Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  The phone buzzed again and she grabbed for the receiver, resenting and welcoming the distraction at the same time. "Watson," she barked.

  It was Hunter.

  "Jesus, Hunter! Get in here, would ya! Some psycho is trying to murder the whole goddamn Ranverdan fleet! We gotta do something!"

  "Whoa, El. Slow down there," said Hunter, his voice smooth and slow.

  El took his irritating calm as a rebuke. She had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming back at him.

  "Okay," Hunter's level voice continued, "tell me what happened."

  "I told you, Goddammit! Somebody tried to murder Gary!"

  "El. I said slow down." There was a warning in his voice. El bristled, but held her tongue. "Start from the beginning."

  Another phone started to ring and El cut the caller off, whoever it was, then put all of her lines on hold so her conversation with Hunter wouldn't be disturbed..

  "Okay," she said. "From the beginning. I told you last night that Gary was back on the road today, right?"

  "Yes. You said he'd be hauling the Waicom load from Seattle to Edmonton."

  "Right. Well, first he had a load out of Prince George that he was hauling from Ranverdan's Kamloops yard to here. Newsprint."

  "A full load?" Hunter asked.

  "Yep. Forty five thousand pounds." El paused for effect. Both she and Hunter knew that a load that heavy demanded full braking power on the killer hills of the Coquihalla. "He left at about eight this morning, and did the usual brake check prior to descending the first summit. Everything was in order. No sweat on the first descent, he said. Everything worked. He took it easy and had no problems." She took a breath. There are two summits on the Coquihalla highway between Kamloops and the town of Hope. For a southbound driver, the first summit lies between Kamloops and Merritt, the second summit, a good forty two hundred feet above sea level, lies between Merritt and Hope. "He says he did the brake check again, like he's supposed to, before starting the second descent this side of the toll booth.

  "So, he's starting on that first downhill grade, low gear, the load's pushing pretty hard. So he pulls his spike, eh?" The hand valve should have activated his trailer brakes. "And nothing happens! Zip! Nada! No trailer brakes. His drives couldn't hold the load all on their lonesome, so pretty soon they're smokin'." She paused again. Although the curves on the descent from the Coquihalla summit were relatively gentle, the grade, averaging six percent, extended for over ten miles. Relying on nothing but drive axle brakes on a hill that long was almost suicidal. Smoking brakes on the drive axles meant that they were already overheating.

  "So he's barrelling down the hill, drive brakes smoking, pulling on a dead spike, and he has to take the turn up one of the runaway lanes. After he stops shakin', he says, he checks his trailer brakes and sure enough, the slack adjusters had been backed off. He figures somebody did the dirty work while he was taking a shit in the restrooms at the brake check." She paused, waiting for a comment from Hunter.

  "Where is Gary now?"

  "I gave him the number for the local towing outfit, 'cause he was going to need help getting back to the highway, and he said he didn't want to risk pulling that load the rest of the way until after he's had the tractor checked out. He said the ride up the runaway lane was pretty rough, and there might've been some damage to his tractor, besides the glazed brakes. Meantime, I pulled Murph off of another job and sent him up to get the newsprint, so Gary's got to wait for him to get there before he heads to Hope. Murph'll have to do the Seattle, too, looks like." El drummed her fingers on the desk, waiting for Hunter's response. "Well?" she said.

  "How long has Gary been driving?"

  "What are you getting at?"

  "I've heard of guys turning their own slack adjusters the wrong way, just by mistake."

  "What?! You think he's bullshitting?"

  "If you were a macho guy, overeducated for the job and married to the boss, would you admit screwing up like that? He'd become the butt of other drivers' jokes for the rest of his life."

  "We're not talking about a simple screw up here." El sat forward in her chair and banged a fist on the counter in front of her. "The guy could've fuckin' died!"

  "I'm not saying it didn't happen like he told you, but I'm not prepared to just assume it did, either. What else did he say? Did he see anybody hanging around his truck?"

