THE ROAD FROM SLOCAN VALLEY to Kaslo leads over rough mountain country, virtually uninhabited. I left the river in New Denver and immediately started climbing. The road wound up, narrow, sometimes treacherous, broken pavement bouncing my egg-shaped fiberglass travel trailer. Through mountains, the dense woods of Slocan Provincial Forest, the road followed first Carpenter Creek and then Kaslo River. In the gathering darkness, the gaping structures of long-abandoned mine shafts poked out of broken hillsides. It was an eerie drive. In places, heaps of black gravel and ruined shacks marked sites of ghost mining towns dating back to the boom times of the 1890s. Almost no traffic except for an odd truck. Just once I saw the still figures of an Indian woman and half-grown child standing by the road. So people did live here. A few, perhaps.
It was good to hit a rise and roll down into Kaslo. My tired, ocean-bred eyes travelled gratefully to the expanse of lake water where no trees or rocks interrupted their focus.
Kaslo is a small, pretty town. Streets of wooden structures, couple of hotels, grocery and hardware, a government liquor store, book shop and art gallery in a converted bank building. Small houses with country-size yards. A municipal campground and beach. And in a sheltered cove a marina full of boats. A pleasant mixture of the run-down old and the trendy new.
I parked and checked out one of the hotels. Had a beer, rested, took stock. Next day I just might find Ray, alias Carol Latimer. Give her the message I was being well paid to deliver and be on my way back to Vancouver. End of case.
On the other hand, perhaps Carol Latimer wasn’t Sara Ann Raymond. Or I couldn’t find her anyway. Or there would be complications. I decided a good night’s sleep would be in order. Didn’t fancy a dingy hotel room, not when I had that nice trailer at my disposal. But a shower would be nice. I asked the bartender about a campground with facilities.
He shook his head dubiously. Couldn’t say who would have showers.
“Most campers around here rough it. Try the Silver King Campground. They’re new. Over near the marina.”
Hour later I was comfortably settled on a sheltered site about 50 yards from a modern bathhouse, with hot water and showers. The campground was barely half-full. Some big RVs but mostly small trailers like mine, and tents. My only immediate neighbours were two men with a station wagon and a balky tourist tent they had some trouble pitching in the dark.
I decided not to bother with a campfire but to try out the shower and turn in. I undressed, collected my towel, soap and with a red jogging suit over my bare body, made for the bathhouse. Across the camp area bright flames of an enormous fire and the off-key voices of campfire vocalizers filled the night. I passed dark shadows of people walking their dogs or visiting from one site to another. A few said “good evening” or “good night.” Most ignored me.
The shower was wonderful. It had been a long day. Tense shoulder muscles relaxed under prolonged pelting with hot water.
Out of the over-bright bathhouse, I walked blind. I hadn’t brought a flashlight, trusting to the pale moon and the reflections of fires. My jeep poked its pork-like snout into my path. Behind it loomed the bulk of the Trillium. Suddenly a dark shadow moved into my field of vision, a figure sprang towards me.
“Hell! She’s back!” it cried in a carrying whisper. Simultaneously the door of the trailer opened and another figure emerged, running. Both of them, straight at me.
I didn’t have a chance but I fought back anyway. Just reflex action. Through the pain of blows I remember hitting out, connecting. One of them had me by the arm and was trying to wrench it from its socket. The other kicked. I couldn’t have lasted if my attackers hadn’t in turn been attacked. In seconds there were four men pummelling each other in the semi-darkness. I rolled under the jeep out of their way. My original attackers broke off the engagement and disappeared cursing and crashing through the bushes. They weren’t up to fighting an even fight. My rescuers pulled me out from under the jeep little worse for wear. They insisted I lie down on the pre-prepared bed in my trailer. I looked at them. My neighbours of the balky tent. In these cramped quarters they still looked like regular tourists. Having seen them in action I knew better.
“You all right? Hurt anywhere? I am Harry Tower and that’s Sid Bazerman.” This one was short, dark, in his thirties. Chinos and a check sports shirt. Sid was taller, thinner and a little older. Leisure pants, a polo shirt, a windbreaker. They seemed more pleased with themselves than concerned about me.
I tried to sit up, decided against it.
“I’ll live. But bruised. Thanks, you guys. Really, thanks a lot. They were about to stomp me into the ground. And my arm!” I fingered my left shoulder. “Ouch!”
“Did they steal anything?” Sid looked around the trailer. There wasn’t much to see but what there was was scattered all around us. The duffel with my clothes had been up-ended. All cupboards gaped open. Books, maps strewn about.
“Want us to call the cops?” Harry said with no conviction. They were both busily picking up my scattered bits and pieces.
