Sundown on Top of the World: A Hunter Rayne Highway Mystery (23 page)

“Just give me a minute,” Hunter told him when Sorry said yet again how hungry he was. “I’d like to get the lay of the land.”

He walked up to the front door and then along the narrow covered deck in front of the building, peering into the dark interior from the few windows, one of which sported a large CLOSED sign with bright red letters. He remembered that dark pubs and steak houses had been popular in the 70s, and the Sluice Box was no exception. Winter or summer, there was always the same comfortably dark interior with nubbled glass tea light holders throwing orange light in the middle of each table. He couldn’t see much, but what he did see looked much the same. Heavy wooden tables and chairs. Plank floor. Long dark bar lined with stout stools. Dart board and pool table in the back.

He didn’t know what he’d hoped to see here, but when he was a detective he always made a point of visiting crime scenes on his own, after the forensic unit had left. He wanted to get a feel for the site, try to imagine the ‘before’ picture as well as the ‘after’. He turned away from the building and surveyed the parking lot. Sorry was lounging against the hood of the Blazer, smoking a cigarette. His head turned at the sound of a motorcycle engine, and two bikes came roaring into the lot, raising a light cloud of dust. Instead of parking in front, they drove around the side of the building. Hunter walked in the direction the bikes had disappeared. The plank deck continued around the corner, lined with a railing that looked like a hitching pole. The lot here wasn’t wide enough for cars, but it was a perfect place to park a bike.

“Hello, there,” he said. “You heard the place is closed?”

The two men had parked at an angle to the deck. They each stood beside a bike and were taking off their helmets.

“I wondered why the parking lot was so empty,” said the older of the two. “Why’s it closed?”

“Did you know the owner, Colin Thompson?”

“Maybe to see him. Not personally. Why?”

“He died last week. I expect the place will be up for sale.”

The two men looked at each other. “Where to now?” the younger one asked. The owner’s death obviously didn’t interest him.

“Are you boys from around here?”

“Nope. Just pass through every year going to Dawson for the midnight sun.”

“Were either of you here last week, by any chance?”

They hadn’t been. “Not since last year,” one said. Hunter thanked them and walked away.

“You done here? Let’s go find someplace to eat.” Sorry opened the door of the SUV and slid inside before Hunter could reply.

Seated in a nearby diner, stirring cream into his coffee, Hunter speculated aloud that the reason no one had seen Orville’s companion get in his vehicle and drive away was because the man had parked around the side of the building, which meant he probably had a motorcycle. “That’d be an extravagance up here.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Sorry. He blew the paper off his straw and it flew across the table to land in Hunter’s coffee.

Hunter raised an eyebrow as he lifted the paper out of his coffee and dropped it on a napkin. “A bike’s not a good choice for transportation in the Yukon or Alaska. It’s too cold for about nine months of the year. I figure that could indicate one of two things: either Orville’s companion doesn’t live in the north, or he owns both a motorcycle and another vehicle, probably a truck. He’s paid – is still paying in insurance and upkeep – on his main transportation as well as his bike. That makes the bike an extravagance.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of clue?”

“If he was a local, or even from a smaller community in the north, they might know him in the local motorcycle shop.”

“Yeah, right. ‘Hey, buddy! You know a native-indian-looking dude with a beard who owns a motorcycle?’ That’s not going to get you very far. You got a picture?”

Hunter shook his head.

“Anything else that sets this guy apart from a couple thousand other guys with beards and a bike?”

“He was here in Whitehorse last Friday.” Hunter realized that wasn’t going to help. “He had grease under his fingernails, the witness said.”

Sorry snorted derisively, and sat back as the waitress delivered their lunch.

“So if you found this friend of Orville’s, you figure the cops have enough to arrest him?”

“I’d hope he’s man enough to turn himself in once he finds out Orville’s been arrested and is willing to take the rap for him. Collins had a rifle behind the seat of his truck. Good chance it could be construed as justifiable homicide or self-defense, maybe pled down to manslaughter.”

