by R. E. Donald
"Maybe I overreacted, gave El the wrong impression. It was probably some sick fucker's idea of a joke and I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, you know?"
"Some joke," said Hunter grimly. "Humor me, okay? Tell me what happened."
Gary shrugged, lighting another cigarette and slipping the lighter back into his shirt pocket.
"When had you last checked your brakes?"
"Right there at the brake check, man. I'm not about to run a full load over the Coq without brakes! You think I'm stupid?"
Hunter's smile said, I'm not stupid either. Gary's resentment was obvious, and reminded Hunter that he was no longer an officer of the law and, whatever his motives, he was meddling in someone else's life. But he couldn't back off now. He cared too much about what had happened to Randy. He couldn't back off unless Suzanne asked him to, and maybe not even then. "Just tell me what happened, Gary."
Gary had set his trailer brakes before leaving Kamloops. He'd tested his brakes at the first brake check outside of Kamloops at the entrance to the Coquihalla, and everything was working fine when he came down from the first summit into Merritt. As usual, he checked his brakes again at the brake check on the lower half of the Coquihalla. Everything was in order.
"It was business as usual. Then I took advantage of the john there. You know how it is. Sometimes you need to sit in there for a while?" He took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out the window. "I could've been in the john for a good five minutes, maybe more. Who checks their watch, eh?"
"Did you see anybody else at the brake check while you were there?" Hunter leaned his back against the door, turning so he could watch Gary's face.
Gary rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and exhaled another lungful of smoke. "I wasn't paying a lot of attention, but I know there was a rig parked there already, and another came in right behind me. Let's see," he mused. "I think the one already there was a chip truck, one of those white ones. The one that came in behind me parked right beside me. A scummy looking independent, an old Ford, maybe. I don't remember a company logo, didn't read any names or anything. The cab was white, I think. Dirty. There were quite a few cars, too, parked on the other side of the lot. I couldn't say how many. It's a regular rest stop, too, eh? Not just a brake check."
While he was in the restroom, he had vaguely heard a few rigs check their brakes and carry on, he said, plus he heard several men use the washroom. "I can't remember exactly. Like I say, I wasn't paying much attention. Why would I? When I came out, the rig beside me was gone, and there was another rig parked there. A CF tractor pulling a set of joints, and the driver was just coming out of the john when I left."
Someone who knew what they were doing and who was working fast could've backed the trailer brakes off while Gary was in the restroom. It could be done in as little as two minutes. But how would they know he was going to be in the restroom long enough for them to crawl under the trailer and fiddle with the slack adjustors without being seen? It would make more sense if there were two of them, one to keep watch for Gary coming back, the other to do the work. But even supposing someone had it in for him, how would they know he was going to be stopping there in the first place, let alone that he'd be there long enough for them to sabotage his brakes? And wouldn't they figure he'd have the sense to use the runaway lanes when his brakes failed? Was it just a warning?
"You remember seeing any of those rigs before?"
Gary shook his head. "One CF rig looks pretty much like another, and the CF drivers usually hang out with drivers from the other majors. At least, I can't remember meeting any."
"What about the white Ford?"
He shook his head again. "I didn't recognize the rig, so I didn't pay any attention to the driver. I don't think I even saw his face."
"Was there a passenger?"
Gary shrugged. "Didn't notice."
"Can you think of any reason someone might want to hurt you?" Hunter stared intently at Gary. Gary and Randy had both been running a load from Waicom up the Coquihalla that night. If, in fact, someone was trying to kill Gary, did that mean that Randy had been killed by mistake, or did someone actually have it in for Ranverdan Transport?
Gary snorted. "And where were you the night of the murder?" he said in a sneering voice. "Jesus Christ! I told you before. It's not like any of us are members of the mafia, or those Asian street gangs, whatever you call them. Get it? Nobody here is dealing drugs or smuggling. This isn't L.A. or New York. This is fuckin' Kamloops. I'm just an average joe, just like Randy. Average Joe Trucker. No crime. No enemies. No fuckin' murder! Can't you understand? This scare about murder is ruining my family, what's left of Suzanne's family." Gary pounded his fists on the rim of his steering wheel.
