Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  "The shipper called me today. Waicom, I mean," Suzanne said. She closed her eyes and sighed. "He wanted to know more about the accident. I guess they've got a right to ask, but I found it hard to be polite."

  "What was your dad looking for in those printouts, do you know?"

  "I guess – well – no, I don't know for sure. I just assumed the contract was coming up for renewal, and he wanted to be sure the rates we were charging were all right. I assume he was worried that we were going to lose the account to a competitor." She frowned. "I don't know how I'm going to handle that. I've never had to negotiate any contracts with the customers before. If they were already complaining about their rates, and now with a damage claim to settle. Did you see the load? How bad did it look?"

  "The trailer must've rolled over a couple of times and shook the cartons up like peas in a rattle. The whole load looks pretty well trashed."

  She seemed almost to welcome the distraction of thinking about business. "I guess we'll have to get the freight to their Edmonton warehouse somehow so they can assess the damage."

  "More likely they'll just want the goods held at customs and examine them there. No point clearing them through Canadian customs if they're worthless."

  "Customs? They've already cleared."

  He frowned at her, confused.

  "At the border," she explained. "Waicom stuff always clears at the border. You look like you don't believe me. What's wrong?"

  Hunter shrugged. Maybe the customs seal he had in his shirt pocket had more significance than he'd expected, but there was no point involving Suzanne. "I don't think you should be worrying about all those "possibilities" you mentioned, not yet. You've got enough to deal with. Why don't you give me the details on the load. I'll find out when it'll be released by the R.C.M.P. and pass the information on to El. She'll keep Waicom from bugging you until you're ready."

  She stared at him for a moment, making him wonder if he had inadvertently set disturbing new "possibilities" coursing through her mind, then she pushed herself out of the chair, pausing a few seconds to run her hand along the smooth surface of the armrest, and disappeared into the house.

  Hunter sat, his eyes on the fading hills, his mind on something distant. Driving in the dark, the wipers making a rubbery scrape against the windshield of a second hand '69 Oldsmobile. The steady hiss of tires on wet pavement, the cool kiss of rain through the slightly open window. He and Christine exchanging amusing comments, voices warm and low. Braking slow and easy, signals clicking, making careful turns. Powerfully aware every second of the precious cargo tucked into the car seats behind him. Listening for their soft breathing, melting inside at the sound of their little sleepy sighs.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then rose and followed Suzanne into the house and downstairs to the office, checking his watch on the way. He had a few phone calls to make.

  CHAPTER 7

  – – – – SEVEN

  Tuesday morning, Hunter awoke while the sky was still a pale blue wash underlined by the golden ridges of the eastern hills. He threw a fishing rod and tackle box into the back of the Suburban, lowered an aluminum boat onto the roof rack, and scratched a quick note to Suzanne. "Gone fishing. Borrowed your Dad's boat and some of his gear. Back before ten o'clock."

  He drove east on the Trans-Canada highway for the better part of an hour until he reached the town of Chase, where he found a park with beach access to Little Shuswap Lake. He didn't want to catch a fish but he was looking forward to spending a few quiet hours on the water. The light trolling motor putted him out to an unpopulated bay, where he turned it off and sat sipping on a styrofoam cup of gas station coffee and absorbing the cool peace of morning.

  The early sun tinted the tangled sprays of salmon berry and wild roses above the shoreline with a rich, deep yellow and threw long, damp shadows along the mottled rocks and mounds of last year's leaves. The lacy green brilliance of the shore and the deepening blue of the sky repeated themselves in the mirror that stretched shivering in every direction from under his drifting boat. He could hear the grinding of a distant diesel truck as it wound along the western shore of the lake, and the haunting ululations of a loon too far away to see. Water plashed gently against the aluminum hull, close and clear, in time with the tremulous rhythm of the boat beneath him.

