Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  "Like, the guy who drove the train?"

  "No. The other kind of engineer. The guy that built the railroad. Did you see the movie First Blood with Sylvester Stallone?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Part of that movie was filmed from the cliffs near the Othello-Quintette tunnels McCulloch built, not far from Hope. At the time the railroad was being built, back in the early 1900's, McCulloch planned the route through there, but other engineers said it couldn't be done. They figured on building a mile long tunnel bypassing the gorge. McCulloch surveyed the gorge from a wicker basket hanging off the cliffs, and built five short tunnels which did the trick. Saved them tons of money. Smart guy. Lot of guts."

  "So what happened to it?"

  "What happened to what?"

  "This railway," said Sorry. "I never heard of it."

  "If I recall correctly, it was completed in 1916 and ran until the late forties."

  "No wonder I never heard of it."

  "You should take the kids hiking up there to see the tunnels one day."

  "Did you?"

  Hunter concentrated on his mirrors as he pulled the rig into the left lane to pass a slow moving R.V.

  "Did you take your kids to see the tunnels, Hunter?"

  "No." Hunter pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, I didn't."

  A few miles past the toll booth, Hunter pulled off the highway into the mandatory brake check area. He tested his brakes, then pulled over just past the concrete building that housed the restrooms. "I'll just be a minute," he called out to Sorry as he jumped down from the cab. He wanted to refresh his memory about the layout of the restrooms where Gary's brakes had apparently been tampered with.

  Two outside doors opened into a small concrete entrance area where a small separate room holding a telephone was located. The men's and women's restrooms were situated beyond that. The men's room had three urinals and three toilet stalls. Nothing fancy, but reasonably new and clean. A guy would feel quite comfortable and inconspicuous spending a few minutes in one of the cubicles, and would be only vaguely aware of comings and goings inside the building, let alone in the parking lot.

  He stepped outside again. There was another, separate rest area on a parallel road just down the slope from the brake check within easy walking distance. Its building was situated on the edge of a large oval of lawn, the far edge of which was dotted with picnic tables and benches. The rest area was clearly designed for the occupants of automobiles and R.V.'s, although there was nothing to stop an automobile from driving into the brake check area. Several people and a dog were wandering around the grassy area, stretching their legs. Hunter rotated each of his arms at the shoulder and stretched his back, then walked toward his truck. A Van-Kam tractor-trailer unit was now parked just beyond The Blue Knight, and a burgundy colored Kenworth pulling a flat-bed trailer, its cargo secure under blue tarpaulins, was just exiting the brake check area. It wouldn't be difficult to tamper with someone's rig, as long as you knew he'd be out of the picture long enough. It would take two. One man to watch, one man to work.

  Sorry was standing beside The Blue Knight, his chest thrust outwards in a luxurious stretch while he exhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke. "Nice and cool up here in the mountains. What's that mountain over there, since you seem to know so much." He waved his cigarette towards a smooth upward thrust that looked like it was one solid slab of rock, tens of acres in area.

  "The sign back there said Zopkios Ridge."

  "This is too far inland to be part of the Coast Range, isn't it?"

  Hunter nodded. "Right. It's part of the Cascades."

  "Yeah? I thought the Cascades were in Washington."

  "Picture this." Hunter drew a rough line with his toe in the dirt shoulder beside the truck. "Over here is the Pacific Ocean. All along the Pacific, from southern California right up to Alaska, this bump is called the Coast Range. It sort of skips a few spots, but that's the general idea. The eastern border of B.C. ..." – he drew another crooked line – "mostly follows what they call the Continental Divide, which is the great big hump of the Rockies. The Rocky Mountain Range goes all the way from north to south, through Montana and Wyoming and Colorado and New Mexico into Mexico. In between, from here down through Washington and Oregon into northern California, is the Cascade Range. That's what these mountains are part of." He gestured at the looming forested slopes on either side of the highway. "Further into California, the Sierra Nevada Range takes over. And there are a whole bunch of smaller mountain ranges here and there, like the Monashee Mountains between Salmon Arm and Revelstoke or the San Gabriel Mountains north of Los Angeles, but that's the big picture. Get it?"

  "How do you know all that stuff?"

