One Careless Moment by Dave Hugelschaffer

the Forest Service in Alberta.”
    â€œYes, I’ve heard about you,” he says ambiguously, which makes me a little nervous. “I’ll be interested in your observations regarding the origin, since there doesn’t seem to be any physical evidence remaining.”
    It sounds vaguely like an accusation but I let it slide.
    â€œWhat about the burnover itself?” I ask. “How is that investigated?”
    â€œThere’ll be an entrapment investigation team,” Noble says, craning his neck — he’s getting a kink from looking over his shoulder. “They’ll try to determine exactly what happened; identify the contributing factors. I’ll serve as liaison, but Mr. Grey here will be the lead.”
    Grey doesn’t say anything and we ride in silence for a few minutes.
    â€œHave you had any contact with the Forest Service in Alberta?” I ask Noble.
    He nods. “Our director called your director.”
    I think about Gil Patton, Provincial Director of Forest Protection. With his blood pressure, this might kill him — I’d have two bodies on my hands. Maybe by the time I return, he’ll have calmed down. Maybe I’ll just move to the Caribbean and sell T-shirts on the beach.
    We turn off the highway onto a secondary road, pass a log-building company with several partially constructed houses in their yard, and a small sawmill. We turn down another narrower road where a sign announces Lakeside Estates. Carson Lake flashes through the trees as we pull into a meandering driveway. Log cabins are set amid towering ponderosa. Lawns are manicured and there’s a private beach. This is definitely a step up from the Paradise Gateway Motel. We park in front of a cabin, beside another unmarked minivan and a sheriff ’s blackand-white.
    Inside, it’s obvious the cabin is being used as an operations centre. Maps are tacked to the walls, the fire boundary, origin, and fatality site marked. Photographs are pinned to a portable corkboard, images I’d just as soon forget — a bit of a contrast to the homey, fishing-lodge atmosphere of the room. We pull out chairs around a wide dining-room table. The chandelier is made of artfully interlaced elk horns. Paintings of serene mountains hang on the walls. The domestic splendour does little to quell my nervousness as we sit down.
    â€œWe’ve got a few things to discuss,” says Castellino. “We’ll try to keep this informal.”
    He pulls a mini-cassette recorder from an inside suit pocket, sets it on the table, the microphone pointing at me. Noble, Haines, and Grey all have pads of paper in front of them, pens poised to take notes. It looks like Castellino will be the ringleader.
    â€œLet’s start with the origin,” he says. “What was your first indication this was an arson?”
    â€œI found a fusee cap,” I say, staring at the tiny recorder.“It was along the road, a short distance into the trees, as though someone tossed it as they ran to their vehicle.”
    â€œDid you encounter any vehicles on your way in?”
    â€œNothing after we left the highway.”
    â€œWhat about vehicle tracks?”
    I shake my head. “The road surface was very hard. And our own vehicles didn’t help.”
    Castellino frowns. He’s short and swarthy, with black hair going grey, receding at the temples, and a thin, fifties-style moustache.
    â€œDid you search further up the trail?”
    â€œNo. I was a little busy.”
    Noble looks at Grey. “Where does that road lead?”
    â€œGoes another ten or fifteen miles, then dead-ends.”
    â€œSomeone said there were people living up there.”
    Grey doesn’t look terribly impressed. “Bunch of old hippies.”
    â€œDo they have a lease or something?”
    â€œYeah, right,” Grey snorts.
    â€œYou’re just letting them squat up there, on government land?”
    â€œThey dragged