  The faint odor of gasoline was superseded by a slightly fishy scent as Hunter opened the tackle box. A fishing license was taped to the lid. The date beside the firmly written signature was March 15, just over two months ago. How often had Randy Danyluk sat in the boat since then? When was the last time? Hunter felt a comfortable sadness settle around him like the melancholy echoes of a distant hymn. He took his time selecting a lure and fastening the leader to his line, then, knowing he wouldn't catch a thing, chose to sit and jig rather than eclipse the fragile music of the morning behind the noise of the motor. He heard a splash and turned his head to see an osprey struggle into the air with a trout thrashing in its talons. Life and death, forces so irrevocably entwined, one can't exist without the other. A simple philosophical concept, but on a personal level, the necessity of anyone's death was so very, very hard to accept.

  A breeze came up, cool and fresh, and the surface of the water shuddered and cracked into a thousand tiny flames, flickering silver against the dark water, and sending the vibrant green reflections of the spring leaves scurrying back to the shore. The rhythm of the waves slapping the aluminum hull picked up, and the loon called again.

  "Hope it's just like this where you are now, Randy," he whispered.

  "And I won't be staying for the funeral, El."

  That's what she thought he'd said. Did the guy have a thing about funerals or what? This time she didn't argue. "About the clearance, you were right, as usual," she said. "I talked to a buddy of mine at Border Brokers. They usually clear Waicom's freight at the border all right, but the load Randy was hauling had paperwork presented to customs that showed the freight was bonded on to the customs warehouse in Edmonton. He faxed me a copy of the A8A." As she spoke, she held the curling fax paper up in front of her, shook it once to straighten it out.

  Hunter said something else, but some jabbering from her CB drowned it out. El could hear a steady whooshing sound behind his voice, and guessed he had his window down as he drove.

  "Close your damn window! I can't hear you!" She adjusted the volume knob on her CB as she spoke.

  The whooshing sound almost disappeared. "Did your buddy say why the A8A had been prepared?"

  "Looks like nobody except the guy who wrote out the A8A knows why it was done. And I recognize the handwriting, Hunter," El said. "It's Randy's."

  "Any idea why he would've done that, El?"

  "Nope."

  "What do you know about Waicom?"

  El paused before answering. She'd known that Waicom was a big account for Ranverdan, but just how big and how profitable, she hadn't known until now that she'd started helping Suzanne out. A steady account like that would buy a lot of bread and butter. "Like what?" she asked. "They import computer electronics from the Orient, distribution to western Canada, mostly Vancouver, Edmonton and Winnipeg, controlled out of Vancouver. What else do you need to know?"

  "What about the people? You talked to any of them?"

  "Yeah. The traffic manager in Vancouver and the shipper in Seattle. Why?"

  "Anything strike you about them? Anything not quite right?"

  El's jaw dropped. Hunter was being a cop! This wasn't a trucking conversation, this was a goddamn police investigation! The idea that Hunter thought there could be more to Randy's death than a tragic accident sent a shiver up her spine.

  "El? Can you hear me?"

  "Yeah." She could hear him alright. "Are you saying ... ?" Her other line started ringing. "Just a sec." She put Hunter on hold, then punched his line again. "Don't go away! I'll be right back." She put the new caller on hold, then did the same with the rest of her lines to keep them from ringing, and went back to Hunter. "
Are you saying that there could be ... foul play involved?"

  "Whoa! I'm not saying anything. I'm just looking at the possibilities here."

  El rubbed her jaw, noticed too late that there was carbon on her fingers, and rerubbed it with the back of her hand. "Maybe a couple of things. The traffic manager sure backed off in a hurry as soon as I mentioned the R.C.M.P., and the shipper has been real curious about the cause of Randy's accident. Nothing obvious, though. But guess what?"

  "What?"

  "There's a Waicom pick up scheduled for tonight that I still don't have a truck for."

  "Book me on the first available flight out of Kamloops. I can be at the airport by noon."