  "Truck stops. If I don't have a book or I don't feel like reading, I sometimes take my road atlas in and study it while I'm having dinner. I wish I had a dollar for every meal I've eaten alone at a truck stop between Edmonton and San Diego. Fun life, eh?"

  Sorry dropped his cigarette butt onto the Cascades and crushed it with his heel. "At least you can afford cigarettes, though."

  "I don't smoke."

  They hoisted themselves up on either side of the blue cab. "Okay, Sorry. I've got an idea that'll keep you in tailor-mades for weeks," said Hunter. The big engine turned over and settled into its husky purr. "Listen to what I've got in mind."

  They rolled into Hope just after one o'clock. The restaurant looked pretty busy, so Hunter suggested they go check out the beer parlor first. Sorry greeted Crab, his bartender friend, who returned the greeting with a cool "Hey, man" as Hunter and Sorry took possession of two stools at the bar. Hunter ordered a beer for himself, reasoning that it would make their presence less conspicuous and knowing that Sorry would be eager to take the wheel from here on.

  As Crab put Hunter's beer and Sorry's Coke on the counter, he nodded in the direction of a man sitting in a booth near the jukebox. "Remember that dude you asked me about? That's him." Sorry nodded his thanks, exchanged glances with Hunter, and carried his drink over to the table. Hunter swivelled on his stool to watch.

  "Hey, pal, don't I know you?" Sorry boomed, sticking out his big mitt. "I'm Sorry. Dan Sorenson, that is. I think we were members of the same country club a few years back, the one near Royal Oak." He leaned on his palms against the table, flexing the muscles under his black cobra tattoo, and studied Wahl's face for an indication that he'd understood the reference to Oakalla, a prison in Burnaby that had been closed down in 1991. "I hear they're buildin' fancy condos overlookin' the lake now. May find a few ghosts haunting their jacuzzi's, eh?"

  Wahl must've understood. His eyes grew wary. "I don't remember you," he said, unsmiling.

  "I'm hurt." Sorry's laugh bounced across the room as he slid onto the bench. "But I was just a punk then, anyway. I'd just as soon forget me myself!"

  Hunter saw Wahl's posture relax, and a hint of amusement played over his face. It was a lined and weary face above a body that seemed used up, almost shrunken. His short hair was a mixture of brown and grey, heavy on the grey. Tanned forearms stuck out of the rolled up sleeves of a faded brown work shirt, and one of them sported a blurry blue tattoo. "If you were just a punk then, what are you now?"

  Sorry drew himself up to full height, stuck out his chest and said, "I'm a mother fuckin' trucker now! There's my boss over there." He indicated Hunter. "Hey, Hunter! Come on over here and tell this man what a good trucker I am!"

  Hunter sauntered over and sat down. He stuck out his hand. "Hunter Rayne. How do you do. But I'll let Sorry do his own talking, not that I have much choice."

  Wahl responded with a limp handshake. "Chuck Wahl. Hi." The attention seemed to be cheering him up.

  "Hope you don't mind us moving in on you. We've teamed to Winnipeg and back and we're getting pretty tired of each other's company." Hunter offered an apologetic smile.

  "I'm not surprised," Wahl muttered with a glance at Sorry.

  "Hey, c'mon! I'm a fun guy. Wait'll you get to know me better," said Sorry, wit
h a mock look of hurt on his face.

  "Okay, I'll wait," Wahl replied with a chuckle, which turned into a rattle and a shaking cough. Sorry offered him a cigarette, which he accepted with another cheerful cough. "What're you driving?" He directed his question to Hunter.

  "A '91 Freightliner conventional, 350 horses. Do you drive?"

  "All my life, pretty much. I'm lookin' for a new rig, makin' do with an '82 Ford for now." He inhaled loudly through his nose and leaned back, his watery grey eyes momentarily unfocussed. Hunter noted the self-conscious effort at muscle control. In spite of the early hour, this wasn't the man's first beer of the afternoon.

  "I know what it's like. Expensive buggers, when they get that old. A lot of down time, never sure whether it's worth doing the repairs. This your home base?" Hunter took a disinterested swig of his beer.

  "Vancouver," was the reply.

  "I'm in Surrey," contributed Sorry. "Can't hardly afford to do more than drive through Vancouver these days, getting so damned expensive."

  "You got that right. I actually got a house in Whalley, but I spend a lot of my days off up here," said Wahl. "Who you guys driving for?"

