Sundown on Top of the World: A Hunter Rayne Highway Mystery (4 page)

Moments later, he was heading for Highway 1, trying to feel nothing but the wind on his face, to think of nothing but the road beneath his wheels.

– – – – – FOUR

Hunter was just pulling his rig into the Petro Canada station south of Kamloops when his cell phone rang. He frowned as he picked it up and flipped it open. Not many people used this number. Just El and his two daughters, and because of them, his ex-wife. “Hello,” he said, wondering which one it was, and chiding himself for always expecting bad news.

“Hey, man. Where ya at?”

Hunter shook his head. He’d forgotten that Sorry had this number, too. “On my way to Alaska. Where are you?”

“Alaska? What a fuckin’ great idea. That’s where I’m heading, too.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Where are you now, man?”

Hunter paused. Would Sorry want to meet up with him or what? If he did, would that be such a bad thing? “Kamloops.”

“Perfect. I’m just outside of Savona, came up the Canyon. Wait for me, okay?”

“I’ll be in the restaurant at the Petro Canada station–” Hunter was about to say he’d probably be finished dinner by the time Sorry got there, but Sorry cut him off.

“Another fuckin’ great idea. Order me a steak and fries, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

He wasn’t kidding. He must have opened up the throttle on his Harley, because he slid into the booth seat opposite Hunter exactly twenty minutes later, almost knocking over Hunter’s water glass with his German army helmet. Hunter had managed to snag a booth where he could just manage to keep an eye on The Blue Knight, as El Watson sometimes called his Freightliner, which he had fueled up and parked in the blistering sun. Although the waitress had breezed by with water and coffee, she had not been back to take his order.

“Put that beanie on the bench,” said Hunter.

“What’s the matter? Is it being seen with a biker or being seen with a Nazi helmet that’s got your shorts in a knot?”

Hunter glowered and Sorry moved the helmet.

“It’s a fake, if that makes you feel any better. Some asshole lifted my old one.”

“What’s this about you going to Alaska?” Hunter asked.

“I could ask you the same thing. Why’s Big Mother Trucker sending you so far north?”

“Why not?”

Sorry shrugged, batting a salt shaker from hand to hand along the tabletop like a hockey puck. “Can I go with you?”

“I don’t need another driver. I’m doing just fine with single hours.”

“Yeah, but for company. Or just in case you need help or something.” Sorry kept his eyes on the salt shaker, but Hunter could read tension in the way the biker’s lips worked under his blond moustache.

“Why? What’s up with you? You lose another job?”

Sorry’s broad chest rose and fell with a massive sigh. “Yeah, but it’s worse than that. Mo kind of kicked me out.”

Hunter raised his eyebrows and waited for Sorry to elaborate.

The biker swiped hand across his mouth a few times, then straightened his moustache with the tip of an index finger, as if he were debating how much to say. “I lost the job for being an insolent jerk, as usual, and Mo was really pissed at me. This thing with Mo, it’s been building for quite a while. Remember I took her and the kids down to see my folks in Yreka at Easter?”

Hunter nodded. He’d been pleased to hear about it, knowing that Sorry and his dad had barely spoken to each other for over a decade until Sorry took an hours-of-service break in Yreka with Hunter’s truck back in February and the two started talking again.

“Things got a little tense again between me and my old man, and the only thing that seemed to keep us comfortable with each other was if we downed a few beers together.” Sorry shrugged, as if to say, ‘what choice did I have?’

“You’ve been drinking again?”

“Yeah. Beer. Only beer. But that got me doing more weed, too. I kind of got back in the habit and Mo’s been warning me for weeks that I had to get my shit together or else.” Sorry’s mouth and eyes got hard. He slammed the salt shaker down on the table. “Never thought she could be such a bitch.”

“Don’t get mad at her, chief,” said Hunter.

“Who the fuck else then? Me?”

Hunter paused before he answered, watching Sorry go back to sliding the salt shaker up and down the table. “Give your wife a break. Give yourself a break. Your trip to Alaska might be just the right thing for you two right now.”