  "How the hell should I know? Look. The guy calls me from a call box in the middle of nowhere just after having the shit scared out of him. I'm supposed to interrogate him?" This was getting real tiresome. She just wanted to hand the thing off to Hunter and let him run with it, and here he was throwing the damn thing back in her face. "Something screwy is going on at Ranverdan, Hunter. If I had the answers, I wouldn't have called you, would I?" It occurred to her that all her lines were still on hold. Customers would put up with a busy signal for only so long.

  "Does Suzanne know?"

  "No. He said not to tell her, at least not yet. He doesn't want to worry her." El herself was of two minds about that. Sure, it would be a shame to upset the poor kid any more than she was already by her father's death. But, hey, welcome to the real world, kid. The sooner you face it the better. Trucking is a tough business, and if you can't stand the heat, get outa the kitchen. It wouldn't be hard for Suzanne to unload the business, either. In fact, Ranverdan's assets, including plummy accounts like Waicom, would fit in real well with Watson Transportation's current operation. "Look, are you coming in or not?"

  "What can I do right now, El? I'll have to talk to Gary before I do anything. Call me when you hear from him, okay? I'll see you this afternoon when I pick up my truck."

  El grunted. Hunter was right, damn him.

  Suzanne ran the last envelope through the postage machine. With a grind and ka-ching, the machine spat it out into the wire basket where it slipped off the pile of other invoices. That was it. The last bit of paperwork for now. The kids were napping. The phones were quiet. Suzanne frowned. It didn't feel right. What was happening? Had business fallen off so much since her dad's death? Had the company suddenly started to wither and die? What should she do about it? What could she do to even find out?

  Although it wouldn't help business any, she decided to use the time to search for those computer records on Waicom she'd pulled for her dad. Perhaps she could find something Hunter could use. Maybe something there could provide some clue as to why her father had decided not to clear that Waicom load through customs. She went to the five drawer steel filing cabinet, its key perpetually in the lock, pulled out the Waicom file folders, and brought them back to her desk.

  One folder was for correspondence. There were some letters relating to damage claims, a few e-mail messages requesting photo copies of delivery receipts, and a small stack of annual contracts, the most recent one dated January of the current year. She scanned the letters and notes, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The remaining folders held the Waicom bills of lading. Suzanne started with the most recent, and glanced at the key information on each bill of lading before turning it over and going on to the next. Here was a calendar of the past months measured in shipments instead of days. For each waybill, she took note of the date, the pieces and weight, the destination and the driver. After the first half a dozen bills, she flipped them faster and faster, just looking for notes or scribbles or anything else that might red-flag a shipment, might create some kind of suspicion. Nothing.

  Where were those printouts she'd pulled for her father? She went to the desk he used to use when he needed a space to work in the office. He'd given the best and biggest desk to his wife, and then to Suzanne. His own small desk was facing the side wall, out of the way. She remembered him sitting there with the computer printouts and the file folders of waybills. He'd been making notes on something. If it wasn't the waybills, it must have been the printouts. She tried the large side drawers of the desk, but they seemed to contain nothing except blank waybills and claims forms, various manuals and tariff pages, job appl
ication forms and empty legal pads. She rifled through all the file folders without finding anything that had notes or writing of any kind. Then she tried the upper side drawer. It was locked. The center drawer contained nothing but an assortment of pencils and pens, rulers and staples, paperclips and blank post-it notes. She rummaged around in it for a key. No luck.

  She pulled on the locked drawer again. Where would her dad keep the key? Surely he wouldn't have carried it with him. She went to her own desk and had begun to search the top drawer for a key when she was interrupted by the phone.

  "Hi, babe."

  "Gary!" His sexy voice on the phone always gave her a shiver of pleasure.

  "Just thought I'd let you know about the change in plans. I had a little brake trouble on the Coq today so ..."

  Her stomach dropped. "What happened? Are you alright?" She couldn't keep the sudden panic out of her voice.

  "Nothing to worry about, Sue. They just overheated a little."

  "Overheated a little? My God, Gary, are you ... ?"

  "I'm fine, Sue. I said it was nothing." He sounded irritated, implying that she was acting like some silly worried woman, someone who didn't know how serious a brake problem on the Coquihalla could be.

