Sundown on Top of the World: A Hunter Rayne Highway Mystery (11 page)

He hadn’t dreamed about Ken for years. Even now, awake, he couldn’t throw off an overwhelming sense of sadness. It took a conscious effort to hold back tears, a situation that almost shocked him. At the very least, it made him extremely uncomfortable.

“What the hell …?” He ran a hand over his face. His mouth felt stale. Had he been drinking? Just a couple of beers, he remembered. “What was that all about?” he said aloud, looking around him. He could see no one on the beach, except a raven pecking at something in the rocks near the water. The ferry was on the other side of the river. He guessed from the sunrise it wasn’t much later than three o’clock.

He had to move. If sleeping here on the beach meant he risked another disturbing dream, he wasn’t going to stay. He stood and adjusted the blanket around his shoulders, then made his way back to the SUV. Sorry had turned on his side and the loud snore had been reduced to a soft snuffle. Hunter crawled back in over the tailgate and made himself as comfortable as he could, flipping the blanket up over his head to block out the light, and with any luck, the noise.

Ten minutes later he was asleep.

“Where to now?”

They were sitting at a restaurant table littered with the empty cups and plates from breakfast, and as Hunter had predicted, his biker friend had seen enough of Dawson and was ready to move on.

“You want to go to Alaska?” Hunter answered Sorry with a question of his own.

“Hell, yeah. How far is it?”

Hunter smiled and took a deep breath. The state of Alaska was not much more than a hundred miles from Dawson City, but he was curious what his friend expected to see when they crossed the border. “What in Alaska do you particularly want to see?”

Sorry shrugged. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful in Alaska. Nature, I mean. Maybe we can see a grizzly or something.”

“Nature doesn’t really recognize political boundaries. I’m not sure how far you want to go into Alaska, but we don’t have more than a day or two before my truck is ready, remember?”

The waitress – a young woman with the dark hair, brown skin and round face typical of Northern natives – came by and offered coffee refills. She wore jeans and a lime green tee shirt, and had a short black apron with pockets tied around her waist. Sorry shook his head. Hunter asked for half a cup, but she filled it up instead. He nodded his thanks.

“How long will it take us to find a lunch stop if we’re heading west from here?” he asked.

The young woman laughed, showing even white teeth in an engaging smile. “That would be Chicken. There’s one bar and one café. Take you anywhere from three to six hours, depending on road conditions. “

Sorry’s eyebrows went up, and he looked distressed.

“Want to order lunch to go?” The waitress used her free hand to pull the order pad out of an apron pocket, held it above the table. “If you’re looking for something else, that’d be Fairbanks, in which case you’d better order dinner, too.” Again the smile.

They ordered sandwiches to go, and she was back ten minutes later with a brown bag and the check.

“Sounds like there’s not much in Chicken. Can we get to Fairbanks and back in the time we’ve got before your truck is ready?” Sorry ignored the check.

Hunter made a wry face. “Fairbanks is another three hundred miles, give or take.”

“What’s in Fairbanks?”

“It’s been years since I’ve been there.” Hunter flipped the check over and looked at the total.

“I’ve
never
been there, dude.”

Hunter shrugged. “Pretty much the same kind of things that are in Whitehorse and Dawson, just it’s in Alaska instead of the Yukon.”

“Like?”

“Museums. Historical things, mainly to do with native culture or the gold rush. Exhibits or whatever of wild animals that live in the north: bears, caribou…” He had pulled his wallet out and looked at what was left of his cash. If they were going to stop in any small towns, he might need it, so he pulled out his Visa card instead.

“Okay, okay. I get it.” Sorry glanced at the Visa card and made no move for his own wallet.

“So you want to go to Fairbanks?”

Sorry stroked his moustache. “I want to go to Alaska. Let’s start with that and see where we get.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Hunter. He motioned at the check with his chin. “You going to pick up your share?”

Sorry reached over and took a leftover orange slice from Hunter’s plate. He bit the pulp off the rind with his front teeth. “I’m a little short of cash,” he said. “Just put it on my tab.”

Hunter was behind the wheel as they left Dawson on the ferry across the Yukon River, but he was already feeling the effects of his lack of sleep and the heavy breakfast, so he pulled over on the incline just the other side of the river and let the biker take over.

“The tires on this jalopy are pretty worn,” he cautioned. “Take it easy on this gravel.”

They hadn’t gone more than a mile when Sorry said, “This is a highway?”

“The Top of the World highway.”