"There was no fuckin' murder," he said. "Why don't you just leave us alone."
CHAPTER 14
– – – – FOURTEEN
Hunter was awakened by the sound of a door clicking shut somewhere in the house. He pulled his arm out from beneath the pillow to check his watch. Eight o'clock. Could it be Suzanne entering the office downstairs? As he swung his legs over the bed and began to pull on his jeans, he heard the jingle of bottles as someone opened the refrigerator door. Of course. Sorry's hungry again, he thought. Hunter strolled out to the kitchen shirtless, still zipping up his fly. It was Suzanne.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning. Excuse me." He turned away to finish fastening his jeans, then crossed his arms across his chest. "I thought you were my co-driver."
"Sorry to surprise you. I just thought I'd bring over some stuff for breakfast." Suzanne gestured at the fridge. She wore cut off jeans and a sleeveless cotton shirt of pale blue, its ends tied beneath her breasts, leaving her midriff bare. "Eggs. Bacon. There's milk and butter, and coffee." She indicated a tin beside the automatic coffee maker on the counter. "Oh, and some orange juice in the freezer. I could make it if you like."
"Thanks," he said. "Don't go to any trouble. I think I'll put on some coffee, then go have a shower. I'd like to talk to you, though. Are you going to be around for a while?"
She nodded. "You go ahead, shower. I'll make the coffee, then I'll be downstairs," she said. "I'm expecting a couple of calls this morning. Gary's looking after the kids."
By the time Hunter was showered and dressed, Sorry was pouring himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Soon Hunter joined him on the sundeck, looking out at the sandy walls of the river gorge rising on the other side of the green flood plain, and at the muted swirls on the surface of the river. The air sparkled with morning birdsong, underlaid with the rustling of treetops as a fresh breeze brushed past their faces. Sorry started nodding and scratching his stomach, a satisfied smile hiking the ends of his moustache. His bare toes wiggled ecstatically.
"Beauty, eh?" he said. "I can see why some guys decide to move outa the smog surrounding the big city. Waking up in Surrey ain't quite like this."
Hunter squinted up at the cloudless sky, took a swallow of fresh coffee, and agreed. The sun had already warmed the rough skin of the deck's cedar railing. It promised to be a hot day.
"Talk about your fresh air, eh?" Sorry inhaled loudly through his nose, then started to cough raucously. As the coughing wound down, he thumped his fist against his chest. "Where's my smokes?" he said, and padded back inside.
Sorry volunteered to make breakfast, so Hunter refilled his coffee mug and went downstairs to see Suzanne. She was working at the computer, reading something on the desk and typing without looking at the screen. She looked up and smiled as he straddled a chair across from her.
"Well?" she said. "How's it going?"
Hunter shrugged and returned her smile. After what Gary had said last night, he didn't want to be the one to initiate a discussion of the "investigation". He wanted to give Suzanne a chance to back away from it first. "How's it going for you?" he asked, smiling sympathetically.
She sighed. "Gary doesn't believe in you," she said. "He doesn't want
me to pursue things any further. He says you're chasing a long shot, it's probably all in your imagination, and that it will only upset me, prevent the wound from starting to heal, he says."
Hunter kept his quiet smile, nodding slightly to indicate that the decision was hers.
"I can't do that," she said, tucking her hands between her knees and rocking gently. "I couldn't live with myself, knowing that Dad might have been murdered and I didn't do anything about it. Sometimes it's hard to believe that Dad's really gone, let alone that there was something ... criminal about his death." She leaned back and sighed again. "You will keep looking into it, won't you? I know it's asking a lot of you, but I don't know who else to turn to."
He nodded.
"And now I'm worried about Gary, since that business with his brakes," Suzanne continued. "I'm afraid he's in danger, too, but he insists there's nothing to worry about. Do you think that someone, whoever it is, might think Gary knows something incriminating when he really doesn't? Do you think he could be in danger without knowing it?"
