Halfway through her soaps, she got the call. The same voice telling her they had business. Something they wanted her to do.
Setting on the Revlon wig, looking a long way from the Ashika that topped the most-wanted list, she walked north on the 97, heading back to Canada.
The white-haired guy at the Texaco smiled as she walked up — a woman alone — said he was Chuck, pumping diesel into the Omak seniors’ bus, leaning his freckled arm on the pump. She said she’d walked out on her last job in Seattle and decided to just head east, asked about a lift, anyplace away from here. Chuck said he could give her a lift as far as Oroville. Happy for the company.
The gift of the gab, Chuck said he was taking the old girl for fresh gaskets and oil, talked about his missus with the two first names, just won a pie-baking contest, asking if she had a special beau. Told him the last man she got close to, she left with a broken heart. Didn’t mention she put a knife in it. Not much luck with men.
Rolling along the 97, Chuck switched the talk to fishing for smallmouth, the best thing in the world next to a good woman, just relaxing the heck out of life. Said she ought to give it a try. Explaining the characteristics of largemouth and small-, told her what a wobbler was.
Fields, farmhouses and silos. At the Welcome to Oroville sign, route 97 called itself Main Street, and Chuck shoved the stick to low gear, the transmission grinding as he shifted. Low buildings, fresh whitewash on the Methodist church, a dancehall of tin siding looking like a hangar, a couple of trailers lining an empty lot. A banner declared a burn ban was in effect, dating back to last fall. The posted speed limit was thirty-five. Across a tilled field another rooster crowed, the only sign of life.
Clicking on his blinker, Chuck pulled up in front of the Main Street Garage, stirring up dust. A dog of mixed ancestry got on its legs and stiff-walked over, its tail wagging.
“That’s Rexie,” Chuck told her, stepping down and patting the mongrel, pointing her to the Chinese place across the way, place called Lily’s Kitchen. “Could do worse than Lily’s for grub. Coffee’s best in town.”
Ashika didn’t see anyplace else, asked if he was hungry, her treat.
“Another time maybe.” Clapping his stomach on the double helping of his wife’s flapjacks, Chuck said, “Woman drowns them with Log Cabin. Never could say no to it.”
Saying she couldn’t blame him, telling him so long, she crossed the empty two-lane, had the early-bird special at Lily’s. The bean-curd cookies in the dish by the cash were dry as crumbs, Ashika washing them down with the takeout coffee. No sign of Chuck at the garage across the road when she stepped out, Rexie lying by the doors, the seniors’ bus inside, the tail end sticking out.
Walking the shoulder of the 97, feet killing her in the Burberrys, she kept on till she saw the signs for the duty-free shop up ahead, the border crossing beyond that. Cars lined and waiting. Turning off the road, she skirted an alfalfa field, kept from the farm buildings, crossed more fields and stopped at a stand of trees, hunched against a trunk. She rubbed her feet. They were bleeding in a couple of spots. She ate the last of the bean-curd cookies and caught some rest.
The chill had set in and the sun dropped down by the time she crossed a fallow field, following a tree line, moving through rows of what she guessed was a vineyard, dusk closing around her, the temperature dropping, the cold biting at her.
Back on Canadian soil, she took a side road to the outskirts of Osoyoos, her teeth chattering. Dark by the time she made town. Signs with arrows pointing out some fast-food joints and a 7-Eleven next to a Petro-Canada.
Going in for a wrapped egg salad, she ate and washed it down with more coffee, the guy behind the register making tourist talk, Ashika warming up, saying she was just visiting friends, waiting for a ride. Then, going around back, she called the number she’d been given, the voice telling her to sit tight. She waited in view of the gas pumps next door, the Dumpster smelling of garbage, offering little shelter from the wind.
. . . SUMMER GIRL
Rubbing her arms, shivering, Ashika watched cars and trucks pulling to the pumps, people climbing in and out, filling up, swiping their cards, some going inside, then driving off. Nobody paid her any mind.
She didn’t go into the 7-Eleven again, couldn’t risk drawing attention. Squatting behind the Dumpster, she peed on the blacktop. No tissues in her bag.
