Sundown on Top of the World: A Hunter Rayne Highway Mystery (34 page)

Sorenson scratched his ear. “How do you really feel?” he said. Then, with an exaggerated smile and fluttering eyelashes, he asked her again to get Hunter on the phone. “Look, I left my truck unlocked and I need to get back out there. Call him now, okay? Right now. I’m sure he’ll pay you back.”

“And I’m sure he won’t answer. Again.” But she went back to her desk, picked up the phone and dialed Hunter’s cell. To her surprise, he answered on the second ring. “Where the hell have you been? Didn’t you get my messages?” she bellowed into the phone. “I’m not busting my ass to get you another load, Rayne. I lost the last one because you were out playing detective again so you can damn well drive back empty. You’re going back to the bottom of the roster and you won’t get a load from me until I’m good and ready to give you another chance. Find your own fuckin’ load back outa there or drive home empty.”

There were a few seconds of silence on the other end of the line and El wasn’t sure if he was still there. “You hear me?” she added, her voice a little softer.

“I apologize,” came Hunter’s calm voice. The guy never seemed to get upset about anything. “I got involved in an emergency search and rescue. An elderly woman was lost somewhere along the Yukon River and because she knew me and trusted me, I volunteered to take part in the search. Fortunately, we found her and she’s now getting medical care. Unfortunately, I knew I was going to be out of cell range almost the entire time so I left my phone in Whitehorse and I haven’t been back in town long.” She heard him take a breath. “I’m very sorry. You say you’ve already lost that load for me?”

“You’re damn right.” El felt he’d taken most of the wind out of her sails, but she wasn’t ready to forgive him. “You should’ve called before you left.”

He agreed with her and apologized again. There wasn’t much else left for her to say.

“Hey! Let me talk to him.” Sorry was standing by her desk, his big grimy hand with wiggling fingers reaching for the receiver.

Another line began to buzz. “Don’t touch my phone. Go use the phone on the counter,” she said and punched a few buttons to transfer Hunter’s call to the extension.

“And Sorenson, you better make it quick,” she added, just before she answered the other line.

“Good work, Dan.”

“Huh?”

“Finding Jimmy Moses.” He’d been about to head over to the Edgewater to pick up April when his cell phone rang, and he was still digesting what El had told him. If she wasn’t going to find him a load, unless he got incredibly lucky, he’d be heading home empty. And broke. “How did you convince him to turn himself in?” Hunter asked, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Just my charm,” said Sorry, followed by one of those booming laughs that made Hunter pull the phone away from his ear. “No kidding, he already turned himself in?”

“Not exactly. He needs someone to take care of his things. You know where he lives?”

“I know where he works. That’s almost the same thing. What kind of things?”

“You’ll have to ask him. A bike for one thing.”

“What am I, a storage locker? I’ll go see him but I can’t help the guy.”

“Put him in touch with Legal Joe, okay?”

“Look, I don’t have much time here. I still have to eat and you know I can’t work on an empty stomach.” Hunter heard El say something in the background, then Sorry said a rushed, “Gotta go, boss. Talk to you later.”

“Legal Joe, okay?” said Hunter, but his only answer was a dial tone.

“Door’s not locked. Come on in.”

Hunter eased open the door to Fred Klimmer’s suite and stepped inside. “I’m back,” he said, holding a brown bag containing a bottle of Jack Daniels out in front of him. “Hope you don’t mind, but I brought my wife in with me. She’s tired of waiting in the car. Mind if we join you? We brought our own drinks.”

He looked back at April and winked. They’d discussed it beforehand. He was pretty confident Klimmer wouldn’t recognize April, but wanted to be sure the man had no reason to even suspect who she was. “Susan, this is Mr. Klimmer.”

“Fred,” Klimmer said gruffly, not getting out of his recliner. “I hate people calling me ‘mister’.” He reached for the brown bag with his good arm, set it on his knee and let the paper fall to the floor as he pulled out the bottle. He motioned to a shelf above the counter. “Get me a glass.”

Hunter went to get the glass while April settled herself on the loveseat. She pulled a can of cider and a can of beer out of her big handbag.

“Have you always lived in Whitehorse, Mr. – uh, Fred?” asked April, popping the top on her cider.

“No.” He held the glass between his knees and poured himself a double, then tucked the bottle on the chair beside him. He finished the glass of bourbon in three swallows, then closed his eyes and sighed. “Damn. It’s been awhile.”