  "Watson Transportation. How about you?" Hunter asked.

  "Broker out in PoCo, Wayne McCormick. You know him?" When Hunter shook his head, Wahl continued, "Wayne's okay. Used to be a salesman for CP. It's a tough business though. Hard to make a real go of it these days."

  "That's a fact. Just ran a pretty good paying load, though. My dispatcher's got me picking up the slack for that outfit that lost a rig on the Coq a few weeks back. You know the one? A guy named Randy Danyluk owned the company. He's the one that died in the crash."

  Wahl was nodding with exaggerated glumness. "Did I know him? He was an old buddy of mine. We went way back, Randy and me. Way back." He took a slug of his beer, right from the bottle, and continued nodding. "I hadn't seen much of him the last few years, but I'm gonna miss the old bastard."

  "Bad news, man." Sorry shook his head in sympathy. "I know what you mean. I had some good buddies die on me, and it's like you never expect it. It's like, I never got a chance to have a last ride with him, or I never got a chance to tell him about this, or ask him about that. One of the guys, I'd had a fight with. It wasn't nothin', really. I was pissed off at him for somethin' he said about my old lady, you know? But I still ... well, I loved the guy, you know? He was my friend and I fuckin' loved him. And I never got a chance to make up with him. Bad news, man, bad news."

  "Had you seen Randy recently, Chuck?" Hunter asked gently.

  Wahl nodded, his eyes fixed unblinking on the tip of his cigarette. "Yeah. I saw him the day it happened."

  "Yeah?" prodded Sorry.

  Wahl raised his eyes to Sorry's. "It was almost like you said, but I was lucky. We'd been friends for a long time, then I got pissed off about something that really wasn't his fault, and I sort of stopped being his friend. But Randy," he sniffed and rubbed his chin, "old Randy never stopped being mine. I'll probably never have a better friend." Wahl blinked rapidly as he took a last pull from the bottle.

  Sorry signalled Crab for another round. "I'll buy you a beer, Chuck," he said. "In honor of old friends, old friends who we'll never see again." He rubbed the side of his nose and straightened his lush moustache.

  Hunter was mildly surprised to see that Sorry was, indeed, very moved. Then even more surprised to feel a sudden rush of emotion as Ken's image rose in his own mind. He could see Ken raising a glass, smiling broadly, clinking the glass against his own, something they'd done too many times over the years to count. "Yes. Old friends we'll never see again."

  They all three sat in silence, in the company of old friends, until Crab broke the spell with the thud of new drinks on the table. "To old friends," they said, and drank again.

  "Yes," Wahl said, "I saw Randy the day it happened." He looked from Sorry to Hunter. Their close attention seemed to validate him. He coughed a few times, took another pull from the fresh beer, and continued in the low, sad voice of a melancholy drunk.

  "They wouldn't let me drive my truck from the weigh scale in Surrey, 'cause my tires didn't pass their damn standards. Like you said, you don't want to spend money on an old truck unless you have to, especially since I'm thinking about buying a new one, right? So I'm standing there ready to spit nails. How the hell can I get the money to buy new tires if they won't let me drive my damn truck?" He looked belligerently at Sorry, who shrugged and wiggled his moustache.

  "So I'm standing there, and who should pull up beside me but Randy. My old friend, Randy. Chuck, he says. Long time no see. What's happening, pal? He says it just like nothing had ever happened between us, except the last time I'd seen him, I told him to go to hell and take his goddamn trucking company with him." Wahl scratched his cheek and sighed. "This company I used to haul for gave him the contract instead. It's a long story. A stupid story. But that had been a very good contract for me. Very, very good, if you know what I mean." He directed a pointed glance at Sorry, half winking at him. "So I says, Damn it, Randy! They've pulled me off the road. I gotta get out of here. And he says, No sweat, Chuck. Hop in and we can talk about it. So he gives me a ride outa there.

  "Where you want to go, Chuck? he says. Like an idiot, all I wanted about then was a few beers. And I was supposed to meet somebody ... here." He motioned towards the bar with his chin. "So I said, Take me to Hope, and he says, Sure thing!" Wahl paused to chug his beer, while Sorry managed to catch Crab's eye and signal for another.