"Why do you say that?" Hunter asked.
"Because he was at Waicom that night, too, remember?" she said. "If they saw Dad signal to him, even if he didn't stop to talk there at Waicom, maybe they think Dad told him something later, that they might've met somewhere along the road for dinner or something. I want to show you something." She went over to a desk against the wall, took a key out of her pocket, and opened the top left hand drawer. She pulled out a sheaf of mismatched papers, brought them over and laid one on the desk in front of Hunter. "Look at that," she said. "I can't make head nor tail out of Dad's notes, but look at that." She kept her slender index finger pressed against the page, her small well-trimmed nail pink from the pressure.
It was a note, undated, written on a blank Waicom bill of lading in an almost childish scrawl.
John (home) – 403 - 256 - 1213
Please don't say anything to
anybody and please don't
call me at work!!
"Please don't" was underlined heavily, both times. Suzanne pulled her finger away, clasped her hands against her body, and looked briefly away. "It sounds so ... desperate, somehow. Don't you think this could mean something?" she asked. She still stood close to him. The skin of her bare midriff was clear and smooth, gently convex like a child's.
Hunter frowned. "What else did you find?" he asked, moving his chair back a little and holding his hand out for the other papers.
"These computer printouts. Dad made a few notes on them beside the list of shipments from Seattle to Edmonton, but I can't make out what they mean."
"Beside specific shipments?"
She shook her head. "No. I looked up the bills of lading, too. There's nothing."
"Who do you think wrote this?" he asked, picking up the unsigned note..
"My guess is John Semeniuk."
"The shipper in Edmonton. Shipper or receiver or whatever he is," said Hunter. "That'd be my guess, too. I think he knows more than he's telling." He's scared, Hunter thought, remembering the greasy sweat on the man's face when Semeniuk told Hunter about Mel Collins, and remembering the warehouseman's grim face at the window. He didn't want to voice his thoughts out loud. No need to frighten Suzanne any more than she was already.
"Can I see your dad's notes?" he asked.
"I'll make copies," she said, picking up the bill of lading. "This too."
"While I'm here, can you tell me anything about a driver named Chuck Wahl?"
Suzanne frowned. "The name rings a bell. I think Dad worked with him a long time ago, but I haven't heard anything about him lately. Sorry."
"Could you tell me a little about the drivers who work for Ranverdan now?" asked Hunter. "Other than Gary, of course."
"Sure," she said. "What do you want to know?"
"Oh," Hunter shrugged, "general information. Say, how long they've been with the company, how well your dad knew them, that sort of thing."
Suzanne ran through the list of Ranverdan drivers. In addition to Gary and Randy, there had been seven other drivers working for Ranverdan at the time of Randy's death. Four of them were full time, and the other three were called in to drive the Ranverdan rigs when the other drivers were off duty, or drove rented tractors when the need arose. The full timers were Stan Murphy the Newfoundlander, Tom Buckingham, Tom "Tiny" Kubik, and Pete Whitehead, all veteran drivers in their forties and fifties who'd been with Ranverdan for at least ten years. The part timers included Pete's son, Jason, who worked on his uncle's ranch when he wasn't driving, Mike Albert, a semi-retired older driver who ran a local antique shop in partnership with his wife, and Suzanne's cousin, Tyke Wilson, a young man who still lived at home with his parents.
She gave Hunter a brief run-down on each driver, and said she could supply phone numbers and road schedules if he needed them. "The drivers are a big part of why it's important for me to keep the company running. They've all been so loyal to Dad, for so many years. And most of them weren't just employees, they were good friends. I think it means as much to them as it does to me, keeping Dad's company alive." She smiled sadly. "I'm sure they'll tell you as much, when you talk to them."
"I think I'll do a little more digging before I talk to any of them. No sense starting rumors until we get a better fix on what might have been going on." No sense tipping the murderer off, he thought to himself. "Do you know if any of them seemed to have any special interest in Waicom? Did some drivers handle the Waicom loads more often than others?"