“The Mounties? No. These guys are long gone. What I need is rest, not making a break-and-enter report. Thanks anyway.” I wanted them gone too. So I could think. Harry and Sid however were intent on ‘tidying’.
“Hey, don’t bother, really. I’ll do that in the morning. I don’t think anything valuable’s missing. Not that I have anything valuable. It’s OK.” It was no use. The Good Samaritans wouldn’t go away.
“No trouble, no trouble at all. Sorry we couldn’t hold them. Wonder what they were after? Seems unusual to burglarize a little trailer like this. Perhaps they thought you had a map to a lost silver mine? This area’s full of tales of lost lodes.”
“Yes, have you heard of the Roderick gold treasure trove?” Sid chimed in.
“Oh, is that what you two are here looking for? Treasure?” This really was adding insult to injury.
Harry answered with a straight face, “Yes, just for a gag. Sort of. To give our vacation a purpose, you know. Sid is recuperating after a bout in hospital so we thought we would come out here, get lots of fresh air, exercise and poke around a bit.”
“Well, you’ve had your exercise for tonight, that’s for sure. Thanks again. Goodnight.”
They weren’t very good at taking a hint.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
I nodded vigorously, which didn’t help the pain in my head.
“Yes, yes. A good night’s sleep. Be fine tomorrow.”
“OK then. We’ll go now. But we’ll be back in the morning. Check to see if you’re OK.”
“Yes, have breakfast with us.” This was Sid. “Harry makes mean pancakes.” Mean pancakes — just what I wanted right then!
“Great!” I pretended enthusiasm. “Love to have breakfast with you. Goodnight.” Anything to get rid of them.
“Good night. Better lock up behind us.” They walked clumsily out of the narrow door and waited outside. I staggered up and clicked the door shut. A child could open it with a nail file. Presumably a child wouldn’t try. Apparently satisfied, Harry and Sid went back towards their tent next door.
Peace at last.
I got myself a drink of water and a couple of codeine pills. Tried to sleep with little success. Sore arm or bruises didn’t keep me from it, it was my busy mind. Unfocused, it meandered over events. My trailer had now been searched by both the unidentified attackers and by dear Harry and Sid. Why? What could a woman have in a camp trailer that could so interest two separate parties? It’s nice to be popular. Sid and Harry had acted very cool indeed. Not at all the way regular tourists would go about rescuing a female in distress. Had that lump under Sid’s windbreaker been a gun? Did they really intend that bizarre treasure trove story to be believed? Did the original searchers mistake my campsite for Harry and Sid’s? No, that didn’t scan. “Hell, she’s back!” one of them had said. They knew whose trailer they were turning over. Back to Harry and Sid. A map? If not of the preposterous lost treasure, then of what? Map, map — Dean had marked my government survey map of the area with directions to the all-women commune. I was going there tomorrow to find Ray, or news of her. I sat up suddenly. Were all those assorted dudes also looking for Sara Ann Raymond, alias Carol Latimer? It seemed safest to assume so. But why would they need to pulverize my trailer? The map wasn’t hidden. And it couldn’t be the only source of information. Perhaps they were also curious about me. Who I was, what I was doing. That made some sense. Only clues, aside from the map, were in my wallet. My private investigator licence and the snapshot of Ray. It had gone with me to the bathhouse. I concentrated on recalling whether Harry and Sid had a chance to go over it. Yes, sure. One of them had collected my belongings from under the jeep and brought them into the trailer. I picked up my wallet. Contents were intact. Again, the safest assumption was that my rescuers now knew who I was. And possibly, just possibly, knew of my interest in Ray. And the attackers? Probably didn’t have any more than when they started. Except they might assume that Harry and Sid were my backup. That we were in it together, whatever ‘it’ was.
How did they, any of them, know where to find me? If they knew my jeep and trailer, it was easy. I had parked on Kaslo’s main street, in front of a hotel. Harry and Sid had to have checked into the campground right behind me. And the others? Either they too were campers, or more likely they followed me here, parked outside, wandered around the site making like campers, spotted me on my way to the bathhouse and took the opportunity to ransack my rig. All well and good. But where had I been picked up originally? At ARC, talking to Matakoff? The Coop? Along the river road where I’d talked to a half-dozen random people? Dean. He was the most likely contact. He’d wanted me to stay the night. He could be in with either my helpful neighbours or my faceless attackers. In which case .…
Midnight musings by a groggy mind in a bruised body tend to lead round in circles. No way of telling whether I was right about any of it. Guesses. Just guesses. Finally the codeine took hold and adrenalin left my blood stream. I felt one thing for sure. The case wasn’t going to be over tomorrow. I would get to earn that $3,000.