“Where are we going again?”

“Alaska.”

“Right.” Sorry snorted and kept driving. A few miles further along, he jolted Hunter awake with a long whistle. “I see why.”

“Huh? What?”

“I see why they call it the Top of the World. Will you look at that. You can see for-fucking-ever in all directions.”

The highway ran on top of a ridge that afforded a three hundred and sixty degree view that stretched to a distant horizon on both sides, as well as ahead of them. Fresh spring growth of a hundred shades of green, mostly ground cover and low bushes, was strewn with stunted evergreens in places, almost devoid of them in others. Line upon line of gentle hills receded ever further toward the horizon like dunes in a green Sahara.

Hunter enjoyed the views whenever he could keep his eyes open. Mostly he dozed. The road had been chip sealed, but with frost heaves, pot holes and getting stuck behind dusty motorhomes, even Sorry didn’t dare go faster than thirty miles an hour, slower at sharp turns with no guard rail, steep drops and sometimes oncoming traffic. It took them almost three hours to reach the border, which from far away was visible as a few tiny manmade structures huddled together in a vast expanse of northern wilderness. The border was marked only by a sawhorse sign and an Atco trailer on the Yukon side, and an American flag beside a log cabin on the Alaska side. There was a lineup of two motorhomes with Illinois plates ahead of them at the U.S. border. The passengers were standing in the middle of the road, chatting amiably with the customs officer.

“I’m getting hungry,” said Sorry.

“Where’s your sandwich?”

“Ate it while you were sleeping. You hungry?”

“Don’t touch my lunch.” Hunter hoped it wasn’t already gone.

“That sandwich was pretty small.”

“It’ll have to hold you until Chicken.”

The group of tourists ahead climbed back into their respective motorhomes and Sorry drove forward until the customs officer was beside his window.

“You both Canadians?”

The lonesome customs officer looked out of place here. Hunter was used to seeing the American customs officers surrounded by concrete and glass, backed up by large buildings and dozens of fellow staff members. The man looked fit and tanned, and Hunter reflected that any man willing to be posted up here had to love life in the outdoors. Hunter passed his driver’s license to Sorry, who passed both of their driver’s licenses to the officer.

“You both Canadian citizens?” he asked.

“I live in Canada but I’m an American,” said Sorry, then jerked a thumb in Hunter’s direction. “He’s a Canuck.”

“Where in the States are you from?” The officer barely glanced at Hunter, and turned his attention back to Sorry.

“Yreka, if you know where that is. California. Where you from?”

“Wisconsin. Green Bay.” The man smiled for the first time since he’d approached the car.

“A cheesehead, huh?”

The officer looked sideways at Sorry, his brief smile had evaporated. “How long you been in Canada?”

Sorry made a show of counting on the fingers of one hand, then said, “About a quarter century.”

The officer ran his tongue around inside his cheek before saying, “Ever been in the military?”

Hunter realized the officer may have mistakenly pegged Sorry as a draft dodger or deserter, and that the man was probably a Vietnam veteran himself.

“Do I look like a military man?” said Sorry before Hunter could interrupt.

“I think the officer is trying to find out if you came to Canada to avoid military service,” Hunter said to Sorry. “You were too young to hit the draft, Dan. Tell him when you moved to Canada.”

The officer glared at Hunter, as if to shut him up.

Sorry rolled his eyes. “Look, I was never drafted, if that’s what you’re getting at. I left the States in ‘73, and I’ve been back and forth dozens of times since then.”

The officer’s jaw was still set, and Hunter figured it was time to change the subject.

“Say, chief.” Hunter leaned forward to interrupt. He could do his friend Bart a favor and head off any potential conflict between Sorry and the officer at the same time. He asked the officer if he’d seen an older, bearded man in a beat-up pickup cross the border in the last few days. “He’s got an English accent,” he added.

The officer paused, appraising Hunter with narrowed eyes. “Where exactly are you boys headed and how long do you plan to be in Alaska?”

Sorry looked at Hunter, who said,”We haven’t decided whether to go to Chicken or Eagle, or maybe both. We’ll probably stay the night at one of them, then turn around and head back to Whitehorse. My truck’s in the shop there, waiting for parts.”

“We had a couple of days to kill, wanted to do some sightseeing,” Sorry added, nodding.

“Who’s this man you’re looking for?” The officer leaned a forearm on the Blazer’s window frame and squinted over at Hunter when he said it.

