Slow Curve on the Coquihalla

by R. E. Donald

  Sorry took a slow drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke out towards the ceiling. "Just that I should meet him for lunch at this Chinese place again. Hard to talk, anyway, with work to be done and the fat guy hanging around."

  Hunter asked for the restaurant conversation, word for word, and Sorry groaned. It was Hunter's turn to groan once Sorry had started in.

  "First off, I asked him why the hell he's living in Edmonton. No, wait. We start with the weather. The fuckin' Edmonton weather. Then I ask him why the hell he lives there. He just says, opportunities. Then he says, when the time comes, he wants to live in Miami. He wants to be some place with a lot of action, and good weather. Not thirty below in the winter and a furnace in the summer. Then I asked him if he'd ever spent much time in Vancouver, and he said ... " And so it went on.

  Sorry's word by word replay of the conversation included a discussion of Vancouver's new NBA team, The Grizzlies, plus a mild disagreement about the future of the Canadian Football League. They also discussed Sorry's Harley and whether he'd be better off buying a brand new bike instead of dumping more money into custom parts for his chopper. "A new bike's got no soul, I told him. No personality. My hog's like my best friend, man. No way I'm gonna walk away from my best friend."

  I asked for it, Hunter told himself. Word for word. He didn't want to interrupt, but fervently hoped that the recitation would soon swing around to something involving Waicom and Ranverdan.

  "So then, he says he's gotta get back to work, but to plan on lunch again next trip. I wanna talk to you, he says. About what? I ask. He doesn't say. He just smiles like a rattlesnake and says, I gotta go." Sorry's eyebrows lifted. "I said to myself, shit! I need to get something more for my pal, Hunter, but I don't want to push, eh? Don't want Frank to get paranoid and clam up completely, not when things are going so good between us, you know?"

  Sorry opened his hands out on the table. "So I still don't have anything real good for you. The only thing I can say is that we're gettin' closer, and if I hang in there a few more weeks, I'll have something for you. I can feel it."

  Hunter was leaning back, arms crossed on his chest, eyes steady on Sorry's face.

  "Not great but pretty good, don't you think, boss?" Sorry's eyes wandered around the room as he took another cigarette from the pack, held it loosely between two fingers and bounced the filter end on the table. "The guy likes me. We're simpatico. It's just a matter of time, right? Right?"

  "Hold on. I just want to think about it for a minute. You say you met him at the restaurant this time. You managed to park there?"

  "Not right there. I didn't have far to walk. So what?" Sorry lit the cigarette and tossed the lighter back onto the table.

  Hunter shrugged. "It's not much, but like you say, it's just a matter of time. Thanks, Dan. I appreciate it."

  Hunter drove Sorry back to where the Ranverdan rig was parked about a block away from the Pizza Hut. They got out of the truck and talked a while longer, leaning against the Suburban's front fender. It was still only seven thirty, and Sorry planned to make it home before midnight. "I wake up three or four times a night," he said, "and reach for Mo. I fuckin' miss her and the kids like crazy." Sorry laughed sheepishly. "I guess I wasn't born to be wild after all."

  Hunter passed him five twenties. "Dan, listen to me. Don't – even for a second – think that I don't appreciate what you're doing. And remember what I said at the start. You don't ever, ever, put yourself in any kind of jeopardy for this. This isn't a game. These men play hardball, your buddy Frank included. You've got a wife, you've got kids, they need you. Don't even think of doing anything to get in deep with these guys. You understand?"

  Sorry nodded, frowning. "Hunter ... ." He suddenly looked away, inhaling deeply as he tucked the bills into the pocket of his jeans.

  "Yes. What?"

  "Hunter ... ." Sorry extended his hand. "Thanks. I know I act like an asshole sometimes, but that's just the way I am. I really ... appreciate that you always take the stupid things I do and say with a shitload of salt. You're a true friend." He nodded, his moustache twitching. "Thanks."

  Hunter smiled, just a little, and watched him walk away.

  Sometimes what Sorry didn't say told Hunter more than what Sorry said.