The sign at the edge of town boasted that Osoyoos had the warmest welcome. The place was dead. And cold as hell for August, Ashika wondering if Flutie Al-Nabi was hiding in a place like this, her partner running off after she stuck the knife in the cop, the other cop gunning down Baldie Jones behind the Jesus Factory. The papers made it sound righteous, calling it in the line of duty, Ashika hearing the shot that put Baldie down, his hands cuffed. The one she stabbed, Rene Beckman, had a gun in his hand. Gun against knife. She saw the man’s eyes again, remembering how she drove the blade, a look like he was surprised. His breath snagged, his body going limp.
Sometimes she wondered if he still saw her eyes like she saw his, wondered if he relived the knife going in. How that felt. She had shot other men — but something about doing it with a knife, it stayed with her.
A red BMW with the top down pulled around the pumps, eased along the side of the 7-Eleven, stupid country music thumping like it had a pulse. The blond kid behind the wheel bopped his head, shades on in spite of it being night, going for a Hollywood look. Had to be Axel Busch, the name she was given.
He watched her get in the passenger side, her hand on the bag.
“Should have come up with a line to say,” he said. “You know, some kind of code.”
“I know who you are.”
“Not a bit like you look in your mug shot, topping Canada’s most wanted.”
She shut the door, switching off the music.
His smile faded, the woman turning off Johnny Cash, the Man in Black, middle of singing about the beer he had for breakfast. Letting it ride, Axel noted her hand on the bag.
“Guessed you’d have more of an accent,” he said, moving the shifter and rolling the Beemer around the pumps, checking his gauge, still had better than half a tank.
“Didn’t guess you at all,” she said.
He rolled to the exit, told her to snap on her seatbelt, switching the radio back on. Johnny Cash finishing up, Axel saying, “If you want to play with buttons . . .” Pointing. “That one’ll put some heat on your seat. Take the chill off.”
She settled back, bag in her lap, pressed the seat heater.
“So, you go by Camilla, huh?”
“You know I do.”
“You want a coffee or something before we go?”
She shook her head, Axel pulling to the road, slowing for a Camaro of teens whizzing down the main drag, a blonde girl whooping out the top of the sunroof, long hair streaming, the kid driver tromping the pedal, leaving an inch of Daddy’s rubber on the asphalt, signs of nightlife in Osoyoos.
“Camilla, yeah, that works,” Axel said, pulling into a lane. “Got a kind of Grace Jones thing, the dark skin, but with red hair. Not the way I pictured a terrorist chick would look.”
That got a bit of a smile, Ashika looking at this boy playing man in a car his daddy bought, the dark shades, the little beard on his chin moving like wheat in a breeze.
“I’m Axel by the way,” he said, offering his hand, still sour about his old man handing him the gopher job. This woman turning out cold as winter.
“Know who you are. How about putting the roof up?” Her hand stayed on her bag.
He slowed, pressed a button and put up the top. Not a bad move considering he was aiding a fugitive. Adjusting his speed, he kept an eye on the rearview, driving the industrial outskirts of town, tapping his fingers on the wheel, Hoyt Axton singing about greenback dollars.
“Don’t need your hand on the bag,” he said, “’less you’re gonna shoot
me for playing country.”
“I’ve killed for less,” she said, setting her bag on the floor.
Tom T. Hall followed Hoyt, singing about things he loved. Nothing like the Sufi music she grew up with.
Axel kept a check on the rearview, nobody on the highway this time of night. Glancing at her, he said, “Ought to give country a chance. Never know, might grow on you.”
. . . LITTLE ON THE SIDE
It woke him. The same dream, Beck on that loading dock behind the Jesus Factory, feeling the knife going in his chest. He remembered those dark eyes.
Beck lay there, listening to the sounds of the marina at night, his body wet with sweat, his heart racing. Told himself he was okay.
Looking over at First Light, no light on in Hattie’s cabin. His cell was on the ledge, next to the bottle of Johnnie and the pistol. Could call her again, see where it went. The two of them toying with each other since she walked out on Tim the bailiff, guy who worked rent distress. Could ask her to put on the kettle, step across the dock, her drinking tea, him with a scotch. Have a good time.