Sorry kept his head out of the way and stared straight ahead, letting Hunter decide what to say. Hunter wasn’t surprised. The biker had had more than his share of trouble from men with badges for saying the wrong thing. Hunter himself had been one of those men the first time they’d met. He noticed the officer’s eyes drift to the cobra tattoo that snaked around Sorry’s wrist.

“A friend in Whitehorse asked us to keep an eye out for him.” Hunter shrugged, smiling vaguely. He wasn’t looking for the old man in any kind of official capacity, and knew that if he mentioned a murder he’d be opening a can of worms that could see them refused entry to Alaska. “Maybe he was afraid that old truck would break down on this lonesome highway.”

The customs officer looked thoughtful for several seconds, then handed their driver’s licenses back. He slapped the window frame with one hand as he said, “Enjoy your stay in Alaska,” and stepped back from the vehicle. Hunter looked in the Blazer’s side mirror as they drove away, and he noticed the officer looking at their rear license plate and writing something down in a small notebook.

“So where
are
we going,” asked Sorry when they were out of earshot, “Chicken or Eagle?” When Hunter didn’t answer immediately, he added,”Don’t forget, we need to eat soon, okay?”

The highway wound up and down along a ridge toward a distant horizon, nothing but scrub covered hills in variegated waves in every direction. Hunter stuck his head out of the window to look behind them and saw essentially the same landscape, with the insignificant and isolated customs posts getting smaller by the second.

“Chicken is closer,” said Hunter, unwrapping his sandwich. “By about forty miles, if I remember right.”

“Chicken it is.”

– – – – – EIGHT

“Have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you had done one thing – just one important thing – differently?”

Orville and Betty were having a tea break. Betty had been back at work in her garden and Orville had been busy with the firewood again, using the chainsaw to buck some of the windfall logs Betty and Goldie had dragged back to the cabin with the snow machine during the winter. He had then split and stacked them in orderly piles in the woodshed. The smell of freshly turned earth mingled with the smell of his sweat. Betty raised her mug of tea – a more familiar, safer scent – and inhaled deeply.

“Like what?” she asked.

“Just imagine,” said Orville, squinting into the sun, “that you and I had met and got to know each other when I first came to the north in 1958. I was a young Englishman, jilted at the altar by my first love and disillusioned with the workaday world. I wanted to strike it rich by finding gold in the colonies to make my sweetheart regret she’d thrown me over for a rich man’s son.” He turned his gaze on Betty with an impish smile. “What about you, Betty? Where were you then? Could we have met?”

“We didn’t meet. We are who we are. Things are how they are.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke.

“Come on, Betty. It can’t hurt to play a little with your imagination. Your imagination can create a little joy in your heart, even if it’s for just a little while.” He tapped her gently on the knee. “Where were you in 1958? Could we have crossed paths then?”

Betty closed her eyes and tried to remember. An involuntary shiver went up her spine. 1958 was one of the worst years of her life. It had been 1945 when she’d been abandoned, pregnant, on the river and had ended up living with that family in Dawson. After her baby was stillborn, she’d met a prospector friend of the family’s named Monroe James. She had it in her mind that if she could get to her mother’s people in Old Crow, she would feel like she was with family, like she belonged. Monroe had promised to take her there, to Old Crow, but on the way, he took her to his remote cabin on the Fortymile River northwest of Dawson – just until breakup, he’d said – and there she stayed.

Monroe was a quiet American from Georgia, and reasonably kind. Life at his cabin was full of hard work, but not unpleasant. With Monroe, she felt secure and comfortable, but it never occurred to her to love him. Her period stopped twice in the seven years they were together, and each time she brewed herself a strong yarrow tea – something she’d seen her mother do –to end the pregnancy. In early April of 1954, he left to check his trap line and hunt for badly needed fresh meat, but he never came back. After three weeks had gone by, Betty had a vision of him going through the river ice with his dogsled. By snaring rabbits and boiling up the rest of the lost dogs’ frozen whitefish for herself, she managed to survive until breakup. He never returned.

After breakup, she took the gold poke Monroe had hidden beneath the cabin floor and launched his canoe in the Fortymile River. That was the first time she’d seen Eagle, because that’s where the river had taken her. She stayed with a native family in Eagle Village, helping with chores, until the river froze over again and she caught a dogsled ride back upriver to Dawson. She’d decided to give up on getting to Old Crow, but she didn’t want to depend on another man, so she started asking around for a cabin and trap line she could take over herself. A Dutchman named Wim Reinder said he knew just the place for her.

