Night Road

by Brendan DuBois

  In the center of the room was a comfortable wooden chair bolted to the floor, and seated in the chair was a man in an ill-fitting gray suit. He was balding, with a silly-looking comb-over on his head, and his skin was pasty white. His eyes were wide with fear, which made sense, since his ankles and wrists were handcuffed to the chair. There were two other chairs in the room, and a flatscreen television hanging from the near wall. Francois and Michael took the empty chairs.

  The man licked his lips. “This is outrageous. I demand you let me go, right now, or there’ll be hell to pay. Do you know who I am?”

  Francois sighed, picked up a remote television controller from the arm of his chair. “Certainly, Monsieur Beaudoin. We know who you were. We also know that you’re an intelligence officer and liaison with the Sûreté du Québec. Alas, we also know that you’re a bit of a pervert.”

  Francois turned, aimed the remote up to the television screen, pressed the Play button. The screen flickered into life and it showed a bedroom, with a naked Manny Beaudoin and two giggling girls joining him on the bed.

  Manny let a whispered “shit” escape from his lips.

  Francois said, “From what I understand, a few days ago, you were at home, by yourself, when you got a visit by two young ladies who said they were on a petition drive to stop oil sand expansion in Alberta. I see one thing led to another. Why not? They’re both very attractive young ladies. Unfortunately, Monsieur Beaudoin, you should have checked their identification before bedding them. Both of those ladies are quite underage.”

  Another whispered “shit” from the man in the chair. Francois went on. “What this is all about, Monsieur Beaudoin, is our desire to receive more information about that shipping container that has the entire province in an uproar. You see, my associate and I, we’re very eager to locate this container.”

  Beaudoin said, “So’s nearly every fucking cop in the province.”

  Francois said, “Eventually. So here’s our problem. We’ve attempted in our own, primitive clumsy ways, to find this trailer. Unfortunately, four men we’ve sent to get information on this trailer have failed to return. Regrettable, but part of doing business. But those levels of business losses are unacceptable. So we need to know more about that trailer.”

  He tugged at chains holding his wrists and ankles to the chair. “I’ve already told you everything I know!”

  Francois said, “Which is why we’re all here. This is what you’ve told us. That the shipping trailer contains something quite valuable. That it was once stored at the St. Lawrence Seaway terminal. It’s now missing. Duncan Crowley, a criminal from northern New Hampshire, is somehow connected to this trailer. True so far?”

  An uncomfortable-looking Beaudoin nodded, looking up at the screen where he and two girls were going at it.

  Francois said, “We need to know more. We need to know it right now.”

  “But I don’t know anything more!”

  Francois gestured with his right hand. “If we don’t get additional reliable information, Monsieur Beaudoin, then my associate here will distribute this DVD to your superiors. You can imagine what will happen to you and your career once this recording is made public.”

  Francois toggled a switch on the remote and the volume increased. Beaudoin closed his eyes. “Turn it off, damn it, turn the fucking thing off!”

  The sound went mute, but the DVD kept on playing. Beaudoin licked his lips and said, “The container … it’s not the standard shipping container. It’s about half-size, allowing one driver to maneuver it by himself.”

  “Very good,” Francois said. “Do go on.”

  “It … its yellow, and has the logo of Mextel Lines painted on both sides. Red and blue. But … but they’re pretty sure it’s been repainted. So it’s a half-sized shipping container with a fresh paint job. That’s what everyone’s looking for.”

  “What’s in the trailer?”

  “Swear to Jesus, I don’t know. Only it’s something very, very valuable.”

  Francois pursed his lips. “Is that it … really?”

  A quick and eager nod of the head. “Really, that’s all there is. Honest to Christ.”

  Francois got up, and Michael stood next to him. “Very good, Monsieur Beaudoin. We appreciate your cooperation.”

  He turned to leave with Michael, to go back out the door, and the man called out, “Hey! What about me? Aren’t you going to let me go?”

  Francois looked to Michael, who reached into a pocket, took out a small key, went over, and unlocked his wrists. He then dropped the key in the man’s lap. “That we are, Monsieur Beaudoin. You’re free to go. Feel free to take the DVD with you as well.”

  Francois and Michael left the basement. Francois said, “You burned another copy of the DVD, right?”

  “Of course,” Michael said.

  “Nice investment.”

  Back in his office, Francois said, “Truck like that needs diesel, driver needs food, shit like that. Closer it gets to New Hampshire, the sparser the roads and towns. So this is what’s going to happen. You get word out to everyone that belongs to the club, has ridden with the club, that has friends in the club, or that belongs on our fucking fruit-of-the-month list. Get out a description of that half-sized shipping container with a fresh paint job, heading to New Hampshire. Anyone finds it, they’re to call it into us, and follow it, so we have the best information. Got it?”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “Good,” he said. “Then, goddamn it, we’re not sending anyone else in except for you, me, and a couple of very hard men. This time, we’ll do it right, grab that container, zap Crowley and his fucking boys, and find out what’s so valuable that everyone with a police badge and government ID in Quebec has gone apeshit looking for it, posting a million-dollar reward.”

