by R. E. Donald
"That's what I was thinking. Unless there's a chance that garbage like that was left in the trailer from a previous shipment, or that it somehow just got stuck in with the cartons that were loaded in Seattle. You'd know that better than I would. What do you think? Can you hear me?"
"I can hardly hear you. Hold on a sec, chief." Hunter paused while half a dozen loud motorcycles roared into the lot and milled around trying to settle on a place to park. He started off in the direction of the restaurant, figuring it would be quieter inside. Before he reached the door, the engines were stilled, one by one.
"I doubt it, Bill." Hunter picked up where they'd left off. "Waicom runs a pretty clean warehouse, and I don't think customs would take kindly to garbage in trailers crossing the border. My bet would be that the shrink wrap was wound around something that somebody didn't want Randy to find when he got to Edmonton. I've thought all along that whoever killed Randy, it had something to do with what was on his trailer."
"Like what?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. By the way, what's happening with the tractor and trailer?"
"Merritt's ready to release it all. The equipment is a write off, so it'll go to an ICBC lot until the insurance claim is settled, and the contents will be delivered to the bond warehouse in Edmonton, like the paperwork calls for. What happens then is between the owner and customs."
"How about the contents of the cab?" asked Hunter. "You were talking about the customs paperwork. What about the driver's log, the company paperwork? What about any personal effects that Randy might have had inside the cab and sleeper? Or on him? What about his wallet?"
"The customs paperwork will stay with the shipment, of course. But the other stuff, that all belongs to the trucking company or the next of kin. You want to pick it up? Get Danyluk's daughter to call me with the O.K. and I'll have Garth release it to you."
"Thanks, Bill. You'll hear from her tomorrow morning. Say, how close are we to making this investigation official?"
"There's that we again, white man. I'm not ready for that, yet. You get me some stand up evidence, Hunter, and I'll take it to the boss. In spite of what your nagging has done to me, the gut instincts of an ex-Mountie don't count for much in court. Sorry, pal."
"Hunh. Could you at least do me a favor, run a few names through the computer?"
"Jeez, Hunter, you're like a goddamn wolf. I show a little weakness and you close in for the kill. What do you need?"
"I'd like to see if you've got anything on any of the deceased's drivers. At present, they're all resident in the Kamloops area." He gave Bill the names of the Ranverdan drivers, including Pete. It was unlikely that any of them had been convicted of a felony or else, like Chuck Wahl, they wouldn't be able to move freely across the border. If any of them had ever been charged, however, it might mean they were worth a closer look.
"A few?! Why don't I run the damn phone book while I'm at it?"
"About that fishing trip, I'll even supply all the grub. Like I said, Bill, you're a prince."
"There are no princes among the Shuswap tribes. You can keep calling me ‘chief’."
Hunter entered the restaurant, decided to grab some dinner before he did any more canvassing. He slipped into a seat at the counter and was scanning the menu when he felt a slap against his shoulder blade, and heard a soft thud at his feet. He looked down to find a grimy white baseball cap under the chair. Turning around, he saw Stu Thatcher, a driver who often did work for El. He was a small wiry man with a lined, leathery face and bright blue, twinkling eyes. When he smiled, which was often, his pearl white dentures stood out in startling contrast against his deeply tanned skin. Stu sat in a booth beside the window with a couple of other men. He motioned Hunter to join them.
Hunter took the opportunity to ask for their help in locating witnesses who might have seen Randy on the Coquihalla the night of his death. After they'd discussed Randy's death, he wrote his phone number on the back of one of the Polaroids and handed it to Stu. "We don't know for sure that Randy was murdered, but we're looking for any leads we can get that would help us figure it out. If you ever run across another driver who happened to be on the Coquihalla the night of Randy's accident, maybe you could ask if he saw Randy's rig pulled off the road anywhere along that stretch. Anywhere, say, between Hope and Merritt. I'd sure like to find out if Randy stopped anywhere along there."
"You bet, Hunter. I'd be glad to do anything to help," said Stu. "I sure as hell don't like to think that there's some bastard out there who's responsible for Randy's accident, and he's going to get off scot free. Randy was one of us," he said, looking at the other two men, who nodded in solemn agreement, "and we've got to watch out for each other."