  It was at least an hour until sunset, but in the shade of the hills the heat of the day had passed. Suzanne was out in the front yard watering her geraniums with a green garden hose. As Hunter approached, she released the nozzle's handle and the spray abruptly stopped. "Hi. Gary told me you'd arrived. He just left for the pub. So, how goes it?" she asked.

  "Just tickety boo," said Hunter with a smile. "And you?"

  She shrugged and made a face. "Not so good. Business has fallen off and Gary's pretty unhappy, with things the way they are. I have some tough decisions to make, I guess." She pressed her lips together and sighed, then brightened. "Like a beer?"

  "You betcham."

  They settled on the patio. The sun still gilded the tops of the sand hills on the other side of the river. A gentle wind rustled the trees at the edge of the yard and carried with it the sounds of a backlot ball game from somewhere in the neighbourhood, mostly yelling but occasionally the faint pop of leather on leather or the crack of leather on wood. The smell of damp earth and leaves came from Suzanne's freshly watered patio pots, where snowy alyssum and electric blue lobelia spilled down the sides.

  Suzanne was twisting the gold wedding band round and round on her slender finger. "Anything new?" she asked.

  Hunter frowned. "Yes." He debated how much to tell her. There were definitely things he didn't want her to know, at least not yet. "Nothing conclusive." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Suzanne? I don't know how to say this." He sighed. "You are probably hoping for a cut and dried answer, a revelation that will make some sense out of your father's death. I have to warn you that the answer, if and when it comes, might not bring you any relief, any real sense of resolution."

  She looked puzzled.

  "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just trying to apologize for not having something better to tell you." He paused, then tried again. "You see, there may not be any justice for you, Suzanne." He searched for a better way to say what he wanted to get across. "I sincerely wish I could make this come out happily ever after for you, but I can't."

  "I'm not expecting happily ever after. Nothing will bring him back, will it? I just want to feel that I've done my best for Dad." She smiled wanly. "Especially if I end up letting him down in other ways. What have you found out?"

  "I talked to a witness yesterday who said he saw your father's rig the night of the accident. It was stopped not far from where it went off the road, parked on the shoulder with emergency reflectors set up. The man knew your father, and he hailed him on the CB. He said it looked like your father's truck had a mechanical breakdown of some kind, and he was waiting for assistance from somebody. The man offered to get help, but your father said help was already on the way. One possibility is that he called a service station or towing company on his cellular, or a passing CBer might have volunteered to send somebody."

  Her eyes widened. "That means we could check with the local service stations, see if they had a call? Oh ... but, if someone had come to work on his truck, or even just talked to him, wouldn't they have already come forward when they heard about the accident?"

  "Quite possibly. Merritt's a small enough community. Unless they were worried about being held responsible, of course."

  "But there was no indication of mechanical problems ... " Her voice trailed off, and she frowned.

  "Right. Another possibility is that there was no breakdown. Maybe the truck was stopped there for other reasons."

  "Like what?"

  Hunter shrugged. "I wish I could tell you."

  "But, if Dad said that help was on the way ...?"

  "He might have said that just to keep the other driver from getting involved, either for his sake or the driver's." He paused. "Or someone else's."

  "Like w
ho?"

  Again Hunter shrugged. "It wouldn't be unlike your dad to play Good Samaritan, stop to help someone in distress on the highway."

  Suzanne's eyes widened. "A woman?"

  "Possibly."

  "That could happen," she said softly. "Dad would've just stepped out of his truck and offered to help. It never would've occurred to him to be afraid, would it?"

  "No. Your dad gave everybody the benefit of the doubt."

  "And then somebody – her husband, maybe – showed up and became violent?"

  "Or her accomplice."

  "Oh. I see." She tried to smile. "What you're saying is that maybe Dad was the victim of some random attack? A robbery?"

  "That's quite possible."

  "But what did they steal? Why didn't they steal the load?"