  Michael kept quiet. Francois didn’t like the man’s attitude. “Did I fart or something, Michael?”

  His deputy said, “Just thinking, that’s all. Wondering if this is still worth it. We might get a firefight down at the border. You know how freaky the Yanks can get about the border. We get in a scrape down there, might mean lots of attention.”

  “Michael,” Francois said evenly, “you let me worry about that. All right? In the meantime, do what I’ve said. Every last item.”

  Michael nodded. “I’ll get the word out, boss.”

  “Super,” Francois said, sitting behind his desk. “But one more thing, Michael.”

  “Yes, boss?”

  He picked up some papers. “Get that freaking ponytail cut off before we go, okay? Makes you look like a fag.”

  As dusk arrived in Turner, Zach was tired from spending the day with Duncan Crowley, who had insisted that Zach come along on a trip down memory lane, driving in and around Turner, checking out some of Duncan’s businesses. The day had begun with breakfast in the big kitchen, with Karen insisting on cooking for the both of them. Anything you want, she had said, with a wink and a smile, anything at all.

  So he had gone with French toast and bacon, fresh coffee and orange juice. Duncan had wanted the same thing, but Karen had frowned and given him a bowl of oatmeal. “He may look fit,” she had said, “but his cholesterol level is so far off the chart they have to tape an extra one to it.” Duncan had such a sorrowful look on his face, Zach had secretly passed him two slices of bacon under the table, like he was feeding the family dog.

  The day had been a long drive of going in and around Turner, as Duncan pointed out the stores he owned, the gas stations, and the Flight Deck Bar & Grill. He also mentioned in passing other business interests: converted barns that grew marijuana under artificial light, and small warehouses at the end of dirt roads that held cases of whisky, beer, and cartons of cigarettes. Duncan had explained, “Smuggling has been going on around here since Colonial times. Nowadays, it depends on the tax stamps, the prices, and the exchange rate between the Ameri
can dollar and the Canadian dollar. Sometimes it makes sense to smuggle booze and butts north, other times, it’s the opposite.”

  Zach had said, “How the hell do you do this without cops paying attention?”

  “What cops?” Duncan had said. “Most of the towns around here don’t have a police force. Those that do, it’s a one- or two-man force. The sheriff department serves arrest warrants and such for the county, and that’s about it. The State Police patrols the main roads, responds to 911 calls when they can. If you’re quiet, careful, and not too greedy, it’s easy to pass under whatever radar’s bouncing around out there.”

  Now they were back in Turner proper, and Duncan slowly drove by the regional high school. He said, “So there it is, our alma mater. Thought I’d go far away from there, with my pitching arm, but real life sort of plays roulette with your ass, don’t it.”

  “True,” Zach said.

  “Mind telling me something?”

  “No promises, but give it a shot.”

  Duncan said, “You waxed me a few times in wrestling, but never again. Why’s that? Did I improve that much?”

  Zach laughed and looked at the dreary building. “Truth? Duncan, after I beat you the third time, the phys ed coach took me aside and told me to cut the shit. Even then, you were getting attention as somebody destined for the majors. He didn’t want me to hurt you, nail your arm. I told him to go screw, and then he went to my dad, and he convinced me otherwise, with the end of his leather belt.”

  Duncan said, “Jeez. Sorry about that, Zach.”

  “Not your fault. Our fathers … they set the tone, don’t they. Your dad was a lawyer, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah. Darn good lawyer, but poor judge of character. After he and my mom died, and after his corrupt partner got killed in that car crash, what passes for a legal community up here came together and tidied things up. Left me and my brother holding an empty bag. Your dad … quite the politician, right?”

  Zach sighed. “Politics was his first and last love, with time left over for chasing strange. My mom put up with it as best as she could, but she had other issues. Bouts of depression, rage. She might have done better with some psychiatric help, but hell, you know how it is. Nearest medical facility for something like that was a fifty-mile drive, and trying to keep that secret in a small town like this … Never happen.”

  Duncan said, “So here we are. You and me. Now that I’ve shown you my deep and dark secrets, how about revealing one of yours?”

  Zach froze, wondering what Duncan was getting at, wondering if he could get to his .32 Browning in time, wondering if this whole drive around town had just been a goddamn ruse to relax him.

  “Ask away,” he said, keeping eyes straight and focused on Duncan’s hands.

  He smiled. “Your dishonorable discharge. What the hell was that all about? Getting drunk on duty? Beating up a superior officer? Saying something nasty about the First Lady?”

  Zach said, “It was because I did what I was trained to do. Save lives.”

  “There’s more to that, Zach. Go on, tell all.”

  So that’s what he did.

  Duncan pulled out of the school parking lot as Zach told the story of his travel into Sierra Leone. He found it hard to drive without swiveling his head constantly to look at Zach as his old classmate calmly talked about his last mission, going up a river by himself, in the middle of a civil war, gunfire and explosions echoing around him.

  “Then I reached the rendezvous point, where two Agency guys were waiting to be picked up, along with all of their gear. I got there, loaded them up, and before we were going to shove off, four civilians came out of the brush. Dad, mom, and two kids. Dad had been a prominent politician and was hiding out because of the war. He said an official at the American embassy had promised him safe passage. That official had been evacuated, and safe passage never showed up.”

