Night Road

by Brendan DuBois

  Zach politely nodded. “Sounds like you did good.”

  Tiffany smiled, shrugged. “Truth is, it’s not much of a challenge. Poor dumb bastard just stands there, staring at you. Still, you get a goodly amount of meat.” She stepped closer, smiled wider. “Funny thing is, Joey and I have split up, but I’m still eating that poor dumb moose. I love meat. Tell me, do you like meat?”

  Zach was thinking of an appropriate answer, when there was a touch at his elbow. Duncan said, “Tiffany, sweetie, mind if I take this fine man away before you corrupt him?”

  She curtsied, lifted up her Coors in salute. “Corrupt? Moi? See you later, fellas.”

  Duncan said, “Let’s go for a walk, all right?”

  Zach nodded and they went out to the deck, down a set of steps, and out to the lawn. “Nice party,” he said.

  “Yeah, but what a hell of a reason to hold a party.” Duncan stopped and stood there, looking back at the house with the lights and the partiers and the flickering barbecue. “All thanks to you.”

  Zach said, “I was happy to do it. But I was scared shitless through it all.”

  “I doubt that, but I’ll say this, too: I owe you big. I’ll always be in your debt, no matter what I do for you.”

  “It’s all right, Duncan.”

  He stood there with Duncan for some long seconds in silence, and then he said, “You’re a smart fellow, so no insults on my part, Zach. I’m sure you figured out I do more than just run a restaurant, gun shop, and some gas stations. Am I right?”

  “When you got two guys with Chinese rifles in your house, doesn’t seem like they’re complaining about the high price of gas,” Zach said.

  “That’s for damn sure,” Duncan said. “So because I owe you, I’ll tell you the real deal.”

  Zach had an idea of where this was going, but he kept his mouth shut. Like he had learned so many times in government service, not talking or volunteering information often equaled keeping your head on your shoulders and your career alive.

  “So here it is,” Duncan went on. “I have other interests—criminal interests, most would say. I grow and sell weed. I also loan money to folks who can’t go to banks, who don’t have the right credit scores. I also smuggle cigarettes up to Canada, and I smuggle booze into New Hampshire. Sometimes vice versa depending on what the market will bear.”

  Zach kept with his silence, wanting to see where this was going.

  Duncan said, “Any questions?”

  “Seems to keep you busy,” Zach said.

  “It does,” Duncan admitted. “But I’ll tell you straight out, way I see it, I’m providing a service to the people around here. Smokes and booze cheaper than they can get from local shops and the state liquor store. Weed for those who like it. I don’t use it myself, but heck it was legal in the States until the 1930s. Even Bing Crosby and JFK were known to take a toke or two. And it’s being legalized other places now, too.”

  “Sounds fair enough,” Zach said.

  In the gathering twilight, Duncan eyed him. “You’re not being sarcastic, are you?”

  Zach said, “Hell no. Remember, I’m a homeless guy who got screwed over by the Feds, without a pension, without health insurance. If you want to make a living smuggling and growing pot, that’s fine by me.” A moment passed. Zach said, “The two bikers who came to your house. They pissed about something you’re doing?”

  “Smart question,” Duncan said. “The bikers are from a big club up in Quebec called the Iron Steeds. They didn’t mind much that I did a little cross-border work. But they found out I was involved in something worth a lot of money. They wanted a piece of the action. I refused. They upped the negotiations, I refused again. This was their latest attempt.”

  Zach said, “Holy Christ, what do you think they’ll use next time? Smart bombs?”

  Duncan laughed. “That’d be a heck of an escalation, wouldn’t it. But we’ll get back at them when the time is right.”

  “I can’t believe you’re just going to sit back and relax.”

  Duncan’s voice grew sharper. “Might be some loose ends to tidy up, right around some people’s throats, but that’ll be for later. Right how, though, I have a question: You want a job? You want to come work for me?”