  Suzanne clenched her jaw, said nothing. She could feel the heat rising in her face.

  "I just wanted to let you know that the scheduling has been juggled around a little, mostly because I'll be delayed getting into Vancouver." He told her that he'd be hauling a load from Vancouver to Kelowna, then making a pickup in Kelowna bound for Calgary.

  "What about the Waicom?"

  "Murph's on it."

  "Murph?" Suzanne was confused. Why the hell hadn't anyone consulted her? What was going on? Drivers weren't supposed to make decisions like that without talking to their dispatcher.

  "El said she'll have me home Thursday, no problem."

  El! No wonder it had seemed so quiet. Even though Suzanne was back in the office full time, ready and eager to work, the drivers were still calling El! Things they should be discussing with her, Suzanne – granted, in the past she would often have consulted with her father before making any decisions – they were now addressing to El. Were the customers calling El, too?

  "She will, will she," Suzanne said grimly. "What the hell has she got to do with dispatching Ranverdan trucks to Ranverdan accounts?"

  "Suzy."

  "Just what the hell business has El got fooling with our schedules?!"

  "Suzy, settle down. She's just trying to help, you know that."

  "If she's got a load for us, she can goddamn well call me and I'll let her know if I can send a driver. She's got no business dispatching ... our trucks." Suzanne came very close to saying "my trucks", but it didn't feel right. In her mind – and in her heart – they were still her dad's trucks.

  "She's just trying to help, take a load off you, you know?"

  Yes, thought Suzanne. And what was Gary doing? Why had he called El about the brake trouble instead of calling her? "Why didn't you call me first?"

  A hiss came over the phone as Gary exhaled loudly between his teeth. "This is exactly why I didn't call you first. Listen to yourself. You're in a panic about it."

  Suzanne knew she couldn't respond without keeping the hurt and anger out of her voice, which would just give him more ammunition. She took a deep breath.

  "Maybe if you didn't react so emotionally to everything ... ," Gary went on.

  "Are you saying I shouldn't have reacted emotionally to my father's death?"

  "Of course not. This is getting ridiculous. Look, everything's okay. No harm done. El's just helping out until you're ready to take over yourself."

  "I'm ready now, and I'll damn well tell her that."

  "Give your head a shake, girl. Right now, without El's help, you could end up in big trouble. Let's talk about this when I get home," he said. "How're the girls? Are they sleeping?"

  They changed the subject, but it didn't get the subject off her mind. Suzanne was still shaking when she hung up.

  CHAPTER 12

  – – – – TWELVE

  Hunter always enjoyed the two and a half hour drive between Vancouver and Seattle. The road was good and the scenery, varied. Rural fields and light industry alternated with small towns and shopping malls catering to shoppers from both sides of the border. There was an easy stretch of curved mountain highway and always plenty of trees, plenty of green. He liked the Indian names he read on the green and white highway signs. Lummi. Snohomish. Snoqualmie. Tulalip. The name Sedro Woolley had intrigued him so much he'd looked it up in the auto association guide. The name came about when the logging town of Sedro, from the Spanish word for cedar, merged with the railroad town of Woolley. While he was at it, he learned that Issaquah means "snake" and Enumclaw, "place of the evil spirits".

  He hadn't yet spoken to Gary. Hunter had arrived at Watson Transportation's yard to pick up The Blue Knight just after El had redispatched Gary to Kelowna, and their schedules wouldn't permit a face-to-face discussion, which is what Hunter wanted, for several days. The realities of making a living made a proper investigation impossible. Gary rejected El's suggestion to take a few more days off, just as he'd rejected her suggestion to contact the police. But he intended to keep a close eye on his vehicle from now on, he said.

  Hunter had broken the news to El about his co-driver to Winnipeg, asking her to find a return load out of Winnipeg for him by Thursday. He planned on picking Dan Sorenson up after he'd crossed the border back into Canada.

  "What!?" El practically choked. "That sorry excuse for a human being!? How could you stand being cooped up with him all the way to Winnipeg and back?"

  Hunter, with a half grin, shrugged.