  "Your dad's wallet was almost empty. I can't believe he'd go on the road with no more than ten dollars in cash." He purposely didn't mention the five hundred dollars that Chuck Wahl claimed to have received from Randy that night. "Not only that, we think something was taken from the trailer, that some of the cartons from one of the skids are missing, but we can't be sure, because everything listed on the invoices seems to be there. But think of it. If the perpetrators were from out of town, which is highly probable, what were they going to do with a trailer full of computer parts? How would they find a place to hide, and then fence, that kind and quantity of merchandise? And the truck itself? A highway mugging is a crime of opportunity. The victim's vulnerable. They just want to grab his money and run."

  "That will make them hard to find, won't it?"

  "There's no way to link the killer to the victim without a witness. Unless they strike again and get caught somewhere nearby using the same M.O., there might be no way to link the killer to the crime. In fact, the chances are pretty slim they'll ever be identified. They could be in a different state or province every day. They could be in California or Illinois or Florida by now."

  "That's why you warned me not to get my hopes up."

  Hunter smiled weakly, but said nothing.

  "So the answer is that there'll never be a solution, we'll never know who did it?"

  "That's possible, I'm afraid."

  They were both silent for a while, sipping on their beer and gazing at the sunset, which had turned stretches of high cloud into pink cotton candy.

  "What now?" she asked. "Are you finished?"

  He shook his head. "We've found one witness who saw the truck there, there's always the chance we'll hear from someone else who drove past half an hour later and saw a second vehicle. I won't drop it, not unless you want me to." He knew she wouldn't call it off. Even if she did, Hunter knew he couldn't stop pursuing Randy's killer now, in spite of how continuing with the investigation would probably not bring Suzanne the peace he wished for her.

  "So, at least nobody's out to get me." She laughed, harshly. "Except maybe El. And if that's the case, I don't have to worry that somebody's out to kill Gary, too. What do you think? Can I send him back on the road again? Back to Waicom?"

  Hunter nodded. "You say he's been pretty unhappy without the work. It would probably be a good idea."

  "I guess I'd better. Until Dad's estate has gone through probate and I can sell the company, which could be months away, we'll have to keep the revenues up as much as possible, to get a good price." She stared down at her hands, watched her fingers twist the wedding band, round and round. "We've decided to buy that ranch."

  Hunter felt his stomach drop. It surprised him. He hadn't realized how much he was hoping Suzanne would stick it out, make Randy's company work. "Are you sure that's what you want?" he asked, his voice low.

  She shook her head. "No. It's not what I want." She closed her eyes, pinching her mouth closed as if to keep from speaking out. "What I really want is to keep Dad's company going, to see Ranverdan prosper. I want my parents to look down on me, from wherever they are, and be proud. And for them to know how much I value them and the things they accomplished in their lives." She sighed. "But it's looking more and more like I can't keep the company profitable. We're losing more business every week, and I can't seem to figure out how to bring it back.

  "If it was just me, it wouldn't matter. I wouldn't give up so easy. It's ... well ... Gary's never really been happy as a truck driver. He moved up here to Kamloops and started working for Dad for my sake. But marriage is ... a compromise, you know? The ranch ... a ranch ... is something Gary's always wanted. I can't have everything my way, can I?" She didn't seem to expect an answer. "Jolene and Veronica, they need their father. I don't want him to start drifting away from us because he's unhappy. And he will be, if I run the company into the ground and lose everything. This may be our only chance to sell at a decent profit. It would be different if I felt confident I could keep the company going, make it work, but there's so much about the business I don't know yet."

  They watched the silver green patterns of fluttering birch leaves play against the sky. A dog barked somewhere close by.

  "Have you talked to El Watson?"

  Suzanne snorted bitterly. "El can hardly wait to see me quit," she said. "At first, I thought she was on my side, but she's not. She hates me for some reason. She wants me to go under."

  Hunter stared thoughtfully at his beer can, maneuvering it this way and that, trying to peer down the hole in its top. It was nearly empty. "El's jealous," he said. "It's not that she hates you, she's jealous of you."

  Suzanne stared at him incredulously. "What?"