Sorry’s mouth was already full when he spoke. “Hope springs eternal –”

Hunter knew the motorcycle wasn’t nearly enough to go on, unless the RCMP turned up another witness who could identify the man. It looked more and more like Orville Barstow was the only lead to follow.

After Sorry’s hunger had been satisfied, they dropped the Blazer off and Bart’s wife opened the garage so they could retrieve Sorry’s motorcycle. Then they went to visit the mechanic. The good news was that the parts had arrived. The bad news was that he wouldn’t have it ready for the road until late in the day. “Good thing we’ve got your bike so we’ve got transportation until the truck’s ready.” Hunter noticed Sorry was looking at the ground. His mouth twitched and he kicked at a rock that was embedded in the dirt.

“Listen, bro,” said Sorry, still working at the rock. “I’m heading back home this afternoon.”

“You’re quitting on me?”

The biker kind of shrugged. “It’s just that if I want this job that Mo found for me, I’ve got to get back. The guy said come see him first thing Monday. You’re the one who said I should do the right thing to get back with her.”

“I didn’t mean you should leave before the job’s done here. It’s a twelve hour drive – maybe more – to the site near Fairbanks from here. I need a co-driver or I’m parked an hour out of Fairbanks for almost half a day.” Hunter clenched his jaw and glared at Sorry from under lowered brows. Unless he fudged his log book, the hours of service regulations wouldn’t allow him to drive more than eleven hours at a stretch. And if he didn’t get some sleep, he wouldn’t be even capable of driving that length of time without the risk of falling asleep at the wheel.

The biker shot him a quick glance, then swung his eyes back to the rock at his feet. “It’s my marriage we’re talkin’ about here, man. Your delivery’s another day late, somebody loses a couple of bucks and everybody forgets about it next month. If I don’t take this job and patch things up with Mo, I could lose my wife and my kids, then my whole fuckin’ life is ruined.”

Hunter shook his head, but had no argument against Sorry’s reasoning. With Sorry gone, he’d have to be ready to hit the road as soon as the mechanic gave his truck the green light. He couldn’t help but remember El’s comment.
‘I better not find out you’ve been holding up that shipment just to play detective with your friends up there.’
As much as he felt driven to pursue the mystery of April Corbett, as much as he felt compelled to get Orville Barstow out of jail, he wasn’t a cop, he was a truck driver. His obligation to Watson Transportation had to come first.

His truck was being worked on, the Blazer was back at Bart’s house, and once Sorry left with his motorcycle, Hunter had no means of transportation unless he sprang for a taxi. The truck repairs were already going to put him in the red this month, not to mention the extra expenses due to the delay – accommodation in Eagle and meals on the road, especially meals since he’d had to feed Sorry – so he might have to ask his landlord for an extension on his rent and tell his daughters he couldn’t help out with their expenses this month. He shrugged, mentally and physically.
You do what you can with what you’ve got.

“Do what you have to,” he said. After Sorry was gone, Hunter managed to sweet talk the mechanic into letting him sleep on his couch. The mechanic’s house was downright dirty, but exhaustion proved stronger than Hunter’s aversion to dog hair and grease-stained upholstery – food grease rather than automotive, judging by the rancid smell – and greater than his rekindled drive to investigate crime. Soon he was deeply asleep.

Compared to all the drama surrounding the repairs and delay, the delivery itself was uneventful. The mine was more than happy to see him, but Hunter guessed that anyone doing business in remote parts of Alaska – the mine site was quite a way from Fairbanks itself – had learned to expect transportation delays given the distances involved and the condition of many northern roads. The mine was open around the clock, so a crew was prepared to offload the machinery soon after he pulled his rig in at the site. He called Elspeth with the news as soon as he was somewhere with a decent cell signal, which meant near Fairbanks.