Hunter felt an unexpected warmth in his chest, a shadow of the intense feeling he'd experienced when his graduating troop had paraded in front of their crusty drill sergeant in Regina for the last time. One of us. Truckers were a scattered and diverse fraternity, but a fraternity none the less. He thought of a young man he'd met at a truck stop near Portland. Twenty, maybe twenty one years old. The kid had admired The Blue Knight and said, "I always love it when you guys wave at me – you know, sort of like a salute – that little wave drivers do when they pass each other? It makes me feel like I'm one of you, even though I'm only driving a lousy little five ton sausage truck, delivering cold cuts and wieners to deli's." His face had shone as he looked at the big rigs around him. "But soon I'm gonna be on the road with you. I'm gonna be a real driver. Count on it!" Hunter had often wondered if he'd recognize the kid if he ever saw him again, in the driver's seat of an eighteen wheeler.
Stu copied Hunter's phone number onto pieces of paper torn from his place mat and handed them to the other drivers.
"Thanks, Stu," said Hunter. "You'll all make sure the word gets around?"
They all said they would.
Hunter canvassed the truck stop until almost ten o'clock. He talked to at least twenty drivers who wouldn't have remembered Randy's truck even if they had been on the Coquihalla the night of May 24th. He still hadn't heard from Sorry, so he called his voice mail. There was a message in his mail box. Either he hadn't heard the phone ring, or Sorry must have called while he was on the phone to Bill. There was no way that he could reach Sorry now, and he could only hope that Sorry would call back again before he wasted too much time waiting for Hunter in the prearranged spot. For a message from Sorry, the recording was brief.
"Yo, Hunter! I'm at the border, where the fuck are you? I've got nothing to tell you, but I'll let you buy me lunch like we planned. And you were wrong about that Chinese faggot. He didn't want to sell me fuck all. See you in Clearwater."
He'd added, evidently as an afterthought, "That is, if I can make it to Clearwater without falling asleep at the wheel, which is fuckin' unlikely without those little pills you promised me."
CHAPTER 20
– – – – TWENTY
Garth Pullen whistled in admiration when he first saw Hunter's rig, as he and Hunter walked out of the Merritt detachment office. The young constable climbed up to inspect the inside, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. All boys love big trucks, thought Hunter.
"Pretty impressive machine. Funny, I know you're a truck driver, but even though I didn't know you before you retired, I can't help thinking of you as a member. I guess it's because you still talk like one of us." The blond constable looked Hunter up and down. "And you still look like one of us, somehow. You know what I mean?"
Hunter smiled self-consciously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Old habits die hard, I guess. If a guy's been married to the force for over twenty years, what can you expect?" He nodded towards the tractor-trailer. "Okay if I leave this here on the street?"
"You bet. We shouldn't be too long. C'mon. My PC's over there."
When Hunter had called Garth to see if he was free to take another look at the wreck, he'd been guiding The Blue Knight around the slow uphill curve where Randy's rig had left the road. The sun was high in the sky, the wid
e road was solid and smooth, the patient army of lodgepole pines stood at ease on either slope of the deep ravine. It looked like anything but a deadly curve. Still, he'd felt a small shiver between his shoulder blades.
"They're getting Overland Freight to haul this stuff to Edmonton," said Garth. "Overland has a facility here in Merritt, and they were able to let Bill and I use one of their trailers to unload the damaged cartons into. We had to count the damn things about five times to make sure we'd got it right." The young Mountie opened a padlock on the back of the new trailer parked right beside the wreck and threw open the doors. "Look at this mess! Some of these cartons are so beat up, we had trouble stacking them."
Hunter climbed onto the back of the trailer and Garth handed him a big flashlight. "I see what you mean. So these two here are the only shrink wrapped skids?"
"Yeah. We moved all the loose cartons first, so the shrink wrapped skids were the last things to get loaded. We had to borrow a forklift from a warehouse down the street. Looks like the skidded cartons stayed in better shape than the rest of the stuff."