Hunter lowered himself to the loveseat beside April and she handed him the beer. “Fred’s originally from Northern Manitoba. When I first met him, he was working a trapline north of the Canol Road.” He knew he’d have to stroke Klimmer’s ego or, in spite of the free bourbon, the man would probably ask them to leave. “He’s one of the real Yukoners, tough as they come.”

Klimmer glanced sideways at him, the right side of his face barely moving in the semblance of a smile, then poured himself another double.

“Living here in the Yukon so long, you must have some good stories to tell, Fred.” April was playing her part well. “Some humorous ones, too, I’ll bet.”

He shot her a dismissive glance and took a slug of bourbon.

Hunter and April took turns trying to entertain him, trying to cajole him into a smile, but instead of lifting his spirits, the more he drank, the more sullen and hostile the man became. So much for catching a fly with honey, thought Hunter. Time to give vinegar a try.

He cleared his throat loudly and got to his feet, then helped April to hers and guided her over to stand directly in front of Klimmer. “Well, Susan. I guess we made a mistake thinking we could cheer up
Mister
–” He stressed the word, adding a touch of derision. “– Freddie Klimmer. The son of a bitch is totally lacking in social skills and obviously not worth our time.”

The right side of Klimmer’s upper lip lifted in a snarl, enough to partially expose his upper teeth. A glance at April’s face told Hunter that she’d seen enough.

Klimmer struggled to lower the footrest of his recliner, but by the time he did, Hunter had hustled April to the door. As April headed outside, Hunter turned and smiled broadly at Klimmer, baring his own teeth. “Have a great day!” he said, and shut the door.

Hunter was about to help April into the passenger side of the Freightliner when he realized she was shaking. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her. She tucked her forehead into the curve of his neck.

“It’s okay,” he said. “He can’t hurt you now.”

She drew back and wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand. “I know. It’s a twenty-five year old hurt that’s never gone away.” She sniffed and wiped away another tear. “I’ll testify. By God, I’ll testify. I’ll be back here to testify whenever they need me if I have to walk all the way from Oregon.”

– – – – – TWENTY

“You were right.” Bart motioned Hunter to a chair, then took a seat behind his desk. “We found a relative of Fred Klimmer’s in Thompson, Manitoba. A nephew. Evidently Uncle Fred was a bit of a loner. He used to trap around Thompson, but had a falling out with the nephew’s father, thumbed his nose at the whole family and set off for the Yukon. They never heard from him again, didn’t know exactly where he’d gone, but figured he’d get in touch with them when he was ready.”

Hunter leaned forward, eager for more information. His theory was taking shape. “Any photos?”

“They’re going to see if they can find some old family snapshots and fax one over to me. I did get a description, however. Klimmer was short and stocky with dark hair, and last they saw him, he had a full beard.”

Hunter nodded. “How short?”

“Five seven or eight, he thought.”

“That son of a bitch,” said Hunter, shaking his head.

“Klimmer?”

“No, Sanford.” He pulled his chair closer to Bart’s desk. “This is my theory. Sanford somehow met up with Klimmer on his way north. Could have been anywhere between Thompson and the Yukon, maybe even after Klimmer was living here. Sanford might have been hitchhiking, and could even have targeted Klimmer because of the facial resemblance. He killed Klimmer, disposed of his body and took on his identity. He might look similar, but he’s four or five inches taller.”

Bart was frowning. “So you’re saying Sanford became Klimmer, not Martin Blake, or Blake Michaels.” He grunted. “Let’s just call him Blake, okay? How’d you get to this theory?”

“It was the note,” said Hunter. “Who stood to gain by leaving that note identifying the fatality in the bloody cabin as Sanford? The only person who stood to gain was Sanford himself, trying to put law enforcement off his trail, once and for all. With no body, there was no way to prove who had actually died in that cabin.”

“Did Sanford kill Blake, then?”

“Just half an hour ago, April recognized Klimmer as the man who attacked her, so yes, I’d say he killed Blake. Unless he tells us, which is highly unlikely, we’ll just have to make that assumption.”

“Because Blake caught him raping the woman?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say raping April was a crime of opportunity. He came to eliminate Blake because Blake had recognized him. They knew each other from Fort Polk in Louisiana, although I doubt that Blake knew about the murders Sanford had committed before he fled the States. Blake told April he was worried that Sanford would turn
him
in.”

“How does everything else tie in? The missing truck, for example.”

Hunter shrugged. “You know as well as I do that it’s easy to make things disappear in the Yukon. He could have driven it away from the cabin and run it into the river. I’d say if the bear hadn’t gotten to Blake, he’d have ended up in the river, too, and anyone looking for him would assume he’d deserted his trapline. In fact, maybe what was left of him did end up in the river. I remember Klimmer looking for something at the edge of the clearing around the cabin. Maybe he was checking to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind.”