Should be thinking about the guys who jacked his boat, ones who tried to kill his mate, mistaking him for Beck. Reaching for the bottle, he guessed they’d be back. Do it right the next time. Could call Danny Green, get him to file a report. Taking a drink, he considered his play. The sub would be long gone, but he could look up the tug, pay the captain a visit, get it straightened out. Another drink and his thoughts drifted to Vicki, on board the anti-whaler waiting for a name, pressed tight on Jimmy’s bunk. Beck had his shot back in that cove, nearly there. He took another pull, his mind back on her in the raspberry thong. Then he was drifting back to sleep.
. . . FRENCH LEAVE
Thrashing around in the reeds barefoot, his boots back on the gravel by the Town Car, jeans rolled up, Regular Joe was bitching to Billy Wall, saying he should be inside drinking, blaming the Mexican for starting all this shit in the first place. Getting no argument out of Billy.
Rudi came out the back of the lodge, hunting rifle in his hand, telling them to check around the cabins, the cartel guys out front, going up the road, their flashlight beams cutting through the brush. Rudi going close to the old Lincoln, looking at Ramon lying dead and face down. Stabbed by Diego. Wasn’t good enough that Rudi smashed his hand with the pipe. The Mexican and his man out there now, hunting the kid.
Eddie stayed low. No way he wanted to end up like Ramon, bleeding out on his cheap vinyl, the Town Car sticking from the ditch a hundred feet from where Eddie hid. Eddie guessing Diego followed his uncle out, stuck the knife in him. Creeping away through the marsh, Eddie made for heavier cover, getting himself close to the line of cabins, cradling his busted hand. Bugs buzzed, drawn by his heat and sweat.
“Where are you, you little fuck?” Regular Joe called, twigs snapping by the marsh, his flashlight sweeping along the drive, shining along the back of the lodge. Billy Wall searched the edge of the marsh north of the Town Car.
If Eddie stayed where he was, they’d find him. Ducking under cedar boughs, he crept through brambles, thorns ripping at him, Eddie careful not to make a sound. Easing toward the last cabin, guessing Rudi would figure he headed for the Crowsnest, making his way to Hope.
Twenty yards between him and Regular Joe, the biker bitching about his bare feet on the gravel, Billy throwing him his boots, Joe stumbling around, stamping his feet into them, walking the drive to the first cabin, clomping around inside, then moving to the next one, Eddie getting as low as he could.
Checking the cabins, two in the middle where the cartel guys were staying, Joe came back along the drive, saying to Billy, “Fucker’s halfway to Timbuk-fucking-tu by now.”
Rudi made a call, knew a guy with a hound, cradling the rifle, saying to Joe and Billy, “You two take care of that.” Meaning Ramon and the car in the ditch.
“You asking or telling?” Joe said.
“Asking. No need telling what happens if that kid makes it to the cops,” Rudi said, swinging the barrel across his shoulder. “Fuckers’ll be here with their probable cause, and we get nailed with over a ton of shit out back. We’re all staring at a lifetime stretch, and you get to explain it to High Side.” High Side not known for his gentle nature.
Scuffing his boots in the gravel, Joe turned to Ramon’s car, asking, “You got a spot in mind?”
Rudi saying over by the Tunnels, same place they buried the native guy who crossed them a couple of years back, Ramon could keep him company under the trees.
Leaning against the Town Car, Billy pulled out his cell, guessing he better give an update, this whole thing starting to go sideways. Thumbing in High Side’s number, getting voicemail. No way he was leaving a message like that. Hanging up, he punched in a second number, hoping he wasn’t about to wake Smiling Jack.
. . . EASY ON THE EYES
Ashika glanced around the cabin where Axel brought her. Told her the lodge and cabins belonged to his family. Not much to this place, quaint in a backwater kind of way. Cleaner than the other places she’d been holing up. No mouse turds that she could see. Kicking off her boots, she sat on the camo bedspread, rubbing her feet.
Axel lingered by the door, saying to her, “You need anything, just got to call up.” The phone on the desk was a direct line to the lodge. “Course nobody picks up after nine.” Taking the pen and pad, he scratched his cell number, laid it on the desk. “In case you need something after . . .”