  "Remember when Ron Taber hired him on for a run to Montreal?" El continued. "When Ron got back here, all he'd say is that the only way he'd ever travel with him again is if Sorry rode in the trailer – preferably a reefer." El's machine gun laugh. "A reefer with something non-edible, he said. Otherwise the goddamn trailer would probably be empty by the time he opened the doors."

  The phone rang, and Hunter paced the floor in front of the counter while El took the call. He noticed some strings of scrap paper on the floor, white with small holes spaced half an inch apart, the torn and discarded edges from computer printed waybills. He picked them up and threw them in the waste bucket, along with the cobwebby dust that clung to them, then wiped his hands on his jeans.

  "Listen, El," he said when she was off the phone, looking around to make sure no one else was within earshot. "If anybody asks, you're the one who hired Sorry, okay? He might come in useful when it comes to getting information, and I don't want anybody connecting him with me. Too many people still think police when they see me coming. Nobody has to know, not even Gary and Suzanne. They might let something slip to the wrong people. Okay?"

  "Are you kidding? Sorry's a funny guy, but he's about as straight as a corkscrew air line." El shook her head. "He's been wearing a black hat all his life, for God's sake! You really believe you can put him in a white one?"

  Hunter had rubbed his jaw. "Yeah," he said. "I do."

  There was a ten minute delay at the border, but traffic moved smoothly along the I-5 and Hunter reached the warehouse in Seattle slightly ahead of schedule. When he pulled up at Waicom's loading dock in the Free Trade Zone, Murphy's green and silver Ranverdan rig was already backed up to one of the doors. As Hunter walked up to the shipping counter, the warehouseman approached him and volunteered that the shipper was taking a smoke break. "I'll go get him. Just wait here." Hunter noticed that they had already started loading Murphy's trailer. He walked inside the trailer, his footsteps on the wooden floor echoing inside the aluminum cave, but it was too dark in the nose to read the address labels on the cartons. The loaded cartons all looked the same. Computer monitors. He assumed they were for Edmonton. When he walked out, Steve Mah was waiting for him, scowling and twisting the diamond stud in his ear.

  "What're you looking
for, man? That's not your load."

  "I'm looking for Murphy. You seen him?" Hunter was now convinced he wouldn't be able to get much information from Mah. Mah seemed wary of him, almost suspicious, and Hunter thought about what he'd recently said to El. Too many people still think police when they see me coming. Whether it was the way he walked, or talked, or how he dressed, or something indefinable, it seemed that twenty years of being a cop were impossible to erase. Lowlifes like Mah seemed to have some kind of a radar. Or could it be that somebody had warned him?

  Mah jerked his head toward the coffee room door just as Murphy came strolling through. The big Newfie had a friendly grin on his round, ruddy face.

  "Hey!" Mah shouted to the warehouseman. "Load this guy's trailer first." He pointed a rude finger at Hunter, that familiar smirk returning to his face. "The man's got farther to go."

  Murphy and Hunter sat side by side on a stack of pallets as they watched the warehouseman load Hunter's trailer. Murphy twirled a keyring round and round one plump index finger.

  "How 'bout that Bilodeau?" said Murphy, referring to the incident at The Goal Post. "One ugly bugger, eh?"

  "Sure is. No love lost between him and Randy, was there?"

  "That's for damn sure. I sure wouldn't want to turn my back on that weasel, if I was Randy." Murph clucked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head. "A real scumbucket, if ever there was one."

  "You know him from before?"

  "Just seen him around the Post. Deals drugs, I think."

  "I thought Carla had a thing for drivers. He's not a driver?" Hunter watched the forklift run a skid of computer parts into the dark interior of his trailer. He wondered how open he could be with Murphy.

  "Not as far as I know. Doesn't look like the bugger's done an honest day's work in his life, if you ask me." Murphy glanced sideways at him. "You think he might've had something to do with Randy's accident?"

  Hunter half smiled, said nothing.

  "Randy was my buddy, my best buddy," said Murphy. "If you're lookin' for a guy who might've had it in for him, I can help."