  Zach said, “That’s two questions, if you’re keeping score, and the answer is yes, and yes again. But here’s my own question: I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but what kind of job? Working at your restaurant? One of your convenience stores? Helping mule a couple of bales of marijuana?”

  Duncan said, “Way I keep count, that’s four questions, not one. But here’s your answer: I need someone I can trust, someone handy with a weapon, someone who’ll watch my back if trouble comes stomping through.”

  Zach pretended to think that over for a moment. “Security, then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Something to do with what those bikers were after?”

  “Maybe,” Duncan said. “Probably. How does a thousand bucks a week sound?”

  It didn’t take much for Zach to put enthusiasm into his voice. “Holy shit, Duncan, that sounds pretty goddamn good.”

  “Fine,” he said. “To show you my appreciation, I’ll consider you on the clock from the minute you came on my deck weapon in hand.”

  “That’s pretty generous,” Zach said.

  “Maybe so, but it’s deserving. Also, don’t say no, but I’m going to make arrangements for you to get out of Rogers’ Bed and Breakfast tonight. We’ll have your truck and your belongings brought here, you can spend the night at my house. I insist.”

  “Hard to say no to something like that,” Zach said. “So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow, then?”

  “Nothing as dramatic as today,” Duncan said. “But I will give you a tour of my other interests, and we’ll start talking about what to be ready for. Cameron will be in on this, too.”

  Cameron then strolled by, hauling a tripod and a shoulder carrying case, followed by a couple of younger female attendees. He headed away from the partiers and the house, and Zach said, “What the hell does he have there, a rocket launcher?”

  Duncan laughed. “No, that’s his hobby. Cameron is an amateur astronomer, and he’s good. I mean, he’s really good. Some people claim to be stargazers, but Cameron, not only does he know the constellations, he can name the stars in each constellation. He can look up and point at a star, and say, no, that’s the planet Jupiter. Or Saturn. Or Mars. He could have gone far … if things had worked out differently.”

  “Sounds like he’s pretty serious for being an amateur.”

  Duncan said, “I can tell you how serious he is, if you’d like.”

  Zach shrugged. “I guess I’m now your employee, so sure, tell me.”

  “Cameron’s got a pretty little spread on the other side of Turner, up on a hilltop. Nice three-sixty view of the night sky. Even built a little shed to house a nice big-ass telescope, with motor drive, heater, the whole works. Well, couple of years back, this hedge fund trader from Manhattan decided to build a summer place down the hill from Cameron’s. Not really a problem, we don’t mind people moving in, so long as they know the rules and are polite. So what happened is, once the place was built, the guy had floodlights on all night long. Real stupid, I mean, what did he think, starving wolves were going to besiege him there or something?”

  “Does sound stupid,” Zach said.

  “Right. Cameron, he tried to reason with the guy. Told him that the floodlights were washing out the night sky, that it really wasn’t doing anything in terms of safety or protection or whatnot. In fact, all it did was waste electricity and ruin a good one-fourth of the sky for stargazing. Cameron told the guy that if he had shades put over his floodlights, they could still do their job without ruining it for everyone else. Cameron even invited the guy to come up to the house for a friendly beer and some stargazing, to s
how him how his floodlights were ruining it for Cameron and his telescope. But the hedge fund guy was having none of it. Said it was his property, he could do what he wanted, and that some long-haired biker wasn’t going to tell him what to do.”

  “Sure is surprising that a guy in hedge fund work has such lousy negotiation skills,” Zach said.

  “Yeah, I agree. So near as I can figure, Cameron tried three different times, very politely and neighborly, to resolve the issue of those darn floodlights.”

  “What happened the fourth time around?”

  Duncan shrugged. “Never was a fourth time. One weekend when the hedge fund guy wasn’t visiting, the place burned down. By the time the Turner volunteer fire department worked their way up the dirt access road, it was just smoking timbers in a cellar hole. Local fire inspector said it was an act of God.”

  Zach said, “That’s what I call a serious amateur.”