She told him she was still searching for a load home. “Fairbanks is a long shot. I’d head back to Whitehorse if I were you.” Hunter understood. Chances were slim that she could find him a load from Fairbanks, so he might as well keep driving. That’s exactly what he did.

– – – – – THIRTEEN

“If you have no identification, how did you get across the border?” the female Mountie in Whitehorse had asked.

“I borrowed this from a friend.” Goldie held out the driver’s license that she had begged off her old school friend, Tessa Charlie. “But I was born in Canada, ma’am. Although my mother was – is – an American, I was born in Canada.”

“Your father is Canadian?” The woman looked at her sideways, as if she wasn’t prepared to believe Goldie’s story, but her face was kind. They were seated across the table from each other in a small interview room at the Whitehorse detachment. Mark had driven Goldie here, with Sally’s blessing, after Goldie had found her grandmother’s obscure note.

“I don’t know who my father is, ma’am.” For some reason, saying it out loud made her feel ashamed.
That makes me a bastard
, she thought. Like she wasn’t a legal person.

“Doesn’t your mother know?”

Goldie looked at the floor between her feet. She wore tennis shoes that used to be white, but were now a grimy brown from walking miles on the dirt roads of Eagle. The female Mountie probably wasn’t much older than she was, but she felt like a small child being grilled by her teacher. “I haven’t seen my mother since I was a baby.”

“Okay. Now, what was it you came here to report?”

“A missing person. My grandmother left our home in Eagle yesterday, and I think she was coming to our old cabin here in the Yukon.” Goldie couldn’t keep her voice from quaking.

“Where is this cabin?” asked the Mountie.

“It’s either one not far from where the Stewart River joins the Yukon, or maybe it’s one on the Yukon somewhere between Hootalinqua and Lake Laberge.”

The Mountie was silent for a moment, as if trying to process what she’d just been told. “You realize that those locations are over a hundred and fifty miles apart and neither of them is accessible by road. Is that as accurate as you can be?” When Goldie nodded, the Mountie sighed. She picked up a pen and held it hovering above a pad on the table in front of her. “Your grandmother was driving a vehicle?”

“No. I’m pretty sure she took our boat. It’s missing, along with the two cans of gas that we store for the generator.”

“So she was travelling up the Yukon River by boat, then. What kind of boat?”

“An open aluminum boat with a motor. It can sit about six people.”

“Big motor?”

“Big enough for fishing and towing in logs now and then. It’s an Evinrude.”

“She can’t get very far upriver without fueling up. The water’s still pretty high this time of year, and running pretty strong.” She was frowning, looking almost as worried as Goldie herself. “How old is your grandmother?” she asked, with that sideways look again.

“She’s about seventy.”

“Is she –“ The Mountie seemed to be searching for the right words. “– is your grandmother getting a little confused about things?”

Goldie thought about everything that had been happening lately, her grandmother’s uncharacteristic behavior, how irritable she’d been before that and how Goldie herself had begun to be concerned about her grandmother’s state of mind. “No. Yes. Maybe, but not definitely. She’s been –.” It was Goldie’s turn to search for the right words. “I guess she’s been acting a little strange.”

“She hasn’t been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s or dementia?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Technically, she’s not a missing person. She’s an adult; she’s indicated to you that she was leaving, where she was going, and that she would be back.”

“But she doesn’t even have enough gas to reach Dawson, and that’s the only place she could buy more fuel. Once she runs out of fuel, she’ll have no choice but to continue on foot. I don’t know what she was thinking. She’s not as strong as she used to be, and the boat and the motor are old, too. Even though I’m young and strong and was brought up in the bush, I wouldn’t want to start a trip like that all alone.”

“So you’re concerned that she won’t be able to complete this journey safely, is that correct?”

Goldie nodded. Concerned? She was worried sick. As much as she wanted news of her mother, she would never have permitted her grandmother to risk her life to retrieve some old letter. If only Gran had waited to talk to her before she’d left, Goldie could have told her about the news that Hunter might have already located her mother.