"Where's that extra shrink wrap Bill was talking about?"
"Right." Garth sprang into motion. "It's still in the old trailer. Stay right there, I'll get it for you." The young constable reappeared a moment later with his hands raised high above his head, holding up several lengths of crumpled shrink wrap. "We straightened this out the best we could, but the damn stuff sticks to itself. It's like Saran Wrap."
Hunter jumped down from the trailer and, with Garth's help, laid the pieces of shrink wrap out along a section of hard packed dirt beside the trailer, avoiding as many oil spots and weeds as they could. The Merritt sun was hot, and the material was soft and almost sticky, but the spots that had been stretched over corners were punctured in places and still quite visible. Hunter climbed back up into the trailer and motioned for Garth to pass the pieces with the most pronounced indentations up to him. The constable climbed up and held one corner firmly against the shrink wrapped skid while Hunter clambered over other cartons to get around to the other side. The stretches fit exactly over the corners of the skid. He unhooked a retractable tape measure from his belt and took the dimensions of the skid, while Garth copied them into his notepad. Then he measured one each of the cartons containing CPUs, monitors, and quantities of smaller parts. When they were finished, Hunter handed the lengths of shrink wrap back down to Garth.
"I'd appreciate a copy of those number before I go. Later on I'll sit down with a calculator and see if this shrink wrap could've fit anything else. Have you got something to keep this stuff in, chief?"
"I always carry a couple of boxes in the trunk. You'll probably need one for the personal effects, too."
"Do you think you could store this stuff in the exhibit room, just in case we turn up enough to open a homicide investigation?"
"No problem, sir." The young constable grinned sheepishly and tossed a loose lock of blond hair off his forehead. "I mean, Sergeant Truck Driver, sir."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Knock it off, Constable. I'm a civilian." Then he grinned. "Definitely off the payroll, anyway. Let's take a look in this tractor."
Hunter picked up the acrylic picture frame from off the seat where he'd placed it the first time he'd been to see the cab. He looked at the smiling faces of Suzanne and the little girls, feeling the pang that always comes from handling the orphaned belongings of the suddenly dead. He placed it gently on the console, then climbed into the driver's seat and gathered up all the loose objects he could reach. Inside the console was a vinyl case holding cassette tapes, mostly older country artists like Merle Haggard and Waylon Jennings. Hunter pulled a tape out of the tape player – it was Patsy Cline – and put it into its clear plastic box inside the case. He handed the photograph, a flashlight, a thermos, the tape case, a first aid kit, a small tool kit and sundry trucking paraphernalia down to Garth, who placed them in a cardboard box he'd just assembled.
Hunter maneuvred himself over to the other seat and tried to open the passenger door. It was badly dented and wouldn't budge, so he just reached his hand down between the seat and the door, feeling around for anything that might have fallen into that space during the accident. He came up with a green ballpoint pen inscribed with Ranverdan Transport Inc. and an 800 telephone number.
On the floor of the sleeper he found a zippered black and purple athletic bag containing a shaving kit, four clean shirts, some underwear, and half a dozen pairs of socks. Underneath it was a plastic grocery bag with the sticky remains of two broken orange juice bottles and shards of broken glass. The sides of the bag had stuck together, and parts of it were still wet enough to leave Hunter's fingers infuriatingly tacky. There was also a well-thumbed Robert Ludlum novel, its pages puckered and stiff from having been wet, and a Time magazine dated the third week of May. He found another photograph of Suzanne and the girls, one of a smiling middle-aged woman, and an old wedding photograph. The brass frames of each photograph were intact, but the glass was either cracked or shattered. Hunter picked a small sliver of glass out of his thumb, and noted with disgust that other bits had attached themselves to the sticky places on his fingers. He had to rinse off his hands in the wrecker's garage before continuing.
Straightening the sheets and blanket on the disarrayed bunk, he turned up an empty department store bag, and Hunter assumed that the two child's hats he disengaged from the outer folds of the blanket belonged inside. They were round hats with wide quilted brims, heavy white cotton dotted with small stylized tulips of red, yellow, blue and pink, on curving bright green stalks. He couldn't help wondering how seeing the little hats would affect Suzanne, whether they might become a repeated reminder of her loss, and whether the pain would outweigh the pleasure of this last gift to the little girls from their grandfather. Either way, it was not his call.