“You never know,” she said.
Hesitating, then stepping off the porch and crossing to the lodge, he caught a flashlight beam over by the turn in the drive. He walked over. Regular Joe and Billy Wall behind Ramon’s Town Car, its ass-end sticking from the ditch, its fender crumpled, driver’s door open, reciprocating saw and box of Hefty bags on the ground.
The dead guy flopped from the driver’s seat was Ramon, his head slumped in the ditch. Looking back to the cabin to make sure she was inside, he said, “What the fuck?”
“It ain’t good, kid,” Joe said. “Not a fucking bit of it.” Giving him the short strokes, Joe grabbed the heavy chain, getting on his knees and hooking it around the rear axle, testing it was secure, telling Axel to go get his Beemer to tug this bitch out.
“You kidding me? Use the truck.” The off-road ride Joe rigged for smuggling along the muddy back roads.
Billy said he’d get it, Joe flipping him the keys.
Clapping dust from his jeans, Joe picked up the power saw, pointing at the Hefty bags, telling Axel, “Grab a handful. Going to do a little chop-and-drop.”
“Fuck me,” Axel said. Six hours of driving to Osoyoos and back, now he got to chop up a body, a guy he knew. Not a half-bad guy at that.
Glancing back toward her cabin, guessing there wasn’t much she could see from this distance and angle, Axel thinking of the way she said you never know. Grabbing bags from the box, he got himself psyched for some blood and fluids.
“Shit happens, kid,” Joe said.
Happens a lot around these guys. Axel thinking it, watching Joe power up the DeWalt saw, Axel taking hold of Ramon’s leg, glad it wasn’t stiff yet, Billy backing the truck along the dirt track.
. . . CLEAN-UP BOYS
Heard it. Not sure where it came from, it sounded like a power tool. When it stopped there were distant voices. Middle of the night.
Taking the Bersa, Ashika slipped from bed and padded across the floor, checking the lock on the door, looking out the front window, then tipping the blinds back down.
Going to the bathroom, toes curling on the cold tiles, she laid the pistol on the toilet tank, looking out the small window. Thought she caught some movement near the window, like somebody ducking down. Staring at the spot, she waited, then decided it was nothing but shadows. Then she heard voices again, farther along the drive. Angling the bathroom blinds, she made out a car’s silhouette over at the end of the property, the flash o
f a light.
Two shapes moved around the car. Her guess, some drunk got stuck in a ditch. Nothing to do with her, she got back under the covers, the pistol next to her. Car doors closed, then the sound of a revving engine, the sounds of chains and tires spinning. More voices. Then quiet.
Lying awake — a stupid country song stuck in her head, something about rain coming down and the roof won’t hold — she thought of him, the kid telling her it would grow on her. In the dark, she pictured the dumb grin, shades on in the middle of the night, thinking she should have shot his radio. Smiling at the way he hesitated as he walked out the door, saying to her, “You need something after . . .”
. . . BALING OUT
Bits of cedar stuck to his cheek, Eddie swiping them off. Pushing from under the canopy, he moved forward, careful where he stepped.
He could go to the cops, lead them to this place, point them to the bay where the sub lay hidden, sitting in the silt at the bottom end of Gambier Island, its conning tower poking up, branches and debris piled overtop. Ramon had found the spot. Showed them the forgotten road along the south end of Gambier, past the old Christian camp. They could steal back at night and row out from shore, put the guns on board, offload the rest of the blow. Eddie thinking about ratting to the cops, payback for Ramon, might get him immunity, into witness protection.
Sure there was a Greyhound stop in Hope, off of Wallace and Sixth. Guessing it was about a ten-mile hike. Eddie could make it, but Rudi would have people watching for him. Nothing else but provincial parks for miles in any direction. Thirty miles west to Chilliwack.
He heard the rip of the power saw, knowing what it meant. Eddie forcing himself not to throw up, thinking through the screaming pain, why not steal their blow, enough to start over someplace? It was batshit crazy, but they’d be hunting him, looking everywhere but here. And these fuckers owed him plenty. Eddie crossed himself, something he hadn’t done in a long time, taking any help he could get.
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