The Mountie was nodding, as if to herself, and making notes on a pad of paper. Then she looked up and asked Goldie if she’d like a cup of coffee or something. When Goldie shook her head, the Mountie smiled, sadly somehow. “If you don’t mind, just sit here and wait for a bit. I’ll be sending someone in to talk to you.”

At the door, she turned with that same sad smile. “This sounds more like a job for Search and Rescue, not the police.”

Hunter preferred daylight driving, when there was more to see, over night driving, when he was less distracted by his surroundings and too inclined to think about the past. It suited him just fine that his trip to and from the mine took place at the summer solstice, which meant no matter what hour of the day it was, it was never dark. With the trailer empty, he made better time back to the Yukon. Around four a.m., he pulled into Beaver Creek, the location of the Canada Customs office some twenty miles away from the actual U.S.-Canada border on the Alaska Highway.

Commercial customs was closed, so he climbed into his bunk and slept until they opened at eight. Then he found a spot to park in Beaver Creek and had a big breakfast at one of the few restaurants in town. He walked around long enough to stretch his legs and reacquaint himself with the town, then napped in the truck’s sleeper for another few hours.

Just before leaving, he picked up a roast beef sandwich and carton of milk at the 1202 Motor Inn, site of the only gas station in town. There was a busload of tourists milling about the little store, so he walked outside and leaned his butt on a log fence at the edge of the parking lot to eat his lunch. He watched a dusty Kenworth pull up next to the diesel pump. El’s comment about playing detective kept coming back to him; he had spent many hours on the road to Fairbanks and back thinking about why he kept involving himself in investigations that really weren’t any of his business. He found himself arguing back and forth.

I do it because people – friends, mostly – ask me for my help.

But you’re a truck driver now. You quit the RCMP, remember?

Even the police ask me for my help.

Sure they do. After you’ve already butted into their investigations.

It’s not like I seek out these crimes. Fate keeps bringing me face to face with them.

So turn around and look the other way.

It’s only a couple of times a year.

One of these times, you’ll come up against a bad guy with a weapon. You’re an unarmed civilian without a backup. What then?

“I can’t change who I am,” he said aloud, crumpling up the wrapper from his sandwich before raising the carton of milk to his lips.

“I beg your pardon?” It was a short, middle aged woman in a purple tee shirt and denim shorts. She had a fanny pack around her waist and red Reeboks on her feet. The tee shirt read ‘Calistoga’. She carried a can of Dr. Pepper in one hand and what looked like an oatmeal cookie wrapped in plastic wrap in the other.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just talking to myself.”

The woman proceeded to lean against the log rail a few feet away from him. She wasn’t unattractive, but obviously wasn’t trying to appeal to the opposite sex. “No need to apologize,” she said. “I think out loud all the time myself. It’s just I thought you were reading my mind. Are you from here? I don’t mean Beaver Creek, specifically; I mean the north.” She gestured at the sky with the arm holding the cookie.

He told her no.

His answer seemed to disappoint her. “It’s my first time here,” she said. “I got this Calvin and Hobbes book from my ex for Christmas. It’s called ‘Yukon Ho!’ They set off for the Yukon, but they never got here. Calvin and Hobbes, I mean. I got the idea that this was the place to come if you were running away from something.” She inhaled deeply, not quite a sigh. “Are you?” She took a bite of her cookie.

He looked at her with surprise. “Am I what?”

“Running away from something.” When he didn’t answer right away, she added, “Don’t mind me. I’m just going through something myself. I’ve been considering a geographic cure, if you know what I mean.”

He nodded. He did know what she meant. His ex-wife considered his choice of livelihood an attempt at a geographic cure. Cure for what? he’d sometimes wondered. Cure for being a bad husband? A negligent father? A failure as a friend? Or a cure for that paralyzing malaise that struck him after his best friend’s camouflaged suicide and his own divorce?

“I know what you mean,” he said.