  "You got it." El put the receiver down gently, leaned back in her captain's chair, fingers linked behind her head, and directed her gaze towards a smudge on the ceiling. In her experience, Hunter Rayne was generally an easy going guy, good natured, friendly, easy to work with. After a while, you could forget that he'd spent most of his life being a cop. But she'd always sensed something beneath the surface, seen him watching people, his eyes narrowed like those of a circling wolf, wary and glacier cold, like blue ice. She'd often thought how she'd hate to ever make him mad. El suddenly became aware that her blood was racing. Whatever Hunter was on to, if Randy's accident was no accident, she wanted him to let her be a part of it.

  "Holy shit!" she said as she remembered the flashing hold buttons and lunged for the phone.

  Bill Earl, a good natured R.C.M.P. corporal and former colleague of Hunter's, was a member of the Kamloops band of the Shuswap Indians. He had been one of the first recruits in the R.C.M.P.'s Indian Special Constable Program, and had been posted back to his home town immediately after training in Regina. He eventually became a regular member of the force. He suggested to Hunter that they grab some lunch while they talked, then he would drop Hunter off at the airport in time for his flight. At Hunter's request, Bill brought a copy of the autopsy report, issued by the coroner's office in Kamloops, which hadn't been in Constable Pullen's file. Hunter told Bill he hoped it would tell him whether the injuries were entirely consistent with the accident, or whether one or more of them could have been inflicted before the truck went off the highway. They scanned the report together, and Bill was the first to sit up straight and take a bite of his sandwich.

  "You're gonna have to talk to the doc, Hunter. The injuries are described well enough in the report, but there are no speculations about blows from heavy objects or blunt instruments. You know how it is, they weren't looking for anything like that." He gestured with his sandwich, and a shaving of roast beef fell onto the table top. "I know, I know. You're gonna quote that Massachusetts study that said as many as one out of every ten highway deaths may be murder. Be realistic, will you?" Bill shrugged as he picked up the errant piece of meat and popped it in his mouth. "Single vehicle accident, nothing to indicate foul play. The guy was in a smashed truck at the bottom of a ravine for two days. A fifteen story drop, for God's sake. No seat-belt. It would've been a miracle if he'd survived. The coroner's not gonna be looking too closely at what might've hit him. Gear shift. Steering wheel. Thermos bottle. Who knows?"

  "C'mon, Bill. I can't talk to the coroner's office. I'm a truck driver now, remember?" He raised his eyebrows. "Well?"

  "Okay, okay! I guess I can make the time to call. But on something that looks this clear cut, I don't know how much more I can do for you."

  "I'm not asking for anything else," Hunter said and bit into his own sandwich.

  Bill grinned. "Just in case you do, then."

  "Maybe just a little information is all. Here, have my donut." Hunter pushed it over and Bill's hand hovered over it.

  "This a bribe?"

  "There's been some indication that there were irregularities with the load. Do you know if Constable Pullen has been in communication with Canada Customs on it at all?" He noticed he'd fallen into the cop talk without even thinking. Who was it that said, Policemen never go anywhere, they always proceed?

  "Not to my knowledge, Hunter. You've been there. It's like a guy almost has to fight to be allowed to spend time investigating leads on something like this. We're up to our ears in missing persons, assaults, B&E's, DUI patrols, you name it!" Bill waved the donut around as he talked. "The kind of time we'd like to give to a case and the kind we can afford to are miles apart. Outside of paid time, forget it! Most of us got families, too. We got lives outside the force."

  Hunter felt a tug of guilt and tried to ignore it. In a flash, he saw Christine's tear-streaked face as she told him why she wanted a divorce. He saw the stunned betrayal in the eyes of his two daughters when he told them, yes, it was true – he wouldn't be coming home again. We got lives outside the force. Like he had a thousand times before, he slammed the door on his useless regrets, wrenched his wandering thoughts back to Randy's accident.

  "There's only so many hours in a day, man," Bill continued. He stopped waving the donut and took a bite, then said, "So, in case I should be talking to Pullen again soon, what irregularities does your information point to?"