  "Look at you. You're young. Pretty. You've got a handsome young husband and two beautiful little daughters. Then a father who worshipped you leaves you a healthy, well run trucking company, free and clear. Whereas El ..." He smiled a half smile. "El had to fight her way, tooth and claw, in a man's world to get where she is. She wants it to be just as tough for you as it was for her. Just think of how, if you achieved immediate success, without any pain or struggle, your success would cheapen her own. I don't think she wants you to fail, she just wants you to have to work at it." He smiled apologetically. "To tell you the truth, I think her feelings were hurt when you seemed to be in such a hurry to reject her help so quickly after your dad's death."

  Suzanne seemed struck dumb.

  "Have you asked her for help?"

  "Um ... I asked her if she had any loads for us. She just gave me one. Just one."

  "Don't ask her for handouts, ask her for help. Ask her for advice. Tell her you're coming to town and want to buy her dinner and pick her brains, then hire yourself a baby sitter for a day and do it."

  "Do you really think she'll help me?"

  "El will help you," said Hunter. "There's no doubt in my mind."

  He wished he could help her, too.

  CHAPTER 29

  – – – – TWENTY-NINE

  Hunter was dreaming about the Lions Gate Bridge. He was driving across the suspension bridge, high above the water, in the direction of Stanley Park. As he watched, a small plane flew beneath the span, heading out towards the Straight of Georgia, while an ocean liner that looked like the Love Boat, with repeated blasts of its deep, echoing horn, steamed in the opposite direction, into Vancouver harbor. The whole bridge began to undulate beneath him like the back of a giant snake, and he suddenly found himself on foot in a crowd of people, walking calmly along a narrow sidewalk that was partly submerged in sea water. He looked up, and the bridge deck was far, far above them, while the waves broke over the sidewalk and soaked their pantlegs and shoes. A bell was ringing from the lighthouse at Prospect Point.

  Hunter jerked awake and grabbed for the phone. It was Monday morning, and Cal Burmeister was back in Calgary looking at his Coquihalla toll receipt from May 25th. "Twelve oh two," he said. "That's when I went through."

  Hunter thanked him, and his fuzzy head cleared enough for him to ask, "Did you stop at all between the toll booth and Merritt?"

  "Nope."

  "Have you thought of anything else since I talked to you last? Anything Ran
dy might've said on the CB, or anything else you might have seen?" The day must be overcast. The yellow curtains of his bedroom weren't glowing like they did when the sun was bright.

  Cal thought not. "If only I knew something was gonna happen," he said. "I never thought twice about it at the time. I just thought to myself, Oh, Randy's broke down. Bad luck. And joked to myself that he shoulda bought a Kenworth. I never knew it was important, eh? … or I would've paid more attention, if you know what I mean. Hell, I would've stopped in a heartbeat."

  Hunter knew what he meant. "You couldn't have known, Cal." Hunter knew, too, the curse of if only. "Nobody could've known."

  After he hung up, Hunter stayed in bed, lying flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. Cal had told him what he expected to hear, but he had hoped for something else. Something more. Something different. Something unexpected and apocalyptic. Life isn't fair. He'd realized that during his first year on the force. He liked to think that, forewarned, he had set his jaw and seized life by the horns, that he was prepared for the ride. He guessed that Randy and Ken had felt the same. But why is it, his heart cried out, that innocent and fragile beings, like Randy's daughter, Suzanne, and Ken's wife, Helen, ended up with more than their share of life's unfairness. He tried not to think of the two innocent and fragile beings that he had fathered into the same arbitrary life.

  He was still staring grimly at the ceiling when the telephone rang the second time that morning. He swung his feet to the floor and reached for the receiver.

  "What the fuck is going on!? The bitch canned me! She fuckin' canned me! What do you know about this, Hunter? What the fuck are you trying to prove?"

  Hunter grinned and gave Suzanne a silent thumbs up. "Whoa! Settle down, chief. Take a couple of deep breaths and count to ten."

  "Hunter! I'm fuckin' telling you ..."

  "Shut up! If you can't talk like a rational human being, call me back when you can."