"They all would've handled Waicom loads at one time or another. Dad set up the schedules so all the drivers would swap runs a lot, including him, although he didn't like to be away from the office for more than a couple of days at a time. That way he got to keep in touch with all the shippers, make sure they had no complaints. Almost like he was doing sales calls when he was on the road."
"Your dad was a smart guy."
Suzanne nodded and turned her head away, but not before Hunter saw her eyes fill with tears.
"Hits you sometimes when you're not looking," he said.
She nodded again, and turned away to face the big picture window at the back of the office. Beyond the pane and across the lawn was a big willow tree with branches that almost touched the grass. He left her there, alone.
After breakfast, Hunter went back down to the office. Suzanne had left a stack of photo copies in an envelope with his name on it, but she herself was gone. Besides John's note, there were copies of the computer printouts marked with scrawled notes, a couple of weeks worth of dispatch schedules, and a list of the drivers with their addresses and phone numbers. Hunter sat down at the desk to study the computer printouts, but the copies were faint and the print relatively small. The handwritten notes were almost illegible, and obviously abbreviations. He regretted leaving his reading glasses in the sleeper of his truck, and decided it would be less painful to go over the printouts later. Besides, Sorry was getting restless. He had paced around the room throwing the kids’ pink stuffed dog in the air, until he finally sat down and stuffed its head between the sofa cushions.
"When are we leaving?" he asked.
"As soon as we can get a lift out to the yard," said Hunter.
"Where do we stop to eat?"
Suzanne came back a few minutes later with Jo and Veri in tow, and Sorry gave the two little girls horsy rides around the room while they waited for Gary to arrive with his 4x4. The kids giggled and squealed with delight, and Suzanne laughed like a kid herself at Sorry's antics as he whinnied and snorted and scrambled around the floor on his hands and knees. Hunter felt a warmth in his chest. It was good to see Suzanne enjoying herself. He wondered when his own daughters would become young mothers. It was hard to believe they were already almost the age he was when he met their mother.
As they passed the turnoff to Merritt, Sorry whined about not stopping for ice cream at the Dairy Queen, which was visible from the highway – "Shining like a beacon", said Sorry – so Hunter promised to stop for a
meal at The Canyon Hotel again in Hope. Automobile traffic was still fairly light on the Coquihalla. The elementary school year still had another two weeks to go so the big summer migrations had not yet begun. The temperature dropped as they climbed back into the mountains, Sorry dozing and Hunter watching the road, and also scanning the sides of the highway for a glimpse of wildlife. He always enjoyed sighting the occasional moose where the Coquihalla wound through marshy sections of the high country. Once he'd seen a cinnamon colored bear loping across a field towards the road, thick coat shimmering across its powerful shoulders.
Sorry came to life again about fifteen minutes before they reached the toll booth mid way between Merritt and Hope. He launched into a running commentary on passing vehicles and road signs, punctuated by bellows, whoops and belly laughs.
"Look at that no-mind in the Porsche! He thinks he's Mario Andretti or something. Whoa! Look at that. If I had my Harley, he'd be eating my dust. ASSHOLE!"
"Whoo-whee! Look at them legs! Talk about your short shorts, eh, Hunter? See that? Did ya see that? Hi, baby! She's flashin' us, Hunter. She's flashin’." He reached for the horn, but Hunter fended him off.
"Juliet Creek? What kinda Indian name is that? Where's Romeo? Isn't there something here called Romeo? Oh, wherefore art thou Romeo? Where the hell do they get these names, anyway?"
In self-defense against Sorry's non-stop chatter, Hunter searched his memory for details about the Coquihalla region. "Andrew McCulloch," he said.
"Huh? What about him?"
"Andrew McCulloch was the guy who picked those names. He was a Shakespeare nut. Let's see, there's also Falstaff, Iago, Portia, Lear and Othello. I don't remember what order they come in, but they're mostly names of stations along the Coquihalla section of the old Kettle Valley Railway. It ran from Hope all the way to some town in the Kettle Valley, somewhere around the middle of the B.C.-Washington state border. Andrew McCulloch was the chief engineer."