Sorry’s mouth relaxed and his eyes brightened as he sat forward, elbows on the table, salt shaker forgotten. “It’s not about the money, you know. Maybe with you and me both driving, we can take a few days up there, be tourists, like. It’s a win for you, too.”

“And your bike?”

“Got room for it behind your load? Surely you can spare a few feet in the back of the trailer, strap it down safe-like. What do you say?”

Hunter was of two minds. A few days’ break in Alaska and the Yukon might be worth having to put up with the chatty biker, although he was sure Sorry didn’t have much cash on him and dreaded having to stop and feed the big man four or five times a day. If he could help Sorry find a resolution to his family problem, however, it would certainly be worth the investment. Mo was a wonderful woman with a gentle and generous spirit. Sorry couldn’t do better, and without Mo or someone like her – and it was highly unlikely Sorry would ever find another woman like Mo – his life was destined to go off the rails.

“You’re on,” he said, just as the waitress arrived at their table.

“Steak and fries,” said Sorry, grinning through his moustache, “with a chocolate shake and a big piece of pecan pie.”

Hunter drove as far as Prince George. Sleepy after a big dinner, Sorry crawled into the bunk half an hour after they left Kamloops and Hunter had to shake him awake to take over at about one thirty Friday morning. They both got out to stretch their legs and take a leak at the Husky truck stop off the Cariboo Highway. “Wake me in Dawson Creek,” Hunter told Sorry, handing him a take-out coffee from the truck stop restaurant before climbing into the sleeper. “We can fuel up at the Petro Canada cardlock, then grab some breakfast before hitting the Alaska Highway.”

Two hundred and fifty miles later they arrived in Dawson Creek at the southern terminus of the Alaska Highway. By nine o’clock, even Dawson Creek, north of the 55th parallel – farther north than Ketchikan, Alaska – was warm for the time of year, and Hunter felt the morning sun’s heat penetrate the fabric of his denim shirt as he climbed down from the passenger side of the cab and walked around the trailer to stretch his legs. The cardlock was smaller than any of those he’d normally pull into along his usual route up and down the I-5; it was an asphalt lot with a row of diesel pumps under a high canopy, smaller and without the usual lineup of big rigs waiting to fuel up. The only other customer was a dirty red Kenworth pulling a load of logs.

Before heading to the fuel pumps, Hunter did a quick visual check of his Freightliner tractor. It had been running well for over a year without requiring much input of cash, other than regular maintenance. He knew his luck wouldn’t last, because it was six years old and had eaten up over three quarters of a million miles of North American highways, more than half of them since he’d bought it used from a trucker who was fed up with eking out a living in a cutthroat business.

Hunter heard a hawk and spit from the other side of the truck, and seconds later Sorry joined him, stretched his back with a grunt and scratched his belly. “Are we there yet?” His eyes were squinted to slits against the sun. He pulled a cigarette out from behind his ear.

Hunter frowned and motioned at the fuel hose with his head. He was filling up the tank on the right side of the truck with 120 gallons of diesel fuel using Watson Transportation’s card. El wouldn’t pay for the fuel, though. She’d deduct it from his percentage for the job when the time came. After filling both tanks, the cost of the fill would be over $300 but he wouldn’t have to fuel up again until he reached Whitehorse.

“You think I’m stupid? It’s not even lit.” Sorry wagged the cigarette in front of Hunter’s nose. “Where can I get a coffee?” He spun around and took in the dusty yard, unmanned fuel pumps, and what appeared to be a locked up office building. “Isn’t there a phone here? Where can we get breakfast?”

“Alaska is still some 1200 miles away. You sure you want to go there? It’s not too late to unload your bike and head back home.” Hunter tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. He had to remind himself that his old friend was going through a hard time with his wife and could use some support, and that much of the trip they’d be separated by sleep and Hunter would still get hours of the solitude he was accustomed to.