  “Sounds like a mess,” Duncan said.

  “You bet,” Zach said. “I figured if we dumped the gear for the Agency fellows, we’d have enough room to take all four back with us. The Agency guys violently disagreed. I managed to convince them through my charming personality and force of arms to change their mind. They did. The gear was destroyed, the family and the two Agency guys and yours truly were successfully evacuated.”

  “What a story,” Duncan said.

  “War stories usually are. But this one had a messy ending. I had obviously disobeyed orders by not picking up the gear, and by taking four civilians out on a covert op. So that’s why I got cashiered.”

  Duncan drove up Gosham Road, a narrow country lane with farmland all around them. In one pasture, sheep grazing, and in another, three horses ambling about. He said, “At least you got them out. Not much of a trade, I’m sure, but it must have felt good, saving those four.”

  Zach turned away, looked out the passenger’s-side window. “You’d think. But not all good stories have happy endings. That ending was pretty messy, too. After a few months, when a truce was negotiated, the guy I rescued was invited to go back to Sierra Leone. Against most advice, he and his wife went back. His kids, at least, stayed behind with some relatives in London.”

  “What happened?”

  Zach kept on looking out the window. “They were seized at the airport. He was forced to watch as his wife was beheaded. And then he was machine-gunned to death.”

  Zach kept quiet as Duncan maneuvered the truck up the road, and then the asphalt petered out and the road became well-packed dirt. Duncan said, “One more stop, and then we’ll get home. See what my Karen has set for dinner.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Zach said.

  Duncan turned right at a mailbox marked Cooper and went down a dirt driveway. He pulled to a stop in front of an old farmhouse with a wide porch that had a new green metal roof. Nearby was a barn and two out buildings. Parked in the yard were a yellow school bus with Turner Cooperative School District stenciled on the side, a Volkswagen beetle, and a white Chevrolet Ram pickup truck with rust chewing along the side panels.

  Duncan said, “This here is where Nat Cooper and his family live. I need him for the job tomorrow night and just want to get things straight with him. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

  They both got out of the truck and an English Springer Spaniel came bounding out of the barn, a dirty green tennis ball in his mouth. “Hey, Tucker, how goes it,” Duncan said, rubbing his head. Following the dog was a man in his late forties, wearing worn jeans, muddy work boots, and a gray hoodie sweatshirt over which he had a light blue down vest. His brown hair was thick but cut short, and his chin was receding. He was grinning as he approached Duncan, holding out his hand. He had a two-day growth of beard and one of his incisor teeth was missing, making a black splotch in his smile.

  “I’ll be damned, look who’s come up all the way to see little ol’ me,” the man said as Duncan shook his hand.

  Duncan turned and said, “Zach Morrow, this is Nat Cooper. All around good guy, truck driver, farmer and independent contractor. Nat, Zach Morrow. Ex-military guy and a new employee of mine. How’s it going, Nat? How are the girls?”

  Nat kept grinning, though Zach noticed that his lips were curled some about the right side of the mouth, like he was trying to hide his missing tooth. He said, “Kelly and Stacy, both doing well, both kicking ass on their softball teams. Looks like they’re gonna have a good season.”

  “And Dora?”

  “Dora’s good,” he said. “Still drivin’, still threatenin’ the kiddos when they raise hell on the bus. And your brood?”

  “All fine,” Duncan said, walking about and putting an arm around Nat. “Tell me, has Dora been baking lately? You know how Karen loves those apple pies of hers.”

  Nat grinned. “S’pose we could find one or two, if we dig enough in her kitchen.”

  Duncan said, “So, Nat, why aren’t you answeri
ng your phone?”

  He shrugged apologetically. “Our land line got service cut off two days ago for non-payment. Might just let it go for now because of the bills we owe on it. Dora’s trying to get a cellphone set up, but that might be a few more days. ’Cause of our credit, we’re gonna need somebody to co-sign it for us, and that’ll probably be her dad, once he comes back from Maine.”

  Duncan lowered his arm, rubbed his hands together. “This is short notice and all, but might you be available for a job tomorrow night?”

  His smile got wider. “Hell, yes, Duncan, I guess I would be.”

  “Don’t you want to know it is?”

  Nat said, “Hell, you’ve always been straight with me before, Duncan. I figured with a record like that, it’d be all right.”

  “Darn nice of you to say, Nat. What I need is your truck driving skills, take a load from up in the northern reaches, maybe go down to Concord or the Manchester airport, long-term parking area, depending.”

  “How long?”

  “Not more than two days.”

  “You got yourself a deal, Duncan,” Nat said.

  “Don’t you want to know the pay?”

  Nat said, “The pay will be fair, that’s all I need to know.”

  Duncan gently slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s fine, Nat. I wish all of my negotiations went so easily. So tell me, is your Dora in the house?”

  “That she is,” Nat said. “Go ahead, go look her up.”

  “I’ll do just that, see if I can’t sweet talk an apple pie out of her. Meantime, why don’t you show Zach your prized pets.”