  "I don't know. Maybe some kind of contraband. I've got nothing solid, but the deceased had been looking into past shipments he'd handled for the customer, and had taken it upon himself this particular time to avoid clearing it through customs at the border. I've got friends asking around. The customer is pretty uptight about the load being impounded in Merritt, has been hounding the trucking company and the wrecker, but it seems he's not prepared to talk to you guys about it. Just suspicious behavior, nothing definite."

  Bill nodded and looked at his watch. "I may not be able to connect with Garth or the doctor today. I'll see what I can find out, but I can't promise you anything."

  Hunter nodded his thanks. "So, how's the family? You've got two boys and a girl, right?"

  "Yep! The boys are great. Jason wants me to take him fishing every chance I get. I love it! The girl's the oldest – just turned fourteen. I guess you know what that means." He stood up and picked up the file from the table, and his hat from the chair beside him. "Trouble comin' up! Big trouble! How're your two girls?"

  "Good." Hunter nodded, with a half smile. "Yeah, they're good."

  He hoped this was true.

  At about five thirty on Tuesday evening, Hunter pulled an air-ride trailer into the graveled yard at Waicom Electronics' Seattle warehouse to pick up a load of computer electronics destined for Edmonton. A Ranverdan rig was already backed up to one of the loading dock doors. A man signaled to Hunter from inside the adjacent door, and he backed his own trailer up against it, set his brakes, and shut The Blue Knight's engine down. Before he stepped out of the truck, he reminded himself to play it cool, not move too fast. If there was something going on here, it wouldn't do to reveal his interest in it.

  At the warehouse counter, Hunter was greeted by a wiry Oriental, probably in his mid-thirties, with unnaturally curly hair and a neat goatee. He stood with his hip against the warehouse side of the counter, and seemed to be checking over the information on some paperwork line by line with a pen. He wore a diamond stud earring in his left ear and a heavy silver buckle on the belt of his jeans. When Hunter introduced himself, the shipper clapped him on the shoulder. "All right! You're the other Ranverdan man!"

  Hunter gave him a tight little smile and involuntarily narrowed his eyes. The man's familiarity was grating, and he didn't like being touched.

  "Old Pete there," the shipper indicated a long faced man in an olive green shirt standing near the rear doors of the Ranverdan rig, "is hauling the Winnipeg. Once we finish loading him up, it's your turn."

  Hunter nodded, and they both watched a warehouseman run a skid past the standing man, the forklift's engine roaring through the Ranverdan trailer's open doors, then muted as it slowed to maneuver the skid into place. The air stank of propane.

  "Oh, yeah. I'm Steve Mah." The shipper dropped his pen on the stack of paperwork and stuck out his hand. Hunter kept the handshake brief. "I notice you'
re not driving one of the company trucks. That your own?" Hunter nodded. "Too bad about the old man. He seemed like a nice enough guy. You know, you see trucks in and out of here every day, you tend to forget how dangerous it can be, driving in those mountains. Poor dumb fuck. You ever fall asleep at the wheel?"

  Hunter didn't like his words, his tone, nor the little smirk that accompanied the question. He stared at the man, grim faced, without answering, then realized that hostile behavior wouldn't help if he hoped to get any information from the man, and tried to smile. Maybe he'd been a civilian so long he'd lost the patience he cultivated while he was on the force, the patience that allowed him to put up with all sorts of low-lifes, jibes and name-calling without letting his personal feelings show.

  "Not yet, I haven't," he said, and reached behind Mah to tap the counter with his knuckles. "That's wood, isn't it? Particleboard, at least?"

  The shipper laughed. "Glad to hear it. You know when to pop those little white pills, huh?" A conspiratorial smile and wink. Hunter again fought back his irritation and returned the smile.

  "So, they know yet how it happened?" continued the shipper. "You figure he really did fall asleep?"

  Hunter shrugged. "Haven't heard," he said. "You got any theories yourself?"