The Cardinal Divide Read Online Free
room. Before he strode purposefully through the front doors, Cole had done a quick visual sweep of the room to determine any initial threats. Now he made a careful assessment of each table, scanning for faces he might know, friendly, or more importantly, otherwise.
Cole Blackwater had his reasons: in more than fifteen years of activism, he had made his fair share of enemies. He prided himself on being aggressive and uncompromising in his approach to conservation. And while he wasnât troubled by the politicians and corporate executives that heâd taken to the mat over their plans to clearcut some swath of ancient forest or to bore into the side of a sacred mountain in search of precious metal, he did worry from time to time about the unstable sorts.
Though heâd been called every name in the book by yahoos and goons in the newspapers, on television, and face-to-face at blockades and rallies, he worried more about the quiet powder kegs waiting to explode, and that he might be the match it took to ignite them. He worried about the disgruntled and possibly mentally unstable mill worker, longshoreman, or miner angry that radical environmentalists had stolen his job to save some âitty bitty spotted owl.â
Blackwater didnât buy that bunk; he saw it for what it was. It was tough to explain his point of view: that corporations who raped the land and the seas cut and run when the profit margins grew thin, leaving entire communities in the lurch. For every hundred honest fellows who toiled in the mill or the mine or on a boat week after week and year after year to put food on the table for their families, there were always a few angry, frustrated sods who looked for an excuse to mash someoneâs nose or stomp their face.
So Blackwater had got in the habit of scanning the crowd whenever he entered a public house, looking for likely candidates for trouble. Cole knew he was recognizable â for fifteen years his face had been on the evening news. His enemy wasnât. In the last couple of years he had begun to regard nearly every stranger asa potential foe. In the grocery store, standing in line, he regarded his fellow shoppers with suspicion. On the SkyTrain an innocent jostle made Cole Blackwaterâs six-foot frame stiffen and prepare for a blow.
Cole Blackwater was growing paranoid.
But Coleâs surveillance wasnât driven purely by fear. He was an opportunist as well as deeply suspicious. Cole also scanned rooms like the rocking Cambie for a little sport. While all men were potential adversaries to Cole, he regarded all women as potential conquests.
At thirty-seven Blackwater wasnât the catch that he once was. His nose, broken twice in high school, was bent awkwardly to the left, the result of too many right roundhouse punches. His once slender and well-muscled body had grown soft over the last ten years. Truth be told, thought Cole, while Ottawaâs pace had been gruelling, it was Vancouver that had put the nail in his once limber and lithe corporeal coffin. It wasnât for lack of opportunity for fitness, Vancouver having one of the most active populations in the country. No, it was a lack of will. Cole Blackwater had lost his resolve to keep himself up.
Scanning the room and feeling fleshy, a Paul Simon song played in Coleâs head: âWhy am I soft in the middle now, the rest of my life is so hard?â
Cole grimaced. Even if he did face trouble with a few thugs or, more optimistically with a skirt, he wasnât sure he was up to the challenge anymore.
It wasnât only the lack of time on the trail, in the mountains, or on the rivers that had softened Cole Blackwater. It wasnât the years that heâd been away from the gym. It wasnât the time. It was the miles. It was the many, many miles that had turned Cole soft. He finished his ale, disgusted with himself.
He shook his head a little to slough off the feeling. Straightening, he took comfort
Cole Blackwater had his reasons: in more than fifteen years of activism, he had made his fair share of enemies. He prided himself on being aggressive and uncompromising in his approach to conservation. And while he wasnât troubled by the politicians and corporate executives that heâd taken to the mat over their plans to clearcut some swath of ancient forest or to bore into the side of a sacred mountain in search of precious metal, he did worry from time to time about the unstable sorts.
Though heâd been called every name in the book by yahoos and goons in the newspapers, on television, and face-to-face at blockades and rallies, he worried more about the quiet powder kegs waiting to explode, and that he might be the match it took to ignite them. He worried about the disgruntled and possibly mentally unstable mill worker, longshoreman, or miner angry that radical environmentalists had stolen his job to save some âitty bitty spotted owl.â
Blackwater didnât buy that bunk; he saw it for what it was. It was tough to explain his point of view: that corporations who raped the land and the seas cut and run when the profit margins grew thin, leaving entire communities in the lurch. For every hundred honest fellows who toiled in the mill or the mine or on a boat week after week and year after year to put food on the table for their families, there were always a few angry, frustrated sods who looked for an excuse to mash someoneâs nose or stomp their face.
So Blackwater had got in the habit of scanning the crowd whenever he entered a public house, looking for likely candidates for trouble. Cole knew he was recognizable â for fifteen years his face had been on the evening news. His enemy wasnât. In the last couple of years he had begun to regard nearly every stranger asa potential foe. In the grocery store, standing in line, he regarded his fellow shoppers with suspicion. On the SkyTrain an innocent jostle made Cole Blackwaterâs six-foot frame stiffen and prepare for a blow.
Cole Blackwater was growing paranoid.
But Coleâs surveillance wasnât driven purely by fear. He was an opportunist as well as deeply suspicious. Cole also scanned rooms like the rocking Cambie for a little sport. While all men were potential adversaries to Cole, he regarded all women as potential conquests.
At thirty-seven Blackwater wasnât the catch that he once was. His nose, broken twice in high school, was bent awkwardly to the left, the result of too many right roundhouse punches. His once slender and well-muscled body had grown soft over the last ten years. Truth be told, thought Cole, while Ottawaâs pace had been gruelling, it was Vancouver that had put the nail in his once limber and lithe corporeal coffin. It wasnât for lack of opportunity for fitness, Vancouver having one of the most active populations in the country. No, it was a lack of will. Cole Blackwater had lost his resolve to keep himself up.
Scanning the room and feeling fleshy, a Paul Simon song played in Coleâs head: âWhy am I soft in the middle now, the rest of my life is so hard?â
Cole grimaced. Even if he did face trouble with a few thugs or, more optimistically with a skirt, he wasnât sure he was up to the challenge anymore.
It wasnât only the lack of time on the trail, in the mountains, or on the rivers that had softened Cole Blackwater. It wasnât the years that heâd been away from the gym. It wasnât the time. It was the miles. It was the many, many miles that had turned Cole soft. He finished his ale, disgusted with himself.
He shook his head a little to slough off the feeling. Straightening, he took comfort
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