  "But on the way, we got to talkin'. Talkin' like we were still friends, which I guess we always were, but I was too stupid to realize it. And he says to me, I've always felt real bad about Waicom – that's the name of the company I had the contract to haul for – about them letting you go when they changed their distribution around. You were the one that got them to use Ranverdan in the first place, and it seems to me that you should've got some kind of payback for that, you know? Like a sales commission or something, he says. Maybe I could give you a piece of it, say five percent, on the first year's gross, he says."

  Crab replaced the dead soldier with a live one, and Wahl watched him with his eyes wide open, like he couldn't quite believe it. His hand curled around the bottle, his incredulous expression remaining as he resumed his story. "I was amazed, I gotta tell ya, I was totally amazed. Here was this guy, my old friend, who gave me a percentage in the first place when he started helping me out with the Waicom loads, and he's of his own free will offering to give me some kind of commission on the first year after Waicom stiffed me out.

  "He dropped me right here that night. I'll be in touch, Chuck, he said. And here, he pulls out his wallet and peels out five hundred bucks. Here, he says. This is an advance, just so you know I mean what I say. It'll help you get your rig back on the road. Five hundred bucks! Just like that. Can you believe it?" He looked, again, from one to the other. "You see what I mean, what a friend that guy was to me?" He covered his eyes with one hand, the other still curled around his beer. "And next thing, I find out he's dead."

  Sorry whistled softly. "Wow. That's a friend."

  "What a loss, a terrible loss. So you saw him – what? – just a couple of hours before he went off the road? What time did it happen?" Hunter asked.

  Chuck Wahl frowned. "Let me see. We must've left the weigh scale at about nine o'clock. We stopped for a coffee and doughnut in Chilliwack. He must've dropped me here some time after eleven or so. I hear he went off the road just this side of Merritt, so it wouldn't have been much more than an hour later. Damn!" His fist banged the table. "Maybe if I'd bought him another coffee here it wouldn't have happened."

  "You think he fell asleep at the wheel?"

  "No, no I don't think so. Not an old pro like Randy. Maybe he lost it because of a deer or moose, or some damn hotshot kid swerved into his lane, or maybe a tire blew. But you know how it is, things happen because a guy's in one particular place at one particular time. Right?"

  "Yeah," Sorry comm
ented, nodding sagely. "When your number's up, your number's up. Fate. Like a friend of mine, he decapitated himself running his bike into the back of a beer truck. He just happened to be looking at some chick in the car beside him when the beer truck slammed on its brakes, right? If those chicks hadn't been there at that particular time, if they'd stopped for a piss or something and been one minute later, my friend would still be alive. Or, like you say, if he'd just had one more cup 'a coffee he wouldn't'a been there."

  "So, do you think you'll ever see that commission he promised? Or whatever it was." Hunter put on what he hoped was a commiserative expression.

  Wahl shook his head, the glumness even more exaggerated. "Don't expect they'll ever believe me. It was just between me and my friend Randy. And somehow, now that he's gone, the money isn't really important anyway. You know what I mean?"

  In the spirit of the moment, they knew what he meant.

  "What do you think, Hunter? Is he telling the truth? What I can't figure ... "Sorry took his hands off the wheel and his eyes off the road to gesture his puzzlement. "... is how Chuckie can suddenly be that broke up about a guy he hated for years."

  "Drive, Sorenson!" Hunter scowled at him from the passenger seat. "Can't you talk without taking your hands off the wheel?"

  Sorry scowled back, then made a show of staring straight ahead with his hands on the wheel at ten and two o'clock.

  "Wahl's a maudlin drunk," Hunter continued. "That's why he sounds so broke up about it."

  "You don't believe him then?"

  "I don't know yet. He's a maudlin drunk and he feels guilty about something. He could start by making up a story like that and then begin to believe it himself because it makes him feel better. But why would he volunteer as much information as he did about that night if he had something to hide?"

  "Do you believe that stuff about the five hundred bucks?" Sorry asked, hazarding a glance at Hunter.

  "That's another thing. Randy was a good man, but he was also a pretty tough business man. He didn't make that company as successful as it was by giving money away. Chuck must've got his truck back on the road, so I'll believe that he got the money off of Randy that night, but did Randy give it to him?" Hunter made a mental note to ask Garth Pullen about the contents of Randy's wallet.