“If you’re right, then all we have to do is compare this so-called Klimmer’s fingerprints to the Sanford prints sent to us from the US military. They’ll want to get their hands on him, too.”

“Right. I’m kicking myself for not suggesting we get Klimmer fingerprinted in the first place. We just assumed, because the clear fingerprint we got was on Blake’s laminated drivers’ license, that it was Blake’s. I’ll bet Klimmer pulled out Blake’s license to confirm his identity. That was a lucky break for him.”

Bart cocked his head. “Or very smart. Maybe that was his strategy all along. Kill two birds with one stone. Get rid of a potential snitch, and get himself declared missing and presumed dead at the same time.”

“You could be right.” Hunter took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He didn’t have a role in this anymore. It was up to the RCMP to wrap up the investigation and make an arrest. “Over to you, then, chief.” It was a bittersweet feeling. The case was more or less solved. Hunter should have felt satisfied, and he did, but somehow sad and deflated at the same time.

His smile reflected how he felt as he held his hand out to say goodbye to his old friend, the shaman’s son.

As always, Bart seemed to read his mind. With the same wan smile, he said, “Thank you. Your work here is done.”

Big Al was standing at the exit door with his arms folded across his chest and a very sour expression on his face when Sorry got back to the warehouse. Sorry blew out a lungful of air and rolled his eyes as he picked up the clipboard with the day’s signed receipts and made his way toward his boss.

“Afternoon, boss,” he said, with what he hoped was an ingenuous smile. “Got a minute to talk?” He’d learned long ago that the best defense was a good offense.

Big Al sighed and motioned for Sorry to follow him inside.

“About today,” Sorry began, settling his butt into one of the chairs opposite Big Al’s desk. He used two fingers to straighten his moustache. “It’s about that call you got from the cops.”

“The police called me, yes.”

“Fortunately, no one was badly hurt.”

Big Al sat forward with his elbows on the desk, his lips pressed tight together, his hands playing with a pen. “Okay, give me your side of it, Danny. The police implied that you started it.”

Sorry lowered his voice, trying to sound serious and sincere. “What I did was for your sake, boss. I was trying to do my best for you and the company.”

“Explain, please.”

Sorry took a breath and began the spiel he’d rehearsed on his way back to the warehouse. “Okay, I’d stopped in at this freight warehouse on Annacis to use the phone ‘cause I didn’t want to tie up your company cell phone with a personal call. I just wanted to touch base with my lovely wife to see if the kids were okay. So, I’m at this freight warehouse. A friend of mine owns the place –.” El Watson was a friend, wasn’t she? More or less. “– and I’ve got to take responsibility here. I thought because it was a private yard and I knew the place, that my truck –
your
truck – would be safe unlocked for a couple of minutes, then suddenly the warehouse guy comes in sayin’ some dude was trying to get into my truck –
our
truck, the company truck, that is.”

Big Al was seriously frowning, but Sorry wasn’t worried.

“So I dropped the phone and ran out there to see this dude’s ass sticking out of the driver’s side of the truck. The keys weren’t in it, of course, but I didn’t want him stealing anything or doing any damage to
our
truck, so I grabbed him by the legs and yanked him outa there backwards so fast I accidentally kinda slammed his face into the dirt. Then the guy gets up and wants to fight me, so I had to let him know I wouldn’t hesitate to defend myself.” Sorry’s brain did a replay of the guy spitting blood into the gravel after his teeth went through his tongue as his chin hit the ground. He’d given the guy a bloody nose, too, but he figured it was best not to go into that much detail.

After a what-can-you-do shrug, Sorry continued. “The dude overreacted and called the cops. I’d barely gone two blocks when a cop car pulled me over and made me turn around and go back to Watson – er, the place it happened. When I explained why I’d roughed the guy up a little, seems there was some agreement all around that it was an unfortunate incident but no need to press charges either way. You know what I mean?”

Big Al took a moment, chewing on his lower lip while his wheels were turning, before saying, “Roughed him up, you say. A little, you say. In self-defense. You look just like you did when you left this morning. Where did he hit you?”

Sorry put on an innocent face. “Can I help it if I’ve got faster reflexes than him? He would’ve hit me if I hadn’t nailed him first.”

“Why would he call the police if he was trying to steal the truck?”

“Think about it. He’s going to admit to the police he was trying to steal the truck?” Sorry frowned. “He made up some bullshit story about me leaving the lights on and he was just trying to do me a favor.”

“Did you?”

“Huh?”