  Back at the house, the party went on for about another half hour, during which time Zach’s truck and belongings were brought to the Crowley residence. He had a charming minute or two alone in the kitchen with Karen Crowley. She kissed him on the lips near the refrigerator and said, “I owe you so much, Zach. My word … nearly twenty years, and look at you … and when you come back for a visit, you make it one to remember.”

  “Didn’t plan it that way, but I’m glad it worked out.”

  She kissed him again, murmured, “Thank you so very much” and went back to the crowd.

  Cameron came in, carrying his telescope and tripod, and when he had brought the equipment out to his Honda Pilot and came back into the house, he stood in the kitchen and simply said, “Time.”

  The word “time” was repeated and passed on, and the barbecue was extinguished, the trash was picked up, any left over food was put on plates and covered in foil, and people started streaming out. Motorcycles and car and truck engines were started up, and then someone grabbed his hand in the kitchen. Tiffany, the bosomy tattooed lady and moose hunter, pressed a napkin with a phone number scrawled on it into Zach’s hand.

  “Call me,” she said. “Still have some moose burgers or sausage if you’re interested.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Zach said.

  Soon enough, the place was empty, save for him, Duncan, and a yawning Karen Crowley. Duncan said, “Hon, off to bed. If Zach doesn’t mind, I’ll set him up in Lewis’s room.”

  Duncan led him down a hallway to a bedroom that obviously belonged to his son, with Red Sox posters on the wall and the usual debris of a young boy. Fresh sheets were put on the bed, and Duncan said, “Small bathroom through that door. He shares it with his sister, Amy, but they’re with friends tonight. So no worries, okay? Just have a good night’s sleep, and we’ll have breakfast in the morning.” Duncan shook his hand. “Me and Karen, we’re going to be sleeping deep and well tonight, all thanks to you. You saved our lives, Zach. That we’ll never forget.”

  Zach said, “Go on, before you make me choke up.”

  When the door closed behind Duncan, Zach sat down on the boy’s bed, looked at his two black duffel bags on the floor. Never forget, he thought. He was sure Duncan would never forget this evening.

  He was also sure Duncan would never forgive Zach for what was going to happen two nights from now.

  After showering and brushing his teeth, Zach got dressed in a pair of shorts and put his .32 Browning on the nightstand next to the digital clock and the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. Next he went to his duffel bag, pulled out the super-duper spy cellphone Tanya Gibbs had given him. He pressed the speakerphone button, which went to speed dial, and surprise of surprises, it went to voice mail. Tanya’s soft, almost childish, voice, said, “You know who this is. Leave a message.”

  To Zach it seemed like Tanya was still in high school, looking for her newest BFF to leave a message, and he decided to do what he could. “Tanya, it’s Zach Morrow. I’m now in the employ of the Duncan Crowley criminal enterprise. You should also know that a Quebec biker gang wants to steal the shipment, which should be arriving in two days. When I find out the exact time and location, I’ll let you know.”

  There. He hung up, and then dug around in the duffel bag until he found a new disposable cellphone. He dialed a number from memory, waited for the man to answer as before, and he said, “You know who this is. You know it’s not fair, what happened to me. My next calls won’t be so polite. I deserve better. Can’t you help me?”

  The older man said, “Stop calling me, damn it,” and hung up.

  Zach sighed. Can’t keep a man from trying. He switched off that phone and slipped into a strange bed that belonged to the son of a man Zach was soon going to betray.

  It seemed that thought should have kept him up, but he went to sleep almost instantly.

  A noise and Zach sat straight up in bed, feeling out of sorts, out of place. Just where in hell was he? Then he heard it from next door. Whispered giggles. The squeak of a bed. Duncan Crowley in bed with the young girl he had been in love with so many years ago, when he had been privileged to play with that sweet, sweet body for a short several weeks.

  Now she was with someone else, and maybe there was a hint of jealousy. A touch of melancholy, of what might have been.