When they got back to The Blue Knight, Garth helped Hunter position the sad carton on the passenger seat. He had Hunter come inside the detachment office to sign for an envelope of Randy's personal effects: his wallet, watch, a handful of coins, and a plain gold wedding band. The wallet contained credit cards and two five dollar bills. It was already after two thirty, and Hunter wanted to be in Kamloops by four or soon after, so he didn't wait for a copy of Garth's notes. Garth promised to send it to Bill Earl, along with the entries from Randy's log book and the Coquihalla toll receipt, if he could find it. "We have to hold onto the log book, at least until after the inquest, but I can make copies for you," Garth explained.
"Thanks, chief," said Hunter.
The young constable stood there at the side of the road, holding the evidence carton of shrink wrap against his hip and watching Hunter start up the big engine and maneuver his rig back onto the street. He smiled and saluted as Hunter drove off.
Back on the highway, Hunter punched a number into his cell phone to retrieve messages from his mail box. There was only one.
"I bought my own goddamn lunch. What the fuck happened to you?"
Veri was acting up. She refused to let Suzanne put her running shoes on, and kept pulling off her socks. Suzanne finally gave up and let her wear sandals, even though the ground was still wet from an afternoon thundershower. She shooed the girls out to the minivan and made good time out to the Ranverdan yard, but Hunter's navy blue truck was already parked across the street when she drove up. As she suspected, much of the yard was slick with mud.
"Hi! How are you?" she called from her open window.
"Just tickety boo," Hunter replied with a cheerful smile, climbing down from the cab. "How about you?"
She returned his smile. "Fine, but I'd rather not let the girls out of the van. They'll be mud from head to toe if I let them play outside here. Do you mind if we don't go in the yard?"
"No," he said, shaking his head as he crossed the street towards the van. "There's nothing I needed here, except room to park the trailer for a few minutes." He gestured back to his truck. "I've got that box of ... your Dad's things." His face and voice were
both solemn now. He rested his right hand on the door frame.
She nodded silently, not sure if she wanted to see them or not. She kept her eyes on his hand, noticing for the first time how unusual his ring was. It had a greyish milky round stone, within which gleamed a six pointed star.
Almost as if he knew she was in no hurry to see what he'd brought, Hunter changed the subject. "Have you heard from Dan Sorenson?" he asked.
Hunter had suggested she hire Dan Sorenson, the driver El had teamed him with for his last trip to Edmonton, and told her to put him on the Waicom Edmonton runs. Suzanne was relieved to be able to work out the Waicom schedules without having to send Gary back there again, and that seemed reason enough for putting a tough character like Sorenson on the run, but Hunter's question reminded her that she hadn't asked for references or even gotten any details about his past experience. After Pete and Jason quit, she was just glad to have another driver all ready to put on the road.
"No," she said. "He hasn't called in yet today. Do you suppose he's unreliable? I don't know much about him."
"I've heard he's okay. Give him some time to learn the ropes. Did you manage to get hold of John Semeniuk?"
"Yes. Just this morning, at work. He couldn't talk. I mean, he didn't want to talk. He was very – I don't know – secretive, almost like he was talking in code. From what I gather, he's going to call me back tonight." She shrugged her shoulders. "He's a strange one – paranoid or something – but I think he's got something to tell me. It was definitely his phone number on the note."
"The R.C.M.P. found something ... uh ... unusual in the trailer: a length of loose shrink wrap that seemed to have been removed from a couple of skids. If he doesn't bring it up, maybe you could ask him if he's ever found loose shrink wrap in the trailers. I'll be in Edmonton, so I can always go to see him if it's necessary. I'll call you tomorrow morning to find out."
"Sure," she said. The kids were getting restless in the back seat. Jolene had ventured a couple of quiet, "Mommy?"s, and Veri had started to whine, straining at the straps on her car seat. Suzanne smiled apologetically at Hunter.