into the office trailer. Events after that are a little blurry. There was a loud thump from outside and someone came into the trailer, yelling about an explosion. I ran outside, expecting someone had been smoking too close to a fuel tank, but that wasn’t it. The feller-buncher next to my truck was on fire, flames shooting from severed fuel lines and hydraulic hoses, engine compartment peeled open. Through smoke and rippling heat, I could see Nina sitting in the truck as if nothing had happened. I assumed she was in shock, stunned by the explosion, as the truck was only yards from the burning machine. I had to get her out but couldn’t get close enough. Men were dancing around, spraying with small fire extinguishers from their trucks. Finally, one of the men ran across the yard, started up a big loader and pushed my truck safely past the burning machine.
    I was the first one to the truck. The driver-side window was shattered, glass tinkling as I wrenched open the door, and I remember asking Nina if she was okay — her eyes were open but not moving. Then I noticed the back of her head was soaked with blood, matting in her dark hair.
    “Just hold still,” I told her. “You’re going to be fine.”
    After the autopsy, they told me she was killed by a tiny piece of metal no larger than a pencil eraser. A bomb had destroyed the feller-buncher, planted by an ecoterrorist who called himself the Lorax. He’d been in the papers for years, bombing logging equipment apparently at random, but had never killed anyone. Not until that day, three years ago.
    That was his last bomb. They never caught him.
    As for me, I resigned, moved my office to a bar in Edmonton until my savings expired. My sister took me in, cleaned me up, told me to get a job. An old friend in the Forest Service took pity on me and I became a seasonal fire investigator. The dress code was casual — coveralls but no uniform.
    Now, the last thing I need is a reminder from Arthur Pirelli.
    After the fire, I have to get away from everything connected with the Forest Service. I take my old Land Rover for a drive. From Fort Vermilion, I go south then west toward Dawson Creek. From there, I just keep going.
    Music has always been my drug of choice. Turn it up loud enough and you don’t have to think. Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Dylan, T-Bone Walker, Hendrix. At Dawson I turn north onto the Alaska Highway, switch tapes, drink a few Jolt colas, have a dozen cups of coffee. No sleep, no thinking, just music, driving and caffeine. By the time I reach Fairbanks 2,000 miles later I’m exhausted, empty and numb. But salved.
    Two days of sleep in a motel and I’m ready to head back.
    The trip south doesn’t require music. I’ve travelled far enough that distance serves as a proxy for time, separating me from Arthur Pirelli and Malostic’s questioning look. I’m content to listen to the hum of my tires, watch the endless green forest slide past.
    When I finally reach home, my sister’s place in Edmonton, my credit card balance has grown, fed on gas station bills, but I’m back to level. I pull Old