“Did you leave the truck’s lights on?”

“That’s not the point, is it, boss? Would we even be talking about that if it weren’t for the idiot who tried to steal the truck – your truck? The cops only called you to verify that I work for you, right?”

Big Al pressed his lips tight together again, inhaled and exhaled. “You know, Danny, this was only your second day on the job and already you’ve created trouble for me and the company. I’m really not sure you’re the right man for this job.”

Sorry’s gut sank. If he got fired, he was fucked as far as Mo was concerned. “Look, I’m sorry, boss. I really, really, wanted to do the right thing for you and the company, but I guess I got carried away. You won’t regret keeping me on. Nothing like that will happen again. I promise.”

Inside, he was saying,
If you fire me, I’ll kick your fat ass across the parking lot and toss your balls to a junk-yard dog.
He impressed himself with his ability to brown nose. It wasn’t hard at all if you just stayed calm and didn’t let your temper reach your big mouth.

Big Al kept playing with that pen, either thinking it over or trying to make Sorry sweat.

Sorry was just about to lose it on him when Big Al finally spoke.

“Okay. I’ll give you another chance.”

Big Al put his arm on Sorry’s shoulder as they walked back out to the warehouse together. “I like you, Danny,” he said with an emphatic nod. “You’re a little rough around the edges, but deep down, I think you’re a stand up guy.”

Sorry showed his teeth in the obligatory genuine smile. “I like you, too, boss,” is what he said, giving Big Al a playful tap on the arm with his fist.

I don’t give a shit what you think, you big turd,
is what went through his mind.

After almost three weeks on the road, most of it sleeping in the tin box behind the seats in his truck, it felt glorious to be waking up in his own bed. His window was open to the scents of cedar and grass and lilac that took turns drifting in on the occasional current of warm summer air. Hunter stretched his limbs under the sheets, then again as he stood beside his bed. Luxurious. His one bedroom suite in the basement of a private house on a south facing slope in North Vancouver was humble, almost Spartan, by most standards, but compared to being on the road, it truly was a luxury.

He pulled on a pair of shorts and walked barefoot to his back door, stepped out onto the concrete patio, smooth and cool in the shade of the sundeck overhead. He could hear his landlord’s voice from the deck above, a one sided conversation in that deep, gentle voice. Gord was a good man. Although Hunter had only known him since coming to live there after his divorce, Gord felt more like family, sometimes, than Hunter’s own father, who lived half an ocean away in Hawaii.

“Bye, Toots,” he heard Gord say, then the soft beep of the call ending, and a louder, “Good morning, stranger. Coffee’s on.”

Hunter grinned as he took the wooden stairs to the deck two at a time. Dressed only in shorts with his hair still tousled from sleep, he wasn’t surprised to find his landlord in exactly the same condition, except for the coffee in his hand. In spite of his age, Gord’s chest evidenced his active life of golfing and gardening; his tan attested to the hours he spent outdoors in the sun. Hunter helped himself to a mug of coffee in the kitchen and came back out to join the retired doctor. The two of them sat at opposite sides of the table, both of their chairs facing south toward the tall cedars at the base of the property and the view of Burrard Inlet behind them.

“Nice to have you back. How are you?”

“Just tickety boo,” said Hunter, raising his coffee mug in Gord’s direction as a thank you. “And you?”

“The same. How was the Yukon?”

Hunter felt two scrawny velvet paws wrap around his ankle, the prick of claws and a quick nip at the bottom of his calf. “Ow!” He lifted that leg to inspect for damage as the perpetrator scrambled across the sundeck and into the house through the open kitchen door. “No blood.”

“She must like you,” said Gord, deadpan, showing off a set of parallel scratches on his left arm. The Siamese cat had been a gift from one of his daughters, and crazy as it was, was good company for the widowed senior.

“The Yukon was great. Alaska, too.” The two men sat drinking their coffee as Hunter gave his landlord a brief travelogue from his trip north. “I’ve got today and Tuesday morning off to do my laundry and banking, but I’m back on the road again tomorrow afternoon.” He sighed. “The only reason I’ve got today off is because it’s a national holiday and the shipper is closed. By the way, happy Canada Day.”

“You, too. Heading north again?”

“South this time. Back to Southern California, my usual run.”

“You’ll be able to celebrate Independence Day while you’re there.”

“Sure thing.” Hunter snorted as he considered the prospect. “I’ll be at a truck stop in San Bernadino celebrating yet another unpaid day.”

Gord raised his eyebrows. “You don’t sound too happy. That’s not like you. Are you becoming disillusioned with your job?”