She smiled uncertainly, then pushed herself off the fence, flicking cookie crumbs off her shorts. “Doesn’t matter where you are or who you’re with, I guess,” she said. “If you’re not happy with yourself, how can you expect anyone else to be happy with you?”

“So don’t worry, be happy?” he said with a wry smile.

“Learn to be happy with who you are, warts and all. Speaking for myself, of course.” Her smile blossomed and it seemed to light up her face. The sight of it made him feel good. “I’d better go. They’ve started loading my bus.” She laughed. “A tour bus wasn’t exactly the best choice of transportation for running away from everything, was it?” she said. “Thanks for listening.”

“Thank
you
,” he said, then watched her walk away. She had a little bounce in her step, like a child.

Now, who sent her?
he wondered, and thought again how a coincidence could seem like anything but.

Almost exactly forty-eight hours after he left it, he was back in the city of Whitehorse looking for a place to park his truck and trailer, preferably somewhere he could grab a shower and a good meal. In spite of the time, which was just after eight in the evening, he ended up calling Bart.

“Am I glad to hear from you,” said his old friend. He told Hunter where he could safely drop his trailer and suggested he bobtail over to the Klondike Inn. “I’ll even buy you dinner.”

“What’s happened? Why do you sound so glad to hear from me?”

“It has to do with your friends from Eagle. I’ll tell you when you I see you.”

“Did you bring the note with you?” Hunter asked.

Goldie loosened the drawstring on a denim purse, and rummaged inside it for a few seconds. She brought out a leather billfold – it looked handmade, with stitching visible on the outside – and withdrew a piece of paper. “She can read okay, but she doesn’t do much writing,” she said, as if in apology.

Hunter pulled a pair of drugstore reading glasses from his shirt pocket and adjusted them on his nose so he could see over them if he had to. The printing on the note was heavy and uneven, some of the letters barely legible. At Hunter’s best guess, the note read:

‘I am sorry I hid your mother from you. That was wrong and now I must make it right. I left something at the old cabin that can help you find her. I will bring it to you. I love you more than my life.’

It was signed with a scrawled ‘Betty Salmon’.

“Bart says you don’t know exactly where this cabin is.”

“I was just a child.” Goldie Salmon sounded distressed; her eyes expressed her anguish. “She loaded me and two dogs and as many of our possessions as she could in the boat, and we headed down the river. I’d like to think I’d recognize one of the cabins, but I don’t know for sure that I would.”

“One of them?”

Bart broke in. “The original cabin was near Hootalinqua, where the Salmon woman was living when Goldie and her mother showed up. Evidently some time later she moved them to a second cabin on the Stewart River.”

“You don’t know which one she’s referring to here?”

Goldie just lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture.

“Would anyone else know?” Again the shrug. “Does your grandmother have any friends she might have told?”

“She’s never been very friendly with the other women in Eagle,” said Goldie. “Other than the buyers she did business with in Carmacks and Dawson, and now in Eagle, I’ve never known her to talk much to anyone. She’s kind of a recluse, so it’s not like she ever invites anyone over for tea.” She frowned. “Until lately.”

“And lately?” asked Bart.

Hunter looked over his glasses at Bart, then at the girl. He thought he could guess what was coming.

“Lately she’s gotten very friendly with that man who’s been staying at our place.”

“And who might that be?” In spite of the question, Hunter could tell that Bart was thinking the same thing as he was.

“You know,” she said, looking from one man to the other. “Orville. The man you picked up in Chicken.”

Fighting the current upriver had been much more difficult than Betty had expected. Her fuel supply was soon exhausted, and she had no chance of reaching Dawson City for more. She was fortunate to be able to beach the boat in a sheltered cove on the east shore before the motor died, and she’d pulled it up the riverbank as far as she could. Hootie helped. She’d secured a loop of rope around his chest, and commanded him to “marche”, while she pulled on a second rope. She didn’t want to lose the boat. She’d have to get a ride here to pick it up when she got back from Hootalinqua.