Sorry shook his head. “If I wasn’t with you last night, man, I’d probably have gotten stinkin’ drunk wherever I’d stopped for the night and picked a fight, ended up ‘detained’” – his face and voice expressed a certain scorn for the word – “in 100 Mile or Barriere. And that would’ve been just for starters.”

“Go have your smoke. We can look for a restaurant when I’ve finished fueling up.”

Ten minutes later, they reached the sign in Dawson Creek that proclaimed the start of the Alaska Highway. Sorry gave a loud whoop that made Hunter wince, then broke into a booming chorus of Johnny Horton’s “North to Alaska”, the sound erupting from deep inside his massive chest, although the first three words were followed by “duh duh dum, the rush is on”.

A few blocks later, they pulled in at a small motel that not only had a café where they could get breakfast, it also had a parking lot large enough to accommodate an eighteen wheeler. “Order me a breakfast special,” said Sorry, heading toward a payphone outside near the front entrance. He hesitated, then turned back to Hunter, saying, “Got any change on you?” and holding out an open hand as if he already knew the answer.

Hunter found a seat at a small table by the window and turned over the two cups that sat upside down on their saucers, then motioned to the waitress for coffee. He watched Sorry through the window. The big biker held the phone to his ear for a couple of minutes, didn’t appear to say very much, then hung up so hard Hunter could hear it from inside the café. He could also hear Sorry swear loudly as he yanked open the door.

Hunter let his friend be the first one to speak.

“I never thought she could be such a fuckin’ bitch,” he said, slamming an open hand against the table on the last word. His mouth was working under his blond moustache, his eyes narrowed to slits and directed unfocussed at the table. “Fuck her,” he said, uncharacteristically softly.

“She’s worth working for, Dan,” said Hunter. “Don’t let your cowboy pride make you do something you’ll regret.”

The big biker was quiet for a moment, mouth still working, then he sighed deeply and leaned back against the bench. “You know something? Mo and the kids are the reason I’m here right now” – he stabbed at the tabletop with an oil-stained index finger – “and not in jail or five feet under. If I can’t hang on to them, I’m nothing but a fuck up.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Hunter. “You can do it. Take a break, lay off the booze and get your head straight, then go back and take care of your family.”

“It’s not like I screw up at work, at least not usually. It’s more like I always end up working for some idiot asshole I got no respect for.” He shrugged. “Then my big mouth gets me in trouble. I can’t help myself.”

A skinny woman with dark hair in a pony tail approached the table, a full coffee pot in one hand, a bowl of small creamers in the other, and menus tucked under her elbow. She wore jeans and a yellow tee shirt. “Morning, boys,” she said. “I’ll be back to take your order in a minute.” She filled up their coffee mugs and handed them each a menu. Hunter nodded his thanks and looked at the menu briefly as the waitress walked away.

“You don’t have to respect a man to treat him with respect,” he said to Sorry. “It’s like singing a song. Just sing the words the way they were written; they don’t necessarily have to be true for you.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve never known you to have any trouble lying if it gets you what you want.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t everybody? You’ve caught me a few times. So?”

“So, like I said. Make your boss, whoever he is, believe that you respect him – and you can disagree with someone without being disrespectful, don’t forget – and keep your eye on the prize, which would be a good relationship with Simone and your children. Make sense to you?”

Sorry sighed again. “Thinking about it makes my head hurt,” he said as the waitress approached the table again, her pen poised over a small order pad.

“What’s your pleasure, boys?” she said, smiling in Sorry’s direction.

“It’s not on the menu,” said Sorry, pushing the menu across the table without looking up.

“A Denver omelette, please,” said Hunter, “and my sad, young friend here will have the special.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Goldie was just reaching for the key to the Merc where it hung on a nail by the cabin door. They used to keep the key in the truck, but one of the kids from Eagle Village ‘borrowed’ it and didn’t bring it back for three days, so they now had to keep the key inside. She turned to stare at her grandmother, pausing briefly before asking, “Why?”

“Because I want to see if my order has arrived at the post office yet, that’s why.” The old woman sounded annoyed.