by R. E. Donald
Hunter took a breath to respond, but Bill carried on without giving him a chance.
"Now, if it was my gut feeling, I'd probably already be dangling from that limb. But it's your gut feeling. I got every respect for your gut, Hunter, but it's your gut, you take the risks. Know what I mean?"
"Thanks, chief. You're making it tough on me, but I know where you're coming from. I may already have something on the motive." He gave Bill a quick rundown on his conversation with Mel Collins. He asked Bill to pass it on to Garth Pullen so he would take a closer look at the trailer before it was released from the compound, and to let him know if anything new turned up. "Did you find out if there was a padlock?"
"No sign of one. If it flew off into that long grass, no telling how long it might take to turn up."
Hunter winced. Bill was right. It was sheer luck that he'd found the customs seal. "I'll get you what you need to jump start an official investigation," Hunter promised, "and then we'll go fishing."
By the time he arrived at the Rodgers home, Suzanne had set the kids up in a little wading pool in the back yard. They were happily, if noisily, chasing naked plastic dolls through the grass clippings in the water with a monster truck when he arrived. Suzanne handed him a chilled can of beer and joined him at the shaded patio table. He ran the beer can across his forehead before he popped the top. The short walk from Randy's had made him feel like he needed another shower.
"According to the pathologist, your father died quickly and didn't suffer. He was probably unconscious by the time the truck hit bottom. Unfortunately, the mechanics didn't turn up anything in their examination of your father's truck, so there are no new clues about the cause of the accident." He shrugged apologetically, feeling a need to give her some kind of new information to ease her disappointment. "The R.C.M.P. haven't closed the file yet, so something could still turn up. By the way, it's beginning to look like your father suspected some kind of hanky panky with the Waicom loads from Seattle. I've got nothing definite yet, but it explains why he didn't have that load cleared at the border. You're sure he never mentioned anything to you?"
"Nothing. Like I said, he'd asked for records on past Waicom shipments, but he never told me why. I assumed ...." A puzzled frown creased the skin above her nose. "You think that might have something to do with his ... accident?"
Hunter cocked an eyebrow and tried to smile. "Possibilities, remember? Just looking at all the possibilities."
Some kind of tragedy in the wading pool brought three year old Veri running to her mother in tears. She pressed her sorrowful little face into her mother's lap, her dripping swimsuit leaving big wet patches on Suzanne's cotton dress. The older girl, Jolene, shouted defensively from the pool. "I didn't do anything, Mom!" Hunter excused himself and went inside to use the phone in the hallway. Third time lucky, he thought. Maybe this time he'd get through to his daughters.
He was half way through punching in his calling card number when Gary swung the front door open.
"Hey, pal! How's it going?" Gary asked, flashing a big smile. "Staying for dinner? Sue picked up a nice spring salmon this morning."
Hunter's finger hovered over the phone pad. He'd lost his place.
"How's your beer?" Gary continued. "I'll get you another."
Hunter depressed the connection button with his fingers, then decided to put the receiver down. He'd try again later.
Hunter stood at the edge of the patio and looked out at the sandy, sage dotted slopes on the other side of the river. As much as he'd like to keep quiet about his suspicions, he was going to have to tell Suzanne and Gary what he was doing, and why. He didn't want word of his unofficial investigation getting back to them through the grapevine. That would be worse. By telling them tonight, he could also make them promise not to discuss his suspicions with anyone else. He didn't want the murderer, if there was one, given a reason to cover his tracks any more than he already had. At the same time, he had to make it clear to them both that this was still only speculation. Bill could be right. However good a driver he'd been, Randy's death could still have been caused, inadvertently, by himself.
Hunter got the subject out of the way before dinner, trying to downplay its importance. Suzanne took the news calmly, nodding and chewing on her upper lip. She was obviously getting used to the concept of possibilities.
"Gary? You were at Waicom that night," said Suzanne, turning to face her husband. "What happened there? Did Dad say or do anything unusual?"
Gary shrugged. "I ... I never thought about it. I don't remember anything ... unusual."
"Walk yourself through it," suggested Hunter, leaning back in his chair.