  Most of all, there was the thought of being in his old hometown, alone in bed. Had he ever thought it would come to this? He shifted and rolled over, and there was silence from the room next door. He found himself recalling with surprise the voice and shape of the young and attractive Tanya Gibbs.

  twenty-eight

  On Highway 412 outside of Montvert, Quebec, Sergeant Albert Lavalley of the Sûreté du Québec watched a tractor-trailer roar past him, heading west, and he swiveled his head to catch a glimpse as it sped by. The truck was a traditional Peterbilt diesel, but its load was a light green half-sized trailer. Unusual to see half-sized trailers on this highway, and he recalled an intelligence bulletin that had been issued a few days ago, at district headquarters. It said a half-sized trailer with a Mextel Lines logo painted on the side had gone missing from a terminal at the St. Lawrence Seaway, and that it should be immediately stopped and detained if found.

  Then, oddly enough, the bulletin had been recalled two days later. Albert had never seen that happen before, but unofficial word had come down from the district commander to forget the whole thing.

  Sure. Forget the whole thing. Except it looked like the whole thing had just sped by.

  He checked the dashboard clock. Twenty minutes and he’d be off shift, so maybe he should let the truck go by.

  Maybe.

  When he had been a child, Albert had been adopted by Quebecois missionaries, working outside of Port-au-Prince in Haiti. Growing up here in Canada—a hockey puck in a snowfield, some of his friends had joked—he knew how lucky he was, to be in this safe and secure province, so far away from the armed militias and grinding poverty of his homeland, where starving families actually ate cooked dirt patties. He eventually had gotten used to the snow, cold, and ice hockey, knowing he was safe, knowing he would never again go hungry. So it was his drive and joy of life that got him here, a respected sergeant in the Provincial Police, married to another Haitian girl with a child on the way.

  A drive that kept him up on the job, doing his duty, even with less than twenty minutes to go. So what if the bulletin had been recalled. Something odd must be going on with that truck.

  He made a U-turn in his police-issued Charger, switched on the blue lights hidden in the radiator grille, and sped up the highway, chasing after the mysterious truck.

  Brewster Flagg glanced at the sideview mirrors, whispered, “Fuck,” as a police cruiser came up behind him, lights flashing from its radiator. Only two days to go and he had to be pulled over like this, out in the middle of nowhere. There was no way he could outrun the cruiser, so he switched on the truck’s directionals, downshifted, and eased the truck to th
e right. All around them was flat farmland; not a house or another car in sight.

  That was a good thing.

  Albert pulled the cruiser up to the rear of the truck, parking out far enough in the lane to give him protection from any passing traffic when he went to check on the driver. He reached for the Motorola radio microphone, picked it up, and got a burst of static in reply. He tried again to let Dispatch know he was making a traffic stop, but he couldn’t tell if he had gotten through or not. Merde. The radio had been malfunctioning for most of his shift; now it looked like it had finally crapped out.

  He put the microphone back in the holder, grabbed his cover, and opened the door. Quick license, registration, and cargo check, and he’d use his cellphone to contact Dispatch to see if anything else should be done. Then if all went well, he’d be home in time for dinner. And tomorrow, ah, tomorrow, Gracie had her appointment for her first ultrasound. Maybe they would find out if she was carrying a son or a daughter. Wouldn’t it be something if they could leave the OB-GYN’s office knowing that.

  Hat firmly on head, he strolled up to the Peterbilt cab.

  Brewster looked down from his seat, couldn’t believe what he saw. Up here in the frozen north, far away from any city at all, and what was coming at him? A darkie in a police uniform! Amazing!

  He undid the door, opened it up, and turned so he could see the cop coming at him. He thought of Troy, good ol’ Troy, who had warned him, weeks ago: Whatever you do, cousin, don’t get stopped by the cops, and if you do get stopped, don’t let anybody see in the back! No matter what!

  The darkie cop stopped, looked up at him, hand on his holster, other hand holding a metal-clad notebook.

  “Bonjour, monsieur. Permis et enregistrement, s’il vous plait?” he asked in a squeaky voice.