One Careless Moment by Dave Hugelschaffer Page A

was careless enough not to wear gloves. Aslund nods but doesn’t say anything and we continue down the trail.
    â€œYou’re a fire investigator?” Aslund says, walking beside me.
    â€œYes. I have a contract with the Alberta Forest Service.”
    â€œYou get many arsons up north?”
    â€œToo many,” I say, thinking about the previous summer. “What about you guys?”
    â€œNothing like this,” he says, echoing Grey’s comment.
    â€œNo fusee fires?”
    He shakes his head. “This is the first wildfire arson around here in years.”
    â€œYou have any idea why someone might want to start a fire here?”
    â€œNot yet,” Aslund says with a half grin. “But I’m working on it.”
    At the road, we’re mobbed by firefighters from Brashaw’s crew. They’ve been monitoring the radio and know the fatality must be their leader. They want details. More information doesn’t always make it easier but I tell them most of what happened. They’re suddenly silent, listening to me, the horror of it clear on their faces. This is every firefighter’s worst nightmare and they stare at their boots, scuffing dirt listlessly.
    â€œI’m sure it happened quickly,” I tell them. It’s not much, but it’s something.
    â€œDon’t tell anyone,” Aslund cautions. “We’ve got to notify the family first.”
    â€œThis is going to kill Del,” says a young firefighter with long hair.
    â€œDoes this mean we’re going home?” asks another.
    We push through the crowd, leave them to discuss the day’s events. It doesn’t take long to find where the game trail leaves the road and we follow it into the burn. I stop once or twice and look around to be sure we’re on the right trail. We seem to be, but I can’t see any ribbon.
    I pass the spot I’m sure was the origin and stop.
    â€œWhere is it?” asks Aslund.
    â€œI don’t know,” I tell him, looking around. “It was right here.”

3
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    THE FIREFIGHTERS, WITH nothing to do but work the tail of the fire, have progressed farther into the black than usual, mopping up the area to keep busy. Commendable behaviour, except they have obliterated the origin — sprayed it down and trampled the area with bootprints and hose drags — which is odd; in the openness of the burn, the pink fluorescent ribbon should have shone like a beacon. Wind might have blown down the ribbon, but this seems unlikely as I tied it tightly to the hardened branch of a burned tree. Even if the ribbon was lost for some reason, there should still be the hard, white slag tubes from the fusee; they’re not water soluble. But there’s absolutely nothing here.
    â€œMaybe we’re at the wrong spot,” says Aslund.
    I don’t think so. There are enough burned trees that look the same to create some doubt as to exactly where the ribbon was tied, but I’ve got a good memory and this is definitely the right area. I look around, trying to remember where I found the fusee slag. There has to be something left.
    Aslund shifts beside me, getting impatient. “Let’s look around some more.”
    â€œNo, it was here.”
    The firefighters chewed up the ground pretty good with the high-pressure hoses. I landmark at a bend in the trail, walk a dozen paces, squat on my haunches and inspect the ground, looking for flecks of white. “I’m positive it was right here.”
    Aslund stoops over me. “What exactly did you see when you found it?”
    â€œThree or four slag tubes,” I say, pointing, as if that might help. “Some fine fuel residue.”
    He waits a moment longer. “I’m going to look around a bit more.”
    While Aslund prospects in the burn, I examine the immediate area more carefully, working in a grid pattern. I start well back from where I think the origin was, walking slowly and studying