Gary frowned, running his thumb idly across his chin. "Let me see," he said. "I got there first. In fact, Randy was late, so my trailer was almost fully loaded before he pulled in."
"The Winnipeg load," said Hunter.
"Right," said Gary, nodding, meeting Hunter's eyes. "So, really, I was on the road before his trailer was even finished loading. I don't see how I can help. I wasn't even there when he left."
"But remember what you told me the night you got home?" asked Suzanne, leaning forward, her hand stretching out towards him along the table. "Remember? You said Dad was trying to tell you something? You said that now you'd never know what it was. What did you think he was trying to say?"
Gary's frown deepened and he pursed his lips. "Shit! I don't know."
"Do you remember saying that to me?"
He shrugged helplessly. "What I told you, Suzanne, was that when I pulled out your dad waved at me as if he wanted me to stop, as if he wanted to tell me something. But then he changed his mind and waved me on. He never said anything. I assumed that whatever it was could wait, that he'd decided to tell me later."
"Had you and Randy ever discussed Waicom in the past?" asked Hunter.
Gary looked annoyed. "Yeah, we discussed Waicom. Waicom was a big customer. Why wouldn't we discuss it?"
"Did Randy ever say he was suspicious about Waicom's loads?"
"Suspicious? Like what?"
"Did anything about Waicom seem to make him uncomfortable?"
"No. He liked Waicom. Waicom was a big customer, like I said. A good customer. Anything Randy said to me had to do with keeping Waicom happy, as a customer. There wasn't even a hint of anything ... suspicious, as you put it ... in what he said."
"Did you see Randy talking to the shipper that night?"
"Yeah. They talked. Why wouldn't they?"
"Any disagreement? Any arguing?"
Gary shook his head. "It was just like any other night." He sighed and took a sip of beer. "Sorry. Nothing unusual happened. Unless you want me to make something up, I just can't make it any more exciting than it really was."
When Suzanne had gone into the house, Gary put his beer down and leaned forward in his chair to look up into Hunter's face.
"You really think it's possible that Randy was murdered? Randy was just normal people, for God's sake. Not Mafia. Not into drugs or ... or ... crime. Christ! Get real! Have you thought about what you're doing?" he asked, then gestured with his head toward the door Suzanne had just disappeared through. "To her. I know you were roped into this by her and El, but don't you think it would be better for Suzy to just accept her father's death and get on with life? Christ!" Gary sat back in his chair and snatched his beer can from the table. He threw his head back and drank, then leaned forward again.
"You say there was no sign of a collision with another vehicle. So how else could a loaded eighteen wheeler be forced off the road? What the hell do you think happened? Some fuckin' Sasquatch pushed the truck off the road with his bare hands?" He shook his head and snorted. "Or some hijacker drove the truck off the road, then climbed out without a scratch, left the load smashed to rat shit, and disappeared into the mountains? Get real."
Hunter shrugged, brushing his can of beer back and forth against his knee. In a way, Gary was right. If his investigation turned up nothing, he would have made Suzan
ne suffer this continued uncertainty for no good reason. But for Hunter, the alternative was worse. Could he rest knowing someone got off scot free after taking the life of a good man like Randy Danyluk? God knows, he had enough regrets haunting him already. "You've got a point there, chief. I expect the inquest may finally conclude the accident was a result of driver error. There's a good chance Suzanne will end up having to accept the fact that her dad drove off the road and nobody will ever know why. Maybe in a couple of weeks she'll be ready for that. In the meantime, I'll try not to stir things up too much, but maybe it helps her to know that somebody cares enough to look at all the angles. Okay with you?"
Gary made a face, but said, "Go ahead. I don't care how you want to waste your time. Just don't upset my wife."
Suzanne walked out carrying the salmon on a platter lined with aluminum foil. She showed Gary and Hunter the lemon, onion and bacon slices spread across the rich pink-brown flesh inside the fish, allowing the two of them to admire it thoroughly. Then she dotted its silver skin with more lemon and onions, and sealed the fish in the foil.
"Here you go, men," she said, washing her hands of it. "The rest is up to you."