Reinder took her to his cabin on the Stewart River, but once they were there, he stole her gold poke and essentially made her his slave; unlike Monroe James, he was not a kind man. Once she tried to sneak away while he was out on the trap line, but he followed her tracks in the snow and caught up with her early the next morning. He dragged her back to the cabin and beat her until she was sure she would die. She even
hoped
she would die. But she survived, and in fear of his anger, committed herself to serving his wants, while praying that he would meet the same fate as Monroe. Then early in 1959, Reinder got sick. At first he complained of a persistent belly ache; a few days later he was doubled over in pain, clutching at his abdomen. “Help me, woman,” he roared. “Surely you goddamn Indians got some medicine for a gut ache.”

Betty nodded submissively. “I will help relieve your pain,” she told him.

She walked downriver about a quarter mile from the cabin and searched in the woods under the snow for the frozen remains of the monkshood she knew to be growing there. Although her mother had told her about its powers, she’d never seen it used and wasn’t sure how much would have the effect she was looking for. To be on the safe side, she chipped away at the frozen soil beneath it until she was able to free the roots. Back at the cabin, she chopped them fine and stirred them into a small pot of wild blueberry preserves, which she fed to Reinder with a spoon. After a few spoonfuls, he roughly brushed her hand away, and the spoon fell to the floor. One of the dogs rushed to lick it up but Betty kicked the dog’s head away. She had never kicked a dog before. Reinder knew it.

“What did you feed me, woman?” he said, suspicion in his eyes.

“The pain will be gone soon,” she told him, kneeling to clean up the spilled jam, then quickly walking to the door and taking her parka down off its hook.

“My tongue is tingling,” he said. “What have you done to me, woman?”

“I’ve given you medicine for your pain. I’ll go get some fresh water and make some tea for you,” she said, as she stepped outside.

She grabbed the axe and bucket and headed down toward the river. She had only gone half way, when she heard him bellow out the door. “You goddamn devil squaw.” He was shrugging into his parka. “I’ll kill you. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll kill you, you goddamn witch.”

She hurried toward the river, glancing back to see him stumbling along in her footsteps, one hand still clutching at his belly. The two dogs from the house were running beside him, leaping at his flailing arm. The outside dogs began to bark furiously and pull against their chains. She didn’t see a rifle in his hand, but as she ran she could feel his hatred aiming at her back. Could she outrun him? No. He was gaining on her.

She ran out on to the river ice and turned to face him. As he drew closer, his face contorted with pain and rage, she dropped the axe and with all her strength, threw the bucket at his head. As he dodged it, he lost his balance and fell sideways on the snow-covered ice. “You witch,” he roared again. He rolled onto his hands and knees, struggling to get to his feet, the pain or the poison sapping his strength. Betty grabbed the axe and raised it over her head, then brought it down as hard as she could on the back of his neck. It stuck there, blood leaking around the blade as Reinder collapsed to the ice and his body began to convulse. The house dogs crouched on their bellies a few feet away.

Breathing heavily, Betty watched the body twitch, then turned away and vomited into the snow. When it was clear he was no longer going to move, she sank to her knees and sobbed. She was still racked with dry, spasmodic sobs as she yanked the axe from his neck and began to chop away at the ice. When the hole was wide enough, she dragged the heavy body by its feet until the head and shoulders were level with the hole, then struggled to maneuver it headfirst into the hole. She pushed on the legs until what was left of Wim Reinder disappeared under the ice, into the swift current of the Stewart River.

“Well, Betty,” said Orville, bring her back to the present. “Can you imagine how different our lives could have been?”

Betty swallowed hard and nodded. She couldn’t imagine having any opportunity to meet the Englishman in 1958 when Reinder was alive. He had not been very hospitable to the few trappers who had happened across the remote cabin. “Very different, Orville,” she said, but she would never tell him how.

“You going to finish those fries?”

Hunter pushed his plate across the table to his friend, leaned back in the chair and gazed out the window at the main street of Chicken, Alaska. They were in a café, which was next door to Chicken’s saloon, which was next door to a small store. That was pretty much the extent of downtown Chicken. The woman who served their chicken pies had told them the winter population was usually less than ten, given there was no road access at that time of year.

Sorry dunked one of Hunter’s cast-off potato wedges in ketchup and popped it in his mouth. “Where to next?” he asked, picking up a second fried potato. He waved it toward the street. “Seems we can see most of Chicken right from here.”