Monday the sun rose on the sky side of a heavy grey cloud blanket, and by eight o'clock it had started to rain in North Vancouver. The landlord's cat came to Hunter's back door, a sliding glass door that opened onto a concrete patio overhung by the sundeck of the landlord's suite upstairs, where it stood mewling pitifully until Hunter let it in. It rubbed against the leg of his jeans as it passed. Hunter left the door half open and stood there for a moment, deeply inhaling the scent of rain-soaked grass and cedar mixed with a subtle taste of ocean air. It was a nice change from the dry heat he'd left behind in Kamloops the day before.
He carried his coffee to the small desk in his den and started going through his mail for bills, writing checks, and bringing his ledgers and journal up to date. The cat jumped lightly to his desk and walked across the piles of paper, nudging his pen with its brown muzzle and purring sensuously. Finally it curled up in the warm glow of his desk lamp with its head tucked beneath its paw.
The last two checks he wrote were made out to Lesley Rayne and Janice Rayne. He and his ex-wife, Christine, had agreed that when the girls reached sixteen they themselves would be responsible for banking and disbursing their father's contribution to their living expenses, a contribution Hunter planned to continue making until they were finished their formal education. The strategy had seemed to accomplish what it was intended to: they were both well aware of the value of a dollar, and had both begun building a savings account towards buying their first apartment. He was proud of them, but a little sad. His sadness confused him. He'd been highly responsible at their age, too. He hadn't been unhappy, but he didn't look back on his adolescence and youth as being fun. Somehow he'd gone from being a serious and introspective child to being a mature and sober adult, skipping what were supposed to be the carefree years in between. Or ever. These days, in his mid forties, he was as close to carefree as he'd ever been. He made a glum mouth as he entered the final balance in his checkbook. He'd have to drive out to El's office today so he could deposit his paycheck tomorrow morning before his next trip out.
A little whistle floated in through the open back door, followed by a hoarse, "Cat! Food, Cat!" Hunter poked the sleeping Siamese with his pen. It looked out from beneath its paw with one blue eye, then curled its head deeper. When he tried to pick it up, the cat suddenly burst awake, squirmed out of his grasp, and sunk its small fangs into his hand before shooting out of the den and out of the door. Hunter followed, inspecting his hand to see if the skin was broken. It was. His landlord was leaning on the sundeck railing and grinning down on Hunter and the cat. Gord wore knee length khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. One bare foot rested on the lower railing.
"Morning, Gord! She bit me again." Hunter held up his injured hand.
"Oh dear! Badly?"
"I'll live."
The Siamese darted off the patio, clambered halfway up the trunk of the apple tree, and without the tiniest pause, leaped back down to the ground, scooted across the wet grass and thundered up the wooden steps that led to the sundeck where Gord stood. Expressionless except for an almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrows, the old doctor watched the cat until she disappeared into the house, then turned back to Hunter.
"Feel like a coffee?" Gord asked. "Anne dropped off some peanut butter cookies yesterday."
"Aha! You just said the magic word. You know I can never turn down a peanut butter cookie." Gord's daughter, Anne, made them just the way he liked them, crunchy on the outside and chewy on the inside.
Hunter polished off two peanut butter cookies before his first mouthful of coffee. Gord's coffee was a little weak, but strong enough for this time of day. They sat at the kitchen table, looking out at the grey sky and the tall cedars at the foot of the garden, the deep green of their swooping branches softened by a fine curtain of rain. Beyond and between the cedars Hunter could make out a flat grey stretch of Burrard Inlet, its waters only a shade darker than the clouded sky. "So how's Anne these days?"
"Oh, fine, I guess. Loves her job, but she's always complaining about the pay. How does that saying go? She's trying to indulge champagne tastes on a beer budget." Gord nodded sagely. "Takes after her mother. Myself, I'd take a Moosehead over a Dom Perignon any day."
"Heard from the other girls lately?" asked Hunter. Gord had three daughters and a son.
"I talk to them all pretty much every day. Some days I'm tempted to let the answering machine they gave me take all my calls, but then I'd have to put up with them banging on my door. They've all got to keep tabs on me. I guess they're afraid I'll drop dead or at the very least break my leg any day now."