“I think we should head on up to Eagle, unless we want to stay the night here. That couple,” he motioned toward the next table, which was now empty, “said they’d stayed in a lodge up there.” He finished off his coffee. “I really don’t want to spend another night in the back of the Blazer.”

After gassing up and buying a couple of souvenirs at the Mercantile, they were back in the Blazer, heading back toward Canada. Feeling somewhat rested, Hunter was in the driver’s seat. They were told it would take them about three hours to get to Eagle. Hunter hoped there would be room at the lodge, since their only other option, except for sleeping in the Blazer, would be the long drive back to Dawson City.

“Did you see that chick in the Mercantile?” Sorry had a cigarette going again. Hunter coughed pointedly and the biker rolled his window right down. “I think she was ripe for the pickin’, if you know what I mean.”

Hunter looked sideways at his friend. “You’re an ass.”

“Wha-a-a-t?” Sorry snorted and took a deep drag of his cigarette, then blew the smoke at Hunter. “We made eye contact, dude. I didn’t do nothin’ to encourage her. She walked right past me and brushed her tit against my arm.”

Hunter sighed but said nothing.

“Look. Mo booted my ass out of the house. Who knows if she’ll even let me come back. You’re so fuckin’ prissy.” He looked out the window for thirty seconds, then said, “Don’t tell me you didn’t mess around some after Chris kicked you out.”

It wasn’t a subject Hunter wanted to discuss. “Chris filed for divorce, Dan. I never even dated another woman for two years, until after the divorce was final.”

“Well, that’s you. It’s not me.”

“Do you want Simone to take you back?”

“Of course I do.” Sorry sounded indignant, then said, “Or maybe I don’t. Maybe I’ll just show her I don’t give a flying fuck whether I see her again or not.”

“And Sasha? And Bruno?”

“There you go again. You’re such an old woman sometimes.” He spit on the ash end of his cigarette and threw it out the window. “You had kids, too. Did you want Chris to take
you
back?”

Hunter took a deep breath and shrugged. He knew it would never happen, so he hadn’t even considered the question, not for years. “Very different situation. My girls were already in their teens when we split up, and now they’re both in college.” Jan was twenty-one and studying marketing, Lesley was nineteen and taking criminology courses. She wanted to become a Mountie, like Hunter had been.

Sorry yawned and sniffed. “Whatever,” he said. “Wake me when we get there.” He slouched down lower in his seat and Hunter could soon hear the steady snuffling noises that indicated he was asleep.

Hunter’s mind wandered back to the first year of his marriage, when his first daughter was born. He and Christine still lived in Whitehorse at the time. They’d met when Chris was in Whitehorse one summer, kept in touch during the winter, and resumed their relationship the following spring. The next year they were married. Even before Janice was born, Chris made it clear she hated the Yukon winter. It wasn’t the cold so much as it was the dark, she said.

Hunter remembered coming home from a long day at work, stamping the snow off his boots on the wood planks of the back porch of their rented house, and entering to find all the lights in the house burning, his pregnant young wife curled up in bed, crumpled tissues on the nightstand, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

“I can’t live here, honey,” she whispered as he bent to kiss her. “I miss my family, I miss the ocean, I miss the daylight, I even miss the damn rain.”

“You’ll get used to it,” he’d told her, but she hadn’t. He’d had to put in for a transfer back to B.C., ended up accepting a posting to Kamloops and even that wasn’t good enough for Chris. Eventually he got a transfer to the coast, and it wasn’t until years later that he finally realized it wasn’t where they lived that had distressed her, it was how. No matter where they lived, she felt alone and neglected because of the hours he spent on the job. Irregular hours, unpredictable hours, late hours, long hours. Things he wouldn’t, and couldn’t, talk to her about. That was the life of a homicide investigator with the RCMP.

By the time he fully recognized the real issues, the divorce was final and it was too late. He probably wouldn’t have quit the force anyway, if she’d given him an ultimatum. His work had been his passion. Then after the divorce and Ken’s suicide, that passion evaporated and he was left feeling drained, sucked dry. Like a truck with an empty fuel tank, he had stalled and drifted to a stop on the side of the road.

He was too preoccupied to notice a pothole and the Blazer jolted into it on the passenger side. Sorry stirred, muttered a drowsy “fu-uck” and nodded off again. Hunter scratched the stubble on his cheek and again hoped that they would find decent accommodation for the night. He slowed when they reached Jack Wade, not much more than the intersection of two gravel roads, then turned north toward Eagle.