"Pretty close family, yours. I'm lucky if I talk to Jan or Lesley more than a couple of times a month." He smiled at the retired doctor. "Or is lucky the right word?"
"Lucky? I'd say it's just normal. I never used to get all this attention. When their mother was alive, it was usually 'Hi, Dad. Can I speak to Mom?' Unless they needed money or medical advice, of course. I guess they figured I was indestructible in those days, or else they knew their mother was looking after me properly. God knows, now that I'm old and feeble, they obviously don't think I can look after myself. And I guess they don't think John can look after me, either." Gord's brother John, a retired geologist, was slightly older, just as active, and Gord's roommate. Hunter considered his upstairs neighbours something of an Odd Couple, and got a kick out of their frequent bickering.
"Where is John?" Hunter asked as he accepted Gord's offer to refill his coffee. They were drinking out of pottery mugs, their pot bellied contours shaded from dark brown to cream.
"He's pretty well moved up to the Shuswap for the summer again this year. I plan to go up next week with Holly and her gang." Holly was Gord's oldest daughter, who was married and had three children.
"What are you going to do with the cat?" Hunter asked, looking around with some trepidation.
"Don't worry, you're safe. She had muddy feet, so she probably went to sleep on the clean laundry." Deadpan, Gord pushed his bifocals up on his nose. "The cat comes with me. She hates riding in the car, but once we get to the lake, she's really in her glory. Hunts all night, sleeps during the day. Besides, with your schedule, I wouldn't expect you to volunteer to look after her." He reached for another cookie.
"Although I know how well you two get along."
CHAPTER 10
– – – – TEN
Whenever he had to spend the night in Vancouver, Randy Danyluk used to stay at a hotel in Surrey that catered to truckers, and he often hoisted a beer or two with Elspeth Watson in the hotel's pub, known as The Goal Post. When Hunter went in to pick up his check at Watson Transportation on Monday, El invited him to join her and Randy's friend Stan Murphy at The Post that evening for a drink or two in Randy's honor, an unofficial wake. Until then, his day was free, and Hunter intended to devote it to a
couple of neglected priorities: his daughters, and a little personal recreation.
Jan and Lesley lived with Hunter's ex-wife Christine in a three-bedroom townhouse in a park-like complex in North Burnaby. For the past few years, since Jan had learned to drive, Hunter seldom had occasion to go to the townhouse. It was usually more expedient to meet the girls at a restaurant or somewhere. He figured that by now their classes would be over for the summer, and thought that during the day he might have a good chance of finding them at home. He had their monthly checks with him, and if nobody was there, he'd have to slip the checks in an envelope under the door mat and leave a message on their answering machine.
He parked on the street. The complex was across the street from the Burnaby Mountain Golf Course, and Hunter peered through the trees beside the boulevard to see if the course was busy. A threesome was putting on the closest green, and the foursome behind them ranged across the fairway, waiting, about two hundred yards away. The members of the foursome looked Japanese. Hunter walked across the street to the townhouses.
The clouds were thinning and the rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and fresh, the pavement mottled with patches of wet and dry. A robin hopped along the lawn beside the sidewalk leading to the stairs, and a group of tiny black-capped chickadees chased each other through the crooked branches of a spreading pine tree. The complex was made up of three-story buildings arranged in staggered rows, and each townhouse had its own outside entrance. The outer walls were a combination of white stucco and chocolate brown wood siding, and the buildings looked as clean and well maintained as the gardens that surrounded them. Hunter climbed the stairs to a second floor suite and knocked on the door. He could hear music faintly from behind the heavy door. He knocked louder, and fifteen seconds later the door jerked open. He smiled broadly.
"Dad! Hi! What are you doing here?" It was Lesley, his youngest, who at nineteen looked like a nineties version of the girl Hunter had fallen in love with in 1968. She had long, sandy blond hair, shot with brass and gold strands, that framed her face in a careless cascade of waves. Her skin was clear and her eyes a gentle blue. She wore a short pale green skirt and a short sleeved blouse with gold and green patterns of tropical foliage.